Free The Emperor of Death by G. Wayman Jones Page B

Once inside the apartment, Van removed his disguise, bathed, and donned one of the suits that were always waiting there for the day when their owner, pursued by danger, should need them.
    As he dressed, Havens related as much as he knew of the circumstances which had brought him to the dive of Cokey Day as he remembered. Then with the story almost finished, he broke off and exclaimed excitedly: “Oh, Van, I forgot to tell you. I haven’t seen you for a few days. Isaac Block’s been killed.”
    Van’s fingers stopped in the adjustment of his collar pin, and he turned his head ever so slightly.
    “Block?” he said. “Killed? Why?”
    “As a warning. He was found shot in his library yesterday. The news was suppressed because of the panic his death would cause in the Street. But it’ll break in the papers tomorrow. Probably the bulldog editions have it now.”
    “But why? Why was he killed?”
    Havens shrugged, and his voice was bitter.
    “No reason. Simply as a warning.”
    “A warning? From whom?”
    But Van knew the answer to that even before the publisher had said that one word which the Phantom had learned to know meant death.
    “Hesterberg.”
    Van’s own eyes stared at him grimly from the mirror as he brushed his hair. His mouth was set and hard. He turned to Havens.
    “So,” he said. “He’s killing merely to terrorize the community now. He must feel damned sure of himself.”
    The two men looked at each other, worry and apprehension in their gaze; each thoroughly conscious that the thought in his own head was also in the other’s. Thus far, despite all their efforts, Hesterberg had covered his trail. More than that, his hand had stretched forth from his inaccessible concealment to strike down his enemies.
    “Let’s go up to your place,” said Van. “I need that drink more than ever now.”
    Silently Havens rose and the pair of them cautiously made their way to the street. Though now, as they hailed a passing cab, no habitué of Cokey Day’s would ever have recognized the well-dressed young clubman who climbed into the taxi, as the abject dope fiend who had fled the East Side dive a scant hour before.
    Despite the lateness of the hour, Muriel Havens was still up when they arrived at the publisher’s home. She greeted her father affectionately, then turned to Van.
    “Hello, stranger. I haven’t seen you for a long time, and now you come visiting at this late hour. Well, I’ll forgive you. Sit down and talk to me while Daddy mixes one of those cocktails for which he’s more famous than for his newspapers.”
    Havens smiled, and entered the butler’s pantry to mix the drinks, while Van sat down and gave his undivided attention to the girl opposite. Animatedly she indulged in small talk, while he silently feasted his eyes upon her.
    He was aware of a vague regret as he sat there — a regret that he had sacrificed his right to make love to this bright young creature that sat before him.
    Little did she realize as she sat there in the security of her own home talking to the most eligible bachelor in the city, that only a short while ago, he had been engaged in fighting for his life in a section of the city that she could not have known existed.
    Then suddenly he heard her mention two words which abruptly took his attention from her beauty and riveted it to her phrases.
    “Yes,” she said, “of course, the Phantom’s a hero and all that, but I certainly wouldn’t want my husband rushing around fighting those crooks. It’s romantic and all that, but I think I’d prefer security.”
    Van Loan smiled a smile that did not come from his heart. He felt dull and heavy within. Yet when he spoke his voice was as bantering as her own.
    “A husband as good as they say the Phantom is,” he said with a laugh, “would have no trouble sneaking into the house at night when you were waiting for him with a rolling pin.”
    She joined his laugh.
    Havens entered with a tray of cocktails. Muriel drained her