Eldridge was a gruesome sight. His body was a maimed, bloody heap which stained crimson the white-tiled floor. A whole portion of his chest had been blown out. A gaping hole showed the broken bones, ripped flesh, tatters of clothes. His face was frozen in a grimace of contorted agony, the eyes glazed and protruding like marbles.
Strickland cried out hoarsely. "And he was blown off the balcony—just when the sign went off! Where's Brooks? Brooks should know about the sign!"
His question was quickly answered by Donald Vaughan. The geologist had rushed up to the balcony, and his voice called down shakily. The rest hurried up there, oblivious that Andrew Harvey was no longer with them.
They found what was left of Vincent Brooks piled against the balcony wall. His head had almost been severed from his torso by the explosion. The chin was blown away, leaving a broken bulge of bloody jaw-bone. The features, bloated in death, were barely recognizable.
Opposite the corpse, on the stone balcony construction, was a shattered box of metal, its parts strewn about.
Strickland stared at it.
"That's where the strip that controlled the sign was running!" he burst out hoarsely. "It's blown to hell! This is ghastly—ghastly!"
Quick glances were shot up and down the balcony. It was empty. But the crowds from below, in mingled panic and morbid curiosity, were already surging up the stairs. Railway police fought them back. Then came the shrill whistles of regular city police on duty in this precinct.
And outside in the night, in the next moment, rose the scream of sirens.
The law was coming swiftly. And a certain shield-bearing limousine carrying a worried inspector was now hurtling straight to the terminal.
Chapter IV.
The Corpse on the Pavement
Richard Curtis Van Loan, debonair young society man and bon vivant, turned his sixteen-cylindered Cadillac roadster onto upper Park Avenue and headed downtown through a neighborhood—which, in this section, was shabby and unkempt.
A slender, dark-haired girl in a pert, Buddhistic hat sat beside Van Loan, her dark, liquid eyes wistfully stealing now and then to his well-cut profile, etched in the dashboard lights.
In the spacious rumble seat, another couple sat, in each other's arms, and it could have been seen at a glance that they were newlyweds. The girl, blond and hatless, clung possessively to the young groom who had been one of the social register's most eligible bachelors until he had looked into her blue eyes.
"Say, where are you taking us, Dick?" the man suddenly leaned forward to ask.
"To my apartment," drawled Van Loan, without turning from the wheel, "where we will do justice, with champagne, to your marriage, then let you go off on your honeymoon in peace. Do you agree, Muriel?"
Muriel Havens smiled up at him.
"If you ask me, I have a sneaking suspicion the newlyweds are just dying to get rid of us!"
"Now Muriel!" the girl in the back protested. "We're not leaving until tomorrow. We even hoped to get your father's blessing before we went. Do you suppose we'll get a chance to see him?"
Muriel sighed. "I don't know. The paper's been keeping him pretty busy. He's in his office night and day."
"Isn't it extraordinary," Van Loan drawled languidly, "how some men will bury themselves in work? Why doesn't your dad let the Clarion run merrily along, Muriel, and step out for a good time?"
Muriel Havens's small but firm chin lifted. A momentary anger swept her eyes.
"Some people wouldn't understand it, I guess," she said pointedly. "But Dad feels he's doing something useful in this world."
Van Loan made a sad, clucking sound with his tongue.
"Ouch!" he said. "That remark has a vaguely personal tinge. But really, can you imagine me getting up the energy to indulge in hard labor?" He stifled a yawn.
On Muriel's lovely, intelligent face was disappointment. She could not have felt surprised.
Richard Curtis Van Loan was hardly a man of action. Good-natured, lazy, he fitted only into the social set, whiling away the hours with his select friends in pleasure and amusement. Because he was handsome and too wealthy for any one man, he was one whom doting mothers longed to have their daughters ensnare.
Yet, oddly, Muriel Havens had never accepted Van Loan as a mere lazy, social parasite, an idler who gayly flung to the winds the wealth his father had slaved to attain.
Again she glanced at the well-built young man beside her; at his strong hands, gripping the wheel with steady ease. And she shook her head, her lips pressed against any words of protest she might have felt like uttering.
As the roadster continued downtown the avenue changed in aspect. The shabby district suddenly gave way to Manhattan's most exclusive and wealthy residential section. They were riding down past the green-parked "islands" under which trains rumbled.
"Why so silent, Newlyweds?" Van drawled. "This is a celebration, not a funeral."
"Oh, don't mind us!" the young bridegroom laughed. "We're just sitting here smugly enjoying the idea of being married. And let me tell you, Dick, it's great! Why don't you try it sometime?"
"It is a thought," Van Loan grinned—and looked at Muriel Havens. For a moment, she saw in his eyes something that was seldom there; and so briefly now that she might have only imagined it. It was so totally out of gear with the languid, idling Van Loan.
Van saw her dark eyes glow—for that one moment. And turned back to the wheel, covering his expression with another suppressed ostentatious yawn.
Dick Van Loan knew Muriel was hurt by that gesture; wounded deeply. Yet it had been necessary. His hand had covered more than the yawn. It had covered an implacable bitterness which had tightened his lips and narrowed his eyes.
Had Muriel or the others had any inkling of the thoughts that were going through Van's brain at that instant, they would have been more than amazed.
They were stern, fierce thoughts. Thoughts sealed by a long-kept pledge within his mind. Thoughts that cruelly drove the human feelings of Dick Van Loan to some dull recess where he could only keep them for the distant future.
In his mind, Richard Van Loan was seeing vividly remembered sights, alien to his social life. He was seeing dark byways, where shadowy, evil figures stalked; he was seeing gruesome bodies, riddled, knifed, killed in other heinous fashions. He saw, too, the terrible implements of justice. The inexorable electric chair—the noose—the lethal chamber. And cowering, convicted criminals ensnared by them.
A grim parade of diabolical murderers who had thought they could cheat justice! Sometimes they had foiled the law, made a laughingstock of the police. But, like a relentless Nemesis, a single unknown had proved their undoing. The mysterious scourge of crime known as the Phantom Detective.
The Phantom! Throughout
