Читать книгу The Phantom Detective: Tycoon of Crime - Robert Wallace - Страница 4

CHAPTER II

One Did Not Die

“JUST A MINUTE.”

In the modernistic, gleaming radio cupola of Newark Airport, those words of Pat Bentley’s had emanated from the loudspeaker.

Two uniformed operators sat at tables in the brightly lighted room, handling two microphones. Two more stood at the big sets, with earphones glued on, their eyes watching the great, humming transmitters, the many tubes and condensers. From this room planes in the sky and on the field were guided; and though the atmosphere was tense, the work was performed with smooth efficiency.

Tonight, attention had been focused chiefly on the new flight from Chicago. While no other planes had been neglected, the men in the airport cupola had given their utmost co•peration to the big Douglas to see that the trip was smooth and successful.

The confident, incisive voice of Bentley had kept them reassured, even when the Douglas had been flying in the high clouds of fog. They had followed its every move, knew the exact position with which it should correspond with the big map on the wall.

As Bentley’s voice said “Just a moment,” the radio man at the microphone who had conducted the conversation with the plane relaxed, smiling.

“Two to one he beats the schedule!” he offered, and had no comers. “This is going to boost the Harvey Airlines all right. It’s the fastest Chicago run in the air! And with Bentley the safest —”

He broke off, suddenly jerking up his head. From the loud speaker came a low exclamation. Then —

“Wait!” Bentley’s voice, no longer crisp but suddenly sharp, agitated. “Something’s the matter! Something’s wrong!”

The four men in the room stiffened, their confidence changing to quick alarm. The man at the microphone jerked forward.

“What’s the matter, Bentley?” he snapped. “What —”

Then it came!

Of a sudden the loud speaker seemed to burst into a din of raucous sound which filled the cupola and brought a cry of alarm from every throat.

The first sound was like some rumbling detonation, brief yet reverberating. It was followed by a terrible, rending crackle! Horrified, the men in the cupola froze into rigid immobility, aware that something dreadful had just happened out in the night sky. And then, curdling their blood, came the hoarse scream:

“She’s burning! She’s burning!”

Pat Bentley had screamed those ghastly words! Screamed them more, it seemed, with horrified amazement than fright. Screamed them above that horrible, crackling roar.

“Fire!” Bentley shrieked, “It’s broken out! The whole ship’s burning like so much paper!”

“Bentley!” Helpless, the radio operator was wringing his hands at the microphone. “Good God, Bentley, what are you saying? What —”

The dreadful sounds from the night grew to a crescendo in the loud speaker. The crackling roar tilled the room, And now, faint but horrifying, came other sounds — human cries. Cries of terror, of panic, of agony.

“God, she’s going down! She’s going to crash!” Bentley’s frenzied voice came again. “The fire’s creeping up — I can feel the heat — getting worse — worse! No hope! Going to crash —”

Abruptly the voice and the sounds ceased.

The radio went dead. In that awful moment, the aviation men’s eyes showed the vivid horror of their air-trained imaginations. As if they could see a flaming Douglas plane, crashing like a fiery torch somewhere out in the night miles away. The fire consuming it, its radio crumpling, its passengers and its pilot caught helpless, without a chance of escape!

Then came swift reaction. The radio men hurled into a simultaneous rush of action. All other work was momentarily suspended. Both microphones carried frantic messages as their operators spoke in rapid fire.

“Trenton! Calling Trenton! Any more signals from Number One?”

“Balesville, Pennsylvania! Any reports of Number One in that vicinity?”

One of the operators picked up a phone. “Hangar Five! Send out planes to locate Number One!” He gave details, then: “Get me the commanding officer of Miller Field — Hello! Can you send out some flyers to aid in reported burning of transport?

The continued calls set into motion every available machinery. As always, an air disaster brought swift co•peration from the Army Air Force, as well as from all commercial units.

The chief operator, having set such machinery in motion, spoke with gripping tension.

“We’ve got to get hold of Mr. Harvey! He must be informed of this at once. What a ghastly blow to the new line!”

Even as he spoke, out in the night, scores of searching planes were already taking the air. The hunt for the huge transport which had disappeared in the night was in full, feverish swing —

AND MEANWHILE, OUTSIDE A SMALL SHACK rearing near heavy, wind-swaying trees, a group of shifting, shadowy figures, most of them in slouch hats with low-pulled brims, were gathering tensely.

There was a stench in the air — a burning, smoking stench. There was a dying, ruddy glow which flickered over coarse faces, over malignant, furtive eyes.

But the eyes of the group were all drawn hypnotically to a small closed coupé which had just emerged out of the night, come to a stop before them.

At first glance that coupé looked like the usual model of a well-known high-priced make of car. But closer inspection would have revealed the unusual heaviness of its metal body, the thickness of its glass windows. The window opposite the tense, dark figures was not quite completely closed; a crack showed on top. But glass protected the head of the car’s lone occupant.

A face looked out through that glass — a strange, grotesquerie of a face whose features seemed to shimmer as if made of jelly. It was a ghastly sight, even though the men watching knew it was caused by some imperfection in the thick, bullet-proof glass.

Impossible to tell the true features of that distorted face. It remained, by virtue of the glass, a vague blur; frightening, yet malignantly compelling.

“And so everything has come off exactly as I planned!”

The voice came from the crack of the coupé’s window. It was a ghastly voice, a sort of harsh whisper which eddied out into the silent night. It spoke in blighting malice.

“It has gone off like clockwork! And they will hunt in vain for the wreck! I commend you — all of you! Especially you three who were in the shack.”

Slick, his head a dark shiny knob in the night, stepped forward with his nimble, jerky grace. Ape, still gripping the blue-steel tommy gun, stood grinning, while the man named Luke quietly lit a new cigarette.

“Hell, it was a cinch, Boss!” Slick spoke towards the car. “You had it figgered just right!”

AN EERIE CHUCKLE sounded from the coupé, as the distorted face shimmered behind the glass.

“I always have things figured! And now we must prepare for my next enterprise! My work has only begun. The night is still young, and by midnight I strike again — this time in New York! There another enemy, perhaps even two, will pay for opposing me!” Harshly the whisper rose, with fanatical triumph. “Soon everyone will know the power of the Tycoon of Crime!

“And you, who are only one part of my mob, will see that you are not working for any small stakes. Before I am through, there will be millions — millions!” He repeated that word with avaricious greed which swiftly communicated itself to his listeners, to show in their evil faces. “Just obey my orders and nothing can stop us! Midnight tonight — remember, that is the time I have set. And I want you all to check your watches and synchronize them with my own now.”

Watches came out or were turned up on wrists. The Tycoon gave the minute, and the watches were set.

“At midnight then,” came the eerie voice. It lowered, giving further orders. Then the self-starter of the coupé whined; the engine purred.

“So I will go. And you will all hurry, too. I trust you checked up, as I said — on the dead?” he pronounced the phrase with grim mirth. “Did you take all the effects of Truesdale and Garth?” Hate threaded his tone as those names were spoken. There were gruff assents. “Good! And the pilot? You made sure of the pilot?”

As he spoke eyes shifted to the ruddy, dying glow. A few faces paled a little sickly.

“Yeah, I made sure he’s dead,” a squatly-built man stepped forward to answer. The ruddy glow revealed his squarish head, set low on wide shoulders. His face was crooked-featured, as if one-half of it had slid beneath the other. “I seen his brass buttons.”

“You mean,” the Tycoon of Crime said bitingly, “that there were two such men with brass buttons, don’t you, Maxie? There was a co-pilot too.”

Maxie’s crooked face showed surprise. “But there was only one, Boss. I —”

“You bungling fool.” The whisper lashed out like a whip, in sudden, frenzied rage. “Slick, count those bodies! Tell me the count!”

Slick hurried forward. He was quick to return with an answering number, but when he told it a snarl of enraged conviction came from the coupé.

“It’s true then! One of them escaped! He’s loose! That must be Bentley, the pilot, from what I know of his stubborn character. But he can’t be far! He must be found — he must be killed!” The voice fairly crackled. “He must die before he can menace my plans!”

His fierce words lashed the whole crowd to action. Automatics glinted as they were whipped out. Ape gripped his tommy gun. Breaking up into smaller groups, thugs were scouring the vicinity — with murder in their eyes.

“He can’t escape!” The voice of the Tycoon of Crime spurred them on. “There is only one way he could have headed. Get him! Get him no matter how far you have to follow him!”

YES, PAT BENTLEY WAS ALIVE!

He was disheveled, his face smoke-blackened, his eyes wild with horror and shock — but he was very much alive as he ran furtively through a sleepy little village — the village of Mulford, New York. A long, long way from where he had last radioed a message from his doomed plane.

His brain was a rioting tumult of rage, of horror, of anguished realization. Now he knew the reason for all his presentiments. And those two men he had felt queerly about at the outset of the flight. Garth and Truesdale.

He knew now the meaning of the frightened words he had heard in their conversation. But what about those strong boxes on the plane? Had they melted, burned? Their valuable unknown contents been destroyed? Conjectures raced through his mind as the question rose: What to do!

Then his wild eyes caught the light window of an all-night drug store. A telephone!

The lone clerk on duty in the store was dozing in a corner and did not even see Bentley. The disheveled, smoke-blackened pilot lurched across the floor to a single booth. His eyes glanced wildly around, then he entered, closing the door, change jangling as his hand reached into his pockets.

“Long — distance — New York City —” his voice came in a gasping croak. “I want New York City Police Headquarters. The number is Spring Seven Three One Hundred. Hurry — emergency!”

He was crazily putting in coins as he spoke, the toll-bells clanging. The urgency of his voice evidently brought swift co•peration from the telephone office.

The connection was made.

“Police Headquarters,” boomed a stentorian voice.

“Let me speak to the commissioner: This is a matter of life and death. I’ve important information.”

There was a pause at the other end. Faint words there; then a click of switches.

“Hello!” came a gruff voice. “This is Chief Deputy Inspector Gregg. Who’s calling?”

“I want the commissioner.”

“You can tell me what you have to say. I’m in charge of the Detective Division.” And the man on the New York end of the line repeated: “Who’s calling?”

“Listen!” Again Bentley ignored the question. His voice came rapid-fire, with crisp incisiveness, with the clear yet rapid enunciation that had made him famous as a news commentator. “Something’s going to happen in New York at midnight at Grand Central! A murder — a devilish murder! There’s a fiend behind it! I heard him talking! You police must stop him! You must —”

Abruptly Pat Bentley whirled. Was that a movement outside the drug store? Or just a shadow? The voice of the Manhattan Inspector was barking questions in the receiver — but suddenly reaching anew decision, Bentley hung up without another word, without telling who he was.

He sneaked across the floor past the dozing clerk, glancing out. No one in sight. His imagination? Or perhaps a premonition. For the trail he had left would be wide open. They’d be after him.

He had done what had to be done immediately. Even as he had been talking he had realized he could not chance further information to any phone, nor tell what he knew to any police inspector. He must get to New York City, in person. He had phoned because he knew that not even a miracle could get him there before midnight, and at least he had warned the police, though they had no idea who’s murder they were to prevent or who had given the information. But now —

As he hurried through the dark village streets, Bentley’s eyes gleamed; those far-sighted eyes of the born flyer. There was one man to whom he could tell the whole ghastly story — the incredible story. The man who had been his boss when he was a newspaperman. Frank Havens, owner of the New York Clarion!

Havens would know what to do with this dynamite news that would be too inflammable for the police! For Havens knew how to contact the one person who could cope with such a thing; the great unknown detective who had unraveled other baffling and bloody enigmas.

“The Phantom!” Bentley’s dry lips whispered, as they twisted in a crooked grin of hope. “The Phantom — must be — called!”