“Damn it, man! We thought you were in here. We heard the shots in the gymnasium. We thought you’d been killed.”
“I was in the gym,” said Van quickly, and he told what had happened. The inspector’s dour face tensed with amazement. He drew off his hat, ran a trembling hand over his bald head.
“Then you lost out, too, Phantom! That devil gave you the slip. This didn’t turn out to be such a hot clean-up. I let three of his men get away.”
“Three?”
“Yes. They hid in the left wing of the house, shot their way to the street after most of my boys were inside. We didn’t even get a look at them.”
Van strode outside again, stared closely at the prisoners and the two corpses.
“I’ve got the Chief’s key man in a place of mine ready to hand over to you,” he said to Farragut. “He’s promised to turn State’s evidence. But one of those who slipped by you tonight was as bad as any, a fellow they call Doc. I can give you a good description of him and the two others; but it may not do much good.”
“It will,” said Farragut. “We’ll round up every damn’ mother’s son of ‘em in this murdering mob.”
The Phantom nodded grimly. His eyes were bleak as he stared at the inspector. “Even if you do you still won’t have the Chief. As long as that devil’s loose the members of the Caulder family won’t be safe. This case won’t be over either. Better keep men posted to guard Moxley, Gray, Winstead, and Esmond Caulder – Blackwell, too, if you can find him. My hunch is that we haven’t heard the last of the Chief yet!”
The Phantom was right. Less than twenty-four hours later the tinkling tocsin that warned of murder sounded again. Van was in Frank Havens’s office in the Clarion Building talking over the details of the case when Farragut phoned. Havens answered the call. Van saw his knuckles whiten on the receiver as his fingers clenched.
The publisher listened, said, “Yes, he’s here, I’ll tell him,” then put down the phone and faced Van with blazing eyes. “Farragut’s out at Esmond Caulder’s. He says Caulder got one of the dancing dolls in the late mail a half hour ago.” Havens’s voice rose. “Can’t that hellish murder fiend even leave a dying man alone!”
Van’s fist clenched at his side, too. He drew in a quick gust from the cigarette he was smoking, then savagely tossed it away. He tried to speak composedly.
“I heard the Chief say that old Caulder might have to be given a push into the Great Beyond,” he said.
“It’s like a nightmare,” groaned Havens. “This thing won’t stop till every last member of the Caulder family’s dead. It’s Esmond Caulder next, then Gray probably, then Winstead if the poison he swallowed hasn’t already killed him. The last bulletin from the hospital said he was still alive.”
“I’m beginning to think Blackwell was wise,” said Van softly, “to run away.”
Havens clutched him. “Wise! There’s more behind it than that. Frankly, Van, doesn’t all the suspicion in the world point at Blackwell?”
“Suspicion – yes. But the law needs more than suspicion to send a man to the chair. Do you realize, Frank, that in all this sinister business we don’t know one damn’ thing really about the Chief? His men slipped up, bungled things; but the Chief made good every time.”
The publisher nodded quickly. “It’s even possible that when you ‘saved’ Blackwell out at Channel Point it wasn’t necessary. If Blackwell’s the killer the attack of those hopheads was only a sham. After the cunning the Chief’s shown I’m ready to believe anything. And we mustn’t forget that the clue of the clay that Squires brought here pointed straight at Blackwell. Maybe Farragut’s interpretation of it was right after all.”
Van only shrugged. He had a feeling suddenly that the answer to the whole hideous riddle was in sight – just around the corner if he could only reach it. He grabbed his hat.
“I’ll call you later. I’m going out to Caulder’s to see if I can help.”
CHAPTER XVII
SWIFT as he had moved, though, Van was too late. Disaster came quickly. Something fell at the feet of two detectives patrolling the Caulder lawn as Van’s taxi swung into the drive. The thing thudded down into a patch of dry leaves on the north side of the house in sight of the windows of the sick room. It made a sound like a hissing snake.
Van didn’t hear it above the taxis crunching tires. Not till he paid his fare and got out did he notice that flashlights were winking in the gloom.
He called a question. But the detectives were too preoccupied to answer. Van hurried toward them. As he got nearer he saw them standing tensely, peering into the surrounding darkness. Then suddenly that darkness was ripped apart by a terrific explosion. The whole night seemed to be split wide open. Red and orange flame mushroomed out. The air was filled abruptly with a deafening cacophony of sound, with acrid smoke and flying particles of dirt and metal.
The two detectives never knew what struck them. For the spitting thing that had landed at their feet was a bomb, a grenade, and it exploded so close that t heir bodies were literally torn to pieces. The lurid glow lighted up the whole side of the house. The night became a bloody horror. Van was hurled flat, knocked unconscious, his face streaked with mud and gore. And when the darkness settled again, the section of lawn which the two men had been guarding was left exposed.
Inside the house, in the big drawing room, Inspector Farragut dropped the dancing doll he’d been examining. Hell itself seemed to have broken loose outside. But Farragut had presence of mind enough to think instantly of the sick man upstairs. This explosion out on the lawn could mean only one thing – the way was being cleared for the attack on Caulder.
FARRAGUT left the drawing room, plunged across the big, old-fashioned entrance hall, and headed for the main flight of stairs. Before he reached the first landing another explosion sounded in the house itself, a detonation so terrific that the wind of it struck Farragut like a giant’s fist. The crash was in the hall directly above, near the door of Caulder’s bedroom.
It hurled Farragut back down the stairs. He went bouncing, sprawling to the very bottom, landing with his glasses broken and his body bruised. He lay for seconds too dazed to move. Then he picked himself up, grabbed his automatic. Face white, set, and bleeding from a cut made by his broken glasses, he started up the stairs again.
But the hall above was filled with choking vapor. Behind this foglike wall a shot suddenly sounded. Then Farragut heard a clatter of running feet at the other end of the upper hallway, and cursed fiercely, knowing there was a rear set of stairs.
The sound of the footsteps died away. Farragut, gripping his gun, thrust resolutely into that pall of smoke. But it confused him, blinded him, and he spent nearly three minutes opening the doors of empty rooms and batting against walls.
When the vapor began to clear a little he saw a reeling figure coming toward him. A man with a bloody face, staring eyes, and arms that waved frantically lurched down the hall. It was Caulder’s male nurse, his coat torn, a bruise on his cheek, a two-inch cut on his forehead pouring blood. His white lips opened and a creaking sound came from them. “Fire!”
Farragut smelled more smoke then, and saw suddenly that there was a wavering, lurid glow coming from the sick room door.
“There’s an extinguisher in the bathroom,” gasped the nurse. If I can get it -”
The man lurched on. Farragut ran toward that lighted doorway. It had been shattered by the second grenade. The panels were cracked and the door sagged on its hinges. Worse still, the bomb had set fire to Caulder’s bedclothes and to draperies in the room.