The Gray Phantom's Return

  CHAPTER XII--THE PHANTOM HAS AN INSPIRATION

  "Remarkable, sir; most remarkable! May I feel your pulse?"

  The Gray Phantom knew, even before he opened his eyes, that the speakerwas Doctor Tyson Bimble. He was lying in bed, undressed, in the sameroom his host had assigned him the night before. The lights were on, sohe must have slept through the day, and he felt correspondinglyrefreshed.

  The anthropologist, sitting in a chair beside the bed, was timing hispulse beats. The doctor's thin legs were wrapped in the same tighttrousers he had worn on their first meeting, and an acid-stained coatwas tightly buttoned across his plump stomach.

  "Normal," he declared admiringly, pocketing his watch. "You possessextraordinary 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 likemine," he remarked pointedly.

  "Ah, but you were utterly exhausted, my friend. Otherwise my excellentJerome would not have had quite such an easy time with you. A littlestrong-arm play and a whiff or two of chloroform were all that wasnecessary. The effect soon wore off, and you lapsed into a natural andinvigorating sleep."

  "So, it was Jerome. I guessed as much." The Phantom looked perplexedlyat the doctor. "But wasn't it a rather rough way of putting a man tobed?"

  "It was the only safe way of dealing with an impulsive and strong-headedman like you. But for the timely appearance of my admirable Jerome, youwould undoubtedly have walked straight into the arms of the police."

  The argument sounded plausible enough. The Phantom realized that thereaction following his escape from the tunnel might have caused him todo several foolish things.

  An astute grin creased the doctor's face. "Even the Gray Phantom is attimes very transparent. Last night, when you started removing yourclothes in my presence, I knew that you had no intention of going tobed. However, I reasoned that you were an intelligent man and could betrusted to take care of yourself. I woke up at an early hour thismorning and stepped to your door. You had not returned. Greatly alarmed,I told Jerome to look for you. The estimable fellow found you shortlyafter you had dug your way out of the tunnel. You ought to feel deeplyindebted to him, sir."

  "I do," with a faint trace of sarcasm. "But I should like to wring theneck of the practical joker who blockaded this end of the passage whileI was at the other."

  The words were no sooner spoken than the doctor's face underwent astartling transformation. The affable smile vanished, giving way to alook of such violent wrath that even the Phantom felt a little awed.

  "The hound shall get his just deserts, sir," declared the doctor insnarling tones. Then, as if regretting his display of temper, he laughedeasily. "Provided, of course, we learn who perpetrated the outrage."

  Again the Phantom was puzzled. He was certain the anthropologist'sferocious outburst had been genuine. It had been far too real andconvincing to be feigned even by a clever actor. Yet he sensed acontradiction. Whoever was responsible for the blockaded door must havetraversed the doctor's house on his way to the cellar. It did not seemlikely that strangers could be taking such liberties in a privateresidence 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 istoo valuable to be left unprotected."

  It sounded convincing, and the casual tone went a long way towardquieting the Phantom's misgivings. He knew that an unduly suspiciousnature is as bad as a gullible one. Hadn't he been too prone to put thewrong construction on the eccentricities of a scientist? Everythingconsidered, the doctor's actions had certainly been friendly. Had hisintentions been hostile, he could easily have turned his guest over tothe police.

  The Phantom shifted the subject. "Well, at any rate, I proved to mysatisfaction that Gage's bedchamber can't be entered by way of thetunnel."

  The twinkle behind the lenses expressed doubt and amusement. "And so youhave 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 arebeing frank with me--which I strongly doubt, by the way--you seem tohave a passion for drawing obvious inferences. From the fact that youwere unable to operate the mechanism from the outside you deduce thatthe murderer could not have entered the room via the tunnel. That, myfriend, is very superficial reasoning. For instance, Gage himself mighthave admitted the murderer through the revolving frame."

  The Phantom's brows went up. The possibility suggested by the doctor hadnot occurred to him. The next moment he grinned at the sheerpreposterousness of the idea. "But few men are obliging enough towelcome their murderers with open arms."

  "Not if they come as murderers." The doctor gave him a keen, searchinglook. "But suppose they come in the guise of friends? That's only arandom suggestion, but you will admit the possibility exists." Heshrugged his shoulders, as if to dismiss the subject. "Jerome hasrepaired the damage you wrought in the tunnel last night, covering upall traces of your little adventure, so there is no danger of the policetracing you here."

  "Thoughtful," murmured the Phantom a little absently.

  "Which reminds me," added the anthropologist, "that you are again ahunted man. The police have seen their mistake and the prisoner wasreleased this morning. He bears a superficial resemblance to you, butcomparison of his finger prints with those of the Gray Phantom provedconclusively he was not the man they wanted, and he seems to have givena 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 atthe stupid police--and well they might. The prisoner proved to be areporter employed by the _Sphere_, whose only offense is an inclinationto forget that these are dry times. A reporter, of all persons! It'sdelicious!"

  "A reporter--on the _Sphere_!" echoed the Phantom, sensing a possiblesignificance in the combination. "Not, by any chance, the one whoreported the Gage murder?"

  "The same. That's what lends an extra touch of humor to the sillyblunder. Imagine a journalist, confronted with a scarcity of news, goingout and committing a murder in order to have something to write about!"

  The Phantom joined in the doctor's laughter, but his face soberedquickly. "Is this unfortunate journalist wearing a beard?"

  "No; but I understand your photograph in the rogues' gallery shows yousmooth shaven, so the absence of a beard really enhances the resemblanceto the pictures published."

  The Phantom was silent for a time. There was a hint of deep thought inthe lines around his eyes. His hand passed slowly across his beard,still gritty and tangled from his experience in the tunnel. Suddenly themuscles 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 beenrenewed with increased vigor. There is an interview with the policecommissioner, in which that optimistic soul declares the rascal cannothave left New York and that he will surely be captured within the nextfew hours."

  The Phantom smiled amusedly, but there was a fog in his mind. Was itpossible no one had yet discovered that a second murder had beenperpetrated in the Sylvanus Gage house? With his own eyes the Phantomhad seen the housekeeper's face fade into the ashen hue of death, and itseemed incredible that the body had not been found.

  "By the way," remarked Doctor Bimble, as if carrying out the other'strain of thought, "I wonder what has become of Gage's housekeeper. Iwalked over there this morning to see if I could do anything for thepoor 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 voicesteady. "H'm. She has had quite a shock. Perhaps she is lying ill andhelpless in some part of the house."

  "The same thing occurred to me, and so I looked in every room in thehouse. The lady was nowhere in sight, however. Naturally she found itunpleasant to live alone in the place after the murder. She may havegone away for a visit."

  "Yes, quite likely." It was on the Phantom's tongue to tell what he hadseen, but for a reason not quite clear to himself he desisted. DoctorBimble's revelation was somewhat staggering, and the disappearance ofthe housekeeper's body was a poser that baffled the Phantom'sastuteness. The mystery seemed to grow more tangled and intricate withevery passing hour, and he felt that, so far, his progress had beendishearteningly slow. Yet, with the whole city and its environsconverted 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 befamishing. I shall have Jerome bring you some food at once. I suppose,"stopping on his way to the door and regarding the Phantom with aserio-comic expression, "it isn't necessary to warn you that it would beunwise to go out on the streets a night like this."

  A grin masked the Phantom's searching look. "You seem deeply concernedin my welfare, doctor."

  "Naturally." Bimble drew himself up. "With me a bargain is always abargain. I hope you haven't forgotten our understanding."

  "I see," the Gray Phantom replied. "You want my skeleton to come to youintact. Yes, doctor, I'm aware of the inclemency of the weather. Youneedn't worry on my account."

  The doctor tarried a moment longer, cleared his throat as if about tosay 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 orderlyrow, were the contents of his pockets, including pistol, metal case, andwatch. The Phantom slipped out of bed and examined the articles. Nothingwas missing and nothing had been disturbed. Evidently Doctor Bimbletrusted to his guest's good sense to keep him indoors.

  And well he might, was the Phantom's grim thought. There were excellentreasons why he should remain under the anthropologist's roof--reasonswhich only a fool or a desperado would ignore. The police, goaded byridicule and incensed at the way they had been made game of, wereundoubtedly exerting every effort and using every trick and stratagem toensnare their quarry. There were pitfalls at every crossing, traps inevery block, prying eyes in a thousand places. To defy such dangerswould be sheer madness.

  Yet there were equally urgent reasons why the Phantom should not remainidle. One of them, and the most potent of them all, had to do with HelenHardwick. Another was the Phantom's irrepressible passion for flinginghis gauntlet in the face of danger. A third was the firm conviction thathe could rely on his mental and physical agility to see him through, nomatter what hazards he might encounter.

  He sprang back into bed as a noise sounded at the door. The cat-footedand tight-lipped manservant entered with a folding table, a stack ofnewspapers, and a trayful of steaming dishes. The Phantom watched thenimble 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 culinarytalents 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 savewhen he unbent to pass a dish or replenish the water tumbler, piqued thePhantom's curiosity. A grenadier turned to stone while standing atattention could not be more rigid and impassive than Jerome, yet therewas a hint of constant alertness about the dull eyes and the lines atthe 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, heturned to the newspapers, noticing that the front pages were largelygiven over to himself. His own photograph was published side by sidewith that of the _Sphere_ reporter, whose name appeared to be ThomasGranger. Many thousands of dollars were being wagered on the outcome ofthe contest between the Phantom and the police, with the odds slightlyin favor of the latter. A yellow journal was offering prizes to those ofits readers who furnished the best suggestions for the capture of thefamous outlaw. There were interviews with leading citizens in all walksof life, expressing amazement and indignation over the murder ofSylvanus Gage and the dilatory tactics of the officials. Even WallStreet was disturbed, for who knew but what the celebrated rogue wasplanning another of the stupendous raids that had rocked the financialworld on two or three occasions in the past?

  The Phantom was amused, but also a trifle perturbed. The handicaps hehad to overcome if he were to accomplish his purpose were ratherstaggering. But for the eccentric anthropologist's hospitality he mighteven now be in the coils of the police. There was a troubled gleam inhis eyes as he tossed the papers aside. For several minutes he sat onthe edge of the bed, a thoughtful pucker between his eyes, abstractedlygazing down at the papers on the floor.

  Of a sudden he roused himself out of a brown study. While his thoughtshad been far away, his eyes had been steadily fixed on the twophotographs in the center of the page spread out at his feet. Now asteely glitter appeared in his narrowing eyes and a smile spread slowlyfrom the corners of his lips.

  In an instant he was on his feet, glancing at his watch. It was almostten o'clock. He hurried quietly to the door, listened at the keyhole fora few moments, then shot the bolt. From now on his movements werecharacterized by the brisk precision of one acting on an inspiration.Taking a sharp-edged tool from his pocket case, he stepped to the washstand and mixed some lather. A few deft strokes and slashes, and hisbeard was gone. Since Patrolman Pinto had recognized him in spite of it,the beard was no longer useful, and the reddish and bristly mustachewhich he took from a wrapper in his metal case and affixed to his lipswould serve fairly well as a temporary disguise. After a brief glance inthe mirror, he put on his clothes and pocketed the articles on thedresser.

  The Gray Phantom was ready for one of the maddest and most perilousenterprises of his career.