Spawn of Death

Roy Glashan's Library
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UNKNOWN AUTHOR
WRITING AS
ROBERT WALLACE

SPAWN OF DEATH

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Based on an image created with Microsoft Bing software

TAKEN FROM THE CASE-BOOK OF RICHARD CURTIS VAN LOAN

First published in
The Phantom Detective #19, September 1934

This e-book edition: Roy Glashan's Library, 2026
Version Date: 2026-08-03

Produced by Matthias Kaether and Roy Glashan

All content added by RGL is proprietary and protected by copyright.

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The Phantom Detective, September 1934, with "Spawn of Death"

SPAWN OF DEATH

Follow the Phantom on a perilous trail of gruesome murder in the venomous wake of the fer-de-lance! A breath-taking novel of blood-curdling crimes perpetrated by a sinister band of fiendish killers!

Chapter 1. The Scythe of Death
Chapter 2. The Man In Gray
Chapter 3. A Worthy Foeman
Chapter 4. Fate Turns the Tables
Chapter 5. The Swish of a Knife
Chapter 6. Garros Rex!
Chapter 7. Origin of the League
Chapter 8. Plea For Life!
Chapter 9. Test of Loyalty
Chapter 10. Death to the Enemy
Chapter 11. Hand of Garros!
Chapter 12. Devilish Device
Chapter 13. One Minute to Freedom
Chapter 14. The Black One Scores
Chapter 15. The Black One Strikes
Chapter 16. S.O.S.
Chapter 17. Swan Song

CHAPTER 1
The Scythe of Death

IN MID-SUMMER the blue waters of Long Island Sound are smooth and unruffled, as are the lives of those who dwell upon its shores. The vernal slopes of the Northern hills run gently down to the bay where the snowy-canvassed sailing craft glide peacefully over the water. Life is tranquil, even, uneventful.

But Death is no respecter of topography. He keeps his tryst where he will; and to him the peace, the quietness of a country estate are at one with the violence of the battlefield.

So he came to the North Shore, his invisible feet causing no ripple on the surface of the bay. The soft grass of the hills was not depressed beneath his footsteps. Yet despite his very intangibility, his presence was irrevocably there. And in the still night air, fragrant with the scent of summer, his scythe hung pendant. The argent light of a moon made for romance evolved to a cruel, cold sheen as it was reflected in the keen-edged blade.

In the library of his great house, Paul Jardine sat in a huge leather chair and pored over a newly acquired bibliographic treasure. So immersed was he in the perusal of the old volume that he was deaf to the sounds of revelry which came from another part of the house. Beyond the library his daughter's week-end guests enjoyed themselves in more obvious ways, while the master of this tremendous estate found his happiness in the esoteric pursuits of a connoisseur.

Those who played without were unaware of the advent of the Angel of Death. So, too, was Paul Jardine, although there at this moment reposed in his desk drawer a communication which would have warned, would have frightened, a less fearless man. Jardine did not hear a stealthy footstep on the gravel path outside. He did not hear a discreet footfall on the veranda. He did not hear the faint click of the latch as the French window opened. But he did hear a guttural, heavy voice which spoke in his ear:

Paul Jardine looked up and regarded Death. But still a blissful ignorance precluded fear from entering his heart. An expression of annoyance crossed his face—annoyance at the interruption of the contemplation of his new treasure rather than concern regarding the unholy thing which was now about to strike him down.

For a moment he contemplated the intruder. At first he had believed him to be one of his daughter's guests. But a closer inspection convinced him that the man was a complete stranger.

The man, of slight stature, wore a smart gray suit. His complexion was the olive of the South. But these things Jardine did not notice. His attention was focused on the man's eyes. These were black and compelling; they glowed with a reflection of evil spawned by a malevolent heart.

THE intruder smiled coldly. "You have received that communication, Señor Jardine? The letter signed with the imprint of the snake?" Jardine's face flushed with anger. He half rose in his chair.

"So you sent that?" he said angrily. "Most cranks haven't the nerve to follow up their crazy letters. You demand a million dollars from me? That, my dear sir, is blackmail which will send you to jail."

Jardine, never noted for his restraint, became overwhelmed with wrath. He glared balefully at the other. But the man in the gray suit remained undisturbed, imperturbable. When he spoke his voice was cold, bland, and beneath it lay a strange sinister threat, which somehow was emphasized by the icy fire in his eyes.

"You are a fool, Señor Jardine. Your threats leave me unmoved. I have demanded a million dollars from you. Of course, you have a choice: it is that or your life. You have had sufficient time to decide. Tonight you will pay."

FOR a moment Jardine was silent. Still, it was not fear that restrained him, rather, an effort to control his anger.

"I am called the Fer-de-Lance. That signature was on the note you received. Now, will you give me the money—or shall you die?"

"Get out of this house!" roared Jardine. "Get out at once or I'll have the police pick you up. I have men stationed here."

"Señor, you are a liar. You thought enough of your own ability to take care of yourself. That is why you failed to call the police when you got our communication. There are no police here now. I know these things."

Like a flooding river sweeping over its dykes, Jardine's anger deluged him, overwhelmed him. An oath escaped his lips. His right hand dropped to the top drawer of the desk. In that drawer was a .45 caliber automatic. Jardine had done with words. He would now act.

The eyes of the intruder never left the face of the sugar millionaire as the man stood tensely on the balls of his feet.

"If you open that drawer," he said evenly, and his voice was jagged ice, "you will forfeit your chance to live."

Jardine's answer was unprintable. Audacity in the face of odds had been the bulwark upon which Paul Jardine's success had been predicated. He ignored the warning. He jerked the drawer open and thrust his hand within, seeking the cool metal of the gun.

But his fingers never touched its butt. He felt instead something dank, something slimy, something which moved. Then a biting sting on the back of his hand sent a quiver of pain up his arm. His eyes stared into the open drawer.

THERE, coiled in the desk drawer, crawling, slimily over its edge, was a green reptile with exposed white fangs, like parallel hypodermic needles. In its nose were two holes resembling nostrils: the pits that mark the viper, that deadly venomous family of serpents of whom this, the fer-de-lance, is the most deadly of them all.

Jardine's eyes widened in horror. He sprang back. The reptile slithered from the drawer and squirmed away into a dark recess behind the bookcase.

Jardine gripped his right wrist and buried his thumb deeply into the flesh where the main artery brings the blood to the hand. In this way it might be possible to keep the poison from deluging his body. But he knew full well that the chance was a million to one.

He looked up to see the stranger framed in the French window, coolly watching this tableau of death. The man bowed mockingly.

"I cautioned you, Señor," he said. Then he turned and vanished into the darkness of the garden beyond.

Jardine staggered. He fell into the big chair. He sat bent over, touching his wrist, and stared at the two tiny fang marks on his flesh. He groaned faintly as he felt a numbing paralysis creeping over him. He glanced at the bell cord which would summon help. His hand moved toward it. Then it stopped.

Jardine knew that death was upon him, that neither medical science nor prayer could snatch him back from the grip. The deadly reptile was somewhere in that room, a menace to whomever might enter. There were guests in the house. His daughter, Evelyn, would come when she knew of his danger. There were the servants.

Trembling fingers picked up a pencil from the desk. He scribbled four words with a hand devoid of feeling.

Then his hand fell inert upon the paper. The scythe of Death hissed silently through the air. Paul Jardine sat immobile and still in his chair.

It was characteristic of the man that he had endangered no one by ringing for help. He had died as he had lived, alone and always self-reliant.

CHAPTER 2
The Man In Gray

AS the car sped through the night, the big motor of the heavy black coupé throbbed with reserve power. Richard Curtis Van Loan's keen eyes were fixed intently upon the road ahead, outlined in the bright glare of the headlights, as he sat at the wheel.

The car sped along Northern Boulevard, swung to the left and followed a winding road to Cliff Point. It swerved sharply, to turn into the estate of Paul Jardine.

The headlights gleamed on the two massive stone pillars which formed the entrance gate. A half second later Van Loan's feet jammed down on brake and clutch; he twisted the steering wheel sharply to the right.

Through the gateway a yellow roadster, tearing along without lights, crashed into the night!

There was a grinding crash of metal on metal as the roadster ripped the left fender from Van Loan's coupé, sent the heavier vehicle careening to the right.

The roadster thundered on, skidded sideways. Its driver leaped from his seat. The lighter car rolled over once and lodged against a tree.

VAN LOAN wrenched the door of the coupé open and crawled out. He stood for a moment half dazed. Then, abruptly, a blaze of fire flashed out from under the hood of the yellow roadster. There was a deafening explosion as the flames crawled down the gas line to the tank.

In the red glow that illuminated the night like a ghastly inferno, Van caught sight of a figure dressed in gray, moving furtively toward a thick clump of trees.

Van Loan thought quickly. The roadster had been running without lights, speeding away from the Jardine estate at a mad pace. The circumstances were decidedly suspicious. Immediately he gave pursuit to the man in gray.

The latter turned suddenly and his hand flashed to his pocket. Van dropped as he saw the motion.

A gun barked and a bullet thudded into the trunk of a tree. Van Loan rolled over, landed in some thick brush. Again the weapon in the hand of the man in gray roared viciously.

Van Loan was still rolling. He landed hard against something solid. It was a tree trunk. As he leaped to his feet, his foot slipped on loose rocks.

He crouched behind the tree and cursed his carelessness in leaving his own gun in the side pocket of the car.

For the third time the other man's gun spoke. It tore a strip of bark from the side of the tree behind which Van Loan crouched.

Now his unknown foe realized that the man who had pursued him was unarmed. Steadily he was drawing closer to the tree, the gun ready in his hand.

Van Loan reached down and picked up a heavy rock a little larger than a baseball. He waited tensely until the man in the gray suit was not more than ten feet away. Then, deliberately, Van Loan stepped out from behind the tree. The rock sped through the air. It struck against the man's shoulder just as he raised the automatic. The blow knocked the weapon from his hand.

As the man leaned down to regain it, Van Loan dashed toward him. The man again had his gun in his hand as Van reached him. Van caught the wrist that held the weapon—twisted hard.

THE man's knee swung up in a vicious arc. Van Loan's grip tightened, held the wrist in a vise-like grip as he pulled upward. The fingers of the man in gray released their clutch on the automatic. The weapon soared through space to land in the grass some distance away.

With a swift motion, the other's free hand darted to his coat pocket. A wicked knife gleamed ominously in the moonlight. It slashed down viciously. Van Loan sprang back quickly as the weapon hissed through the air.

Now, from the distance there came the unmistakable wail of a police car siren. The man in gray turned and ran as he heard it. Van Loan dashed after him. Swiftly he drew closer.

Another moment and he could have reached out and touched the back of the smaller man.

Suddenly Van Loan's foot caught in a tangle of briars. He threw out his arms to break the fall as he dropped flat on his chest. He was up again in an instant, but the man had vanished in the darkness surrounding the trees.

Van Loan sighed wearily as he decided search was useless. There were countless places where the man might hide—shadows beneath the trees, here and there thick brush. In any of these, Van Loan's unknown foe might remain concealed for a long time.

AS he returned to his own car, Van Loan smiled grimly. His reception upon arriving at the Jardine week-end party had been quite unexpected.

However, to Richard Curtis Van Loan the unexpected had long ceased to be a cause for amazement. He was no stranger to terror. He was intimate with Death himself. Often had they gambled, with Van Loan's life as the stake. For although but one other living man himself was aware of the fact, Richard Curtis Van Loan, who the world accepted as an idle clubman in a parasitic society, was in reality that scourge of crime, that Nemesis of the underworld—the Phantom.

Born to great wealth, and orphaned at an early age, Van Loan in his youth had achieved the reputation of a pleasure-loving man-about-town.

He had been just that. Pleasure had been the raison d'être of his entire existence.

But when Armageddon swept the world, when Mars clutched the earth in his bloody hands, perceptible change had come over Van Loan. Enlisting in the Air Force, he had gazed into the steely eyes of death diurnally in his pounding Spad. He had faced flaming Vickers in the crimson skies of France. He had drunk with zest from the heady cup of danger.

And when the Armistice brought peace to the world, it brought no peace to the heart of Richard Curtis Van Loan. After what he had seen, after what he had experienced, his former mode of life seemed strangely empty. Society bored him. Things which once he had enjoyed palled upon him now. Desperately he sought an outlet for that desire for living which war had engendered within him.

It had been Frank Havens, millionaire publisher of a string of journals from coast to coast, and Van's father's oldest friend, who had shown the way. As a journalistic enterprise the publisher had invented the role of the Phantom, and in this guise Van Loan had been successful at solving a case which had baffled the police.

On this case he had discovered once again the peril, the danger, the sheer joy of a righteous fight and then he knew that a detective's profession was the answer to the perplexity and bewilderment he had found in his heart.

HAVING made this decision he embarked upon his new career with characteristic thoroughness. Not even the great Lombroso knew more of criminology than he. He was adept at the hypnotic arts, and no actor was his superior in the matter of histrionics. His acting abilities he had cultivated until he had reached perfection; his dearest friend could not penetrate his disguises.

And, added to these superimposed things, his great physical strength, his keen analytical brain, his inherent courage, all had carried him to magnificent success.

CHAPTER 3
A Worthy Foeman

BRIGHT headlights ripped yellow holes in the night. Like an avenging banshee, the siren's wail vibrated through the air as a police car came to a grinding halt beside the two wrecked cars. The yellow roadster was a charred and twisted heap of metal. Van Loan stood near his own battered coupé as a captain sprang from the police car and approached.

Van nodded indifferently. "A maniac without lights ran into me," he said. "When his car burned, he ran away."

Deliberately he refrained from mentioning his adversary's murderous proclivities. He knew that the advent of the police car was in no wise connected with the wreck. There was more to this than met the eye. And Van Loan decided to hold his peace until he had discovered what grim mystery stalked the Northern Shore that night.

The captain shook his head. "We're on our way to the Jardine estate," he said abruptly.

Van Loan's eyes narrowed. "So was I," he said. "I'm Van Loan, an old friend of Jardine's. Is anything wrong?"

"Wrong?" repeated the policeman. "Jardine's dead. Bitten by a poisonous snake about twenty minutes ago. You better come up to the house with us."

"Thanks," said the Phantom. And it was the wailing police car which took the great detective to the inception of the murderous trail which he was destined to follow to a bitter and bloody end.

The Jardine residence was a vortex of excitement when Van Loan, accompanied by the police, made his entrance. Hawks, the butler, had found the body in the library. And, now in a corner by the fireplace, there lay a battered green cylinder, the inert body of a fer-de-lance which the butler had done to death with a poker.

Van Loan, of course, remained in the background as the police captain conducted his routine investigation. However, the Phantom did not fail to hear the answers to the policeman's interrogations. He did not fail to observe the half-opened drawer of the desk. He did not fail to see those last four scribbled words inscribed by a dead man's hand:

A LONG-FACED, slender man puffing a panatela, paced the room nervously. At last he came to a stop beside Van Loan's chair. This was Franklin Pace, Jardine's friend and neighbor, who also had fashioned a fortune from sugar.

"My God, Van Loan," he said in a low voice. "This investigation seems idiotic to me. Poor Jardine died of the bite of that snake—there's no doubt about that—but apparently the police consider it murder."

"It's been too much of a shock to me to have evolved a theory," said Van Loan quietly. "I—" He broke off and both men swung around as the police captain suddenly raised his voice as he questioned the butler.

"Yes, sir. He wore a gray suit and a panama hat. I saw him from the pantry window."

"At the time I thought he might be a guest of Mr. Jardine's daughter," said the butler.

Now, as Van Loan's gaze moved about the room, he observed a tall young man who listened intently near the doorway. This was Hutton, Jardine's private secretary.

For an instant the butler hesitated. Then he nodded slowly. "Yes, sir," he said. "I believe I would."

"This morning Mr. Jardine placed a fully loaded automatic in that drawer," the butler nodded toward the desk. "I was in the room at the time and he seemed worried about something, if I may say so, sir."

"He did, did he?" The captain went quickly to the desk and examined the drawer. "Well, the gun is not here now."

AS he listened, the Phantom's alert brain linked bits of the puzzle together. He felt almost positive that Jardine had reached into the drawer for the missing gun. Perhaps the man in gray had appeared and threatened the millionaire. Van Loan was becoming convinced that the snake had been in that drawer.

Yet there was an angle that still baffled him. He did not see how it would have been possible for the mysterious stranger to find an opportunity to place the fer-de-lance where it had been found.

No, it was impossible. It could not have been done, unless—unless the murderer had been aided by someone in the house.

The police continued their investigation. By now the medical examiner and the fingerprint expert had arrived. Van Loan remained watching them at their work until the police captain discovered the original blackmailing note signed by the Fer-de-Lance. Then, quietly, he left the room and walked out into the garden, seeking whatever clue he might find.

As he strolled down the garden path, he became suddenly aware of a furtively moving figure walking along toward the main entrance to the house. Van Loan frowned as he recognized the man as Hutton. The Phantom's eyes followed the secretary until he entered the building; then Van strode rapidly in the direction whence the man had come.

HIS heart picked up a beat as he caught sight of something white lying beneath the branches of a mighty oak in the center of the lawn. He quickened his pace and then, a moment later, stopped dead in his tracks, staring with narrowed eyes at a supine figure stretched grotesquely on the grass.

His mouth was a thin grim line and his sleuth's instinct told him that the murder of Jardine was not an isolated killing. For already, in a single night, Death had struck twice.

And there at the Phantom's feet, face purple and contorted by the strangle cord which still encircled his throat, lay Hawks, still and silent in agonized death.

Swiftly Van dropped to his knees and examined the body. Then he rose again. And now he knew definitely what he was about to do. Fate, herself, had led him to this trail of murder and the Phantom was resolved that he would accept the gauntlet she had flung him. He would handle this thing himself. He would unearth the unholy mind, the murderer's hand that lay behind these killings.

He strode swiftly across the ground of the Jardine estate. Experience had shown him that delay in matters like these could prove costly. Let the police discover the butler's corpse for themselves. If Van Loan reported it, there was a danger that he might be held as a material witness—and that would hamper the Phantom's work.

A few moments later he stood by the side of his coupé. Save for its smashed fenders, it did not appear to be damaged. He righted the car and a moment later its motor leaped to life. He backed it into the road, then slowly headed the coupé toward the metropolis.

Then, for the first time, his eyes noted a white slip of paper stuck to the bottom part of the windshield. He picked it up, read it by his dashboard light.

Forget what you have seen tonight. Voluntary amnesia is preferable to involuntary death.

Carefully he put the piece of paper into his pocket. His foot pressed down on the accelerator and the car gathered speed. Then, of a sudden, the rear window of the car was shattered into a thousand fragments. A bullet whined past his head, and plowed on through the windshield. A splinter of glass bit deep into his cheek and blood ran crazily down his chin.

He had heard no report. Apparently the bullet had been fired from a silenced gun held in the hand of a venomous killer who lurked in the shadows of the night.

Van Loan did not look back. Full well he realized the futility of searching for his invisible foe. He continued on his way toward New York.

In his heart was a grim exultation. For, once again, the Phantom was going into battle. And the macabre events of the evening decisively indicated that the enemy was, of a certainty, ruthless and cunning enough to be worthy of the Phantom's steel.

CHAPTER 4
Fate Turns the Tables

NOISELESSLY Van Loan's key turned in the lock of his apartment door. Noiselessly, on its oiled hinges, the portal swung open. He closed the door behind him. His hands threshed out to touch the light switch but he did not complete the gesture. He stood stock still, motionless, every nerve tense, every muscle alert.

He sensed a presence in the apartment. Some psychic perception deep within him sounded a faint warning bell in his consciousness. Then, to his nostrils, came a more tangible evidence of peril. From somewhere came an alkaline emanation—a murky Mesozoic smell. Van Loan had been aware of that same odor some two hours ago when he stood over the battered green body of the fer-de-lance in Jardine's library.

His hand dropped to the butt of his automatic in his pocket. Yet for the moment his feet did not move. His brain, however, was functioning with the lucidity and speed of light itself.

This much he knew: in his apartment was a man, a man who had in his possession a fer-de-lance with which to kill Richard Curtis Van Loan. Of course, his unseen adversary had no means of knowing that his intended victim was the Phantom. Van Loan was to die for the same reason that Hawks had died; because he had seen the man in the gray suit.

Undoubtedly, whoever was in the apartment was not yet aware of Van Loan's return. In all probability the intruder and his murderous viper were ensconced in one of the rooms off the hall and had not heard Van Loan enter.

In an instant Van Loan had grappled with the situation and found a solution. If he was to work as the Phantom, it would be expedient to remove Van Loan from the scene. There would be difficulties enough if he was to cope with the menace in his role of super sleuth. It would complicate matters immeasurably if the enemy should have designs upon the clubman because of the affair of that evening.

HE unlocked a door and entered a room. Some five minutes later he emerged again. Under his arm he carried a kit of burglar's tools. In his hand was a flashlight. The upper part of his face was covered with a black mask. Beneath that mask his sticks of greasepaint had worked their diabolical skill.

His face was no longer that of Richard Curtis Van Loan. Now his features were those of a nondescript cracksman. He was now about to play a part for the benefit of the murderous intruder.

No longer did he move as cautiously as he had heretofore. Now his finger flicked the flashlight into illumination. Boldly he entered his own library. He focused the light on an oil painting on the far wall and advanced toward it. He touched a button at the side of the frame. The painting slid aside, revealing behind it a built-in wall safe. On the table before him he opened his kit of tools, selected a drill.

Outwardly his entire attention was riveted on the job at hand. However, within he was alert to every sound, to every psychic emanation behind him. Behind him he knew was a man whose hand held death. But Van Loan knew that that death could be stayed, provided the killer believed that this was merely a thief and not the clubman who owned the apartment.

NOW, behind him, he heard a faint footfall. He dropped the drill and quickly spun around. The yellow beam from his flashlight focused upon a small, dark man. In his brown hand was held a writhing green snake. At his feet was a long and slender basket.

The barrel of Van Loan's automatic was pointed unwaveringly at the other's heart.

"Put up your hands!" he said. There was an ominous note in his voice. The other slowly raised his hands. Like a living scepter, the snake dangled from one of them. Van Loan crossed the room. He touched the light switch. The muzzle of his weapon never left his target.

For a long moment the man did not answer. Behind his dark, snapping eyes his mind worked and drew a conclusion from the most obvious facts which confronted him. He saw before him an ordinary burglar. On the table lay a kit of housebreakers' tools. As Van Loan had expected, the man told the obvious lie.

"Then who are you?" demanded Van. "You're not Van Loan. He sailed for Europe tonight. If he hadn't, I wouldn't be here. Now, who are you? A cop?"

As he uttered the last word his voice held an angry hatred, as if the burglar harbored a grudge against all of that lawful ilk.

Van nodded slowly. This was not the man with whom he had fought on the road earlier that evening. It was not the man who had killed Paul Jardine. He realized that the League of the Fer-de-Lance was most certainly not a one-man organization.

Had this been the killer of Jardine, Van would have seized him immediately. But as things stood, it seemed to him that the shrewdest move at present would be to let this pawn of the Fer-de-Lance guide him further along the trail which led to the solution of the murders. Already he had well planted the idea that Van Loan was on the high seas.

He made his decision quickly. He would permit this man to escape—temporarily. He would follow him in the hope of being guided to the headquarters of the lethal League of the Fer-de-Lance.

HE lowered his gun slightly, assuming that the other, seeing an opportunity for escape, would dash through the door and flee down the hall. However, he underestimated the desperation of his adversary. Instead of turning left toward the door, now that the gun barrel no longer covered him, the man's right hand shot out and touched the light switch on the wall. Darkness deluged the room.

Van Loan, surprised by the other's unexpected move, hesitated for an instant; and in that instant he was lost. The man with the snake catapulted across the floor. Van Loan turned and raised his gun, but at that instant a smashing blow descended upon his wrist, knocking the weapon from his hand.

Swiftly the other retrieved it. Van Loan, aware of the fact that the death-dealing viper was still clutched in the man's hand, made no attempt to reach for the gun himself.

Now the light of a flash went on again, and this time it was the Phantom, his head and shoulders haloed in the beam, who stared with unwinking eyes at his own automatic. His captor laughed harshly, mockingly.

"You fool!" he said, and his voice held a note of triumph. "Do you think you can live after finding me here?"

The bewildered expression on Van Loan's face masked the consciousness of truth which was in his mind.

The other smiled coldly. "Death," he said, "is the idea. It's a nice head for the morning papers: 'Burglar killed by viper in commission of robbery.' "

Van Loan stood stock still. Fate had turned the tables with a vengeance. Yet no fear entered his heart. His eye was steady and his head held high. Once again the Phantom sat across the table from Death. And once again it seemed that the Reaper's bony hands held the high cards.

CHAPTER 5
The Swish of a Knife

RELENTLESSLY the yellow glow from the flashlight remained concentrated upon the black silk mask that covered the face of the Phantom. The man who held the electric torch chuckled evilly as he moved forward in the darkness behind the light.

Now only the Phantom's head was visible in the aura of light. His arms and shoulders were in the shadow. Slowly and silently he reached into the book case behind him. His fingers encountered a heavy volume and he carefully drew it out.

AN instant later the big book soared through the darkness. It landed against the man behind the light. He muttered a guttural curse as Van Loan plunged toward him, caught him about the legs in a flying tackle and brought them both to the floor with a heavy thump.

A fist smashed against the masked face of the Phantom. His own right hand swung in a vicious arc. There was a thud as it landed on the other's chin. Van Loan's left followed his right, missed as the man squirmed and rolled over, kicking and scratching like some huge jungle cat.

Then to Van Loan's ear came a slithering sound, like the rustle of dry leaves after a summer of drouth. His adversary heard it too, and stark dread impregnated his voice as he cried out:

For a second the common danger brought an armistice between them. Van Loan turned in the darkness and groped for the light switch. Light flooded the room, and revealed to him, there at his feet, the coiled hissing snake about to strike. A gasp of fear rose from the dark man's lips.

The snake moved swiftly. But Van Loan moved with the speed of light itself. His heel came down like the hammer of Thor. Squarely on the snake's ugly skull it descended, and ground the very life from its unholy brain. Then, before Van could turn, his adversary, seeing the reptile impotent, sprang upon Van once more. The fight was on again.

They grappled in a clinch. A hand that was a steel claw dug deep into Van's throat. Another hand doubled the pressure. A dizziness came to Van Loan's brain. Full well he knew that if this grip were not broken, death would be his lot. Desperately his flailing fists hammered against the other.

Then at last a smashing uppercut crashed into the vulnerable spot on the other's jaw. The enemy reeled back, his grip broken. Van Loan moved swiftly toward him. His left moved like a piston into the other's face. The man's knees buckled. He dropped to the floor, inert, unconscious.

Van Loan picked up the automatic and dropped it in his pocket. Then, swiftly, he left the room. He estimated that his adversary would remain unconscious for at least ten minutes; and that modicum of time was enough for the Phantom to prepare for the second act of this drama of death and intrigue.

Before his make-up mirror his hands moved dexterously; and miraculously his features metamorphosed. In an instant he had changed his clothes and when he emerged from the room a few moments later, his frame was that of an aged, stooped man. He wore glasses through which he peered with the rheumy eyes of a pedant whose life has been lived vicariously within the volumes over which he has pored.

AS he passed through the library, he noted with satisfaction that the unconscious man stirred and groaned softly. He entered his private elevator and a second later climbed into a taxicab in the street outside. He instructed the driver to wait; and patiently he sat there, peering through the window, until his quarry should regain his senses and leave the building.

Two taxicabs hurtled through the streets of the sleeping metropolis. In the first one sat the little dark man nursing a swollen jaw, while in the other a driver who had been promised a ten-dollar tip clung leaflike to the tail of the preceding vehicle. On the southern fringe of Harlem, the first cab stopped and the dark man disembarked.

On the corner Van Loan paid off his chauffeur. Then he slowly shuffled up the street, keeping his gaze focused on his quarry halfway up the block.

OF a sudden the man in front descended a flight of stone steps which led to the basement of an old brownstone house. Van saw him press a bell. Then a peep-hole in the door slid open. The quarry made an odd sign with his hands, and the portal swung open to admit him.

Swiftly Van made his way across the street. He merged with the shadows of a dark doorway and proceeded to scrutinize the building opposite. The upper floors of the house were in darkness; no illumination showed through the shaded windows.

He walked to the corner, and skirted the block. Then, with three-quarters of his circuit complete, he stumbled on the thing which he sought. Here a small alleyway slunk crookedly off the street and came to an abrupt terminus at a small yard in the rear of the house where the dark man had disappeared.

The windows of the structure were guarded with impregnable iron bars. Then his gaze fell upon a back door. His trying of the knob showed that it was locked. From his pocket he produced a bunch of slim skeleton keys. In an instant the obstacle of the closed door was vanquished.

On silent feet he moved across the threshold into the dark hallway. He closed the door noiselessly behind him, and stood for a moment in the gloom of the basement, orienting himself. His hand dropped to the butt of his automatic as his keen eyes swept the darkness of the house of mystery.

THEN, of a sudden, he noted a faint gleam in the blackness before him. His eyes focused upon that spot, until he realized that this was a chink of illumination which poured, restrained, through a keyhole ahead of them.

Cautiously he moved forward upon the golden streak of light. As he advanced his ears picked up the vibration of a medley of voices. His groping hands found the door which enclosed the light. He dropped to his knees before it, and placed his ear to the keyhole.

The voice of the man with whom he had come to grips in his own apartment drilled into his hearing. In great detail, the snake man recounted to the hidden auditors all that had happened that night at the Van Loan apartment.

"So," he said in conclusion, "Van Loan must be badly frightened. He must have known that his life was endangered after what he discovered at Jardine's. That's why he sailed tonight, to get out of the way."

Then another voice was heard; a voice heavy with authority, the timbre of which indicated that the speaker certainly disapproved of the other's adventures of the evening.

"I am not pleased with your work, José," it said. "It was an error to permit that burglar to escape. The Black One who rules us all will not like it."

"But at least," protested José, "we have learned that Van Loan has fled. That worry is removed from our shoulders."

"Perhaps. Van Loan we need not concern ourselves with, yet there is a new danger. A new peril besets our mighty cause."

"For the past two hours," replied the other, "the short wave radio sets have been humming with police calls. They are searching for the Phantom. A spy tells me that he is wanted to work on the murder of Paul Jardine."

On the other side of the door, Van's face was tense and grim. His hand tightened almost imperceptibly on the butt of his gun. Through the keyhole came the alarmed voice of José.

"The Phantom! It is said that he never fails. If he is entering into the affair, might it not be advisable to drop the matter until a more propitious time?"

"No," thundered the other. "Are you a cowardly fool, José? Not a thousand detectives shall stay our mighty arm. I have already discussed it with the Black One."

"So am I," roared the invisible speaker. "If the Phantom interferes, he shall go the way of all our enemies. He shall die."

THUS far Van Loan had heard but two voices in the room. Now he was aware of the scraping sound made by the movement of chair legs upon a wooden floor. The voice of authority spoke again.

"Two of you—José and Pedro. You shall guard the alley in the rear of the house. Be sure you are well hidden, and do not hesitate to slay any who attempt to pass you in the night. Two more of you shall guard the front. We must learn if we are under observation. Now, to your places."

Van moved swiftly. If he was to escape the house, he must do so before the guards took up their appointed positions. Swiftly he raced to the door, emerged from the house and turned the skeleton key in the lock behind him.

NOW he sped through the dark crooked alleyway, toward the street where he had entered. Then, of a sudden, something hissed through the air past his head. A metallic clang rang out as the steel blade of a knife struck the concrete plaster of the wall.

Van swung around on his heel. His hand dropped to his hip, but before his fingers could settle about the butt of the weapon, a dark shadowy figure hurtled through the air toward him.

Arms embraced his legs in a flying tackle, and both men fell to the ground. There in the slimy, evil darkness of the alley, they fought desperately. Locked in a bitter embrace, they rolled about in the gloom.

Van's fist swung into the other's body; and his attacker gouged and scratched desperately as he clung to him.

Then Van's eyes noted, some few feet to his side, the knife which the other had hurled at him a moment ago. Gradually, he essayed to edge toward it. But the other divined his idea. Of a sudden, Van's adversary jerked one hand free, and like a darting snake his wrist shot toward the hilt of the weapon.

His fingers closed about the haft before Van could stay him, but the Phantom's hand desperately gripped the man's wrist. With all his strength the other attempted to lift the blade, but he failed to break Van's hold upon his wrist. Furiously they thrashed about in the darkness.

Now, by a sudden deft maneuver, Van found himself lying beneath the other. Above him was the blade of the knife, slowly descending upon him, as the position of vantage gave the other a leverage which overcame Van's hold on his arm.

Gradually the knife came closer—closer. Now the evil blade was within six inches of Van Loan's breast.

THEN the Phantom resorted to an ancient wrestling trick. His knee shot upward to the pit of the other's stomach. At the same time he jerked forward on the man's neck. His foot replaced his knee at the other's diaphragm, and thrust the man's torso higher as his head was pulled down.

The enemy catapulted through the air, twisted over Van's head in a grotesque somersault, then lay still in a sprawled heap at the side of the alley.

Nor did he move from this strange position when Van leaped to his feet and pounced upon him. He lay still and inert, and a thin trickle of blood cut a tiny channel in the dust of the alley. The hilt of his own knife protruded from his breast; and his own hand still clutched the haft in a death grip.

The force of the fall had driven the weapon deep into its owner's breast, sending the blade home with a coincidental accuracy. He was dead, slain by his own hand—the hand which a moment before had been raised murderously against the Phantom.

Van Loan swiftly rose to his feet; and a moment later a speeding taxi was bearing him downtown. True, nothing of any great importance had been unveiled through the night's adventures, yet Richard Curtis Van Loan was eminently satisfied with the outcome of the bloody evening.

CHAPTER 6
Garros Rex!

POLICE COMMISSIONER HENRY of the city of New York stared with frank interest at his visitor. He glanced from the stooped figure of the old man to the card which lay face up on his desk.

"Well, Professor Atwell," he said, "may we get to the point at once? This is my busy hour. I would have proved exceedingly difficult to see, had it not been for the notation on your card."

The professor smiled softly. Now he spoke in an entirely different tone from the one he had used in his greeting when first he had entered the room.

"It seems that you were seeking me last night, Commissioner," he said. "Via the short wave."

The commissioner's eyes dilated in amazement. He stared at the elderly figure before him. The professor laughed.

"Yes," he said, "I'm the Phantom, sir. And you needn't tell me why it was you wanted me. I am well acquainted with that fact. Already I have been working on it. It's the Jardine affair; am I right?"

The commissioner nodded slowly. "Yes," he agreed. "But it goes further and deeper than that."

"Last night," continued the policeman, "I received calls from five men. Each of them is as wealthy, as prominent as was the unfortunate Jardine. Each of them has received a blackmailing note, demanding a million dollars under penalty of death. Each of these notes is signed 'The League of the Fer-de-Lance.' "

"Raynor, the steel man; George R. Tate; Simpson and Tallent, the brokers; and Pace, the sugar man. In view of the fact that Jardine and Pace were so close, both in a business and social sense, I'm inclined to believe that Pace may be the next victim."

"And of course," he said, "Heaven only knows how many other than these five have received warnings. Some of them will yield without informing you."

The commissioner nodded glumly. "That's precisely the trouble," he muttered. "Jardine thought he could take care of himself."

"Very well," he said. "Have your men keep a constant watch over the threatened citizens. I shall stick to the trail which I found last night. I think, perhaps, that the apprehension of the criminals will not take long."

Van nodded. "Something," he admitted. "But not enough just yet. I'll let you know when I'm ready."

He shuffled from the police chief's office, and made his way uptown. But before he rested that day, prior to the work which the night held for him, he performed two acts. First he visited his own apartment house and presented to the superintendent a note in Richard Curtis Van Loan's handwriting, instructing the man to permit Professor Atwell free run of Van Loan's apartment while the latter was in Europe. Then he made his way to the southern end of Harlem.

There, in the guise of a wealthy young Cuban student, he was fortunate enough to find a vacant room in a boarding house which abutted the building to which he had traced the League of the Fer-de-Lance.

ONCE moved into his new abode, he undressed and promptly went to sleep, thoroughly exhausted by his activities of the night before. And he would need all his strength and vitality for the things he planned for the coming night.

Dusk found him in the street below. There, in the heart of New York's Latin-American sector, he was unnoticed in his disguise. Idly he loitered about the streets. But no matter where his peregrinations led him, he invariably came back to the doorway through which José had been admitted the previous evening.

Once he slunk silently down the alleyway that he had visited last night, and with a screw driver managed to loosen the iron bars on one of the windows. This was a precautionary measure, an insurance of success for the night's undertaking.

Returning to his post in the street, he saw a dozen men enter the house from time to time. Watching the dark-skinned men ring the basement bell and be admitted to the building, he observed the odd signal which gained them admission. But despite this knowledge, he had no intention of using that device to gain access to the house himself. Then, satisfied that most of the League were already in the house, Van Loan returned to his own furnished room.

There he quietly opened the window and dropped to the ground outside. Now, using a jimmy, he pried loose the iron bars which he had already weakened. The jimmy, under his deft handling, forced the window; and a moment later the Phantom was again within the lair of the enemy.

FOR a moment he stood in darkness, essaying to get his bearings. The house was ominously silent. Yet he knew that within the evil gloom which held the structure in its grip, was housed the unholy brain that had conceived the death of Paul Jardine; that had laid its Machiavellian plans with cruel, relentless cunning. Somewhere in this house of darkness and death were the men of the League of the Fer-de-Lance. Somewhere in this house lay the key to the sinister secret of their revolting deeds.

His hand touched the reassuring butt of his revolver and he moved slowly and silently forward through the darkness. Now before him, twinkling like a distant golden star, came the pinpoint of light from the keyhole where he had eavesdropped on the previous evening.

The Phantom proceeded with caution. Quietly he knelt before the portal and peered through the keyhole.

Beyond the door he saw a long, well-lighted room. In its center was a large oblong table, about which sat a dozen grim-faced men of Latin extraction. At the head of the table, frowning down upon his men, was a familiar figure. His little evil, snapping eyes bored into those of the others, as once they had bored into Van Loan's. For this man, the Phantom had seen before. It was the man in the gray suit who had fought with Van Loan on the Jardine estate; the man for the sight of whom Hawks had been slain!

The Phantom saw the little man's lips move, but in his present position the words were inaudible. He removed his eyes from the chink and placed his ear to it. The staccato drone of the man's voice trickled into his ear. Yet, before he had heard a single sentence, he became aware of a voice coming from the opposite direction.

Slowly Van Loan obeyed. He felt the hard steel of a gun pressing into his back. Then a dexterous hand ran through his clothes, searching him. From his pocket his captor extracted his weapon and the jimmy with which he had effected his entrance into this house.

Now the man with the gun rapped, a rhythmic tattoo upon the door. Footsteps sounded from within, and the portal swung open. Van's escort thrust him into the brightly-lighted room.

A DOZEN faces stared at him. Bewilderment fought with rage in a dozen pair of eyes. The little man at the head of the table rose to his feet, and the murder in his heart was reflected in his gaze.

"Who is this?" he demanded in Spanish. "Whence comes this man?" Now for the first time, as the other stepped forward, Van Loan caught a glimpse of his captor. It was José—the man who had lain in wait at his apartment.

"I discovered him listening in the hall," said José. "I thrust a gun in his back, searched him, and brought him in."

He stepped forward and laid upon the table the jimmy and weapon which he had taken from Van's pockets. Then he grasped Van by the coat collar and forced him up the room to within six scant feet of the little man at the head of the table.

THE man addressed as Garros Rex regarded Van Loan with careful scrutiny. And the man he saw before him, he in no wise connected with the dapper clubman whom he had essayed to kill on the night he had slain Paul Jardine.

He saw a bushy-haired, olive-skinned individual who looked for all the world like one of his own compatriots. He saw a man clad in a cheap flashy suit, in a shirt that was a medley of garish colors, wearing shoes of a brilliant yellow.

Van cast a significant gaze at the jimmy on the table. If he could convince his captors that he was merely a housebreaker, so much the better.

Van nodded slowly. When he spoke, his voice was an abject thing. "But, Señor," he began, "I am not an ordinary burglar. I was merely hungry. I came to steal for my family."

"No, Señor," he said mockingly, "he is no ordinary burglar indeed. In fact, instead of attempting to steal, he was listening at the keyhole without, when I discovered him."

His eyes were cold steel. Van opened his mouth as if to amplify his position further, but Garros Rex shut him off.

"That is all," he said. "I do not care who you are, what you are. Sufficient to know that you have heard us talk. The penalty for that is death."

"So be it," said Garros Rex. "It shall be your task, José. Take him to the fer-de-lance, our little brother who has given our cause a name."

José hesitated for a moment. "Rex," he said, "there is but one green snake left. Until we obtain some others, we have but this single one. We dare not risk its death. For tonight, that snake must strike Ramonde, the musician. This is the night we have promised him death."

"You speak truly," he said. "Ramonde has defied us. Tonight he shall die." He turned to a man seated at the table. "Juan, you shall take our prisoner. You shall slay him with a machete."

JUAN rose, bowed to his chief and took the revolver from José. Then, keeping Van Loan before its muzzle, he crossed the room to a closet at its far end. This he opened and from within extracted a long two-foot sword, the blade of which was sharp as a razor.

Then he calmly dropped the gun into his pocket; he would need it no longer. Expert in the use of the machete, with its edge so sharp that a victim hardly felt its death strike, he did not need the more civilized revolver of the white man.

The door closed behind them. Now through the darkness they made their way. Directly behind him Van knew the keen-edged blade of the machete was uplifted, ready to strike. In another instant, the deadly steel would fall, would rip the life from his body, leaving him an inert bloody heap upon the floor.

Yet despite the awful suspense of the moment, the Phantom did not lose his grip on reality. His mind was as icily cold as was the steel blade which hung over his head. His nerves were tense but steady. His inherent courage stood him in good stead.

A dozen feet or so before him was the square gray pane of the window through which he had entered. For a moment he contemplated flight, then realized that ere he could climb across the sill, the sword at his rear would cut him in two.

THEN another idea came to him, an idea engendered of desperation itself. But it was his only chance. His muscles flexed.

He threw himself to the concrete of the floor. He rolled over backward in a swift motion. As he did so he spread out his arms. They closed tightly about the legs of his captor.

Furiously he jerked at the man's knees. The suddenness of the attack increased its effectiveness. Down sprawled his captor on top of him. The blade of the machete sounded clangingly on the floor.

Van's right hand moved in a short vicious arc through the air. The man's head jerked back. Van's hand dived to the other's coat pocket and retrieved the weapon which Juan had taken from José.

But even as he seized the weapon and stood up again, clear of the range of the machete's deadliness, his victim shouted the alarm. In an instant the door of the room where Van had received his death sentence was flung open, and the men of the Fer-de-Lance erupted into the hall.

Garros Rex roared a command to his men and whipped a heavy .38 from his shoulder holster. A crashing reverberation echoed through the hall. Van sprang to one side. His coat and vest were disheveled from the struggle with the fallen Juan. And now as he moved, something brilliant and bejeweled fell from his clothing.

It was the small platinum badge with a superimposed miniature mask of diamonds upon it—the shield which identified the Phantom to the forces of law over all the world. Hastily he bent down to retrieve it. But even as he scooped it up the keen eye of Garros Rex caught sight of it, recognized it. Van realized fleetingly that the man must have been privy to the secrets of the police in his native land.

"Get him," Garros screamed in a panic of rage and fear. "Kill him. That's not a burglar. It's the Phantom!"

Then deafening hell was born in the darkness of the corridor. Garros Rex's own weapon spat lead into the darkness.

VAN'S automatic stuttered wickedly toward the enemy. A man fell, his face contorted in agony, his twisted lips calling for mercy to a God he had almost forgotten.

Swiftly Van backed toward the window through which he had entered. That, he knew, was the only means of escape from the trap in which he found himself. As he retreated, his automatic sang its wicked song. Two more shadowy figures dropped in the gloom of the corridor.

Perhaps the Phantom thought, long afterward, it was this very darkness which saved his life. In the dimness of the passageway, it was difficult for the men of the Fer-de-Lance to distinguish their own fellows from the man they sought to kill.

Now Van's back was almost at the window. He heard a snapping click from his automatic as his finger closed on the trigger. The weapon was empty.

Charging down upon him came Garros Rex now, his eyes snapping fire. His lips hurled savage oaths at the Phantom. And the gun muzzle of the leader of the Fer-de-Lance was aiming threateningly, directly at Van's heart.

VAN'S lips set grimly. He raised his hand above his head with incredible speed. His wrist snapped downward.

The automatic hurtled through the air. Even as the weapon in the hand of Garros Rex spoke, the flying butt of Van's empty gun struck him full in the face. He staggered backward.

The bullet from his revolver buried itself innocuously in the wall above Van's head.

Now Van turned as the others charged down. His body catapulted through the air like a meteor. The glass of the pane was shattered to a thousand fragments. He landed heavily in the alley outside, then sprang to his feet like a cat, and raced toward the street.

From the window came a barrage of lead and flame. Bullets whined over his head, singing a bitter, savage threnody. Blood ran crazily down Van's face, from the wounds that the broken glass had furrowed in his cheeks.

He gained the end of the winding alley and turned abruptly into the street as a hail of savage steel crashed into the brick wall at his side.

He raced down the street, sprang into a taxi parked at the curb halfway down the block.

As the cab threaded its way downtown, Van Loan took full advantage of this temporary rest period. His muscles ached from the activity of the night. He was bitterly tired.

Yet he knew that he would find no rest, no surcease this night. There was work to be done, bitter, arduous work if he were to frustrate the ingenious plans of Garros Rex; if he were to stay the murderous hand of the aptly named League.

He knew now that the house which he had invaded was not the sole rendezvous of the gang. He had heard mention of other headquarters. He realized further that it was unlikely that Garros Rex would remain in his present quarters now that the League was aware that the Phantom had penetrated the secret of their hiding place.

ALL this he knew, and one thing more. One most important thing, upon which he now predicated his battle plan.

He had heard the name of Ramonde mentioned tonight. He had heard that the Cuban musician, who at the present moment was the rage of New York, was this very night slated for death at the fangs of the sinister snake. It was due to this fact that Van Loan hoped once again to come into contact with the gang whose murderous hands he had just escaped.

CHAPTER 7
Origin of the League

SOON afterwards, following a hasty stop for a change of costume, the taxi deposited Van before the blazing marquee of the Stratford Theatre. There, above the heads of the waiting line at the box office, was written in blazing letters the name of him whom the League of Fer-De-Lance had slated for death.

Backstage, in the star's dressing room, Ramonde, the Cuban musician whose salary reached an incredible five figures weekly, put the final touch to his sartorial perfection. He stood, tall and handsome, before a full-length mirror. Black trousers with sharp creases hung meticulously from his legs. A white linen mess-jacket arrayed his sturdy frame. A flaming crimson cummerbund he wore bound about his waist. Then, as he gave a final approving pat to his bow tie, the door behind him opened.

He turned swiftly and stared at the intruder. Standing before him was a tall man in full dress suit. A silk hat tilted itself at a jaunty angle on his head. The upper half of the stranger's face was concealed behind a black silk mask.

Through the eye slits in the fabric, a steely gaze fixed the Cuban. Those eyes were hard but not relentless. Deep within them lay a humorous gleam—the humor engendered by a human philosophy rather than by a passing jest.

Ramonde stared at the man's face. Then his eyes moved down and beheld the steady automatic in the stranger's hand. Fear crawled into his heart. "You!" he said. "You are from Garros?"

The man in the mask smiled. "I am from Garros," he said quietly, "but not as his emissary. Rather, as an enemy who has come to you for aid in overthrowing him." The Cuban recovered some of his composure. He forced a blank expression to his face.

The masked man's smile faded. "My business," he said quietly, "has something to do with a snake—a fer-de-lance."

The eyes that glittered through the mask watched the other closely. The Cuban's face was suddenly pale. He shuddered. His eyes mirrored the fear within him.

"Who are you?" he asked, in a voice that stopped two points this side of hysteria. "If Garros has not sent you here, who are you? How do you know of this snake?"

"I cannot tell you who I am, but I shall tell you what men call me. I am known as the Phantom."

A FAINT ray of hope shone from the Cuban's eyes. Then it evanesced as swiftly as it had come.

"Yes," he said dully, "I have heard of the Phantom. But of what avail is he, of what avail is anything against the power of the Fer-de-Lance?"

Van Loan took a step closer. His automatic was resting six inches from the other's heart.

"Ramonde," he said evenly, "you are going to talk. You are going to tell me what you know of this sinister band. If you talk to me as a friend, good. If not, I shall demand the information at the point of this weapon I hold."

"I cannot talk," he said, in a low voice. "They would kill me. Do you not understand, Señor? I would die."

"Of that I have no doubt. In fact, they plan to kill you anyway. They plan to kill you tonight. No matter what you think of my abilities, I am your only chance to escape the death kiss of the fer-de-lance."

Ramonde made no reply. Fear had dried his mouth and held his tongue in arid paralysis. Van Loan glanced at his wrist-watch.

"We have little time," he said. "You go on in twelve minutes. Time enough later for what you shall tell me. In the meantime—"

WITH his left hand he extracted a handkerchief from his pocket. Unfolding it upon the table, he revealed a small vial of colorless liquid within the fabric. With a sharp blow he broke the vial upon the table's edge, saturated the handkerchief with its volatile liquid.

He picked up the wet cloth with his left hand, still cowing the Cuban with his gun, and advanced upon him.

With a strong hand he held the handkerchief pressed tightly over Ramonde's nose and mouth. The Cuban struggled, gasped as the fumes of the liquid poured into his lungs, stultified his brain. In a moment his muscles relaxed. His eyes closed; he slumped to the floor.

Van Loan dropped his gun to his pocket. Hastily he crossed the floor and locked the door on the inside. Now he swiftly unpacked the Cuban's large trunk, then deposited the limp figure of the musician within its spacious depths. He closed it and turned the key.

Ramonde had been drugged with divinyl oxide. It was harmless, but would serve to keep unconsciousness upon the musician long enough for the Phantom to achieve his purpose.

Hastily he divested himself of his clothes. He sat down before the make-up table. With incredible speed he worked with his sticks of grease paint.

Ten minutes later there emerged from the star's dressing room a figure which closely resembled that of the Cuban orchestra leader that the keenest, most scrutinizing eye would never have known that this man, clad in natty mess jacket and cummerbund, was the Phantom.

The curtain went up. The audience in the huge theatre beheld a colorful Cuban band that was making modern theatrical history. Then, as a dapper, familiar figure entered from the wings, the audience burst into tumultuous applause.

Self possessed to the point of nonchalance, Van Loan walked coolly to the center of the stage, acknowledged the plaudits of the crowd, then with baton uplifted turned to the orchestra.

THE orchestra swung into the melody and Richard Curtis Van Loan found himself acting the most difficult role he had ever essayed. True, he was a competent musician; but Ramonde was a genius in his line. Undoubtedly the band itself was proficient and well trained. Van Loan had little worry that there would be flaws in the playing. But could he, who had seen the Cuban conduct but once in his life, could he imitate the characteristic gestures of Ramonde? Could he get across to the audience the intangible personality of the band leader?

Twenty minutes later, as he acknowledged the thunderous applause of the delighted house, he knew that these questions had been answered in the affirmative. Once again the Phantom had triumphantly consummated a daring, hazardous feat.

He reentered the dressing room. Carefully he locked the door from the inside. He began to remove his make-up. Then, in the midst of his task, his keen ears became aware of a scraping sound near the window. He moved rapidly. Something flashed through the open window. In an instant he had kicked the chair out from under him and ducked to the floor. A green streak passed over his head.

He sprang to his feet. There, less than a yard from him, the green body of a fer-de-lance slurred across the floor.

HIS automatic leaped to his hand as he vaulted to the top of the trunk. He thrust his head out of the window and glanced at the fire-escape which led down one story to the street. The dark figure of a man dropping to the sidewalk caught his eye. In an instant the figure turned the corner and disappeared into the small alley behind the theatre.

The viper, its little beady eyes pregnant with hatred, stared across the room at its potential victim. Then, lazily, confidently, like a giant certain of his own power, it crawled slowly across the room toward Van Loan.

From his position of vantage on the trunk top it was not a particularly difficult matter to slay the snake with his pistol. However, he hesitated. The sound of his shot would undoubtedly bring people to the dressing room.

His gaze, circling the dressing room, finally rested upon the thing which should prove the answer to his problem. There, hanging in a silver sheath above the make-up table, was a machete, apparently Ramonde's souvenir of his native land.

The Phantom stood on the edge of the trunk as the snake approached. Then of a sudden he sprang to the floor and gained the wall in a single stride. Hissing, the fer-de-lance moved like lightning in his direction.

Van Loan moved to one side and the machete slashed through the air with a sound like hissing water from a pipe. Its keen blade struck the reptile an inch below its head, decapitating it completely. For a time the sinuous, headless thing writhed on the floor, then slowly grew still.

Van Loan sighed wearily. He replaced the weapon on the wall, and gingerly picking up the inert body of the snake, he dropped it into a waste-paper basket by the make-up table.

But he performed this obsequy with no sense of triumph. True, the fer-de-lance was dead, but the unholy mind of the man who was its namesake remained.

VAN LOAN, once again stood before the mirror, clad in his own clothes. He adjusted the silk mask over his face.

He unlocked it and aided the weak and pallid Ramonde to his feet. He administered a glass of water to the shuddering man. The Cuban coughed and staggered to his chair. He looked at his watch with bleary eyes. Consternation showed in his face.

"The performance went on," said Van Loan. "Your orchestra played magnificently—under my direction." Ramonde stared at him blankly. "But you have missed something else," Van Loan continued. "Look!" He pointed to the two green fragments which a few moments ago had been the living, serpentine body of the deadliest and most feared viper in the world.

The Cuban stared at the snake. He leaned against the dressing table, his eyes distended with fear, his face ashed. He passed a hand across his eyes, as if to wipe away a terrible dream.

"Ramonde," said Van Loan, profound sincerity in his tone, "the man who sent this snake is your enemy. He is my enemy. I must destroy him.

"They will most certainly kill you," argued Van Loan, "if you do not decide to assist me in destroying them."

For a moment Ramonde considered this in silence. Then of a sudden he nodded his head emphatically.

"First, you must hide," said Van Loan. "You must get away to safety. Then we shall talk."

HE seated the Cuban before the make-up table and worked his manual magic on the musician's features. In a few moments Ramonde was rendered completely unrecognizable.

"Now I shall get inside that trunk," he said. "You lock it. Telephone a taxi and take the trunk to this address. No one will find you there. No one will know that either of us is there."

He shook the Cuban's hand and noted with satisfaction that the man no longer trembled. Now that he had made his decision to fight the leader of the Fer-de-Lance, the musician seemed to have gained control over his shattered nerves.

Van Loan climbed into the trunk, crouched in it as the other slammed down the lid and turned the key in the lock.

WITHIN a half hour, the strange-faced Cuban and his stranger cargo were ushered into an obscure rooming house uptown. And somewhere, hidden in the heart of the teeming metropolis, the League of the Fer-de-Lance prematurely celebrated the demise of another victim.

"Now," said Van Loan as he sat across a table from Ramonde, "tell me all you know about these people who would kill you."

"They demanded money from me, every penny that I have. I refused to surrender it. Then they threatened to kill me with the snake."

"In the village where I grew up in Cuba, Garros was older than I, stronger and more shrewd. He was always evil and cunning—cunning like the snake itself. When he was still young he had many followers who were thieves and made their money by terrorizing the people.

"Those who would not contribute to him were killed. Through fear he forced me, like many others, to join his group when I was young, and do his bidding. I was with him for a long time.

"My family were poor—terribly poor—and I got money from Garros. That is part of the strong hold he has on his followers. He gives them plenty of money, which he gets through his terrible deeds. He promises them great things. They think he will be king some day, king of Cuba. Then they will be his favored followers.

"But I became a musician and left Garros. When he learned that I was making so much money, he sent me word that I would have to pay as all the rich people in Cuba do. But I wanted nothing more to do with him and I declined to give him my money. It was so until tonight."

"But there is someone else behind Garros," said Van Loan. "Some one known as the Black One."

RAMONDE nodded. "I have heard that—but whoever he is he has joined Garros since he has come to this country. One of his men whom I knew when I was with Garros in Cuba has told me that not even the members of the League of the Fer-de-Lance know the identity of this man."

"They have seen him. He attends their meetings, but always he wears a mask that completely covers his head. And he never speaks. He gives orders to Garros Rex only when they are alone."

"No." Ramonde's eyes were suddenly black with hate. "Only a few days ago my poor friend died—from the bite of a snake."

"But why did Garros come to New York?" demanded Van Loan. "You say he makes a lot of money in Cuba. Why doesn't he operate there?"

"I told you that. His followers think he is going to be king some day—and that all who work with him now will live in wealth and luxury."

"I don't know, but whatever it is, he either collects from us or kills us. We all fear for our lives. Now he and the Black One are attempting to terrorize the rich men of this city—but I do not know the reason for it all."

FOR a long time Van Loan sat there in silence. True, the Cuban had explained to him the origin of the League of the Fer-de-Lance; but Garros' motive in this country remained unexplained. Then, too, there was the Black One. Who was this mysterious figure who so appropriately wore the black cap?

The Phantom could easily understand the ignorant countrymen of Garros trembling before his strength, avid for the riches he had promised them. Cunning and relentless, Garros seemed possessed of a Messianic egocentricity. But back of it all, the most sinister shadow was that of the Black One.

For a moment Van Loan thought of Hutton, who had so mysteriously disappeared after the killing of Hawks. Perhaps, after all, it was a white man whose evil mind directed the lethal serpent of the League.

Whatever the objective was, of a certainty they needed money—a great deal of money; and they were pursuing their golden goal with an appalling ferocity.

Abruptly, the Phantom rose. "Ramonde," he said, "you stay here. Give me the key to your hotel room. I shall take your place for the time being. First, tell me everything; all the details you know of Garros; all the details of your own life—incidents that happened in your village during your youth.

"Tell me everything so that when I become Ramonde the musician, I have the necessary knowledge to play the role until—" He hesitated for a moment, seeking the right word. Ramonde supplied it for him.

Van Loan smiled grimly. "You are right," he said. "It shall be either my death or that of the League."

Half an hour later he strode from the room and slammed the door behind him. On the way to a taxi in the street, he purchased an evening paper from a newsboy. Then, as he read the headlines, he realized that even while he had been drawing his plans of battle, the League of the Fer-de-Lance had not been idle. Once again its bloody hand had reached out and performed a nefarious deed. Again, bitterly, he read the headlines:

CHAPTER 8
Plea For Life!

DRESSED in one of the Cuban's most resplendent robes, Richard Curtis Van Loan lounged in the luxurious hotel suite of the musician. For a long time he sat there, reading the paper which told the story of Evelyn Jardine's disappearance; then there sounded a faint knocking at the door.

Van placed the paper on the table; a faint smile came over his face as he walked to the door.

Van had learned from Ramonde that Pedro was his right-hand man among the musicians. But as he opened the door, he knew immediately that the man who confronted him was not the real Pedro.

A dark swarthy man burst into the room. In his hand was a heavy .38. Its muzzle aimed a deadly bead upon Van's heart. And now as Van stared at him, he recognized the newcomer as José.

José stepped into the room. He closed the door behind him, turned the key in the lock and dropped it into his pocket.

"You lead a charmed life. Ramonde," he said softly, but beneath the gentleness of his accent there was a sinister, threatening undercurrent. "I have just learned that our green emissary failed to strike you tonight."

"One of our spies discovered the dead fer-de-lance in your dressing room. There was no report of your death. So I was sent here to see if you remained alive."

"I was sent to rectify that error," he said coldly. Almost imperceptibly, his finger constricted on the trigger of his weapon.

"José," he pleaded in a tremulous tone. "Do not shoot me, old friend. Give me time to consider. Give me time."

"Time," said José with a sneer. "You have had time. You have had your warnings. And you failed to give us the money. Now you shall pay the price of your defiance."

"IT was not so much the money," said Van, a faraway expression in his eyes. "I had other thoughts. Once there was a time when I was a trusted member of the band of Garros Rex."

"But you are no longer," he rejoined. "You deserted the master. You are entitled to no consideration."

"That step I have regretted many times," he said in a low voice. "Our country—she is suffering. She is misruled by those who do not love her. Now, I realize what I have not realized before. Only Garros Rex can save her.

"What is my music? Nothing. This very night I shall go back. I shall give my money to the cause. I shall do more than that. I shall give my life if need be.

Van finished this speech in a crescendo of emotionalism which he knew had touched his captor. José regarded him suspiciously for a moment. His words certainly had sounded sincere enough. And besides, he had promised the League his money.

"Do you think that perhaps Garros Rex would take me back again, would reinstate me in the League?" José raised his eyebrows uncertainly.

"Garros Rex is a just and severe man," he said slowly. "Yet he needs the faithful. He needs their support and their money."

"Then take me to him," urged Van eagerly. "If he refuses to restore me to my former standing, you have done no wrong. He may kill me then if he chooses. But take me there. Let me stand in the master's presence once more; let me speak with him."

"Very well," said José at last. "I shall take you to him. There can be no harm in that."

Van Loan was aware of a sudden surge of triumph in his heart. The first step in his plan was working. And now, once again, the unsuspecting José would lead him to the nest of snakes.

VAN divested himself of his dressing gown, and as he donned his clothes he managed to drop an automatic into his coat pocket unseen by the other. At last he turned and faced his captor.

"I have a car downstairs," he announced. "Once inside it, you shall be blindfolded. Your hands shall be tied behind your back until we reach our destination. If you make the slightest outcry, the slightest overt act, either in the car or on the way to it, I shall shoot you down without compunction. Is it understood?" Van nodded gravely.

He sat, silent and blindfolded, beside José in a small coupé. The car raced through the streets. Van could feel the vehicle taking a number of long winding curves. He also noted that José had stopped for no traffic lights.

He deduced immediately that the car was running through Central Park. He could feel when they emerged, by the straight route that the car took, thereafter. A few moments later, he heard José's voice in his ear.

"NOW I shall release your wrists. But the blindfold must remain on, until Garros Rex orders it removed."

The motor was suddenly shut off. The car coasted to a halt. And then as Van emerged from the coupé, his keen ears gave him another clue. To his senses there came a faint whirring hum, as the engine died. It was an echo, faint but unmistakable. Too, the air he breathed was different, cooler but less fresh.

He realized that the car had been driven inside a building. This meeting place of the League, wherever it was, undoubtedly had its own private garage within the structure.

There came to his nostrils the odor of stale lubricating oil, the acrid tang of gasoline. Undoubtedly he had been brought to a garage somewhere in Harlem, not more than ten minutes' run from the northern end of Central Park.

José grasped his sleeve and led him across the concrete floor. A moment later the Phantom heard the clanging of a metal door, and felt the movement of an elevator beneath his feet. The elevator stopped. They emerged. José led him some distance across a rickety wooden floor.

Now they stopped abruptly and upon a panel before them Van Loan heard José knock the secret tattoo of the League. He heard the movement of a peephole in the door. He heard voices speak in a low tone, words which he could not distinguish. Then he was led into the room. Still he had not been relieved of the handkerchief which masked his eyes.

José's restraining hand on his sleeve halted him abruptly. A voice sounded through the room. Van Loan recognized it instantly as that of Garros Rex.

José answered: "It is Ramonde, the musician, oh, Rex. He implores you to take him back as one of your followers. He has seen the error of his way and wishes forgiveness. He offers his life and all his possessions for you to command."

Instantly Van Loan realized the significance of José's words. The man was conveying to Garros the fact that the bringing of Ramonde here would enable the League to confiscate his wealth ere he was slain.

"You did well, José, to bring him here. Our country bleeds and we need all the faithful to staunch the wound. Take off his blindfold."

José's brown hand ripped the handkerchief from Van's eyes. Blinking, slowly orienting himself to the garish illumination of the room, the Phantom stared astounded at the weird magnificence of Garros Rex.

THE man sat on a gilded chair mounted on a dais. Over him extended a canopy of royal purple. He wore a rich velvet robe trimmed with snowy ermine. In his hand was a gleaming scepter of gold.

But it was not alone the splendor of Garros Rex which riveted the Phantom's attention. At the side of the throne sat another figure, clad entirely in black. His head was completely covered by an ebony cowl. In his gloved hand he held a pencil and a small pad of paper. On a small table at his side was a silver ashtray in which lay a half-consumed black cigar.

VAN realized that he was the cynosure of all eyes. He was aware that he was undergoing a tense scrutiny from the Black One. Garros stared at him for a moment and there was something scornful in his voice as he spoke.

"So, Ramonde, your fear of the kiss of the serpent has brought you back into the fold?"

"No, sire, it was not fear that brought me back. What is my pitiful life? I came back to give myself to my country. Kill me, do with me what you wish, so long as by giving my life I may do something—may help my people in their time of trouble."

Van Loan paused. Again he sensed that his eloquence had made an impression upon the man above him.

"If you, Garros Rex, could walk to the throne over my dead body, I would prostrate it before you," he said firmly in Spanish.

It was a long shot, based on what the Phantom had seen of this meretricious regal splendor—the first real clue as to the meaning of the plot.

The black-clad figure at the foot of the throne had been watching Van intently. Suddenly the man picked up his pencil and began to write on the pad.

"That is good, Ramonde. I remember you of old, and your faithfulness. We need men now—men and money. You are wealthy, Ramonde?"

"You would again become a Son of the Serpent, a member of the League of the Fer-de-Lance?"

"With my life's blood," Van Loan answered, in the words that the real Ramonde had taught him.

"I see you still remember the ritual. But about your sincerity: Are you ready to work with us?"

A mask of impassivity covered Van Loan's face, concealing the triumph he felt within. Now he would have his opportunity. Now he would be privy to the secrets of tonight's meeting.

But then, ere Garros could speak further, the black-cowled figure on his right finished scribbling his hasty message. He ripped the sheet of paper from the pad and handed it to Garros.

The latter read it swiftly. He crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it on the floor.

"Very well, Ramonde," Garros said. "There is much to do at this meeting and it is of a secret nature. Until you have passed your test of loyalty, you shall be excluded."

Van Loan said nothing, but inwardly he was aware of a sense of frustration. Apparently the words which the Black One had scrawled upon that paper had precluded his presence further.

José rose from the seat he had taken across the room. As he walked his foot inadvertently kicked the wad of paper which Garros Rex had tossed to the floor.

"See that he is safe, José," ordered Garros tersely. "See that no harm comes to him."

Van Loan dropped his handkerchief and as he stooped to pick it up, he concealed the crumpled ball of paper within its folds.

Beyond the room in which the meeting was taking place, the Phantom discovered that his original suspicions regarding the place had been correct. They were on the third floor of a structure which obviously had once been a garage.

With José's hand still gripping his arm, he marched down a wide cement ramp leading to the floor below, which had been used for automobiles when the garage was in use. The ramp ran in slow descent about the walls of the edifice.

The second floor was barren and deserted, save for a single car which stood in one corner.

José guided him across the floor, where they halted before a doorway. At José's command, the Phantom opened the portal. José released his grip on Van Loan's arm.

Van Loan stepped into the darkness across the threshold. As he did so, José pushed him violently from the rear. Van stumbled forward and almost fell. He regained his balance in a moment and straightened up to hear the door slam shut behind him. To hear a key rasp in the lock!

For a few moments he remained motionless in the dark. Despite the flowery words of Garros Rex, it was apparent that the League was evidently taking no chances on his escape. Now he was a prisoner, at least temporarily.

From his pocket he took a book of matches and struck one. He unfolded the wad of paper and swiftly read the note that the Black One had handed to Garros Rex.

That was all. Yet these words Garros had obeyed implicitly. Undoubtedly he stood in as great an awe of the cowled man as his own minions stood of him.

Van Loan struck a second match. Now he explored his prison. In the center of the left-hand wall he saw a door. He tried the knob. The door was locked; and no key was in the lock.

THEN, of a sudden, he froze to immobility. Tense and silent he stood there, listening. There came to his ears, soft and quiet, the unmistakable sound of a woman's sobbing.

For a moment he did not move—physically. But his mind functioned smoothly, rapidly and accurately. He knew the answer to the piteous sound beyond the door. Now, he understood completely the headline in the newspaper regarding the disappearance of Paul Jardine's daughter.

It was the League of the Fer-de-Lance that had kidnapped her. Failing to obtain money from her father, they were now about to apply pressure to the daughter in an effort to gain their loot from the Jardine fortune.

"Evelyn Jardine," he called softly. There was no answer, but the sobbing stopped. Again he called the girl's name. Now a tremulous voice answered him.

"No," the girl replied. "There is no key. My feet and hands are tied. Who are you?"

THE Phantom did not answer this question. Instead, he said, reassuringly: "Give me a minute. I'll try to get the door open."

He struck a match and cast about his cell for some means of forcing the lock. Then, on the other side of the room, he saw the thing he sought. A piece of steel wire was wrapped about a nail which was driven into the wall.

Hastily he unwound it. Deftly his fingers shaped it. Then he inserted it in the keyhole of the door.

For five minutes he worked on the recalcitrant lock, then at last the tumblers fell. He turned the knob and entered the other room.

By the waning light of the candle on the floor he saw a slender girl huddled in the corner, wrists and ankles secured with cruel bonds. Two gray eyes stared at him in complete amazement. Then, as he came closer, recognition came into her gaze, but in no wise decreased her astonishment.

"You are Ramonde!" she said. "I have seen you on the stage. What are you doing here?"

"I am Ramonde," said Van Loan gravely. "However, there is no time to discuss my business here. You have one desperate chance of escaping. It will require courage and control on your part. Can you do it?" She nodded her head.

"I'll do anything to get out of here," she said fearlessly. "But I shall not accede to their demands for my father's fortune."

Van Loan nodded. Those words corroborated his own suspicions. The girl had been taken in order that the League might force her to relinquish the Jardine estate.

"You must remain here, apparently still tied up. They may come for me any moment. Of course, you drive a car?"

"There's a car out there on the floor," said Van Loan. "If you can reach it and drive it down the ramp to the ground floor, you have an excellent chance of escaping. If anyone tries to stop you, run him down. Don't stop for anything.

"They'll be here for me any moment now. When they take me, I'll contrive to leave the outer door open. Then it's up to you."

With tears in her eyes she thanked him. Then, as he was about to return to his own cell, she spoke again.

"But what of you?" she said. "Why don't you come with me?" Van Loan smiled grimly, as he shook his head.

"I shall not leave," he said, "until I have learned what I have come to learn—or unless death precludes my ever getting that knowledge."

Less than fifteen minutes later he heard a footfall without. A key rasped in the lock and José entered.

Van nodded nervously. "Thank God," he said. "The close air in here has made me faint."

He stepped from the room and leaned weakly against the wall near the door. As José closed it and turned the key, Van Loan started suddenly. "What's that?" he said nervously as he peered about the darkness of the big room.

José took a step forward and gazed anxiously into the gloom. Now, swiftly, Van retreated against the door. His hand was behind his back. His fingers turned the key once again, unlocking the portal. José turned to him.

José grunted, took the key from the unlocked door and dropped it into his pocket.

As they continued their journey, Van Loan strained every sense as he listened for some sound of the girl's escape. He had successfully completed his part of the affair and he anxiously awaited her cue.

They had reached the third floor when from below the whirring of a starter split the silence of the old building.

HE raced down the ramp, Van Loan at his heels. Below, a motor leaped to life. Gears clashed. The two men gained the second floor just as the car disappeared around the curve of the lower ramp. José snarled an oath and raised his gun. Van Loan was close behind him. Deliberately, he stumbled just as José's finger constricted on the trigger.

The Cuban reeled forward. The bullet from his weapon ricocheted to the wall from the concrete of the floor.

From below there came a startled shout. The engine of the fleeing car roared crescendo, then slowly evanesced into the distance. José turned angrily on Van Loan.

Van said nothing. But a faint smile leaped to his lips as they returned to the upper story; for his captor had not even suspected that it was Evelyn Jardine who had escaped in the stolen car.

CHAPTER 9
Test of Loyalty

IMMEDIATELY Van was escorted by José to a small room. Seated behind a flat-topped desk, still clad in his regal robes, was the figure of Garros Rex. On either side of him was a grim, sinister figure; two sullen, dark-faced men holding gleaming machetes in their hands.

"Now, Ramonde," Garros greeted him as he entered. "Now you may prove your loyalty."

"Later, José," said Garros. "The Black One has work for you now. Go to him at once."

José hesitated. Then fear overcame reason. He left the room abruptly, closing the door behind him.

"Now, Ramonde," said Garros. "Let us see if you remember the things that I once taught you. First, the secret oath of the League of the Fer-de-Lance!"

In a firm voice Van Loan repeated the secret words and the unholy vindictive oath which Ramonde had taught him. As he spoke, his gaze swept over the sullen faces and the vicious blades in the hands of the two guards who stood on either side of the desk.

He realized that the slightest slip, the least little thing which would reveal him to be other than the Cuban band leader, would mean his death. Yet his voice was steady and no fear was in his heart.

"Good!" said Garros when he had finished. "It does you credit that you remember the oath and repeat it with so much enthusiasm!"

"That is true," Garros nodded. "Why shouldn't you? You and I have been life-long companions. We came from the same village—we both worshiped at the feet of Papa Nebo, did we not? And do you remember our friend, Mamaloi Perine?"

Van thanked his lucky stars that he had had foresight enough to probe Ramonde for so many details of his past, for now he could answer Garros in kind.

"Indeed I do. Well I remember the time at the feast before the Sacrifice of the Goat!"

"That is so." Garros Rex uttered a harsh laugh. "I had almost forgotten. I was forced to strike her with a club ere she would leave me alone."

"True," the Phantom nodded. "And we marveled at your courage. For you were the only one of us brave enough to strike a Mamaloi of voodoo."

THE simple flattery which the Phantom used in the recital of this incident was at once balm and stimulant to the vanity of Garros.

"You are quite right," he said. "It did take courage. But I have never been other than brave. That same bravery shall lead me to the throne which the gods have ordained for me."

"That is true, sire. You justly deserve whatever is destined to befall you," Van said fervently. And if his tone was tinged with irony, the other had not the perception to notice it.

For a time Garros Rex visibly expanded beneath this flattery. Then he came to the point abruptly.

"There is one detail before we go further," he said. "Those of my followers desiring to prove their loyalty, invariably follow the custom. They devote their wealth to our cause."

"That is good," said Garros Rex. "Then there shall be no trouble on that score. I thought your refusal of our demands meant that the acquisition of wealth had made you selfish, had caused you to forget our cause."

"On the contrary. My purpose in withholding the money was to have you make some contact with me in order that I might again join the organization."

"Very well," said Garros. "According to my records, you have on deposit one hundred and sixty-two thousand dollars at the City Central Bank. You will give me a check for that amount. The League will supply you with living expenses."

For a moment Van Loan did not speak. This was an unexpected blow. He knew he would have no difficulty at forging Ramonde's signature; he had already practiced that. But should he write out this check and be unable to escape from the League in time to stop its payment, it meant that the Cuban's savings were gone.

"Would it not be better if I withdraw the cash personally, in the morning? A check of that size might arouse the suspicions of the bank."

GARROS laughed. "Regarding that, you need not worry. We deal in large amounts of money. You will make the check payable to the Cubanola Sugar Company."

Garros withdrew a City Central check book from the drawer of his desk, and handed it to Van Loan. The Phantom hesitated no longer. To decline to sign the draft now would inevitably arouse this fanatic's suspicions.

No, he would sign and bend every effort to reach the bank before the check could clear.

No sooner had he scrawled the name of the musician on the check than the door behind him suddenly burst open. Standing on the threshold, with black rage reflected in his agate eyes, was the cowled figure of the Black One. Behind him was José.

"The girl has escaped," the latter cried. "She is gone." He glared accusingly at Van Loan. "He was in the next room."

THE Black One stared at Van Loan. Garros Rex frowned. The two guards took a step forward. Their machetes were lifted threateningly above their heads.

"But," said Garros Rex in a cold, hard voice, "you knew then that there was a girl in the next room?"

The Phantom nodded. "As I stood in the dark, I heard her sobbing. I tried the door that separated us and found it locked. I could not unlock it. There was no key."

"That is true," said José slowly. "And I locked the outer door when I came for him."

"That is right," said Van Loan eagerly. "And I thought I saw someone in the shadow of the garage when you released me." Now his voice rose excitedly. "The racing car," he continued tensely. "You saw it, José. You fired at the man at the wheel."

There was a moment's silence in the room. Garros' eyes stabbed into those of Van Loan's. Van met the other's gaze steadily. This, he knew, was the moment of judgment.

"You are innocent, Ramonde. You know me too well to betray me and remain in my power."

José, with honest bewilderment stamped upon his face, stared at the leader. Behind him the Black One stood immobile, impassive, like a silent, evil shadow.

"But," said José, "if one of our men has not betrayed us, who freed the girl? Who stole the car?"

Garros Rex glanced at the figure in black. It seemed to Van Loan that a significant glance passed between them. Finally Garros nodded his head, as if corroborating some unspoken thought of his own.

"None of the League has betrayed us," he said, sententiously. "There is but one man who has done this thing."

The five men in that room looked at him inquiringly. A faint smile crawled over the Cuban's face.

For an instant an intense silence fell over the office. The faces of the two guards and José wore mingled expressions of alarm and apprehension. And then there happened the thing which was even more startling than the words of Garros Rex. The Black One broke his silence!

"Fool!" he said, in a thin, harsh voice. "How can the Phantom know this place? It is only one of the many we possess."

THROUGH the eye slits in his black hood, he glared malevolently at Van Loan. Garros Rex opened his mouth to speak, then remained silent as the gaze of the Black One reverted to him.

The Phantom missed nothing of this by-play. He noted that Garros Rex was trembling and he knew that the hot-blooded Cuban fanatic feared the cold, murderous sanity of the cowled man.

"Are you mad, Garros!" the black-clad man demanded. "I warned you not to trust this man too far. Yet you speak freely in front of him."

"But he is one of us," protested Garros Rex. "Look, I have his check for all his wealth to demonstrate his good faith."

Then, as he stood there, an inactive figure in the dramatic tableau, Van Loan realized that his first suspicions were now definitely corroborated. The man in the black cowl was the real leader of the League of the Fer-de-Lance. Garros Rex was but a figurehead, a fanatic who ruled his people through their belief that some day he would be ruler of Cuba.

ANOTHER thing the Phantom had noted was the fact that when the Black One had spoken he had not spoken in Spanish as had the others—but in English!

A knock sounded at the office door. At a word from Garros Rex the door opened and a man stepped into the room. He handed the Silent One a message. The man in black read it swiftly and then passed it to Garros as he dismissed the messenger with a gesture.

"Shall I speak now?" Garros looked at the Black One as he finished reading. "Perhaps this is a task for Ramonde?"

"Yes," the masked figure nodded. "But let José accompany him. Failure upon Ramonde's part will mean his death!"

"That is understood," Garros Rex said. "Listen, Ramonde, for this is work for you. Dion Valero landed in Newark Airport thirty minutes ago. With him were four of his closest friends.

"When he was driven from the presidency, I know that he brought with him all the money in the Cuban treasury. That money will be in the luggage of Valero or one of his associates. Franklin G. Pace, the sugar magnate, will meet him there. He must not be harmed, for we intend dealing with him later."

José stood listening eagerly. The Black One had dropped into a chair and his gaze never left the face of Van Loan.

"Dion Valero is en route to the Imperator Hotel," continued Garros. "He will arrive there shortly. If he has as much as a day of freedom, that money will be hidden in some safety deposit vault and we will never be able to get our hands on it.

"Ramonde, your first job will be to get that money. José will go with you and you are to obey his orders. He will see that you do not lose your patriotism. Remember, Valero was one of the oppressors of our people."

THE Phantom took a step forward and played his role to the hilt. "Valero is an oppressor of our people," he repeated grandiloquently.

"True!" said Garros Rex. "And Valero must die tonight —by your hand! You will take the money. You will leave behind you a fer-de-lance. Valero shall feel its fangs."

"If you fail we shall know it," interposed the Black One. Then he turned and looked at José. "No matter what should occur this evening, you are to bring Ramonde back to us. You understand?"

"But what of the police?" said José. "What if the Phantom has actually been here?"

"You shall not return here," said the man in black. "Return to Rendezvous No. 5. We shall be there waiting for you."

The Phantom licked his lips nervously, simulating the reaction that a man of Ramonde's character would undergo.

In his hand he now held a long black cigar. Van Loan recognized the band that had circled it. It was a Havana-Havana—a rare and costly brand.

Garros Rex rose, and with his two guards walking in front of him, strode to the door. As he passed Van Loan, the Phantom's dexterous hand moved toward the pocket of the other's false robe of royalty. With a gesture swifter than the eye could follow, he deftly extracted the check which he had signed a few moments ago.

The door of the office closed, leaving José and Van alone. José turned to him.

"Come," he said. "We shall procure the serpent. Then we shall wreak the vengeance of our people upon Valero."

CHAPTER 10
Death to the Enemy

EVENLY, the taxicab purred through the city streets. Over the widening road through Central Park it made its way downtown toward the Imperator Hotel. From time to time the Phantom glanced through the rear window of the car, at the large sedan behind them.

"Those are our own men," he said. "Reinforcements, in case anything goes wrong."

Van Loan was aware of a sense of frustration. He had thoroughly intended to overpower José, to arrest him, and after forcing him to reveal the whereabouts of the League, to round all of the gang up. The car in the rear, however, put a definite end to the initial premise.

His keen brain worked swiftly, evolving a plan which would further his own strategical position in this grim battle with the League of the Fer-de-Lance.

Swiftly, Van dropped his hands into the folds of the coat he wore. There, secreted in the lining, was a hypodermic needle. Now, unnoticed by José, he seized the implement in his hand and kept it hidden there.

He placed an unlighted cigarette between his lips, then went through the motions of seeking a match. As a red traffic light halted them, he gave up the search.

With the hypodermic held in his left hand he leaned forward and spoke through the window to the driver. As the chauffeur fumbled in his pocket for the requested light, Van's left hand moved forward almost imperceptibly. The thin point of the needle pierced the fabric of the man's coat, stabbed through his flesh, and sent the deadening though harmless drug which it contained pouring through the man's blood stream.

The traffic lights changed to green. Impatient horns sounded behind the cab. Yet it did not move. An unconscious man sat behind the wheel. José frowned.

"Quick," said José. "We must get out of here. A traffic policeman is coming over now. We can't afford a delay."

He threw the car door open and José and himself stepped out to the sidewalk. The driver fell from his seat, lay prone upon the curb. With that morbid curiosity peculiar to it, a crowd swiftly gathered.

"We must not be involved in this," José said swiftly. "Mix with the crowd. But do not leave here."

Van Loan needed no second bidding. Here was the chance for which he had hoped. Unobtrusively, he mixed with the mob. Then, once out of José's sight, he swiftly made his way toward a policeman who approached. Down the street the siren of an ambulance wailed.

Van Loan caught the officer urgently by the arm. In his right hand he held a miniature platinum badge, superimposed upon whose surface was a small mask fashioned in diamonds. The policeman stared at it, immediately recognizing it as the token by which the Phantom made known his identity.

Then he stared at the man before him. Bewilderment was written in his eyes as he saw this dark-faced Cuban, this nondescript individual who, he realized, beneath the disguise, was the world's greatest detective.

"LISTEN," said the Phantom hastily. "The abdicating president of Cuba is registering or has already registered at the Imperator Hotel. Quick! Call Headquarters and tell them to send a squad of plainclothes men there as fast as an emergency car can carry them.

"An effort will be made within the next half hour to murder ex-President Valero and to rob him. Tell Headquarters that the Phantom says to send men—do you understand?"

The officer's hand moved to a salute, but at a gesture from Van Loan he stopped and raced off. Van merged with the crowd once more. A moment later he rejoined José at the curb. The crowd was already breaking up.

"Come," said José impatiently. "The collapse of the driver has delayed us longer than we can afford." As they continued their journey in another cab, the Phantom was fully aware of the danger in which he would shortly become involved. When the police arrived at Valero's suite, Van Loan would be there in the guise of Ramonde, the Cuban. But the forces of the law would most certainly not know that this was the Phantom. And perhaps even before he had an opportunity to prevent it, death would be upon him, driven in his direction by those of whom he was an ally.

The journey was made in utter silence and then, less than ten minutes later, they strolled through the lobby of the Imperator, and entered the elevator.

The elevator door clanged shut behind them. Then, to Van Loan's surprise, it stopped abruptly between the third and fourth floors. José turned to the elevator operator, moved his brown finger swiftly in the esoteric sign of the League of the Fer-de-Lance.

THROUGH narrowed eyes Van saw the elevator man reply to José's digital gesture. Now, from beneath his uniform, the man who obviously enough was in the pay of the League, took two automatics. These he handed to his passengers.

"The traitor and his party are on the fifteenth floor," he said. "1526. At the north end of the hall. There are six of them, including the American, Pace, who brought them here."

"It is here. They refused to let it from their sight. They refused to permit the porter to carry it." Now the elevator shot upward again, came to a lurching stop at the fifteenth floor. José and Van Loan proceeded down the corridor and stopped before Valero's suite. Imperiously the Cuban knocked upon the door.

"We are friends of Valero's, Señores," said José. "We must see you right away. There is danger." There was a moment's hesitation. From within the room came the sound of muttering voices in consultation. Then Van Loan heard the familiar tone of Pace speaking in reassuring English.

"Let them in, Valero," he said. "Surely your enemies cannot have traced you here. They're probably from the police department. I notified them that they must be prepared to guard you."

The key rasped on the inside of the lock. José turned the knob. They entered. The door slammed behind them. A gasp of astonishment and apprehension came from the occupants of the suite.

Five Cubans and one white man stared in utter and complete amazement at the unwavering muzzles of the two automatics which were pointed directly at their hearts.

Slowly four of the occupants of the room raised their hands. One of the men who ignored the order was elderly and gray-haired. Strength was stamped indelibly upon his countenance. His eyes flamed with repressed rage. The other who refused to obey was Franklin G. Pace, the sugar magnate. His gaze too reflected indignant wrath at this outrageous intrusion.

"You can't get away with this!" he stormed. "You'll spend the rest of your life in prison if you're not careful."

José smiled evilly. "Mr. Pace," he said, "we mean you no harm. If you do not interfere, you are in no danger. But you, Valero"—he turned his head and stared balefully at the deposed president—"raise your hands or you'll certainly stop a bullet."

Valero, impressed by the awful hate in his countryman's eyes, obeyed the order. Now José glanced toward a stack of luggage in the corner of the room.

VAN LOAN crossed the room and examined the suitcases. The second one he hefted indicated by its weight that it was, perhaps, stuffed with stacks of money.

"Now, search them," said José. Methodically, Van Loan went through the men's pockets. His search revealed guns in the pockets of them all save Valero and Pace. Now Pace stepped forward, trembling with rage.

"This is arrant robbery," he said. "You can't get away with this. The entire Secret Service of America will be on your trail within half an hour."

"All information regarding the enemies of Cuba," said he, in the manner of a man delivering a death sentence—as indeed he was—"comes to the League of the Fer-de-Lance." Valero inhaled swiftly, his breath making a strange sibilant sound that resembled the hissing of the viper which was to end his life.

The five Cubans exchanged significant glances. They realized full well that they could expect no mercy from this dread organization. Pace alone failed to understand the significance of José's words.

"You shall remain silent," said José coldly. "As for the rest of you, you shall have one chance—a slim one. There are five of you, and my brother here has but one snake." Now his smile became as venomous as the reptile of which he spoke. "One small six-inch snake, gentlemen, but how deadly is its bite! No man has ever been bitten by a fer-de-lance and lived.

"That is the chance of which I spoke. Perhaps his fangs shall fail to kill you."

His snapping, malevolent eyes swept the room. Now, of them all, Valero alone retained his courage. He sat, impassive and unmoving, a mask of implacable fortitude upon his face. His four countrymen, paralyzed by fear, said nothing. Pace no longer blustered and threatened the intruders. His jaw sagged. His face was pale. His eyes were distended with fear. The hand that held his cigar trembled uncontrollably.

AT last the word "fer-de-lance" seemed to stir something in his memory. He recalled the contorted corpse of his friend Jardine. He recalled the tortured agony written on the dead man's face. And the poison of fear fluttered his heart and sent it hammering up against his breast.

José shook his head. "Those are not our orders," he said. "You will retire to that room on the right. You will lock the door on the inside before we release the snake. I need not warn you against unlocking it again, offering sanctuary to our enemies.

Abject and terror-stricken, Pace hastened to the room indicated. The lock clicked behind him.

Van dropped his gun into his pocket. He held the brief-case by the bottom. Through the leather he could feel the movements of the sinuous death within.

His movements were slow, deliberate. Tensely he strained every nerve, listening for some sound which would tell him of the advent of the police.

He realized that if aid did not arrive promptly, he would be compelled to forego his masquerade of Ramonde. He would be forced to have a showdown with José immediately thus sacrificing his opportunity to delve further into the secrets of the League, to bring them all to justice.

He would have to start again from the very beginning, on the toilsome road to triumph over the nefarious powers of evil.

THEN, of a sudden, a crashing reverberation in the hall flooded him with almost overpowering relief. The police had arrived! Almost too late to be of assistance, they had arrived at the very last possible moment of grace. And undoubtedly, even now, they were grappling with the gunmen who had been detailed to cover the actions of José and himself!

CHAPTER 11
Hand of Garros!

JOSÉ looked up in surprise. For a moment he stared at Valero and his party as if holding them responsible for the shooting outside. But a single glance at their faces served to banish this idea. Apparently, they were even more startled than José, startled and thoroughly terrified. Evidently they believed that these shots presaged another attack upon them.

Van Loan picked up the suitcase containing the money. The locked brief-case he still held in his left hand.

"You had better see what's going on," he snapped to José. "If our men can't clear the halls, we're trapped."

José thrust his head through the door jamb, jerked it back quickly as a bullet whined past his ear. At the end of the hall stood Garros' men, huddled together, desperately essaying to prevent a small army of detectives from advancing. Dead men lay in that corridor. Blood stained the rich carpet.

Hastily José slammed the door and locked it. Now a gleam of hope lit up the eyes of the trapped Cubans as they realized that aid was close upon them.

For a moment Van Loan regarded him through narrowed eyes. Then he quickly took command of the situation.

"Here," he said quickly. "Take Valero and his men, herd them into one of the bedrooms. Bind them and gag them."

Van Loan cut him short. "It's our only chance," he snapped. "I'll explain it to you later. Hurry!"

José wasted no further time. There was something commanding in Van's tone that caused him to obey with alacrity. Into one of the rooms he marched the men.

A moment later he returned, closing and locking the door behind him. He dropped the key into his pocket. At first he failed to see the man he believed to be Ramonde. Then he caught sight of him standing before a mirror in a small dressing room which gave off the larger chamber.

While José had been incarcerating the Cubans, Van had rifled one of the suitcases. Now in his hand he held a toilet kit. Before the mirror he was busily engaged in rubbing talcum powder into his hair.

José watched his companion in utter and complete amazement. Van Loan withdrew a pencil from his pocket and drew a few quick strokes about his eyelids. Then he completed the illusion he was creating with a dexterous manipulation of a comb.

He no longer appeared as a young Cuban. His hair was gray. His face was lined. He resembled, in a sketchy way, the deposed president of Cuba.

JOSÉ stood in wordless wonder as he perceived this miracle performed. At last he spoke.

"It's our only chance," said Van hastily. "I shall impersonate Valero to the police. Of course, we shall have to sacrifice our own gunmen—but there is no choice. We shall go to the hall and assist the detectives in taking our own men. Now, do you see?"

José nodded. Admiration for the other's ability in evolving this plan showed in his face. As they turned to leave the room, Van cautiously dropped the brief case containing the fer-de-lance behind the radiator. Then they were in the hall.

The men of Garros Rex, having reached the field of battle first, held the most strategic position. One crouched in a linen closet. Another fired from behind the open door of a room. The remainder had taken cover in the angular corridors of the hotel, facing the detectives whose fort was in the elevator. Steel hurtled and crashed through the halls, whining its ominous threnody of death.

THE two men who had just come from Valero's suite approached the gunmen from the rear. When Van was within six feet of one of them, the thug heard his footfalls and whirled around. His finger constricted on the trigger. And in the next instant, two reports sounded as one. Yet, actually, the revolver of Van Loan spewed its slug an infinitesimal fraction of a second before the other.

A whining .38 shrieked past Van's head and thudded against the plaster of the wall. But Van Loan's own bullet had traveled straight and true. The man before him reeled drunkenly. Blood stained his shirt front. His knees crumpled and he fell.

Now José's weapon leaped to action, and with cold savagery the Cuban opened fire upon the men who had come as his allies.

Encouraged by these reserves, the fire from the elevator increased as the detectives renewed the vigor of their attack. Nothing could live through the reverberating hail of fire which hammered at the gunmen from two sides.

The Phantom's weapon still held a shot when the last of Garros Rex's men had been mowed down. Now Van Loan approached the detectives with the dignified gait of the man he impersonated.

"I thank you," he said, in a tone that held a trace of accent. "I thank you for coming to our rescue. To whom are we indebted?"

One of the officers revealed a badge. "Detective-Sergeant Malone," he said, introducing himself.

"If you please, Sergeant Malone, may I ask a favor of you? You came to protect me, did you not?"

"Then will you please wait for me in the parlor of the hotel on the second floor? I want to get off this floor before the people start rushing up here. You understand, do you not? The unfavorable publicity—If I could only retire to another floor before the reporters—you understand?"

"Sure," the sergeant said. "But, of course, we'll have to have you identify these men. And there'll be other things—"

"I understand, quite. But, for the moment—will you keep everybody back until we can make our way down?"

"That is fine. I will see that you aren't forgotten, you and your men." The Phantom, followed by an amazed José, made his way back to the room of Valero.

He picked up the black suitcase hastily and again went out of the apartment, locking it behind him and José.

They turned a corner of the hall just as the elevators near the suite opened and poured out a group of people, including uniformed policemen.

The Phantom led the way down two flights of stairs, turned to the left and caught a service elevator to the basement. They emerged into the street and a moment later sat, with the stolen valise, in a speeding cab.

Hurriedly Van wiped the lines of age from his face, shook as much of the powder as possible from his hair. Again he became Ramonde, the musician. Hunched back, regarding him, José pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his perspiring face.

"Let us drive around a bit," he suggested in a shaken voice. "I'd like to get my nerves together before we face Garros Rex. He does not like his men to show any sign of fear."

Van nodded a ready assent. He was in no hurry to return to the rendezvous. He welcomed the time permitted him to do some brain work. For what he had seen this night had already crystallized some of the suspicions which were in his mind.

He leaned forward and spoke to the cab driver. Then, in utter silence, they proceeded to drive about the park.

"Let's stop and get something to eat," he said. "Then we shall report to the League of the Fer-de-Lance."

"This restaurant is the meeting place of the revolutionists," José told Van as he paid off the taxi. "The owner is our friend. He knows things. He can procure guns, men, ships, at a moment's notice."

Van nodded, and the pair of them entered the restaurant. During their meal, a newsboy entered the eating place. Van purchased a paper and with unbelieving eyes perused the headlines. Anxiously José read over Van's shoulder:

Hastily the pair of them read the story. Details of the battle in the corridor were given. Then the item went on to reveal the fact that when the police had entered the president's suite, the entire party of Cubans had been discovered dead, stabbed through their respective backs with a stiletto.

Within him there was suddenly engendered a terrible suspicion. Certainly, he and José had not slain the Cubans. Who, then, had?

An expression of utter desperation was on the face of José. He blinked nervously.

"It means," he said in an uneven voice, "that Garros himself or one of his trusted men followed us to see that we did the job correctly. When we failed to slay Valero, that man did it."

VAN shrugged, concealing the fury and self-despair that flared within him. He should have foreseen this, should have guarded against the terrible tragedy. But there had been no time—

"It is the end for us," said José. "It means that Garros considers we have failed in our task."

"Garros will accept no excuses," said José dully. "He will say, the other man did it, why could not have we? We are doomed."

Van Loan assumed an expression of panic which he did not feel. "Then what are we to do?"

José struck the table with a heavy fist. "I shall not go back to him. Let us take the money in that bag. Let us flee."

FOR a moment Van Loan pretended to consider this. Actually, he was thinking, thinking hard, though not of the proposition which José had made him.

"Listen," he said, a simulated fear vibrating in his tones. "Do you know where Rendezvous Number Five is? Is it near here?"

"Too near. It is that old warehouse in 117th Street, near Lenox Avenue. Come, man. We must not sit here. We must flee."

"But to where?" said Van. "The arm of the League is long, as you know. We must leave the country. Wait here a moment. A friend of mine, the master of a freighter, sails tonight. I shall phone him at once. We shall take passage with him."

Van rose from his seat and made his way to the telephone booth at the rear of the restaurant. José, he noted, after the night's work, now fully trusted him, and for that he was thankful. For the time was ripe to close in upon the gang, and it was imperative that he telephone.

He dropped a nickel in the coin box and called the most familiar number in New York City—Spring 3100. An instant later he heard the relieved voice of the police commissioner trickle across the wire into his ears.

"Thank heaven you've reported," said the official. "All hell has been let loose within the past few hours."

"Half a dozen of the biggest members of the Sugar Exchange have received Fer-de-Lance threats. Five million has been demanded from them. That, on top of the assassination at the Imperator, has me going mad."

"All right," snapped the Phantom grimly. "Listen to me, and we'll finish the whole damnable business tonight. Get two platoons of police thrown around the block at 116th Street to 117th Street, from Lenox to Seventh Avenue. Get riot squads, firemen, everything you need for a siege. Don't let anyone leave that block after your cordon's arrived. Then have them stand by until I appear and give my orders. Is that understood?"

"It's a hell of a big job," said Van Loan grimly. "Speed it up, and I'll meet you there."

WITH a sigh of relief, he hung up the receiver and hastened back to the table where sat José. Now his task was rendered easy. It would be a simple matter to take José prisoner, then go off to take command of the raid at Rendezvous Number Five.

And it seemed that, at last, the Phantom had come to the end of his struggle against the League of the Fer-de-Lance.

But Richard Curtis Van Loan had reckoned without the cunning of the fanatic, Garros Rex—and also without the fickle hand of Fate which at that very moment was turning against him.

Elated, he returned to the booth in which José was sitting. The Cuban glanced up at him dully.

"I don't know." The Phantom spoke in a soft voice, yet beneath his tone was something cold, hard as steel.

"Everything is quite all right, José," he added quietly. His hand dropped to his coat pocket. Through the fabric, the unmistakable outline of a gun's muzzle pointed directly at the Cuban's heart.

"YOU make no move, José," he snapped. "You will walk with me from this restaurant without exciting suspicion. I shall remain a pace behind you; and remember, this muzzle will never leave your back. Do you understand?"

José nodded, though it was clear from the utter bewilderment in his eyes that he did not understand at all.

The Phantom waved him to silence. "It may help you to understand more clearly if I tell you that you need no longer call me Ramonde."

Van Loan opened his mouth to answer the question, but before he could do so a snarling, crackling voice had done it for him.

"Call him traitor," said the familiar, venomous accents of Garros Rex. "Call him traitor—call him liar—call him, if you must, the Phantom."

The bewilderment in José's eyes had been replaced with utter panic. No sooner had the Cuban asked his last question of Van than the booth's curtains behind the detective had suddenly parted. The gun thrust against Van Loan's body was held fast in the murderous hand of Garros Rex himself.

"So the men I trusted would leave me; would betray me. But Garros Rex has ears. He has a cunning mind. He trusts no one too much."

"Now," he continued, "you, José, will pick up that bag. Then you and this traitor who says he is not Ramonde will precede me from this place. I have a car outside. It will conduct you to your final destination."

For a moment, the situation seemed easy of solution to the Phantom. He realized that, could he stall long enough, he could lead Garros Rex into the police trap which was already being prepared. But the Cuban leader's next words dissuaded him from attempting to put this plan into operation.

"You fool," he snarled into Van Loan's ear as they prepared to leave. "You did not conceal the real Ramonde cleverly enough. My men discovered him in a cigar store, when he was supposed to be at the Imperator. They brought him to me. He is already in my torture room. He has talked a lot. And even now he is slowly dying on the rack."

THE Phantom's face betrayed nothing of his emotional reactions, nothing of the lightning thought that seared his brain.

Undoubtedly Ramonde, tiring of his voluntary imprisonment, had ventured forth to the street. Now he was paying the agonizing price for his lack of caution.

It was clear enough in which direction Van Loan's duty lay. It was he who had involved Ramonde in his plan. It was his obligation to go to the musician's rescue with no loss of time. Minutes might mean the man's death. There was nothing that Van could do but follow Garros. Perhaps, in that way, he could somehow reach the tortured Ramonde in time.

Docilely he walked from the restaurant, at José's side. Behind them, his hand deep in his coat pocket, came Garros Rex.

CHAPTER 12
Devilish Device

VAN LOAN and José stood facing Garros Rex in a dimly lit room of the warehouse near Lenox Avenue. On either side of them stood a machete-armed guard. Before them, Garros Rex himself bent over the stolen suitcase which passed upon a table.

Van Loan realized that José, at his side, was gripped in the paralyzing thrall of fear. The Cuban's hands trembled at his sides. His eyes were sunk deep within his head. The muscles of his mouth twitched nervously.

For this dread Van Loan could not find it in his heart to feel scornful. He knew, too, that unless his own keen brain, his infinite courage could somehow outwit the madman before him, a terrible fate was in store for himself as well as the Cuban.

That Garros Rex intended their death, he had no doubt. Nor did he doubt that this doom would take a horrible, lingering form.

However, paradoxically enough, he was eager, anxious to be led off to the torture machine. For there was his sole chance of making a contact with Ramonde, the man whom he had come here to save.

Now Garros Rex flung back the top of the valise upon the table. For a moment he stared at its interior in silent stupefaction. Then he raised his voice and shouted a terrible, enraged oath. Veins stood out red and purple on his brow. His brown hands clenched themselves tightly. His yellow nails brought blood from his palms.

"Fools!" he screamed. "Fools and traitors! You have failed again, either through treachery or stupidity. And for this you shall die the most agonizing death that the League of the Fer-de-Lance can concoct.

Even the guards in the room seemed to grow taller, more sinister, more threatening. They seemed veritably to become definitely personified as the bodyguard to doom.

José was beside himself with quavering terror. Undoubtedly he had relied upon the contents of the purloined valise to make a final desperate appeal for his life. Perhaps, he had thought, when Garros Rex beheld that stolen wealth he would be rendered more merciful. But now as the leader of the League, beside himself with fury, emptied the contents of the suitcase onto the floor, José knew that a grim fate had removed his last chance of clemency.

As Garros Rex strewed clothing and haberdashery about the room, revealing the fact that not a single dollar of currency was contained in the suitcase, only one man in that death chamber remained unmoved.

DESPITE the grim peril with which the situation was fraught, Van permitted himself an ironic smile. It had been he who, upon leaving Valero's suite, had switched the suitcases. He had left the money there intact, and now a vengeful Garros Rex found himself in the possession not of a million dollars in currency, but, instead, of half a dozen rather worn shirts of the man he had plotted to plunder.

With a tremendous effort Garros controlled his flaming rage. He turned to the guards.

"Lock them in the torture chamber," he snarled. "Hold them there until I am free to attend personally to the matter of their deaths."

A guard seized each one and escorted the men from the room. Van Loan walked steadily. His stride was firm and even. But at his side José slumped upon his guard, who half-dragged him through the dimly lit hallway.

AS Van Loan strode toward the death chamber, his ears were strained and alert, seeking some sign from the street which would indicate the arrival of the police. Again he realized the irony of his position. He had specifically instructed the commissioner to order his men to refrain from action until the Phantom himself appeared. Now it was impossible for him to give those orders until he had somehow effected an escape from the bloody hands of Garros Rex.

The guards halted their prisoners before a steel door. One of them selected a key from a jangling bunch at his waist and swung the forbidding portal open.

Within, shadows danced eerily across the chamber. The room was dimly lighted by flickering candles. Through the gloom there came to Van's ears a low groan, as of a human being in dire suffering. He peered into the shadows.

There, at the far end of the room, he perceived a weird device—a device which the civilized world had not used since the days of the Inquisition.

It resembled a table standing upright. At each of its four corners were iron cuffs, two devised to hold a man's ankles, two for his wrists. To each cuff was attached a rope, the other end of which was wound about a cylindrical drum at the rear of the room. This, indeed, Van realized with an uncontrollable shudder, was the ancient torture rack.

And the agonized body that the fiendish machine was slowly tearing to pieces, was that of Ramonde, the musician!

Roughly, his escort pushed Van Loan into the room. At his side, José, stricken with terror, moved dazedly forward. Along the side of the wall Van noticed iron gyves, attached by sturdy chains to a metal baseboard that encircled the room. It was toward a pair of these that he was led.

The guard forced his wrists into the impregnable handcuffs and locked them. Some three feet away from him, the second guard went through the same procedure with José. Then the two men turned and quitted the room. The heavy metal door clanged shut behind them. A key turned in the lock.

For a long moment Van stood against the wall and took stock of his surroundings. Now his eyes were becoming more accustomed to the unholy gloominess of the torture chamber. From time to time, a miserable groan from the throat of the suffering Ramonde came to his ears.

A TERRIFIC rage deluged Van, as he stared through the murkiness toward the helpless body stretched out upon the rack. Murder for profit was one thing; a thing that, of course, he would never condone, but something which, after all, was understandable. But torture for the sheer pleasure of torturing, was the work of a madman—a fiendish fanatic whose distorted brain fed on the sufferings of others.

He wrenched at his chains. Within him was a driving compulsion to gain the rack, to release those cruel ropes, to rescue the tortured figure upon the devilish device.

The iron handcuff tore at his hand. He was utterly helpless in its grip. Then his anger passed; and he realized that brute strength would not effect his ends. Rather, the situation called for mental work, the devising of some plan which would release Ramonde from his horrible prison, and would permit Van to communicate with the police who must already be outside.

HE knew the commissioner well enough to realize that the man would do precisely as he had been told. On several occasions, the Phantom had issued strange orders to the department; and time had demonstrated clearly that the ends of justice were best served by meticulous obedience to the Phantom's orders.

But this time, ironically enough, it was his own orders that redounded against him. Undoubtedly, even now, the police were held silent and waiting in the street below, standing by to await the orders of the man who at this very moment was in the hands of the enemy.

Van glanced at José. The Cuban, he realized, would not be of much assistance to him in any plan he might concoct. The man sat on the floor, white-lipped. A faint moaning came from his lips. The poison of fear had sapped his courage, his strength.

Now Van Loan sat down on the floor also. With his right hand he managed to reach the heel of his shoe. He manipulated the heel in an odd manner; and a moment later it came off in his hand, revealing a small cavity in the bottom of the shoe.

Van smiled quietly. Perhaps this device which he carried for just such exigencies as this would stand him in good stead. From the secret cache in his shoe he withdrew a small hypodermic needle. A dull colorless fluid half filled its glass chamber.

Now, with the hypo concealed in his hand, he sat there, waiting, waiting for the arrival of the madman, Garros Rex, come to torture his victims with his own hand. And strangely, Van was impatient for the crazy Cuban to come to this chamber of horrors.

While José, overcome by fear, prayed that Garros Rex would delay for as long as possible in order that he—José—might enjoy an added moment of life, Van was eager for the battle to begin. The sooner Garros arrived, the sooner the Phantom could go into action, could cut Ramonde down from the rack, and give the signal which would start the police raid.

CHAPTER 13
One Minute to Freedom

WHEN at last, after what seemed an interminable period, there came to Van's ears the sound of a key rasping in the outer lock of the huge metal door. A moment later the portal swung inward. Framed in the doorway stood Garros Rex. Two guards were at his back.

But the blood-lusting killer was not going to share his sadistic pleasures with anyone else. He waved the guards back.

"Close the doors," he said harshly. "Remain there on guard until I am ready to leave. I shall deal with these swine myself."

His henchmen nodded and obeyed. The portal closed again. And now, his little eyes gleaming with an unholy light, Garros Rex strode through the murkiness of his torture room, prepared to enjoy to the utmost the savage and lingering death that he was about to deal to his victims.

Like the Reaper himself he strode down the long room, coming to a halt before the cringing figure of José. He turned to him. His foot swung through the air, kicked wickedly at the prisoner.

"You," he said, and his voice was thick with hatred, "you whom I trusted, would betray me. I promise you, José, your death shall be the most lingering. You shall have the infinite pleasure of dying last, of witnessing what I do to your two companions of this treason."

"And you, Ramonde," he said. "You, who knew me from childhood, should have remembered that one does not betray Garros Rex. For that lapse of memory, you shall pay dearly."

His brown hand described a short arc through the air and thudded up against the face of the helpless man upon the rack. A low moan emanated from the white lips.

The blood surged angrily through Van Loan's veins. An awful impulse was upon him to tear at his chains, to break loose and hurl himself upon this monster who struck impotent, suffering men.

But with a strong effort of will, he held his peace. He did not move—he realized the senselessness of that—yet every sense was alert, every muscle tense and ready to go into action when only the opportunity provided itself.

Now Garros Rex turned from Ramonde to gloat over his third victim. He turned his beady eyes upon Van Loan.

"And you," he said, and a cackling, mocking laugh ripped through the air. "You, the Phantom, the great invincible detective! Well, at last you have met your master. Garros Rex has triumphed, even over the Phantom."

He took a step forward. His foot was suddenly raised. Undoubtedly, it was his intention to kick Van Loan like a dog, in the same manner as he had treated José. His foot moved swiftly through the air.

Then, in that instant, Van Loan was no longer the dazed, beaten man that he had appeared to be a short moment ago. This was the instant for which he had been waiting, upon which he would stake all.

His gyved hands moved with the incredible rapidity of a striking snake. He looped the chain which held his handcuffs together about the Cuban's foot. He jerked suddenly.

Garros Rex's legs moved out from under him. He fell with a heavy thud to the floor. A curse left his lips and his hand shot to his coat pocket, in search of the revolver he carried there.

BUT now again, Van's hand shot out. The hypodermic needle tore a pinpoint of flesh from Garros' leg. The Cuban was aware of a slight pricking sensation, yet he did not know what it was.

His hand whipped from his pocket, holding an automatic. He moved it up on a level with the Phantom's heart. But his finger never constricted upon the trigger.

His eyes were suddenly glazed. His face was pallid. His hand dropped limply into his lap, and his gun clattered impotently to the floor.

Now his head lolled down over his chest. He slumped forward, an inert, helpless heap. The Phantom's drug had worked once again. But he knew that the dose he had introduced into Garros Rex's system was hardly enough to keep him unconscious for a long period. Van realized that now he must work at top speed in order to accomplish the plan he had evolved.

At his side José was staring at him, a new hope slowly dawning in his eyes. A question was written in his face, but Van Loan wasted no time in words.

Hastily he ran his constrained fingers through Garros Rex's pockets. Then at last he found what he sought. He withdrew a small bunch of keys. It was slow work fitting them to the lock which held the gyves fast. But at last the key turned and Van Loan rose, a free man.

HE leaped across the floor to where Ramonde was stretched out upon the rack. It was the work of an instant to loosen the cruel ropes and release the musician from the torturing imprisonment which he was undergoing.

Gently Van laid the half-unconscious man upon the floor. Then he returned to the prostrate figure of Garros Rex. Hastily he divested himself of his clothes, then donned those that he ripped from the fallen body of the mad Cuban.

Then, from the lining of the coat which he had himself been wearing, he took a small waterproof bag of make-up material. He knelt at the side of Garros Rex, while his fingers hastily drew the various sticks of grease paint across his features.

José stared at him in increasing wonder, as there before his very eyes a protean miracle took place.

For when Van Loan rose, his countenance was no longer the countenance of Ramonde the musician, but that of the Cuban fanatic, Garros Rex!

"Remain here," he said. "Remain silent. I can get out of the building as long as the others believe that I am Garros Rex. The police shall be here in less than five minutes."

José nodded dumbly. The events of the past few moments had been entirely too much for his bewildered brain. Van Loan, with Garros Rex's automatic in his pocket, walked boldly to the door.

His fingers beat a tattoo on the metal frame. A voice from without demanded: "Who is that?"

Slowly the portal swung inward. Hastily Van moved through the doorway, ere the portal was entirely open. He took no chances on an idle glance of one of the guards recognizing the prostrate figure that lay on the floor where Van Loan himself had been imprisoned a few moments ago.

"You will remain here," he said. "I shall return shortly. Until then, you are to permit no one to enter that room. Is this understood?"

The men nodded subserviently. Van Loan strode, with the majestic gait of the man he was impersonating, down the corridor.

He was aware of a surging sense of triumph in his heart. His plan had worked, and he felt certain now that this was his last foray in the titanic struggle with the evil forces of the League of the Fer-de-Lance.

He was positive that no one could possibly penetrate his disguise. And now that the men in the building believed that he was the great Garros Rex to whom they were in abject thrall, to emerge from the warehouse would be a simple matter.

He realized that, by now, the police surely had arrived; that at this moment they were undoubtedly gathered in the street, impatiently awaiting the advent of the Phantom before going into action.

He passed a group of men at the end of the hall. They raised their machetes in salute as he stalked by. He descended a rickety flight of stairs at the north end of the building. He remembered the route they had taken when he had been brought here.

Now he had gained the ground floor. At the end of a long corridor, he perceived the door which gave out onto the street. There was no one in sight. Not a single man of the League of the Fer-de-Lance stood between him and his goal.

In another instant, he would be on Lenox Avenue. In another moment he would be leading the host of the police in the raid upon the sinister organization which had dedicated itself to murder and pillage.

Then of a sudden, he became aware of a stealthy footfall at his side. He turned swiftly. And as he did so, a familiar grating voice trickled into his ear.

Astounded, Van Loan's eyes gazed into the tall, black-clad figure whose brain he knew was the motivating force of the League. A heavy .45 was held in the dark-gloved hand of the man, and a mocking light burned in his evil eyes.

CHAPTER 14
The Black One Scores

HANDS reaching upwards slowly, a bewildering cloud enveloped Van's mind. Had the Black One pierced his disguise? That seemed impossible. So adept was Van in the art of makeup that never in his entire career had he even been suspected of not being the man he impersonated.

Yet, despite these questions, none of his surprise showed in his face. He now spoke in the clipped English of Garros.

"What is this?" he asked. "Why do you, my friend, come to me with a gun held in your hand?"

"That," he replied, "is a matter which I shall shortly explain to you, Garros Rex."

Despite the sinister threat in the other's tone, Van was conscious of a feeling of vast relief. Whatever reason the Black One might have had for this overt action of his, undoubtedly he did not know that Van was other than the man whom he masqueraded as.

"You will turn around, Garros," he said. "You will march before me until you come to that room near the outer door. You will enter that room."

"But," protested Van, his face contorted with the black rage that he knew would have come to Garros' face at this act on the part of his partner in crime.

"You will not talk," whispered the other savagely. "You will not call to your men for help. If you do, you shall die where you stand."

Van stood stock still and glared at the other for a moment. Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he turned and walked to the door of the room which the Black One had indicated.

Van turned the knob and walked into the room. It was small and compact, lighted by a flickering candle. He noted that there was a window which gave out onto the street. Black paint on its panes rendered it opaque.

The Black One pulled the door closed behind him. Then, with his back leaning against it, he faced Van Loan. The .45 in his hand never wavered. Its ugly muzzle drew a direct bead on Van's heart.

Though it was a sense of frustration, bitter disappointment that he had failed of his escape at the last moment which seethed in Van's breast, it was stark rage that showed on his face as he confronted the cowled man.

"I shall do more than this to the great Garros Rex," he said, and there was a mocking lilt in his voice.

"They shall not," he contradicted, "for I am going to kill you, Garros. Already I have the wealth, which we have stolen together, safely cached. With the haul we make tonight, I am through with the League. I am taking it all. Do you understand?"

VAN understood only too well. As he had believed all along, the Black One was interested only in his own ends. The mad game of making Garros king was none of his concern. He had exploited the Cuban fanatic as ruthlessly as Garros had exploited his own followers.

"But," Van's voice rose, "what of the League? What of our plan to make me emperor?"

Again the Black One laughed. "You fool," he said. "Did you really believe that you could become king? Did you really believe that I was working for you? Oh, no!

"I needed you, Garros. I needed you to help me to a fortune. Now, having attained it, I need you no longer. You are the only living man who knows my identity, and for that knowledge you shall die." Their eyes met again, and unmistakable murder was written in the gaze of the Black One.

"I have a silencer on this gun, as you will observe," said the cowled man. "In an instant you will be dead, Garros Rex, dead with your mad, frustrated dreams of glory. Are you ready, Garros?"

He took a step forward, and his finger tightened almost imperceptibly upon the trigger of the .45.

Van Loan's brain worked with the speed of light. The fact that he was in truth not the man that the Black One intended to slay did him little good now. Ironically enough, it had been in the guise of the one man whose safety seemed beyond doubt that he had essayed to escape from the building. And now it was this very man, Garros, whose life was sought by the Black One.

Van realized that he could expect no mercy. In another instant the silenced bullet from the other's gun would plow its way through his breast. The Black One would escape with his ill-gotten gains. And then—

VAN decided to stake all on a single desperate throw of the dice. Behind him was the window he had first seen when he entered the room. Beyond that window was the street; and in the street were armed men, reinforcements.

Now the cowled one took another step forward. His little eyes gleamed wickedly, and his gun was held steadily in his hand. In another instant he would fire.

Van tensed his muscles. His eyes were riveted on the other's trigger finger, on the telltale muscles of the wrist. Then two things happened almost instantaneously.

The .45 moved slightly. A spurt of flame and steel emanated from its barrel. But an infinitesimal fraction of a second before the other had fired, Van had hurled his body at the window panes behind him.

He felt a searing burn at the top of his shoulder as the steel slug creased his flesh. Then the window shattered to a thousand fragments. Glass bit into his cheek. With alarm in his eyes, the Black One fired again as Van's body hurtled through space.

With a heavy thud that jarred every nerve in his body, Van struck the sidewalk. From the window above him he heard a snarling curse as the cowled man saw the cohorts of police which raced down to investigate the trouble.

VAN sprang to his feet. His fingers groped for his platinum badge. As the police came up he held it aloft for all to see. He pointed with his hand toward the warehouse.

"There!" he cried. "Raid that building. Don't let a man escape. This is the Phantom!"

Even as the police made ready to charge the building, Van heard the shouting of men, the trampling of feet within, as the cowled one gave the alarm.

Half a dozen officers armed with axes battered at the door. In an instant it was a chipped mass of wood. Now, with the Phantom at their head, the forces of the law poured into the building. Van Loan led them up the stairs, the automatic of Garros in his hand.

It was on the second landing that the henchmen of the League of the Fer-de-Lance made their stand. Halfway up the stairs, Van heard someone shout an order.

Steel hailed through the structure. Death stalked through the corridors. The stuttering chatter of a machine-gun sang a devastating obligato to the staccato pistol fire.

Van heard a ghastly gurgling sound at his side and turned to see a policeman go down, a bullet in his jugular. Now, from the rear, one of the police hurled a hand grenade up the stairs into the midst of the defending party.

WITH a tremendous detonation it burst into fragments, taking a heavy toll of life. Those who remained dispersed, leaving their shattered, torn comrades behind them.

The police advanced, the Phantom at their head, to the second line of the League's defenses. Suddenly from the rear a Lewis gun ripped a burning streak of lead into the flank of the invaders. The men of Garros had essayed to annihilate the police between two fires.

Blood stained the floor, rendering it slippery to the shoes of the oncoming police. Van, his back against the balustrade of the stairway, emptied his automatic into the charging mob of Cubans. A man fell.

Hastily Van made his way to the stair-head. There, in the shadows, he hastily reloaded his revolver with ammunition he had taken from one of the policemen. Then, as he lifted his head, he saw the speeding figure of Garros Rex leap from the torture room and disappear through another portal halfway down the passageway.

Van wasted no time before giving chase. Undoubtedly, the Cuban fanatic had recovered from the effects of the drug Van had administered to him. He was not running toward the battle, but away from it. Van realized that Garros was desperately seeking a means of escape. And the escape of the unholy leader of the gang Van did not intend to permit.

He gained the room into which Garros had raced, three seconds after the Cuban. The chamber was empty. But there in the center of the floor, where a rug had been hastily thrown back, was a trap door.

Van flung it open and descended the ladder which the open top revealed. Down, down, he went, until he found himself in a narrow concrete corridor. He raced down the passageway. Before him he heard the echoing footfalls of the fleeing Cuban.

He realized one thing which he had overlooked. Undoubtedly, the Black One and Garros had easy access to this secret means of egress, which had been devised for just such an emergency as this.

At last, he emerged from the tunnel to find himself in the rear yard of a tenement house. Swiftly he raced around the areaway to the front of the building. When he gained the street, he was a full block from the cordon of police.

He caught a swift glimpse of a roadster turning the far corner—and the man at its wheel was Garros Rex.

A taxi stood parked at the curb, its driver chatting with some cronies near-by. Van did not hesitate. He leaped to the driver's seat, jammed down hard on the accelerator and slithered through the streets in pursuit of the escaping Garros.

CHAPTER 15
The Black One Strikes

CRAZILY the two cars careened through the streets of Harlem. Van's hand pressed down on the button of the horn, and it groaned steadily.

He shot past red traffic lights, driving with all the skill he possessed. His eyes remained on the red tail-light of Garros' roadster, some three blocks ahead of him. The Cuban was traveling at terrific speed. Van's foot touched the floor boards as he held the accelerator all the way down.

The roadster sped due west, then turned north at Fifth Avenue. Van followed. His tires shrieked protestingly as he careened around on two wheels. His horn uttered its bass warning and pedestrians scurried out of the way of the mad taxicab.

THEN from the rear Van heard the wailing note of a police siren, as a motorcycle officer took off in pursuit of the lunatic who burned up the street in his taxicab.

Still Van did not slow down. Still he kept Garros' red tail-light in sight. As long as his quarry kept going. Van meant to keep up the grim chase.

But the motorcycle gained steadily on the cab. Now the policeman shot ahead of him and cut him off swiftly. Van jammed on his brakes. It was either stop or run the man down.

He showed his insignia to the startled officer. The man began his apologies, but Van Loan broke in curtly.

"Take this cab," he ordered. "Return it to its driver at Lenox Avenue and 115th Street. Give me your motorcycle."

He did not wait for the other to acquiesce. He sprang to the saddle of the bike, and opened her up wide. His siren screamed its eerie warning as he catapulted through the streets like a madman. On, on he went, his eyes fighting through the ache that his straining to keep Garros in sight had brought upon them.

He had lost precious minutes. And now he was by no means sure that the red light ahead, to which he kept his gaze riveted, was that of the roadster he pursued.

A truck suddenly bore down on him from a side street. Yet he did not slacken his pace. He twisted the wheel deftly, and avoided the vehicle by inches. On he pounded.

His hand dropped to the automatic in his pocket as he came closer to the car he saw before him. Then of a sudden he reached it, and a cold disappointment deluged his heart.

Slowly he turned the motorcycle about. Then a sudden hunch came to him. He speeded up again and headed the machine toward Alciemo's restaurant. It might be there, he reasoned, that Garros would go for aid when hard pressed by the law.

He shot like a meteor into 110th Street. He brought the motorcycle to a stop a scant half block away from the restaurant. Then as he continued his journey, his heart gave a sudden bound.

FOR there parked before the restaurant was the roadster in which Garros Rex had made his escape. Van's hand dropped to the butt of his automatic once more, and he quickened his pace.

He entered the place unostentatiously, walking close to the wall. With his face still wearing the dark stain, he, of course, passed as a Cuban. Still, he wished no one to mistake him for Garros Rex, inasmuch as the fanatic was already there.

Swiftly he strolled about the place, his keen eyes scrutinizing the features of those who sat in the secluded booths.

An apprehension settled over his heart as he realized that perhaps Garros had another secret means of escape at Alciemo's. For he knew quite definitely that if the League was to be thoroughly destroyed Garros must be captured.

SUCH was the dominant personality of the man, that even though his gang were rounded up by the police, he could quickly find additional recruits among his ignorant countrymen.

And that was not the whole consideration either. For it was Garros who knew the true identity of the Black One.

Van realized that the Cuban did not yet know of the Black One's duplicity; that Garros most certainly did not realize that his partner in the League's nefarious enterprises had stolen all the bloodstained wealth they had collected.

The police raid had precluded Garros' discovering the perfidy of the cowled man.

Now, Van gave up his search of the main dining room. Undoubtedly the fanatic he sought was not there. He turned and made his way up a flight of stairs that led to the private rooms above.

Most of them were empty. But one door remained forbiddingly shut. Van knocked upon its panels.

Van Loan smiled quietly. His hand tightened about the butt of the revolver. He replied in the Spanish accents which he had heard one of Garros' men use during his imprisonment in the torture room.

There was the sound of a bolt being drawn. The door swung open. Then on the threshold Garros Rex stood staring in amazed stupefaction.

For before him stood an image of himself. For a moment he could not grasp the significance of this miracle. Then of a sudden it came to him that there was but one man in all the world who was so expert in the matter of disguise.

For a moment Garros stood there in utter silence. Then he went suddenly berserk. Before his very eyes his dreams of empire were crumbling.

The mighty illusion that he had created in his distorted mind was falling to pieces.

A terrible rage came over him. Wrath and bitterness gave him a tremendous courage.

HE uttered a terrible cry, and disregarding Van's weapon, his hand plunged to his coat pocket. He pressed the trigger of his gun without withdrawing it from the cloth. A ripping slug of lead whirred past Van's head.

Now Garros snatched his weapon from his pocket and charged toward Van Loan. Two reverberations sounded through the air. One steel pellet buried itself harmlessly in the plaster of the wall directly behind Yan Loan.

The other thudded against a human chest, ripped through human flesh and stilled a heart.

Garros Rex fell to his knees. Blood ran crazily down his shirt front. His eyes were glazed and an agonized moan escaped his lips. Then he pitched forward on his face and was silent.

For a moment Van Loan stood there, staring at the body of the slain man who had wreaked so much evil on the world. Then a frown came to his brow. Garros' death complicated things. He had wanted the Cuban to live, to tell him of the Black One.

He had reasoned that once Garros knew of the other's treachery, he would not hesitate to tell his secret. But now, with Garros dead, how could the man in the cowl be brought to justice?

For the moment Van was so engrossed in this problem that he did not hear a stealthy footfall behind him.

He was unaware of the sinister presence of the man who at that very moment was the person uppermost in his thoughts.

For there, standing behind him in the hall, stood the terrible black-robed figure. His little eyes glittered evilly, and in his hand was an automatic held high above his head by the muzzle.

NOW his arm came down. Too late the Phantom turned. He was aware of a beady pair of eyes hurling hate at him. He was aware of a descending black object, swinging viciously through the air toward his skull.

An instant later the cruel butt of the revolver crashed down upon his skull. An infinite blackness descended upon him. His knees buckled and he fell. Consciousness left him.

CHAPTER 16
S.O.S.

WITH difficulty Van Loan opened his eyes. His head ached dully. Daylight gleamed palely through a disc above his head. The room seemed to throb about him. For a moment he was puzzled. Then light flooded his brain.

He was stretched out on a bunk, evidently on a ship. He attempted to sit up and discovered that his hands and feet were tightly bound. A rope across his chest held him firmly down. He twisted his head to see that he was in a small ship's cabin.

The last thing he remembered was the gun battle in the private room of the restaurant, the battle in which Garros Rex had been killed by the Phantom's weapon.

Van Loan was alert now. His brain raced. He had been knocked out—had been brought to this yacht. But by whom?

There was but one answer. Garros was gone. No longer would he rule his evil horde through fear of death and the belief that some day he would be King. But the sinister clad figure of the Black One still remained.

Van Loan wondered how long ago it had been since he had been knocked unconscious there in the restaurant. It might have been many hours since that had happened, or possibly only a short time. How had it been possible for the Black One to have had him brought to this yacht without the police interfering?

To his surprise he found that though his wrists were tightly tied together he could raise his forearms to his head. He smiled grimly as he lifted his bound wrists on a level with his eyes.

Whoever had tied him had evidently been hasty or careless. They had not realized it was possible for a man to untie knots with his teeth!

Swiftly he began to bite and pull at the ropes around his wrists. It was slow work, but finally a strand loosened. He continued his efforts tenaciously.

At last his hands came free. After continued effort he managed to squirm out from beneath the rope that was bound across his chest and to the bunk beneath him.

It took but a few seconds to release his ankles. He rose swiftly to his feet and silently approached the closed door of the cabin. It was locked from the outside, evidently by a heavy bolt, for there was no keyhole to indicate the presence of a lock.

Now Van Loan understood why his captors had not been overly particular in tying him. They believed that the locked cabin could hold him securely, what matter that he escaped from the bonds.

HE abandoned the idea of the door as an exit. He leaped up on the bunk. By standing upright he could just reach the porthole above his head.

His fingers found the catch, released it and the round glass swung inward. The aperture was not more than two feet in diameter. He realized that the width of his shoulders would not permit him to squeeze through head first.

He jumped down, looked swiftly around the cabin. He found a straight back chair, placed it on the bunk and then stood upon it. Now he was able to look out through the open porthole.

In the distance he saw a sandy beach and in the background were green trees and houses. He recognized the topography. The yacht was anchored in Long Island Sound, not more than half a mile from the Jardine estate.

Van Loan glanced up at the ceiling of the cabin. He discovered that wall panels terminated in a beveled edge that ran completely around the cabin. This extended out from the wall about an inch.

By standing on his toes Van was able to grip the beveled edge of the top of the paneling. He found it was strong enough to hold him and he drew his body up until he was able to thrust his legs out through the porthole.

GRADUALLY, fiercely, he worked his way through the opening. By stretching his arms straight out above his head, he finally squeezed his shoulders through.

The weight of his body pulled him down the smooth hull of the yacht. His clutching fingers missed the edge of the porthole as he fell.

An instant later he hit the water with a splash. He went under, then came up again. For a moment he trod water and glanced up at the deck of the yacht. He caught a swift glimpse of a figure clad entirely in black striding across the bridge; and he knew his original deduction had been correct.

He plunged beneath the surface once again and swam under water till he reached the shadow of the yacht's stern. Swiftly he moved through the placid bay along the port side of the craft. He emerged from the water, completely concealed by the curved hull from any eyes on deck. Before him was the anchor chain, taut and steady, running from the poop to the bottom of the bay.

Cautiously he gripped the chain and proceeded slowly to pull himself hand over hand toward the deck. He gained the rail and carefully glanced around.

From time to time a reverberating throbbing shook the vessel and the Phantom realized that the engine was turning over, preparatory to the weighing of the ship's anchor.

Now he clambered, wet and bedraggled, to the deck itself. For a moment he stood there, motionless; then for the second time he caught sight of the black-cowled figure moving amidships. Swiftly he concealed himself behind a ventilator. Not for an instant did he take his eyes from the sinister figure that trod the deck.

A moment later the object of his scrutiny turned and disappeared through the door of the companionway.

The Phantom glanced aloft. There, strung between the masts, was the wireless aerial. He smiled quietly and nodded to himself as if corroborating some unspoken thought of his own. Then on silent feet, unobtrusively as a gliding shadow, he made his way along the deck. Unobserved he reached the companion ladder leading to the bridge. From his position he could see the blue back of the officer on duty.

AT the rear of the bridge was a small shack-like structure. This, Van knew, was the wireless room; and it was toward this that he made his way.

He gained its door unseen by the officer, who remained staring at rising clouds above the port bow. Then, with remarkable speed to which he sacrificed not one iota of silence, he flung open the door of the wireless room. In one movement he closed the door again and sprang upon the amazed figure who sat before the ship's radio. Van's hand encircled the man's throat and aborted the cry of alarm which he would have uttered.

For a moment they struggled in silence. The wireless operator's right hand crashed into Van's face. But the detective did not relinquish his stifling hold upon the other's jugular. Again and again his adversary's fist thudded against his flesh. But each succeeding blow was weaker, less potent, than the preceding one.

EVENTUALLY the vise-like grip on the other's throat took its toll. His brain, deprived of blood, reeled dizzily. His arm dropped to his side. He became inert and limp in Van's hands.

Then, and only then, did the Phantom release him. The man slumped on the floor. Swiftly Van's dexterous fingers ran through his pockets. He breathed a sigh of relief as he found a .38 in the other's coat.

This he dropped into his own pocket, then seated himself before the wireless. He knew that less than three miles down the coast was a coast guard station. His finger beat a steady tattoo on the sending key. Again and again he sent his message, giving the yacht's location, asking for aid, and at the conclusion of each transmission sending the celebrated name of the Phantom crackling through the ether.

He paused and waited just long enough for the first reply to his S.O.S. to trickle through the receiving instrument. Then he sprang to his feet and cautiously left the wireless room, again descending the companionway whence he had come.

This time he did not pause on the deck, but made his way below on the same ladder down which he had seen the Black One disappear a few moments ago. A moment later he found himself in a corridor lined with the closed doors of half a dozen cabins.

His hand dropped to the reassuring butt of the weapon in his pocket. Slowly he made his way down the deserted passageway. Then, of a sudden, he stopped dead as the sound of voices—both of them familiar—trickled to his ears. He moved closer to the doorway whence the voices came. Now the harsh tone of the cowled man came clearly to his ear.

"YOU complain at your incarceration," he was saying with an ugly laugh. "You are lucky, my friend. You are very lucky you live. When you saw me kill Paul Jardine's butler, you signed your own death warrant. It is only the press of more important matters which has prevented me from killing you before."

Van Loan's eyes narrowed. His mouth grew grim as he recognized the speaker. He had just heard the voice of John Hutton, the missing secretary of the late Paul Jardine.

And now the Phantom knew that the thing he had suspected, when he had first seen that half-smoked black cigar in the throne room of Garros Rex, was indeed a fact.

"You will never talk," the Black One exclaimed. "Within half an hour the yacht sails. The crew are ashore now bringing supplies. Even the police will not interfere with my departure. I have told them I am leaving to escape the dread League of the Fer-de-Lance." He laughed shortly. "In fact, the commissioner himself approves of my trip."

"You will die," said the Black One ominously. "You will die of any disease I choose, and you will insist upon being buried at sea. It shall be your last request."

A silence ensued, an unholy silence through which the grim figures of Death and Murder stalked arm and arm in fraternity.

"I've even vanquished the Phantom," boasted the cowled man. "In fact, he aided me by killing Garros when I no longer had any use for the man. All the wealth that the League of the Fer-de-Lance collected, in their mad game of making a maniac king, is here—loaded in the hold."

The Phantom waited no longer. He took a pace forward and flung open the door of the cabin.

The pale face of John Hutton stared at him, an amazed hopefulness fighting the fear in his face. Behind him the eyes of the Black One glittered venomously as they stared at the intruder.

"The game is over," said the Phantom as his eyes bored into those of the other over the unwavering muzzle of the .38 which he held in his hand. "The police will be here shortly to cash in your chips—Franklin G. Pace."

CHAPTER 17
Swan Song

FOR an instant Pace stood motionless. Then his hand moved with incredible speed. Through some swift legerdemain an automatic sprang to his fingers from the folds of the sinister robe. A crashing reverberation ripped through the room.

Van Loan's finger constricted upon the trigger of his own weapon, but even as he fired he was aware of a searing pain in his right arm. His shot went wild. Blood poured down the sleeve of his coat.

Now Hutton, regaining the courage and strength which had been slowly sapped from him during his imprisonment, entered the battle. Seizing a wicker chair, he crashed it down upon the cowled head of the Silent One. Pace swung on his heel. His automatic crashed. Hutton fell to the floor like a plummet. A furrow of blood streaked down his face.

The Phantom leaped forward with lightning speed. His right arm circled Pace's neck, then tightened. His right knee came up swiftly, smashing into the small of Pace's back.

But the masked man's arms were free—and his right hand still held the automatic. He brought the weapon up in a vicious swing against the arm that encircled his neck.

With a forward jerk, Pace managed to break the clutch of the arm about his neck. He swung around. But as he did so, Van Loan's free right arm swung. It caught the other man on the neck with that most deadly of all blows—the rabbit punch!

AS the Phantom struck the blow now, it was not the blow that boxers might use in the ring, but the quick chop stroke with the side of the hand that caught the nerve centers of the spine—the blow that the French Apaches used on their victims.

Pace fell to the floor, inert, immobile. Van Loan reached down and snatched the automatic from his hand. Then he tore the sinister mask from the other's head.

Here, vanquished and beaten, lay the unholy traitor who had ruled that dread League of the Fer-de-Lance.

Without, something bumped and grated against the yacht's hull. Van Loan heard the sound of grappling irons, then the tramp of feet. A moment later half a dozen men burst into the room. With the coastguardsmen was a man clad in the uniform of police captain.

THE latter held a heavy service revolver in his hand with which he covered Van Loan. He stared with suspicious eyes at the figure of the pseudo Cuban.

Van Loan smiled quietly. From the inside of his coat he extracted his platinum badge. This he extended in the palm of his hand toward the policeman. The captain glanced down at it, then stared at Van's disguised face in amazement.

Then, as he gaped down at the fallen body of the Black One at his feet, his amazement increased.

"But that's Pace!" he cried. "That's Franklin G. Pace, the sugar man! What's wrong? Did the Fer-de Lance get him, too?"

Van Loan shook his head. "The Fer-de-Lance could never get him," he said quietly, "for the simple reason that he was the Fer-de-Lance. That is, he was the moving spirit of the sinister League. The whole diabolical scheme was his."

The captain ran a huge red hand across his puzzled brow. "I still don't get it," he said.

But before he began his recital, the coast guard officer straightened up from his examination of Hutton.

"Good!" said Van. "That's the missing John Hutton, Captain. Pace kidnapped him because he witnessed Pace's killing of Hawks, Jardine's butler. Hawks was killed because he would have been able to identify Garros Rex, the second in command of the League who visited Jardine the night he was killed by the fer-de-lance."

Now the captain looked less amazed. The practical policeman in him came to the fore. He nodded forcibly. "Hutton can testify against Pace."

"The whole thing has been the greatest extortion plot ever perpetrated," the Phantom continued. "In some way, Pace learned that Garros Rex, a fanatic who aspired to the throne of Cuba, had the control of a vast organization. This league had fattened on the fruits of their terrorist activities in Cuba. Pace saw the gigantic possibilities of importing them to America."

"Then," interposed the Captain, "Pace was interested in the overthrow of the Cuban republic?"

"NOT at all," said Van Loan. "Pace was interested in money, nothing more. Garros Rex and his band were merely his dupes. True, he pretended to them that he had fallen in with their schemes. But his ultimate goal was to double-cross them, to steal the tremendous wealth that they had accumulated, and then to desert them.

"He knew full well that if tycoons of industry died from the mysterious bite of the fer-de-lance, other rich men, actuated by fear, would quickly capitulate to the demands of the League."

"Now I'm beginning to see it," said the captain. "And Paul Jardine was the first victim selected."

"Precisely," said Van. "When I saw Pace, at Valero's suite, I noticed that he smoked Havana-Havana panatelas. Later, in the gang's stronghold, I saw the mysterious Black One with the same brand of cigar. Then, again, Pace was locked in Valero's hotel suite the night the ex-president and his followers were killed. Pace, apparently, was not there when the bodies were discovered. In the newspaper story no mention was made of him at all. Those murders, too, were Pace's doing.

"You will find, also, that it was Pace who placed the fer-de-lance in the drawer of Jardine's desk after removing the gun that the League's first victim kept there."

SO engrossed in the Phantom's recital were the others in the room that they failed to notice the black-robed figure of Pace stir uneasily on the floor. The man's eyes opened and he glanced around the room. Then a mad courage came to him, the courage engendered of sheer desperation. The hatred that flamed in his heart against the man who had frustrated his fiendish schemes overcame all else in his distorted mind. No matter what the price, his whole being lusted for vengeance. Within him a murderous desire was paramount.

Swiftly his hand dove into the inner part of his coat. It appeared again gripping a gleaming knife. He sprang to his feet with the rage and alacrity of a wild beast. Then in a single bound, entirely disregarding the fact that Van was in possession of a gun, he leaped with a wild cry of rage upon the Phantom.

Van Loan saw the man's body spring through the air. He wasted no time reaching for the automatic in his pocket. Instead, he took a half step forward and met the other's charge. The knife swished through the air with a dry hissing sound. Van's left hand shot out and seized the other's wrist.

For a moment they struggled desperately, there in the center of the cabin. Then of a sudden, as the black-robed figure was forced backwards, his stumbling leg came into sharp contact with a small table near the middle of the room.

With a crash it fell over; and from its center a drawer fell out. From the corner of his eye, Van caught sight of a slithering green thing that crawled from the fallen drawer to the deck. Van released his hold on Pace's wrist. He sprang back out of range of the deadly fangs of the fer-de-lance.

But the hatred in Pace's heart, his maddened lust to slay the Phantom, blinded him to all other dangers. In the green slithering thing at his feet he merely saw another way to murder the man who had brought him to book.

SWIFTLY he bent down, intending to seize the reptile at the back of its head and fling it at Van Loan. His hand shot out toward the viper.

But he had not reckoned on the lightning-like speed of the reptile. Even before he could seize it, the snake, aware of danger, turned its head sharply and evaded his grip. Now Pace took a step back. But with incredible speed the reptile followed. The fer-de-lance was less than a foot away from him.

Pace's eyes were dilated caverns of darkness. His face was as white as a snow-covered shroud. He fought against the dryness of his mouth. He fought for his voice.

"Stop it!" he screamed in a crescendo of terror. "Stop it! Don't let it bite me! Oh, Oh! Oh! I—"

The last words stuck in his throat. Articulation was throttled in his larynx. The fer-de-lance had reached him. It crawled across his hand. A wild, shrill scream emanated from Pace's lips. He lifted his hand and essayed to fling the creeping death from him.

Then the snake struck. Its fangs sank deep in the man's flesh. A deadly toxic poison poured into Pace's arteries, and the blood stream bore it into his heart. Pace's face was yellow and the awful thing in his eyes was that which was in the eyes of Lucifer when he looked upon God.

THE fer-de-lance detached itself from the man's hand and slithered to the friendly darkness beneath the desk. Pace, his face ghastly to behold, slumped forward. He lay motionless, no breath moving his lungs, no heart beating within him.

At his side, Van Loan heard the police captain breathe a hissing sigh of relief, and turn to one of his men.

"Get that man Hutton out of here," he said, "and we'll lock the door. You better keep that damn snake secure in here."

Bearing the wounded figure of Jardine's secretary, they left the stateroom. The police captain closed and locked the door behind him.

In the corridor he turned to the Phantom. "I'll leave a couple of men here," he said, "to take charge while I go ashore and report. You'd better come with us."

Van Loan nodded wearily. His wounded arm ached dully. He was suddenly aware of the enervating fatigue that was upon him. Silently he boarded the vessel of the coast guard. He smoked a cigarette alone in the bow as they headed toward shore.

To the idle onlookers who watched them disembark, he was merely an unobtrusive, black-haired Cuban, probably a mess boy. If they noticed that he was accompanied by police they probably speculated with placid indifference regarding the minor crime that had brought him into the clutches of the Law.

But Franklin G. Pace had known before he died that this nondescript, unprepossessing man with the brown face was that super-sleuth who had never yet been vanquished by his enemies.

To the diabolical fanatic who called himself Garros Rex this man had proven the final Nemesis who had put a stop for all time to the ruthless trail of murder and extortion that had been made by the menacing individual who led the League of The Fer-de-Lance.

While to Richard Curtis Van Loan, that same pseudo-Cuban that he now so cleverly impersonated was merely a tired young man who had drained his reserves of strength completely, who had fought a terrific battle against terrible odds, and who must rest. Rest and marshal his mental and physical forces until they had again reached the zenith of their perfect co-ordination.

FOR Van knew that the Phantom's work was never done, would never be done until the death which had taken so many of his enemies came for him and covered the violent career of the Phantom with a shroud of surcease.

Perhaps at the very moment sinister forces were gathering. Dark, obdurate creatures to whom the deaths of one or many would not matter just so long as the grim toll enabled them to reap their ghastly harvest of crime.

For such as these the Phantom must be ready, and yet for the moment he was weary, too tired to think of anything but the present. But as he left the ship and took a taxicab for Manhattan, a smile flickered across his lips, despite the aching lassitude that was upon him.

For though its price might be great in blood, in work, in peril, the wine of triumph remained a heady draught that would never surfeit the Phantom.

THE END

UNKNOWN AUTHOR
WRITING AS
ROBERT WALLACE

SPAWN OF DEATH

TAKEN FROM THE CASE-BOOK OF RICHARD CURTIS VAN LOAN

First published in
The Phantom Detective #19, September 1934

This e-book edition: Roy Glashan's Library, 2026
Version Date: 2026-08-03

Produced by Matthias Kaether and Roy Glashan

All content added by RGL is proprietary and protected by copyright.

Click here for more Phantom Detective books

SPAWN OF DEATH

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1
The Scythe of Death

CHAPTER 2
The Man In Gray

CHAPTER 3
A Worthy Foeman

CHAPTER 4
Fate Turns the Tables

CHAPTER 5
The Swish of a Knife

CHAPTER 6
Garros Rex!

CHAPTER 7
Origin of the League

CHAPTER 8
Plea For Life!

CHAPTER 9
Test of Loyalty

CHAPTER 10
Death to the Enemy

CHAPTER 11
Hand of Garros!

CHAPTER 12
Devilish Device

CHAPTER 13
One Minute to Freedom

CHAPTER 14
The Black One Scores

CHAPTER 15
The Black One Strikes

CHAPTER 16
S.O.S.

CHAPTER 17
Swan Song

THE END

UNKNOWN AUTHOR WRITING AS ROBERT WALLACE

SPAWN OF DEATH

TAKEN FROM THE CASE-BOOK OF RICHARD CURTIS VAN LOAN

First published in The Phantom Detective #19, September 1934 This e-book edition: Roy Glashan's Library, 2026 Version Date: 2026-08-03 Produced by Matthias Kaether and Roy Glashan All content added by RGL is proprietary and protected by copyright. Click here for more Phantom Detective books

SPAWN OF DEATH

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1 The Scythe of Death

CHAPTER 2 The Man In Gray

CHAPTER 3 A Worthy Foeman

CHAPTER 4 Fate Turns the Tables

CHAPTER 5 The Swish of a Knife

CHAPTER 6 Garros Rex!

CHAPTER 7 Origin of the League

CHAPTER 8 Plea For Life!

CHAPTER 9 Test of Loyalty

CHAPTER 10 Death to the Enemy

CHAPTER 11 Hand of Garros!

CHAPTER 12 Devilish Device

CHAPTER 13 One Minute to Freedom

CHAPTER 14 The Black One Scores

CHAPTER 15 The Black One Strikes

CHAPTER 16 S.O.S.

CHAPTER 17 Swan Song

THE END

UNKNOWN AUTHOR
WRITING AS
ROBERT WALLACE

First published in
The Phantom Detective #19, September 1934

This e-book edition: Roy Glashan's Library, 2026
Version Date: 2026-08-03

Produced by Matthias Kaether and Roy Glashan

All content added by RGL is proprietary and protected by copyright.

Click here for more Phantom Detective books

CHAPTER 1
The Scythe of Death

CHAPTER 2
The Man In Gray

CHAPTER 3
A Worthy Foeman

CHAPTER 4
Fate Turns the Tables

CHAPTER 5
The Swish of a Knife

CHAPTER 6
Garros Rex!

CHAPTER 7
Origin of the League

CHAPTER 8
Plea For Life!

CHAPTER 9
Test of Loyalty

CHAPTER 10
Death to the Enemy

CHAPTER 11
Hand of Garros!

CHAPTER 12
Devilish Device

CHAPTER 13
One Minute to Freedom

CHAPTER 14
The Black One Scores

CHAPTER 15
The Black One Strikes

CHAPTER 16
S.O.S.

CHAPTER 17
Swan Song