A FUTILE SEARCH
Walking with his usual listless and shuffling gait, Lieutenant
Culligore mounted the steps in front of police headquarters and
entered the office of Inspector Stapleton of the detective bureau. It
was late in the afternoon, and Culligore might have quickened his
steps and carried himself with more animation if he could have known
that at this very moment The Gray Phantom, seated in the secret
chamber at Azurecrest, was planning his second move against the
redoubtable Mr. Shei.
Stapleton, a huge, thick-necked man with a reddish face and a tendency
toward irascibility, looked up with a scowl as the lieutenant walked
in.
"Well, what's new?" he demanded.
"Nothing," said Culligore patiently and flopped into a chair beside
the inspector's desk, "except that our friend Mr. Shei seems to be
getting away with it."
Stapleton glared at a pile of newspapers he had been reading. His
temper was on edge from his perusal of several editorials that chided
the bureau for its failure to circumvent Mr. Shei.
"Two of the seven moneybags are already showing the white feather,"
Culligore continued, "and two or three of the others are getting
wabbly. By the end of the week I guess most of 'em will be ready to
pay Mr. Shei's price. I don't know how he means to manage the
transaction, but I'll bet a pair of pink socks he'll figure out a safe
way."
"What are the doctors doing? Still loafing on the job, I suppose?"
"They're up a tree--every mother's son of them. They can't dope out the
disease at all. If they had seven months instead of seven days, they
might be able to do something, but as it is, they're at the end of
their tether. Their only hope is that one of the seven will be
obliging enough to die before the others, so they can perform an
autopsy."
Stapleton jerked his head savagely to one side. "This is the twentieth
century and we're living in a civilized country," he muttered. "A man
can't put over a thing like that in these times."
"Just what I've been telling myself for the last three days," admitted
Culligore. "I've been saying it can't be done--but Mr. Shei is going
right ahead and doing it."
"And he's pulling the trick right under our noses," supplemented the
inspector. "That's what gets my goat. It's plain as day that Mr. Shei
is The Gray Phantom. Nobody but The Gray Phantom ever got away with a
thing like this, and this job has all the ear-marks of his work.
Well," and his huge fist descended on the desk with a slam, "we'll get
him yet, and when we do I'll see to it that he's put away for keeps."
Culligore drew the palm of his hand across his mouth as if to stifle
one of his infrequent grins.
"Keeping something up your sleeve again?" demanded the inspector, who
had noticed the gesture. "If you've got something on your mind, why
don't you spring it?"
The lieutenant shifted his lanky figure in the chair. "I've been
trying all day to get a line on Fairspeckle," he said slowly, without
directly answering the inspector's question. "Queer how that old
duffer vamoosed. I tried to question the Jap valet, but all he knows
is that there are two bumps on his head where there was only one
before. The doctor and the nurse got rough treatment, too. Of a sudden
the lights went out, and old Fairspeckle seemed to go out with them.
Anyhow, he was gone when the doctor came to." Culligore paused to
light one of his vicious-looking cigars. "Something queer about that
old goat's disappearance--eh, inspector?"
Stapleton stared hard at his subordinate, as if trying to read the
thoughts stirring behind his stolid countenance. "Of course there is,"
he said irritably. "There's something queer about every disappearance.
Just what are you driving at? You don't doubt that Fairspeckle was
kidnaped by Mr. Shei's agents?"
"I doubt everything, inspector. Know of any reason why Mr. Shei should
go out of his way to abduct the old geezer?"
"No, I don't," admitted Stapleton after some thought. "The kidnaping
of Fairspeckle doesn't seem to fit into the pattern of Mr. Shei's
scheme. What's your idea, Culligore? You don't suppose Fairspeckle
kidnaped himself?"
"Stranger things have happened, inspector. By the way," and the
lieutenant reached into his pocket and took out several typewritten
slips, "I meant to hand you these yesterday, but was too busy with
other things. I found them beside the typewriter on Fairspeckle's
desk. What do you make of them?"
Stapleton picked up the slips and glanced at them. His eyes widened
into a stare as he read the typewritten lines. He read them twice, and
then he transferred his gaze to Culligore.
"Holy mackerel!" he muttered. Then he sat silent for a time, wriggling
his ample frame to and fro in the chair. "Why, these things make it
look as though Fairspeckle was Mr. Shei."
"They show that the mystery isn't quite so simple as you thought,
inspector. They sort of knock the pins from under your theory that The
Gray Phantom is Mr. Shei."
For a few moments longer Stapleton's bewildered eyes rested on the
slips. Then he read aloud the list of names beneath the introductory
paragraph, and the pucker on his forehead deepened. Finally he looked
quizzically at the lieutenant.
"Yes, I noticed it, too," said Culligore. "There's something queer
about that list. Looks as though Mr. Shei, whoever he is, hadn't
followed his original programme. Seven men were inoculated, but only
five of them are named in Fairspeckle's list. The other two names
don't jibe."
Stapleton pondered for a while. He seemed to have great difficulty
readjusting his thoughts to a new fact.
"And here's another interesting thing," Culligore pointed out. "Every
one of the seven men mentioned in Fairspeckle's list was a member of a
ring that fought him tooth and nail some years ago."
"And this is Fairspeckle's way of getting even with them," ventured
the inspector.
"Maybe," said Culligore guardedly. "Anyhow, a fairly strong motive
could be made out of it."
"But how do you account for the fact that Fairspeckle didn't carry out
his original programme?"
"I'm not trying to account for it just now. There might have been a
slip of some kind. _If_ Fairspeckle is Mr. Shei, the fact that he
revised his list doesn't really cut any ice. Any man has a right to
change his mind."
Inspector Stapleton sat up straight. He looked at Culligore in a
determined way. "What I can't understand is why you didn't show me
these slips yesterday. You say you were too busy with other things.
I'd like to know what other things could be more important. Never mind
that, though. The thing to do now is to find Fairspeckle."
Again Culligore drew his palm across his mouth. "And when you have
found him, inspector, what are you going to do with him?"
"Eh?" Stapleton seemed to think the question a strange one. "Do with
him? Why, we'll see to it that he gets the stiffest sentence the law
provides. If we once get our hands on him we'll put him in a place
where he won't be able to trouble us for some time."
"Aren't you overlooking something, inspector?"
Stapleton stared perplexedly at his subordinate.
"What about the seven capitalists?" the lieutenant went on. "They'll
die like rats unless the antidote is administered in time. You can't
make Mr. Shei fork over the antidote by putting him in jail. He's wise
enough to know that as long as the antidote is in his possession he
has a hold on us, and he won't be likely to give it up. He knows we
are not going to let seven of the biggest men in the country die just
for the sake of sending him to jail. The fact is, inspector, that Mr.
Shei has us sewed up in a sack."
Stapleton seemed about to make an indignant reply, but it died on his
tongue. Evidently Culligore's argument had made a strong impression.
He dropped back against the chair and peered diffidently into space.
"I'm hanged if I'm going to sit with arms folded and let Mr. Shei put
this thing over," he muttered at last. "He's a slick crook, but there
ought to be a way of dealing with him."
"I think there is, inspector," agreed Culligore, leisurely rising from
his chair. "I can't see it just yet, but maybe my mind will work
better after a little walk. So long, inspector."
He shuffled from the room, followed by Inspector Stapleton's puzzled
gaze. After leaving the headquarters building, he walked to a near-by
restaurant and ordered a substantial meal. He seemed in no hurry, for
he ate slowly and lingered for a considerable time over his coffee and
cigar. An observer, noticing his languid air and phlegmatic
expression, might have thought that Mr. Shei was farthest from his
mind. It was dark when he left the restaurant, and it was a little
after eight o'clock when, after a leisurely stroll in a zigzagging
direction, he reached the Thelma Theater.
His decision to visit the Thelma once more might have been due to the
fact that it had been the scene of several mysterious incidents which
were more or less directly traceable to the activities of Mr. Shei.
The death of Virginia Darrow had occurred there, and the bullet that
had missed The Gray Phantom by such a narrow margin was still imbedded
in one of the pillars. But Culligore's expression gave no indication
of his purpose as he stood on the sidewalk across the street from the
theater and glanced up at the windows of Vincent Starr's private
office on the second floor.
The windows were dark, so evidently Starr was not there, and the
entire structure presented a gloomy and lifeless appearance. Culligore
hummed a little tune as he walked to the nearest street intersection,
then cut diagonally across the thoroughfare, continued half a block to
the west, and finally ducked into a dark basement entrance. The ease
with which he made his way suggested that he had traveled the same
route before. After walking down a dirty and foul-smelling passage, he
emerged into a vacant space bordered at one side by the rear wall of
the theater.
He crossed the inclosure, then ran down a short stairway, and brought
up against a door. Now he took a number of keys from his pocket and
tried several in the lock before he found one that fitted. At last the
door came open, and the lieutenant, locking it carefully behind him,
stood in the basement under the Thelma Theater.
On all sides was total darkness. For a time he stood still, listening
for sounds, but nothing but dull and distant noises from the outside
reached his ears. Having satisfied himself that he was apparently
alone in the basement, he took out his flash light and began a
thorough and comprehensive search. With the electric flash peering
into every nook and corner, he explored the dressing rooms, peeped
behind piles of discarded scenery, examined odds and ends of stage
property, looked into the barrels and boxes in the dusty storerooms,
and even tapped the walls here and there to assure himself that there
were no hollow spaces.
At last he gave up. His search had taken almost an hour and it had
been complete and painstaking in every respect, yet Lieutenant
Culligore seemed not quite satisfied. On his face was a look of
hesitancy that seemed to suggest a lingering suspicion that something
might have eluded him. Standing in the center of the basement, he
extinguished the flash light, for it had been his experience that his
other senses were more acute when his eyes received no impressions.
For a little while, standing in impenetrable darkness, he scarcely
breathed. He had a curious sensation that a faint sound was passing
him and dissolving in the dank air. It was so slight and elusive that
his ears could scarcely detect it, yet it appealed to his imagination
with peculiar insistence. It might have been either a moan or a sigh,
or perhaps a cry coming from a great distance. Somehow, though he
could not analyze the sensation, he fancied it expressed a great,
overwhelming anguish. Whether it came from above, below, or the sides
he could not determine, but it inspired him with a haunting feeling
that he was not alone.
Again he took up the flash, and instantly the impression vanished, as
if it had been a wraith fleeing from the light. Once more, step by
step, he went over every square foot of the basement, covering the
ground he had already searched so patiently, but he found nothing that
gave the slightest clew to the peculiar sound. Finally, half inclined
to believe that his imagination had deceived him, he ascended the
stairway and continued his search on the ground floor. With dogged
determination he explored the space in the wings and back of the
stage, then went up and down the aisles in the auditorium. His
inspection of the boxes was fruitless, and he found nothing of
significance in the little niche where, on his previous visit to the
Thelma, he had strongly suspected that an eavesdropper was hiding.
Finally he went through the offices on the street front, occupied, as
was indicated by the brass plates on the doors, by the treasurer,
business manager, and stage director. Here also his quest was
unavailing, and nothing now remained but Vincent Starr's private
office on the upper floor.
The moment he entered, Culligore felt as though he were invading the
den of a sybarite. His flash light, flitting slowly over the room,
revealed soft color harmonies and exquisite decorations. Faint and
delicate perfumes mingled with the fresh and alluring scents of
flowers. Culligore's feet sank deep into costly rugs as he moved about
the office, peeping behind chairs, desks, and cabinets, and
occasionally sounding the walls for hollow spaces. After an hour of
intense and patient effort, he was forced to admit that he had exerted
himself needlessly and that his impressions while standing in the
basement could have been nothing but figments of his fancy.
Finally he sat down in the luxuriously upholstered chair beside
Starr's desk. His watch showed a quarter past eleven, and he tried to
reconcile himself to the thought that the only thing he could do was
to go home and sleep. He was disappointed, for he had hoped that his
search would yield some tangible results. He scowled a little as his
gaze roamed idly over the orderly piles of papers on the desk. The ink
stand, the paper cutter, and the pens were all of ornamental design.
The only plain and undecorative objects in the room were the two
telephones standing at one side of the desk. It struck him as a little
odd that there should be two of them, but then he noticed that one was
an automatic instrument without outside connections and communicating
only with the various departments in the building.
Presently he yawned ostentatiously. He could not quite understand his
reason for remaining after his fruitless task was done, nor could he
comprehend the feeling, vague but uncannily persistent, that the next
few minutes would bring some startling developments.
A gentle buzzing caused him to sit up straight in the chair. The
telephone was ringing, and instinctively he reached out his hand for
one of the instruments. He spoke a soft "hello" in the transmitter.
There was no response, but the ringing continued. A little dazedly he
hung up the receiver and peered fixedly at the other telephone. He
jerked it to him, thrust the transmitter to his ear, and instantly the
buzzing ceased.
A gasp of amazement fell from his lips. Someone was calling on the
automatic telephone, the one that had no outside connections. The
person calling must be inside the building, then, despite the fact
that his patient search had convinced him that there was no other
human being within the four walls of the structure.