The Emperor of Death (20 page)
“He’s right,” said the heavy voice which Van recognized as belonging to the Secretary of State. “Let us put ourselves in the Phantom’s hands. We can have no better protector.”
His words of faith once more aroused Van’s fighting spirit. After all, the Phantom was not beaten as long as life remained in his body. Hesterberg might yet live to regret that he had not killed his foe out of hand, instead of remanding him to a cell, even though it was for less than an hour.
Van only prayed that Havens had received his code broadcast and acted upon it. Hesterberg would probably assume that inasmuch as the Phantom had discovered the whereabouts of the Mad Red’s Headquarters, he had left word in town for help to follow.
The chances were that even now, the Russian was consummating his plans and then after the business of attending to his prisoners, he would flee, secure and triumphant in the knowledge that he had succeeded.
As things stood, the success or failure of the Mad Red’s plans lay on the knees of the gods. Havens had delivered the message; if the militia was on its way, Hesterberg, unconscious of these events, was doomed to defeat. On the other hand —
But Van dared not think of that.
His present duty was plain. He must endeavor to deliver the prisoners from cell number six. Muriel was there. The Secretary of State was there. Some of the biggest men in the country were there. And even the militia could not save them from Hesterberg’s wrath if he decided to wipe them out in mere revenge — a course which was quite probable if he saw all his finely laid plans go slithering from Parnassus to oblivion.
Then suddenly, like a searchlight putting the darkness to flight, an idea came to him. Perhaps, if he could escape from his cell, he could do something. He put his right hand under his left arm pit, and touched something solid and metallic which reassured him.
True, the men that had dragged him here had searched him casually. They had confiscated the .38 in his coat pocket, but they had overlooked the small pearl-handled automatic which nestled reassuringly in his shoulder holster.
Now he withdrew the weapon. He held it carefully in his right hand, then putting his face up against the bars, he called out loudly enough for the guard to hear him:
“So, Hesterberg shall never slay the Phantom. He dies by his own hand.”
Before he pressed the trigger he was aware of two things. First, a gasp of alarm, concern and horror from the girl in the next cell; then the rush of feet as the guard from below dashed up the iron stairway. A faint mirthless smile wreathed Van’s features as he pulled the trigger. The bullet buried itself in the rear wall of the cell, in exactly the opposite direction from where Van stood. Nevertheless, he gave vent to a low moan and sank to the cold concrete floor of his dungeon.
It was an old trick, but apparently the guard was not an old hand. Unhesitatingly, devoid of all suspicion, he opened the cell door and, rushing in, bent down over Van’s prostrate form. That was the last thing he did for the next two hours.
Two hands sprang toward him. One clutched his throat and drew him closer; the other thudded dully against the point of his jaw. Silently he fell on top of his prisoner. Van rose to his feet. He left the cell and clanged the door shut behind him.
Hastily he removed the tricky little pieces of wax from his face. His handkerchief removed some of the grease paint. Then he donned his black silk mask and stood for a moment before cell number six.
“Listen,” he said. “Be absolutely silent. Keep alert for a signal from me. I’ll see what Hesterberg is up to.”
He walked cautiously toward the iron stairs. The door below clanged and he experienced a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach as two of Hesterberg’s men entered. They looked at each other in surprise when they saw that the guard was not downstairs.
Then they sprang for the stairs together and came up on the run, revolvers in their hands. Three weapons spoke simultaneously as they saw Van. The bobbing heads on the steps presented a difficult target and Van’s shot went wide.
He heard the whiz and clang as two rounds hissed over his head and struck against the granite wall of the prison. There was no time for a second shot.
Fearing their master’s wrath should anything go amiss, tonight of all nights, they charged upon the Phantom. Van felt himself go down as their bodies collided with his. He heard a chuckle of triumph. One hand gripped his gun arm. Fingers clutched his throat. He was held there helpless.
A hand reached down and touched his mask.
“So,” chuckled a voice. “At last the Phantom shall be unmasked.”
The hand plucked at the black silk.
For the first time in his life Van knew the full meaning of utter and black despair. His heart turned to lead, and his stomach was suddenly empty. This, then, was the end. The Phantom had lost. Hesterberg had won. And in that last moment he thought of Muriel. The hand on the mask grew tighter. It lifted.
Then a feminine voice said:
“Stand back! Drop your guns! Throw up your hands!”
An ecstatic joy surged up in the Phantom’s breast. It was Ruby! He brushed away the moment’s wonder as to how she had gotten there. It was enough that she had come when he most needed aid.
“Drop those guns!” she snapped again.
The hand fell away from the Phantom’s mask. Two guns clattered futilely to the hard floor. With swift steps, the Phantom leaped to the girl’s side, snatched the automatic from her fingers.
“Good girl, Ruby,” he whispered as he drew a bead on the two men. “Inside there — in that cell. The shade cords.”
Ruby understood at once. She was back a moment later and again the gun was switched between them. Swiftly, with deft, expert hands, the Phantom bound and tied the two prisoners together, their arms behind them. Rising to the emergency again, Ruby tore strips from her skirt and fashioned them into effective gags.
The two men helpless, the Phantom looked hurriedly around for a place to dispose of them. A dark corner beneath the bend in the stairs caught his eye. At the point of his gun he prodded them forward, forced them to lay down, back to back and then tied their feet together.
He straightened up from his work and looked at Ruby with grateful eyes.
“How did you get here?” he asked breathlessly.
“Hesterberg got me out of the hospital. Had his men bring me here.” Her lips curled with utter loathing. “You see — he thinks — he wants me for himself. That’s why he tried to keep the drug from me.”
The Phantom looked at her sympathetically, tried to speak, but could find no words. Ruby stooped down and picked up the gun from the floor. She passed one over to the Phantom and concealed the other in her dress. She turned away.
“Where are you going?” asked the Phantom.
“I’ve got to go back — to Hesterberg. He’ll miss me. I discovered you were here in the cell. Came down to see if I could do something for you.”
The Phantom gripped her hand fervently.
“You did,” he said simply. “Keep your nerve up. We’ll get out of this yet.”
But the dejected stoop of Ruby’s shoulders as she descended the steps gave the lie to his words. The Phantom waited a full two minutes after her departure. Swiftly he inspected the two guns now in his possession. Then satisfied that they were both in perfect working order, slowly made his way down from the iron stairs. Once there he cautiously pushed open the iron door which led to the street and peered out.
Outside there was a loud scurrying of feet. Raucous voices shouted orders. Though it was dark, Van could make out the forms of a hundred men hastening to and fro. Then suddenly he heard the imperious commanding voice of Hesterberg.
“Hold your ranks, men. Let no one take panic. This is something of a surprise, but I can handle it. Every man to his appointed place. And, remember, I still hold the hostages.”
At first Van failed to comprehend the madman’s words, but then there fell a moment’s silence, and steadily he heard the noise of marching feet.
His heart bounded within him. So Havens had not failed him. Aid was at hand. Again Hesterberg’s voice split the night harshly.
“Tell the picket to bring the commanding officer to me.”
A voice repeated the order, then hurried away to relay it to the outer line of pickets. Van stepped out into the night, confident that his mask would remain unseen in the ado of the moment. He stood in the shadow of the prison. His eyes were riveted to the back of Hesterberg’s head as the latter waited to deliver his ultimatum to the leader of the attacking troops. He heard the clank of rifle butts on the concrete of the sidewalk as the men of Hesterberg prepared to sell their lives dearly should the final test come.
SUDDENLY IN THE DARK distance a staccato command rang out.
The marching feet came to a sudden halt. The murderous garrison of the town stood silent, tense, awaiting the next move. Two figures approached through the night. They stopped before Hesterberg. Van, still standing in the doorway, never took his eyes from the Mad Red’s back; further, he never took his hand from the butt of the automatic in his pocket.
The picket stood aside and a man whose uniform buttons glinted faintly in the negative light spoke tersely to Hesterberg.
“Do you surrender?” he asked impersonally.
Hesterberg laughed harshly.
“Very well,” said the officer. “I had hoped to avoid bloodshed. The game’s up, you know. When I fire a signal from this Very pistol my men will charge. Now, do you surrender, or do I fire?”
“Neither,” said Hesterberg. “You overlook something. I have in my possession a number of people whose lives the country can ill afford to lose. The Secretary of State of the country, half a dozen of its leading financiers, an inconsequential girl, and — the Phantom.”
For a moment the officer seemed at a loss. At last he said rather weakly, “Well?”
“They’re over there,” said Hesterberg, indicating the cells. “In cell number six. If you call your men they die. All of them. Before your men can reach here, one of my men will have mowed every one of them down with a revolver.”
Again the officer hesitated. But this time the Phantom did not.
He realized that there was a desperate chance to turn the tables, and he had no alternative except to take it.
He had suddenly remembered that inconsequential fact about the numbers on the cell doors. He raced back into the prison, his knife already in his hand. What he wanted to do was the work of perhaps two minutes. Two minutes which ticked past like two eternities.
When he had completed his task he put his face up to the bars of the cell which held Hesterberg’s prisoners.
“Listen,” he said. “Not a word. Your lives depend on your silence. That is all.”
Then in less than ninety seconds he was back in the shadow of the friendly doorway below, his keen eyes again boring steadily into the back of Hesterberg’s neck. The Mad Red was still speaking to the officer, who seemed wavering.
“So, you see, if you act, my dear Colonel, I shall be reluctantly compelled to commit this murder. Furthermore, in the two churches I have confined the residents of this town. They, too, would be in danger. Surely you would not risk the lives of such eminent hostages as I hold.”
The officer seemed greatly troubled. “I have my orders,” he said. “I should obey them. But when so much is at stake, perhaps I should use my discretion. What are your terms?”
Hesterberg chuckled. He opened his mouth to reply. But the next words that were spoken came from the Phantom’s lips.
“He makes no terms, Colonel. Don’t move, Hesterberg. I have an automatic trained on his back. He’s bluffing you. He has no hostages.”
“You lie!” cried the Russian, his face distorted in fury. “You lie!”
The vacillating officer peered through the gloom.
“Who are you?” he said sharply.
“I am the Phantom, and I tell you Hesterberg is in no position to make terms. I have released the prisoners he had in cell six. By now they are safely away.”
The officer turned to the Russian.
“Is this true?”
“No! He lies. He —”
“Very well,” said Van quietly. “Send one of your own men to cell six to investigate. Go on.”
“Manning, you heard him. Go to six. See who’s there.”
A man detached himself from a near-by group and raced away. A second later he returned breathless.
“They’ve gone!” he yelled. “Six is empty. The guard’s unconscious in number five and six is empty.”
“You see,” said Van to the officer. “Call your men!”
The colonel once more turned to the Mad Red.
“Now,” he said, “do you surrender?”
His only answer was a scream of rage from Hesterberg. He sprang at the officer. The latter quickly sidestepped, whipped a Very pistol from its holster, raised it and pressed the trigger. A lurid red flare shot across the heavens.
A rifle cracked out from somewhere behind Van, and the officer staggered back, blood dripping from his arm.
Hesterberg turned and shouted to his army. “Fight, or we’re lost. To arms, every man — and most of all death to the Phantom!”
Something black leaped at Van. A rifle butt swung across his face. The muzzle of his automatic moved from Hesterberg toward his assailant. It barked. The man fell, his rifle clattering impotently on the sidewalk.
Hastily Van bent forward and retrieved the weapon. By now half a dozen of Hesterberg’s horde were upon him, urged on by the Mad Red himself. Van gave them butt and bayonet. The weapon swung about him wreaking havoc in the ranks of his adversaries.
He heard a ripping of cloth and something cold and biting ran through his shoulder. Then the butt of his own rifle crashed sickeningly against the jaw of the man who had bayoneted him.
Then, running at top speed, rifles held at the trail, came the militia. Straight into the ranks of the cream of crookdom that Hesterberg had recruited bore the soldiers. Somewhere a machine-gun rattled its ominous threnody, and the screams of the wounded took up an agonized obbligato. But the battle was brief, though bloody. The henchmen of Hesterberg were no match for the trained soldiers of Uncle Sam. The thugs slowly gave way. Then their lines broke. A few of the less courageous fled. Then — panic.