Mystery Of The Sea Horse (3 page)

There was still no one out in the library. "The sea horse should close it up again," she said to herself.

Climbing, more carefully this time, back on the stool, she shoved the bracket back to its upright position. The wall and the crowded shelves swung back to their original position. Diana returned the Bangalla book to its place and left the library.

She made up her mind not to say anything to Danton about what she'd seen or heard on the other side of the wall.

CHAPTER THREE

A dusty weekend silence filled the long pale- green corridors of the government office building. Afternoon sunlight came in the windows at the ends of the hallways, making broad stripes of light across the shadows.

In one small office in the quiet building, two men were sitting. They were both average-looking, both in their middle forties.

"Another fine day," said one of them. He was seated at a gray-metal desk, with one foot resting on the pulled-out bottom drawer. His name was Marcus.

"That bothers you, doesn't it?" The other man was leaning back in a chair against one pale-green wall. His name was Busino and his hair was beginning to thin on each side of his widow's peak.

Marcus said, "I'm not used to life out here. Santa Barbara spooks me, with all this good weather. It's not like back in New Jersey where nature keeps surprising you. You know, three nice days and then—wham!—a thunder storm."

"I hear they got something called the Santana or Santa Ana," said Busino. "Some kind of big wind that blows the hell out of everything and starts all kinds of brush fires around this time of year."

"I'll look forward to that." Marcus shoved back from the gray desk. At one of the office's two narrow windows he stopped. 'You can almost see the Pacific from here." "What's the Coast Guard say?"

"The
Sea Horse
should be back tomorrow." Marcus fished a half-full pack of menthol cigarettes out of his pants pocket.

"Think it's worth a search?"

Squeezing out a cigarette from the seagreen pack, Marcus replied, "We've done that twice already and come up with a big zero."

"Can I borrow one?"

"I thought you quit."

Busino rubbed at his bald spot. "I feel like just one once in a while."

Marcus tossed him the pack. "Damn it," he said. "We know Danton is in on this business."

"We suspect he is," corrected Busino.

"You suspect; I know." He stuck a cigarette between his lips, turning his back on the window. "And we can never find a damn thing on that fancy yacht of his."

"So maybe let's forget the boat and concentrate on the island," suggested Busino. "He could be stashing it there."

"The local boys tried that," reminded Marcus, "and came up with zilch."

Busino lit his cigarette with a match ripped-out of a paper folder. "Well, then we just keep watching Danton and we keep hitting him with searches. Sooner or later well get something."

"And meanwhile he keeps bringing millions of bucks worth of the stuff up from Mexico." Back at the desk Marcus poked at a scatter of papers. "Did you ever run into Dave Palmer back East?"

"Know his name, used to be police commissioner someplace. Why?"

"He's staying out here in Santa Barbara this summer," said Marcus. "His niece is out here on a vacation, too."

"So?"

"She's been seen all around town with Chris Danton."

Busino shrugged. "He's not a bad-looking guy, and women like him. He's got a yacht."

"I don't think Palmer knows what kind of guy Danton is," said Marcus. "Maybe we ought to have a talk with him."

"Be better," said Busino, "to have a talk with his niece. She might know something. What's her name?"

Marcus consulted a slip of paper. "Diana Palmer. Right now she's among the house guests out on Danton's island."

"That's the way to live." Busino sighed out smoke. "Well, let's talk to her soon as she gets back from San Obito."

"Yeah, we'll do that," agreed Marcus.

Close to the bright ocean, on the edge of a ribbon of beach, stood a brand-new "pancake house," all glass and simulated redwood beams. It was one of the Bo Beep chain. At a booth in the back of the place, out of sight of the many windows, two other men sat discussing Chris Danton.

The one who called himself Anderson was about forty, a calm, peaceful-looking man with straight light hair and tortoise-shell dark glasses. He wore a candy-stripe shirt and bellbottom denims. Stirring his own sugar substitute into his coffee, he said, "I tell you it's him."

Across from him the man calling himself Ful- mer shook his head. He was heavyset, less casually dressed. "We're not absolutely certain yet."

Anderson smiled. His dark glasses hid his eyes completely. "There's such a thing as being too cautious." "I don't want any more mistakes, or any more . . . what you call 'accident.'"

"You should recall that you agreed about the man in Chicago."

"To my regret, yes." Fulmer held his glass of orange juice with both hands.

"I don't see that it's really that important," said Anderson, the smile still on his calm face.

"Killing a man," replied Fulmer in a low voice, "has to be important."

"So you say." He sipped his coffee. "God, I miss sugar."

Fulmer reflected, 'It seems to me Danton is possibly too young to be our man." ,

"He's nearly sixty."

"No, we haven't established that."

Anderson took another sip of coffee before speaking. "We have established that Danton spent six months in 1967 at a sanitarium in Sao Paulo, Brazil."

"I'm not certain we've established that," said Fulmer. "Though it seems likely."

"The late Dr. Lemos, who ran the place in Sao Paulo, was recognized for his rejuvenation therapy. Recognized, that is, by the select few who could afford him. After some skillful surgery, and a few other medical tricks, our man came out looking ten years younger."

"All right, it's possible," admitted Fulmer. "I grant you the death of Dr. Lemos quite soon after this man's release is suspicious."

"He didn't want anyone talking," said Anderson. "He didn't realize we'd have other ways of getting at the information."

"Other ways," murmured Fulmer. He picked up his glass to drink down the juice in one gulp.

"Perhaps I'm unwilling to believe the trail has ended."

"I assure you it has. Everything ties together this time. Why, even Interpol has contributed useful information."

"That material you were able to . . . borrow," Fulmer pointed out, "concluded Danton was not the man we seek."

"Interpol fails from time to time. My more thorough rechecking of some of their leads showed how Danton had been able to fool them."

Shaking his head, Fulmer said, "One thing which bothers me about you is your eagerness. You're too anxious to have Danton be the man we want."

Anderson smiled his calm smile. "Anxiety never enters into it. This is my job, my profession, and I do it well. That's all."

"Still, we have to be absolutely certain."

"Well, then, let's talk to Danton himself." He smiled more broadly. "It's really simple to get the truth out of a man, any man—even one such as he."

"It isn't simple, however, to get at him. He's usually out on the island, with guards, and dogs roaming loose at night. When he's in Santa Barbara there's usually a bodyguard somewhere in the background. I'm surprised that the girl he's courting hasn't noticed."

"Ah, the girl." Anderson removed his dark glasses to rub at his small blue eyes. "We might be able to use her."

"Diana Palmer? How?"

"Sometimes I think you're merely feigning innocence," Anderson told him. "If we had the girl in our possession and at a certain fixed point . . .

then it might be possible to lure friend Danton to that point."

"Yes, it might be," said Fulmer. "She's out on llial island with him right now, though."

"We can wait until she comes back." Anderson summoned their waitress, who was dressed like Bo peep, to refill his coffee cup.

CHAPTER FOUR

The sleek black Alfa Romeo coupe hummed along the coastal highway. Twilight was giving way to night and the Sunday traffic had thinned considerably for the moment. A fragile white mist was starting to roll in from the direction of the ocean, spinning across the broad highway and dancing in the glare of the headlights.

The man at the wheel was alone in the low black sports car. He was wearing dark glasses and a belted raincoat. A good-looking broad-shouldered man. For the past three weeks, he had been in San Francisco, looking for a certain man. He had found him. The hunt had begun on the other side of the world in Bangalla; now it was over.

The Phantom took one hand off the steering wheel to turn on the windshield wipers. The fog was speckling the glass.

"It'll be good to see Diana again," he said to himself. "For a while anyway." Soon again he would have to return to Bangalla—to the
Deep Woods.

The glistening black car drove on, knifing through the thickening fog. More and more cars appeared on the road as night came on and progress became slower. Eventually there were lights all around, glowing through the mist. Lights and shaggy palm trees and low tile-roofed buildings.

"Last stop, Santa Barbara," said the Phantom.

He guided the sports car up into the hills. He'

glanced at a map earlier in the day and was able to find Dave Palmer's house easily.

The Phantom parked the Alfa across the street from the big house. Fog seemed to enclose him as he slid out of the car, muffling him in silence.

Uncle Dave opened the heavy oaken front door few seconds after the chimes sounded. "Why it's the . . . it's Mr. Walker," he said, smiling. "Come on in, come in."

In the
Deep Woods
they called the Phantom The Ghost Who Walks. When he moved among other people he called himself Walker. "You look a little uneasy, Dave. Is Diana here?"

"No, she's not," said the girl's uncle. "Which is the reason I'm a little jumpy, I guess. Here, sit down. Can I take your coat?"

"I'll keep it on." The Phantom sat in the indicated chair, a big black-leather one in the center of the living room.

Pacing along the border of the rug, Uncle Dave said, "Really there's nothing to be edgy about, but—oh, by the way, what are you doing in California? Diana didn't say any—"

"I didn't know how long it might take me to do what I had to do," replied the Phantom. "So I didn't tell her in advance."

"How'd you know she was here?"

"Diana writes often. And I see to it the letters reach me, no matter where I am."