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THE GRAY PHANTOM
HERMAN LANDON
1921
CONTENTS CHAPTER I--A TRAGIC INTERLUDE CHAPTER II--"MR. SHEI" CHAPTER III--HELEN EQUIVOCATES CHAPTER IV--AZURECREST CHAPTER V--PERPLEXITIES CHAPTER VI--THE PHANTOM ORCHID CHAPTER VII--MR. SHEI SHOWS HIS HAND CHAPTER VIII--THE VOICE ON THE WIRE CHAPTER IX--THE HOUSE OF LAUGHTER CHAPTER X--A SHOT CHAPTER XI--AN EAVESDROPPER CHAPTER XII--MR. SHEI STRIKES CHAPTER XIII--A MESSAGE FROM MR. SHEI CHAPTER XIV--THE ELUSIVE MR. SHEI CHAPTER XV--DR. TAGALA CHAPTER XVI--CHECKMATED CHAPTER XVII--DOCTOR TAGALA'S DISCOVERY CHAPTER XVIII--THE FIGURE ON THE STAIRS CHAPTER XIX--A FUTILE SEARCH CHAPTER XX--TRAPPED CHAPTER XXI--MR. SHEI'S STRATAGEM CHAPTER XXII--THE PHANTOM'S RUSE CHAPTER XXIII--THE END OF THE GRAY PHANTOM
CHAPTER I
A TRAGIC INTERLUDE
Hours afterward, when the tragic spell had broken and scraps and oddsof the affair began to throng the memories of those present at theopening performance of "His Soul's Master," several persons rememberedthat a curious hush had preceded the fateful moment.
No one could tell why, but of a sudden all sounds had ceased. Subduedwhispers, the creaking of seats, and the froufrou of garments hadstopped as abruptly as if a silencing signal had gone through thelittle auditorium. The spectators had sat motionless, momentarilyholding their breath, and even the voices of the actors had falteredfor an appreciable second or two. The stillness had been charged withan uneasy tension, and it seemed as though a telepathic whisper ofwarning had been communicated to the gathering.
Vivian Tennant, as frivolous as she was delicately molded, declaredthe following day that the silence during those few moments had beenso intense that she was positive she had heard a pin drop from thecoiffure of the woman on her left. Alex Hammond, forty and cynical,would have ascribed the spell to a touch of necromancy had he been abeliever in such childish things. Mrs. Hungerford Cather, a fraillittle widow with a melancholy disposition, said she felt just asthough she were at a seance and a ghost was expected to appear anymoment. The others described their impressions with varying degrees ofvividness, but all of them agreed in having felt the creeping approachof a silent and invisible horror.
Only Helen Hardwick, whose fresh young charm and frank brown eyes madeher seem strangely out of place in that motley gathering of rougedlips, sophisticated banter and gowns suggestive of the Parisianboulevards, was singularly uncommunicative in regard to what she hadexperienced during the weird interlude when the Thelma Theater becamethe scene of one of life's grimly realistic tragedies. And her silencewas all the more remarkable because she had seen, heard and felt morethan any of the others.
The Thelma, with its walls of common red brick and severely plainarchitecture, might have suggested anything but the setting of a darkand mysterious crime. Outwardly the building, located in a section ofNew York largely given over to tenements, unsoaped children andgarlicky odors, presented an air of solidity and matter-of-factnessthat left the imagination untouched and gave no hint of the interior.The inside was as colorful and fanciful as the outside was unlovelyand prosaic, and it was rumored that Vincent Starr, the eccentricowner, had spent a fortune on the decorations.
Like many another rich man, Starr had his hobby. The newspapers andthe critics had scoffed and railed when he opened the Thelma anddedicated it to the uplift of dramatic art. He held the Broadwayproductions in lofty contempt, declaring that they catered only to thevulgar tastes of the rabble. Admission to the Thelma was by invitationonly, and the auditorium seated exactly ninety-nine persons, for itwas Starr's firm opinion that out of the city's five million only aninfinitesimal few were able to appreciate true histrionic art. Membersof the daily press were never admitted, and the only critics presentat the performances were the representatives of two or three obscurejournals who shared Starr's esthetic views.
The owner and director of the Thelma was prejudiced against music attheatrical performances, and where the orchestra pit should have beenwas an exquisite statue in marble representing Aphrodite springing outof a foaming sea. Along the walls were friezes picturing the ninemuses, the work of a famous mural painter, and the domed ceilingshowed colorful glimpses of Dionysian festivals. Scattered throughoutthe auditorium and in niches in the walls were superb vases containingflowers whose fragrance filled the air.
The effect of the whole was sumptuous rather than harmonious, and itwas characteristic of Vincent Starr's freakish tastes and clashingimpulses. And among the audience at the _premiere_ of "His Soul'sMaster" there was not one but thought that the brilliant and fancifulsetting lent a touch of incongruity to the tragic byplay enacted offstage.
The moment she stepped into the box reserved for her father andherself, Helen Hardwick felt she was in a strange and somewhatoppressive atmosphere. The faces in the audience were unfamiliar, andeverybody stared at her in a way she could not understand until shesuddenly remembered that among these people she was something of acelebrity. Vincent Starr, who sneered at the biggest dramaticsuccesses of the year, had not only accepted her play for productionat the Thelma, but was himself playing the principal role, and he wasindulging in much self-flattery over having discovered a buddinggenius in the author of "His Soul's Master." That explained thecurious glances turned in her direction.
It was both amusing and bewildering, she thought. Nothing but a whimhad caused her to enter her play in the prize contest conducted byStarr to obtain suitable material for his theater, and its acceptancehad been the greatest surprise of her twenty-three years. Her onlyother serious attempt had been a sketch produced by a dramatic societyat Barnard in her junior year. "His Soul's Master" had been a slightlymore ambitious effort, and it had been inspired by vague emotionswhich she herself could hardly understand, but for all that it was asimple, artless thing with a theme as old as the story of the Gardenof Eden. It was nothing more than an allegorical fantasy depicting theforces of evil and good struggling for possession of a man's soul. Howa play of that kind could have appealed to an eccentric and highlysophisticated genius like Vincent Starr was beyond her.
But the curtain had been up only a few minutes when she began tounderstand. In the part of _Marius_, the mortal for whose soul thespirits of light and darkness were contending, Starr had found a rolethat matched his temperament to perfection. The opening monologue, inwhich _Marius_ revealed himself as tiring of a life of refinedvillainy and roguish adventures, had not proceeded far before she sawthat the role had so gripped and stirred him that he was living thepart rather than acting it. The lines throbbed and sparkled with lifeand passion, and Starr was completely submerging his own emotions inthose of the hero.
It did not take Helen long to see that it was the character of_Marius_, rather than the flimsy fancy woven around it, that hadcaused Starr to accept her play. She had heard he was vain andegotistical, and no doubt he reveled in the opportunity forself-exaltation that the role afforded him. As the play went on fromscene to scene, another impression began to take root in her mind.Here and there in the lines she noted an odd cynical twist or a bit ofambiguous phrasing that she was sure had not been in the manuscript.The tempting voices and gestures of the spirits of darkness were moreappealing than she had intended, and the exhortations of the spirit oflight were correspondingly feebler. She thought she understood whyStarr had found excuses for not admitting her to any of therehearsals.
She was inclined to resent the liberties he had taken with her lines,but again she was carried away by his impassioned rendition of_Marius_. The very lifeblood of the character seemed to pulse inStarr's veins. _Mari
us_ had seemed very real to her while she waswriting the play, but not so real by far as she now saw him on thestage of the Thelma Theater. She leaned forward and watched him withgrowing interest and wonder. It was as if a being that had existedonly in her thoughts and in her heart had suddenly materialized inflesh and blood.
It was weird. Now and then there came a touch of subtlety, an odd turnof speech, or a telling gesture that she instantly recognized,although she knew it was interpolated by the actor. She had heard andseen them all in imagination, but not clearly enough to reproduce themon paper. The gestures impressed her most. She knew and recognizedthem all, from the slightest to the most elaborate, although she hadvisualized only a few of them clearly enough to be able to put theminto the play. It seemed as though the actor, in expanding andvivifying his role, had made use of material that had existed only inthe playwright's mind.
Impulsively she reached out her hand and placed it over her father's.Mr. Hardwick, curator of the Cosmopolitan Museum and an authority onAssyrian relics, started as if his mind had been roving amongprehistoric scenes.
"Why, child, your hand is cold!" he whispered anxiously. "Aren't youwell?"
"Yes, dad. I'm all right." Her large brown eyes avoided his searchinggaze. "How do you like my play?"
She scarcely heard his answer. For a moment she had turned her eyesfrom the stage and let them wander over the dimly lighted auditorium,and of a sudden a face in the last row of seats held her glance. Itwas a striking face, though Helen would not have called it beautiful.Somehow the curve of the haughtily tilted chin repelled her. Thefeatures were perfect in a cold, unalluring way, and the faint curl ofthe lips and the designing look in the eyes made her think of aVelasquez portrait. The woman sat alone, the seats to right and leftof her being unoccupied, and the heavily shaded electric light on thewall at her side drew a thousand flashing tints from the jewel in herhair.
It was not the face that held Helen Hardwick, but rather the fixed,shrewdly scrutinizing look with which the woman was regarding VincentStarr. She followed his every motion and gesture with the slypersistence of a cat watching a mouse. Now and then she bent forward,and her lips twitched in a knowing way, as if she were thinking ofsomething that pleased and amused her even while it startled her alittle. Helen, studying her with a puzzled look, found herselfwondering whether it was the man or the actor that interested thewoman so profoundly.
With an effort--for the woman in the rear of the house had alreadybegun to pique her imagination--she once more turned her eyes to thestage. Again she marveled and wondered. She had an odd feeling thatsomething was going on before her eyes which her reason told her couldnot be quite real. Starr's perfect mastery of the role seemed almostsupernatural. The slight, quick motions of the hands, the occasionalbackward toss of the head, the odd habit of gazing down at the fingertips when in deep thought, the set and swing of the shoulders, theminor but characteristic peculiarities of speech and gesture--allbelonged to the _Marius_ she had seen and known, and Starr'sre-creation of him struck her as uncanny.
Of a sudden she felt a little dazed. She shot a quick glance over theauditorium. No one but herself and the woman in the rear seemed tohave noticed anything unusual. Again her eyes went back to the stage;and then, as if a hazy idea in the back of her mind had all at onceleaped into dazzling clarity, she bent abruptly toward her father.
"Dad--look!" she whispered tensely, tugging at his sleeve. "Don't yousee? It's----"
She stopped, shrugged a little, and her hand dropped limply to herknee. The fall of the curtain and the flare-up of the lights seemed tohave blotted out an illusion. Mr. Hardwick, gray and lean and lookingrather uncomfortable in his full-dress suit, adjusted his glasses onhis thin nose, and looked at her gravely.
"My goodness, child! What _is_ the matter?" he murmured.
"Nothing, dad. I forgot that--that you wouldn't understand." She drewthe palm of her hand across her forehead. "Isn't the air stifling?"
"Too much excitement for you, I am afraid." He smiled as if hispractical sense had found a satisfactory answer. "Your mother was justlike that. Whenever she got a bit wrought up, she always said thingsthat I couldn't understand. Now----"
The hangings parted and Vincent Starr stepped inside the box. Helengave him a swiftly appraising glance. His face was flushed and helooked tired, as if his last ounce of energy had been spent in theemotional tempest of _Marius_, but a swift look of animationbrightened his face as she introduced her father. The first thing oneusually noticed about Vincent Starr was his pale, placid eyes. Theyseemed to give the lie to his magnetic smile, his vivacious manners,and his deep and perfectly modulated voice. As once or twice before inhis presence, Helen felt fascinated and repelled.
"You are doing my daughter a great honor," murmured Mr. Hardwick.
"Not at all." Starr laughed softly, but Helen thought she detected aslight discord that might have been due to either nervousness orfatigue. "Miss Hardwick has placed me under a very great obligation.Her play is splendid. The last act is particularly strong, as you willsee in a few minutes. You must give me your opinion of----"
Helen heard no more. She had glanced toward the rear of the house justin time to see a mysterious smile on the face of the woman seated inthe last row. In vain Helen tried to read and interpret it. Presentlythe woman took a pencil from her bag and began to write on a page tornfrom her programme. Finally she summoned an usher, handed him what shehad written, and nodded in the direction where Helen was sitting. Theattendant glided away, and a few moments later he stood bowing beforeStarr.
"A lady sent you this, sir," he announced.
Starr murmured an apology to Helen and her father and unfolded thenote. His face, dark and almost effeminately smooth--the face of adreamer rather than a man of action--showed a look of boredom hintingthat he was weary of receiving notes from feminine admirers. Then, ashe glanced at the writing, his expression suddenly changed. A look offear crossed his face, but it vanished so quickly that Helen could notbe sure she had read its meaning correctly. He crumpled the note inhis hand and glanced at his watch.
"It's almost time for the curtain," he murmured, quite himself oncemore. "I hope to see both of you later."
With that he was gone. Helen stole a glance at the woman in the rear.Her face bore an expression of amusement and sly triumph, but itafforded no clew to what the note had contained. Then the lights fadedout and the curtain rose upon the final act. The scene depended forits full effect on almost total darkness, and the only illumination inthe house was a smoldering camp fire in one corner of the stage andthe small red lights over the exits. _Marius_ stood in the center,almost totally wrapped in shadows, and in the distance were heard thestrains of strange, wild singing. The spirits of evil were creepingout of the darkness to make their last sorcerous appeal.
Helen felt herself tingling with suspense. She did not know why,unless it was due to the look of fear she had seen in Starr's face ashe read the note. She glanced toward the rear, but the auditorium wasnow so dark that she could no longer see the mysterious woman,although she imagined her hair ornament was gleaming dully in thegloom.
Of a sudden she opened her eyes wide, straining her pupils against thedarkness. She could not be quite sure, but she thought a shadow hademerged from one of the exits and was gliding silently toward thewoman in the rear. She sat very still while little shivers ran up anddown her back, and she was vaguely wondering at an odd change inStarr's voice. It drooped, grew hoarse and uncertain, and there werepauses between the words. She felt he was trying to conquer a sense ofunreasoning dread. A feeling of dizziness seized her, but herimagination formed a picture of a dark shape stealing softly, silentlytoward where the woman sat.
Acting on an irresistible impulse, she rose and hurried from the box,deaf to her father's mild remonstrance. Without volition on her part,her feet seemed to carry her swiftly up the heavily carpeted aisle.She heard a jumble of noises in her head and felt a tightening at thethroat. She rounded the last tier of seats and rus
hed forward, guidedonly by a feeble red gleam over one of the exits. A dim shape, a shadedarker than the surrounding dusk, was moving a few feet ahead of her.
All at once, as if the hesitancy in Starr's voice had cast a deadeningspell over the actors and the audience, an uneasy silence fell uponthe house. Helen sensed it as she sped along in the wake of thecreeping shadow. A few steps more, and she could make out the woman'sfigure, vaguely outlined against the gloom, and just behind it stoodthe shadowy shape whose furtive movements Helen had followed since sheleft the box.
The happenings of the next few moments were like a swift, horribledream. Suddenly she felt limp and cold. Within reach of her arm a handmoved, and the motion seemed to strike a hideous note through thesurrounding stillness. A cry rose and died in her throat. Shestaggered back against a post and stood there motionless while a darkshape brushed past her. She recoiled as a hand touched hers inpassing, and she caught a fleeting but unforgettable glimpse of aface.
It was gone in a moment, but the swarthy features, framed by coarseblack hair that reached to the shoulders, the flat, short nose, thethick and jutting lower lip, the great eyes with their lambent flamesthat seemed to send streaks of fire into the darkness, gave her afeeling that something evil and loathsome had passed.