MR. SHEI STRIKES
A fine drizzle was in the air and the street lights emitted a blurred
and languid sheen. For an hour The Gray Phantom had been pacing the
sidewalk across the street from the Whipple Hotel, impatiently waiting
for the lights in Mr. Fairspeckle's suite to go out. His coat collar
was turned up and the brim of his soft hat was pulled low over his
forehead. Taking Culligore's warning to heart, he had resolved not to
endanger his project by running unnecessary risks.
The passing pedestrians gave him scarcely a glance, and he told
himself that the inclement weather was a point in his favor. Evidently
neither Culligore nor Starr had mentioned his presence in the city,
for he could see no signs of accelerated activity on the part of the
police, as there would have been if the news had leaked out that The
Gray Phantom had come out of hiding. The solitary watcher whom he had
seen from the window of Mr. Fairspeckle's bedroom earlier in the day
had evidently quitted his task, for he was nowhere in sight.
Throughout the late afternoon and early evening, The Phantom had been
harassed by fears for Helen's safety. At times he had scarcely been
able to control his impatience, but his eagerness had been cooled by
the knowledge that a headlong rush into danger would only render the
situation worse. His interview with Culligore had not only helped to
clarify his mind, but it had left him with a renewed conviction that
the emaciated and dour-looking ex-financier was Mr. Shei.
Again he cast a speculative glance at the windows of Mr. Fairspeckle's
apartment. All the lights but one had been extinguished since he last
looked in that direction, and he guessed that the occupant had retired
to his bedroom. His imagination pictured the old man sleeplessly
pacing the floor, chuckling softly to himself while his mind evolved
nefarious schemes. It was The Phantom's plan to take him completely by
surprise and if possible wring a confession from him. But above all
else he was determined to ascertain whether Fairspeckle knew anything
about Helen's whereabouts.
He waited fifteen minutes longer, then adjusted his hat and collar and
walked briskly across the street. With the air of one belonging on the
premises he entered the hotel and, not thinking it safe to use the
elevator, walked toward the stairway in the rear. A few drowsy
loungers sat in chairs in the lobby, and the clerk was engaged with a
late arrival, so no one noticed him. The long, heavily carpeted
hallways were silent and deserted, for the Whipple was catering
chiefly to the staid and respectable element that retires early and
sleeps soundly.
The Phantom ascended three flights of stairs, then turned down the
corridor toward Mr. Fairspeckle's apartment. Reaching the door, he
stopped and listened, but no sound came from the interior. After a
cautious glance behind him, he took from his pocket a compact case
which he always carried when engaged in enterprises like the present,
and from its silk-lined grooves extracted a small metallic tool. In a
few moments the lock had yielded to his deft manipulation, and he
stepped inside.
Again he stopped and listened. The hallway in which he stood was
lighted only by a tiny electric bulb in the ceiling, and its glow was
so faint that the surrounding objects were scarcely distinguishable.
At first he could not hear the slightest sound, and he was about to
proceed when a curious impression caused him to draw in his steps.
Perhaps his imagination was deceiving him, but he thought someone was
sobbing, and he had a distinct impression that the sounds were coming
from the door at his left.
In an instant he had pressed his ear against the keyhole. Now he could
heard the sounds quite clearly, but the soblike effect was gone, and
instead they made him think of someone gasping and spluttering.
Mystified, he tried the lock and pushed the door open. The room was
dark, and he ran his hand along the wall until he found the electric
switch. As the light flashed on, a mutter of amazement fell from his
lips.
On a bed at the farther end of the room, with hands and feet bound and
a gag firmly adjusted to his mouth, lay Haiuto. The servant, a look of
mute pleading in his bulging eyes, was tugging impotently at the ropes
around his ankles and wrists.
"What's happened?" sharply inquired The Phantom, but renewed
splutterings called his attention to the fact that the gag prevented
Haiuto from speaking. He removed the cloth while repeating the
question. Haiuto, breathing hard, licked the bruised portion of his
mouth.
"Don't know," he finally managed to say. "I sleep. Then noise at door.
Before I can get up, somebody walk in. All is dark, like tomb of
Iyeyasu. I get awful crack on head. Then sleep again. Don't know
anything else."
With a moan Haiuto sank back against the pillow. A startling suspicion
flashed through The Phantom's mind. Without troubling to release the
servant's limbs, he ran from the room and opened a door at the farther
end of the hall. He had thought it led into Fairspeckle's bedroom, but
his sense of direction had become somewhat confused, and he found
himself in the library instead. Faintly through the darkness he
glimpsed the bright nickel trimmings of the typewriter at which the
ex-financier had been at work earlier in the day. He groped his way
across the floor, turning in the direction where he thought
Fairspeckle's bedroom was. A soft tinkle brought him to a dead stop.
The telephone was ringing! Acting on impulse, he fumbled about in the
dark till he found the instrument, then lifted the receiver to his ear
and spoke a low response into the transmitter. The answering voice
sent a quiver through his being. He recognized it at once, for he had
heard it before.
"Mr. Shei speaking," it was saying, and the cold, precise tones were
edged with a taunt. "I perceive you have chosen to disregard the
warning I gave you a few hours ago. Unless you abandon your plans at
once, Miss Hardwick will die. That is absolutely final."
A faint click signified that the connection was broken. For a few
moments The Phantom stood rigid, scarcely able to comprehend the
import of the message. It had been spoken in tones so emphatic and
sinister that he was left in no doubt regarding the speaker's
sincerity. But how had the man at the other end of the wire learned
that The Phantom was in Fairspeckle's apartment? The telephone call,
coming a few minutes after The Phantom's arrival, had been so
accurately timed as to indicate that he had been followed to the
Whipple. Yet that did not seem quite possible, for he had been
particularly alert against that very thing.
Finally he put the telephone down. He tried to stifle the new and
poignant misgivings with which the voice had inspired him. He
remembered the other message he had received from the person
purporting to be Mr. Shei. He had been deceived then, unless his own
and Culligore's deductions were all wrong, and he would not be so
easily imposed upon again. Doubtless the second message, like the
first, was only a clever hoax on Fairspeckle's part. Well, in a few
moments he would probably know the truth.
His fears and doubts were only partly quieted when he stepped softly
from the room. Time and again there flashed through his mind a
suspicion that something was wrong with the theory Culligore had
implanted in his mind, but his thoughts in this direction were hazy.
The binding and gagging of Haiuto was a disquieting and perplexing
circumstance that did not seem to fit into the woof of the
lieutenant's ideas in regard to Fairspeckle.
The Phantom passed through another door, then stopped short and stared
in astonishment at the scene that met his eyes.
He was in Mr. Fairspeckle's bedroom. A single electric light, the one
he had seen while standing on the sidewalk opposite the hotel, glowed
softly in a wall fixture. In a morris chair in the middle of the room,
with the folds of a dressing gown hanging loosely over his bony frame,
sat W. Rufus Fairspeckle. He sat so still that, if his eyes had been
closed, The Phantom would have suspected that he was either asleep or
dead. He was bound and gagged in the same manner as Haiuto had been,
but it struck The Phantom as vaguely significant that his right arm
was bared to the elbow.
As he stepped closer, he became oddly impressed by the strange
expression in the old man's eyes. They looked straight ahead in a
fixed, unseeing way, and there was a gleam of merriment in their dim
depths that clashed sharply with the pallor on the shrunken cheeks. It
seemed as though Fairspeckle's soul was indulging in fancies of which
his physical self was unaware, and the whole effect impressed The
Phantom as uncanny.
He leaned forward and examined the exposed arm. Just below the muscles
of the elbow, and directly over one of the smaller veins, was a
puncture and a congealed drop of blood. The puncture was so small that
it might have been inflicted with a needle prick. In a roundabout way
The Phantom's mind went back to the scene in the Thelma Theater as it
had been pictured in the newspapers, and with an inward start he
remembered that just such a puncture had been found on the right arm
of Virginia Darrow.
Though as yet he could not grasp the meaning of it, the coincidence
acted as an electric shock on his nerves. He tore away the gag from
the old man's lips and vigorously shook his arm.
"What's the matter?" he inquired.
The red eyelids quivered a little. The look of hilarity flickering in
the depths of the orbs grew a trifle more pronounced. It was almost
grewsome, but The Phantom's sense of perplexity was stronger than his
repugnance.
"Can't you speak?" he asked sharply. "What is the meaning of this?"
Fairspeckle's chest heaved feebly. The motion was accompanied by a
plucking movement of the fingers. The hands and feet strained
impotently against the fettering cords. Then the lips fluttered,
exposing a row of uneven teeth, and in the next instant a shiver ran
down The Phantom's spine.
Through the fluttering lips came a laugh such as he had never before
heard. It sounded hollow and cracked and as unreal as if produced by a
mechanical contrivance. The Phantom had an uncanny sensation that the
dead, if they were capable of producing sounds, might laugh just like
that. Then he remembered the vivid descriptions he had read of the
mocking laughter that had come from Virginia Darrow's dying lips, and
a hazy suspicion entered his mind. He took a jack-knife from his
pocket and swiftly slashed the cords around Fairspeckle's arms and
legs.
Although released from his bonds, the man in the chair scarcely moved.
The feet scraped gently against the floor, and the arms fell limply to
his sides. Weird snatches of laughter were still trickling through his
lips, but the expression of insane merriment in his eyes was slowly
yielding to a look of returning reason.
The Phantom looked helplessly about him, and suddenly his eyes fell on
a sheet of paper lying at the old man's feet. Mechanically he picked
it up and glanced at the typewritten lines. From the smudged and
indistinct type he was vaguely aware that he was gazing at a carbon
copy. A word here and there attracted his attention, and presently he
was reading the communication from the beginning. It read:
Dear Friend: The poison which has been injected into your veins
to-night has been accurately adjusted to produce death within seven
days. You will have lucid intervals, but you will be gradually
growing weaker and weaker. Consult as many high-priced specialists
as you wish, and if they can help you, you are to be congratulated.
There is only one antidote, and that is the secret of a confederate
of mine. It will be supplied you for a consideration. The exact
terms will be communicated to you in a few days. By that time you
will probably have been convinced that your life is absolutely in my
hands.
If misery loves company, I trust you will find consolation in the
fact that six others are in precisely the same predicament as
yourself.
Mr. Shei.
The sheet dropped from The Phantom's fingers. If what he had just read
seemed grotesque and absurd, a glance at the man in the chair
conferred a semblance of hideous reality upon it. Mr. Shei had struck
the threatened blow, and he had struck sooner than expected.
Fairspeckle's laughter had ceased and a look of reason was coming into
his waxen features. The expression of ribald mockery had left his
eyes, and now they were fixed on The Phantom's face in a dull,
suspicious stare. With a start The Phantom awoke to a realization of
his predicament. If he were caught in Fairspeckle's apartment, the
police and the public would be firmly convinced of what they already
suspected--that Mr. Shei and The Phantom were one. Not even Culligore's
keen mind and generous impulses would suffice to save him from arrest
and imprisonment. And there was Helen--the thought gave him a spinal
chill. Perhaps at this very moment she was confronted by some
terrifying peril. And if he were arrested, then his last chance of
helping her would be gone.
His mind made up, The Phantom ran to the telephone in the adjoining
room. He called a number, and presently he was answered by an operator
at police headquarters. His inquiry for Culligore elicited the
information that the lieutenant was out and would probably not return
until morning. The Phantom hesitated for a moment, then spoke
hurriedly into the transmitter:
"This is important. Send a doctor and a couple of detectives at once
to the Whipple Hotel, suite 36. You will find something very
interesting. That's all."
With that he hung up, and a few moments later he had left the
apartment and was briskly walking down the stairs.