Doc started, drew a hand slowly over his high, peaked forehead. Then his head bobbed.
“A good bet, Blackie! Brothers have killed each other before. Cain bumped Abel, didn’t he? You say Winstead seems like a fellow who’s afraid of his own shadow; but maybe that’s just an act. Maybe the Chief is Winstead. Maybe he plans to use you, get the other heirs killed off, get all the money himself, then see to it that you and all the rest of us land in the chair.”
Blackie Guido swore furiously, clamped his fingers on Doc’s arm.
“If that’s his game, he won’t get away with it! We’ll get some of the boys to watch Winstead and put the heat on him if they find anything suspicious. We’ll find out somehow whether Winstead’s the guy. And, meantime, before tomorrow night, we’ve got to see that Blackwell gets his. If we don’t, and if Winstead isn’t the Chief, we’ll all be through.”
“I don’t know the circumstances, of course,” Doc said softly, “but you say the Chief came to see you right here in this room, A simple way out of our difficulty occurs to me. Why not let the boys in when he comes the next time and fill him full of lead?”
“It wouldn’t work,” snapped Blackie. “I ain’t sayin’ why. There are some things that are none of your damned business. But the Chief let onto one thing on his first visit, he wears a bullet-proof vest that would just about stop shrapnel. He figured right off that I might try to doublecross him.”
Doc grinned again, that mirthless, satanic grin. “From what you say, Blackie, the gentleman has anticipated everything. I admit I’m over my depth; but I’m glad to take orders.”
“Get rid of those hopheads, then,” said Blackie sullenly. “I’ll send some of the boys out to find out what the cops have done with Blackwell. After I know just where he is I’ll figure out how to get him.”
Guido turned toward the locked door of the billiard room. Van left his hiding place behind the partition and stole quickly through the darkness of the chamber he was in. He reached the furnace room door, went out, and shut it carefully behind him. He spent about five minutes brushing the ground, obliterating tracks. Then he moved like a shadow across the lawn to the high brick wall. He drew himself up, oozed deftly over the signal wire, dropped to the street.
He had heard enough tonight to make his pulses drum with excitement. He had come close, tantalizingly close to the truth. He had actually seen the Chief, learned how Blackie Guido made contact with the ruthless, unknown killer. And yet the question mark in front of that sinister, helmeted figure was even larger now. Who was he?
Van was uncertain. A half dozen theories were beating through his mind. Inspector Farragut thought that Judd Moxley, up in prison, was the one. Blackie Guido had hit upon the startling idea that Reggie Winstead was the Chief. Farragut’s theory would be proved or disproved shortly. It might take time to get to the bottom of Blackie Guido’s.
Van had known desperate, scheming criminals to hide behind innocent appearing exteriors before. It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that Reggie Winstead was the guilty man. Then there was Eben Gray, the other Caulder nephew, tall, sardonic, almost as saturnine in appearance as the criminal, Doc. He had seemed the least frightened, the least disturbed of any. Farragut’s men were giving him protection. But they weren’t watching him all the time. He had been free to come and go.
The riddle grew deeper as Van thought about it, as strangely mystifying as any case he had ever been on. But right now there was something concrete to handle, something he must do. Death’s bony fingers were reaching for the recluse, Simon Blackwell. Van had saved the man’s life once. He must save it again.
CHAPTER XIV
RICHARD VAN LOAN waited outside the old house long enough to see Blackie Guido emerge, and to trail him back to the heart of the city.
He didn’t want to lose sight of this key man in the sinister crime mystery, Guido might become useful before the case was finished. Already the Phantom had evolved a desperate plan he would put into action if all else failed.
He found that Guido, after being driven from his luxurious studio apartment, had taken a furnished room about six blocks from the Hotel Chatterly where Dolly DeLong lived.
Van got the number. Then he hurried to a telephone booth in Grand Central Terminal. This seemed as close as any. It was so late that even the drug stores were closed. And the lateness made Van realize suddenly how much he needed sleep. Even an hour of it would refresh him, for he had learned to relax when he wanted to, throw off worries, and sleep deeply as Orientals do. A short period of rest would recharge his energy.
But, before giving himself over to the luxury of it, Van put through a call to Police Headquarters. He wanted to hear what had happened up at the State pen. Could Moxley be guilty? Or had he remained in his cell? Van knew that Inspector Farragut, desperately anxious to break the case, had planned an all-night vigil in his office so he would be in constant contact with all that went on.
IN a moment Van heard the familiar voice of the Homicide Squad head. “Hello! Who is it?” Farragut sounded tense, nervous.
“The Phantom speaking.”
Before Van had a chance to ask any questions the inspector began giving information. “Nothing doing up at the prison! Moxley’s been snoring since nine o’clock. My man’s watching right in the next cell. Another one got the dope from him ten minutes ago and called me. That was a bum steer, a blind alley. I was all wet, I guess. And that isn’t the whole of it. Blackwell gave us the shake this evening!‘ The inspector’s voice was harsh.
“What?”
“Yeah. We don’t know where he is. We argued with him, got him to promise not to go back to his shack on Channel Point on account of the danger of it, and had him put up in a rooming house run by the sister of one of my boys here at Headquarters. About ten o’clock Blackwell claimed he felt sick. The man I had watching to see that he didn’t get bumped off went to phone a doctor. He was only gone three minutes. But when he came back Blackwell had flown the coop.”
“Maybe he returned to his own house in spite of your warning?”
“No, I’ve had men watching there ever since ten,” said the inspector wearily. “Lord knows where the old boy’s gone to. He’s half nutty anyway.”
“That’s tough,” Van muttered. “Tough as hell, Inspector. The murder gang’s out after Blackwell now. They’re not likely to fail a second time. And if you don’t know where he is you can’t protect him.”
“That’s right – but maybe they can’t find him either,” the inspector said hopefully.
“I wouldn’t trust to it.”
Van paused a moment, then gave an account of his own investigations, leaving out only a few details, such as the addresses of Blackie Guido, Dolly DeLong, and the mystery house. He told how he’d made contact with the Chief and heard the orders he’d given Guido.
Farragut grew tense with excitement when Van came to Guido’s theory about Reggie Winstead.
“There may be something in it! I’ll detail a dozen men to watch that guy.”
“Go easy,” said Van warningly. “We know now that Moxley isn’t the Chief. That lead was sour. Whoever else we pin this on it won’t be Moxley. And you don’t want to waste a lot of time and good brain energy on another bum steer. My advice is to concentrate on finding Blackwell.”
“Hey, wait a minute, Phantom. You’re not insinuating that Blackwell is -”
“I’m not insinuating anything,” Van snapped. “I’m just advising you to find Blackwell if you can before those killers get to him.”
“We can put a stop to the whole thing by going out with a squad of men to that house you just told me about and tearing it wide open. Hew about giving me the address, Phantom? We’ll trap every one of those devils.” The inspector was eager for action, eager to make some arrests that would prove to the public he was on his toes.