Robert Wallace - The Black Ball Of Death

He went into his bedroom, whipped off the blue dressing robe and hastily buttoned his shirt at the neck. He put on a tie, changed from slippers to walking shoes, and then went back into the living room. Then he walked over to what seemed to be an antique secretary. It swung out under the proper manipulation, to reveal the surface of a fairly large safe.

Sunderland spun the combination, opened it, and nodded contentedly at the sight of the stacks of bills inside.

“I was getting rather tired of New York anyway,” he said. “A vacation will do me good.”

He closed the bag again and left it standing on the floor as he re-locked the safe and swung the secretary back into place. A feeling of uneasiness swept over him as he glanced at the chair in which the Phantom had been sitting. Had there been a double meaning in those last words the Phantom had uttered just before he left so hastily, Sunderland wondered.

“I can assure you that nothing will happen – to Vicki,” the Phantom had said.

Merely words of assurance to an apparently worried man – but why had there been that slight pause before the Phantom said the girl’s name. Had that meant the Phantom could not offer the same assurance to others – and Park Sunderland had been one of those.

“Rot!” Sunderland muttered. “I’m getting jittery over nothing.”

In the stillness that hung over the apartment the sound of his own words were comforting. He dismissed the uneasiness with a shrug as he went back into the bedroom. He put on his coat, packed another small bag with necessities, and finally took a.38 automatic out of a bureau drawer, pumped a bullet into the firing chamber, and set the safety at the ‘off’ position. He put this into a side pocket. Then he went back to the window where he stood watching the street again.

After twenty minutes of waiting that seemed like hours he finally saw a sleek sedan pull up to the curb in front of the apartment building. The door opened, and Bernie Pennell stepped out. Pennell stood on the sidewalk long enough to light a cigarette, and then he tossed away the empty pack and got back into the car.

“It’s about time he got here,” Sunderland said as he turned away from the window. “I’ve got a hunch we’d better hurry.”

MOVING hastily, Park Sunderland found the uneasiness was again with him as he put on his hat, and took a last look around the apartment before he picked up the two bags. He had been quite comfortable here, and he half regretted leaving – perhaps for good.

He picked up the bags and walked to the entrance door. When he reached it he put down one of the bags and switched off the lights. The darkness startled him, and as he glanced back there seemed something almost terrifying about the blackness behind him.

“I’m getting out of here!” Sunderland said. He opened the door, picked up the second bag, and stepped out into the hall. Then he closed the door and heard the lock snap into place. He rang for the elevator and waited impatiently for it to ascend. Finally the car door slid open, the elevator operator smiled as he saw Sunderland. The tips had been good from this man.

“Going away, Mr. Sunderland?” the boy asked as the head of the model agency stepped into the car and it started down.

“Just for a few days, Tom,” Sunderland said. “Business trip.”

He was suddenly impatient, but he tried to keep the curtness out of his voice. He had always maintained a friendly attitude with the employees of the big apartment house during the time he had lived there.

“Nice weather for traveling,” Tom said.

“Fine.”

The elevator stopped at the ground floor, and Sunderland got out. The door closed, and the car went up again as someone rang. Sunderland saw the lobby was deserted, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He did not know exactly what he had expected to find, but he was glad there was no one there.

Sunderland walked rapidly through the doorway, crossed the sidewalk toward the sleek black sedan. He had almost reached it when something hard jabbed him in the small of the back, and he was sure it was the barrel of a gun.

“There’s no need to hurry, Mr. Sunderland,” said the voice of the Phantom. “You’re not going very far.”

Sunderland dropped the bags and whirled, his hand darting toward the gun in his coat pocket. He had the gun half drawn when he saw the Phantom standing a few feet away covering him with an automatic.

“That would be a foolish move,” the Phantom said. “In fact the action I’d expect from a guilty man.”

Sunderland quickly pulled his hand away from his pocket; the gun there untouched. He stared at the automatic in the Phantom’s hand.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “Why do you feel that you need a gun to stop me, Phantom?” A thought appeared to strike him. “Vicki! She’s all right? Royal didn’t kill her?”

Park Sunderland’s acting might have seemed convincing if Bernie Pennell hadn’t decided to make a break for it at that moment. Darting from the sedan, he had his gun out and firing. One of his bullets whistled dangerously close to the Phantom.

The Phantom sent a warning shot over Pennell’s head. Pennell backed away, and Chip Dorlan and Steve Huston moved in from front and rear to cut him off.

“We’ve got you, Pennell,” the Phantom called. “Don’t try to get away.”

For the moment the Phantom had taken his gaze off Sunderland, and that was all the chance the man needed. Throwing himself to the sidewalk Sunderland swept out his gun, triggering it at nearly point-blank range at where the Phantom stood.

But the Phantom was no longer standing there! One move ahead of Sunderland, the detective had lurched to one side even as the swindler was firing. One neat shot sent the gun spinning from Sunderland’s fingers. The man was at his mercy for a finishing shot, but the Phantom held his fire.

“I told you that Vicki was quite safe,” the Phantom said. “But I didn’t say that you were.”

Forced to the cover of a stone stairway Bernie Pennell saw what was happening to Sunderland. A single volley of warning shots from Huston and Dorlan were enough to convince him resistance was futile. He threw down his gun and came out, hands raised in the air.

“I give up!” Pennell shouted. “I’ve had enough.”

Steve Huston held his gun directly under Pennell’s nose and, at a nod from the Phantom, ordered the man back into the sedan he had just fled. Chip Dorlan covered the move.

Sunderland also got into the car. The Phantom tossed the two bags in the rear and climbed in. He seated himself beside Sunderland on the back seat. Chip Dorlan guarded Pennell. Huston took the wheel, and the sedan moved away fast – to disappear around a corner just as police rushed to the front of the apartment, attracted by the shots.

“Thank you for assembling all of the loot, Sunderland,” the Phantom said, nodding to the bags on the floor as the car sped downtown. “Pennell has more money which he got from Douglas Hoag. I imagine Pennell sounded very gratified over the phone when he called you, though probably disappointed when he learned I was there. He expected me to be dead by this time.”

“I’m beginning to believe you just can’t be killed, Phantom,” Pennell said sullenly. “How did you get back into that building?”

“We won’t go into that now,” the Phantom answered. “But I must admit, Pennell that you pulled a smart trick in using that spotlight which Sunderland had rigged up so that he could examine his models’ features under a strong light.” The Phantom turned again to Sunderland. “Of course I knew Hugh Royal hadn’t phoned. That was Pennell, saying things had gone off fine, that he had Hoag’s money, and everything was set for the pair of you to light out for parts unknown.”