Now I’ll be sure of that; and if I identify him, we’ll be on a more definite trail.”
Quickly, with the screwdriver blade of his pocket knife, the Phantom removed the knob and wrapped it carefully in his handkerchief.
Vicki stirred restlessly. “I’d better get out of here before Twisted Ear decides to pay me a return visit – a more deadly one this time. I’m not a brave girl, Phantom. If I ever see that man with the bent ear again, I’ll promptly do more than faint.”
The Phantom chuckled. “I’d be willing to take odds you’ll bend his other ear if you get the chance. I’d better see about him quickly. But I do agree that this apartment isn’t the safest place in the world for you. Have you somewhere you could go?”
“I checked in at a quiet hotel and used another name,” Vicki explained. “It’s odd how I sensed I’d be in danger after I learned of Arthur’s murder.”
The Phantom helped her up. I’ll see you home. Then I’ll go after Twisted Ear, and I’ll try to find the man who is behind that twisted-eared killer.”
The Phantom left her in the lobby for a few moments while he scouted the neighborhood to be certain nobody was posted either to follow or kill Vicki. He called a cab, and they changed taxis twice before reaching their final destination. The Phantom lingered until he saw Vicki enter the hotel elevator. Then he had himself driven to Police Headquarters where he showed his badge to a lieutenant in charge of the Identification Division.
The doorknob was promptly dusted and some excellent prints brought out. In a short time the Phantom was studying Len Barker’s police pedigree and gazing thoughtfully at Twisted Ear’s photograph.
“If you want this fellow,” the lieutenant said, “I think you’ll find him at the last address given on the card. He was sprung about four months ago, after serving two years of a six-year stretch, and he’s on parole. With four years to do if he violated any parole rules, I’m betting he’ll be at that address. Any parolee who moves without notifying the Board goes back to serve out the rest of his time.”
“Thanks.” The Phantom made a note of the address. “My bet would be that Len Barker just violated every provision of his parole. You might send out an alarm for him, Lieutenant. He’s wounded. I put a bullet through his left shoulder. The wound is bad enough to demand treatment.”
“I’ll do what I can,” the lieutenant promised. “And haul Len in if we run across him.”
“Good,” the Phantom said. “Let Mr. Havens know if you arrest Len.”
THE PHANTOM proceeded straight to the address of the crook. It was in the Greenwich Village section, a four floor walk-up. He smelled the odor of burning papers even before he reached the fourth floor where Len lived.
The door to Len’s room was locked, and the smell of burned paper was even stronger here. The Phantom drew back and flung himself at the old, thin door. It cracked, and he was able to smash one panel through with his foot. Reaching inside, he turned the latch, pushed the door open, and went straight over to a fireplace: the relic of some wealthy family that had lived here years ago.
On the grate was a pile of burned papers, the top layers being gradually picked up by the draft. The Phantom looked around the room, saw no signs of Len Barker, and concentrated on what was left of those papers on the grate.
Len had been in a hurry, burned too much at one time and without taking the precaution of crumpling the papers so the flames could get at them more thoroughly. A few papers had been wadded together, and these were the ones the Phantom was able to salvage.
There was not much to them, only some blackened remains, but he knew how to develop parched documents and make them plain. He carefully slipped the ashes into an old candy box he found in one bureau drawer. Handling this with all care, he placed it to one side while he began a complete search of the room.
Len had recently removed most of his clothing, the Phantom discovered, which indicated he was on the lam. In the bathroom, the Phantom found a towel stained with blood, showing that Len had not yet gone to find medical attention for his wound.
Carefully carrying the candy box in which he’d placed the remnants of burned papers, the Phantom left the building. He hailed a cab at the corner and was driven to an address within hail, a block of Park Avenue.
There he paid off the driver, walked casually along the side street, and finally entered a private door of one of the towering apartment buildings. A private elevator was waiting. He pushed the single “up” button it contained, and the car rose smoothly to the top. Here was Richard Curtis Van Loan’s luxurious penthouse apartment.
The Phantom entered it, locked the door behind him, and after putting the box in his well-hidden laboratory, he sat down before a triple mirrored makeup table, and deftly removed the disguise until he was again the handsome, sleek Richard Curtis Van Loan.
Van entered his laboratory where he removed the burned scraps of paper from the candy box. He arranged these fragile bits of blackened substance on glass plates. Next he mixed a solution of colorless, fast drying lacquer, placed it in a spray gun, and sprayed the ashes carefully.
Once the lacquer dried, he could handle his bits of evidence with far greater impunity. Now he placed each of his glass slides under the lens of a large magnifying glass. One by one he eliminated such burned papers as those dealing with Len’s parole and prison record. Finally he studied a typed fragment.
Some of the words were burned away but he made a note of those he could read; and upon assembling these notes he estimated that someone had typed a letter to Len about a factory, a town called Galloway, the payment of three thousand dollars, and what seemed to be an address given as either Springdale Road or Springdale Avenue.
VAN closed up the lab and walked slowly into his living room, with its big picture window overlooking the panorama which is New York. He sat down in a deep chair and stared out over the rooftops. He hardly saw them, or the millions of lights reddening the city sky. Van was thinking about a black billiard ball – and murder.
His mind went back to the discovery of Arthur Arden’s body with the eight ball lying at his feet. It could have been placed there, but, Van asked himself, what significance would it have? A murderer would require a very strong reason to set up a clue like that.
But if Arthur Arden had faced death, and known there was no way out, he might have arranged that the eight ball be found at his feet. He’d have meant this as a clue. One so vague that the murderer didn’t even recognize it, but Arden apparently had hoped someone would.
Van recalled the bronze powder he’d found on the floor near Arden’s body. That, too, had some significant connection with the murder. A very important tie-up, seemingly, for great risks had been taken to steal Arden’s supply of this powder.
Dr. Winterly was mixed up in it somehow; and his loutish servant and companion, Luke, acted as if he knew it and meant to protect the strange doctor against anyone and everyone.
Arthur Arden had been engaged to marry Vicki. He’d been financially insecure, yet had confidently stated he would soon recoup his wasted fortune, have money enough to marry Vicki. A man who would propose to a girl, when his financial stability was dependent upon future operations, had to be extremely confident.
Van began checking over people he might reasonably suspect. Dr. Winterly, of course. Len of the twisted ear was nothing but a paid pug and so, probably, were some others who had taken direct action against the Phantom thus far. But behind these men had to be someone else. The man who directed their efforts and meant to profit from his evil. There was that sleek, fast thinking man in a pearl-gray hat who went by the name of Bernie, but Van was inclined to classify him as a hoodlum also.
In most of the Phantom’s investigation, people appeared whom he could reasonably suspect, others whom be could clear easily. But in this case the only out-and-out suspect so far was Dr. Winterly.
Hugh Royal, the artist, had been able to help the Phantom locate Vicki. So had Park Sunderland, who ran that model agency. Maxine Hillary, presumably Vicki’s friend, also knew about the intended contact. Someone had sent Len on the trail. Someone who knew where Vicki was, or where she’d turn up. Van sighed deeply, thought out his next moves, and went to bed early.
