“Yes, he was deaf and dumb – just a mute with criminal inclinations.”
Van turned to the old woman excitedly. “Did you notice anything else peculiar about him?”
She shook her head. “Nothing, except he was in a hurry to get somewhere else. He kept looking at his watch.”
Dick Van Loan stiffened. “You mean to tell me this tramp had a watch?”
“Yes,” said Sarah positively. “I saw him stare at it six or seven times.”
The Phantom was silent a moment, his lips harsh below his mask and a glint of apprehension in his eyes. Inspector Farragut spoke impatiently. “We’re getting nowhere!”
“On the contrary,” said Van grimly, “we know where we stand now. What would you say, Inspector, if I told you Blackwell here was marked for death?”
“Eh?” Farragut started. “How do you figure that?”
“That tramp with the watch!” said Van softly. “A man hungry enough to break in and steal food would have sold or pawned his watch first. And doesn’t it seem odd that a tramp should have one anyway?”
“I can’t get excited about it,” said Farragut glumly.
“No? Surely you’ve heard of watch cameras, Inspector – the simplest way of taking a picture of a man without his knowing it.”
Farragut stiffened as light began to dawn. The Phantom went on relentlessly.
“The fiend behind these killings would want to be sure just what Blackwell looked like before he modeled the face on one of his damnable dolls. That tramp was the real killer. The fact that he played deaf-and-dumb would indicate that he wanted to hide his voice because Blackwell knew him. A beard is one of the crudest but most effective forms of disguise. He used his watch camera to get pictures of his intended victim. You’d better guard Blackwell, Inspector, or you’re going to have your best suspect murdered.”
Even as Van spoke there came the sound of footsteps on the porch of the cottage, then a knock at the door. The Phantom’s hand dropped to the gun in his pocket. But he remembered immediately that there were detectives outside and that they would hardly let any suspicious strangers pass through the gate. He signaled Sarah to open the door.
She did so, and two of Farragut’s men came in escorting a Western Union messenger. The sight of the olive- drab uniform made Dick Van Loan catch a sharp breath. For the boy carried an oblong box under his arm, shaped like a miniature coffin, and his first words were:
“Package for Mr. Blackwell.”
Blackwell looked up angrily. “Take it away – I’ve ordered nothing.”
The boy stared around him, gaping when he saw the Phantom’s black mask.
“It was left at the office with a dollar for delivery out to this dump. Wanta sign fer it, or don’tcha?”
Blackwell made no move to accept the package; but Van snatched it from the surprised messenger’s arms. Without asking permission he began ripping it open. A moment later Farragut and the two detectives stood in grim-eyed wonder. In Van’s hands was one of the sinister dancing dolls with the face of Simon Blackwell on it.
Blackwell looked at it in rising answer. “More buffoonery!” he snapped.
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Blackwell,” said Van ominously. “Figures like this were sent to the other two murder victims this evening. You’re marked for death, as I stated a moment ago. You’ll be killed unless the police can protect you.”
For the first time Simon Blackwell looked frightened. Van drew Inspector Farragut aside.
“It’s good we came out here. Perhaps we can stop this next killing and learn something about the murderers to boot.”
“Right!” said Farragut. “I’ll station my men here and blast them to hell if they come.”
Van shook his head. “At most that will only scare the killers off. Take Blackwell back to Headquarters with you. Don’t let him know what you’re going to do, but hold him tonight. Keep him under cover – and I’ll come back here as his double.”
Farragut clutched his arm. “You can’t do that, Phantom. It’s insane – you’ll be murdered!”
“I hope not, Inspector. But I’ll be the bait that will draw the killers. Let’s get started at once.”
CHAPTER V
IN the private dining room of a small but luxurious cafe, late that night, a tall, dark man ground out his cigarette. He glanced at his wristwatch, pushed his empty liquor glass away with a decisive gesture, and rose.
“You’re not leavin’, Blackie?” The girl sitting across from him spoke peevishly, her rouged lips drooping and her moist, blue-lidded, sinful eyes glowing with sudden resentment.
“Gotta,” said the dark man quickly.
“Where you goin’?” The girl’s voice was sharp, quavering. But Blackie merely raised his eyebrows, stretched out his chin, and adjusted the knot of his tie. He didn’t speak again till she laid a tense hand on his arm, her fingers with their tinted nails looking like bloodstained claws. Her face had lost its beauty as anger possessed her.
She grew ugly, sluttish. “Blackie, if you’re two-timin’ -” she began.
But the man called Blackie whirled on her so fiercely that she shrank away. “Keep that big trap shut, Dolly! When I get another dame you’ll know it. I’ll drop you like a hunk of hot lead. But until then mind your own business if you know what’s healthy. I got other things to do besides play ‘round with janes.”
“Sorry, Blackie, I didn’t mean any harm!” the girl whimpered.
Blackie Guido turned away contemptuously, picked up his coat and hat. He knew how to handle his dames, and make them toe the mark, just as he knew how to buy flashy clothes and wear them. He didn’t welcome advice, nor like his actions questioned. And right now he was riding high. There was a roll of bills in his pocket that would choke a mule. He was definitely in the dough.
Not since the violent days of prohibition when he had been the pilot of a fleet of beer trucks had he had so much jack to fling around. But just how he had acquired it was a closely guarded secret. He stood at the door for a moment, a dapper figure in a Chesterfield and derby hat, spats and kid gloves. Then he peeled a fifty-dollar bill from his roll and tossed it to Dolly.
“Go get a mud pack and a permanent, sweetheart,” he said cheerfully. “Be seein’ you later.”
He was gone out into the night, swinging along the dark sidewalk like a lonely ghoul. It was so late that the streets were almost deserted. A few nighthawk taxis cruised aimlessly, their drivers slumped and tired.
Blackie took one, rode ten blocks, puffing a cigarette and looking warily behind him. There was no other car in sight, no one pursuing. But for some reason Blackie Guido was taking no chances on being followed. He got out, paid his fare, walked through a cross street, and took another taxi. He repeated the process four times before he finally alighted and walked the rest of the way to his destination.
Dolly, if she could have seen the furtive way he moved along a dark residential street and approached the gate of a big, old-fashioned house surrounded by a high brick wall, would have been sure he was two-timing. But there were no lights in that big house, no living thing to be seen.
Blackie closed and locked the gate behind him, moved across a wide lawn as stealthily as a shadow, unlocked another door in the house itself, and entered. It had once been a millionaire’s show place with every sort of luxury and fine appointment. But it had been deserted for years, tied up in an estate that couldn’t be settled. Its ornate decorations were torn and tarnished.
Blackie went down to the basement, passed through a gun room, a billiard room, and then into a gymnasium. A small flashlight shaped like a fountain pen guided his way. He pressed a switch, and the big gym with its shuttered windows sprang into light.
There were evidences that some work had been done here recently. The tiled floor was swept. The benches had been painted. The sparse furniture was in fair condition. The big swimming pool at one end of the gym was filled almost to the brim with dark, stagnant water.
Blackie walked to this. At the wall at the edge of the pool, he drew aside a bit of loose molding and pressed a small electric button a dozen times in a series of signals. Then he took a seat near the pool and puffed a cigarette
