The Emperor of Death (18 page)
The Phantom brought the knife down close to the man’s eyes. The point gleamed like a lonely star and the cripple stared at it, mute and expressionless. Behind Van, Havens stood transfixed, like a man of ice.
“Do you talk?” said Van.
The cripple didn’t answer. Instead his jeweled eyes stared straight ahead into Van’s. The knife seemed to stick to his hand. His arm seemed suddenly heavy. A faint glaze came over his eyes. He could feel his pulse pounding, and the vein in his throat throbbed. He blinked. Then decided that this whole thing was ridiculous. Why should he worry about Hesterberg? All he wanted to do was sleep — to go to bed. God, he was tired!
But before his body moved itself away from Sligo, his brain fought against the dizziness that was upon him, and gave him a warning.
“You fool!” something seemed to shout into his consciousness at a great distance. “He’s hypnotizing you. Fight! Fight or you’re lost.”
Van shook his head savagely, as if the mere physical gesture would throw off the daze that insidiously crept over him. His eyes met those of the cripple and held. Havens stood breathless behind Van and watched the strangest battle that was ever fought between two men.
It was literally a battle of intellects. Van Loan was no novice in the arts of hypnosis, and Sligo was a past master. The room was pregnant with silence, broken only by the hissing sounds of men breathing jerkily, tensely, as they struggled for the dominance of their own minds.
CHAPTER XVII
THE PHANTOM TAKES THE TRAIL
NO ONE in that room knew how long the struggle lasted. The gray ghostly fingers of dawn reached up over the eastern horizon and put the night to flight. The clock on the mantel ticked away the minutes, the hours, and still three men remained motionless. Two of them locked in a mental struggle that must end the career of one. And in the background the third man watched, knowing that should the cripple win, his own life would hang in the balance.
The battle swayed first one way, then the other. At times Van would feel those glittering eyes of Sligo boring into his. He would feel weak as if he must pay homage to the other’s will. Then he would rally. The power of the cripple’s mind became less and Van knew that his own will was asserting itself on the other.
Sweat dripped from his face. His eyes glazed with the strain and there was a terrible pounding in his head. Then came the moment that he instinctively knew was the crisis.
Sligo was tiring. He half raised his head. His eyes were bloodshot. He fixed Van’s pupils with a malevolent gaze. He staked all on this one moment — and he nearly succeeded.
A terrible lethargy came over Van. Desperately he fought with every ounce of his will power, with every bit of his mentality. Sligo’s face was distorted with hate and rage. Now that he had exerted every trick he had, he panted. Then he issued an order, in a final frantic hope that he had subjected Van’s will, that he had the Phantom under the influence of his own mind.
“You are in my power,” he gasped. “My first order is you release me.”
Despite the agony, the weariness that was upon him, Van grinned. When he spoke his own voice seemed to come from a great distance.
“The hell I am,” he said. “On the contrary —”
Sligo, his attempt failing, dropped his head back in his chair. Desperately he tried to avoid Van’s eyes, but the two black pupils transfixed him through the silk mask. The glittering eyes of the cripple suddenly lost their animation, their brilliance. A glaze came over them. Sligo relaxed in his chair.
Then and only then did Van release him. He stood up and turned to Havens.
“Thank God,” he said, “we’ve got him.”
Outside it was broad daylight. The clock on the mantel indicated that it was after nine o’clock. Havens breathed a sigh of relief.
“Now, what do we do?” he asked.
“Now it’s easy,” said Van. “Listen.”
He walked back to the cripple and fixed him once again with his eyes.
“Sligo,” he said, “you will answer whatever questions I put to you. I am your master. Do you understand?”
The cripple nodded his head slightly. “Yes, Master,” he said in a dull far-away tone.
“Good. Now where is Hesterberg?”
Havens leaned forward eagerly to catch the answer. Sligo hesitated a moment, then replied:
“At Edgetown.”
“Who is with him?”
“Everyone in the gang, and the men he is holding as hostages.”
“Is it possible for an enemy to get inside the town?”
“Possible, but dangerous. It is well guarded. However, at night it could be done.”
Van turned to Havens and nodded. Sligo slumped forward in his chair. Physical exhaustion had taken hold of the cripple. Van sprang forward and jerked him roughly by the arm. This was Van’s chance to get the answer to a question that had completely baffled him.
“Wait, Sligo,” he said. “There’s one thing more.”
The cripple sat up with an effort.
“Yes, Master.”
“How did Bursage die?”
“The afternoon of his death, I visited him in a wheel chair. I had been wounded the night before. On a pretext I saw him. I hypnotized him into getting himself a dagger and stabbing himself at midnight.”
But Sligo never spoke again. The tremendous struggle had snapped the thin thread which held his evil life together. He slumped forward in his chair, and Van’s finger on his wrist felt no answering pulse beat.
Havens gripped Van’s arm excitedly. He opened his mouth to speak but before he could frame his words the telephone jangled imperiously. Instinctively Havens reached for it but Van placed a restraining hand on his arm.
“I’ll take it,” he said, picking up the receiver.
“Long distance,” said the operator, “Millville calling.”
Van put a hand over the receiver. “Millville calling,” he repeated. “That’s about fifteen miles from Edgetown.” He removed his hand. “Put the call through.”
A moment later a harsh masculine voice came to his ear.
“Hello, Havens? I’m calling for Hesterberg. Has our man got there yet? If so, why hasn’t he left. Why hasn’t he reported?”
Van’s brain raced faster than light itself.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “He’s here now. I’ll let him talk to you.”
“Okay. Put Sligo on.”
Van placed the receiver on the desk. He walked three paces away from the phone, then he turned and walked three paces back again. He picked up the phone and said in a very fair imitation of the cripple’s voice:
“Hello! This is Sligo.”
“Well?” said the harsh voice inquiringly.
“The trouble is this,” said Van. “They’re quitting all right. They’ll give me the papers, but they’re in a vault uptown. I can’t possibly get them till about ten o’clock. Then I want a chance to rest. I’ve had a tough time here. I’ll be at Headquarters tonight.”
“Okay,” said the voice. “As long as we know you’re all right. Good luck.”
“Good-by,” said Van, hanging up the receiver.
“Who was it?” demanded Havens excitedly. “Hesterberg?”
“No. One of his men. I’ve convinced him Sligo’s all right. I’ve also convinced him that the Phantom’s through with the case. That ought to hold him till tonight.”
“And now,” said Havens anxiously, “what do we do?”
“First,” said Van, “we rest. Then I shall go to Edgetown disguised as Sligo. I shall go by night. I must rest first, because tonight will tell the story. Either I die and Hesterberg succeeds in his plans, or Hesterberg dies himself.”
“Shall I come? I want to be there. Muriel may need me.”
Van threw a fraternal arm about his friend’s shoulders and shook his head.
“No,” he said, “you stay here. I must play a lone hand. If you have not heard from me by midnight, call the governor. Explain the situation to him. Have him send help, militia if need be. Hesterberg probably has enough men to warrant his calling them out.
“In the meantime, I shall try to foil him. I shall try to prevent his emissaries from slipping through. His men must be stopped from getting to Europe. His money drafts to Russia must be stopped. If I can prevent that by guile so much the better. If not, we must try force. Don’t forget, give me until ten o’clock, then send help. Stand by the radio. It’s apparently the only way I can communicate with you from Edgetown. Good-by.”
He stretched forth his hand. Havens grasped it firmly.
“Good-by, Van,” he said. “If anyone can do it, you can. And if” — he hesitated for a moment — “if we don’t see each other again, I’ll never forget what you’ve done.”
Van was visibly moved by the other’s words. He took the mask from his face, wrung Havens’s hand heartily, silently, afraid to trust his voice. Then, turning on his heel, he left the room and took a taxi to his own apartments.
Knowing the secret of complete relaxation, Van lay at full length on his bed. His eyes were shut, but his tired brain was still functioning. He reviewed the information that he had obtained from Sligo and considered the best method of using it.
The story of Bursage’s killing cleared up that angle. Van smiled a trifle ruefully as he realized that the explanation was one that he should have hit upon himself. However, it was no use wasting thought on the past, when the future loomed so menacingly ahead.
Of course, it had occurred to him simply to have the authorities despatch a young army to Edgetown to wipe out the murderous throng who rallied to the Mad Red’s banner. But that was not as easy as it sounded.
After all, Hesterberg had under his control in his safe-keeping half a dozen of the most influential men in America. Van knew full well that he would have not the slightest hesitation in slaughtering those men in cold blood if it were expedient to do so. Then, too, there was Muriel. For a moment as Van thought of the girl, helpless in the clutches of the maniac, his blood ran cold.
No, first he must go to Edgetown himself. Perhaps he could devise some way of saving the hostages with which Hesterberg planned to foist his will upon the world. If he failed, well, then the troops could take care of the situation. At least they could capture the Russian, even though Van and the others had first been put to death by the former’s hand.
Then, too, there was the matter of stopping Hesterberg’s messengers. Even though their master should be captured, the documents which they carried could still do their dreaded work. War would ride roughshod over civilization, with the other three horsemen of the Apocalypse galloping grimly in his wake.
Banks would extend the Soviet credit on the cables which were sent by the families of the captured men. And then, again, there was Muriel.
Now, Dick Van Loan had of his own volition eschewed romance for excitement. He had sacrificed his chance at the normal happiness of life for a vivid live-or-die existence. Never would he marry any girl. It would have been too unfair. Yet, now that he realized for the first time the depth of his feeling for Muriel, he felt sick and wretched as he thought of her in alien hands.
Then, at last, after his brain had formulated his plan, he permitted his aching mind to relax. For three hours he slept. Then he rose, dressed, filled a suitcase with a number of things which might be useful to him, and telephoned for his roadster. And in his pocket reposed the torn half of the papers that Hesterberg needed badly.
Half an hour later, as the late autumn sun was streaking down over the horizon to light the other half of the world, he stared out up the Post Road. His face was set and grim, his eyes determined and steady and his heart was a steadfast courage — a courage, which he was destined to tax to the utmost iota ere that black night had passed.
For the last time the Phantom had taken the trail of the Mad Red — and this time it would be a battle to the death!
THE NIGHT came down. The twin headlights of Van’s car cut two holes through the blackness. Gray lay the road beneath their yellow glare. On either side, trees waved gaunt and ghostly arms to the sky, while far ahead the friendly lights of a town twinkled cheerily for a moment, then were lost to sight as a hill reared itself in Van’s line of vision.
From time to time he consulted a map which he had pinned to the dashboard. He fully expected that there would be no lights to indicate Edgetown. Hesterberg had in all probability closed every shutter, cut every wire, to insure that no one could interfere with him now, that no one could take from him his hostages with which he could enforce his will.
Chances were that the residents of the town had been made prisoners also. Hesterberg could not afford to let them walk the streets unmolested. A footnote on Van’s map told him that Edgetown was off the railroad line, and that the population was slightly under a thousand.
As he came within ten miles of the town he slowed down and considered some important things. Undoubtedly the Russian had established his guards. A picket line, probably was thrown out around the villa. Van considered his car. Should he drive it through the picket lines or should he leave it without?
Finally he decided to put on the false license plates which he carried in his suitcase and drive right in. It was dark and the pickets would not pay much attention to the car if they were sure that it was Sligo, the evil-eyed cripple who was passing into the town.
When a glance at his map showed him that he was within four miles of the town, he ran the roadster onto the shoulders of the road and came to a full stop.
He opened the suitcase and withdrew a box of make-up. Staring into the mirror over the windshield, he dexterously drew the grease paint over his face. Deft fingers applied black to his eyebrows. Small pieces of flesh-colored wax distorted his features, and slowly before the mirror, the grim face of Richard Van Loan evolved to the ugly countenance of Sligo.
The likeness was so remarkable, so appalling, that it would have certainly passed muster before the cripple’s own mother. But Van was not done yet. From his pocket he took an eye-dropper. He lifted it to his eye. His tongue closed on his teeth, for he knew the pain this was going to cause him.
Then with a firm hand he squeezed the end of the dropper. The drug deluged his eyeball. He grimaced with pain. Then he repeated the process on the other eye. For a full minute he sat there, suffering untold agony. Then, at last, as the smarting died away, he glanced in the mirror, and exultation beat within his heart.
