Mystery Of The Sea Horse (13 page)

The sun was hidden by thick smears of smoke. The wind seemed to be carrying tiny tongues of flame with it. All along this narrow street, people were working at keeping their houses wet, hosing down the roofs.

A plump woman with a perspiring red face shook her head at him. "We're not going to make it, not enough water pressure. And the fire's corning too fast."

He was running hard uphill. When he neared the yellow barricades, the Phantom left the sidewalk and ran between two houses.

The patrolmen were too preoccupied to notice him. They were intent on clearing out the area, and it was still too early to worry about looters.

He jogged across a dry back lawn, vaulted a hurricane fence, and cut across the next palio.

All at once behind him, the small white house he'd just passed by burst into flame. The shingle roof first, then the whole house. Flame and smoke shot straight up into the hot afternoon sky.

The Phantom halted for a few seconds. He discarded his covering everyday clothes and then ran on, unencumbered, in his tight-fitting Phantom costume. He could make better time this way.

He ran by a small portable swimming pool, its surface flecked with black cinders.

The house Anderson was using should be up ahead now. The masked man was fast approaching the cul-de-sac.

He moved rapidly back toward the street.

A uniformed policeman was standing on the porch of the house, his back to the Phantom.

Then the front door opened wide, letting out two men.

One of them was the blond man the Phantom had encountered at Laura Leverson's cottage.

But Diana was not with them.

Turning, the policeman became aware of the Phantom striding toward the house. "What the hell?" he exclaimed as he reached for his revolver.

But the Phantom's twin automatics were already unholstered and aimed at the trio. "Where's Diana?" he said.

Anderson smiled calmly, raising his eyebrows at the cop. "Is this one of your people? I'm afraid I don't recognize the uniform."

The masked man was close to Anderson now. "Where is she?"

"Listen, buddy," began the cop.

The top of the house started to smoke, then flame began to eat at the wood and roofing paper.

"My god," said Fulmer, "she's—"

One of the automatics jabbed into the man's side. "She's where?"

Fulmer swallowed. "In there ... in the house. I couldn't help it. I had to leave her."

The masked man pushed him aside, holstered his guns, and dashed toward the house.

"What the hell is going on?" shouted the cop.

The Phantom's broad shoulder hit the door as he turned the knob. The door flapped open.

"Diana!" he called out. "Diana!"

The burning roof filled the house with a huge crackling sound.

The masked man hurried down the hall into the living room. "Diana, where are you?"

The room seemed to be empty.

Then there was a tapping from the rear hall.

There was Diana. She had worked one leg free and been able to kick at the wall when she heard him calling her name. "Oh, Kit," she said when he'd removed the gag. "They left me here to—"

"I know." He lifted the girl and the chair free of the narrow hall and headed for the front door.

Just as the Phantom reached the. street with the girl, the entire house collapsed behind them.

Diana lowered her slim legs into Uncle Dave's pool. "I think you're looking very handsome."

Diana had on a gold-colored one-piece swimsuit. "Sure you don't want to join me for a swim? Uncle Dave has a really lovely pair of trunks he can loan you."

"No, not quite yet,"

"Do you think they'll get anything out of Fulmer?"

"Nothing that'll help me probably," answered the Phantom.

While he had been saving Diana from the burning house, Anderson and Fulmer had scuffled with the policeman. The calm Anderson had made it to their rented compact and gotten away. The cop had been able to hold on to Fulmer.

Diana climbed up the tile pool steps and sat on the edge. "You're going to keep on, keep looking for Chris Danton?"

"Yes, until I find him."

Her long dark hair brushed her bare shoulders

as she shook her head. "You're starting to sound like that Anderson, like some kind of hunter."

"That's exactly what I am," he told her. "Only, unlike Anderson, I'm not a paid assassin. I intend to find Danton and bring him to justice."

"I didn't mean you were like him . . . only, Kit, I wish you could stop now," said the girl. "I wish we could say this was all over—over and done with."

"But it's not over, Diana."

She looked up at the late-afternoon sky. Even here, miles from the nearest fire, the sky had a brown smoky color. "Do you believe what Anderson told me, that Chris Danton was some kind of Nazi war criminal?"

"It's quite possible," he said. "It would fit in with what you told me about Danton's associate, the old doctor with a fondness for speaking German." He left the chair to stroll, slowly, around the pool. "I've asked a connection with Interpol to provide me with some background information on this Rolf Langweil. They have him written off as dead."

"Anderson seemed very certain," Diana said. "Unless . . ."

"Unless what?"

"It did occur to me that both of them, Anderson and Fulmer, might simply be rival drug pushers."

The Phantom shook his head. "That doesn't appear likely, Diana. Terry, up in San Francisco, has never heard of either of them. And Fulmer's identification papers seem to be clever fakes, manufactured someplace in Europe. No, I'm inclined to believe those two really are hired assassins whose paths happened to cross ours."

"I wonder if," said the dark-haired girl, "Anderson will try to ... to make me talk again." "Pretty risky for him to try to see you again," said the Phantom. "But I'll see to it you're guarded while I-"

"Wait a minute." She got up and walked toward him. "Where are you going?"

"I have a hunch," he said, "Danton may have another hideout down in Mexico. I'm leaving for there early tomorrow."

"Were
leaving, you mean."

"I have to work alone on this."

"But, Kit, every time you leave me alone, something dreadful happens," the girl pointed out. "Besides you'll attract a lot less attention if you visit Mexico as half of a nice clean-cut and innocent tourist couple. Don't you think?"

After a pause, the Phantom said, "Maybe you're right."

"Of course I am." The girl hugged him, laughing.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Agent Marcus smiled at the bleary window of his office. "Good. This should fix those damn fires." He stuck his finger into his rumpled pack of menthol cigarettes to fish one out.

A heavy rain was falling, splashing at the windows.

At his desk, Busino had a marine chart spread out on top of the other clutter. "Lot of ocean between here and Acapulco."

His partner crossed the office to stand beside the desk. "Aren't you going to bum a cigarette?"

"I'm making a greater effort to cut down," said Busino.

"So you're not going to bum them off me any more?"

"Well, I'm going to bum them less often." He leaned closer to the map.

"Coast Guard says they can't locate the
Sea Horse,
huh?"

"Nope, no trace of Danton's yacht so far."

Marcus wandered back to his own desk. He lit his cigarette with a wooden match. "This guy Fulmer now," he said through a swirl of smoke. "I wonder about that story of his."

"Did you talk to the guy?" Busino pushed back from his desk and his chair made a catlike squeak.

"The local cops let me sit in on their questioning last night." He gave a vague shrug. "He sounds convincing."

"An assassin," said Busino. "You don't run into

too many people in that line of work." When he let go of the edges of the chart, it rolled itself up. "So our boy Danton is really an ex-Nazi named—what was it?"

"Rolf Langweil," answered Marcus. "I'm having some of the boys in Washington see what they can dig up."

Busino glanced over his shoulder to watch the rain fall. "Where do you think Danton is?"

"Mexico," answered Marcus.

"Oh, so? Why Mexico?"

"Because that's where Walker headed for this morning," said the other agent. "He and the Palmer girl are flying down there."

"You still don't quite trust Walker, do you?"

Marcus bit his lower Hp, scowling. "There's something ... I don't know . . . mysterious about the guy," he said finally. "And I was talking to the cop who collared Fulmer up there where the house was on fire yesterday. He says the guy who got Diana Palmer out of the burning building was wearing some kind of costume."

"A costume? What do you mean—like a gorilla outfit, or a suit of armor?"

"No, some kind of tight-fitting thing, with gun- belts across here." Marcus traced a line across his own stomach. "And a mask. The guy was big and tall, good-looking. Sounds an awful lot like Walker."

"Why would Walker be running around all tricked out like that?"

"I don't know," said Marcus. "Except . . . when this cop was telling me it almost rang a bell. Like it reminded me of something I heard of once."

Busino suggested, "I bet Terry up in Frisco could tell you more about Walker."

"Terry is being very cute about all this," said

his partner. "He tells me to trust Walker, but he won't tell me anything else about him."

"You know," said Busino as he unfurled the chart and studied the Pacific Ocean again, "this case has a lot of odd elements. More than we usually run into."

"So I noticed," said Marcus.

The man who had called himself Anderson had a new name. His hair was a sandy brown, and there was a small bristly mustache on his upper lip. He swallowed the last spoonful of his bowl of chili, finished the last saltine cracker, and wiped his mouth carefully with his paper napkin. He left the small window booth where he'd been sitting alone, paid his check, and walked out onto the run-down street.

He adjusted a checkered motoring cap on his head and buttoned up the collar of his black raincoat. The rain was coming down heavily; the gutters were running fast and carrying an infinity of debris. The man, who was now carrying a wallet identifying him as Arthur Helmann, stepped across the dirty brown water at the curb. He crossed the street and walked toward a pale-orange apartment building.