“Len Barker broke down and did a lot of talking,” the Phantom said. “He insisted that you were the one who murdered Doctor Winterly. You’re in a bad spot, Pennell.”
“You’re right, Phantom.” For the first time Pennell seemed worried. “Of course Barker is lying. He killed the old doctor, but I’d have a hard time proving that.” Pennell looked anxiously at the Phantom. “Maybe you could find a way of giving me a break if we talked this thing over.”
“That might be possible,” the Phantom said thoughtfully. “At least I can consider it.”
He felt that if he could actually get Pennell to talk – to reveal the name of the man that the Phantom was sure was the brains of the whole colossal confidence game it would save a lot of time and effort, and bring the case to a close in a hurry.
“Good,” said Pennell.“Let’s go in Sunderland’s private office and talk this over in comfort.”
Without even waiting for the Phantom to agree, Bernie Pennell turned and headed for Sunderland’s private office. The Phantom followed, the gun still in his hand. Pennell stepped in through the open doorway and switched on the lights. He walked over to the desk and seated himself behind it. Then he pushed back the gray hat on his dark hair and smiled at the Phantom.
“Sit down,” Pennell said, nodding toward a comfortable looking chair near the desk. “Since I judge you expect me to do a lot of talking it’s going to take some time.”
“That’s right,” said the Phantom as he dropped into the chair. “And we might as well start by your telling me the name of your boss.”
In his estimation Pennell had grown too sure of himself, and the Phantom didn’t like it. That Pennell was so willing to talk, to reveal all he knew, didn’t seem at all in keeping with the man’s character. There was something decidedly false about this whole setup.
The Phantom’s keen brain worked swiftly, seeking some hidden trap. He was sure Pennell had not the slightest intention of revealing the name of the man higher up, but there must be some reason for his pretending to be so willing to do so.
There was no doubt that Pennell was quite familiar with all of the Sunderland Model Agency. The way he had found the light switch of Sunderland’s private office in the dark without even bothering to look for it was proof enough of that. The talk of his having entered by using a skeleton key was just a stall, the Phantom was sure of that now.
“So you want me to tell the name of my boss,” said Pennell, his hands resting on the glass top of the ornate desk. “All right He is -”
Abruptly the lights in the office went out. An instant later the Phantom found himself momentarily blinded by a bright spotlight that cast its white glare straight into his eyes. He leaped to his feet, raising the gun and trying to see Pennell beyond the light; but he was too late. Something hard crashed down on his head with brutal force. The bright light vanished into darkness as he slumped back into the chair unconscious.
The Phantom was never quite certain as to just how much time elapsed before he finally regained his senses and opened his eyes. His first feeling was of cool air blowing against him, and being somewhere in limitless space. He seemed to be swaying back and forth, and at first he thought the feeling was caused by the dizziness from the blow that knocked him out.
His right arm was raised high above his head, and it felt like something at the other end of it was trying to pull it out of the socket. His right wrist hurt and seemed caught in a steel clamp.
Horror swept over him as he realized that he was dangling at the end of a rope tied around his right wrist. The other end of the rope was evidently fastened to something inside a window in Sunderland’s office, and the Phantom hung there in space fifteen stories above the ground.
He reached up, trying to grab the rope with his free hand and relieve the pressure on his right wrist. Twice he tried and failed, and then he succeeded in grabbing the rope, and holding on. That took some of the pressure off his right arm, though the rope still hurt where it had cut into the flesh of his right wrist.
The Phantom looked down. The ground seemed very far away. The windows on this side of the tall building faced out onto a court at the bottom of a setback. All around him they were dark, and there was little chance of his being seen.
He wondered why Bernie Pennell had gone to all the trouble of leaving him dangling out there instead of killing him while he was unconscious. Then he remembered how anxious Pennell had been to establish an alibi for the murder of the Phantom that was supposed to have taken place at Dr. Winterly’s cottage. Doubtlessly Pennell had planned this with the same idea of an alibi in mind.
The Phantom glanced up as he felt the rope give a little. He saw that the metal frame of the lower part of the window had been shoved down on the rope. His weight, and the way he swayed back and forth was gradually sawing the rope against the sharp edge of the window frame. Eventually, the rope would part; and the Phantom would go hurtling down into space, unless he did something about it in a hurry.
The first feeling of horror had left him now, to be replaced by the cool courage that was always part of the nature of the man who had proved such a dangerous foe to the perpetrators of crime. He thought swiftly, seeking some means of escape.
A ledge running along the face of the building between the fifteenth and fourteenth floors caught his glance and held it. If he could just swing close enough he might manage to get his feet on that ledge, and since it was a little higher than where he was hanging now, it would take the pressure off the rope. He tried it, and the first time he came maddeningly close, and then swung away again. The second time he managed to get one foot on the ledge. He pulled himself up on the rope with his free hand, and a moment later he was perched precariously on the ledge. Above him the rope grew slack as it no longer supported his full weight.
The Phantom gave a good hard tug on the rope. It broke at the window and came tumbling down, nearly pulling him off the ledge.
“That was close!” he muttered. “Too close for comfort.”
SINCE the other end of the rope was still in his grasp, he clung to it, hoping to find some way of using it to get off the ledge. He edged along until he found a spot near the corner of the building where the ledge grew wider.
Here it jutted out nearly three feet, and he found that he could stand on it in comparative safety.
He managed to untie the rope from his wrist. The wrist was raw and bleeding a little, and his right arm felt like it was longer than it had ever been before. He coiled up the rope and then peered down over the lip of the ledge. Below him was a window on the fourteenth floor that had been carelessly left open about four inches at the top.
The Phantom estimated the distance from the ledge to the window below and decided it was more than five feet, though it was hard to judge accurately in the darkness of the night. He left the coil of rope lying on the ledge and then lowered himself over the edge until he was hanging there by his hands.
His feet reached the middle of the window below, and he stood on the top of the metal sash. Then he released his grip on the ledge and slowly lowered his body. After that it was comparatively simple to climb in through the upper part of the window.
The Phantom breathed a sigh of relief as he found himself in a deserted office. “If anyone should ask me, I’ve had enough of the great open spaces for one evening,” he decided.
When he had fully recovered his breath, he wandered through the office. Then he used a telephone switchboard he found to call Frank Havens. After the Phantom told Havens what had happened, it was agreed that he would go to the publisher’s office at once and wait there until Chip Dorlan or Steve Huston had located the Texas millionaire they had been sent out to find.