Only one thought stood out clearly in the Phantom’s mind as he lay on his back in the tunnel breathing the suffocating fumes of the damp earth, and surrounded by a silence and a darkness so profound that he felt as if a vast void was separating him from the world of the living. His senses were numbed and his brain had ceased to function, but somehow his mind grasped the realization that this was the end of the Gray Phantom’s career.
The fate awaiting him seemed as inexorable as the darkness that surrounded him. He had faced great dangers and had found himself in fearful predicaments before, but never had death appeared as certain and inevitable as now. Through his dazed consciousness filtered a resolution to meet death, even in this hideous form, with the same unconcern and stoicism with which he had accepted the favors destiny had strewn in his path. The thought brought a feeble smile to his lips, and he hoped the end would come before the thought faded away. He wanted the world in general and Helen Hardwick in particular to know he had died smiling.
Something, he did not know what, stirred faintly in his mind. Instinctively his thoughts groped for a memory that seemed dim and far away, a memory that caused his body to vibrate with a reawakening desire to live. Slowly, out of the whirling chaos in his mind, it came to him. He could not—must not—die! He could not pass out into oblivion with a foul crime staining his name. He must live in order to revive and vindicate the faith Helen Hardwick had once reposed in him.
The resolve buoyed him a little, causing his body to throb with a renascent life impulse. Already his mind felt a little clearer, and his nerves and sinews were beginning to respond to the driving force of his will. If his parched lungs could only get a little air!
Again he placed his feet against the door and pushed with all the strength he could summon. He might as well have tried to dislodge a mountain. The implements in his pocket case had helped him out of many a tight dilemma in the past, but they were of no avail now. He still had the pistol he had taken from Helen’s hand while they stood in the closet, and for an instant it occurred to him that the report of a shot might penetrate the roof of the tunnel and bring him assistance. A moment later he reconsidered bitterly. If the shot were heard, it would more likely bring the police; besides, the fumes released by the explosion might smother him to death in a few minutes.
With a great effort he crawled away from the door thinking the air might be not so stifling toward the center of the tunnel. He moved only two or three paces when the terrific pounding of his heart and the protest of his tortured lungs forced him to lie still and rest. For several minutes he lay motionless, save for the heaving of his chest, matching his wits against the hardest problem he had ever faced.
Of a sudden something chill and wet fell upon his face. It was a mere drop of moisture, but it felt like ice to his parched skin, causing every nerve to quiver. The contact acted like an electric stimulant on his mind. He lay rigid, expectant, wondering why the trivial occurrence should affect him so strangely, and presently another drop of moisture splashed against his forehead, sending an icy shiver down his spine.
Suddenly he jerked up his head, striking it against the roof of the tunnel. In a twinkling he had grasped the significance of the dropping moisture. There must be a leak in the vault of the passage, and the soil above was probably soft and porous, enabling the tiny globules of water to percolate.
The deduction jolted the last remnant of stupor out of his body. He was still weak, but the play of his wits kindled his nervous energy. He ran his hand along the roof, locating the point where the moisture was seeping through. The arched vault was supported by boards running in a longitudinal direction and braced at intervals by diagonal props. He gave a hoarse shout of elation as he noticed that the boards were rotting from infiltration of moisture.
He had forgotten the agonized straining of his lungs for air. His exploring fingers found a point where the ends of two boards came together. Taking a tool from the metal case, he inserted it in the joint and pried. After a few vigorous wrenches the board bent downward. Now he gripped its edges with his fingers and, lifting himself from the floor of the tunnel, forced it down by the sheer weight of his body. It snapped, and he pushed it down the passage, then attacked the next board. It gave more easily than the first, and now he began to claw and scratch his way through the damp earth. Remembering the length of the incline at the farther end of the passage, he judged that the layer of soil could not be more than four or five feet deep.
More than once he felt on the point of utter exhaustion, but the prospect of ultimate release fortified him. Clump after clump of dirt fell at his feet, and now and then he struck a stratum of gravelly soil that yielded more easily to his efforts. From time to time he had to stop digging and brush aside the accumulation at his feet. A wall of dirt was gradually forming on each side of him, cutting down the scant supply of humid air that had so far sustained him, but he kept at his work with the frenzied persistence of one battling for his life. There was a dull roaring in his head and a burning torment in his lungs, and there came moments of despair when he wondered whether his strength would last until he had clawed through the remaining layer of earth.
Then, after what seemed hours of agonizing toil, a cascade of small stones and loose dirt tumbled down over his head and shoulders. Momentarily blinded, he could scarcely realize that his hand had thrust through the obstruction and was now clutching at empty air.
The suspense over, he felt suddenly limp and shaky. His legs doubled up under him and he sank back against the wall of the tunnel, greedily sucking in the fresh air that poured down through the opening. For a time he was content to do nothing but rest his racked limbs and drink in huge lungfuls of air.
Through the rift overhead he caught a glimpse of leaden sky. A myriad of strident noises told that the city was awakening. The discordant sounds were like jubilant music in his ears, for a while ago he had thought he would never see the light of another day. After his terrifying experience in the subterranean passage it was hard to realize that he was again one of the living. He struggled to his feet, lurched dizzily hither and thither, and rubbed the dirt out of his eyes. Then, steadying himself with one hand, he cautiously pushed his head through the opening. No one being in sight, he scrambled to the surface.
He stood in the center of the narrow space between Doctor Bimble’s laboratory and the rear of the Gage establishment. On the other sides of the inclosure were a squatty structure that might have been a laundry and a slightly taller building that, judging from the barrels and boxes piled against the wall, was probably a grocery. Evidently the stores and shops had not yet opened, for there was no sign of life in either direction.
The Phantom took a few steps forward, then stopped abruptly, his eyes fixed on the small window in the rear of the cigar store. A recollection sent a shiver through his body. He remembered the hand that had appeared so suddenly in the narrow opening, the swift, murderous stroke and the groan that had died so quickly. There was an air of peace and tranquillity about the building that struck him as weirdly incongruous, in view of the scene that had been enacted within.
He was about to turn away when a quick, light step sounded behind him. Before he could move, two sinewy hands had gripped him about the throat, forcing him down. He tried to resist, but he was still too weak to exert much physical effort. A sickeningly sweetish smell assailed his nostrils, he felt his body grow limp, there was a roaring in his head that sounded like a distant waterfall, and then he had a sensation of sinking—sinking.
“Remarkable, sir; most remarkable! May I feel your pulse?”
The Gray Phantom knew, even before he opened his eyes, that the speaker was Doctor Tyson Bimble. He was lying in bed, undressed, in the same room his host had assigned him the night before. The lights were on, so he must have slept through the day, and he felt correspondingly refreshed.
The anthropologist, sitting in a chair beside the bed, was timing his pulse beats. The doctor’s thin legs were wrapped in the same tight trousers he had worn on their first meeting, and an acid-stained coat was tightly buttoned across his plump stomach.
“Normal,” he declared admiringly, pocketing his watch. “You possess extraordinary recuperative powers, my friend. What a constitution!”
The Phantom’s lips tightened. Scraps of recollection were coming to him. He gazed narrowly into the doctor’s guileless face.
“A little chloroform goes a long way even with a constitution like mine,” he remarked pointedly.
“Ah, but you were utterly exhausted, my friend. Otherwise my excellent Jerome would not have had quite such an easy time with you. A little strong-arm play and a whiff or two of chloroform were all that was necessary. The effect soon wore off, and you lapsed into a natural and invigorating sleep.”
“So, it was Jerome. I guessed as much.” The Phantom looked perplexedly at the doctor. “But wasn’t it a rather rough way of putting a man to bed?”
“It was the only safe way of dealing with an impulsive and strong-headed man like you. But for the timely appearance of my admirable Jerome, you would undoubtedly have walked straight into the arms of the police.”
The argument sounded plausible enough. The Phantom realized that the reaction following his escape from the tunnel might have caused him to do several foolish things.
An astute grin creased the doctor’s face. “Even the Gray Phantom is at times very transparent. Last night, when you started removing your clothes in my presence, I knew that you had no intention of going to bed. However, I reasoned that you were an intelligent man and could be trusted to take care of yourself. I woke up at an early hour this morning and stepped to your door. You had not returned. Greatly alarmed, I told Jerome to look for you. The estimable fellow found you shortly after you had dug your way out of the tunnel. You ought to feel deeply indebted to him, sir.”
“I do,” with a faint trace of sarcasm. “But I should like to wring the neck of the practical joker who blockaded this end of the passage while I was at the other.”
The words were no sooner spoken than the doctor’s face underwent a startling transformation. The affable smile vanished, giving way to a look of such violent wrath that even the Phantom felt a little awed.
“The hound shall get his just deserts, sir,” declared the doctor in snarling tones. Then, as if regretting his display of temper, he laughed easily. “Provided, of course, we learn who perpetrated the outrage.”
Again the Phantom was puzzled. He was certain the anthropologist’s ferocious outburst had been genuine. It had been far too real and convincing to be feigned even by a clever actor. Yet he sensed a contradiction. Whoever was responsible for the blockaded door must have traversed the doctor’s house on his way to the cellar. It did not seem likely that strangers could be taking such liberties in a private residence without the knowledge of its occupant.
“I really ought to have new locks put on the doors,” observed Bimble, addressing himself rather than his guest. “That collection of mine is too valuable to be left unprotected.”
It sounded convincing, and the casual tone went a long way toward quieting the Phantom’s misgivings. He knew that an unduly suspicious nature is as bad as a gullible one. Hadn’t he been too prone to put the wrong construction on the eccentricities of a scientist? Everything considered, the doctor’s actions had certainly been friendly. Had his intentions been hostile, he could easily have turned his guest over to the police.
The Phantom shifted the subject. “Well, at any rate, I proved to my satisfaction that Gage’s bedchamber can’t be entered by way of the tunnel.”
The twinkle behind the lenses expressed doubt and amusement. “And so you have convinced yourself that Pinto committed the murder?”
“That nobody else could have committed it,” corrected the Phantom.
“Which means precisely the same thing. Even if we grant that you are being frank with me—which I strongly doubt, by the way—you seem to have a passion for drawing obvious inferences. From the fact that you were unable to operate the mechanism from the outside you deduce that the murderer could not have entered the room via the tunnel. That, my friend, is very superficial reasoning. For instance, Gage himself might have admitted the murderer through the revolving frame.”
The Phantom’s brows went up. The possibility suggested by the doctor had not occurred to him. The next moment he grinned at the sheer preposterousness of the idea. “But few men are obliging enough to welcome their murderers with open arms.”
“Not if they come as murderers.” The doctor gave him a keen, searching look. “But suppose they come in the guise of friends? That’s only a random suggestion, but you will admit the possibility exists.” He shrugged his shoulders, as if to dismiss the subject. “Jerome has repaired the damage you wrought in the tunnel last night, covering up all traces of your little adventure, so there is no danger of the police tracing you here.”
“Thoughtful,” murmured the Phantom a little absently.
“Which reminds me,” added the anthropologist, “that you are again a hunted man. The police have seen their mistake and the prisoner was released this morning. He bears a superficial resemblance to you, but comparison of his finger prints with those of the Gray Phantom proved conclusively he was not the man they wanted, and he seems to have given a satisfactory account of himself in every way.”
“What else?” asked the Phantom, deeply interested.
Doctor Bimble laughed merrily. “Every newspaper in town is poking fun at the stupid police—and well they might. The prisoner proved to be a reporter employed by the Sphere, whose only offense is an inclination to forget that these are dry times. A reporter, of all persons! It’s delicious!”
“A reporter—on the Sphere!” echoed the Phantom, sensing a possible significance in the combination. “Not, by any chance, the one who reported the Gage murder?”
“The same. That’s what lends an extra touch of humor to the silly blunder. Imagine a journalist, confronted with a scarcity of news, going out and committing a murder in order to have something to write about!”
The Phantom joined in the doctor’s laughter, but his face sobered quickly. “Is this unfortunate journalist wearing a beard?”
“No; but I understand your photograph in the rogues’ gallery shows you smooth shaven, so the absence of a beard really enhances the resemblance to the pictures published.”
The Phantom was silent for a time. There was a hint of deep thought in the lines around his eyes. His hand passed slowly across his beard, still gritty and tangled from his experience in the tunnel. Suddenly the muscles of his face twitched.
“Anything else in the papers, doctor?”
“Only the usual silly doings of a silly world.”
“I mean in connection with the murder. No new developments?”
“None whatever, except that the search for the Gray Phantom has been renewed with increased vigor. There is an interview with the police commissioner, in which that optimistic soul declares the rascal cannot have left New York and that he will surely be captured within the next few hours.”
The Phantom smiled amusedly, but there was a fog in his mind. Was it possible no one had yet discovered that a second murder had been perpetrated in the Sylvanus Gage house? With his own eyes the Phantom had seen the housekeeper’s face fade into the ashen hue of death, and it seemed incredible that the body had not been found.
“By the way,” remarked Doctor Bimble, as if carrying out the other’s train of thought, “I wonder what has become of Gage’s housekeeper. I walked over there this morning to see if I could do anything for the poor lady. The front door was unlocked, but Mrs. Trippe wasn’t about.”
It required a little effort on the Phantom’s part to keep his voice steady. “H’m. She has had quite a shock. Perhaps she is lying ill and helpless in some part of the house.”
“The same thing occurred to me, and so I looked in every room in the house. The lady was nowhere in sight, however. Naturally she found it unpleasant to live alone in the place after the murder. She may have gone away for a visit.”
“Yes, quite likely.” It was on the Phantom’s tongue to tell what he had seen, but for a reason not quite clear to himself he desisted. Doctor Bimble’s revelation was somewhat staggering, and the disappearance of the housekeeper’s body was a poser that baffled the Phantom’s astuteness. The mystery seemed to grow more tangled and intricate with every passing hour, and he felt that, so far, his progress had been dishearteningly slow. Yet, with the whole city and its environs converted into a vast man trap, what could he do?
“Dear me!” The anthropologist jumped up with the abruptness of a rabbit. “I sit here babbling like a garrulous old woman while you must be famishing. I shall have Jerome bring you some food at once. I suppose,” stopping on his way to the door and regarding the Phantom with a serio-comic expression, “it isn’t necessary to warn you that it would be unwise to go out on the streets a night like this.”
A grin masked the Phantom’s searching look. “You seem deeply concerned in my welfare, doctor.”
“Naturally.” Bimble drew himself up. “With me a bargain is always a bargain. I hope you haven’t forgotten our understanding.”
“I see,” the Gray Phantom replied. “You want my skeleton to come to you intact. Yes, doctor, I’m aware of the inclemency of the weather. You needn’t worry on my account.”
The doctor tarried a moment longer, cleared his throat as if about to say something else, then swung around on his heels and left the room. The Phantom looked about him. On a chair near the bed hung his clothes, neatly brushed and pressed, and on the dresser, laid out in an orderly row, were the contents of his pockets, including pistol, metal case, and watch. The Phantom slipped out of bed and examined the articles. Nothing was missing and nothing had been disturbed. Evidently Doctor Bimble trusted to his guest’s good sense to keep him indoors.
And well he might, was the Phantom’s grim thought. There were excellent reasons why he should remain under the anthropologist’s roof—reasons which only a fool or a desperado would ignore. The police, goaded by ridicule and incensed at the way they had been made game of, were undoubtedly exerting every effort and using every trick and stratagem to ensnare their quarry. There were pitfalls at every crossing, traps in every block, prying eyes in a thousand places. To defy such dangers would be sheer madness.
Yet there were equally urgent reasons why the Phantom should not remain idle. One of them, and the most potent of them all, had to do with Helen Hardwick. Another was the Phantom’s irrepressible passion for flinging his gauntlet in the face of danger. A third was the firm conviction that he could rely on his mental and physical agility to see him through, no matter what hazards he might encounter.
He sprang back into bed as a noise sounded at the door. The cat-footed and tight-lipped manservant entered with a folding table, a stack of newspapers, and a trayful of steaming dishes. The Phantom watched the nimble play of his long, prehensile fingers as he set the table.
“You’re quite a scrapper, Jerome,” he observed good-naturedly.
“Yes, sir.” The man’s gloomy face was unreadable.
“You didn’t give me much of a chance to use my fists on you.”
“No, sir.”
The Phantom attacked the hot and savory soup. “Pugilistic and culinary talents are a rare combination, Jerome.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But you are not very much of a conversationalist.”
“No, sir.”
The man, standing with his back to the wall, apparently immovable save when he unbent to pass a dish or replenish the water tumbler, piqued the Phantom’s curiosity. A grenadier turned to stone while standing at attention could not be more rigid and impassive than Jerome, yet there was a hint of constant alertness about the dull eyes and the lines at the corners of his mouth.
“There are moments when silence is golden,” observed the Phantom. “Perhaps this is one of them.”
“Perhaps, sir.”
The Phantom finished the meal in silence. When Jerome had gone, he turned to the newspapers, noticing that the front pages were largely given over to himself. His own photograph was published side by side with that of the Sphere reporter, whose name appeared to be Thomas Granger. Many thousands of dollars were being wagered on the outcome of the contest between the Phantom and the police, with the odds slightly in favor of the latter. A yellow journal was offering prizes to those of its readers who furnished the best suggestions for the capture of the famous outlaw. There were interviews with leading citizens in all walks of life, expressing amazement and indignation over the murder of Sylvanus Gage and the dilatory tactics of the officials. Even Wall Street was disturbed, for who knew but what the celebrated rogue was planning another of the stupendous raids that had rocked the financial world on two or three occasions in the past?
The Phantom was amused, but also a trifle perturbed. The handicaps he had to overcome if he were to accomplish his purpose were rather staggering. But for the eccentric anthropologist’s hospitality he might even now be in the coils of the police. There was a troubled gleam in his eyes as he tossed the papers aside. For several minutes he sat on the edge of the bed, a thoughtful pucker between his eyes, abstractedly gazing down at the papers on the floor.
Of a sudden he roused himself out of a brown study. While his thoughts had been far away, his eyes had been steadily fixed on the two photographs in the center of the page spread out at his feet. Now a steely glitter appeared in his narrowing eyes and a smile spread slowly from the corners of his lips.
In an instant he was on his feet, glancing at his watch. It was almost ten o’clock. He hurried quietly to the door, listened at the keyhole for a few moments, then shot the bolt. From now on his movements were characterized by the brisk precision of one acting on an inspiration. Taking a sharp-edged tool from his pocket case, he stepped to the wash stand and mixed some lather. A few deft strokes and slashes, and his beard was gone. Since Patrolman Pinto had recognized him in spite of it, the beard was no longer useful, and the reddish and bristly mustache which he took from a wrapper in his metal case and affixed to his lips would serve fairly well as a temporary disguise. After a brief glance in the mirror, he put on his clothes and pocketed the articles on the dresser.
The Gray Phantom was ready for one of the maddest and most perilous enterprises of his career.
Somewhere a clock was striking ten as the Phantom withdrew the bolt and, silent as a cat, stepped out into the hall. He leaned over the balustrade and looked down. From the rear came an occasional tinkle of glassware. Doctor Bimble, never dreaming that his guest was foolhardy enough to leave his secure retreat a second time, was evidently at work in his laboratory. Noiselessly the Phantom stole down the stairs, carefully testing each step before he intrusted his weight to it. The door opened without a sound, and he darted a quick glance up and down the street.
A fine drizzle was falling and the sidewalks glistened in the lights from the street lamps and windows. There was a thin sprinkling of pedestrians in the thoroughfare. Outside a pool room across the street stood a group of loafers, and a band of gospel workers was addressing an apathetic crowd on the nearest corner. The Phantom was about to step away from the door when he saw something that caused him to press close to the wall.
“Our friend Pinto,” he mused as a thickset figure jogged past. “Seems a bit distracted this evening. Wonder what’s up.”
The policeman passed on with only a perfunctory glance in the Phantom’s direction. There was something about his gait and the way he swung his baton which suggested that his mind was not quite at ease. The Phantom waited until he had turned the corner, then crept out of the doorway, assuming an easy, swinging gait as he struck the sidewalk and turned west.
The streets had their usual humdrum appearance, but beneath the calm on the surface he sensed a tension and an air of repressed activity. It might have been only imagination, but he thought people were regarding each other with covert suspicion, as if friends and neighbors were no longer to be trusted. The Phantom sauntering along as if he had not a care in the world, turned into the Bowery and proceeded toward the nearest station of the elevated railway. No taxicabs were in sight, but he would be comparatively safe once he was aboard a train.
He whistled a merry little tune, but he was uncomfortably aware that the cut and quality of his clothes were attracting attention in that squalid neighborhood. Now he was only a few paces from the elevated stairs. The space immediately in front of him was brightly illuminated by a corner light, and each forward step was taken at great risk. He advanced with an air of unconcern, glanced languidly at the papers and magazines spread out on the news stall, and in another moment he would have been starting up the stairs.
Just then he felt the sharp scrutiny of a pair of eyes. Their owner, he fancied, was stationed in the dark doorway of an abandoned corner saloon, only a few steps from the foot of the stairway, but he dared not look back or sideways. In a second he had rallied his wits to the emergency. To show the slightest nervousness or seem in a hurry would instantly provoke a sharp command to halt. He purchased a newspaper, glanced disdainfully at the headlines on the first page, and was chuckling over a cartoon on the sporting page as he leisurely began to ascend the stairs.
A loud rumbling told that a train was approaching. The Phantom pursued his unhurried pace, conscious that the owner of the prying eyes had stepped out of the doorway and was regarding him suspiciously. Suddenly, as he reached a turn in the stairs, a cry rang out:
“Stop!”
The Phantom looked down with an air of idle curiosity, as if it were unthinkable that the command could be meant for him, and climbed on. He had almost reached the top when a second and more insistent cry sounded.
“Hey, there! I mean you!”
The Phantom climbed the remaining steps, reaching the ticket window just as a train roared into the station. Three sharp taps sounded against the sidewalk below, followed by a shrill blast of a police whistle. The Phantom dropped his ticket in the chopper and stepped out on the platform. The train gates were open and a few passengers were getting aboard. For a moment he hesitated; then he hurried swiftly to the end of the deserted platform and leaped out on the narrow walk used by track workers.
The train rolled out of the station. The Phantom, lying flat, guessed that the agent at the next stop had already been notified to hold it for search, and it was this circumstance that had decided him against getting aboard. From the street rose a great hubbub. He began to crawl along the narrow span, screened from sight by a heavy beam. Each moment was precious now, for soon the police would learn that the Phantom was not on the train, and then they would guess that he was hiding somewhere on the platform or the track.
He had crawled the length of half a block when he stopped and looked down. The commotion at the corner had ceased, but as he glanced behind him he saw that several dark forms were moving rapidly across the platform, as if looking for someone. At the point where he lay the street was dimly lighted and almost deserted. Agilely he swung his body from the walk, clutched the beam with both hands until he could obtain a foothold along one of the heavy iron pillars that supported the structure, then slid quickly to the ground. Standing in the shadow of the pillar, he looked about him. Apparently he had not been seen, but in a few moments a dragnet would be thrown around the vicinity, and he would have to exercise the utmost speed and caution if he was to escape.
Quickly he dodged into a side street. On the corner was a patrol box, and, even as he glanced at it, the bulb at the top of the pole flashed into a green brilliance. He knew what the signal meant. A general alarm had been sent out, spreading the news that the Gray Phantom had been seen. He hurried on, but he had not reached far when a patrolman appeared around the opposite corner, forcing him to take refuge in a dark cellarway. Luckily the green light had already attracted the policeman’s attention, and he hurried past the point where the Phantom was hidden, and made for the box on the corner. While the bluecoat was receiving his instructions from the station house the Phantom crawled out of his retreat and, clinging close to the shadows along the walls, hastened in the other direction.
He was very cautious now. Once out of the immediate neighborhood, the greatest danger would be past, but for the present every step of the way bristled with perils. A taxicab hove into sight as he reached an intersection of streets, but the chauffeur showed no inclination to heed his signal. The Phantom placed himself directly in the path of the onrushing vehicle. It stopped with a grinding of brakes, accompanied with a medley of oaths.
“What d’ye mean?” demanded the chauffeur. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“Double fare,” suggested the Phantom temptingly.
A sharp glance shot out from beneath the visor of the driver’s cap. “Where to?”
“South Ferry,” said the Phantom, though his actual destination was a good distance short of that point.
“All right,” with a shrewd glance at his fare. “Get in.”
He held the door open and the Phantom entered the cab. They had proceeded only a short distance, however, when the passenger pinned a bill to the cushion, cautiously stepped out on to the running board and hopped off in the middle of a dark block. He had not quite approved of the chauffeur’s looks.
Just ahead of him lay the wholesale section of Broadway, at that time of night as gloomy and lifeless a stretch of thoroughfare as can be found in all New York. The Phantom walked briskly to the corner and was turning south when he all but collided with a red-faced heavy-jowled policeman.
“Pardon,” he said lightly. Quickly he stuck a cigar between his lips, tugging at his mustache with one hand and exploring his vest pocket with the other. “By the way, officer, happen to have a match?”
The officer produced the desired article, and in return the Phantom proffered a cigar while he lighted his own. With a hearty “Thank you, sor,” the policeman put the weed in his pocket and trudged on, deciding he would smoke the affable stranger’s cigar when he went off duty. He didn’t, however. After straightening out certain tangles in his mind and arriving at certain conclusions, Officer McCloskey resolved to keep the cigar as a souvenir of the occasion when he accommodated the Gray Phantom with a match.
Chuckling at the happy circumstances that some policemen are more gullible than others, the Phantom hurried forward in the shadows of tall brick buildings. He thought he had left the zone of greatest danger behind him, but the utmost caution was still needed; the crucial test would not come until he reached his destination. As often before, he was relying for success and safety on the fact that he was doing the very thing a hunted man was least likely to do.
A hansom drawn by a scraggy nag came toward him and drew up at the curb on his signal. He fixed an appraising look on the driver, a despondent-looking individual in sadly dilapidated livery, whose sole concern in his prospective passenger seemed to have to do with the collecting of a generous fare.
“Drive me to the Sphere office,” directed the Phantom, satisfied with his inspection of the man on the box.
He climbed in, and a crack of the whip startled the nag into activity. The Phantom, tingling with a familiar sensation, leaned back against the cushion and watched long rows of somber buildings stream past. He was bent on a madcap adventure, and the details of his plan were still vague, but if the scheme succeeded he would have gained an important advantage. His task, besides being difficult and dangerous, was also somewhat strange to him. Many sensational ventures embellished his past, but he had never until now essayed a kidnaping, at least not under circumstances like these.
The vista brightened. A short distance ahead loomed the Municipal Building and the Woolworth Tower. Serenely the cab jogged into City Hall Park, carrying its passenger into a brightly lighted square that even at night stirred with activity and bristled with a thousand dangers. The hansom stopped, and the Phantom gazed a trifle dubiously at a tall building from which issued the clatter of linotype machines and the dull rumble of presses.
“Here we are, sir,” observed the jehu expectantly, speaking through the trap over the passenger’s head.
The Phantom did not move. The entrance of the Sphere building was brightly lighted and people were constantly passing in either direction. On the corner, keenly scanning the face of each passer-by, stood a lordly policeman. The Phantom counted his chances, knowing that much more than his personal freedom was at stake. The mustache, his sole disguise, seemed inadequate. He might be recognized by anyone in the passing throng who chanced to give him a second glance, and he would face another ticklish situation when he was inside the building.
“Didn’t you say the Sphere, sir?” inquired the driver.
The Phantom was about to reply when fate unexpectedly stepped in and solved his problem. A few vigorous expressions spoken in loud and boisterous tones drew his attention to the doorway. A gaudily garbed person who seemed to be in an advanced stage of inebriation was being propelled through the door by a stocky man with a reddish and determined face. As he caught a glimpse of the tipsy individual’s features, the Phantom started and wedged his figure into the farther corner of the hansom.
From his well-filled wallet he took a bill and thrust it through the trap. The jehu took it, stared for a moment at the numeral in the corner, which was imposing enough to corrupt stancher souls than his, then listened attentively to the instructions his fare was giving in low and hurried tones.
“I get you, sir,” was his comment. “Leave it to me.”
In the meantime the stout person had given the tipsy one a final departing shove, and now he stood aside, with thumbs crooked in the armpits of his vest, his face glowing with the consciousness of a job well performed. His victim picked himself up with great difficulty and looked about him with groggy eyes while loudly proclaiming how he would avenge the affront.
“Cab, sir?” invitingly inquired the jehu.
The inebriate one careened forward, blinked his eyes and, with head wagging limply from side to side, gave the hansom a slanting look. Evidently it met his approval, for he nodded and staggered closer. The driver jumped from the box and obligingly assisted his new fare to the seat. A moment later the cab was dashing away from the curb, followed by the amused glances of several spectators.
The tipsy passenger, sprawling lumpishly in his seat, rolled a little to one side as the conveyance turned a corner. To his amazement his head struck someone’s shoulder; then a firm, low voice spoke in his ear:
“Tommie Granger, you’re just the person I have been looking for.”
Slowly and with difficulty the intoxicated man straightened himself and looked unsteadily at his companion. They were in a dark street and their faces were indistinct.
“Shay,” demanded the tipsy one, “thish ish my cab. Get out!”
“Now, Granger,” replied the Phantom with a chuckle, “you surely don’t mind giving a fellow a lift? By the way, where do you think you are going?”
“Home, but——”
“You forgot to tell the driver your address.”
“Dam’ the driver! He ought to know enough—hic—to take a fellow home when he’s soused. Where elsh would I be going? Huh?”
“But your address——”
“Dam’ my address! It’s nobody’sh business. I live where I please—see? I’m drunk. I get drunk when—hic—whenever I feel like it. Know where to get the sh-stuff, too. Alwaysh carry a bottle on my hip. Want a drink?”
“Never touch it. Thanks, just the same. What was the matter back at the office? They were treating you rather roughly.”
Granger seemed to recall a grievance. He made an effort to draw himself up. “I inshulted the city editor and—hic—he told the watchman to bounce me. I alwaysh inshult people when I’m soused. Did I ever inshult you?”
“Not yet, Granger.”
“Maybe I will shome day. Shay, tell the cabby to turn back. I wanta go back to the offish and clean out that bunch of stiffs.”
“Now, Granger——”
“Lemme go! I’ll show ’em they can’t treat me that way. Lemme go, I tell you! Hey, cabby, reversh the current.”
Granger sprang from the seat, lurched against the side of the cab, and would have hurled himself against the pavement had not the Phantom jerked him back. The drunken man lunged out with arms and legs, but he subsided quickly as he felt something hard pressing against his chest.
“Cut out the nonsense!” The Phantom spoke firmly and incisively. “I have you covered, and I won’t stand for any foolishness.”
The touch of steel against his ribs seemed to have a sobering effect on Granger. For a few moments he stared sulkily at his companion, then he settled himself against the cushion, and his mind appeared to be groping its way out of stupefying fumes. The cab was pursuing a zigzagging route through crooked and dimly lighted streets, the jehu having been instructed to drive at random until he received further orders. The Phantom’s mind worked quickly while he pressed the pistol against his captive’s chest. A new problem confronted him. He had kidnaped his man, but where was he to take him? The logical answer was Sea-Glimpse, but the trip would consume too much time, to say nothing of the risks involved. Doctor Bimble’s house? The Phantom shook his head even as the idea occurred to him. The anthropologist was too erratic a man to inspire confidence, and the Phantom needed someone whom he could trust absolutely.
Presently he felt Granger’s eyes on his face. The cool night air, together with the steady pressure of the pistol, was rapidly driving the alcoholic vapors from the reporter’s brain, and now he was subjecting his captor to a blinking, unsteady scrutiny, as if he were just beginning to suspect that something was amiss.
“Is this a pinch?” he asked, his tones still a trifle thick.
The Phantom laughed. “No, Granger. I’m not an officer. Besides, why should I be pinching you?”
“For being drunk and disorderly and carrying a bottle on my hip.”
“Those heinous crimes don’t interest me. Anyhow, I understand journalists are more or less privileged persons. I am merely taking you to a safe place, where you won’t go around insulting people and getting your head smashed.”
Granger fell into a moody silence, and the Phantom thought he detected signs of a growing uneasiness about his captive. Evidently the period of depression that follows artificial stimulation was already setting in. Because of the darkness and his befuddled state of mind, the reporter had not yet recognized the man at his side, but his gaze was taking on a keener edge and would soon penetrate the thin disguise afforded by the mustache. The Phantom felt the need of a quick decision.
A clock struck one. In scrupulous obedience to his orders the jehu was urging his nag over the darkest and most dismal streets he could find. The Phantom looked out, and a glance at a corner sign told him that they were crossing Mott Street and were not far from the heart of old Chinatown. A recollection flashed through his mind, and in its wake came an idea.
“Stop,” he called through the trap. The hansom jolted to the curb and halted. The street was silent and the sidewalks, as far as eyes could reach, were deserted. There was a thin, lazy drizzle in the air and the atmosphere was a trifle heavy.
“Listen, Granger,” he spoke sharply. “We are getting out here, but I intend to keep you covered every instant. The slightest sound or the least false move will cost you your life. Is that clear?”
The reporter’s response was surly, but the Phantom knew that his warning had had the effect he desired. Holding the pistol with one hand, he took out his wallet with the other and selected a bill. Then he stepped down on the curb, ordering the reporter to follow.
“Here, cabby.” He extended the bill, which, with the other the Phantom had previously given him, was surely enough to make the jehu forget any little irregularity he might have observed. With a fervent “Thank you, sir,” he whipped up the scrawny nag and drove away.
“Now, Granger.” The Phantom spoke in low but commanding tones. “My life depends on the success of this little undertaking. I’ll shoot you the instant you show the least intention to spoil my plan. Understand?”
Granger nodded, seemingly convinced that he was dealing with a desperate man and that, for the time at least, it behooved him to obey orders and ask no questions. The Phantom wound his arm about the other’s back, firmly jabbing the muzzle of the pistol against the fellow’s armpit, thus giving the appearance of steadying a slightly incapacitated friend.
They approached the center of Chinatown, keeping in the shadows whenever possible. Granger was sullenly silent, and he seemed to be hoping and watching for a sign of relaxing vigilance on his captor’s part. The Phantom understood, and as they left the shelter of darkness and turned the corner at Pell Street, he pressed the pistol a little harder against the reporter’s armpit.
A slumberous gloom hung over the district, as if the famous old quarter were brooding over memories of a lurid past, when terror stalked in subterranean crypts and strange scenes were enacted under cover of Oriental splendor. There were a few stragglers in the streets and some of the shops and restaurants were lighted; but, on the whole, the section presented a dull and lifeless appearance. The Phantom scanned the signs and numbers as he hurried along with his captive, keeping the latter close to his side, and constantly on the alert against lurking dangers.
Finally he stopped before one of the smaller establishments and, after descending a few steps, knocked on the basement door. Signs painted across the window in Chinese and English announced that the place was occupied by Peng Yuen, dealer in Oriental goods. Once, years ago, while the district was ripped and rocked by one of its frequent tong wars, the Phantom had chanced to do Peng Yuen a great favor, and the Chinaman had sworn undying gratitude and promised to show his appreciation in a practical way if the opportunity should ever come. A strange friendship had developed, and Peng Yuen, though wily and rascally in his dealings with others, had impressed the Phantom as a man whom he could safely trust.
The front of the store was dark, but through an open door in the rear came a shaft of light. As he waited, the Phantom threw an uneasy glance up and down the street. Luck had been with him so far, but the tension was beginning to tell on his nerves.
A puny figure crossed the path of light, then the door opened a few inches, and the two arrivals were given a keen, slant-eyed scrutiny. The Phantom knew a little Chinese, and a few words spoken in that tongue had a magic effect on the man inside. With a curious obeisance, he drew back and motioned them to enter. The Phantom, pushing his quarry ahead of him through the door, spoke a few more words in Chinese, and their host pointed invitingly to the door in the rear.
The three entered, and Peng Yuen, arrayed in straw-colored garments embroidered with black bats, shot the bolt. His face was as impassive as that of the image of Kuan-Yin pu tze which stood on a shelf over a lacquered teak-wood cabinet, and he was so slight of stature that it seemed as though a puff of wind would have blown him to the land of his ancestors. The air in the little den was heavy with scents of the East.
The light, filtering through shades of green and rose, gave Granger his first clear view of the Phantom’s face. With a start he fell back a step and stared at his captor out of gradually widening eyes. The last signs of stupor fled from his face, and a startled cry rose in his throat as the Phantom smilingly snatched the false mustache from his lips.
The Chinaman, standing with arms folded across his chest, viewed the scene with supreme indifference. Granger slowly ran his hand across his forehead, as if wondering whether his senses were playing him tricks. His lips came apart, and a startled gleam appeared in his bleary, heavy-lidded eyes.
“The—the Gray Phantom!” he muttered shakily, wetting his lips and falling back another step.
The Phantom looked amused. “Just think what a scoop you’ve missed, Granger.” He turned to the Chinaman. “Peng, you old heathen, I guess you know they are accusing me of murder?”
“So?” said Peng Yuen in his slow, precise English. “I did not know. I never read the newspapers.”
“Then, of course, you are not aware that the police are conducting a lively search for me?”
“My friend,” said the Chinaman, unimpressed, “I have told you that I do not read the papers.”
The Phantom searched the almond-shaped eyes for a sign of a twinkle, but found none.
“Peng Yuen, you are lying like a gentleman. It grieves me to shatter such beautiful ignorance, but it must be done. I did not commit the murder of which I am accused. For reasons of my own I desire to find the murderer and hand him over to the police. I am seriously handicapped by the interest the authorities are taking in me, which makes it unsafe for me to move a single step. I have thought of a ruse by which that obstacle may be removed.”
The Chinaman lifted his brows inquiringly.
“This gentleman,” continued the Phantom, indicating the inebriate, “is Mr. Thomas Granger, a reporter on the Sphere. As you may have noticed, he looks something like me. The police, deceived by the resemblance, took it into their heads to arrest him. He was able to give a satisfactory account of himself, of course, and his finger prints quickly convinced the authorities they had made a mistake. They are not likely to make that kind of mistake a second time. You follow me, Peng Yuen?”
The ghost of a grin flickered across the Chinaman’s face. “Your words, my friend, have their roots in eternal wisdom.”
“Thanks for that kind thought, Peng Yuen. I knew you would see the point. Granger has seen it, too, though his mind is not functioning with its usual brilliance to-night. He has consented to disappear for a few days and has agreed to let me borrow his identity in the meantime. As the Gray Phantom I can scarcely move a step. In the rôle of Thomas Granger, newspaper reporter, I shall be able to move about unmolested. What, Granger—not backing out of the bargain, I hope?”
A seemingly careless gesture with the pistol, together with a warning look, quickly silenced the protests on Granger’s lips. After a few moments of fidgeting and indecision, he accepted the situation with a good-natured grin, as if its humorous side had appealed to him.
“Excellent!” drawled the Phantom. “I knew you would be reasonable. Now we strip.”
He handed the pistol to Peng Yuen, placed his metal case on the table, and began to remove his clothes. Granger followed his example, and in a few minutes the two had exchanged garments. The reporter was addicted to vivid hues and extreme designs. At first the Phantom felt a trifle uncomfortable in the strange garb, but he knew it was necessary to the rôle he was assuming. He studied the reporter carefully while he took a number of tubes and vials from his case. Granger was a younger man, his eyes were of a slightly different hue from the Phantom’s, and there were other differences which were easily discernible to the keen eye.
The Phantom, viewing himself in a cheval glass, daubed a dark tint over the gray at his temples. With an occasional backward glance at the reporter, he dappled his cheeks with a faintly chromatic powder, traced a tiny line on each side of the mouth, poured a little oil on his hair and patted it till it lay smooth and sleek against his head, performing each touch with such a delicate skill that, though the resemblance was greatly enhanced, there was scarcely a suggestion of make-up.
“What do you think, Peng Yuen?” he inquired, turning from the cheval glass.
A look of admiration came into the Chinaman’s usually woodenlike face. Even the voice was Granger’s. The expression around the mouth and the eyes and the characteristic set of the shoulders were adroitly imitated, and already the Phantom had picked up several of the reporter’s mannerisms.
“It is good,” murmured Peng Yuen, putting the maximum of approval into the minimum of words.
The Phantom was beginning to show signs of restlessness. He glanced at his watch, then fixed the Chinaman with a penetrating look.
“Peng Yuen,” he said, “in the good old days there were hiding places on these premises where people could disappear.”
“It may be so.” The Chinaman’s face was expressionless. “I do not recollect.”
But even as he spoke, a touch of his fingers produced an opening in the wall. The Phantom motioned, and with a shrug of the shoulders the reporter stepped through the aperture. A moment later a sliding panel had shut him from view.
“The Phantom has disappeared,” mumbled the Chinaman. “Except when I bring him food and drink, I will forget that he exists. Going so soon, Mr. Granger?” The bogus journalist grinned as he gripped Peng Yuen’s thin, weazened hand. He squeezed it until the Chinaman winced, then hurried out into the dark, dripping night, turning his steps in the direction of the house on East Houston Street.
The Phantom walked briskly, with an easy, carefree swagger, breathing freely for the first time since the beginning of the strange events that had attended his efforts to solve the mystery of the Gage murder. In the rôle of an irresponsible journalist with a weakness for strong liquor he could feel reasonably secure, for the police had been so cruelly nagged and ridiculed that they would think twice before repeating their sad blunder.
“Stop!” commanded a voice as he swung into Houston Street. The Phantom halted and smiled impudently into the face of a plain-clothes man who emerged from a dark doorway to look him over.
“Oh, Granger,” muttered the officer disgustedly after a glance at his showy attire and a sniff of the whisky with which the Phantom, making use of the reporter’s bottle, had prudently scented himself. “Sober for a change, I see. Where do you get the stuff, anyhow?”
“That would be telling. Any news of the Phantom?”
“Naw! We thought we had him a while ago, over at a Third Avenue L station, but he blew away. I s’pose you’re out to nab him and get a scoop for that yellow rag of yours.”
“Maybe,” said the Phantom cheerfully. “It would be quite an event in my young life. I’ll be on my way, if you’re sure you don’t want to take me to headquarters and get another sample of my finger prints.”
“Aw—beat it!” muttered the detective, touched in a sore spot. The Phantom chuckled and moved on. His new rôle promised to be amusing as well as profitable, and the ease with which he had passed the first test gave him added confidence. Twice within the next fifteen minutes he was stopped and questioned, only to be dismissed with a disgusted grunt or a facetious remark.
As he crossed the Bowery a stocky figure in patrolman’s uniform appeared around the corner and moved down the street a few paces ahead of him. After studying his gait and bearing for a few moments, the Phantom knew it was Officer Pinto. He slackened his pace and followed, stepping softly so as not to attract the policeman’s attention.
Pinto’s steps faltered as he approached the middle of the block, and he walked with a shuffling and uncertain air. Finally he stopped, and the Phantom thought he was gazing at a window directly in front of him. He tiptoed a little closer, and now he saw that the building on which the officer’s attention was fixed so intently was none other than the murky and silent structure that had been occupied by Gage and his housekeeper.
The policeman drew a little closer to the window, then stood rigid and motionless, as if the building were exerting a peculiar fascination upon him. At that moment the Phantom would have given a great deal to know what was going on in the mind of the man he was watching. He could make a guess, but guesses were unsatisfactory. At length the officer shrugged his shoulders, as if to shake off something that oppressed him, then tried the lock in matter-of-fact fashion and moved on down the street.
The Phantom hastened after him. He was no longer trying to avoid detection, and his footfalls sounded clear and sharp in the quiet street. The policeman stopped, looked back, and peered sharply at the oncomer.
“Granger—huh!” he snorted after giving the Phantom a derisive once-over. “Say, does your ma know you’re out as late as this? Getting all them glad rags mussed up in the rain, too! What’s the idea?”
“The Phantom has got my goat,” confessed the pseudo reporter. “It isn’t natural for a man to pop in and out the way he does without getting caught.”
“Well, what are you going to do about it?” grumbled the patrolman, resuming his walk.
The Phantom fell into step beside him, now and then casting a sidelong glance at his sour and uncommunicative face. All of a sudden he wondered whether the policeman was aware that a second murder had been committed in the Gage house, and again it struck him as bafflingly strange that no mention had been made of the finding of the housekeeper’s body. What had become of it, and how much, if anything, did Pinto know?
“Something seems to be eating you,” he observed casually, trying to adopt a phraseology suited to his rôle. “You were staring at that window as if you expected old Gage’s ghost to take a stroll. What were you thinking of, Pinto?”
The policeman gave a quick, searching look. “Say, you’ve been watching me, ain’t you? What’s the big idea? And how do you know my name?”
The Phantom laughed engagingly. “How touchy we are to-night! I wasn’t watching you, exactly. Just strolling along, hoping to bump into the Phantom and cover myself with glory. Then I saw you, and I couldn’t imagine what you were seeing in that window. As for knowing your name, I happen to be aware that the officer on this beat is one Joshua Pinto and that he was called by the housekeeper the night Gage was murdered.”
The patrolman, evidently satisfied with the explanation, mumbled something under his breath.
“But you haven’t answered my question,” persisted the Phantom, speaking in gently teasing tones. “I am still wondering what you were thinking of while standing in front of the window.”
“Why, I was—just thinking, that’s all.”
“How illuminating! I wonder if, by any chance, your profound meditations had anything to do with the present whereabouts of Mrs. Mary Trippe, Gage’s housekeeper.”
The patrolman came to a dead stop. Of a sudden his face turned almost white and his eyes grew wider and wider as they stared into the questioner’s face.
“What—what d’you mean?” he demanded thickly.
The Phantom laughed easily. “Why, Pinto, you’re the scaredest cop I ever saw. Your nerves must be in a bad way. I was only wondering if you’ve seen anything of Mrs. Trippe lately.”
“My nerves are a bit jumpy,” admitted Pinto. He was moving again, but there was evidence of weakness in the region of his knees. “They’ve been that way ever since I had a touch of indigestion last month. What was it you asked me about Mrs. Trippe?”
“I walked over there yesterday afternoon, meaning to ask her a question or two in connection with the murder. I couldn’t find her, and the neighbors said they hadn’t seen her for a day or two. Got any idea where she is?”
“No, I haven’t.” Pinto was speaking in calmer tones now. “Likely as not she’s visiting friends or relatives somewhere. Wimmen don’t like to stay in a place where there’s been a murder.”
“Something in that. By the way, Pinto, when were you last inside the house?”
Again, for a mere instant, the patrolman’s steps faltered. He threw the man at his side an uneasy glance. “Why, let me see. It was the day I had the Phantom locked up in the bedroom and he gave me the slip. Why did you want to know?”
“No reason in particular. I was just thinking that—But my mind’s wandering. Got a bit tanked early in the evening. Guess I’ll turn in. See you later.”
With a yawn, he turned back, fancying there was a note of relief in the policeman’s farewell. He smiled as he walked along. His conversation with Pinto had cleared up one point in his mind. The officer knew something of Mrs. Trippe’s fate. The dread he had evinced at mention of the housekeeper’s name proved that, and his prevarications and evasions were further evidence. The plea of indigestion and nervousness, coming from one of Pinto’s robust physique, was highly amusing.