The Emperor of Death Read Online Free PDF Page B

permitted the remaining ones to trickle through his fingers to the floor.
    “Capital! Excellent! Tremendous!” he exalted. “This night’s work will carry us well along the road to success, Number 8!”
    In vain the Phantom essayed to read the inscription on the topmost sheet of the papers clutched in Hesterberg’s hand. Before he could decipher the minute script, the Russian thrust the documents in his pocket with one hand and pounded the Phantom affectionately on the shoulder with the other. He hooked his arm under Number 8’s and led the way out of the vault.
    “Our work is done here, Number 8,” he enthused. “Come, comrade, you are strangely silent tonight. Give me the details of the climax — of that little scene I so subtly arranged for our friend the Phantom.”
    With Hesterberg’s words came a new worry for the Phantom. He had no qualms concerning his disguise. He was a past master in the art of makeup. And into the bargain his face was effectively concealed by the gas mask. Unfortunately, however, his acquaintance with the legitimate Number 8 had been of too short duration, had terminated so swiftly and tragically, that he wasn’t quite familiar with the other’s voice.
    Though the mask that fitted snugly over his head would muffle his words, he realized the necessity of caution.
    He tried to dismiss the affair with a shrug and a word.
    “Havens was an excellent shot. Through the heart.”
    Hesterberg grunted his satisfaction and with his arm still crooked under the Phantom’s led the way up the stairs to the main floor of the bank.
    Though Van was guarding every word, his keen, analytical brain was functioning smoothly. He realized that if the Mad Red couldn’t recognize him through his disguise, by the same token the features of the Russian were concealed from him. His voice he would always remember; it was imprinted indelibly on his memory.
    However, he determined before the night’s adventure was over to secure at least one glimpse of Hesterberg’s face. That he would find it interesting, he was sure. But before that, he had work to do; delicate work. He still had in the breast pocket of his coat the packet of documents he had retrieved from the floor.
    A suspicion of a smile flitted across his thin lips as he recalled the hasty words he had scrawled on the topmost sheet.
    They were on the main floor of the bank now. The Russian’s henchmen had completed their systematic looting of the bank’s treasure room.
    The Phantom’s arm was still crooked under Hesterberg’s. He led the latter to a marble-topped table to the left.
    “Why not leave a little memento for the directors of the bank?” he suggested.
    Hesterberg got the idea at once. He chuckled sardonically to himself, stepped to the counter and picked up a pen.
    “An excellent idea, Number 8,” he began. Then paused as he concentrated on the message he was to leave. The Phantom leaned familiarly over his shoulder and watched the pen as it scrawled in a fine hand:
    Morton: You are the king of finance, but you lose to the Emperor of Death.
    But the Phantom was not interested in any message that Hesterberg was to leave behind him. While the Russian chuckled over his wit, the Phantom’s hand with the finesse and lightning speed of a magician, eased the packet of documents from Hesterberg’s pocket and substituted in their place the one he, himself, had filched.
    The operation was executed in the twinkling of an eye before Hesterberg had dotted the final i of his message.
    Then a swift change came over Hesterberg. His old aggressive manner asserted itself and he issued a series of crisp orders to his men. Like a well-drilled army corps they marshaled themselves at their leader’s words and beat a hurried retreat from the bank.
    Outside, the darkness still hung over the street like a black mantle. The cloud of gas laid down at the first attack was slowly rising. From a short distance away came the confused murmur of many voices and the