A SHOT
At noon of the same day a scene equally tense, but of quite a
different character, was being enacted in the library of W. Rufus
Fairspeckle.
Dazedly The Gray Phantom set the telephone down. In tones too low for
the older man to catch, he mumblingly repeated the startling message
that had just come to him over the wire: "Mr. Shei speaking. If you
value Miss Hardwick's life, I would advise you to abandon your present
plans."
One by one, and in the order in which they had been spoken, the words
trickled into his benumbed consciousness. He had heard Mr. Shei's
voice over the wire. He had been mistaken, then, and the shrunken and
wizened man seated before him with eyes staring and mouth agape could
not be Mr. Shei. Even the evidence of the typewritten slips lying on
the desk seemed to mean nothing against the fact that the notorious
rogue had just communicated with him by telephone.
"What--what's the matter?" stammered Mr. Fairspeckle, who, not having
the faintest inkling as to the nature of the message received by The
Phantom, was at a loss to understand the latter's demeanor. "Anything
wrong?"
The Phantom scarcely heard him. The significance of the last part of
Mr. Shei's message came to him in a flash. In a twinkling his mind was
functioning again. His eyes were threatening, like miniature thunder
clouds. A new and dynamic impulse seemed to dominate his whole being.
He snatched up the telephone directory and found a number. Then he
fairly hurled himself at the telephone, frantically jigged the hook up
and down, shouted a number into the transmitter, and waited
breathlessly till the connection was established.
A woman's voice, evidently that of a servant, answered. Miss Hardwick
was not in, she explained, and when pressed for further information
admitted that she had not been seen since breakfast the previous day.
Mr. Hardwick, ill at ease because of his daughter's absence, was
instituting inquiries for her in various directions, and the servant
did not know where he could be reached.
The Phantom's eyes blazed as he set the instrument down with a slam.
Mr. Fairspeckle, a flabbergasted look in his bulging eyes, seemed
utterly at a loss to comprehend what was going on. For a moment The
Phantom eyed him narrowly, then cast a bewildered glance at the
typewritten slips, and finally turned abruptly on his heels and dashed
from the room.
No one interrupted him. He suspected that Haiuto was lurking somewhere
in the background, but he saw nothing of the sly-footed servant as he
rushed from the apartment and, forgetting the existence of the
elevator, scurried down three flights of stairs. The ferret-eyed
individual whom he had seen from the window was still standing at the
opposite curb, but he did not deign a single glance in The Phantom's
direction. Block after block, spurred on by a medley of anguishing
doubts and suspicions, The Phantom continued his heedless progress,
conscious only of the one agonizing thought that something had
happened to Helen Hardwick.
Presently he awoke to a realization of the futility and recklessness
of his conduct. His fears for Helen Hardwick had blunted his wits and
stultified his reason, making him forget his old-time caution and
nimbleness of mind. To no purpose he was rushing blindly into a net of
dangers. With a mutter of disgust at his childish impetuosity, he drew
in his steps and turned into a convenient doorway. A glance up and
down the street assured him that, thanks to luck alone, his headlong
course seemed to have attracted no attention. He scanned the crowd on
all sides, but there was no sign of either espionage or pursuit. He
had vaguely expected to be followed by the keen-eyed watcher he had
seen on the sidewalk outside the Whipple Hotel, but the man was
nowhere in sight. For the present, at least, The Phantom was safe. Now
he must think clearly and act coolly.
He could not rid himself of the suspicion that Helen's volatile nature
and venturesome disposition had led her into some fearful predicament.
He knew she had an infinite capacity for handling difficult
situations, but the knowledge gave him scant comfort. He revolved the
problem of her disappearance in his mind. She had been missing for
more than twenty-four hours. He sensed a dim significance in the fact
that she had passed out of sight the morning following the tragedy at
the Thelma Theater, and of a sudden he asked himself whether there
could be any possible connection between her disappearance and the
death of Virginia Darrow.
Several circumstances lent plausibility to the theory. Chief among
them was the mysterious warning The Phantom had received from Mr.
Shei, the man who was generally believed to have been implicated in
Miss Darrow's death. The Phantom's mind was working swiftly now,
leaping barriers and rushing straight to conclusions. It was Helen's
play, he remembered, that had been produced on the night of the
tragedy, and it was very probable that she had been present at the
_premiere_ performance. Knowing her as he did, he thought it
conceivable that she had come into possession of some vital facts
bearing on the tragedy. Her inquisitive mind, though untainted by
vulgar curiosity, was always dipping into mysteries of one sort or
another, and it was possible that on this occasion her natural bent
had led her into conflict with Mr. Shei.
Almost before he realized what he was doing, The Phantom was in a
taxicab, shouting to the chauffeur to drive him to the Thelma Theater.
It seemed the logical starting point in his search; at least, he did
not know where else to begin, and by visiting the scene of Miss
Darrow's death, he might be able to pick up some clew to Helen's
movements.
The doors were open, and he thought this somewhat strange in view of
the fact that a poster on the outer wall announced that the
performances of "His Soul's Master" had been discontinued, but the
circumstance did not linger long in his mind. The box office and lobby
being empty, he passed unchallenged into the auditorium. For a few
moments, while his eyes grew accustomed to the dusk, he stood just
inside the door, trying to call back to mind each detail of the
tragedy as it had been narrated in the newspapers, and presently there
came to him a conviction that he was not alone, but that someone was
watching him intently.
He could not account for the impression, for no sound reached his
ears, and the interior was only a mass of gently undulating shadows in
which he saw no indication of another's presence. The atmosphere was
somewhat oppressive, and a multitude of faint scents lingered in the
air, hinting that the theater had not been ventilated since the last
performance. Glancing sharply into the gloom about him, The Phantom
groped his way down the center aisle, then explored the passageways at
each side of the house, and finally looked into each of the boxes. His
search availed him nothing, and at length he was forced to admit that
his imagination had tricked him.
Walking to the rear of the house, he stood with his back against a
pillar, and gazed toward the last row of seats to the left. It was
there, according to the diagram he had seen in one of the papers, that
Virginia Darrow had sat when seized with the strange fit of laughter.
Again he wondered what bearing the woman's death might have on Mr.
Shei's latest venture. The connection, if there was one, seemed so
remote that he came to the conclusion that Mr. Shei must be at work on
a very intricate and deep-laid scheme. Then it occurred to him that
his speculations, founded on insufficient facts, were a waste of time.
They were not helping him to solve the mystery of Helen Hardwick's
disappearance.
As was his habit when he wished to concentrate his mind on a problem,
he took a cigarette from his case, then struck a match against the
sole of his shoe. Absently he held the fluttering light to the tip of
the cigarette, and inhaled. Suddenly he sprang aside, for a sound, all
but too faint for his ears to detect, had warned him of danger, and in
the same instant a sharp crack and a flash of fire leaped out of the
darkness. Then an object whizzed past his head and with a thudding
sound imbedded itself in the pillar against which he had been leaning.
In a moment he had extinguished his cigarette. He could see now that
its glowing point, together with the match, had made him a target for
the person who had fired the shot. The bullet had passed so close to
his head that, but for his quick and agile backward spring, it would
undoubtedly have killed him. His narrow escape had an exhilarating
effect, and he dashed toward the point where he had seen the flash of
fire, determined to capture the would-be murderer. It was his
impression that the shot had been fired only a dozen feet away, and he
did not think the man could have escaped.
In the gloom he could not distinguish objects clearly, and he dashed
headlong against a post. The contact sent a stinging sensation through
his head, and in the same moment a figure glided silently past him and
was swallowed by the shadows at the other side of the house. Again The
Phantom rushed forward. A swiftly moving object, a shade darker than
the surrounding dusk, was discernible down the aisle leading to the
boxes at the right. The Phantom darted after it, but when he reached
the point his quarry had disappeared. For an instant he stopped,
uncertain which way to turn, and in the midst of his perplexity the
varicolored lights along the walls were flashed on.
The Phantom whirled round. Near one of the exits in the rear of the
house stood a tall, slenderly proportioned man. His long, glossy hair
was rumpled, and even at a distance The Phantom could see that his
features, so regularly molded as to give an impression of effeminacy,
were intensely pale. He approached swiftly. The two men eyed each
other intently before either spoke.
"You are Mr. Starr, I believe?" began The Phantom, recognizing the
other from photographs he had seen in the newspapers.
Starr nodded. His right hand was clutching a revolver. Coming closer,
The Phantom noticed that his nose was discolored and swollen, probably
the result of the attack that had preceded the disappearance of
Virginia Darrow's body.
"I owe you an apology for intruding like this," he went on, "but the
formalities can wait. There was a shot fired here a few moments ago,
and I believe it was meant for me."
"I was at work in my office upstairs when I heard something that
sounded like a revolver shot," explained Starr. "I armed myself and
came down to investigate." His voice, at other times perfectly
modulated, was a little husky, and he seemed unduly conscious of his
disfigured nose. He maintained a tight grip on his pistol while
regarding The Phantom with a look of suspicion.
"We ought to search the house at once," suggested The Phantom. "The
scoundrel can't have gone far."
Starr readily acquiesced, but from time to time while they went on
with the search The Phantom felt the other's stealthy gaze searching
his face, and each time he saw a look of dawning recognition in
Starr's eyes. He thought nothing of it, for the capture of the man who
had fired the shot seemed of far greater importance. Deep in his mind
was a faint and remote hope that the fellow, if caught, might be
persuaded to tell something of what had happened to Helen Hardwick.
They searched every conceivable space in the auditorium, back of the
stage, and finally in the storerooms and dressing rooms down below,
but without avail. As they abandoned their quest The Phantom thought
he saw signs of increasing nervousness on Starr's part.
"Strange how the scoundrel disappeared," he remarked when once more
they stood in the back of the auditorium.
"No stranger than what happened here night before last." Starr spoke
with a touch of petulance in his voice and manner. "Mr. Shei and his
henchmen seem to have a knack of walking through solid walls. What I
object to most is his evident determination to make my theater the
scene of his diabolical activities. By the way," and he fixed The
Phantom with a look of mingled perplexity and suspicion, "haven't you
and I met before?"
"Not in person, unless I am mistaken." The Phantom, alert against the
slightest threatening move on the other's part, smiled faintly. "The
newspapers have been kind enough to give me some publicity from time
to time, and you may have seen my photograph. Suppose we let it go at
that."
"As you wish, of course," murmured Starr, his lips twitching, "but we
shall be able to talk to better advantage if we first complete the
introductions. I was almost certain I recognized you at first glance.
You are The Gray Phantom. But don't get startled," he quickly added as
The Phantom suddenly stiffened. "My interest in life is purely
esthetic. I am trying, in my small and humble way, to uplift the drama
from the sordid depths into which it has fallen through the stupidity
and avarice of managers. The capture and punishment of criminals
interest me not at all. To be perfectly frank with you, as between the
police and a fascinating rogue like yourself, my sympathies are with
the latter."
He made an expressive gesture, and The Phantom watched with interest
the slight, quick and marvelously impressive motions of his hands.
Though this was his first meeting with the man himself, the gestures,
as well as the characteristic backward toss of the head, seemed oddly
familiar.
"I think you are mistaken about one thing," Starr went on, his
nervousness returning. "Is there any reason why anyone should wish to
put you out of the way?"
"None that I know of," replied The Phantom thoughtfully. "I suppose I
have enemies, but it didn't occur to me that anyone was after my life
until that shot was fired."
"And weren't you a bit precipitate in jumping at the conclusion that
the bullet was intended for you? Suppose you give me the details."
The Phantom told him the meager facts of the firing of the shot.
"There you are!" exclaimed Starr when he had finished. "The fellow
couldn't see your face. All he saw was the match, and he used that as
a target, knowing you were holding it directly in front of your face
while lighting the cigarette." He took a few quick, nervous steps back
and forth. He clenched and unclenched his hands as if trying to quell
a rising trepidation. Suddenly he paused directly in front of The
Phantom. "That bullet was not intended for you, but for me," he
declared emphatically.
"Are you sure?"
"Not sure, but I have the best of reasons for supposing that such is
the fact. I have had several intimations of danger in the past few
weeks, but it isn't necessary to go into details. Since night before
last I have wondered what prompted Miss Darrow to send me the
facetiously worded note hinting that Mr. Shei was in the house. If she
were alive I am sure she could tell us several interesting things
about---- But what's the good of supposing? Miss Darrow will never be
able to tell what was in her mind when she wrote me that note. Only
one thing is certain. She was killed because she had, in some
unexplained manner, learned Mr. Shei's identity."
The Phantom regarded him narrowly. "Some people seem to be of the
opinion that I am Mr. Shei."
"Rot! The similarity between your tactics and those of Mr. Shei is
only superficial. The essential difference ought to be plain even to a
stupid headquarters detective. Besides, you never took life or---- But
the idea is too absurd to waste breath on. Let us be practical. You
have not yet explained why you are honoring the Thelma Theater with
this visit."
The Phantom was about to reply when one of the doors in front was
pushed open and the shadow of a masculine figure fell across the
floor. After a glance into the face of the newcomer, The Phantom
sensed danger and tried to retreat into a corner where the dim light
held out a faint hope of brief security. But it was too late.
"Stay right where you are," commanded the man who had just entered.
"Didn't know The Gray Phantom was back in town. Step out here where I
can look at you."