The door to Len’s room was locked, and the smell of burned paper was even stronger here. The Phantom drew back and flung himself at the old, thin door. It cracked, and he was able to smash one panel through with his foot. Reaching inside, he turned the latch, pushed the door open, and went straight over to a fireplace: the relic of some wealthy family that had lived here years ago.
On the grate was a pile of burned papers, the top layers being gradually picked up by the draft. The Phantom looked around the room, saw no signs of Len Barker, and concentrated on what was left of those papers on the grate.
Len had been in a hurry, burned too much at one time and without taking the precaution of crumpling the papers so the flames could get at them more thoroughly. A few papers had been wadded together, and these were the ones the Phantom was able to salvage.
There was not much to them, only some blackened remains, but he knew how to develop parched documents and make them plain. He carefully slipped the ashes into an old candy box he found in one bureau drawer. Handling this with all care, he placed it to one side while he began a complete search of the room.
Len had recently removed most of his clothing, the Phantom discovered, which indicated he was on the lam. In the bathroom, the Phantom found a towel stained with blood, showing that Len had not yet gone to find medical attention for his wound.
Carefully carrying the candy box in which he’d placed the remnants of burned papers, the Phantom left the building. He hailed a cab at the corner and was driven to an address within hail, a block of Park Avenue.
There he paid off the driver, walked casually along the side street, and finally entered a private door of one of the towering apartment buildings. A private elevator was waiting. He pushed the single “up” button it contained, and the car rose smoothly to the top. Here was Richard Curtis Van Loan’s luxurious penthouse apartment.
The Phantom entered it, locked the door behind him, and after putting the box in his well-hidden laboratory, he sat down before a triple mirrored makeup table, and deftly removed the disguise until he was again the handsome, sleek Richard Curtis Van Loan.
Van entered his laboratory where he removed the burned scraps of paper from the candy box. He arranged these fragile bits of blackened substance on glass plates. Next he mixed a solution of colorless, fast drying lacquer, placed it in a spray gun, and sprayed the ashes carefully.
Once the lacquer dried, he could handle his bits of evidence with far greater impunity. Now he placed each of his glass slides under the lens of a large magnifying glass. One by one he eliminated such burned papers as those dealing with Len’s parole and prison record. Finally he studied a typed fragment.
Some of the words were burned away but he made a note of those he could read; and upon assembling these notes he estimated that someone had typed a letter to Len about a factory, a town called Galloway, the payment of three thousand dollars, and what seemed to be an address given as either Springdale Road or Springdale Avenue.
VAN closed up the lab and walked slowly into his living room, with its big picture window overlooking the panorama which is New York. He sat down in a deep chair and stared out over the rooftops. He hardly saw them, or the millions of lights reddening the city sky. Van was thinking about a black billiard ball – and murder.
His mind went back to the discovery of Arthur Arden’s body with the eight ball lying at his feet. It could have been placed there, but, Van asked himself, what significance would it have? A murderer would require a very strong reason to set up a clue like that.
But if Arthur Arden had faced death, and known there was no way out, he might have arranged that the eight ball be found at his feet. He’d have meant this as a clue. One so vague that the murderer didn’t even recognize it, but Arden apparently had hoped someone would.
Van recalled the bronze powder he’d found on the floor near Arden’s body. That, too, had some significant connection with the murder. A very important tie-up, seemingly, for great risks had been taken to steal Arden’s supply of this powder.
Dr. Winterly was mixed up in it somehow; and his loutish servant and companion, Luke, acted as if he knew it and meant to protect the strange doctor against anyone and everyone.
Arthur Arden had been engaged to marry Vicki. He’d been financially insecure, yet had confidently stated he would soon recoup his wasted fortune, have money enough to marry Vicki. A man who would propose to a girl, when his financial stability was dependent upon future operations, had to be extremely confident.
Van began checking over people he might reasonably suspect. Dr. Winterly, of course. Len of the twisted ear was nothing but a paid pug and so, probably, were some others who had taken direct action against the Phantom thus far. But behind these men had to be someone else. The man who directed their efforts and meant to profit from his evil. There was that sleek, fast thinking man in a pearl-gray hat who went by the name of Bernie, but Van was inclined to classify him as a hoodlum also.
In most of the Phantom’s investigation, people appeared whom he could reasonably suspect, others whom be could clear easily. But in this case the only out-and-out suspect so far was Dr. Winterly.
Hugh Royal, the artist, had been able to help the Phantom locate Vicki. So had Park Sunderland, who ran that model agency. Maxine Hillary, presumably Vicki’s friend, also knew about the intended contact. Someone had sent Len on the trail. Someone who knew where Vicki was, or where she’d turn up. Van sighed deeply, thought out his next moves, and went to bed early.
CHAPTER XV
WHEN morning came, the Phantom, once more wearing the same disguise, left the apartment building and after a quick breakfast, went straight to the huge newspaper building where Frank Havens had his office.
To the receptionist, the Phantom gave the name of Gray and was promptly admitted. The Phantom sat down before the publisher’s desk and related, briefly the events up to date. Havens listened intently; and, when the Phantom was finished, opened a drawer, and handed him a sheaf of checks.
“As you requested,” Havens said, “the bank turned over to me the accumulated checks from Arthur Arden’s account. I hope they’ll be of some help to you.”
The Phantom quickly thumbed through them until he came to one made out to Dr. Winterly. It was in the sum of twenty thousand dollars, was dated fifteen days before, and had been cashed at Dr. Winterly’s bank.
None of the other checks was of interest. Arden’s balance had been quite small after Winterly’s check went through.
“Arden paid Winterly twenty thousand,” the Phantom told Havens. “It seems odd, if this wasn’t an aboveboard transaction, that a check would have been used. Especially since Winterly turned it into cash anyway.”
“Winterly is an odd duck,” Havens mused. “Some go so far as to call him a crackpot. I suggest you try to make the man talk about this.”
“Tonight, I shall,” the Phantom promised. “I don’t want to be seen even leaving for Lake Candle. Of course, I may not be watched, but at this stage of the game it’s silly to take chances. Meanwhile, I’m going to check on a factory in a town called Galloway. There is a town by that name in New Jersey; and this town has, according to a map I found of it, a street called Springdale Road, which was also indicated on papers Len Barker tried to dispose of.”
“I talked to Arthur’s father again last night,” Havens said. “He swears he has no idea why the boy was murdered, and I believe him. He did admit he had been a bit severe with Arthur lately in the matter of money. Just a fatherly method of making a spendthrift son realize that money has more than mere spending value.”