“I believe Mr. Arden,” the Phantom said. “Arthur was trying to replenish his finances by some fast method which entailed an investment of twenty thousand dollars, practically all he had left. I think he was taken – conned out of that money – and tumbled to the fact. He was promptly murdered before he could take action.”
“For twenty thousand dollars?” Havens seemed incredulous. “Of course, murder has been done for much less, but in this case – well, there seem to be underlings involved, downright criminal skill used, and great chances taken. Twenty thousand seems hardly worthwhile.”
The Phantom arose. “Suppose, Frank, there were others involved. Innocent people also being conned out of similar or even greater sums. Arden, knowing the truth, could have blown the top off the gyp game. So he was killed. The eight ball had something to do with it, and Arden wanted to be certain this clue was recognized and appreciated. It was not, unfortunately, because the sheriff in charge was not a man with too much imagination.”
“I could give it publicity,” Havens offered. “More publicity than you would think possible.”
“I’m afraid,” the Phantom said, “we’re better off tracking this down quietly. If there are other people being cheated, people who might recognize the meaning of the clue of the eight ball, they’d take immediate steps, and the man we want would simply vanish.”
“We’d know who he was,” Haven argued.
“I’m not too sure. There would be a man working openly. Someone to contact the suckers. But behind him, and directing and financing him, is someone else. The man we really want to land. Because there is such a man. He moved into the case last night when he stole the Mason jar of metallic powder from Arthur Arden’s apartment. And one of the crooks stated, while I was his prisoner, that a certain someone would be interested in me.”
Havens nodded. “As usual, Phantom, you’re right. Call on me if I can help in any way.”
PROCEEDING from the newspaper building, the Phantom went to a large garage where he maintained a car under a pseudonym. He got this out, checked a map, and crossed the river to Jersey where he drove at a sedate speed toward the town of Galloway.
There, with his customary thoroughness, the Phantom investigated his clue from all angles before approaching it. First, he visited the town recorder’s office, went through his records, with especial interest for Springdale Road, and found that there was a factory on that street doing business under the name of the Fenton Corporation.
He looked up this firm, discovered it was legally incorporated and that the names of its officers were brand new to him. They were probably all phonies. From the recorder, a grizzled old veteran, he learned a few facts about the building.
“It was built during the first World War. Made cartridge shells there, and hand grenades. It’s a combination foundry and machine shop. Went bust about Nineteen Thirty and stayed idle for a long time. Then, during the last war, it was reopened. This time to cast parts of tanks. Steel, mostly. Soon after the war it went to making metal products. All sorts of things.”
“Is anyone working there now?” the Phantom wanted to know.
“They use maybe thirty employees Some talk going around that they mean to expand, but that’s all that has happened so far – just talk.”
The Phantom thanked him, secured specific directions, and drove out to Springdale Road. It extended from the center of the city for a distance of seven miles, beyond the outskirts. There were other buildings near the factory. The road was little used, quiet as a country lane, and the Phantom realized that if Fenton Corporation wanted strict privacy for their new business venture, they had it.
The factory was a one-story, sprawling affair. There were half a dozen smaller buildings and then one huge foundry with innumerable vents set in the roof. Some attempt had been made, at one time, to give the place a park-like appearance. Trees, shrubs, and grass had been planted between and around the buildings, but neglect and the poisonous fumes of molten metal had turned the vegetation into a stunted, stringy, gray-colored variety.
Around the whole place was a high, steel fence, clearly a relic of the war days when security measures were important. The main gate was equipped with a padlock. Beyond it, the factory seemed deserted; and no lights shone, though it was now well after sunset.
The Phantom left his car some distance away and approached the place. He studied the padlock and put to work his extensive knowledge of every type of lock. This one gave way to a thin instrument he took from a compact kit of burglar tools which he usually carried. In a moment he had the gate open enough to slip through. Closing it behind him, he snapped the padlock back into place.
He moved silently and swiftly now. While there seemed to be no evidences of life around the place, the Phantom was careful. He made his way toward the trailer building which, according to neat signs on the door, was the main office. The door to this building wasn’t locked, and instantly the Phantom’s suspicions mounted. It was more than possible that a watchman was on the premises; and, if this factory was the nucleus of some strange crime ring, this watchman would hardly be the usual type.
The Phantom drew his gun, snapped the safety to the “off” position, and made sure the weapon was ready for action before he returned it to its holster.
Off the main office, which was equipped with half a dozen stenographers’ desks, were the small private offices. The first two of these were empty, but the third was rather lavishly decorated with new desks and furniture and a large, extremely efficient looking safe in one corner.
Moving silently and using his flashlight, the Phantom sat down behind the big desk. The drawers contained letters and papers having to do with the plant. They were all addressed to a Paul Jardin, president of the firm – a name the Phantom believed to be as phony as the entire corporation setup.
Then he found a letter, typed and unsigned but addressed to Bernie Pennell. It was mixed into a sheaf of regular business letters, and the Phantom guessed that Pennell was also Paul Jardin, president of this factory.
The letter was brief, but. interesting. It read:
.
Contact Douglas Hoag, Texas oil man. Prospects good.
Worth millions. A gambler and not too smart.
.
The Phantom made a mental note of the name, leaned back in the leather chair, and tried to figure out what this could be about. He eyed the formidable surface of the safe door and wondered if he could break into that vault. He arose, went to the safe, and spun the combination. He put an ear against the door, near the dial, and then shook his head. This safe was new and burglar proof, except against a terrific charge of nitro.
SUDDENLY, the Phantom snapped off his flash, scurried toward the office door, and flattened himself against the wall beside it. His keen hearing had detected the slow, lazy approach of a watchman. The office door opened; a flashlight ray swept across the room, lingered on the safe for a moment; and then the watchman went away.
The Phantom waited a few moments. Through the slit between the door and its frame he had a glimpse of the watchman – a powerfully-built, hard-faced character who looked more like a hoodlum, the type of a man capable only of taking orders and who would require advice if anything went wrong.
A slow smile came over the Phantom’s face along with the materialization of an idea. He quietly approached the safe door again, this time removing the flat kit of burglar tools from an inner pocket. He selected a small, sharp jimmy, and went to work. He had no hope of forcing the safe door, but he did inflict deep scratches on its surface. He dug around the combination too, scarring it badly.