MR. SHEI SHOWS HIS HAND
In the dusk of the following morning a tall, gray-clad figure alighted
from a train in the Grand Central terminal, glanced cautiously to
right and left among the thin scattering of passengers, and with a
furtive air traversed the vast concourse and gained the street by one
of the side exits. With the habitual vigilance of a hunted man, he
paused for a few moments under the canopy and scanned the face of each
loiterer and passer-by. A dull, discordant din testified that the city
was awakening, and a pale shimmer of dawn was shattering the mists
hanging like a gauzy veil over Manhattan. Finally the gray-clad figure
moved on, walked a block and a half to the west and, selecting an
unpretentious restaurant, stepped in and ordered breakfast.
The Gray Phantom's campaign was on.
Perils lurked everywhere. Though he had changed his ways, he had not
yet paid off his old scores. He still had the law to reckon with, for
the outstanding charges against him were grave and numerous enough to
send him to prison for the rest of his life. The capture of The Gray
Phantom, once one of the most celebrated of rogues, would create a
profound sensation and confer great fame on the captor. Once it became
known that he had emerged from his hiding place, the entire city would
be converted into a huge man-trap with claws set to catch the
celebrated outlaw.
That was not all. The newspaper accounts of the police inquiry into
the Thelma tragedy, which The Phantom had carefully perused on the
train, had hinted rather broadly that Mr. Shei and The Gray Phantom
were identical. It was pointed out that Mr. Shei's exploits were the
only ones in recent years that had equaled The Phantom's as to
magnitude and daring, and that there were many points of similarity in
the methods of the two rogues. To be sure, The Phantom had never been
known to stoop to murder, but this did not necessarily eliminate him
as an object of suspicion, and it was significant that the commission
of the crime had been hedged in with all the subtlety and
mysteriousness that characterized The Gray Phantom's tactics. It was
predicted that if The Phantom were apprehended, the mystery
surrounding the identity and the movements of Mr. Shei would be
cleared up automatically.
The Phantom smiled faintly as he finished his breakfast and walked
out. His step was elastic, and his eye held the steely gleam which his
former associates had learned to interpret as a sign that their leader
was bent on some stupendous adventure. It was still early, and there
was only a thin sprinkling of traffic in the streets, and the chances
of his being recognized were correspondingly slight.
As yet he had no definite plan in mind. His decision to make war on
Mr. Shei had been made suddenly and largely on the impulse of the
moment. It was in keeping with his determination to blot out that part
of himself which the world knew as The Gray Phantom. The realization
had come to him in a flash that the work of his other self was being
carried on vicariously by the person known as Mr. Shei. If his
suspicions were correct, and if the latter was indeed a disciple of
his, then Mr. Shei was a part of the past he had vowed to uproot and
destroy. His regeneration would not be complete until this object had
been accomplished.
He chuckled a little as he walked along. It was odd, he thought, that
Wade should have guessed the motive for his determination to tear his
past to shreds. Throughout his striving and reaching for something
higher and better, The Phantom had vaguely and instinctively felt that
the bright, brown eyes of Helen Hardwick were his lodestars, but
Wade's crudely phrased remark had been needed to make the impression
clear. He knew it was largely because of Helen's faith in him that he
was now attacking the hardest and most perilous task of his career.
Vaguely he wondered what she would think when she heard of his latest
adventure, and he felt a fleeting temptation to tell her of his
decision. He rejected it, however, resolving it would be time enough
to make his plans known to her when they were in a more mature shape.
The sight of a knot of curious idlers outside a drug store in Times
Square caused him to quicken his steps. He knew the psychology of city
crowds and that the merest trifle is sufficient to attract a throng,
but this gathering seemed to have been drawn together by something out
of the ordinary. As unobtrusively as he could, he wedged his way
through the little crowd, consisting mostly of homeward-bound night
workers and belated pleasure seekers, and now he saw the object of
their interest was a small square of paper pasted to the pane of the
show window. A flicker of surprise crossed The Phantom's face as he
read the typewritten inscription:
For the diversion of the public and the edification of the police, I
beg to announce that my next, and so far, greatest, coup will be
directed against the seven wealthiest men in New York City, whose
names I shall take a pleasure in announcing in a day or two. By a
unique and sensational method of persuasion these gentlemen will be
induced to transfer half of their respective fortunes to me.
Mr. Shei.
A grin tugged at The Phantom's lips as he read the announcement a
second time. Mr. Shei, in flaunting his intentions before the eyes of
the public and the police, was living up to time-honored traditions of
melodrama. It was of a piece with the rascal's erratic and extravagant
nature, and the boastful phrasing of the announcement, as well as the
incidental taunt flung at the police, was quite characteristic of him.
Yet, despite the pompous claptrap with which Mr. Shei was adorning his
project, the magnitude of it appealed to The Phantom's imagination. It
was fully as great and daring an enterprise as The Phantom himself had
ever attempted. If the scheme succeeded--and Mr. Shei's undertakings
invariably did--the loot would run well into ten figures.
From remarks dropped by the bystanders he gathered that stickers
bearing the same boastful announcements had been distributed during
the early morning hours at various points throughout the city. Mr.
Shei seemed to have spared no pains in his effort to startle the
metropolis. The Phantom was edging away from the throng when a few
words, spoken in low and drawling tones, caused him to look quickly
aside.
"Pardon, but haven't we met before?"
The Phantom felt a faint thrill of apprehension. Recognition at this
point might prove disastrous to his plans. Beside him, with tired and
red-lidded eyes peering into his face, stood a tall, gaunt man whose
somewhat ludicrous appearance was accentuated by full evening dress.
"I think not," he said hastily, and started to walk away. The other,
refusing to be squelched, fell into step beside him.
"Now, isn't that queer?" he remarked with a wheezy chuckle. "The
moment I saw you it occurred to me that your face seemed familiar. By
the way, what do you think of Mr. Shei's latest?"
"Quite ambitious." The Phantom gave his uninvited companion a keen
glance, and the covert scrutiny stirred several shadowy recollections
in his mind. The curious individual seemed well past middle age, and
his sallow complexion and furrowed face indicated decrepit health. He
walked with a shuffling gait and a catarrhal affection of the nose
necessitated frequent use of his handkerchief. The Phantom was trying
to recall when and under what circumstances they had met before, but
his face indicated nothing but annoyance at an unwelcome intrusion.
"Ambitious is the word," assented the man in evening dress. "Do you
know, my dear sir, that if Mr. Shei carries out his threat and annexes
fifty per cent of the seven biggest fortunes in town, his net gain
will run into the billions? I can only hope that I am not one of the
seven selected for shearing."
The Phantom gave him another quick glance. A gleam of humor relieved
the woe-begone expression of the man's face. Again The Phantom
searched his memory. The last remark had carried a strong hint to the
effect that his companion was a man of great wealth.
"My name, as you probably know, although you pretend to have forgotten
it, is W. Rufus Fairspeckle," continued the other, taking The
Phantom's arm and turning into a side street. "I don't know how many
millions I have, but I have enough to make me a shining mark for Mr.
Shei's latest offensive. Ah, I see you remember me now!"
The Phantom's involuntary start had betrayed him. The mere mention of
Mr. Fairspeckle's name had instantly clarified his hazy recollections.
He recalled now that, some five or six years ago, he had had a brief
and casual encounter with the man. It had occurred in the course of
one of The Phantom's spectacular adventures, and he had almost
forgotten the incident that brought them together. Now, as the memory
of it flashed back into his mind, he gazed more intently at his
companion.
As the man himself had intimated, W. Rufus Fairspeckle was one of the
wealthiest men in New York City. Mostly through luck and partly
through an inborn genius for speculation, he had amassed a huge
fortune. At fifty he had retired from business, declaring that he had
worked hard all his life and was entitled to a rest and a little
diversion. Then he had promptly proceeded to the enjoyment of the
pleasures that had been denied him in his youth, and he had gone about
it with an avidity that created a great deal of jocular comment and
made him known as a very eccentric individual.
"You have a long memory," observed The Phantom, glancing uneasily at
Mr. Fairspeckle's formal attire. It drew many amused glances from
pedestrians, and The Phantom did not care to attract unnecessary
attention. "Now, if you will excuse me, I think I will wish you good
morning. I have a busy day ahead of me."
"Not so fast," protested Mr. Fairspeckle, clutching The Phantom's
sleeve with his long, bony fingers. "You are coming with me."
The words had a peremptory sound. The Phantom knitted his brows.
"Why, if I may ask?"
"See that cop?" Mr. Fairspeckle pointed to a blue-coated figure half a
block ahead. "He's a hard-working soul and presumably he is ambitious
to obtain promotion. The capture of The Gray Phantom would be quite an
event in his humdrum life."
The Phantom sensed a threat. He glanced about him quickly. The streets
were rapidly filling with traffic, and to break away might not prove
easy. Besides, he was curious to know the reason for Mr. Fairspeckle's
evident determination to detain him. Deciding to adopt the safer
course, he simulated an affable smile.
"Suppose we let the hard-working cop earn his promotion some other
way," he suggested. "Where to, Mr. Fairspeckle?"
"My apartment at the Whipple Hotel. We're almost there. Glad you are
going to be reasonable, Mr. Vanardy. I need someone to talk to. Ever
suffer from insomnia?"
"Never."
"Lucky dog! Insomnia is the bane of my existence. At times, when I
can't sleep, I sit at the club and bore my friends to death. When I
have no friends to talk to, I walk. Last night I walked from one end
of Manhattan Island to the other and halfway back again. Oh, yes, I'm
more chipper than you would think from looking at me. Well, my rambles
last night explain why you see me in these togs. I was just about
tired enough to fall asleep standing on my feet when I saw Mr. Shei's
notice. In an instant I was wide awake again. Confound the fellow's
impudence! Here we are."
The Phantom was conducted through the chastely carved portals of one
of the quieter hotels in the upper Forties, and a few moments later
they were facing each other across the redwood table in Mr.
Fairspeckle's library. The apartment, though luxuriously appointed,
was a faithful reflection of the eccentric nature of its occupant.
"You are careless, Mr. Vanardy," said Mr. Fairspeckle musingly. The
partly drawn shades admitted only a vague half-dawn into the room, and
the shadows lent an air of mysteriousness to his appearance. "It isn't
safe for a man in your position to walk about without disguise."
"Disguises are treacherous things. I have used them now and then, but
ordinarily I feel safer without them. Anyhow, no one but you is aware
of my presence in New York."
Mr. Fairspeckle drew a palm across his chin. His red-lidded eyes
regarded The Phantom shrewdly. "I wonder what brings you to New York
at this particular time--at the very time when Mr. Shei is launching
his most ambitious scheme. You will admit the coincidence is rather
striking?"
"Some people might deduce from it that I am Mr. Shei," suggested The
Phantom, smiling. "They would be wrong."
There was a quiver at the corners of Mr. Fairspeckle's thin lips. His
eyes held a suspicious twinkle.
"Perhaps," he commented dryly. Then he fell to drumming the table with
his finger tips. "What I would like to know for certain is whether I
am one of the seven. You see, I wouldn't object to being murdered by
this Mr. Shei. Most people think I'm leading a useless life and ought
to be dead, anyhow. It won't be long until an undertaker pumps my
carcass full of formaldehyde. What I object to is the idea of being
swindled out of my money. No man ever got the best of me yet, and I
don't intend that Mr. Shei shall make a fool of me. He can kill me,
but I won't hand him a cent. I'll be hanged if I will!"
He thumped the table with his fist. There was something so ludicrous
about his grim earnestness that The Phantom could scarcely repress a
smile. At the same time he was conscious of a suspicion for which he
could not quite account. Mr. Fairspeckle's indignation seemed not
quite natural. Even the vehement thump of his fist against the table
had an artificial sound. An intuition, flashing into his mind out of
nowhere, held The Phantom spellbound for a moment. In the next instant
he laughed inwardly at the absurdity of it, telling himself that he
must hold his imagination in leash.
"It will be interesting to see how Mr. Shei intends to proceed," he
casually remarked.
"It will," spluttered Mr. Fairspeckle. "You can trust him to work some
devilishly clever scheme. He always does. Do you suppose," and he bent
his bony frame over the table and gazed searchingly at The Phantom,
"that the murder at the Thelma Theater night before last was the first
episode in this latest enterprise of Mr. Shei's?"
"You mean the murder of Miss Darrow? There seems to be no doubt but
that Mr. Shei had a hand in it. Everything points to----"
He paused of a sudden. All at once it occurred to him that there was
something odd about Mr. Fairspeckle's question. Immediately upon
reading of the Thelma murder, The Phantom had suspected that it was
the prelude to another of Mr. Shei's spectacular adventures, but the
suspicion had been wholly intuitive. As far as outward appearances
went, there was nothing in the murder of Virginia Darrow to suggest
that it was anything more than an isolated incident. It was curious,
therefore, that Mr. Fairspeckle should look for a connecting link
between the crime at the Thelma and Mr. Shei's threat.
"Everything points to Mr. Shei as the perpetrator of the murder," he
guardedly went on, "but whether the crime has any bearing on Mr.
Shei's new venture is hard to tell. It doesn't seem likely. How could
he possibly further his scheme by an act of that kind? His plan is to
separate seven of New York's richest men from half of their wealth.
How is the death of Miss Darrow going to help him in an undertaking of
that kind?"
A sly smile twitched the corners of Mr. Fairspeckle's lips.
"Nevertheless," he observed, "I think that you and I agree. I am a
pretty good judge of faces, and your expression a moment ago betrayed
you, Mr. Vanardy. My question seemed innocent enough at first, but on
second thought it startled you. Suppose we be frank. Both of us
believe that the Thelma affair was the beginning of Mr. Shei's latest
move. We can't see how or why just now, but we know that his schemes
run deep. Isn't it so?"
The Phantom, momentarily baffled by the older man's shrewd deductions,
gazed pensively at the ceiling. A jumble of thoughts and questions
shot back and forth through his mind. Did Mr. Fairspeckle suspect that
Mr. Shei and The Gray Phantom were identical? Or was it possible
that---- He did not finish the thought. The suspicion that had come to
him several times during the interview seemed just as unreasonable as
it was startling, and it had no firmer foundation than two or three
puzzling circumstances and a tantalizing touch of mysteriousness in
Mr. Fairspeckle's attitude.
"It's an interesting theory, and I've given quite a little thought to
it," he finally admitted. "Strange that the same idea should have come
to both of us, isn't it? Especially since there seems to be neither
reason nor logic behind it. How did you happen to think of it, Mr.
Fairspeckle?"
The other man stroked his lean chin with a self-satisfied air. "What's
that old saw about great minds traveling in the same channel? I don't
know just how the idea came to me, but I'm glad we understand each
other. Now we can talk without quibbling. But first I want a cup of
coffee. Hope you will join me. Haiuto!"
He fairly shouted the last word, but The Phantom doubted whether his
thin and rasping voice went farther than the walls.
"Haiuto!" Again Mr. Fairspeckle's voice rose to a shrill but
inadequate crescendo. "That confounded Jap's pretending he is deaf
again. Excuse me, will you?"
He strode irately from the room and slammed the door. A wrinkle of
deep perplexity appeared on The Phantom's brow. Mr. Fairspeckle
puzzled and intrigued him. Either he was a very slippery individual,
or else ingenuousness itself. When he returned and announced that
Haiuto would serve their coffee in a few minutes, The Phantom searched
his face in vain for a sign of guile. If anything, he was a little
more affable than on leaving the room.
"That fool doctor of mine tells me I mustn't drink coffee," he
confided. "Tells me it's bad for my nerves and keeps me awake. But my
nerves are worn to a frazzle, anyhow, and I never can sleep except
when I want to stay awake. What were we talking about? Oh, yes--Mr.
Shei."
He clasped his hands across his diaphragm. A queer smile, at once
beatific and diabolical, came over his face.
"Do you know," he went on in confidential tones, "that I don't care a
rap if Mr. Shei carries out his scheme as far as the other six are
concerned. Of course, I don't know for certain who they are, but it's
a safe bet that they are no friends of mine. I have a hunch that every
one of them belongs to the old ring that fought me tooth and nail
while I was climbing up in the world. It's a long story, and I'm not
going to bore you with it, but you can see why I have no love for
them. I could die happy to-morrow if I could see them lick the dust
to-day. I feel different toward you, Vanardy. We had a tilt once, but
you fought fairly. The others tried to knife me in the back. They can
go to blazes for all I care."
"Then you and Mr. Shei seem to have at least one aim in common," The
Phantom pointed out. He smiled genially, but his eyes were studying
every shifting expression in Mr. Fairspeckle's face. For once he felt
certain that the older man was not dissembling. The glint of wrath
lurking in the depths of his weak eyes and the vindictive sneer about
his lips told that he had spoken in all sincerity.
"We have," he declared grimly. "I hope he sends the other six to the
poorhouse. But I have no intention of letting him pluck me, you
understand. That's where our aims clash. He can go as far as he likes
with the others, but I'll fight like a drunken Indian before I give
him a red cent. I'll see myself in Hades before I----"
A knock and the opening of the door interrupted him. A Japanese with a
face as expressionless as mahogany entered with a tray and served them
coffee.
"Queer character, Haiuto," observed Mr. Fairspeckle when the servant,
silent as a wraith, had retired. "I think he would cheerfully commit
hara-kiri if I asked him to do such a senseless thing." He sipped his
coffee with an air of keen enjoyment. "Great bracer for fagged nerves,
eh? Would you believe that for days at a time I live on nothing but
coffee? But let's get back to the subject. What shall we do with this
pestiferous Mr. Shei?"
"What would you suggest?" cautiously inquired The Phantom, lifting the
cup to his lips.
A beam insinuated itself in the creases of Mr. Fairspeckle's face.
"Now we're getting down to essentials. As I said, Mr. Shei can fleece
the other six to his heart's content, but he's got to keep hands off
me. When I saw you standing in front of the drug store reading Mr.
Shei's announcement, I was turning a little plan over in my mind. Then
I didn't quite see how to work it, but I do now."
Again The Phantom brought the cup to his lips. He regarded his
companion inquiringly.
"You and I are going to handle Mr. Shei together," declared Mr.
Fairspeckle. His face glowed as if a pleasing prospect were warming
his soul. "We will put a crimp in his scheme and show him--why, what's
the matter, Vanardy?"
The Phantom had slouched down in his chair, and now his head began to
wag from side to side.
"Nothing," he murmured dazedly. "I just feel a bit drowsy. Would you
mind opening the window? The--the coffee----"
His eyes rolled, then the lids fluttered and closed, and he sagged
limply in the chair. With a gratified chuckle Mr. Fairspeckle stepped
to the other side of the table and regarded him gloatingly.
"The Gray Phantom isn't half so clever as he's supposed to be," he
mumbled. Then his hand went out and touched a button. A moment later
Haiuto stood at attention in the doorway.
"Haiuto," inquired Mr. Fairspeckle, "how much chloral did you mix in
Mr. Vanardy's cup of coffee?"
"Plenty," said the servant, and this time the ghost of a grin
flickered across his face. "He sleep long time."
Mr. Fairspeckle nodded elatedly. "Take him to my bedroom," he
instructed, "and make him comfortable."
With an ease which showed that he possessed all the agile strength of
his race, Haiuto carried The Phantom into one of the adjoining rooms
in the suite, placed him on the bed, and adjusted a pillow under his
head. For a few moments he stood peering down into the motionless
man's face. Then he silently left the room and closed the door behind
him.
A minute later The Phantom raised himself to a sitting posture and
blinked his eyes at the sunlight streaming in beneath the drawn window
shades.
"You are fairly clever, Mr. Fairspeckle," he said half aloud, "but you
ought to modernize your methods. Drugged coffee has gone out of
fashion. Hope I didn't kill the potted fern at the window behind my
chair."