Mystery Of The Sea Horse (11 page)

"Have you—is he back yet?"

"Not yet, Di," replied her uncle. He disappeared into the kitchen.

When she stepped into the room, he handed her a mug of steaming coffee. "Thanks," she said. "I suppose everything is all right."

"I'm sure it is. What would you like for breakfast?"

"Nothing now, thanks." The Santa Ana wind hit the house so hard, it seemed to jump. "These winds, are they dangerous?"

Nodding, the old man said, "I was listening to the news. Already some brush fires are starting up in the hills. Looks like Santa Barbara is in for a few bad—"

"I don't suppose the news said anything about . . . about the raid on Chris Danton's island?"

"Not a word, no. Marcus doesn't want any of

that to get out until they've rounded up as many of them as they can."

Diana took a sip of the coffee, then made a face. "I guess so."

"Coffee too strong?"

She smiled. "A little."

"Never got over the habit of making it station- house style," he admitted. "Lots of people have—"

"Anything more about our . . . little shootout last night?" She tried another small sip.

"Local police have the slugs and one of the cartridges so far," said Uncle Dave. "But not the person who fired at us."

"It got so confused here last night, with all those federal agents tramning around," said Diana. "I never did get to tell the police I have a good idea who the girl was."

"A girl was handling that rifle? You never told me either," said Uncle Dave. "Who is she?"

"I think it's a girl I met on the island named Laura Leverson."

"Better let the police know."

"I'm sure she's on the run by now, but I'll phone in a few minutes."

"Don't have to phone," said Uncle Dave. "There's a man in a radio car outside the house. I can trot out and tell him."

"A man in a radio car?" The dark-haired girl put the mug down on the table. "Why, do they still suspect me of—?"

"Marcus told the local boys you may still be in danger," her uncle told her. "It's a precaution."

"And Basically," said the ea'm blond man who appeared on the threshold of the kitchen now, "a wise one. However, policemen who have to sit around in cars for long hours tend to get inattentive, making it fairly simple to—" "Who the hell are you?" shouted Uncle Dave.

"You can call me . . . oh, anything you like," said Anderson. "My name isn't important." He gestured at Diana with the snubnose .32 revolver in his right hand. "Will you please hurry and get dressed now, Miss Palmer."

"What do you want?" the girl asked.

"We want you to get dressed as quickly as possible and come along."

"You're one of Chris Danton's men?"

"On the contrary," Anderson assured her. "We are, though, very anxious to get in touch with Mr. Danton. We're hoping you can help us on that score."

"I have no idea where—"

"Please, no more talk. That cop outside won't stay unconscious forever." He came into the room, prodding the girl in the side with his gun.

"Don't do that to her again," warned Uncle Dave.

Keeping the gun aimed at them, Anderson fingered a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket. "Sit yourself in that wooden chair, will you please?" he told Uncle Dave. "Quickly—quickly now."

Grudgingly, the old man complied. 'Within hours, the police will. . ."

"Yes, yes," murmured the smiling Anderson. He tugged the old man's hands behind him, looped the chain of the cuffs around one of the wooden ribs of the chair back, and locked Uncle Dave's hands together. "That should hold you for a few minutes."

"Damn you," said Diana.

"Unless you want to come as you are, Miss Palmer," said Anderson, his voice still calm and relaxed, "you really must get ready right now."

She turned and walked into the hall. There

might be a way to get away out of one of her bedroom windows.

"And don't," Anderson said, "waste any more time trying to phone for help or climbing out a window. We've cut the phone wires and I have a mail out in your patio with a gun."

Two uniformed police began walking toward the Phantom.

He stopped on the pathway leading up to Uncle Dave's house. "What's wrong?"

"What's your business with Mr. Palmer, sir?" asked the chunkier of the two.

The Phantom's eyes narrowed. "I'm a house guest of his," he answered. "Now, what's happened? Is Diana Palmer all right?"

"Come on in," said the plainclothesman. "The old guy's been asking for you."

"Where's Diana?"

"That's what we're in the middle of trying to find out." He led the Phantom along to Dave Palmer's bedroom.

"You had a man guarding this house," said the Phantom.

"That's him lying on the couch in the living room," said the other man. "Somebody slugged him."

Diana's uncle was stretched out on top of his brightly covered bed. He pushed aside the bearded young doctor who was bending over him when he saw the Phantom approaching. "I should have been able to stop them," he said in a weak voice.

"They took Diana?"

"You ought to stay still, Mr. Palmer," suggested the young doctor as he backed away. "The shock of all this . . ."

"Yes, came right into the house, one of them any-

way," went on Diana's uncle. "That was at about —I don't know what time it is now."

"We figure the girl was kidnapped about an hour ago," said the plainelothesman.

Sitting carefully on the edge of the bed, the Phantom asked, "Who was it? Somebody from Danton?"

Uncle Dave closed his eyes. "That's what's sort of funny," he said. "This fellow gave me the impression he was looking for Danton, too. He had the crazy notion Di could tell him where Danton was."

"That's why they took her?"

"That's what he said."

"What did the man look like?" asked the Phantom.

The policeman offered, "I can give you that."

Uncle Dave opened his eyes again. "I can do it, Sergeant. He was a very cool customer. I'd estimate he was a bit over forty, a little under six feet and with very light-blond hair. A very . . . kind of bland-looking guy. You'd pass him on the—"

"Was he wearing dark glasses and a blue sport shirt?" the Phantom said.

"Yes, he was. Do you know him?"

The plainclothesman came closer to the bed. "Yeah, do you have some idea about who grabbed your girlfriend, Walker?"

The Phantom stood up. He was certain Diana, for reasons he couldn't as yet understand^ had been kidnapped by the men he'd encountered at Laura Leverson's cottage. But this was one job of tracking he wasn't going to delegate to anyone else. "No, I'm afraid not, Sergeant."

"But you . . ." began the sergeant.

"I'll see you soon again, Uncle Dave."

"Wait now," said the policeman.

The Phantom kept on walking out of the room and down the hallway.

"Hey," said the plainclothesman. "What's he up
to?"

Uncle Dave smiled faintly. "I think he's up to bringing Diana home."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The plump cafe owner poured himself another root beer. After a few slurping swallows, he turned to the Phantom to ask, "Freshen your coffee up a little?"

The Phantom was sitting sideways at the otherwise empty counter. He was watching the phone booth at the back of the short narrow cafe. "No, thanks."

"Don't see how you can drink anything hot on a day like this anyway." The cafe owner slurped down the rest of the soft drink. "I guess we've got different metabolisms, like they say. I couldn't go around in an overcoat like yours either with this damn Santa . . ."

The phone inside the shadowy booth began to ring. The Phantom went in and answered it. "Walker," he said.

Agent Terry, up in San Francisco, said, "I checked that license number out for you through Motor Vehicles in Sacramento. Don't know if it'll do you much good."

"Why?" The Phantom had called his friend a few minutes earlier to ask him for a run-down on the license number he'd remembered from the car of the men he was fairly certain had taken Diana.

"Well, the car is registered to an outfit down your way called Katz's Kwik Karentals." Terry gave him the address.

"Thanks, I'll follow it up."

"You're sure you don't want me to give you

more help on this? I can get you some men to—"

"Not yet." The Phantom hung up and left the booth.

The counterman tilted his head in the direction of the phone. "Good news or bad?"

The Phantom dropped some change on the formica counter. "I'm not sure yet."

"Of course, if Mr. Katz were here," said the freckled young man behind the battered desk.

The rental office was at the corner of a small lot. Ten cars sat outside looking toward the distant ocean.

Decreasing the distance between himself and the young man, the Phantom said, "I want to know who has this car out." He repeated the license number.

"Anyhow, this is my lunch hour." He indicated the paper plate and a half of a roast-beef sandwich before him.

"I can let the police come and ask you." The Phantom stopped directly in front of the desk. "But that will take time. And I don't have time to waste."

"We all got problems, sir. But you can't—"

The Phantom grabbed the freckled young man out of his swivel chair. "Give me the address, no more wisecracks."

"Well, I suppose Mr. Katz won't really mind," he decided. "Could you put my feet back on the floor so I can walk over to our rental book, please?"

Dropping him back on his feet, the Phantom followed him to the small office's other desk.

While flipping through a thick loose-leaf binder, the young man said casually, "You some kind of private detective?"

The Phantom made no answer.

"Yes, sir, this looks like your baby." He pointed a mustard-smudged finger at the book page. "That particular car was rented for a month in advance by a Mr. A. Anderson, and here's the address."

The Phantom studied the penciled notations on the form. "Been in town almost two weeks at least," he said. "Do you remember what Anderson looked like?"

Poking at a squiggle at the bottom of the sheet, the young man said, "Mr. Katz handled that transaction, sir. But, like I tried to tell you, he should be back in . . ."