Mystery Of The Sea Horse Read online

  "What's that?"

  "My cookbooks."

  "Well?" said Agent Marcus.

  "It was obviously planted here," the Phantom told him. "By the girl who tried to shoot us."

  "I'm addressing my questions to Miss Palmer," said Marcus. "Now, then Miss Palmer . . ." He paused, frowning at the Phantom. "Why would somebody leave narcotics here? Somebody who's out to kill you?"

  "Danton is a very thorough man," answered the Phantom. "He seems to like the idea of having more than one way to get a job done. When we got away from San Obito, he tried to kill us with explosives rigged in the motor launch we used. But, in case that wasn't successful, he had another killer watching this house."

  Marcus picked the bag of heroin from the desktop. "What's that have to do with this junk?"

  "In case the girl failed to get rid of us," said the Phantom. "He had still another way to delay us."

  "What's he trying to delay?"

  "Your getting to the island."

  Agent Busino was sitting in a chair near the door. He cleared his throat, trying to catch Marcus's eyes.

  "What!" asked his partner.

  In a low voice, Busino asked, "Can I borrow a cigarette?"

  After tossing the crumpled pack, Marcus began circling the sofa again.

  "You don't mind if I smoke, miss?" Busino asked Diana.

  "No, go ahead."

  "Lots of people lately are annoyed by smoking and so . . ."

  "How do you come to know Terry?" Marcus was standing in front of the seated Phantom again.

  "I've worked with him now and then," he replied. "Why don't you call him?" The Phantom gave the federal man the number.

  Marcus, his gaze still on the Phantom, held out his hand in the direction of the other agent. "Give me those back. I want one."

  Busino returned the cigarettes. "It can't hurt to phone, do you agree?"

  "Maybe not." Marcus moved nearer the desk. "May I use your phone, Mr. Palmer?"

  "I wish you would," said the old man.

  In a moment, Agent Terry in San Francisco replied, "Yes, hello?"

  "This is Marcus, down here in Santa Barbara."

  "I was talking about you an hour or so ago,

  Marcus. A good friend of mine will be getting in touch with you," said Terry. "Looks like he can help you get the goods on Chris Danton finally. So give him every—"

  "That's what I'm phoning about. Is this guy's name Walker?"

  Terry replied, "That's the name he's using, yes. Has he contacted you?"

  "It's more like we contacted him." Marcus went on to explain why they were at the Palmer house, what they had found there, and how he'd met Walker.

  When he finished, Terry said, "Yeah, that's obviously an attempted frame on the part of Danton. I can assure you, Walker is not involved in any way in the narcotics trade, Marcus. Nor are Dave Palmer and his niece. Now you better listen to Walker, if it's not already too late to catch Danton."

  Marcus hung up the phone. He took a puff of his cigarette. "Okay," he said to the Phantom, "what do you have to tell us?"

  "I can tell you on the way to the island." The Phantom rose. "We've got to get out there right away."

  Diana said, "You ought to rest. You shouldn't risk . . ."

  But he was already across the room.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Agent Busino threw his cigarette over the edge of the launch into the choppy sea. "I guess I won't smoke any more this morning." His face was pale.

  The morning had a strange bright-orange tinge, and up in the hot sky the gulls appeared to be flying straight out to sea.

  "Why is it so hot this early?" asked Marcus, licking his lips.

  Swallowing, Busino said, "Its that Santa Ana wind I was telling you about. I heard on the news when I was driving over to pick you up this morning that they're worried already about forest fires and brush fires from here all the way down to Los Angeles."

  "Well, I haven't time to worry about that. I'm worrying exclusively about catching Chris Danton with something incriminating."

  "I think," said the Phantom, "we're too late for that."

  The police launch, which Marcus had requisitioned, was fast approaching Danton's private dock.

  "Yeah, no sign of any boats," observed Marcus.

  The Phantom was staring intently at the dock. He was the first one out of the police boat. "Wait there a minute," he told the two agents. He knelt, scanning the planking leading to the cliffside stairs. "Okay, come on over."

  When Busino's two feet were on the boards, he

  said, "That feels better. I guess I wasn't, you know, meant to be a yachtsman."

  "A yacht gives you a smoother ride," said his partner. He frowned ahead at the Phantom. "Why are we pussyfooting?"

  "I've learned not to trust Danton," replied the Phantom.

  "You think he had time to gimmick this dock while he was hauling himself out of here?" asked Marcus. "With some kind of booby-trap or something?"

  "Danton always seems to have time for one more trick." He rose to his full height, adjusted his dark glasses. "I don't notice the signs of anything here. So let's take a look at the villa'"

  Busino walked almost on tiptoe as he followed the other two. "I think I could use another cigarette."

  "Wait awhile," Marcus told him. "I don't want you turning any greener."

  "Am I green?"

  The Phantom halted at the bottom of the stone steps. After a moment, he nodded and began climbing up the side of the black cliff. The two agents followed. As they climbed, the hot morning wind brushed and rubbed at them, scattering dry leaves pulled from the hillside scrub.

  When they reached the top, Marcus suddenly cried, "Look out!" He jerked out his .38 from its belt holster.

  "Wait," the Phantom cautioned.

  A large tan-colored great dane was stalking toward them. It stopped a few feet away, short hair on its back bristling, teeth bared.

  "I guess this is one of Danton's guard dogs," said Busino, "that we've heard so much about."

  The Phantom held out a hand toward the snarl

  ing animal. "Easy, boy," he said. "Danton must have abandoned these fellows, some of them anyway."

  Busino watched the dog inch toward them. "I wouldn't want to take them anyplace with me."

  "Nothing to worry about," the Phantom told the suspicious dog. "We'll see about getting you something to eat."

  The dog's ears flickered; some of its tenseness left it. The Phantom moved closer, finally patted it on the head. The animal hesitated, then licked his hand.

  Marcus put his gun away. "You got a knack for handling animals, Walker."

  "I've had some practice," he said. "The last time I was on San Obito, though, I didn't have time to make friends with Danton's pack."

  "I guess we can continue," said Marcus.

  The Phantom knuckled the dane's knobby head and it trotted along beside him as he headed for the villa. He checked out the main entrance to the gray stone house, determined it was safe, and they went in. The big dog, apparently remembering its training, remained outside on the porch.

  "I'll see if I can find something for that fellow in the kitchen," said the Phantom. "Take a look in the library, but go easy."

  Busino went into Danton's library first. "This is something you can't fit into an apartment," he said to his partner.

  Marcus studied the room. "According to the Palmer girl, part of the wall opens when you yank down that sea-horse bracket right there." He pointed.

  "Not that one," Busino said, shaking his head. "She said the one to the right of the travel-book section. And these are the books on travel. . . see,

  Spain, Africa, Mexico, and so on. So it's this sea horse right here." He reached up toward the metal lamp bracket.

  "Don't touch it." The Phantom was at the doorway.

  Jerking his hand back, Busino said, "Don't you think we're being overly cautious?"

  "Perhaps." The Phantom had found a coil of clothesline in a pa
ntry closet. He unrolled some of it, fashioned a small noose at one end. "You two better wait in the hall."

  Marcus and Busino obeyed. Out in the corridor, they could hear the great dane crunching soup bones on the porch.

  The Phantom gently looped the noose over the bracket. He let out more rope, ran it under a sturdy chair for leverage, and finished up at the doorway again with the other end of the rope in his hand. "Okay, let's see what happens." He tugged hard.

  The bracket clicked down. There was a five-second pause.

  "Well, looks like you . . ." began Marcus.

  Then the wall bookcase exploded. Chunks of shelving and books, pages flapping, came rocketing back into the room. Sooty smoke swirled.

  "I'm glad I didn't pull that," said Busino in a low voice.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The man who called himself Anderson unbuttoned the top three buttons of his sky-blue shirt. He hung up the phone and stepped out of the booth into the hot windy morning. With his dark glasses turned toward the nearby ocean, he said, "Our bird has flown."

  Sitting on a green bench was the man known as Fulmer. He said, "Your tone implies—"

  "Well," replied Anderson, "your caution certainly hasn't helped."

  "Where has Danton gone to?"

  "My informant doesn't have that information." Anderson smiled a calm smile. "Perhaps you and I can find that out ... if you feel up to it."

  The heavyset Fulmer wiped perspiration from his face. "Yes, I suppose we may as well. What do you suggest?"

  "First," said Anderson, "I want to call on that young lady we have established is working for Danton in his current business. Miss Laura Lever- son."

  "Very well, and then?" Fulmer got himself up off the bench. He had the coat of his gray suit folded over one pudgy arm.

  "Then, if we need further information, we will have a talk with Miss Diana Palmer." He started off along a palm-lined lane.

  "I don't agree with you there," said Fulmer. "I don't think she—"

  "What you think, or more precisely what your

  emotions cause you to think, doesn't interest me." Anderson stopped next to their rented compact car. "My only concern is with my mission."

  "Oh, I know that." Fulmer got behind the wheel. "What bothers me is how you can include so many things as part of your mission."

  Anderson strapped himself into his seat. He lifted his dark glasses from Ms eyes to study the other man. "After this job is successfully completed," he said in his level voice, "I think, seriously, you ought to think about retiring, old friend."

  "Yes, perhaps so." Fulmer started the car and they drove away.

  Alone, the Phantom let himself into Laura Le- verson's cottage by way of the back door. The hot Santa Ana winds were blowing harder across Santa Barbara. The flimsy decorative shutters of the small house were rattling wildly; the dry shrubs were rasping against the faded shingles.

  "She's probably on her way someplace else by now, too," he said to himself as he moved through the kitchen, which smelled of pastry. "But she may have left something behind to indicate where Danton's gone." A thorough search of the Sea Horse Villa had turned up nothing. Chris Danton had made a very efficient withdrawal.

  The Phantom was in the hallway when the doorbell sounded. It made a harsh buzzing in the silent empty little cottage.

  He stood still, his eyes on the front door. There was no window in it, so no one could see him.

  The doorbell buzzed twice more. A moment passed, then someone began tinkering with the lock.

  Moving quickly and quietly, the Phantom stepped into a tiny den just to the left of the front doorway.

  In another moment the door was pushed open. "Miss Leverson?" inquired a calm friendly voice. "Forgive me for entering your home, but your door was slightly open."

  The open door hid the man from the Phantom. When it was closed, he saw a tall blond man in a sky-blue shirt and tan slacks standing there.

  The man saw him in the next instant. "Oh, excuse me . . ."

  The Phantom lunged for him.

  Anderson, realizing his bluff was not going to work, grabbed the door and dived outside.

  Getting around the door and out onto the porch cost the Phantom about ten seconds—enough time for the fleeing Anderson to get to the sidewalk.

  As the Phantom dashed across Laura's dry lawn, Anderson leaped into the car waiting at the curb. It roared away into the hot morning.

  The Phantom reached the street in time to get a good look at the rear license plate of the crimson compact.

  Shaking his head, he returned to his investigation of the cottage.

  "I wonder who they're working for?" he asked himself while he went through the den. "They're obviously not police, or narcotics agents." He began going through the desk drawers. "They could be some more of Danton's minions, but that seems doubtful. Well, I'll have to find out more about them."

  In the back of the middle right-hand drawer, he found a new-looking book of matches. On the front of the folder, in gilt letters, it said: "All-American Cantina, Calle Pitanza, Mocosa, Mexico."

  It was the only thing of interest he found in his half-hour search of the cottage.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The sound of the wind rushing by her bedroom, slapping branches and leaves against the house and shaking windowpanes, finally woke Diana. She sat up, resting on one elbow, and frowned at the bureau clock. "Almost eleven," she said. "I wonder if he's back yet."

  Putting on a yellow robe, she ventured into the hall. U

  Uncle Dave, wearing a shirt rich with bright depictions of underwater life, stepped out of the kitchen. "Coffee?"

  "Have you—is he back yet?"

  "Not yet, Di," replied her uncle. He disappeared into the kitchen.

  When she stepped into the room, he handed her a mug of steaming coffee. "Thanks," she said. "I suppose everything is all right."

  "I'm sure it is. What would you like for breakfast?"

  "Nothing now, thanks." The Santa Ana wind hit the house so hard, it seemed to jump. "These winds, are they dangerous?"

  Nodding, the old man said, "I was listening to the news. Already some brush fires are starting up in the hills. Looks like Santa Barbara is in for a few bad—"

  "I don't suppose the news said anything about . . . about the raid on Chris Danton's island?"

  "Not a word, no. Marcus doesn't want any of

  that to get out until they've rounded up as many of them as they can."

  Diana took a sip of the coffee, then made a face. "I guess so."

  "Coffee too strong?"

  She smiled. "A little."

  "Never got over the habit of making it station- house style," he admitted. "Lots of people have—"

  "Anything more about our . . . little shootout last night?" She tried another small sip.

  "Local police have the slugs and one of the cartridges so far," said Uncle Dave. "But not the person who fired at us."

  "It got so confused here last night, with all those federal agents tramning around," said Diana. "I never did get to tell the police I have a good idea who the girl was."

  "A girl was handling that rifle? You never told me either," said Uncle Dave. "Who is she?"

  "I think it's a girl I met on the island named Laura Leverson."

  "Better let the police know."

  "I'm sure she's on the run by now, but I'll phone in a few minutes."

  "Don't have to phone," said Uncle Dave. "There's a man in a radio car outside the house. I can trot out and tell him."

  "A man in a radio car?" The dark-haired girl put the mug down on the table. "Why, do they still suspect me of—?"

  "Marcus told the local boys you may still be in danger," her uncle told her. "It's a precaution."

  "And Basically," said the ea'm blond man who appeared on the threshold of the kitchen now, "a wise one. However, policemen who have to sit around in cars for long hours tend to get inattentive, making it fairly simple to—" "Who the hell are you?" shouted
Uncle Dave.

  "You can call me . . . oh, anything you like," said Anderson. "My name isn't important." He gestured at Diana with the snubnose .32 revolver in his right hand. "Will you please hurry and get dressed now, Miss Palmer."

  "What do you want?" the girl asked.

  "We want you to get dressed as quickly as possible and come along."

  "You're one of Chris Danton's men?"

  "On the contrary," Anderson assured her. "We are, though, very anxious to get in touch with Mr. Danton. We're hoping you can help us on that score."

  "I have no idea where—"

  "Please, no more talk. That cop outside won't stay unconscious forever." He came into the room, prodding the girl in the side with his gun.

  "Don't do that to her again," warned Uncle Dave.

  Keeping the gun aimed at them, Anderson fingered a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket. "Sit yourself in that wooden chair, will you please?" he told Uncle Dave. "Quickly—quickly now."

  Grudgingly, the old man complied. 'Within hours, the police will. . ."

  "Yes, yes," murmured the smiling Anderson. He tugged the old man's hands behind him, looped the chain of the cuffs around one of the wooden ribs of the chair back, and locked Uncle Dave's hands together. "That should hold you for a few minutes."

  "Damn you," said Diana.

  "Unless you want to come as you are, Miss Palmer," said Anderson, his voice still calm and relaxed, "you really must get ready right now."

  She turned and walked into the hall. There

  might be a way to get away out of one of her bedroom windows.

  "And don't," Anderson said, "waste any more time trying to phone for help or climbing out a window. We've cut the phone wires and I have a mail out in your patio with a gun."

  Two uniformed police began walking toward the Phantom.

  He stopped on the pathway leading up to Uncle Dave's house. "What's wrong?"

  "What's your business with Mr. Palmer, sir?" asked the chunkier of the two.

  The Phantom's eyes narrowed. "I'm a house guest of his," he answered. "Now, what's happened? Is Diana Palmer all right?"

  "Come on in," said the plainclothesman. "The old guy's been asking for you."

  "Where's Diana?"