Fangs of Murder: Phantom Detective Saga. Robert Wallace
"Big case—Mr. Havens. I was doing it for a feature—when murder story broke. Bringing it for—the Phantom—now."
Even in his agony, he pronounced that name with reverent awe.
Havens stiffened. The publisher's eyes flashed to his worldly young friend, Richard Curtis Van Loan. And he got a fresh shock of surprise.
For Van Loan had suddenly gone into a whirl of swift action! He had peeled off his dress coat. In his hands was a flat leather kit, which was snapped open, to reveal a mirror and an array of tubes and jars.
Again Collins's gasping voice interrupted. "Case—for Phantom! God, if only you could—get him now, Mr. Havens." He sobbed. "Envelope—thugs got it—"
Havens administered to the riddled man as best he could while Van Loan worked away on his queer little kit.
When the publisher turned toward Van Loan, his jaw gaped.
Van, standing close, eyes darting from the man on the lounge to his own mirror, was still dabbing his face with a special charcoal. In seconds his handsome, world-weary features had almost completely vanished! In their place had grown another visage—the face of Eddie Collins!
It was not a semblance that could stand close inspection under bright light, being more an impressionistic sort of job, the likeness cleverly created by a few lines, by shading. Nor did Van Loan take any more precious time adding to it.
"Give me Collins's coat, Frank—quickly! It ought to be enough!"
Van Loan pulled on the coat and assumed a stoop. Though he was tall, he seemed by his posture to look even more like the bullet-riddled cartoonist.
So swiftly had he made the transformation that now, before the dying Collins saw what was happening, his own "double" was darting out of the office in a swift blur of motion which concealed both the incongruity of his dress, and his makeshift disguise.
Collins hadn't seen any of this. Nor had Collins dreamed that Richard Curtis Van Loan, the rich playboy he had seen so many times, was actually the mysterious and amazing sleuth whose fearsome name he had breathed, whose services he had demanded—the Phantom Detective whose perilous exploits in the dark byways of the underworld were known by the police the world over.
Only Frank Havens knew that Van Loan was the Phantom; only Havens knew how this seemingly bored young millionaire really gave his energies and lifeblood to the most exacting and dangerous task on earth—the tracking down of baffling and ruthless criminals.
Even to Havens, the Phantom was always a source of surprise and wonder. His quick-working brain was too fast to follow: his quick changes in disguise left the publisher gasping—as they had left him now.
Yet Van had acted with logic while acting with speed. Snatches of barely coherent speech from Eddie Collins had registered themselves indelibly on his mind: Freight elevator—thugs—still looking for Collins—
The Phantom scarcely knew Collins, only vaguely remembered seeing the youthful cartoonist around the Clarion Building. Certainly he had no idea what this was all about. As a matter of fact, his mind had been on other matters—on a bizarre, double murder which Frank Havens had called him down to discuss. But when Collins had come in, riddled—bringing crime flagrantly to this very building—Van had promptly dropped all other thoughts.
The Phantom reached the freight elevator, with its blood-stained floor, in the next instant. His lithe body pushed into the car—his long arm slammed the gate shut and started the elevator down. He reached into his pocket, into which he had transferred a fully loaded blue-steel Colt .45 automatic, U.S. Army, M-1911—the favorite weapon of the Phantom.
Musty odors of the cellar rose to engulf the slow-descending cage. The Phantom tensed, adopting again the pose of Eddie Collins. His hand was on his gun, his thumb snapping back the safety catch. He knew he was deliberately playing with Death in his risky scheme.
The cellar loomed, dim and empty. Nobody in here. He hurried across it on soft-soled feet, eyes alert. Reaching the door of the areaway, he opened it softly. Night breeze, still carrying the heat of the Indian summer, met him.
He was out in the areaway like a drifting shadow. In the gloom his keen eyes, which had the cat-like gift of piercing darkness, glanced about. No one here. A surge of disappointment, a sense of anticlimax, narrowed his eyes. Despite his swiftness, had he been too long in coming?
He vaulted over the rail then, to the street. Cautiously, again emulating Collins—even staggering a little now—he moved down the block. The nearest street-lamp flecked his face. He caught a blur of movement and he dropped to the pavement like a deflating sack. Dropped as his every nerve combined in sixth sense to flash the warning to his alert brain!
Two guns flamed livid out of the dark, their reports shattering the quiet side street off Broadway. Bullets whined over the prone Phantom as he hugged the sidewalk. They ricocheted inches away, chipping the paving.
"Got him this time, Gus?"
"Better make sure!"
Van rolled as he heard the coarse voices. He saw three slouch-hatted figures charging from another dark doorway of the building, where they had been prowling.
His Colt snaked out. Eyes grim, he fired even as he rolled into position—a blind, snap shot at the charging trio.
One of the three, a gash-mouthed man, recoiled with a scream of pain. His hand clawed at his shoulder, blood spurting through the wound.
The other two also recoiled, amazed by the counter-attack. The broken-nosed man in their lead stared at the Phantom, who even now was leaping to his feet.
Madly he fired his automatic—fired as a suddenly panic-stricken man would fire.
Van ducked sideways, out of the lamp-light. The bullets went so far wide he didn't hear them. Not only was the man's apparent confusion spoiling his aim—in his left hand he was busily clutching a manila envelope! The Phantom grimly raised his Colt again. He drew a careful bead on the man with the envelope.
"Beat it, guys!" the third man was yelling. "The shootin's been heard—The cops're comin'!"
Crack!
It was Van's Colt that blazed in that split-second.
A hoarse cry burst from the broken-nosed thug. As if it suddenly burned him, he dropped the envelope. It fluttered to the pavement. The Phantom's well-aimed shot had creased his wrist—making his pained muscles release their grip.
Across Broadway now two bluecoats came into view—a traffic and a beat cop, blowing their whistles, reaching with free hands for guns. The scream of a prowl-car added to the clamor.
Van hurled forward. The broken-nosed thug, nursing his wrist with his mouth, hesitated. Then, leaving the envelope, dashed on around the corner.
The Phantom scooped the envelope up without stopping in his pace. Rounding the corner, he saw the trio piling into a dark Cadillac sedan which started rolling from the curb in the next split-second, gears grinding raucously. Van leaped after it, then ducked.
Glass in the rear window shattered as a gun smashed its muzzle through. A fusillade of lead came from the departing car as it careened around the next block, swiftly disappearing. An oncoming green prowl-car sped in pursuit.
The Phantom, already grimly certain the gang car had had enough of a start to make a safe getaway, whirled back toward the Clarion Building, envelope in hand. He moved so swiftly that the police did not see him.
Again he used the freight elevator, riding back to the tower. The Phantom had struck again and disappeared.
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