expected to see the fanatical eyes of Hesterberg stare out at him from the portrait of old Peter Schyville, the founder of the club. He caught himself searching the oak panels of the room for some indication of a secret door.
Van swore softly to himself and downed the rest of his drink. He was acting ridiculous — like a cub detective on his first case.
But what was the answer to Hesterberg’s threat of death?
The perplexed state of his mind made him restless. He rose from his chair only to sink into another on the opposite side of the room. It evolved down to this. Hesterberg wasn’t one to threaten idly. At twelve o’clock precisely, an attempt would be made on Clairborne’s life. And unless he outwitted the Russian, the attempt would succeed. It was a grim responsibility to carry around for twelve hours, especially since he had no plan of attack or defense.
If Clairborne came to the club — and he would — the attempt on his life must of necessity take place there. How — or through what devious cunning, Van did not know. Of only one thing he was certain. He, too, must be there prepared for any emergency.
The Phantom, too, must keep that rendezvous at twelve.
Van ordered another drink. For the next hour he kept the steward busy. Then with the fifth drink came the glimmering of an idea. He heaved a grateful sigh of relief, puffed out a blue cloud of smoke with vast contentment.
A moment later he repaired to the restaurant on the second floor and with the lightest of hearts, ordered himself a substantial lunch. He dawdled through the meal; topped it off with an excellent bottle of wine.
One o’clock found him in a drug store at Sixth Avenue and 42nd Street. After making several purchases, he returned again to the Union, but this time he avoided, with extreme caution, the main entrance to the club. Instead, he made his way to the rear of the building and with the greatest circumspection slipped quietly and unobtrusively into the trade entrance.
He spent an interesting half hour examining the labyrinth of narrow hallways and back stairs that made a catacomb of the cellars of the Union Club. He found, that if need be, he had fourteen different ways of reaching the main floor of the club. What was more, he discovered a small locker for cleaning supplies that gave directly on to the lobby of the club, beneath the broad stairs leading to the second floor.
It was small, musty, smelling of damp rags and soap suds. But it would have to do. Van closed the door behind him, locked it and dropped the key in his pocket. Stuffing the crack beneath the door with old rags, he snapped on a fly-specked light bulb, settled himself as comfortably as possible on a soap box, drew out a deck of cards from his pocket and began a game of solitaire.
Van had a ten hour vigil before him, but with the philosophy of a stoic, he waited for developments.
He slept through the major part of the afternoon and the early hours of the evening. At seven he awoke, stretched his weary limbs and risked three swift inhales on a cigarette.
The increasing hub-hub of noise outside the door of his self-imposed prison, told him that the night’s activities at the club were beginning. Around eight, on hearing the voices of Havens and Clairborne, as they entered the Union, he was tempted to come out of his place of concealment But only for a moment. He realized that the strength of his plan lay in absolute concealment until the time for action had arrived.
The first step of his plan had been fulfilled. He had brought Clairborne to the club; to strike, Hesterberg had to reach him there. And he, the Phantom, was laying in wait to see that the Russian was foiled.
Footsteps drifted by his door. Snatches of conversation, broken and disrupted came to his straining ears. But slowly, piece by piece, he pierced together the information that Clairborne had taken his advice and had called in the police.
The Union Club was surrounded by a cordon of stalwart
Van swore softly to himself and downed the rest of his drink. He was acting ridiculous — like a cub detective on his first case.
But what was the answer to Hesterberg’s threat of death?
The perplexed state of his mind made him restless. He rose from his chair only to sink into another on the opposite side of the room. It evolved down to this. Hesterberg wasn’t one to threaten idly. At twelve o’clock precisely, an attempt would be made on Clairborne’s life. And unless he outwitted the Russian, the attempt would succeed. It was a grim responsibility to carry around for twelve hours, especially since he had no plan of attack or defense.
If Clairborne came to the club — and he would — the attempt on his life must of necessity take place there. How — or through what devious cunning, Van did not know. Of only one thing he was certain. He, too, must be there prepared for any emergency.
The Phantom, too, must keep that rendezvous at twelve.
Van ordered another drink. For the next hour he kept the steward busy. Then with the fifth drink came the glimmering of an idea. He heaved a grateful sigh of relief, puffed out a blue cloud of smoke with vast contentment.
A moment later he repaired to the restaurant on the second floor and with the lightest of hearts, ordered himself a substantial lunch. He dawdled through the meal; topped it off with an excellent bottle of wine.
One o’clock found him in a drug store at Sixth Avenue and 42nd Street. After making several purchases, he returned again to the Union, but this time he avoided, with extreme caution, the main entrance to the club. Instead, he made his way to the rear of the building and with the greatest circumspection slipped quietly and unobtrusively into the trade entrance.
He spent an interesting half hour examining the labyrinth of narrow hallways and back stairs that made a catacomb of the cellars of the Union Club. He found, that if need be, he had fourteen different ways of reaching the main floor of the club. What was more, he discovered a small locker for cleaning supplies that gave directly on to the lobby of the club, beneath the broad stairs leading to the second floor.
It was small, musty, smelling of damp rags and soap suds. But it would have to do. Van closed the door behind him, locked it and dropped the key in his pocket. Stuffing the crack beneath the door with old rags, he snapped on a fly-specked light bulb, settled himself as comfortably as possible on a soap box, drew out a deck of cards from his pocket and began a game of solitaire.
Van had a ten hour vigil before him, but with the philosophy of a stoic, he waited for developments.
He slept through the major part of the afternoon and the early hours of the evening. At seven he awoke, stretched his weary limbs and risked three swift inhales on a cigarette.
The increasing hub-hub of noise outside the door of his self-imposed prison, told him that the night’s activities at the club were beginning. Around eight, on hearing the voices of Havens and Clairborne, as they entered the Union, he was tempted to come out of his place of concealment But only for a moment. He realized that the strength of his plan lay in absolute concealment until the time for action had arrived.
The first step of his plan had been fulfilled. He had brought Clairborne to the club; to strike, Hesterberg had to reach him there. And he, the Phantom, was laying in wait to see that the Russian was foiled.
Footsteps drifted by his door. Snatches of conversation, broken and disrupted came to his straining ears. But slowly, piece by piece, he pierced together the information that Clairborne had taken his advice and had called in the police.
The Union Club was surrounded by a cordon of stalwart
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