Free Mystery Of The Sea Horse by Lee Falk Page B

the plainclothesman. "What's he up to?"
Uncle Dave smiled faintly. "I think he's up to bringing Diana home."
    CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The plump cafe owner poured himself another root beer. After a few slurping swallows, he turned to the Phantom to ask, "Freshen your coffee up a little?"
The Phantom was sitting sideways at the otherwise empty counter. He was watching the phone booth at the back of the short narrow cafe. "No, thanks."
"Don't see how you can drink anything hot on a day like this anyway." The cafe owner slurped down the rest of the soft drink. "I guess we've got different metabolisms, like they say. I couldn't go around in an overcoat like yours either with this damn Santa . . ."
The phone inside the shadowy booth began to ring. The Phantom went in and answered it. "Walker," he said.
Agent Terry, up in San Francisco, said, "I checked that license number out for you through Motor Vehicles in Sacramento. Don't know if it'll do you much good."
"Why?" The Phantom had called his friend a few minutes earlier to ask him for a run-down on the license number he'd remembered from the car of the men he was fairly certain had taken Diana.
"Well, the car is registered to an outfit down your way called Katz's Kwik Karentals." Terry gave him the address.
"Thanks, I'll follow it up."
    "You're sure you don't want me to give you
more help on this? I can get you some men to—"
"Not yet." The Phantom hung up and left the booth.
The counterman tilted his head in the direction of the phone. "Good news or bad?"
The Phantom dropped some change on the formica counter. "I'm not sure yet."
"Of course, if Mr. Katz were here," said the freckled young man behind the battered desk.
The rental office was at the corner of a small lot. Ten cars sat outside looking toward the distant ocean.
Decreasing the distance between himself and the young man, the Phantom said, "I want to know who has this car out." He repeated the license number.
"Anyhow, this is my lunch hour." He indicated the paper plate and a half of a roast-beef sandwich before him.
"I can let the police come and ask you." The Phantom stopped directly in front of the desk. "But that will take time. And I don't have time to waste."
"We all got problems, sir. But you can't—"
The Phantom grabbed the freckled young man out of his swivel chair. "Give me the address, no more wisecracks."
"Well, I suppose Mr. Katz won't really mind," he decided. "Could you put my feet back on the floor so I can walk over to our rental book, please?"
Dropping him back on his feet, the Phantom followed him to the small office's other desk.
While flipping through a thick loose-leaf binder, the young man said casually, "You some kind of private detective?"
The Phantom made no answer.
"Yes, sir, this looks like your baby." He pointed a mustard-smudged finger at the book page. "That particular car was rented for a month in advance by a Mr. A. Anderson, and here's the address."
The Phantom studied the penciled notations on the form. "Been in town almost two weeks at least," he said. "Do you remember what Anderson looked like?"
Poking at a squiggle at the bottom of the sheet, the young man said, "Mr. Katz handled that transaction, sir. But, like I tried to tell you, he should be back in . . ."
The Phantom was already outside.
The desk clerk was apparently a woman, even though she was wearing a coat and tie. "I notice you're admiring my necktie," she said across the curved registration desk at the Phantom. "It was hand-painted for me by my son, Franklin, for my last birthday."
The Phantom asked the heavyset woman, "Is Mr. Anderson in?"
She rested four fingers on the topmost palm tree on her tie. "Which Mr. Anderson would that be?"
"A. Anderson. A tall blond man, about forty."
"Oh, you mean Andy. I always called him Andy during his all too-brief stays with us," said the lady desk clerk. "We get a lot of people come and go here at the Palma Hotel, but he certainly was one of the nicest. What we used to call, in my day, a