The Emperor of Death (11 page)

The increasing hub-hub of noise outside the door of his self-imposed prison, told him that the night’s activities at the club were beginning. Around eight, on hearing the voices of Havens and Clairborne, as they entered the Union, he was tempted to come out of his place of concealment But only for a moment. He realized that the strength of his plan lay in absolute concealment until the time for action had arrived.

The first step of his plan had been fulfilled. He had brought Clairborne to the club; to strike, Hesterberg had to reach him there. And he, the Phantom, was laying in wait to see that the Russian was foiled.

Footsteps drifted by his door. Snatches of conversation, broken and disrupted came to his straining ears. But slowly, piece by piece, he pierced together the information that Clairborne had taken his advice and had called in the police.

The Union Club was surrounded by a cordon of stalwart bluecoats. The minions of the law were stationed at every point of vantage outside the building. And in personal charge of the police contingent was Inspector Demaree.

The Phantom didn’t have much faith in the strong arm of the law, but when it came to a massing of numerical strength and a pitched battle, they had their advantage.

Nine o’clock came; ten. By the sounds of revelry that floated down to the locker, from the dining room, Van surmised that Clairborne was throwing a party as a gesture of disdain at Hesterberg’s threat.

The party was almost too gay; he realized that there was a note of hysteria in it.

For a moment all thought of Clairborne and his party was wiped from his mind. Footsteps approached his hiding place, stopped. He heard voices; one voice first and recognized it as Havens’s. He pressed his ear against the door and listened.

“You are prepared for any emergency, Inspector?”

“Any, sir. But just what do you expect to happen here tonight?”

The Phantom didn’t hear Havens’s reply that followed immediately. His every nerve was consumed with liquid fire; his lean muscles knotted to whip-cords. It was not the question Inspector Demaree had propounded that had wrought this sudden change in him. No. It was the voice that had asked the question.

The Phantom had heard it before. He would never forget it. Its accent was impressed indelibly on his mind.

It was the voice — of Hesterberg! Hesterberg — Detective Inspector Demaree! No! The thing was impossible — mad!

The men moved on, their voices faded. The Phantom heaved a long sigh and relaxed. He realized then that it was time to come out of his place of concealment. He had to take a look at this Inspector Demaree. But he feared the worst.

Awaiting his opportunity he slipped from the locker room a moment later, slithered like a shadow behind the shelter of a marble colonnade. A swift survey of the scene told him that the club was in the hands of the Russian.

The Phantom shrank back against the marble column as Havens and another man marched out of the smoking room. They headed his way, deep in conversation. Half-way across the lobby, the man at Havens’s side, stopped and rapped out a terse order to a man at the door.

That voice again! The voice of Hesterberg; the voice of Detective Inspector Demaree. The Phantom didn’t get the key to the puzzle immediately. It came to him a few seconds later as Havens and the Inspector stopped a few feet away from him. He now managed to secure a good look at the face of the man at his friend’s side.

There was no denying those eyes. There was no mistaking that high-domed head and arrogant lips. The Phantom was staring at Hesterberg — Hesterberg, the mad Russian.

Then in a flash of inspiration he comprehended the stupendous cleverness of Hesterberg. Van had to admit the genius of his foe. The Russian had staked all on a colossal bluff. He himself had impersonated Demaree; they were his men in blue, planted around the building, not the police.

And quick on this realization came a second. There was a traitor close to Havens or Clairborne. Someone who had —

But time to analyze that situation later. The Phantom realized that he had to completely change his plans. And then came the bitter truth that he had no last ace up his hand to trump this last move of the Russian.

He stood frozen to his place of concealment behind the colonnade. His mind worked at top speed. With Hesterberg in person on the job; with his minions surrounding the building in the guise of the police, he was at a terrific advantage.

Unquestionably, in the role of the Police Inspector, Hesterberg had given the order that no one was to leave or enter the building; undoubtedly he censored all incoming and outgoing calls.

It was so simple, so perfect it would have been ridiculous if so much wasn’t at stake. The Russian had the entire building and all its occupants at his mercy. All he had to do was to wait till the fatal hour of his message and then carry out the execution. But that brought the Phantom back to one of his earliest questions. Just what was behind this particular move of the Mad Red?

He wasn’t to know until an hour later.

It was eleven o’clock.

*****

Ten minutes later a tall, cadaverous man in the uniform of a steward entered the dining room on the second floor of the Union Club, bearing a tray and a bottle of whisky. He was lost, unnoted in the bevy of hurrying waiters. He served drinks casually to half a dozen beckoning fingers, but slowly he worked his way to Havens’s chair.

He bent over to fill the newspaper man’s glass. And in the babel of voices around the groaning board the words he whispered in Havens’s ear was unnoticed.

“Van. Make no sign. Locker room — lobby — beneath stairs. At once.”

Havens’s momentary confusion was covered by a peal of laughter that rang out in appreciation of some witty story just told by Clairborne. The cadaverous steward passed on to the next reveler, and by the time he had reached the end of the table his bottle was empty.

Loading his tray with empty glasses, he made a slow, leisurely exit from the room.

Five minutes later Van was offering Havens a drink from a gold inlaid pocket flask.

“Here — take a swallow of this,” he urged. “You’ll need it.”

Havens raised the flask to his lips and took a long pull. Excitement gleamed in his eye. From Van’s manner and the method he had taken to communicate with him he was morally certain that something exceptional had developed.

“Well?” he demanded eagerly. “What is it? What have you discovered?”

“Plenty,” replied Van grimly. “How’s your nerve?”

The publisher essayed a confident laugh that didn’t quite come off.

“With another swallow from your flask I think I can rise to the emergency. What is it?”

“Good,” answered Van. “Prepare yourself for a shock.” He paused dramatically for a moment and then gave it to his friend straight from the shoulder. “Your pal, Inspector Demaree — is Hesterberg himself!”

Havens recoiled at the information and before he had a chance to recover, Van delivered his second thunderbolt.

“And what is more,” he continued bitterly, “the hordes of policemen around the building are all fakes, also. They’re the Russian’s men. He’s pulled a master stroke.”

“Then there’s no way we can save Clairborne?”

“Yes — there is. A plan just as daring as Hesterberg’s. You have to carry it out.”

Havens’s lips clamped together and his shoulders straightened.

“Right. I’m ready.”

Van slapped him on the back affectionately. “Of course. I knew you would be.”

“What do I do?”

“Sorry, old man,” replied Van. “You got to play this blind. You’ve got to trust me.”

“Implicitly. What do I do?”

“Something very simple. At a quarter to twelve, on some pretext or other, get Hesterberg or Demaree, as you will, away from the mob in the dining room. Corner him down here in the lobby. Hold him there till I offer you a tray with a bottle and two glasses.

“I will pour two drinks from the bottle. Down yours at a gulp. Hesterberg will follow suit.”

For a moment Havens was tempted to ask questions. He restrained the impulse.

“That is all?”

“That is all.”

Their hands came together in a firm clasp. No further words were said between them. The bargain was sealed. Each man knew that their fate to say nothing of the stupendous ramifications of Hesterberg’s plans — lay in a mutually implicit faith in each other and chance.

But no matter which way the breaks went, Death was holding the trump Ace.

The party in the dining room on the second floor was continuing with ever wilder abandon. At eleven-forty, Havens pushed back his chair and strode over to where Inspector Demaree was seated at the opposite side of the board.

He nodded to him significantly and indicated the door. Demaree followed him out of the room. Havens held his peace till he had reached the lobby below. He glanced at his watch.

“It’s eleven forty-two, Inspector,” he began. “The Russian was to strike at twelve. You are sure your plans are all completed?”

Demaree smiled ironically. “Quite sure. Don’t worry, Mr. Havens. Events are going to develop exactly as I have mapped out.”

“I feel a great deal of responsibility in this matter —”

Demaree again assured him that he was master of the situation. “I have every detail taken care of; my men are at every point of vantage around the house. No one can get in or out without orders from me. Hesterberg will have to do business through me.”

Listening to the diabolical words of the Russian, Havens could not help but admire his colossal nerve. A vague feeling of doubt swept over him. Would the Phantom, after all, be able to outwit this master criminal, with the cards all against him.

Failure tonight — when, if Clairborne was murdered, Hesterberg would have a terrific psychological advantage in his campaign!

It was just then that a tall, cadaverous steward passed across the far end of the lobby, headed for the stairs.

“Steward,” called out Havens,

The man turned, crossed over to the group of two. He held a tray in his hands on which was a bottle and two glasses.

Havens licked his lips and with an apologetic cough turned to the police officer. “You know, Inspector,” he said wryly, “I’m just a trifle nervous. A good drink of this will be a help, eh?”

The Inspector laughed confidently, while the steward poured two drinks, but his eyes never left the bottle. He watched Havens closely as he lifted a glass from the tray before taking his own; he waited for a brief moment while Havens downed his drink at a gulp, before tossing off his own shot of Scotch.

The steward offered to fill the glasses again, but Havens waved him aside. He was playing his part up to the hilt. Hooking his arm under the Inspector’s, he led the way again to the dining room.

CHAPTER XI
A BARGAIN FOR LIFE

WITH THE FIRST STROKE of twelve, an expectant hush fell over the revelers in the dining room of the Union. All eyes were on Clairborne where he sat at the head of the table. The knuckles of his hand stood out in white relief as he gripped the stem of his wine glass and looked defiantly around the table.

The second stroke of the clock, and the hush in the room became deeper, more strained.

Havens’s heart was pounding furiously in his breast. He felt helpless, weak, impotent, Van! Where was Van?

With ominous fatality the succeeding strokes of the clock filled the room with dread. Everyone there expected something to happen. Their eyes were riveted on the face of the marked man, with fascination.

And on the final stroke of twelve, something did happen. But not to Clairborne.

Detective Inspector Demaree kicked back his chair. Twin automatics were in his hands as he confronted the table. Gone was his mask of easy affability. In its place the cruel features of Hesterberg dominated the table.

“Gentlemen,” he began in a mocking voice. “Let me introduce myself.
I
am Hesterberg!”

His startling declaration was received in appalling silence.

The sudden revelation of Demaree’s real identity; the knowledge that all those in the club were trapped and at the mercy of the Mad Red, froze the hearts of those present. Only Havens had a faint glimmer of hope — a faint glimmer that was fastly fading.

The wine glass snapped in Clairborne’s fingers; his eyes gazed with fascinated horror at the twin automatics in Hesterberg’s hands. His lips worked convulsively but no words came.

The Russian did the talking for him.

“Let us be calm, gentlemen,” he went on with mocking contempt. “And as for you, Clairborne, your hour has not yet struck. But there is an ‘if.’ A big ‘if’ for all of you.”

“Speak! What — for God’s sake, what,” panted Clairborne hoarsely.

Hesterberg swept the men around the table with eyes of fire.

“This little gathering which I have so adroitly arranged for tonight, was not to murder you, Clairborne. That was only bait. I have come here for the Phantom!”

An audible gasp rose from a score of lips at his words.

“Yes — the Phantom,” continued Hesterberg in a metallic voice. “I know that one of the men here in the Union Club is the Phantom. I knew if I threatened to kill Clairborne at midnight, the Phantom would be at hand to protect him. Unfortunately for you, I don’t know which one. But I
do
know the Phantom is here, and he dies tonight and by my hand!”

Silence; silence, broken only by the sound of heavy breathing.

“I have no wish to commit wholesale murder. I have a proposition to make. Let the Phantom declare himself and the rest go free. Let the Phantom hold his peace —” his fingers tightened on the trigger of the gun in his hand — “let the Phantom hold his peace and all of you here die.

“That is the only way I can make sure. The Phantom must die!”

Hesterberg’s proposition was received in dumb silence by his listeners. Mutely, wonderingly, pleading, they stared at one another. No one spoke.

“Come, come!” snapped the Russian, “I warn you gentlemen, that unless the Phantom discloses himself immediately, I will begin with the man on my left and blow his brains out.”

The gun came up menacingly — stopped, wavered for a fraction of a second.