bluecoats. The minions of the law were stationed at every point of vantage outside the building. And in personal charge of the police contingent was Inspector Demaree.
The Phantom didn’t have much faith in the strong arm of the law, but when it came to a massing of numerical strength and a pitched battle, they had their advantage.
Nine o’clock came; ten. By the sounds of revelry that floated down to the locker, from the dining room, Van surmised that Clairborne was throwing a party as a gesture of disdain at Hesterberg’s threat.
The party was almost too gay; he realized that there was a note of hysteria in it.
For a moment all thought of Clairborne and his party was wiped from his mind. Footsteps approached his hiding place, stopped. He heard voices; one voice first and recognized it as Havens’s. He pressed his ear against the door and listened.
“You are prepared for any emergency, Inspector?”
“Any, sir. But just what do you expect to happen here tonight?”
The Phantom didn’t hear Havens’s reply that followed immediately. His every nerve was consumed with liquid fire; his lean muscles knotted to whip-cords. It was not the question Inspector Demaree had propounded that had wrought this sudden change in him. No. It was the voice that had asked the question.
The Phantom had heard it before. He would never forget it. Its accent was impressed indelibly on his mind.
It was the voice — of Hesterberg! Hesterberg — Detective Inspector Demaree! No! The thing was impossible — mad!
The men moved on, their voices faded. The Phantom heaved a long sigh and relaxed. He realized then that it was time to come out of his place of concealment. He had to take a look at this Inspector Demaree. But he feared the worst.
Awaiting his opportunity he slipped from the locker room a moment later, slithered like a shadow behind the shelter of a marble colonnade. A swift survey of the scene told him that the club was in the hands of the Russian.
The Phantom shrank back against the marble column as Havens and another man marched out of the smoking room. They headed his way, deep in conversation. Half-way across the lobby, the man at Havens’s side, stopped and rapped out a terse order to a man at the door.
That voice again! The voice of Hesterberg; the voice of Detective Inspector Demaree. The Phantom didn’t get the key to the puzzle immediately. It came to him a few seconds later as Havens and the Inspector stopped a few feet away from him. He now managed to secure a good look at the face of the man at his friend’s side.
There was no denying those eyes. There was no mistaking that high-domed head and arrogant lips. The Phantom was staring at Hesterberg — Hesterberg, the mad Russian.
Then in a flash of inspiration he comprehended the stupendous cleverness of Hesterberg. Van had to admit the genius of his foe. The Russian had staked all on a colossal bluff. He himself had impersonated Demaree; they were his men in blue, planted around the building, not the police.
And quick on this realization came a second. There was a traitor close to Havens or Clairborne. Someone who had —
But time to analyze that situation later. The Phantom realized that he had to completely change his plans. And then came the bitter truth that he had no last ace up his hand to trump this last move of the Russian.
He stood frozen to his place of concealment behind the colonnade. His mind worked at top speed. With Hesterberg in person on the job; with his minions surrounding the building in the guise of the police, he was at a terrific advantage.
Unquestionably, in the role of the Police Inspector, Hesterberg had given the order that no one was to leave or enter the building; undoubtedly he censored all incoming and outgoing calls.
It was so simple, so perfect it would have been ridiculous if so much wasn’t at stake. The Russian had the entire building and all its occupants at his mercy. All he had to do was to wait till the fatal
The Phantom didn’t have much faith in the strong arm of the law, but when it came to a massing of numerical strength and a pitched battle, they had their advantage.
Nine o’clock came; ten. By the sounds of revelry that floated down to the locker, from the dining room, Van surmised that Clairborne was throwing a party as a gesture of disdain at Hesterberg’s threat.
The party was almost too gay; he realized that there was a note of hysteria in it.
For a moment all thought of Clairborne and his party was wiped from his mind. Footsteps approached his hiding place, stopped. He heard voices; one voice first and recognized it as Havens’s. He pressed his ear against the door and listened.
“You are prepared for any emergency, Inspector?”
“Any, sir. But just what do you expect to happen here tonight?”
The Phantom didn’t hear Havens’s reply that followed immediately. His every nerve was consumed with liquid fire; his lean muscles knotted to whip-cords. It was not the question Inspector Demaree had propounded that had wrought this sudden change in him. No. It was the voice that had asked the question.
The Phantom had heard it before. He would never forget it. Its accent was impressed indelibly on his mind.
It was the voice — of Hesterberg! Hesterberg — Detective Inspector Demaree! No! The thing was impossible — mad!
The men moved on, their voices faded. The Phantom heaved a long sigh and relaxed. He realized then that it was time to come out of his place of concealment. He had to take a look at this Inspector Demaree. But he feared the worst.
Awaiting his opportunity he slipped from the locker room a moment later, slithered like a shadow behind the shelter of a marble colonnade. A swift survey of the scene told him that the club was in the hands of the Russian.
The Phantom shrank back against the marble column as Havens and another man marched out of the smoking room. They headed his way, deep in conversation. Half-way across the lobby, the man at Havens’s side, stopped and rapped out a terse order to a man at the door.
That voice again! The voice of Hesterberg; the voice of Detective Inspector Demaree. The Phantom didn’t get the key to the puzzle immediately. It came to him a few seconds later as Havens and the Inspector stopped a few feet away from him. He now managed to secure a good look at the face of the man at his friend’s side.
There was no denying those eyes. There was no mistaking that high-domed head and arrogant lips. The Phantom was staring at Hesterberg — Hesterberg, the mad Russian.
Then in a flash of inspiration he comprehended the stupendous cleverness of Hesterberg. Van had to admit the genius of his foe. The Russian had staked all on a colossal bluff. He himself had impersonated Demaree; they were his men in blue, planted around the building, not the police.
And quick on this realization came a second. There was a traitor close to Havens or Clairborne. Someone who had —
But time to analyze that situation later. The Phantom realized that he had to completely change his plans. And then came the bitter truth that he had no last ace up his hand to trump this last move of the Russian.
He stood frozen to his place of concealment behind the colonnade. His mind worked at top speed. With Hesterberg in person on the job; with his minions surrounding the building in the guise of the police, he was at a terrific advantage.
Unquestionably, in the role of the Police Inspector, Hesterberg had given the order that no one was to leave or enter the building; undoubtedly he censored all incoming and outgoing calls.
It was so simple, so perfect it would have been ridiculous if so much wasn’t at stake. The Russian had the entire building and all its occupants at his mercy. All he had to do was to wait till the fatal
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