Just then a youngish man with a slouching gait and a dead cigar between
his teeth pushed through the little knot of spectators at the entrance
and leveled a mildly inquisitive glance at Pinto and the housekeeper.
The patrolman, after introducing the new arrival as Lieutenant Culligore
of the detective bureau, told briefly what he had discovered.
Culligore doffed his dripping raincoat and banged his soggy slouch hat
against the counter. His dull face and sluggish manners gave the
impression that he was never quite awake, but now and then a furtive
little gleam in his cinnamon-colored eyes betrayed a saving sense of
humor. He seemed unimpressed until Pinto reached that point in his story
where the dying man had told the name of his assailant. Then Culligore
curled up his lip against the tip of his nose, as was his habit when
interested in something, and motioned the patrolman to follow him into
the inner room.
There was an indefinable air about the chamber that vaguely suggested
the abode of one whose life is hidden from the world. The ragged carpet
and the ancient wall paper were of neutral tones, and the atmosphere was
stale and oppressive, as if seldom freshened by sun or wind. Lieutenant
Culligore's drowsily blinking eyes traveled over the scene, yet he
appeared to see nothing. The safe in a corner seemed rather too large
for the modest requirements of a tobacconist. Near by stood an
ink-stained writing desk and a chair. The clothing on the narrow iron
cot looked as though the occupant, suddenly disturbed in his sleep, had
sprung from it in a hurry.
In the center of the room lay a curiously twisted figure, garbed in
pajamas of pink flannel. Over the heart was a dull stain, and the right
arm lay across the chest in a manner hinting that the dead man had used
his last ounce of strength to ward off a blow. One of the legs was drawn
up almost to the abdomen, and the eyes were fixed on the ceiling in a
glassy stare.
"Well, Pinto?" Culligore looked as though he expected the patrolman to
do the necessary thinking.
"The corpse told me the Gray Phantom did it," said Pinto in a tone of
finality. "Don't you think we'd better start a general alarm, sir?"
"Corpses are sometimes mistaken, Pinto." The lieutenant fumbled for a
match and slowly kindled his cigar. "I'll bet a pair of pink socks that
the Phantom had nothing to do with this. The Phantom always fought
clean. I'd hate like blue blazes to think that he pulled off this job."
Pinto scowled a little, as if he couldn't quite understand why Culligore
should reject an easy solution of the mystery when it came to him
ready-made.
"By the way," and Culligore fixed an indolent eye on the electric
fixture above the desk, "was the light on or off when you broke in?"
"It was off, sir. I turned it on myself."
Culligore thought for a moment. "Well, that doesn't mean much. The
murderer might have switched it off before he made his get-away, or the
room might have been dark all the time. I'd give a good smoke to know
whether the murder was done in the light or the dark."
Pinto's eyes widened inquiringly.
"You see, Pinto, if the light was on we can take it for granted Gage saw
the murderer's face. If the room was dark, then he was just guessing
when he told you it was the Phantom. It would have been a natural guess,
too, for he would be very apt to suppose that the murderer was the man
who had sent him the threatening letter. Since we can't know whether
Gage was stabbed in the light or the dark, we'd better forget what he
told you and take a fresh start." His eyes flitted about the room, and a
flicker of interest appeared in their depths. "How do you suppose the
murderer got out, Pinto?"
The patrolman looked significantly at the single window in the room.
Culligore took a spiral tape measure from the little black box he always
carried when at work on a homicide case and measured the width of the
narrow sash.
"Too small," he declared. "You'd have to yank in your belt several
notches before you could crawl through a window of this size, Pinto.
Anyhow, it's latched from the inside."
A look of perplexity in his reddish face, Pinto turned to the door. He
looked a bit dazed as he noticed the damage he had wrought in forcing
it. One of the panels was cracked in the center, and the slot in which
the bolt had rested had been torn out of the frame.
"You see, Pinto." There was a grin on Culligore's lips. "The murderer
couldn't have got out of the window, because it's much too small, and he
couldn't have walked out through the door, because it was bolted from
the inside. There's no transom, so he could not have adjusted the bolt
from the other side. Nobody has yet figured out a way of passing through
a door or window and leaving it bolted on the inside."
Pinto stared at the door, at the window, and finally at Culligore. The
problem seemed beyond him. Then he took his baton and, tapping as he
went, explored every square foot of floor and walls, but no hollow
sounds betrayed the presence of a hidden opening. He shook his head in a
flabbergasted way.
"It's possible, of course," suggested the lieutenant, "that the murderer
was still in the room when you broke in. He might have made his get-away
in the dark while you were hunting for the light switch."
"The housekeeper would have seen him," Pinto pointed out. "She was
standing just outside. And there was a crowd at the entrance. Say," and
a startled look crossed his face, "do you suppose Gage killed himself?"
"That would be an easy solution, all right. But, if he did, what was his
idea in telling you that the Phantom had done it? And I don't see any
knife around. Gage wouldn't have had the strength to pull it out of the
wound, and, even if he had, how did he dispose of it? No, Pinto, Gage
was murdered, and--hang it all!--it's beginning to look as though the
Phantom did it."
"But you just said----"
"All I'm saying now is that it's beginning to look as if the Phantom had
had a hand in it. Things aren't always what they seem, you know. I'm not
taking much stock in what Gage told you just before he died. There are
other reasons. One of them is the size of that window. Another is the
fact that the door was bolted on the inside. Together they show that the
man who committed this murder accomplished something of a miracle in
getting out of the room. The Phantom is the only man I know who can do
that sort of thing."
He grinned sheepishly, as if conscious of having said something that
sounded extravagant.
"Stunts like that are the Phantom's long suit," he went on. "He likes to
throw dust in the eyes of the police and keep everybody guessing. But he
was always a gentlemanly rascal, and it takes something besides a bolted
door and a window latched on the inside to make me believe he has gotten
down to dirty work. Wish the medical examiner would hurry up."
He took a cover from the cot and threw it over the upper part of the
body. A chance glance toward the door made him pause. Just across the
threshold, with hands clasped across her breast and eyes fixed rigidly
on the lifeless heap on the floor, stood the housekeeper. She awoke with
a start from her reverie as she felt the lieutenant's steady gaze on her
face, and she shrank back a step. With a puckering of the brows,
Culligore turned away. His eyes fell on the safe.
A pull at the knob told him it was locked. He took a magnifying lens
from his kit and carefully examined the surface. Then, with a shake of
the head signifying he had found no finger prints, he crooked his index
finger at the housekeeper. She advanced reluctantly, and Culligore
studied her with a sidelong glance.
"You needn't talk unless you want to," he said gently. "The department
isn't offering you any immunity. We've known for some time that Gage was
running a fence, though we never got the goods on him."
The woman, standing in a crouching attitude and studiously avoiding
Culligore's gaze, swept a tress of moist gray hair from her forehead.
"We've also suspected that you have been in cahoots with him," continued
the lieutenant in casual tones. "Oh, don't get scared. We won't go into
that just now. All I want is that we understand each other."
The woman raised her head and looked straight at Officer Pinto, and
there was a hint of dread in her eyes as their glances met. A puzzled
frown crossed Culligore's face as he noticed the strange exchange of
glances; then he pointed to the safe.
"Know how to open it?"
The housekeeper shook her head. "Mr. Gage kept only cheap junk in it,
anyhow. All he used it for was a blind."
"A blind?"
"He had to keep a lot of valuables in the house all the time, and he was
always afraid of burglars. He kept a lot of phony stuff in the safe,
thinking if burglars found it they might be fooled and not look any
further."
"Ah! Not a bad idea. Where did he keep the real stuff?"
The woman hesitated for a moment; then, with a quick gesture, she
pointed to the old writing desk.
"Gage was a shrewd one," observed the lieutenant. "With a safe in the
room, nobody would think of looking for valuables in a broken-down desk.
Now," drawing a little closer to the woman and trying to catch her
shifty eyes, "I wish you would tell us who killed him. I think you
know."
A tremor passed over the woman's ashen face, and she fixed Pinto with a
look that caused the lieutenant to lift his brows in perplexity.
Finally, she pointed a finger at the patrolman.
"You heard what he said, didn't you? Mr. Gage told him the Gray Phantom
did it. Isn't that enough?"
Culligore regarded her narrowly, as if sensing an attempt at evasion in
what she had just said. Then he nodded and seemed to be searching his
memory.
"Let me see--Gage and the Phantom had some kind of row a few years
back?"
The housekeeper's "Yes" was scarcely audible.
"What was it about?"
Her lips curled in scorn. "That's what I could never understand. They
were quarreling like two overgrown boys over a piece of green rock.
Imitation jade was what Mr. Gage called it. I never got the story
straight, but it seems the Phantom had been carrying it around as a kind
of keepsake for years. He lost it finally, and somehow it got into Mr.
Gage's hands. The Phantom wanted it back, but Mr. Gage was just stubborn
enough to hang on to it. They had an awful rumpus, and I think the
Phantom threatened to get Mr. Gage some day."
"All that fuss about a piece of phony jade? The Phantom must have had
some particular reason for wanting it back. What was it shaped like?"
"It was a funny kind of cross, with eight tips to it."
"A Maltese cross, maybe." Lieutenant Culligore whistled softly. "The
Phantom's a queer cuss. Likely as not he thought more of that piece of
imitation jade than most people would of a thousand dollars. What I
don't see is why Gage wouldn't give it up. Unless," he added with a
shrewd grin, "he knew how badly the Phantom wanted it and hoped to make
him cough up some real dough for it. Wasn't that it?"
A shrug was the housekeeper's only response.
"And the Phantom, of course, balked at the idea of paying good money for
his own property. But it seems Gage would have given it up when he saw
that it was putting his life in danger. I suppose, though, he thought
the Phantom was only bluffing. He didn't believe anybody would commit a
murder over a thing that could be bought for a few cents."
Again the housekeeper shot Pinto a queer glance. "If you don't want me
any more, I think I'll----"
"Just a moment," interrupted Culligore. "I want you to show me the
letter Gage got yesterday."
With a sullen gesture she stepped to the desk, fumbled for a few moments
among the drawers, then drew forth a letter and handed it to the
lieutenant. Culligore examined the envelope and the superscription under
the light, then pulled out the enclosure.
"'The Gray Phantom neither forgives nor forgets,'" he read aloud. "Short
and to the point. Now let's have a look at the Maltese cross. But
wait--here's the medical examiner. You're late, doc."
"Car broke down." The examiner, a thickset, bearded, crisp-mannered
individual, put a few questions to Culligore and Pinto, then uncovered
the body, explored the region of the wound with an expert touch, and
finally jotted down a few notes in a red-covered book. As he rose from
his kneeling position, the lieutenant gave him a signal out of the
corner of his eye, and the two men left the room together.
"Just one question, doc." Culligore spoke in low tones, as if anxious
that Pinto and the housekeeper should not hear. "About that wound. How
long did Gage live after he was stabbed?"
"Not very long."
"Long enough to tell Pinto the name of the man who stabbed him?"
The examiner looked startled. "Yes, in all probability. Say, you don't
suspect that cop in there of----"
"Not after what you've told me." Culligore wheeled on his heels and
re-entered the inner room. His upper lip brushed the tip of his nose,
signifying he had learned something interesting. Pinto was replacing the
cover over the body, while the housekeeper, standing a few paces away,
was regarding him with a fixed, inscrutable look.
"Now let's see the Maltese cross," directed the lieutenant.
The woman jerked herself up. Her eyes held a defiant gleam, but it died
away quickly. With evident reluctance she approached the desk and
pointed.
"There's a hidden drawer back there in the corner," she announced. "I
don't know how to open it. You'll have to find that out for yourself."
Culligore, after looking in vain for a concealed spring, took a small
tool from his kit. To locate the drawer without the woman's help would
have been a difficult task, for it was ingeniously hidden in an
apparently solid portion of the desk. With a few deft twists and jerks
he forced it open and poured out the contents, consisting of a great
number of small objects wrapped in tissue paper. Each of the little wads
contained a diamond. Unwrapping one after another, Culligore gathered
them in a glittering heap on the desk. The stones varied in size and
brilliancy. Occasionally he raised one of them to the light and
inspected it keenly, satisfying himself of its genuineness.
"Some eye-teasers!" he muttered. "But where's the Maltese cross?"
The housekeeper's face went blank. She stared at the diamonds, then at
the empty drawer.
"It was there day before yesterday," she declared. "Mr. Gage showed it
to me."
There was an odd tension in the lieutenant's manner. "Did the Phantom
know about the secret drawer and how to open it?"
The woman, one hand clutching the edge of the desk, seemed to ponder. "I
don't know. He might have. The Phantom called on Mr. Gage several times
after they started quarreling. But----"
"Well, it doesn't matter." There was a strain of suppressed
disappointment in Culligore's tones, and his face hinted that an
illusion was slipping away from him. "It looks as though the thing was
settled. The Gray Phantom is the only man I know who would pass up some
fifty thousand dollars' worth of diamonds after taking the trouble to
steal a gewgaw worth about two bits."
With dragging gait he left the room, stepped behind the counter outside,
and spoke into the telephone. In a few moments now the alarm would go
out and a thousand eyes would be searching for the Gray Phantom.
Culligore, tarrying for a little after he had hung up the receiver,
looked as though he were in a mood to quarrel with his duty and with the
facts staring him in the face. Then he shrugged, as if to banish regrets
of which he was half ashamed, and his face bore a look of dogged
determination when he stepped back into the bedroom.
"We'll get him," he announced with grim assurance. "Inside fifteen
minutes there'll be a net thrown around this old town so tight a mouse
couldn't wriggle through."
He picked up his hat and kit, and just then his eyes fell on the
housekeeper's face. In vain he exercised his wits to interpret the sly
gaze with which she was fixing Patrolman Pinto.
Did it mean fear, suspicion, horror, hate, or all four?