Fangs of Murder: Phantom Detective Saga. Robert Wallace
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Phantom, lone Nemesis of Crime, a living, elusive scourge who personified the antidote to crime!
"The Phantom!" Tony cried, hoarsely now. "Say, Gus—is that who we're waitin' for?"
Gus quickly shook his head. "Take it easy, guys! The Big Shot ain't interested in anyone unless he sticks his nose into this—which he won't if he's got brains! They say the Phantom made things pretty tough for us, sendin' so many of us up the river—but this boss is one guy he can't buck! Naw, we ain't after that slippery bird. We're just doin' a job on a punk named Eddie Collins, who draws them funnies you see in the papers."
"Funnies? You mean comic cartoons?" the gash-mouthed man said in surprise. "Hell, what do we want to bump a guy who draws them for?"
"Maybe the Big Shot don't like his funny pitchers, Pete," Tony put in, with sardonic mirth.
"You don't know how right you are!" Gus chortled, a purposeful look in his eyes. "But you just follow my lead—I'm runnin' this job. 'Course I'd rather be with Monk and the rest—they got another big heist job. The boss certainly knows how to get things movin' fast—why, he's only taken over the mobs last night, and we've done more than we did in years for our old big shots! The coppers'll never keep up with us now! Hell, there was hundreds of 'em down at that pier when the boat landed, and right under their noses—" he paused, as if realizing he was getting loquacious.
But the others broke in eagerly now. "You was there, Gus. Did you see him?"
The broken-nosed Gus swelled instinctively with a sense of importance. "Sure," his voice was unconvincingly casual. "Sure I seen him."
"What'd he look like, Gus? What kinda guy was he?"
"Well now—he was kinda muffled up in a coat. Couldn't spot his mug. But I seen his work—and that was enough! What he done to them two brothers, all by himself—" Despite himself he gave a shudder. "Don't know how the hell he done it. I'd sure hate to be on the wrong side o' that guy, and—"
Abruptly he broke off, body tensing, hand snaking from his armpit holster. A taxi had just pulled to the curb, ahead of the parked sedan. Out of it leaped a figure, turning in the gloom as the cab rolled on its way.
The figure strode down the pavement towards the Clarion entrance. Light from a street-lamp revealed him in the next instant. A stocky young man, hardly more than a grown kid—he was walking hurriedly, carrying a flat envelope under one arm.
"It's the Collins guy all right!" Gus spoke quick, low. "Okay, Tony! Step up that motor—he's comin' by! Me an' Pete'll use the rods."
Oblivious, the youth on the pavement walked on—coming diagonally abreast of the sedan in the next instant as two automatics trained their beads directly on his hurrying figure.
"Okay, Tony!"
The purring motor of the Cadillac rose abruptly to a vibrating clamor as Tony's foot jammed down the accelerator. The two guns leveled from the front and rear windows. Flame leaped livid in the night from their jerking muzzles!
The motor almost drowned completely the quick reports, so they were not heard by any passing motorists.
The four shots flamed in swift succession.
As if grabbed by some unseen giant hand in the dark, the youth on the pavement stopped in his tracks. His stocky frame whirled completely around. His hands clutched at his chest—and through his clawing fingers blood spurted darkly.
Slowly, his knees buckled. He dropped on them. In contrast to the darkness, his face showed white, agonized as it turned towards the roaring but immobile sedan.
Then a choking cry as of defiance came from the youngster. He still clutched the manila envelope—and some miracle of purpose seemed to spur his riddled body into motion again. Crablike, half-crawling in the gloom, he was moving forward.
The broken-nosed Gus saw that movement, gave vent to a livid oath. He yanked the rear door of the Cadillac open, his eyes peering up and down the street. It was dark, deserted. He leaped out, gun in hand. Pete and hatchet-faced Choppy followed.
Simultaneously the riddled youth, evidently seeing them coming, was suddenly, miraculously on wabbly legs—running, darting like a wild, wounded animal, instinctively trying to lose himself from his hunters.
Clutching the envelope he actually reached the corner, rounding the building as the others gained in their pursuit. They did not fire now—for their quarry was only a vague blur in the almost opaque gloom caused by the shadowy side of the building, near a railed areaway.
In that gloom, Gus, Pete, and Choppy closed in. Their hands groped. There was the sound of a scuffle—the ripping of paper—confusion.
The three gangsters became accustomed enough to the dark to regain vision. They found themselves in a tangle.
Gus cursed. "He went over the rail! He can't get far with them slugs in him—an' I don't know if we got all we want! Come on, guys, we gotta find him!"
They climbed over the rail, dropping into the lower areaway. Groping in the gloom, guns still in hand.
And at that same instant, Eddie Collins, youthful cartoonist, was swaying against the cage of a freight elevator which was speeding upwards inside the building. He heard his own blood dripping to the floor of the ascending lift. Torpor was dragging at his agonized body. Yet, like some stubborn spark, a fierce determination was keeping him alive and active.
Floors went by in a blur, painfully slow. Up through the building the elevator ascended. Then it stopped of its own accord, on the top floor, up in the tower.
Collins pulled his coat about his chest as if hoping to stem the flow of his own blood. He groaned with the effort of opening the gate, staggered out through a corridor, thence through swing service doors.
Somehow he found the frosted-glass doors he sought. He pushed into a lighted, well-appointed anteroom. He pushed on through, reached another door, marked private.
Eddie Collins grabbed the door handle—burst into the huge, private office whose French windows looked high over the Manhattan night.
At his rude entry, two men jerked up startled, surprised heads.
Frank Havens, elderly, rugged-faced owner of the Clarion and a string of other equally powerful papers throughout the nation, rose to his feet from the big desk where he had been sitting, proof-sheets bearing gruesome murder-news before him.
Richard Curtis Van Loan, wealthy young idler and man-about-town, who was here as Mr. Havens's friend and guest, lifted his bored, world-wearied grey eyes in questioning annoyance. Seated in a comfortable chair, Van Loan was puffing idly at a cigarette, his immaculately dress-trousered legs crossed.
Then, before anyone could speak, the bored Richard Curtis Van Loan suddenly leaped from his chair. His grey eyes lost their ennui, became sharp slits. It was he who saw the oozing, crimson trickle coming from beneath Collins's coat and dripping soundlessly to the soft carpet.
Collins's body swayed giddily as Van Loan leaped forward. The latter's strong arms reached out, caught the young cartoonist even as the youth went limp, collapsing.
"This man's been shot!" Van Loan said, his customary drawl sharp now.
Havens's momentary annoyance turned to quick alarm. The publisher grabbed an inter-office phone, called a downstairs office secretary, ordering that a doctor be summoned. Then he went over to where Van Loan had carried the riddled youth to a lounge and placed him on it.
"Collins!" he cried, all concern now. "What happened? Who—?"
The eyes of Eddie Collins, already going dull, flickered. His lips moved. A sighing rattle made the words which came from his throat difficult to hear.
"Envelope—" he gasped. "Envelope! Gangsters—probably still down in areaway cellar looking for me. Freight elevator—They got it—from me—but they aren't sure—"
"Got what, Collins? What do you mean?" Havens spoke with fierce bafflement. "How could