Robert Wallace: The Black Ball Of Death

A boat had been moored at the dock some time during the evening. Had it held the sheriff’s men? The Phantom shook his head. McCabe’s men had come in cars. He asked himself other questions.

Had Arthur Arden’s killer arrived by water? Had he been on the property since the hour he had used his gun on Matt Arden’s son, hidden out in the woods, beyond the sheriff’s men and floodlights?

It didn’t seem reasonable to the Phantom. Killers usually did their lethal work and made fast getaways. Then who was this interested party who had lurked in the underbrush?

The question ran through the Phantom’s mind as he swung around, the drumfire of a motor-boat breaking the quiet. Across the lake Van saw a boat approaching swiftly. In the moonlight he made out the lines of an open launch with a riding light at its bow. It came directly toward the dock on which he stood, kicking up a spray as it cut the mirrorlike water.

A few minutes ticked away before the launch, under reduced speed, nosed up to the dock. There were two men in it. One sat huddled in the stern, what looked like a shawl around his bent shoulders. The other, a bullet-headed giant of a man, had scrambled up to the bow and was looping the boat’s painter through one of the dock’s iron rings.

He fastened it deftly, went back to the stern, and used another line to swing in the rear of the launch. Against the glare of the moon the Phantom saw the big man was bareheaded and shirtless. He wore cotton trousers and sneakers. His tremendous torso was silhouetted against the moon, blotting out the man on the stern seat.

While the Phantom watched, the giant leaned over and with effortless ease put his arms around his shawl-wearing companion. He lifted him out of the boat and onto the dock in one smooth motion. Going forward, Van found himself face to face with the frail figure of an elderly, white-haired individual whose dark eyes and sunken cheeks gave him the look of an invalid.

He recognized the man immediately. Familiar with those leading figures who worked in chemical research, the Phantom had little difficulty in placing him as Dr. Hugo Winterly, a one-time eminent figure in the world of science.

“What’s going on over here?” Winterly’s question came in a thin, almost hollow voice. “I woke up and saw lights. Luke says there were men here – a number of them. What is it? What’s happened?”

“Arthur Arden was murdered in the lodge earlier tonight.” The Phantom’s tone was cold and level.

The aged scientist took a backward step. The giant’s arm went around him to steady him. Now, only a few feet away, the Phantom saw Winterly’s bodyguard more clearly. Tent-shaped eyes, set close together and glinting, peered out from under heavy brows. A flat nose spread across his face. His shapeless mouth was twisted into a leer.

“That’s all right, Luke.” Winterly pushed the giant away. “Arthur Arden – murdered!” His thin voice cracked. “Who could have done such a horrible thing?”

“You knew him?” the Phantom asked.

Winterly coughed. “As a neighbor. I live across the lake. Arthur was only a boy when he first came here. Of course, I knew him. Everybody knew him. The scientist broke off to ask, “Who are you, sir?”

“New York police.” The Phantom felt Luke’s belligerent stare grow more intent. “I’m helping Sheriff McCabe. The sheriff left – or is leaving.”

Dr. Winterly leaned heavily against Luke. His fingers toyed with the fringed edge of the shawl around his narrow shoulders. After a minute he said:

“There was a boat over here, at this dock, toward ten o’clock. I saw it plainly in the moonlight from my window. It didn’t stay long. It went away after a short time. It went that way.”

He pointed toward the south. Luke’s gaze never left the Phantom’s face as the Phantom said, “You didn’t see what kind of a boat it was?”

“A rowboat with an outboard motor. At ten o’clock. Tell that to Sheriff McCabe.”

Dr. Winterly began to cough again, a deep, ravaging cough that shook his frail frame. Luke picked him up and put him back on the stern seat of the launch. Without a word the giant cast off and started the motor. As the boat moved away, Luke’s head turned.

Once again the Phantom felt the heat of the man’s baleful stare.

Cement steps led up to the terrace of Matthew Arden’s lodge. Mounting them, the Phantom looked back over his shoulder. Winterly and Luke were well on their way across the lake. So a boat had tied up at the dock about the same time the medical examiner had placed Arthur Arden’s fatal shooting. The Phantom’s disguised face shadowed thoughtfully as he crossed the terrace, looking for Steve.

He found the reporter in the foyer, making a few final notes.

“The sheriff’s gone,” Steve said. “He told me to tell you if there’s any way he can help, or any information you want, to call him at his house. I’ve got the number right here. He left a couple of men to watch the place. I believe Mr. Arden’s staying here for the rest of the night. He’s in a room upstairs.”

“You’re going back to town?”

“Soon as possible. Mr. Havens’s car is okay. It needed a new set of points and some work on the generator. Purrs like a kitten now. I’ve been waiting to find out if I can give you a lift.”

“If you will. I think,” the Phantom said, “I’m temporarily finished here.”

Huston drove the Cadillac, the Phantom beside him.

The little reporter was full of the story of the tragedy at the lodge. While he drove he talked.

“Looks to me like this is one of the most rugged ones you’ve hit yet, Phantom. Who’d want to kill Arthur Arden? From what I’ve heard and know of him, he was a pretty swell guy. A little extravagant, but it was his own money he was tossing around. Everybody liked him.”

“Someone didn’t like him,” the Phantom said dryly. “By the way, what do know about Dr. Hugo Winterly?”

“Winterly?” Steve looked surprised. “Funny you should mention him. The Clarion is featuring a series called Portraits of Scientists next month, and he is mentioned in the first article.”

“How much do you know about him?”

“He’s probably one of the greatest of them all. His research experiments and contributions have been of great value. He’s old now, in his seventies. He made several fortunes – which he promptly gave away to charity. Funny. guy, probably cracked. Imagine being rich and not keeping enough to live on. I mean, Winterly has a life pension from the Harlow Foundation, but it’s hardly enough to keep a bird alive. That reminds me. He’s holed in somewhere down in these parts.”

“On the other side of Lake Candle,” the Phantom said. “I was talking to him a short time ago.” He explained briefly while Steve whistled under his breath.

“So he came over to see what had happened to Arden?”

“With a giant companion.” The Phantom pushed out his long legs. “I have a feeling, Steve, that our learned scientist had some other motive in riding his launch across to the Arden dock tonight.”

Steve Huston removed his gaze from the road long enough to give the Phantom a puzzled glance.

“What kind of a motive?”

“I don’t know – yet. But I intend to find out. And when I do,” the Phantom said, musingly, “I’m reasonably certain I’m going to find that the celebrated Dr. Hugo Winterly had something more in mind than a neighborly interest in the man you found shot to death on the floor of the billiard room at the lodge!”

ON UPPER PARK AVENUE, Richard Curtis Van Loan had his New York headquarters. There he maintained a sky-high suite of rooms in a building that gave him the use of a private elevator and an around-the-corner entrance that was used only by himself.