MR. SHEI'S STRATAGEM
A swarm of jumbled thoughts and emotions crowded each fraction of a
second as The Gray Phantom, standing with his back against the door,
heard Slade's slow and precise voice pronounce the numerals. At each
distinctly spoken word he started as if a rapier had prodded his
flesh. His gaze was fixed on Helen, who from her position in the
stairway stared down on the scene with eyes that appeared to see
nothing, and the blank look in her face told him that she was
mercifully oblivious of the meaning of it all.
With the speed of lightning, stray thoughts and impressions flashed
through The Phantom's mind. Slade had warned him that Helen would die
when he had counted ten, unless The Phantom surrendered in the
meantime. At Helen's back, shielded by her body against a possible
bullet from The Phantom's revolver, stood the executioner, ready to
press the trigger.
Things swam in confusion before The Phantom's eyes. He would gladly
have given his life if thereby he could save Helen from her
predicament. But Slade dared not kill him just yet, not until he had
learned where Doctor Tagala was hidden, and so he hoped to force The
Phantom into submission by threatening Helen. The plan was subtle and
fiendishly clever, and more than once, as the seconds dragged by, The
Phantom had been on the point of yielding. The only thing that had
restrained him was the belief that his surrender would only make the
situation worse. It would deprive him of his precarious advantage, and
then Helen's position would be doubly desperate.
Once he glanced at the automatic in his hand, wishing that he could
fire a bullet into the figure crouching behind Helen. It was a forlorn
hope, for the coward knew better than to expose himself. Again Slade's
voice, pronouncing each syllable with excessive precision, broke in
upon his thoughts:
"--five--six--seven----"
The Phantom jerked up his head as an inspiration flashed through his
mind. He still had an advantage, though his aching mind had not been
able to grasp it until this very minute. Again his eyes sought the
pistol drooping from his nerveless right hand.
"--eight--nine----" A note of hesitancy crept into Slade's accents, and he
looked expectantly at The Phantom. Evidently he was reluctant to
pronounce the final word, the word that would mean Helen's death. He
vastly preferred that The Phantom should accept his terms, but his
face showed no sign of yielding from his purpose.
His lips opened, and in another moment the fatal word would have been
spoken. But in that brief interval The Phantom acted, and the word
never left Slade's lips. Instead he uttered a long-drawn-out
exclamation of amazement.
The Phantom's maneuver had been both swift and surprising. The blue
steel of his automatic had flashed for an instant in the dim light,
and then he had pressed its muzzle firmly against his heart. For a few
moments the crowd stared in dumfounded amazement; then a startled look
in Slade's face showed that he understood. He bit his lip and
suppressed a cry of rage.
"If Miss Hardwick dies, I die, too," declared The Phantom in gritty
accents; and the metallic gleam of his eye and the note of grim
earnestness in his voice left no doubt of his sincerity. "And you
can't afford to let me die, Slade. With me dead, you would never find
Tagala, and then the bottom would drop out of Mr. Shei's scheme."
Slade fumed and gnashed his teeth in impotent rage. A glance at The
Phantom's face, smiling and yet grimly determined, seemed to increase
his fury. But The Phantom's airy confidence was all on the surface. He
knew that his dramatic gesture had only postponed the crisis, and
already his mind was planning another move.
At last Slade's rage cooled and his reason reasserted itself. Pointing
to the stairway, he bawled an order to the man behind Helen to take
her back to her room. The Phantom drew a long breath of relief as she
was half led, half carried up the remaining steps; but the comfort the
sight gave him was of brief duration.
Now Slade's finger was pointing at himself. "Take his gun away," he
ordered the men lined up behind him. "Make a rush for him, all at
once, but don't shoot. Go!"
The men bounded forward, but in the same instant The Phantom's pistol
spoke twice. Two yells of pain followed the sharp cracks of the
weapon, and the leaders of the rush sank to the floor. The others
stopped, stared diffidently at the steadily pointing pistol, then
wavered and fell back. Once more The Phantom had triumphed. He cast a
quick glance at the two who had fallen. He had aimed to cripple, not
to kill, and he could see that their wounds were not serious.
Slade shook his fist at the cowering men.
"Are you all white-livered kittens?" he shouted. "Are you going to let
one man bluff you? Rush at him again, all together!"
The Phantom tensed himself for the attack. He quavered inwardly as he
recalled that only two slugs remained in his cartridge chamber. He
crouched behind the pistol, fixing each man in turn with a piercing
gaze. The line advanced with a rush. Someone, more intrepid than the
others, seized one of his legs and tried to pull him to the floor, but
The Phantom disposed of him with a vigorous kick. The next was
dispatched with a well-aimed bullet, and the third went reeling to the
floor from a blow with the butt of his pistol. He took careful aim
before he fired his one remaining shot, and a scream of agony told
that the bullet had found its mark. Again the line wavered and broke.
On the floor lay five who had been maimed by The Phantom's bullets and
one who was still unconscious from the blow with the pistol. Of the
original eleven combatants only five remained, but also The Phantom's
ammunition was spent, and at any moment one or more of the wounded
might revive and get back into the fray.
Slade's face was white with helpless rage. He could not know that The
Phantom's cartridge chamber was empty. He stamped his foot and again
shook his fist at the men. Taking advantage of his temporary
distraction, The Phantom glided forward and, stooping quickly,
snatched a pistol from the cramped fingers of one of the wounded. Then
he threw down his own weapon and hurried back to his position at the
door.
Slade noticed his sudden move out of the tail of an eye, but not soon
enough to prevent it. He turned again to the remnant of his little
army. His face was dark and bore an ominous scowl.
"We will get him yet," he declared, snarling. "Form a line and take
aim, but don't shoot to kill. Aim for the arms and legs only. Don't
shoot until I give the word."
The men spread out in a half circle, and The Phantom saw five pistols
pointing at him. There was a malevolent grin on Slade's lips as he
watched the preparations. Then he stepped to one side of the half
circle.
"Fire!" he commanded.
The Phantom ducked just as a chorus of shots rang out. A stinging
sensation in the shoulder told him he had been hit, but he choked back
the cry of pain that rose in his throat. A dense film of powder hung
in the air, and for a few moments the firing line was only a row of
shadowy forms. The Phantom thought of flight, but someone opened a
window and the smoke quickly scattered. In the next instant the blare
of a motor horn was heard in the distance.
The men exchanged quick glances, and The Phantom fancied he saw a look
of relief on Slade's face. In the muttered conversation that followed
he made out the name of Mr. Shei, and new misgivings caused him to
forget the stinging pain in his shoulder. Slade's handling of the
situation had exposed him as a bungler, but for Mr. Shei's ingenuity
and resourcefulness The Phantom had a high respect. If Mr. Shei had
arrived, as the blare of the horn and the conversation among the men
seemed to signify, then a new and more critical situation awaited him.
He glanced toward the end of the hall. A faint glimmer of dawn showed
against the window back of the stairway railing. The night had been
crowded with exciting events, and the time had passed more quickly
than he realized. Again Mr. Shei's name was mentioned among the men,
and then a hush fell over the group. A door opened at one side of the
hall, and in the next instant The Phantom's eyes widened into a
bewildered stare.
The tall man who entered and was received with such marked deference
by Slade and the others was none other than Vincent Starr!
A film floated before The Phantom's eyes. It seemed almost
unbelievable at first, but a succession of minor incidents and
circumstances that had vaguely puzzled him at times suddenly came back
to him in the light of a new significance. He had been blind, he told
himself; yet it was no wonder that he had been deceived. His concern
for Helen had been uppermost in his mind, and he was forced to admit
that Starr had played his game very shrewdly.
The newcomer cast a swift, comprehensive glance up and down the hall,
then turned to Slade, and the two engaged in a low-voiced
conversation. Now and then Starr mentioned Culligore's name, and The
Phantom gathered from isolated words and phrases that something of an
unpleasant nature had happened to the lieutenant. He learned, too,
that there had been developments that necessitated quick action on Mr.
Shei's part and that the latter had made a quick motor trip from New
York to Azurecrest. The Phantom absorbed these bits of news with
interest, but all the time he was studying the characteristic gestures
with which Starr emphasized his statements. Once before, while
standing in the Thelma Theater, it struck him that there was something
familiar about them, and the same impression came to him now. He was
searching his memory for half-forgotten facts when Starr suddenly
turned round and faced him.
"Surprised?" he inquired, and his smile exposed two rows of flashingly
white teeth.
"A little, at first, but I think I understand it all now," was The
Phantom's nonchalant reply. Then, of a sudden, his figure stiffened.
Starr had delivered another of his oddly expressive gestures, and it
had started another train of recollections in The Phantom's mind.
"Starr," he added impulsively, "you were once a member of my
organization."
"Only a very humble one," admitted Starr, "and it was years back, so
it's no wonder you didn't recognize me at first. In those days you
scarcely noticed me, but I was watching and studying you all the time.
There were a lot of melodramatic notions in my head, and The Gray
Phantom was my hero. I dreamed of some day eclipsing his achievements,
and I think I have succeeded. You see, the Thelma Theater, for all the
fun I got out of the experiment, was only a cover for my other and
more fascinating activities."
"My first impression was correct, then," murmured The Phantom,
addressing himself rather than Starr. "I suspected Mr. Shei was a
former follower of mine and had learned his methods from me, and
that's why I decided to defeat his purpose and break up his
organization. Now I'm doubly glad that I took up the cudgels against
you, Starr."
"Glad?" A puzzled frown crossed Starr's face. "You are a beaten man,
defeated by a once insignificant pupil of yours. Why should you be
glad?"
"Defeated?" The Phantom threw back his head and smiled. "Not just yet,
Starr. The Gray Phantom doesn't even know the meaning of the word.
Before I drop out of this game you and your crowd will be in jail."
A cloud gathered on Starr's forehead. "You are a curious character. I
have beaten you at every turn. I have you so completely cornered that
you can't even raise your pistol against me without endangering the
life of a certain person whom you are deeply interested in. By the
way, Slade has bungled this situation. He tells me that you have
kidnaped Doctor Tagala and refuse to tell where he is hidden."
"He has told you the exact facts. You will never see Tagala again
until I release him, and that I won't do until Miss Hardwick has been
freed and the antidote turned over to me."
Starr's lip curled scornfully. "As I said, Slade has bungled the
situation. He doesn't seem to understand what kind of persuasion to
exert on a man like you. I think I can suggest an improvement. Miss
Hardwick, as I think you know, received a dose of datura poison
calculated to produce death within seven days. What is the matter?" he
added quickly as The Phantom winced and touched his left shoulder.
"Ah! You have been wounded!"
"Only a scratch," said The Phantom coolly, despite the sharp twinges
that now and then shot through the injured shoulder. "What about Miss
Hardwick?"
"As I said, the injection she received was calculated to kill within
seven days. As you know, if you read the accounts of Virginia Darrow's
death, the dose can be so adjusted as to produce death in a much
shorter time--say fifteen minutes or half an hour. Doctor Tagala, who
is a very fascinating gentleman, explained the method to me very
carefully."
"I don't quite see----" began The Phantom, an uneasy flicker in his
eyes; but Starr had already turned to his lieutenant.
"Slade," he crisply commanded, "in one of the drawers of the desk in
the laboratory you will find several bottles of datura poison. Bring
me one of those marked 'Series A.' Fetch a hypodermic syringe, too,
and be quick about it."
Slade withdrew. A horrifying suspicion was entering The Phantom's
mind. Starr's methods were subtler and far more frightful than his
subordinate's.
"You look faint," observed Starr with a glance at The Phantom's face.
A trace of sarcasm edged his words. "I'm afraid the wound is very
painful. Too bad Doctor Tagala isn't here to treat it."
The Phantom was about to reply, but just then Slade returned and
handed his superior a syringe and a small bottle containing a dark
liquid. Starr studied the label for a moment.
"Correct," he murmured. "It's fortunate Doctor Tagala taught me how to
use a syringe. In a few moments Miss Hardwick will have received a
second dose of datura poison--one that will kill her inside half an
hour unless Doctor Tagala should administer the restorative in the
meantime."
A cry broke from The Phantom's lips. The severe pain in the shoulder,
together with the terrifying realization that had just flashed through
his mind, made him suddenly dizzy. He leaned weakly against the wall.
In the same instant Starr, quick to seize the opportunity, wrenched
the pistol from his hand.
"This is ever so much better," he murmured elatedly. "I think you will
be willing to produce Doctor Tagala as soon as I have injected the
second dose of poison into Miss Hardwick's veins. Hold him, Slade,
till I come back."
He instructed one of the other men to follow him and hurried away, but
his words kept dinning in The Phantom's consciousness. He made a
strong effort to fight down the treacherous weakness that was stealing
over him. He wondered why his eyes saw nothing but whirling specks and
why his knees shook so. The loss of blood, he reflected, must have
weakened him more than he had realized. Suddenly everything went
black, and with a despairing moan he sank to the floor.
He heard Slade's derisive laugh, but it had an unreal and far-away
sound.
"Dead to the world," muttered Slade, and The Phantom was dimly
conscious that someone was bending over him. "Well, I hope for the
girl's sake that he comes to before the half hour is up."