Authors: Robin Gideon
Inhaling deeply, he steeled his courage then slipped off
the edge. The rope sagged under his weight, but the grap
pling hook remained in place.
The instant his weight pulled on his arms, the pain in
his ribs exploded, fresh and new, more acute than when
he’d first broken them. He waited, his teeth clenched
against his agony, until his vision cleared.
Slowly, hand over hand, Garrett made his way along the
rope, his black silk cape fluttering in the evening breeze.
Four stories below, men were walking about, entering and leaving the casino, oblivious to what was happening high
above them.
By the time he was halfway across the street, the strain
on his hands, arms, and shoulders was almost unbearable.
Perspiration stuck his shirt to his chest. His ribs were on
fire, and he realized, too late, that he’d not regained all
his strength since the beating.
He paused a moment to look down, aware immediately
that such a move was a mistake, then continued on, hand over hand, trying to maintain a smooth, swinging rhythm
to make the crossing easier on himself.
He couldn’t get caught, yet all it would take would be
one hotel guest looking out the window, or one person on
the street looking up. The closer Garrett got toward the
rooftop of the casino, the more fearful he grew that he’d
hear a shout then a gunshot, then he’d feel the burning
sensation of a bullet striking him. No longer able to hold
onto the taut rope stretched across the buildings, he’d
spend the hideous seconds falling, falling. And then black
ness would envelop him when he hit the ground.
Stop thinking that way!
he scolded himself.
He was only a few hand-over-hand swings away from the edge of the casino’s roof. He paced himself so that he
wouldn’t have to continue holding onto the rope longer than necessary then kicked his foot up on the roof.
Straining to raise himself, he was at last kneeling on the casino’s roof. Garrett paused, flexing his hands slowly to bring sensitivity back into them, aware of blood pumping into his biceps and forearms.
He waited until his heart rate was nearly back to normal then moved away from the edge of the roof, running
in a crouch, certain only that, when this evening had come
to an end, the Midnight Phantom would go into permanent
retirement.
Two doors led from the roof down into the casino. Both
had enormous iron locks designed to be intimidating and functional. But while large, heavy locks were designed to
withstand the force of a sledgehammer striking them with
out the locking mechanism opening, their very size made
them easier to open with the appropriate tools.
From the slender leather case he kept in the breast pocket of his jacket, Garrett extracted a dentist’s cleaning
hook. Made of the hardest, finest steel available, it worked
as well for thieves as it did for dentists. In less than a minute, he had eased open the lock and pulled at the resisting door, which probably had not been opened in several years.
He climbed down a ladder into total darkness. Three
sulfur-tipped matches later, Garrett had navigated himself
through the storage attic to an unlocked door. Pressing his
ear to it, he held his breath to concentrate on the sounds
he heard. With difficulty, he tried to distinguish the nearby
sounds from those the gamblers made far below.
He opened the door slowly, as yet resisting the urge to
pull the small revolver from the holster beneath his jacket and cape. In all his adventures as the Midnight Phantom, in
every raid on the overstuffed coffers of his enemy,
Garrett had managed to keep from having
to fire a gun, and if all went well, on this night—his last
performance as the Midnight Phantom—he would be as suc
cessful at that as he had been in the past.
* * * *
Michael Darwell stood at the railing of the second floor
of the casino, looking down at the roulette players. The
place was busy, which surprised him. He wondered if the
excitement in town—the rumors of Garrett and Pamela, of Pamela
and Richard, and the countless variations on them—had
heated the blood, making men feel like gambling.
Below him, he saw a man’s world. The only women
present were there to quench the thirst men had for liquor
and commitment-free sex.
All was well in Michael Darwell’s world. Because this
was
his
world, where he belonged, wearing the finest
clothes that money could buy, associating with the
wealthiest, best-educated, most successful people of the
territory. He was not like Richard, who had preferred
Lulu’s, with its garish decor and loud, bawdy atmosphere.
Richard was gone, murdered by his own sister, shot unceremoniously in the back. The grimness of it brought a pitiful smile to Michael’s lips. When he’d been alone with
Angie, he had asked her to tell him everything about the
murder, all the little details that had caused the “tragedy.” Angie, still enormously pleased with herself and not in the
least bit embarrassed or saddened by what she’d done, had
left nothing out, not even the promise she’d made to get Richard to do her bidding.
“Would you have let him?” Michael had asked his sister.
“Let him what?” Angie replied innocently, looking up at
Michael.
“Do it to you. What do you think I’m talking about?”
Angie’s lips pursed in thought, and a moment later, she
replied in all seriousness, “Probably not. He was fat, hairy,
and always sweating.”
Richard’s repulsiveness had bothered her, had held her back, not the fact that he was her brother. Michael was speechless for several seconds.
Much as he wanted to hate his sister for what she had done, he just couldn’t. She had told the truth when she said nobody ever really liked Richard. And now that he was dead, there was one less slice to the pie when the Darwell fortune was divvied up.
Yes, all was well in Michael Darwell’s world. Someday
soon, Jonathon would retire, and then he, Michael, would
be in complete control of the funds.
His spirits rising, he looked at the gamblers below and
began wondering which were losing more than they could afford. And, of those big-time losers, which had attractive wives who might be willing to show special consideration
to Michael if he was considerate about a husband’s gam
bling debts.
* * * *
A smile tugged at the corners of Garrett’s mouth.
If he wasn’t such an
honest man, if, as the Midnight Phantom, he sought personal
gain, he suspected that he could quickly, and with a mini
mum of effort and risk, make himself independently
wealthy.
These thoughts were going through his mind as he spun
the dial on the safe tucked away in the wall behind the
flattering portrait of Michael Darwell. He turned the dial
slowly, the fingers of his left hand resting lightly upon
the handle, waiting for the faint, telltale
click
signifying
the proper number on the dial had been reached.
He made a full revolution of the dial without finding the first number. He made another slow, complete turn, paying even closer attention to what he was doing, and
still he couldn’t feel the internal tumblers falling into
place.
“Damn it,” he whispered, taking a step away from the
safe.
He let his hands rest at his sides and shook them gently,
needing their sensitivity heightened if he was going to get
the safe opened.
Just as he was about to try once again, something reg
istered in his brain. He stopped and looked around, sure
that instinct was warning him. But of what? He was alone
in the office and, from all that he could tell, alone on the
entire third floor of the casino. So what was wrong?
There isn’t anything wrong,
the inner voice whispered.
But something was
different
.
The instant Garrett’s fingers again touched the rotating
dial on the safe, he realized the safe was not a Barns & Bradley. Instead, it was a Sears and Roebuck.
For nearly a minute, Garrett stood quietly, staring at the safe, convincing himself that he had the skill to open it. This sudden twist of fate wasn’t just the gods punishing him for hubris. The fact was he wasn’t much of a thief. There was only one brand of safe that he could open.
There really
wasn’t
much difference between his skill and
Pamela’s after all.
Frustrated, he cursed, nearly muffling the footsteps in the hallway outside the office door.
He reached for the holstered revolver beneath his jacket
and cape, at the same time blowing out the lamp he’d lit on Michael’s desk. Garrett hadn’t quite knelt behind the desk when the door opened.
He raised the pistol, aiming it at the intruder’s stomach.
Down the hall there was wall lamp burning, but that was the only illumination, and it silhouetted the man who entered while keeping Garrett hidden behind the desk. From
the way the fellow moved—short, mincing steps, hands outstretched just a little, as if he was unable to see yet familiar with his surroundings—Garrett could tell that the intruder’s vision had not yet adjusted to the darkness.
“Close the door,” Garrett said.
The man froze in place then slowly raised his hands to shoulder level. He gently kicked the door closed. His composure was impressive.
“No need for gunplay,” Michael Darwell said quietly.
Garrett kept his revolver trained on Michael. Because Michael Darwell was so composed, there was a real chance
he was planning something, and whatever that something
was, Garrett wouldn’t be happy about it.
“Turn around and walk backward to your desk,” Garrett
said, already moving toward his right so that he stayed out
of striking distance. “There’re some matches near the lamp. Get it lit then turn toward your safe.”
“There’s no lamp on my desk.”
“There is now.”
“How long have you been in here?”
All of Garrett’s warning signals were triggered. He couldn’t hear a hint of fear in Michael Darwell’s voice. An
noyance at being inconvenienced was there and mild dis
dain at the break-in and being held at gunpoint, but not a hint of fear.
Garrett waited until the lamp was lit and its pale-yellow glow spread out across the room. Then, for maximum ef
fect, he waited until Michael had blown out the match
before he said, “If you think I won’t kill you, you’re dead
wrong.”