Authors: Lee Falk
The Phantom nodded toward the wall of the adjoining compartment. "Something happen next door?"
Neither of the women replied.
"Let's see now," continued the Phantom. "Since I get the distinct impression that .38 of yours has been very recently fired, Aunt Beth, I'd guess. . , ." "You'll guess yourself right into a pine box, buddy boy," Aunt Beth assured him. "You just see to. . . ."
There was a knock on the door.
The blonde said, "We've been with you since dinner, should anyone ask."
Aunt Beth lowered the hand with the gun into her large straw bag. "This is still pointing right at your middle, buddy boy."
The knock was repeated.
"Yes, come in," said the Phantom.
A red-haired girl in the uniform of a railway stewardess looked in "Is there something I can get you before the porter makes up your bed, sir?"
"Let me think now," said the Phantom.
"I'd like a pot of tea," said Aunt Beth, standing. "Would that be too much trouble, dear?"
"Not at all, madam."
"And here's a little something for you." Turning her narrow back on the Phantom for a moment, the gaunt woman handed the stewardess something out of her straw bag.
"Why, thank you." The door closed.
Scowling at the Phantom, Aunt Beth produced the .38 special. "We'll be bidding you a fond farewell now, buddy boy."
"You mean you're not staying to tea?" Slowly he stood to face her.
"Regretfully," said the young blonde, "no."
The train gave another sudden lurch. This one threw the gaunt woman forward.
Leaping, the Phantom grabbed her gun wrist in both hands and brought it down on his knee.
"Damn you!" the gaunt woman cried as she dropped her weapon.
The Phantom dived to retrieve the gun. All at once the room lights went out. Something hard swung
down through the blackness. It struck him just above the ear and he fell.
He heard scuffling, then the compartment door opened and closed. He lost track of the next few moments. The pounding of the train wheels came to him through the floor after a while, shaking him wake. Rubbing at his head, he got up and clicked the lights back on. His dark glasses and the .38 revolver lay on the rug. He leaned, carefully, and picked them both up.
The glasses were back on his eyes and he was holding the pistol in one gloved hand when the door opened again.
"Did you . . began the stocky dark man out in the corridor. Then he spotted the gun. Jerking a snub nose .32 out of a belt holster, he suggested, "Don't make a move. Put the gun on the seat. Now get up and turn toward the window."
The Phantom did as he was told, remarking, "Some honeymoon."
CHAPTER TWO
The dead man seemed to be kneeling in prayer. He was slumped over the compartment seat, legs bent and touching the floor. There was a fuzzy bloodstain, darkening toward black, on the carpeting. His window shade was down, showing only a sliver of the night as the train traveled through it. Lights flickered outside in the rain, yellow, red, green, and were gone. Some small town on the way to New York.
"Now what do you know about this?" the stocky man asked the Phantom, gesturing toward the body with his thumb.
"Nothing," he replied.
On the seat next to the dead man's head was the singed pillow which had been used to muffle the shot. A few tiny twisted feathers from the stuffing had fallen into his thin gray hair.
The chief conductor, a huge pink-colored man, was standing fretfully beside them in the corridor. "I'm so glad you were on board, Lt. Colma."
Colma, the dark stocky man who'd escorted the Phantom to the compartment next to his, answered, '1 don't like flying. I always take the train when I have police business in Chicago."
"Thank goodness, we have a New York policeman with us this trip," said the fat pink conductor. "When the porter looked in there a few moments ago and saw. . . ."
Touching the Phantoms elbow, Lt. Colma said, "Let's go back to your compartment. We'll talk in there."
The fat conductor asked, "What about . . . what about Mr. Pieters there?"
"I've already wired ahead for a lab crew and a hoodoo wagon to meet us at Grand Central," replied the police lieutenant. "Get a couple of your own people to stand guard out here in the corridor. Nobody in or out."
When they were back in his compartment, the Phantom said, "I had nothing to do with that fellow's death, lieutenant. But I think I can tell you who did."
Colma was wearing a loose fitting sharkskin overcoat. He reached into one of the bulging pockets for a pack of cigarettes. "I really ought to quit smoking," he said, shaking a cigarette onto his palm. "But the best I can do is cut down to a pack a day." After lighting the cigarette with a wooden match, he produced a thick steno notebook and a stubby pencil. "According to your reservation, your name is Walker."
"That's right." Whenever the Phantom traveled in the more civilized parts of the world, places where he was sometimes required to have a name, he called himself Kit Walker. Far off in the dense section of the jungle known as the
Deep Woods,
they called him the Ghost Who Walks, and he derived his cover name from that.
"I'm betting the .38 I took out of your hand, Walker, was the gun that killed Pieters." He touched the pocket which now held that gun. "Want to tell me about it?"
"You're with homicide in New York?"
The dark stocky Colma glanced across at him. He was holding the stub of a pencil between the fingers of his left hand like another cigarette. "Eight now I'm with robbery division," he said. "Which is why I'm doubly interested in you. I didn't find anything on you when I frisked you before. Later, we'll take your little room here apart, and your luggage."
"Something was stolen from Pieters?"
"You didn't know, of course."
"I had a pretty good idea," replied the Phantom. "One of the two women who came into this compartment after the shooting had something in her purse which she passed on to the stewardess."
"Oh, so?" The dark bushy eyebrow over Colma's left eye rose. "Two ladies was it?"
"Three counting the stewardess."
The lieutenant transferred the pencil to his right hand. "Okay, Walker, suppose we cut the bull. Tell me what really happened."
"Who was Pieters?"
"He works in the jewelry district of Manhattan. And he happened to share my feeling about airplanes," said the stocky policeman. "I suppose you didn't know any of that either."
"No, but it fits in," said the Phantom. "Then they must have taken jewels from him."
"Exactly right. A packet of gems worth over $200,000," Colma said. "Pieters was a smart man, able to take care of himself. Besides which he was armed. I'd really like to know how he let you walk in and get the drop on him"
"I imagine the blonde was the one who got through his defenses," observed the Phantom. On the window next to him the rain was slamming hard. "She has a very innocent exterior."
"You're sticking to this yarn about a bunch of dames?"
"Because it's the truth."
Grunting, Lt. Colma reached up to push the serv-
ice buzzer. "Okay, Walker. We'll talk to the steward
ess
for this car. I'll ask her if she saw your lady friends, or if she happens to be a jewel thief herself. Then we'll get back to reality."
"Have there been other robberies like this one?"
"This is the first one on a train in a long time." Colma was doodling in the notebook margin, but his eyes were on the big man opposite him. "We're fairly sure down on Center Street there's at least one big jewel theft ring operating in and around New York City at the moment. These boys don't balk at killing. This job tonight could be their work." He sighed out smoke. "But you already know all this, Walker. Don't your
The Phantom said, "You ought to be searching the train for those women."
"Train hasn't stopped anywhere since Pieters was killed," answered the squat lieutenant. "Nobody's going anywhere the train isn't."
There was a knock on the door. Then a lean black man, wearing a crisp white jacket, looked in. "Yes, sir? What can I do for you?"
"Where's the girl who acts as stewardess in this car?" Colma asked.
The porter checked his watch. "Oh, she went off duty two hours back. These days, sir, we don't have round the clock...."
"You sure the girl hasn't been here within the last hour?" asked the policeman.
"Yes, I am, sir. I made up Miss Toshiko's bed myself well over an hour ago."
The Phantom sat up. "The stewardess is Japanese?"
"Oh, yes, sir."
"And she's the only one?
"We only have one girl now, sir. These days. . . ."
"Okay, thanks," said Colma. "That will do it for now."
"The girl I saw was a redhead." The Phantom started to say something more, then stopped. He'd noticed an object on the rug glistening in the light from the corridor. When the porter was gone, he said, "Look at this, lieutenant."
"Costume jewelry," snorted Colma. "Not what I'm after."
"The girl who was here tonight was wearing this."
The lieutenant made a dismissing gesture at the golden arrow pin. "Walker, I've been as amiable as I intend to be. Your story, to put it mildly, stinks. You heard what the porter had to...." He stopped talking to cough. 1 really ought to quit smoking." He coughed a few more times and wiped his nose. "Okay, now are you going to tell me about what happened to Pieters?"
The Phantom had been studying the golden arrow. It was fashioned from an odd sort of gold. He closed his fingers over the emblem. "All right, lieutenant," he said. "Here's what actually happened. I went into Pieters' room, clutched up his pillow like this. . . ." The Phantom grabbed the pillow from the seat beside him and hurled it straight at the police lieutenant.
Colma's cigarette went spinning toward the metal ceiling, sending off sparks. "Heyl"
The Phantom reached out, gave the stocky man one careful chop on the side of the neck. He spun on his heel, diving for the door.
After expelling a groan, Colma fell over unconscious.
The Phantom knew he couldn't convince the New York cop he was innocent. It wouldn't do to be arrested and grilled. The only alternative was to get away, now.
The fat pink conductor was still out there in the corridor, pacing with waddling steps. "Is everything okay?"
"Yes, of course, Lt. Colma wants me to bring Miss Toshiko to him." Before the conductor could say any
thing
further, the Phantom hurried away. When he was between cars, he said to himself,
"Now to get Devil."
CHAPTER THREE
Lt. Colma's chin was keeping time with the rhythm of the train wheels. He came gradually awake, found his chin digging into the blue-gray compartment seat. "Ugh," he said, yawning and sucking in air.
After rubbing at the side of his neck, he elbowed himself upright. "That guy's a pro, whoever he is."
The wobbly police lieutenant stood. He took a few uncertain steps. His hand happened to brush at a pocket of his rumpled overcoat "Huh, that's funny." Walker hadn't bothered to remove the .38 revolver from Colma's pocket. "Why didn't he take that with him?" Still a little unsteady on his feet, Colma pushed out into the corridor.
"How's the investigation coming, lieutenant?" asked the huge cherub-faced conductor.