is all arranged." Jimenez's narrow wrist shot out beyond the cuff of his heavy overcoat as he rapped on the door three times, then twice. "Even this knock is prearranged."
Nothing happened.
Jimenez cleared his throat before knocking again.
Still no one came to let them into the black stone building.
After a third series of knocks, Jimenez said, "Perhaps we would do well to return at a later—"
"Well go in now and look around." The Phantom tried the door. It was locked.
"Allow me," offered Jimenez. He slid a device out of an inner pocket. After glancing up and down the wet waterfront street, he went to work on the lock. "There, it is open," he said after a half minute.
The Phantom turned the knob, pushed the door slowly inward. All the lights seemed to be on inside die place. He crossed the threshold.
Following him, Jimenez called out, "Hey, Ramirez! Have you forgotten our appointment?"
The large room was half-full of cases. Canned goods for the most part, judging by the stenciling on the cartons. There were also sacks of flour and corn meal.
And toward the rear of the warehouse, just in front of a wide sliding door, a man was sprawled on the concrete.
The Phantom ran toward him. "Is this Ramirez?" he asked.
Jimenez had approached the sprawled man more slowly. "Yes, senor. This is he."
Getting up from beside Ramirez, the Phantom said, "He's been dead about an hour."
The sun came out and Diana mused, "I don't suppose it would hurt if I left for a little while."
It was getting on toward noon. She'd returned to her own bungalow and had been sitting near the
phone. She'd tried to read a paperback she'd brought with her, and a copy of the local daily.
Standing, she said to herself, "We may be going home today and I haven't even picked up a gift for Uncle Dave."
She put on a light coat, wrote a note which said: "Gone down to the market plaza to shop for flamboyant shirts. Back shortly. Love, Diana." She slipped that under the door of bungalow eleven on her way out.
Roughly ten minutes after she'd arrived in the shopping area, when she had hardly had time to look into more than one of the bright shops, she noticed the gray-haired man.
He was across the cobblestone street, alone, studying a display of silver bracelets in a shop window. The newly emerged sun made the silver sparkle and flare.
Diana reversed her direction and walked back toward the corner. Then she crossed the street. There were dozens of people out on the sidewalks now, more arriving all the time. It shouldn't be too difficult to trail the gray-haired man, she thought. Perhaps he wouldn't lead her directly to Chris Danton, but she'd follow him anyway. She should be able to find out where he was staying and then let the Phantom know.
The man moved on, sauntering along the street, studying the shop windows. He paused to check the price of a fat wicker basket, then strolled on. A fat woman with a pushcart offered him a tortilla wrapped around meat and beans. He glanced at the tortilla which rested in her palm, shook his head, and continued his stroll.
Halfway down the block, an alley branched off. The gray-haired man turned down that.
Diana, following at a safe distance, came to the
mouth of the alley. There didn't seem to be anything down there except a tiny cafe at the alley end. The man must have gone in there. She decided to go closer to the cafe.
She was ten yards down the alley when someone said, out of a shadowy alcove, "Over here, Diana."
The small red-haired Laura was standing there. She had a .38 revolver pointed straight at Diana.
"Laura," she said.
"You walked right in, didn't you?"
"I—" Someone grabbed her from behind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
"It's coming along, yes, very nicely." Chris Danton, in a black pullover and dark slacks, was standing on a catwalk watching his men at work on the Sea Horse.
The yacht was nearly two hundred feet long, with funnel and superstructure of aluminum alloy. Her original color was white, but she was in the process of
Nothing happened.
Jimenez cleared his throat before knocking again.
Still no one came to let them into the black stone building.
After a third series of knocks, Jimenez said, "Perhaps we would do well to return at a later—"
"Well go in now and look around." The Phantom tried the door. It was locked.
"Allow me," offered Jimenez. He slid a device out of an inner pocket. After glancing up and down the wet waterfront street, he went to work on the lock. "There, it is open," he said after a half minute.
The Phantom turned the knob, pushed the door slowly inward. All the lights seemed to be on inside die place. He crossed the threshold.
Following him, Jimenez called out, "Hey, Ramirez! Have you forgotten our appointment?"
The large room was half-full of cases. Canned goods for the most part, judging by the stenciling on the cartons. There were also sacks of flour and corn meal.
And toward the rear of the warehouse, just in front of a wide sliding door, a man was sprawled on the concrete.
The Phantom ran toward him. "Is this Ramirez?" he asked.
Jimenez had approached the sprawled man more slowly. "Yes, senor. This is he."
Getting up from beside Ramirez, the Phantom said, "He's been dead about an hour."
The sun came out and Diana mused, "I don't suppose it would hurt if I left for a little while."
It was getting on toward noon. She'd returned to her own bungalow and had been sitting near the
phone. She'd tried to read a paperback she'd brought with her, and a copy of the local daily.
Standing, she said to herself, "We may be going home today and I haven't even picked up a gift for Uncle Dave."
She put on a light coat, wrote a note which said: "Gone down to the market plaza to shop for flamboyant shirts. Back shortly. Love, Diana." She slipped that under the door of bungalow eleven on her way out.
Roughly ten minutes after she'd arrived in the shopping area, when she had hardly had time to look into more than one of the bright shops, she noticed the gray-haired man.
He was across the cobblestone street, alone, studying a display of silver bracelets in a shop window. The newly emerged sun made the silver sparkle and flare.
Diana reversed her direction and walked back toward the corner. Then she crossed the street. There were dozens of people out on the sidewalks now, more arriving all the time. It shouldn't be too difficult to trail the gray-haired man, she thought. Perhaps he wouldn't lead her directly to Chris Danton, but she'd follow him anyway. She should be able to find out where he was staying and then let the Phantom know.
The man moved on, sauntering along the street, studying the shop windows. He paused to check the price of a fat wicker basket, then strolled on. A fat woman with a pushcart offered him a tortilla wrapped around meat and beans. He glanced at the tortilla which rested in her palm, shook his head, and continued his stroll.
Halfway down the block, an alley branched off. The gray-haired man turned down that.
Diana, following at a safe distance, came to the
mouth of the alley. There didn't seem to be anything down there except a tiny cafe at the alley end. The man must have gone in there. She decided to go closer to the cafe.
She was ten yards down the alley when someone said, out of a shadowy alcove, "Over here, Diana."
The small red-haired Laura was standing there. She had a .38 revolver pointed straight at Diana.
"Laura," she said.
"You walked right in, didn't you?"
"I—" Someone grabbed her from behind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
"It's coming along, yes, very nicely." Chris Danton, in a black pullover and dark slacks, was standing on a catwalk watching his men at work on the Sea Horse.
The yacht was nearly two hundred feet long, with funnel and superstructure of aluminum alloy. Her original color was white, but she was in the process of
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