CHAPTER XVIII--THE STARTING POINT
The Phantom feigned utter unconcern as he continued toward the corner.His acute senses had instantly registered the fact that he was an objectof scrutiny. It vexed him not a little, for he was anxious to get onHelen Hardwick's trail, and he had no relish for another adventure withthe police. He looked about him out of the tail of an eye as he advancedwith a leisurely swing.
It took him but a few moments to pick out the watcher from among thesprinkling of loungers and pedestrians on the sidewalk. The man's dullface and stolid expression did not deceive the Phantom for a moment. Hestood with his back against a shop window, and part of his face washidden by a newspaper he pretended to be reading. The Phantom walked upbeside him.
"You're a detective, aren't you?"
The man lowered the newspaper and gazed at the questioner out ofdeceptively sluggish eyes.
"What makes you think so?"
The Phantom chuckled, though he knew he was treading on dangerousground. It was just possible that Granger, although he had not been longin the city and therefore could not have an extensive policeacquaintance, had met this particular detective. A careful study of theman's face reassured him, however.
"Oh, I spotted you easily enough," was his answer. "I suppose you haveheard of me. I am Thomas Granger, of the _Sphere_."
The other gave a slight nod. A faint grin creased his face. "I've heardof you, all right. On the day you were pinched, they tell me, you hadthe beautifulest jag on that's been seen in this town in many a day. Whydon't you put a fellow wise to your source of supply?"
"I may," with a knowing wink, "if you promise not to jug me again."
"Well, you needn't rub it in, Granger. You look a lot like the GrayPhantom. If you didn't have those glad rags on, I wouldn't be able totell the difference. I never met the Phantom face to face, but judgingfrom his picture I should say you're as much alike as two peas. By theway, my name is Culligore--Lieutenant Culligore."
The Phantom repressed a start. He had seen the name in the earliernewspaper accounts of the murder and remembered that Culligore had beenone of the detectives assigned to the case. He wondered whether it werepossible that he and Granger had not met while the reporter was gettingthe facts of the tragedy for his paper. The detective's face showed nosign of suspicion, but the Phantom noticed that he had an odd habit ofrubbing his upper lip against the tip of his nose, and the littlemannerism impressed him as significant of deep and devious mentalprocesses.
"That reminds me!" he exclaimed suddenly, as if just recallingsomething. "There's been a brand-new murder committed over at the Gagehouse."
The detective lifted his brows.
"I was snooping around, hoping to find some new twist to the case,"explained the Phantom. "In a storeroom on the second floor I found thebody of the housekeeper. She looked as though she had been dead a goodmany hours. Pinto is lying on the stairs with a bump on the back of hishead, and he's handcuffed to a little shrimp that looks like a dopefiend."
Lieutenant Culligore stared as he heard the strange report. "Beendrinking again?"
"Go and see for yourself."
Culligore at last showed signs of activity. "Better come along," hesuggested. "If you've been telling me the truth, there ought to be agood story in it for you."
"I've seen enough. Going back to the office to write it up."
The two parted. As Culligore started to cross the street, he made acurious motion with his hand, and the Phantom fancied he was signalingsomeone on the other side. He walked briskly toward the elevatedstation. Evidently Culligore had put a colleague on his trail, therebyshowing that he was not so unsuspecting as the Phantom had thought. Heascended the stairs and walked out onto the platform without a singlebackward glance, but his ears, trained to catch and classify theslightest sounds, told him a pursuer was behind him.
The train, a southbound one, was crowded with passengers. The Phantomselected a strap near the rear end of one of the cars. The many curiousglances leveled in his direction told him he was being recognized as thenewspaper reporter who had won fame by being mistaken for the GrayPhantom and whose photograph had appeared side by side with that of thenotorious rogue. While ostensibly absorbed in an advertisement, he casta sidelong glance at the platform of the car just ahead. The briefglimpse sufficed to identify his pursuer as a broad-shoulderedindividual in a brown suit, whose rather commonplace features wereshaded by the brim of a derby.
The Phantom was in a quandary. He could accomplish nothing with a"shadow" at his heels, and there was something maddening in the thoughtthat he was losing time while Helen Hardwick might be in danger. Hecould probably elude his pursuer without much difficulty, but that wouldbe a confession that he had something to hide, and might possibly resultin his being picked up on a general alarm. He was safe behind thepersonality of Thomas Granger only so long as he did not engage insuspicious conduct.
An idea flashed in his mind as he caught a glimpse of the skyscrapers ofCity Hall Park. He would take the bull by the horns, he decided. Thesafest and surest way of averting suspicion from himself was to play hisborrowed role boldly and thoroughly. He would proceed at once to theoffices of the _Sphere_ and make a judiciously colored report of thelatest affair at the Gage house. It was a dangerous experiment, but thePhantom believed he could carry it out. A bold play, a bit of cleveracting, and the usual accompaniment of good luck were all that wasnecessary.
He was still conscious of pursuit as he alighted and turned in thedirection of the _Sphere_ Building. A glance at the bulletin board inthe rotunda showed him the location of the editorial rooms, and heascended in the elevator. The mirrors lining the walls of the cage threwback at him a reflection showing signs of suspense, worry, and want ofsleep. His face was drawn and furrowed, and the usual luster of his eyeswas a trifle dimmed, but these symptoms might also be indications ofheavy drinking, and they enhanced his resemblance to Granger.
The building throbbed with the pulsations of presses. From above, like acontinuous rattle of shrapnel, came the din and clatter of thelinotypes. Faint odors of ink and whiffs from the sterotyping andphoto-engraving plants hung in the air.
The Phantom stepped out with a jaunty appearance, though inwardly he wasquailing a trifle. A sign on frosted glass told him which door to enter,and a red-haired youth presiding at a desk in an anteroom grinnedbroadly as he passed through. A dozen typewriters jabbered noisily inthe room beyond. As the Phantom walked in, a spectacled, shirt-sleevedman seated at a desk near the entrance looked up and regarded him withtwinkling eyes.
"'Lo, Granger," was his good-humored greeting. "Understand 'Old WarHorse' tied a can to you last night."
"Did he?" asked the Phantom, guessing that the individual referred towas the autocrat who had ordered Granger bounced. "It was a large night,and I don't remember the minor details." He looked uncertainly about theroom, as if his vision was a trifle clouded. "Where is the oldfire-eater? Don't see him around."
"Of course, you don't." The spectacled man laughed. "Old War Horse is inbed, where he belongs. I guess you haven't quite recovered your bearingsyet, or you'd know that Slossdick is on the day shift. I see him lookingthis way, as if he had designs on you."
The Phantom trailed the spectacled man's glance to a glass-partionedcubby-hole at the other end of the room, where a bald and sharp-nosedman sat at a desk. He advanced airily, grinning in response to theknowing winks and well-meant banter that followed him, and boldlyapproached the scowling personage at the desk.
"Don't you know you're fired?" demanded Slossdick, jabbing at a page of"copy" with his pencil.
"Am I?" inquired the Phantom innocently. He spoke with a little catch,as if he had a slight cold, and he avoided the sunlight streaming inthrough the window. "It hadn't occurred to me."
"No? Old War Horse had you kicked out, didn't he? You'd been insultinghim again, I understand." Slossdick's devastating pencil ripped anentire paragraph out of the copy before him. "What's biting you thismorning?"
&n
bsp; "Nothing," said the Phantom blandly. "Just thought you might like toknow that there's been another murder at the Gage house."
The slashings of Slossdick's pencil ceased abruptly. He swept thePhantom's face with a quick, searching glance. Briefly the impostor toldas much as he thought prudent, describing the scene in the storeroom andat the head of the stairs, without telling of his own part in thenight's events or of Pinto's mysterious conduct. He was not yet ready toaccuse the policeman openly, and for the present it suited his purposeto leave the affair vague and mysterious.
There was a flicker of interest in Slossdick's eyes. "Housekeepermurdered and policeman lying at the head of the stairs handcuffed to adope. Rattling good yarn, Granger. But"--and a look of doubt crept intohis face--"we've had nothing from the police on this."
"Good reason. The police didn't know of it till a few minutes ago. Ifyou hurry, you will beat the other papers to it."
Slossdick snatched up the telephone and called a department. "First pagemake-over," he snapped when the connection had been established. Then,turning to the Phantom: "Think you can see the typewriter keys thismorning?"
The Phantom quavered inwardly. Typewriting was not among hisaccomplishments, and the entire proceeding was strange to him. Hehesitated, noticing that the rumble of the presses had already ceased.
"Well, never mind," grumbled Slossdick, his pencil already at work on aneight-column caption. "Give the dope to Fessenden and let him write it.Then go home and get some sleep. You look as if you needed it. And, forthe love of Mike, steer clear of the booze! Fessenden!"
In response to the explosive shout, a lanky and dyspeptic-looking manappeared at the door to the cubby-hole. After receiving a few tersedirections from Slossdick, he led the Phantom to his desk and sat downbefore his typewriter. He inserted a sheet of paper in the machine whilelistening, and his fingers were racing over the keys even before thePhantom had finished his recital.
"Bully yarn you've turned up," came his appreciative comment over theclatter of the keys. "A peach!"
The Phantom walked away. The story would, of course, rouse another stormof indignation against himself, but there was no help for that. On thewhole, he had bettered his chances and enhanced his temporary safety bygiving the _Sphere_ a start of twenty minutes or half an hour in itsrace against competing newspapers.
His shadow was nowhere in sight as he emerged from the building. Eitherthe man's suspicions had been disarmed by the Phantom's move, or else hehad grown tired of waiting and dropped into a near-by restaurant for abite of food. Standing at the curb, the Phantom glanced stealthily toright and left. There was no sign of espionage in either direction. Atlast he was free to begin his search for Helen Hardwick, but the trailseemed to have neither beginning nor end. In vain he searched his mindfor a starting point.
His hands were in his pockets, and presently his absently gropingfingers touched a piece of paper. He drew it out, starting as his eyesfell on the ducal coronet.
"Guess I'll see Granger," he reflected. "I have a strong hunch he is mystarting point."