The Emperor of Death (9 page)
“Well,” said Van, “I expected something like this. Only tonight, I overheard Hesterberg say that as far as his international machinations were concerned he was ready, save for the piece of paper that I possess. He’s now after money and products. He’s going after the bankers now. He must have money and supplies if his schemes are to work. That accounts for Bursage. He’s an international banker. Hesterberg’s selected him as the second victim. This time he means business. Block was killed simply as a manifestation of power.”
“Well,” said Havens, “what do we do? Bursage wants me to talk to you. Frankly, he’s pretty panicky. What shall we do?”
“First,” said Van, “we’ll sleep. Then you can tell Bursage to forget about the loan. Tell him to remain at his bank — The Second National — after hours tomorrow. Tell him to remain there until I arrive. You meet me there, too. I’ve got a scheme to stop Hesterberg at this particular game — and if he beats me here, the man’s a genius.”
And Van slept well that night. First, he knew that Hesterberg would seek him out as long as he held his torn half of the Japanese papers. And second, his keen brain had already evolved a plan to frustrate any attempt on Bursage’s life — a plan so sound, so fool-proof, that even the Mad Red with all his distorted genius could never carry out the threat he had made.
The next morning, the papers screamed forth the news of the elusive maniac who had slain Isaac Block two days before. In the news columns, the rewrite men ran riot describing a murder, which they had not witnessed, in minute and conflicting detail.
Editorials demanded that the police apprehend the murderer, who apparently was attempting to terrorize the entire metropolis. Leaders condemned the officers of the law as grafters and cowards, even hinting that the whole department was in the pay of the madman who struck at the foundations of the government.
In short, the papers ably assisted Hesterberg to do exactly what he was essaying to do. If it was his intention to strike fear into the hearts of the residents, the newspapers with their lurid stories helped matters considerably.
The murder of Block was on every tongue, and somewhere in the dark recesses of the underworld, the perpetrator of the deed skulked, awaiting the night when he would go forth to strike again.
It was four o’clock in the afternoon of a gray autumn day. The metropolis lay listless and dull under a leaden sky. The very weather seemed to cast a vague undefined shadow of apprehension on the city.
In an office on the second floor of a building which towered haughtily into the sky, sat a man whose mood reflected the atmospherical condition without. He sat leaning over an expensive shining desk. His brow was marred by a worried frown. His hands moved nervously, aimlessly, and in his eyes was the look of a man who awaits a visit from death.
For the first time in his successful career, Silas Bursage felt that he was incapable of dealing with a problem. All the things that he had learned to hold sacred, inviolate were about to fail him. The police, the sacred rights of an American citizen — it seemed these things could avail him nothing now that he had been singled out by the Mad Red to do a deed which would be impossible to do with honor.
Of course, it was possible for Bursage to yield to Hesterberg’s demand. It was possible for him to float the loan which was demanded. Furthermore, it was possible for him to do it in such a manner that few people would know that he was actually betraying his country, compromising his own honor.
Bursage was not a man lacking courage. Cowardice had not enabled him to reach the pinnacle that he occupied today. No, that was not it. But, he reflected bitterly, it was hard. He had made his fortune by obeying the rules that society laid down. Now it was about to be taken from him by a man that flouted those rules.
Yet though he toyed with the idea for a while, he already knew deep down in his heart that he would die if need be, before he would accede to the demands that Hesterberg had put upon him. But, suppose he died? What then?
He was not the only banker in America capable of performing the task demanded of him. There were others. And would they all stand as firmly for the right as Bursage was prepared to do?
He raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders. After all, that was not for him to answer. He could go no further than his own specific case.
The jangle of the telephone brought him out of his moody reverie. Havens’s welcome voice came over the wire. Bursage eagerly greeted him.
“Hello, Frank. Have you found the Phantom?”
Havens’s answer lifted the banker’s spirits considerably.
“Good,” he said. “What does he advise?”
“Stay in the bank,” Havens advised him. “Remain there after hours. Have your watchmen doubled. Both the Phantom and myself will be there before midnight. If anything breaks in the meantime, the Phantom will get in touch with you himself.”
“Good!”
They bade each other good-by and hung up the receivers. Bursage leaned back in his padded swivel chair and lighted a cigar. As he exhaled the expensive smoke, he smiled faintly, and realized that now the Phantom was in the struggle as his ally, he felt reassured. He opened a drawer of his desk and, taking a revolver therefrom, slipped it into his pocket.
If Bursage, the banker, had to die, he would go out fighting. He smoked the cigar down to its last inch and was just reaching a stage of complete relief when the phone rang for the second time. A metallic voice said:
“Bursage?”
“Yes.”
“This is Hesterberg. Have you decided to accede to my demand or have you decided to die?”
Despite the relief Bursage had left at the news of the Phantom’s aid, the steely tones of the Mad Red on the other end of the wire sent a little chill running down his spine. He forced the quaver out of his throat as he replied:
“I have decided,” he said evenly, “to do neither, Hesterberg. I most certainly shall not float the loan, and at the present moment I have no intention of dying.”
A short, sharp laugh trickled over the wire.
“No,” said Hesterberg. “Few people have. Is your answer final?”
“It is.”
“Very well. You shall die at midnight. No matter where you are; no matter who guards you, you shall die precisely at midnight tonight. No one can stay the hand of Hesterberg.”
The click of the receiver was the exclamation point of the sentence. Bursage wiped the perspiration from his forehead and sat back once again in his chair. Now he was frankly afraid. There was something in his enemy’s voice, something cold and hard and inhuman that had sent an icy chill into his heart.
Despite the fact that with the proper precautions it would be impossible for any foe to come close enough to kill him, Bursage was afraid, and in his mind’s eye he already saw the gaunt finger of the Grim Reaper approaching.
OUTSIDE, THE SKIES were slowly evolving from gray to ebony as the early night fell like a silent blanket over the city. Lights twinkled from a thousand buildings, and to Bursage, it seemed that they were winking obscenely at him, challenging him to gaze upon them for the last time. Bursage shuddered.
The door opened and his secretary entered. He laid an envelope on the desk.
“A messenger jist left this for you personally. And when you have time, there’s an invalid outside in a wheel-chair to see about the Drake account. Mr. Wheeler suggested you see him personally.”
Bursage nodded and dismissed him. His fingers trembled slightly as he ripped open the envelope to find a single sheet of paper and another sealed envelope with a black serried border. He read the message and smiled.
Bursage:
Don’t worry. I can take care of tonight’s affair. Put the enclosed envelope in your pocket. Give it to me when I ask for it tonight.
The Phantom.
Bursage rose from his desk. He thrust the envelope in his pocket as per the Phantom’s written instructions. What the mysterious detective’s plans were, he had no idea, but he had implicit faith in him. After all, what could possibly happen to him? Here in his own bank, under the protection of the keenest detective that had ever lived.
He was almost restored to normal as he strode from the room to interview the man about the Drake account.
The night had come. She had cast her concealing cloak about the city, the cloak which is kind to lovers and law breakers. The infinity of the sky was broken by no star’s gleam. The gray clouds which had obscured the sun all day, now destroyed the radiant beauty of the night. It was an evil night. A night redolent of psychic wickedness.
Practical and prosaic as Dick Van Loan was, he was aware of the peculiar atmosphere. He strode briskly through the lighted streets toward the bank where Bursage and Havens waited for him. His route was neither the shortest nor the most direct. He walked east, west, north, south; then, certain that he was not being followed, he doubled back on his trail and entering a cigar store made his way to the rear and closeted himself in a telephone booth.
Following the instructions on the outside of the phone book, he said to the operator:
“I want an ambulance. At once. The Second National Bank. Hurry.”
He hung up before anyone could ask embarrassing questions and continued his walk toward the bank. Within a block of it he slowed down and did not increase his pace again until he heard the legato jangle of the ambulance’s bell. He smiled as he thought of the interne’s discomfiture when he realized the false alarm. But it was the most expedient method he could think for getting the Phantom into the bank, unobserved.
The shiny black car pulled up before the bank. The interne, joined by the policeman on the beat who loitered near-by, walked up the granite steps and tugged the night bell.
After a short pause the door was opened cautiously. Already the curious crowd that always flocks about such scenes had begun to gather. Van joined on the bank steps.
Evidently satisfied that this was an honest error and not a trap, Bursage and Havens came to the door and chatted for a moment with the interne. By now the crowd had grown to large proportions. They overflowed the sidewalk and streamed up the steps of the bank. The more curious peered inside.
Van found himself so close to Havens that he could have reached out and touched him. But the publisher, in earnest conversation with the interne, paid him scant attention.
Cautiously Van thrust his hand in his pocket and withdrew his mask. He turned his back on the crowd so that only Havens and the policeman could see his face. Then he boldly crossed the threshold.
“Hey, you,” said the policeman.
Van turned. Havens saw him. Van made a swift motion of his hands which meant nothing to anyone save the publisher. It was a secret signal they evolved which was used when he wanted to make his identity known to Havens.
“It’s all right,” said the publisher. He put his mouth close to the policeman’s ear. “It’s the Phantom.”
The policeman touched his hat respectfully, and a moment later, the heavy door closed shutting Havens, Bursage, the Phantom, and six watchmen in the bank.
“Well, gentlemen,” said Van easily. “Sorry to have caused all this commotion but in case the building was being watched, I preferred not to be seen entering.”
Bursage came forward and wrung his hand.
“Thank God, you’re here,” he said, husky relief in his voice. “I was afraid —”
His voice trailed off. He did not say what he was afraid of. But the look in his eyes made that fact clear enough.
“Don’t be afraid of anything," said the Phantom. “Now, if you’ll take us somewhere where we can talk privately, I’ll tell you my plan.”
Bursage led them to his own office. He took a box of cigars and a bottle of cognac from a cabinet and offered them. Over the fragrance of both, Van explained the cast iron scheme he had evolved.
“Of course,” he said. “It seems impossible for Hesterberg to gain entrance to this bank. However, the man’s got a mind which might be able to overcome any obstacle. But I’ve got a real problem for him. At precisely ten minutes to twelve, you’re going into the biggest vault you’ve got, Bursage. We’ll lock you in for twenty minutes.”
“You mean —” began Bursage eagerly, but Van interrupted him.
“I mean that if Hesterberg or any scheme he can evolve can break into this bank through the doors, through the watchmen, through Havens and myself, and then crack into a three-foot thick doored vault without keys or combination, he’s more than a genius, he’s a miracle worker.”
Bursage sat back, a smile of relief wreathing his features. After all, his faith in the Phantom was being exonerated. No one that ever lived could pass through all the obstacles that Van had mentioned. No one could break into that new steel burglar-proof vault. First, its stone walls were over a yard thick, as was the steel door. It was locked by twelve locks, each of which had a different combination. He was safe! Hesterberg was foiled.
Havens sat forward in his chair.
“But,” he objected. “Suppose the entire threat is a trap? Suppose Hesterberg has no intention of fulfilling his threat at midnight. Suppose he has merely mentioned the time to throw us off the trail, to leave Bursage unprotected at the hour when he really plans the killing?”
Van considered this for a moment, then shook his head.
“No,” he said decisively. “That’s not like Hesterberg. I know him pretty well. He’s crazy and an egomaniac. If he said midnight, it’s a matter of pride with him to make it midnight. There’s no doubt about that. It isn’t so much the murder he’s interested in. It’s the show of power. He wants to make us fear him, to show us that nothing is impossible to him. That’s why he warned us he would strike at midnight. Then he can show us, that despite that warning, despite all our precautions, he can accomplish his purpose.”
“But,” said Bursage, his face pale. “Can he?”
Van laughed. “I doubt it,” he said, “I can’t explain how he’ll ever get into that vault. Can you?”
And when the banker was compelled to admit that he could not, he felt reassured.
For some time they sat there, drinking and smoking congenially, not at all like three men who were awaiting a visit from the bony reaper who had been sent to them by the distorted mind of the Mad Red.