The Emperor of Death (2 page)

VAN LOAN ceased his contemplation of the documents on his desk and lighted an Egyptian cigarette. A frown wrinkled his brow, and for a moment he stared blankly into space. He was frankly worried. Apparently there was more in this affair than he had thought at first.

When Havens first suggested he take this job, he had done it in the spirit of a lark, the same spirit that had prompted him to handle other cases which had made his name a byword among decent people and a Nemesis to the underworld.

It was Havens, the publisher of a dozen newspapers, who had suggested that he become the Phantom and attempt to solve certain cases for the papers that the police had failed upon; and it was Havens who had suggested this latest undertaking.

Yet Van Loan was positive that only three living men had known of his appointment with the President — the latter, Havens and himself. Yet he had been waylaid by someone who seemed to know as much of his plans as he did himself.

If this super-intelligence, regarding whom the meager documents on his desk concerned themselves, had so easily discovered what he had regarded as a secret impossible of transpiration, the task he had so lightly assumed would probably prove to be the most dangerous adventure in his checkered, perilous career.

However, if he was worried he was most certainly not afraid. Richard Curtis Van Loan had stood shoulder to shoulder with the reaper too often to fear anything living — or for that matter, dead.

Born to society and wealth, the War had taught him the utter futility of the pampered life he had led in his youth. On the flaming Eastern front he had learned to grapple with death daily. Further, he had learned to like it.

Peace-time adjustment was hard — impossible. That was the reason he had so eagerly jumped at his best friend’s suggestion to combat crime in the role of the Phantom. And as the underworld would attest vehemently, he had been thoroughly successful.

To alleviate the boredom that attacked him he had thoroughly studied and no less thoroughly mastered the various arts which would render his war on crime more effective. His knowledge of criminology vas perhaps equaled by only one man — the incomparable Lombroso.

His histrionic ability, and his talent for make-up were not surpassed by any actor that ever trod the boards. He had cultivated a gift of mimicry and ventriloquism which had stood him in good stead on more than one occasion. He had but to hear a voice once, in order to be able to imitate it perfectly.

Thus it was that the Phantom had been signally successful when lesser sleuths had failed. Van Loan had perfected his chosen art to such a point that beside him the average professional detective was a lumbering tyro.

Yet, despite the fact that he had risen to the top of his chosen profession, he was not altogether happy. In order to pursue the hazardous career of the Phantom, which he created, he was compelled to forego the things which any normal man may have for the asking. Love, romance, children, a home — these things were not for Richard Van Loan. These tranquil joys were not for a man who faced death daily, who gambled his life with criminals every moment. No, all life is a compromise and the compromises which he had been compelled to make in order to create the Phantom were no small things.

Yet, he would rather have it this way. Though at times when he thought of Muriel, his heart lay heavy within him. Muriel was Frank Havens’s daughter, and under other circumstances, Van often thought of her as his bride. She possessed all the charms and virtues that he would have asked in his wife. But he realized he could never realize that dream. For the Phantom had been born from the ashes of romance.

He sighed and glanced impatiently at the clock. Havens should be here by now, and he was eager to report the events of the night before to his friend, the only man who knew the true identity of him who the world called the Phantom.

He lit his third cigarette from the butt of its predecessor, when the phone jangled impatiently and the operator announced:

“Mr. Havens is calling Mr. Smith.”

“Havens? Good. Send him in.”

He hung up and a few minutes later the door opened to admit a tall gray-haired man of about forty-two. Van sprang to his feet and greeted his visitor cordially, with an extended hand. Rather, to his surprise, Havens made no move to take it. Instead the publisher sat down on the couch, and said in a low, hoarse, tone:

“What’s the time?”

Van glanced at his watch.

“Ten to twelve,” he said casually. But his eyes studied the other’s face with concern. Havens did not look like his usual self. His normally keen eyes were dull and glazed. His voice, usually alive and animated, was sodden, expressionless. Further, he who had yesterday been so excited about the Phantom’s latest adventure seemed to have little concern with it today.

Van puffed at his cigarette slowly. “Feeling a bit under the weather?” he asked.

Havens raised his eyes and stared at the speaker. As Van met his gaze he felt a little chill run down his spine. For if ever hate and murder were written in a human face they were indelibly stamped on the features of Havens at that moment.

Van Loan was puzzled and his worry increased.

“Well,” he said with a nonchalance he did not feel, “I had something of an adventure last night.”

“Yes,” said Havens in a horrible monotone. “What time is it?”

That made the second time he had asked that question in five minutes. Van decided to humor him until he found out what the trouble was.

“Five to twelve,” he said quietly. Then he crossed the room and dropped a fraternal hand on the publisher’s shoulder.

“Listen, Frank,” he said. “We’ve been pals a long time. Now tell me what’s the matter with you? You look all in.”

Again that chill ran down his spine as Havens looked up at him. A cruel smile distorted the publisher’s lips. He rose slowly to his feet. His hands trembled. He seemed in the grip of some terrible emotion.

“It’s nearly twelve o’clock,” he said thickly.

For the third time Van glanced at his watch. Then there came to his ears the slow tolling of the sonorous bell in the Metropolitan Tower.

Havens stood stock still listening. For twelve long seconds he did not move, save for the slight tremble in his hands. Then, at last, as the final note reverberated and died away, he uttered a shrill cry. His hand flashed to his pocket in a lightning-like gesture. It came into view again holding a slim pearl-handled revolver.

He whipped it up and, aiming point blank at his best friend, he pulled the trigger.

“There,” he cried, in a mad frenzy, “you die at noon. Master, I have obeyed.”

But Van Loan was not taken unawares. He had been expecting something to happen, and the fact that he did not know what it would be did not render him any the less ready for it.

He leaped aside with the speed and grace of a panther. The steel slug from Havens’s revolver whizzed over his head and buried itself in the wall. Then, in a flying tackle, Van crashed against the other’s knees and brought him to the floor.

And in that second, in that instant when his life had hung in the balance, he knew the answer. In a single swift illuminating flash, his brain saw the only possible explanation.

Havens lay on the floor with Van’s strong arms still about his thighs. The revolver had slithered underneath the couch. Havens stared blankly up at the ceiling. Then suddenly Van released him. He bent over the publisher, staring steadily into his eyes.

“Listen, Frank,” he said. “Listen to me. It’s Van. Van. Do you understand?”

He bent closer and struck Havens twice on the cheek with the flat of his hand. Then he snapped his fingers in front of the other’s eyes. During this peculiar process, he kept up a steady stream of words.

“Frank! It’s Van! Van! Come out of it. Out of it.”

He accompanied the last word with another stinging blow on the check. Then he breathed easier as he saw the dull glaze suddenly leave the other’s eyes. Life seemed to return to his dead irises. His face lost cruel relentlessness. Van helped him up and sat him in a chair.

Normal once more, Havens stared at his friend in a bewildered manner.

“Van,” he said in a questioning, puzzled voice, “where did you come from?” He looked around the room, recognized it, and went on: “How did I get here. What —”

“Take it easy,” said Van gravely. “I’ll explain everything to you. You see that?”

He pointed to the revolver on the floor. Havens’s eyes followed his hand. The publisher nodded.

“Well,” said Van, “you just tried to kill me with that.”

Horror shone in Havens’s face.
“What?”

Van nodded. “It wasn’t your fault, though. You were hypnotized.”

“My God,” said Havens, now thoroughly comprehending. “Go on, man. Tell me what happened.”

Briefly Van told him of his own deeds since he had arrived in the apartment. When he finished, Havens stared at him aghast.

“But, good heavens,” he exclaimed. “Why? Why should anyone hypnotize me? Why should anyone want to make me kill you?”

“Because,” said Van gravely, “you are the only living person who knows the identity of the Phantom. They can’t kill the Phantom, because they don’t know who he is. But they could hypnotize you and while under the influence tell you to kill the Phantom, because you knew what they did not. You knew that I am the Phantom!”

Havens nodded slowly as the reason of Van’s explanation came to him.

“But who?” he said. “I appreciate the fact that you’ve made enemies among crooks. But who is so diabolically clever to be able to conceive and carry out a scheme of this sort?”

“The same person that waylaid me last night.”

“But I sent my car for you? Didn’t it get there? If not, where’s the car? Where’s the chauffeur?”

“The car picked me up in Baltimore as per schedule,” said Van, “before we got waylaid. Your chauffeur is probably a corpse somewhere in Maryland. God knows where the car is.”

Havens nearly bounced out of his chair.

“What? You mean you never saw —”

“No. I never saw him.”

“But I received a confidential message from Washington late last night saying that you had been there.”

“Not me,” said Van grimly. “That was the enemy impersonating me.”

“But who? Who is this enemy?”

“That,” said Van very gravely, “is what we must find out if we care at all about living.”

There was a short grim silence in the room.

“Now,” said Van, “you’re beginning to realize what I came to realize last night. We’re dealing with a great man. A man capable of giving genius to crime. A man capable of welding the whole underworld together in a war on society. I have some papers here which give me certain information. Not a great deal, but at least something to work on.”

He broke off for a moment, then told Havens the whole story of his adventures of the night before.

“Now,” he went on, “if we can find out who it was that hypnotized you, we have a real first-class clue. Think, now! Did you come in contact with any suspicious characters this morning. Anyone at all, who you think might have hypnotized you?”

Havens wrinkled his brows and thought profoundly for a minute or two. Then he shook his head.

“No-o,” he said slowly. “I can’t say that I did. I — I’ve got it. The cripple!”

Van leaned forward in his chair. His eyes shone eagerly.

“Go on,” he said excitedly. “What cripple?”

“Well,” said Havens, “of course, I’ve no evidence to go on. But his eyes. I’ll never forget his eyes. I grew dizzy looking at him.”

“Go on,” said Van. “Give me all the details you can think of. Where did you meet him?”

“I ran into him as I was leaving the Pneumatic Rubber Company’s directors’ meeting. I left with Bursage — you know Bursage. He’s head of the board. Well, we were going out of the building together when this cripple beggar came up to us whining something about a nickel for a cup of coffee.”

Van nodded and scrawled something on a desk pad. Havens continued: “I reached in my pocket for some silver before I really saw him. Then when I looked at him, I noticed his eyes. He was dirty and unshaven, yet those eyes stared out of his head like glittering diamonds in a setting of mud. I never saw anything like it. They were filled with hatred — hatred and dominance.”

“Dominance is hardly a quality you’d expect to find in the eyes of a bum,” observed Van.

“True. I thought of that. As I handed him a quarter, his hand touched mine, and our gazes met. As he looked at me I got a trifle dizzy. My head buzzed. It was all over in a minute and I paid no attention to it. But I distinctly remember that I was frightfully dizzy at the time.”

Van nodded. “Did Bursage notice anything?” he asked.

“No. I mentioned the cripple to him as we walked away. He dismissed my ideas. Said the man was just an ordinary tramp. He saw nothing out of the ordinary about him.”

“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary about him, except for his eyes?”

“No. But, God, Van, those eyes were enough. I tell you, I’ve never seen anything that had such a weird effect on me. It was awful.”

“Awful enough,” said Van grimly. “They were the eyes of death. The eyes that we must find if ever we are to break the power of the man who plans to devastate society.”

CHAPTER III
THE PHANTOM MEETS THE FOE

HAVENS sat silent for a moment, as his mind absorbed the dire situation that they faced. When he spoke his voice trembled slightly, for Havens was a man of imagination.

“Does anyone know you’re here, Van?”

“Not a soul. I checked in early, this morning, under the alias of Smith. You’re the only living soul who knows it.”

Havens nodded, satisfied. Then he asked with a clouded brow:

“But what
are
we fighting, Van? Who is it? What is his aim? Have you no information?”

Van jerked his thumb in the direction of the papers that scattered the escritoire.

“Only what’s there. His name’s Hesterberg. From those Department of Justice reports, he’s mad, and he’s a Red. They’ve got a good line on him up till three years ago. Then it becomes mostly guess work. Anyway, he’s got a good head on him. But it seems he’s hipped on Communism. He’s drawn pay from Russia for years. And since he quit the university, where he was Professor of Economics, he’s devoted himself to breaking down all American ideals.