cosmetic and make-up supplies.
Frank Havens, as silent as Van Loan, sat motionless while, behind him, the good-looking young man began swiftly to change his attractive face with the use of skin crayons and color creams.
Some hint of the odd way Havens had spoken to Van at the lodge was expressed in the publisher’s manner. There was no surprise in his face, no amazed questions voiced when, a few minutes later, Van walked around to the door beside him and looked in through the open window.
In the moonlight a totally different character had replaced the suave, well-groomed socialite. The face that Havens stared at was that of a man several years older than Van. It was an unrecognizable countenance, so cleverly and skillfully devised that, even when subjected to the closest scrutiny, it gave no hint of its falseness.
From under the rear seat Van had taken a plain gray suit. He wore it with none of his usual grace. He let it hang on him a trifle disconsolately, so it gave him a slightly stoop-shouldered appearance. And the felt hat he had produced, had been worn just enough to be in complete harmony with his outfit.
For a quick minute Havens studied the stranger who had replaced Richard Curtis Van Loan in the moonlight.
Then his hand closed over Van’s before he transferred himself to the wheel of the big car.
“You’re going back to the lodge -” Havens said quietly – “as the Phantom Detective!
CHAPTER III
RICHARD CURTIS VAN LOAN
This closely guarded fact, known only to Frank Havens, tied in with the publisher’s unrelenting crusade against crime. Years previous, Havens, needing a scientific, super-clever aide, able to use highly developed crime-detecting talents that would go beyond ordinary police methods, had found in the son of his old friend the perfect answer to his problem.
So the Phantom Detective had been created.
From the first case that had claimed his attention, Frank Havens had found in Van a person of extraordinary ability. Vested in him were courage, imagination, an amazing education, and a thorough knowledge of crime in all its black and sinister aspects.
The Phantom Detective that Havens sponsored had launched himself on a brilliant and eminently successful career. Combating the forces of evil he had written into his case book a long list of achievements. But his specialized means of solving the most difficult and complex crime-riddles were not wasted on ordinary, run-of-the- mill cases.
The Phantom took only those assignments on which the police had admitted failure, or which, to him, presented problems intricate enough to be worthy of his interest.
But, in spite of his astonishing record, the Phantom laid no claim to any supernatural powers. He liked to think of himself as a laboratory detective rather than a man-hunting sleuth who tracked down the guilty with a plodding, old-fashioned technique. To Van a solution that came out of a test tube and brought a ruthless killer to the bar of justice was the perfect fulfillment of a job well done.
He opened the door and got in beside Havens.
“Drop me off at the nearest town. I’ll get a taxi back to the lodge. I want some time to elapse between Van Loan’s exit with you and the Phantom’s arrival. Steve’s a smart operator. I wouldn’t want him to get notions.”
The nearest town was some eight miles farther on. The Phantom found an all-night livery service at the railroad station there. Once more he shook hands with Havens, then watched the newspaper man drive off in the big black car.
Then, rousing a middle-aged taxi driver, who, inspired by the idea of a double fare, came out of a doze in a hurry, Van gave directions where he wanted to be driven and dropped down on the rear seat.
He lapsed into a thoughtful brown study while the taxi took him back to Lake Candle. While apparently uninterested when he had been in the billiard room, he had noticed something that had evidently escaped the eagle eye of Sheriff McCabe. The murder of Arthur Arden brought him the interest necessary for his entry into the case. In the short time he had been at the lodge as Van Loan, the Phantom’s quick mind had been absorbing the setting and details of what, to him, represented a particularly brutal and puzzling killing.
Some of the police cars had gone when the taxi went down the private road to the lodge. A few floodlights were still on, moved now to the north side of the property. The Phantom had paid his hackie; passed Havens’s familiar Cadillac; and, without being stopped, made the front door of the lodge and went inside.
Almost the first person he encountered in the entrance foyer was Steve Huston. Steve was taking a drag on a cigarette and waiting for McCabe to come in from out-of-doors. The redheaded reporter gave Van a casual glance. So far as he knew he had never seen the slightly stoop-shouldered man who entered the lodge.
STEVE scowled, puzzled, when the stranger walked over to him. “I think I know you. If I’m not mistaken you’re Huston, the greatest newspaper reporter of our day. Stop me if I’m wrong -”
Steve pinched out his cigarette. He didn’t know whether to laugh or be annoyed.
“Who do you think you’re kidding?” he asked.
The Phantom’s right hand moved up. Thumb and forefinger carelessly touched the lobe of his left ear. It was a natural gesture, meaningless to anyone who saw it. But to Steve Huston it was packed with dynamic significance.
That was the signal of identification used by the Phantom Detective!
The reporter dropped his cigarette and put a foot over it His eyes popped slightly as they looked at the unfamiliar face before him.
“Phantom!” He tried to smother his surprised exclamation, while he watched the man before him smile.
“Right, Steve.” Van shook hands. “Is Mr. Havens here? I saw his car outside.”
Confused, Huston shook his head. He knew better than to ask questions. But what was the Phantom doing there? How had he dropped in on the murder scene out of a clear sky? Many times in the past Huston had worked with the Phantom on some of his toughest cases.
To Huston the Phantom Detective was nothing less than an idol. He always looked forward to a chance to help on some assignment. After Centre Street and Homicide, the Phantom’s unorthodox methods were refreshing and stimulating.
Not only that, Huston had come to learn, they paid off in front-page stories that had done much to make him the
“Mr. Havens left a short time ago,” Huston said. “Mr. Van Loan drove him back to New York. His heap is out of order.” The little reporter couldn’t hold his curiosity in check. “You’re here to take over this case?”
The Phantom nodded. “Give me all the details you’ve collected so far. Start at the beginning, and make it short and comprehensive.”
Steve felt an inner glow. This was what he liked best. In the living room where the lamps still burned, he supplied a complete rsum, beginning with the hour he had left Baltimore with Frank Havens and ending with the publisher’s exit.
The Phantom listened attentively.
“You say there were the embers of a fire still giving out warmth when you broke in here? And a cocktail shaker on a tray with two glasses? What happened to that?”
“Nothing. It’s over there.” Huston pointed to a table across the room. “McCabe didn’t pay any attention to it.”
The Phantom went over to the table. The shaker was heavy sterling with the Arden coat of arms etched on one side. He shook it gently before he opened it and smelled the small amount of ice-diluted liquor that still remained.
