The Phantom Detective: Tycoon of Crime. Robert Wallace
In the very middle of the block, a shadowy heap lay on the sidewalk.
A huddled, bulgy heap from which came no sign of movement.
“What is it, Dick?” Muriel had noticed his sudden stiffening.
Without replying, Van braked the roadster to an instant stop, apprehension tightening his lips.
Ignoring the questions of Muriel and the others, he slid quickly from behind the wheel, alighted in the street on his long legs, and hurried around the car to the sidewalk.
Only the dim light of the nearest street-lamp illumined the bulgy heap.
But it was sufficient to bring out a gruesome sight.
The corpse of a well-built man lay at Van’s feet. It lay half on its side, legs drawn up grotesquely to the stomach, hands clutching out like frozen claws.
The clothes of the man were so disheveled, torn, and begrimed with dirt and blood and what appeared to be soot, that they were scarcely distinguishable.
The man was hatless. His light-colored hair looked like a wet, flat mat wet with crimson blood.
But it was to the face of the man, full of bruises that Van’s eyes were drawn so grimly. Or rather, to what had once been a face.
On first glimpse it looked like some horrible smear of blood and dirt and torn flesh so that the outlines of the skull showed through. Near the lower right jaw was a huge, uneven hole; obviously made by a heavy-calibered bullet. Once, in Chicago, during a gang war, Van had seen a man shot in this fashion. Shot in the face at close range, so that the bullet had completely disfigured him.
Something of this face remained however. Though not enough to offer any clear picture. Grim-eyed, Van stared at the bloody, revolting face, at the glazed, blood-stained eyes which peered out stark and sightless. In the full moment he studied that face Van decided the man had been fairly young, had probably had well-formed features.
A GASPED CRY — he recognized Muriel Havens’s voice — jerked him about. Quickly Van stepped around the corpse as he saw Muriel and the newly-weds standing, white-faced, on the pavement. With his tall, broad-shouldered figure he screened the gruesome corpse from them as best he could.
“Dick — that man! He’s dead, isn’t he?” In Muriel’s choked-cry — a statement, rather than question, was horror.
“Yes, so it seems.”
Van’s languid drawl was slightly constricted. His mind was racing. Something was prodding it, hammering at it like some stray waif of memory trying to gain admittance.
“Better not come any closer,” he said. “It’s rather a nasty sight.” He turned to the groom. “Listen. This has rather upset my night, but there’s no sense in letting it spoil your party. Take my car, take Muriel with you. Continue your celebration without me. Just take the time to summon the first policeman you see and send him here. Better not tell him what’s here or he might make you come back. I’ll remain with — this.”
Despite the fact that he still clung to his drawl, there was something so decisive and commanding in his manner that all three stared, unable to comprehend this change in the idle Van Loan. Again Muriel Havens’s dark eyes swept to him with that strange, probing look: half hope, half unbelief.
SHE CAME FORWARD, a brave look on her firm, finely chiseled features, “I’ll stay here with you, Dick. Maybe I can help.”
“Help? My dear girl, this is a matter for the police. I myself do not intend to stay any longer than I have to. Until the law takes over.
“By the way, don’t mention my name when you call the policeman. I don’t wish to be dragged into this. After the law comes, I shall discreetly retire; and because I feel a bit upset, take out a nice bottle to enjoy in solitude.”
His drawl, forced back, was cold again. Once more Muriel’s eyes went dull with disappointment and hurt.
But his words, as he had calculated, had the desired effect.
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