The Emperor of Death (6 page)
He caught the stained glass window that flanked the door on the left in dead center with his shoulder. Midst a flying shower of splintering glass he hurtled through the air, landed like a panther on the street beyond and for once in his checkered career took to his heels.
THE night clerk looked up angrily, annoyed that a potential guest should presume to disturb his slumber at this ungodly hour. Even a cheap hotel on West Twenty-third Street should merit some sort of respectable treatment, and this overalled young man facing him seemed anything but respectable.
“What do you want?” he grunted.
The stranger, apparently a worker from the docks, smiled pleasantly.
“A room,” he said.
“Dollar, two dollars, three dollars. Which do you want?” asked the clerk — anticipating the answer, he reached for the dollar room key.
Dick Van Loan took it from him, paid the dollar in advance and climbed the three rickety flights of stairs. The room was small and dingy. As a residence it was rather abject, but as a place for complete privacy, which the Phantom desired very much at that moment, it was a first-rate bargain for a dollar.
He lit a cigarette and threw himself upon the mattress which smelt of insecticide. He stretched luxuriously. He was tired. Since evading the henchmen of Hesterberg, he had traveled quite a distance. He had also stopped off at Grand Central Terminal to retrieve a suitcase that he kept checked there against emergencies, changed his clothes in the lavatory, and came to this obscure hostelry to rest and to think.
Suddenly he sat up and withdrew from his pocket a handful of papers. They were torn almost in half. He bent forward and carefully studied the documents in his hand. Most of the inscriptions thereon he could not decipher. They were written in Japanese. Then down at the bottom typed in French, were the words:
Then, it is agreed between the Imperial Japanese Empire and the —
At this point the paper was ripped off jaggedly. Van lit another cigarette and pondered for a moment. Obviously, these documents, whatever they were, were calculated to cause an international upheaval in his mad plan to conquer the world.
And undoubtedly this was just the beginning. Hesterberg and his mighty criminal army could loot the banks of the world, could pillage the treasuries to pay their way while Hesterberg himself gave State secrets to those who would blow weaker nations to pieces.
His arch plot was transparent to Van now. God only knew what other papers he had in his possession. Van remembered his remark, his threat about the minister from Andorra. If Hesterberg had access to every hiding place in the world, he could blackmail and bribe his way to power.
Van sighed and gave himself over to another angle of the affair. This time, in his first meeting with the Mad Red, he had at least given him a temporary setback. The half of the Japanese documents that were in his possession probably nullified the other half that Hesterberg had snatched from him.
True, the Phantom had again escaped from the relentless clutches of his maniac, but in so doing he had lost the trail. Hesterberg and all his army now knew that the Phantom still lived. The whole underworld would be suspicious, wary.
Even if Van attempted to enter the world of crime disguised, in an endeavor to pick up the Mad Red’s trail, he would not be readily accepted if no member of standing in crookdom would vouch for him.
No. If he were to get in touch with Hesterberg again, if he were to learn beforehand the plans of his foe, if he were to frustrate them, then he must be introduced into the underworld with as much endorsement as any debutante crashing the portals of Park Avenue.
But where was he to get this endorsement? Who would take an unknown into their confidence? And if he should make his true identity known, if he should inform the underworld, that he, the Phantom, desired safe conduct into their midst —?
He smiled grimly as he thought of the answer. He carefully stowed the papers in his pocket again, and lay down full length on the bed. For a long time he thought, thought thoroughly, and in great detail. But there seemed no way to pick up the trail of the Mad Red again, unless chance should come to his aid.
Then, when it seemed that his mind had for the first time in his life failed him, he was struck with an idea. An idea so paradoxical, so obvious, that he burst into hearty laughter as he saw the beautiful simplicity of it all.
Next to its own members, there was one group of people that had easy access to the underworld. And those people were the police!
The police always had their stool pigeons. The stools might, undoubtedly did, hold out information. But still they had the entrée. On that entrée their jobs — and lives depended. If the Phantom could prevail upon the police to send him to their stools as another stool, his purpose had been accomplished.
Superficially there was always the danger that another stool pigeon might betray Van. But that peril was not as great as it seemed. Stools are loyal to each other. They have to be. It is an immutable law of self-preservation. They may double-cross the crook, they may double-cross the police, but they never double-cross one of their own kind. Death would be too sure, too swift.
Van grinned and yawned.
Thus it was that while the slimy army, the murderous horde of Alexis Hesterberg combed the city to deliver a message of death to the Phantom an overalled dock worker slept soundly on a dirty bed in the West Twenties; slept deeply, renewing physical and mental tissues for his next encounter with the Mad Red.
The following day the Phantom rose early and took the subway downtown. In a dilapidated rooming house on the East Side, he saw a dirty sign in a dirtier window which proclaimed that here there were rooms for rent.
He nodded his head. But instead of entering the house he went to a telephone booth on the corner and called Police Headquarters.
“Hello,” he said suavely. “Give me the commissioner.”
“Yeah?” said a gruff ironic voice at the other end of the wire. “And who the hell are you?”
“This,” said Van curtly, “is the Phantom.”
There was a startled silence at the other end of the phone, a click as connection was made.
Van heard a distant voice say in awed tones:
“It’s the Phantom, Chief;” and a second later the crisp incisive voice of the commissioner himself trickled over the wire into Van’s ears.
“Hello!”
“This is the Phantom, Mr. Commissioner,” said Van. “I’m giving you a tip that would be wise to act upon. At Number 8765 East Third Street there lives a dip known as the Dope. He’s a snow addict and will do anything to get the stuff. He has connections and will make an excellent tool. If you handle him properly, he’ll be able to get you some remarkable information.”
“But, what —? Who —?”
Van Loan had already hung up.
*****
Detective Sergeant O’Neal was used to strange assignments. His principal duty was to keep the many stool pigeons that the department used in line. He knew many strange and unsavory characters, and of all the officers in New York, O’Neal was closer to the nether world of crime than any other.
It was almost sunset on that day when his chief called him into the private office, handed him a cigar, and said:
“O’Neal, we’ve got a new stool pigeon for you. One that promises to let us in on a lot of things that we should know.”
O’Neal, phlegmatic and unmoved, raised his eyebrows cynically. “They’re always touted,” he said. “But few of them deliver.”
The chief smiled.
“This one ought to deliver,” he said. “He was recommended by a co-worker of ours — a co-worker by the way, that we’ve never met.”
O’Neal’s eyebrows raised again, this time inquiringly.
“Yeah,” continued the chief. “The Phantom.”
Even the stolid O’Neal was startled out of his customary stolidity. Every member of the police department had heard of, and respected the Phantom. True, none of them knew his identity, none of them had ever seen him. Nevertheless, they were grateful to him for more than one piece of work which had solved what to them had seemed utterly unsolvable.
“The Phantom?” he said. “What’s his game?”
The chief shrugged. “I don’t know. But a tip from him’s good enough for me. This guy’s a cokey and a dip. Get to him right away. Line him up. Tell him who to report to. Get to it at once.”
O’Neal puffed at this cigar, waved the chief a farewell and disappeared through the door, a puzzled frown playing over his brow.
The frown was not engendered by any apprehension of the result of his mission. It was simply that for the Phantom to work like this with the department was most unorthodox. It had never been done before. Little enough they knew of the elusive detective who masked his identity so well, but included in that little was the fact that he was a lone wolf. That never before had he asked the aid of the police, never before had he even given them a tip.
O’Neal threw the cigar away, and walked slowly uptown.
He stopped before a dirty brick tenement house. Before he entered his eyes carefully scrutinized the building — its adits and exits. Then, after completing an act born of lifelong habit, he entered.
A frowzy landlady showed him the door that led to the Dope’s room. O’Neal stood on the threshold and knocked imperiously. A moment later the door was slowly opened.
Despite his callousness, despite his phlegm, O’Neal recoiled as his eyes gazed at the horrible emaciated figure that opened the door. The Dope’s face was a yellow distorted thing. His hands were bony claws, and his arm from wrist to shoulder, was perforated with a hundred little punctures.
He shrank back as he stared at the bulky figure of the policeman. O’Neal, overcoming his natural revulsion, strode into the room. The Dope’s abject eyes followed him in fearful apprehension.
“So,” said O’Neal, with heavy affability. “So you’re the Dope?”
The man addressed twisted his fingers nervously. He swallowed twice, but said nothing.
O’Neal pulled back the lapel of his coat. In the dim light of the room, his police shield gleamed there.
“I’m O’Neal of Headquarters,” he said. “I want to talk to you.”
The vague fear in the Dope’s eyes crystallized. His pupils dilated. His jaw dropped. When he spoke his voice was an abject whine.
“I ain’t done nothing, Sergeant. Honest to God, I ain’t done nothing.”
“No,” said O’Neal with irony. “They never have. But don’t get panicky. This is just a social visit. I’m just here to look around.”
He walked slowly about the room, his roving eyes covering every inch of the bare chamber. At last his eyes fell on a hypodermic syringe, lying on the table. He smiled mirthlessly. The Dope, following his gaze, gasped.
Their eyes met.
“So,” said O’Neal. “So that’s it.” Utter panic shone in the Dope’s glazed eyes.
“No, no,” he screamed. “That ain’t mine. I’m no junkie. A pal left it here. It ain’t mine, I tell you.”
“No,” said O’Neal very slowly, very deliberately.
He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small bottle filled with white crystals. He held it out toward the Dope.
The sight of the bottle sent the Dope mad. He charged across the room, a horrible inarticulate cry emanating from his loose lips. His fingers clutched convulsively for the bottle which O’Neal held tantalizingly out of reach.
“For God’s sake,” he whined. “Give me a shot. Just one shot.”
O’Neal laughed mockingly.
“Yeah?” he said. “And I suppose that needle there still belongs to a pal, eh. A pal who left it here. In that case what does a decent, clean-living citizen like you want with this nasty stuff?”
He replaced the bottle in his pocket and made as if to leave the room. But the Dope, shrieking and drooling, threw himself upon the plainclothes man.
“No, no,” he cried. “It’s my needle. I lied to you. But for God’s sake give me a shot. Just one shot.”
O’Neal sent him sprawling on the floor as he pushed the revolting figure from him.
“Lay off me,” he growled. “And listen. I’ll give you a shot. I’ll give you all the shots you ever need, if you do what I tell you.”
The Dope stared at him painfully.
“I’ve heard,” continued the policeman, “that you know a lot of things that the police would be interested in knowing. I’ve heard that you can bring us some valuable information. I’ve heard that you’re a first-class stool pigeon.”
The dope’s eyes reflected furtive terror. He crouched against the wall.
“No, no,” he whimpered. “Not that. Don’t ask me to do that. I can’t. I won’t. They’d kill me.”
O’Neal laughed unpleasantly.
“You’re in a tougher spot if you turn it down,” he said. “The man who recommended you for this job doesn’t take refusals.”
The Dope raised his eyebrows inquiringly.
“Who —” he began.
“The Phantom!” said O’Neal.
The fear in the Dope’s eyes crystallized into an appalling terror. His hand trembled and his mouth opened. But the dryness of his throat absorbed the words before they were spoken.
“You see,” went on O’Neal, “you are in a spot. A sweet spot. So if you want your snow, if you want to keep clear of the Phantom, you’d better come through.”
“All right,” said the Dope abjectly. “But, now, for God’s sake, give me a shot.”
“Okay.”
O’Neal handed him the crystal filled bottle.
“I’ll expect to hear from you,” he said. “Give your reports to Cokey’ Day who runs the joint on Hester Street. Send me something within a week or else —”
He glared at the miserable figure of the Dope threateningly, then with a free stride left the room. The door closed behind him.
For a long moment the Dope did not move. With avid eyes he took the hypodermic in his trembling hands; then watched it as it slowly trickled through his palsied fingers to the table.
A shudder wracked his emaciated frame; a hand that was suddenly steady made a swift pass across the Dope’s face. He jerked erect; miraculously inches were added to his stature. The loose lips ceased their trembling and the strong line of an iron jaw stood out boldly in the vague light of the room.