Coolly, though every nerve and muscle in his body were on the alert, the
Phantom took a case from his pocket and lighted a cigarette. He stood
face to face with a peril of a tangible and definite kind. The
protecting beard was dependable only so long as he did not attract the
attention of the police and invite a closer scrutiny. It would not for
long deceive an officer whose training had made him habitually
suspicious of appearances and who had been drilled in the art of seeing
through disguises.
Voices came from the outer room, Mrs. Trippe's surly tones clashing with
the gruff accents of Officer Pinto. The Phantom felt a tingle of
suspense. It was the kind of situation he would have thoroughly enjoyed
but for the fact that in this instance he could not jeopardize his
liberty without also endangering his purpose.
Footsteps approached, and presently a stocky figure, with the
housekeeper hovering behind, stood framed in the doorway. The Phantom,
smiling serenely, felt instant relief the moment he glanced at the heavy
and somewhat reddish features, with the unimpressive jaw and the stolid
look in the eyes. Pinto might be a faithful plodder and a dangerous
adversary in a physical encounter, but it was plain that he possessed
only ordinary intelligence.
"Well, who're _you_?" bluntly demanded the officer.
It was the housekeeper who answered. "He says he is Mr.----What did you
say your name was?"
"Mr. Adair, of Boston," replied the Phantom with an air of superb
tranquillity, adding the explanation he had already invented for Mrs.
Trippe's benefit. "Hope I'm not intruding," he concluded.
Pinto stepped inside, his eyes fixed on the Phantom's face in a hard
stare. Then, by slow degrees, the churlish expression left his features
and a slightly contemptuous grin took its place.
"You're welcome," he declared. "Go as far as you like. I s'pose you're
trying to dope out how the Phantom got out of the room. Well, believe
me, you'll have to do some tall thinking."
The Phantom chuckled affably. Evidently Pinto had classified him as one
of the harmless cranks who flock in the wake of the police whenever a
mysterious crime has taken place.
"I was just discussing the problem with Mrs. Trippe," he announced
easily. "It's a fascinating riddle. I infer it has gripped you, too,
since you come here in civilian clothes while not on duty."
"Well, I've been kidding myself along, thinking maybe I would find the
solution." Pinto's face bore a sheepish look. "There's got to be a
solution somewhere, you know, and----"
"And it would be a feather in your cap if you were the one who found it
first," put in the Phantom genially. "Perhaps it would mean promotion,
too--who knows? But has it occurred to you that the murderer's exit is
no more mysterious than his entrance? If he accomplished a miracle
getting out, he also accomplished a miracle getting in."
"The Phantom's strong for the miracle stuff, all right. But it's
possible Gage himself let the murderer in. Maybe he expected somebody to
call. Anyhow, we know the villain got in somehow. What I'd like to know
is how he got out."
The Phantom's eyes had been on the floor, near the point where,
according to the newspaper articles he had read, Gage's body must have
been found. Of a sudden he looked up, and the gaze he surprised in
Pinto's slyly peering eyes sent a tingle of apprehension through his
body. He wondered whether the patrolman was as obtuse as he seemed.
"I understand," he said without a tremor in his voice, "that you found
the room dark upon breaking in. Couldn't the murderer have slipped out
while you were looking for the light switch?"
"Huh!" The contemptuous snort came from Mrs. Trippe, who, with arms
crossed over her chest, stood in the rear of the room. "How could he,
I'd like to know, with me standing right outside the door and a crowd of
rubbernecks at the main entrance?"
The Phantom seemed to ponder. The theory he had just suggested did not
seem at all plausible, and his only purpose in mentioning it had been to
turn Pinto's thoughts in a new direction.
"I'd swear the rascal wasn't in the room when I broke in," declared the
patrolman with emphasis.
"And he couldn't have got out before," remarked the Phantom, with a
grin. At the same moment he felt Mrs. Trippe's eyes on his face. She was
gazing at him as if his last remark had made a profound impression upon
her. He sensed a new and baffling quality in the situation, something
that just eluded his mental grasp, and he began to wonder whether the
housekeeper did not know or suspect something which she had not yet
told.
"The Phantom's a devil," observed Pinto, again slanting a queer glance
at the other man. "Nobody of flesh and bone could pull off a stunt like
this. Maybe some day he'll tell us how he did it. He'll be roped in
before long. Say," with a forced laugh, "wouldn't it be funny if he
should get caught right here, in this room? They say a murderer always
comes back to the scene of his crime."
All the Phantom's self-control was required to repress a start. Pinto's
remark, though uttered in bantering tones, was entirely too pointed to
have been casual, and the gleam in his eyes testified that his
suspicions were aroused.
"I think the Phantom's talents have been grossly overestimated. When he
is caught we shall probably find that he is quite an ordinary mortal.
Don't you think so, Mrs. Trippe?"
The woman started, then mumbled something unintelligible under her
breath.
"Well, maybe," said Pinto. "I've got a feeling in my elbow that says
he'll be caught before night, and then we'll see. He may be an ordinary
mortal, but I'll be mighty interested to know how he got out of this
room. Got any ideas on the subject, Mr. Adair?"
The Phantom's frown masked the swift working of his mind. "Yes, but you
will laugh when I tell you what they are. My frank opinion is that the
Phantom had nothing whatever to do with this murder."
Mrs. Trippe stared at the Phantom as if expecting an astounding
revelation to fall from his lips.
Patrolman Pinto, too, seemed taken aback. A little of the color fled
from his face, and for an instant his eyes held an uneasy gleam. In a
moment, however, he had steadied himself, and a raucous chuckle voiced
his opinion of the Phantom's last statement.
"Say, you amateur dicks make me laugh. The Phantom had nothing to do
with it, eh? Well, if he didn't commit this murder, maybe you'll tell us
who did."
The Phantom, quiveringly alert, strolled across the floor and back
again. There was a bland smile on his lips and the amused twinkle in his
eyes concealed the tension under which his mind was laboring.
"That's asking a lot of an amateur detective, isn't it?" he suavely
inquired. "Maybe it will help you, however, to know how the situation
looks to a lay-man. You say you are willing to swear that the murderer
was not in the room when you broke in. It is almost equally certain,
viewing the matter in the natural order of things, that he could not
have left the room between the commission of the crime and your forcible
entrance. Therefore----"
He broke off, feeling a violent rush of blood to the head. He had been
talking against time, hoping to find a way of diverting Pinto's
suspicions from himself. Suddenly it struck him that his rambling
discourse had led him straight to the solution of the mystery. The
revelation flashed through his mind like a swift, blinding glare. To
hide his agitation he lighted a cigarette. Through the spinning rings of
smoke he saw the housekeeper's ashen face, mouth gaping and eyes staring
with fierce intensity.
"Well?" prompted Pinto. His voice was a trifle shaky.
The Phantom was himself again. "Well, as I was about to say, if the
murderer was not in the room when you broke in, then the circumstances
point straight to you, Mr. Pinto, as the murderer of Sylvanus Gage."
For a time the room was utterly still. The policeman seemed torn between
astonishment and a nervous fear. The housekeeper held her breath, her
features twisted into a smile that rendered her expression ghastly.
"I knew it!" she cried. "I knew it all the time!"
"You must be crazy," muttered Pinto, at last finding his voice.
"Not at all. But for the fact that you are an officer in good standing,
you would have been suspected immediately. In the light of all the
circumstances, it stands to reason that the man who broke through the
door was the man who murdered Gage. No one else could have done it. Mrs.
Trippe, do you remember how long Pinto was alone in the room after
forcing his way in?"
The housekeeper seemed to search her memory. "It took him several
moments to find the electric light switch," she mumbled haltingly.
"After that--well, he was in there for some time before he came out.
Maybe two minutes, maybe five--I can't be sure."
"At any rate, long enough to drive a knife into Gage's chest." There was
an exultant throb in the Phantom's tones, the eagerness of the hunter
who is tracking down his quarry. "Gage, we may assume, was awakened by
the noise when the door crashed in, and sprang from his bed. You
probably grappled in the dark. Then----"
Pinto interrupted with a harsh, strident laugh. "Some cock-and-bull
story you're handing us! If I killed Gage, then Mrs. Trippe here must
have been in on the job. It was she who called me and told me to force
the door."
The Phantom waved his hand airily. "Because she had heard a mysterious
noise. That noise may have been prearranged to give you a chance to
knife Gage. I don't pretend to understand all the minor details yet, but
the essentials are clear as day. You must have committed the murder, for
the simple reason that nobody else could have done it."
"Yeh?" There was a vicious sneer in Pinto's face. "Maybe you'll tell me,
then, why Gage thought the Phantom was the one who knifed him."
"Because of the forged letter he had received the day before. Besides,
Pinto, we don't know that Gage thought anything of the kind. We have
nothing but your word for it. You were the only witness to the
declaration you say Gage made. A man who will commit a cowardly murder
is also capable of telling a lie."
Great bluish veins stood out on Pinto's forehead. "You're doing fine for
an amateur dick," he jeered. "All you've got to do now is to figger out
a motive, and the case will be complete."
"Motive? Ah, yes! The Duke has a habit of recruiting his men in queer
places. Once he had an assistant district attorney on his staff; at
another time an associate professor of philosophy with a penchant for
forbidden things. Why shouldn't he have a hard-working patrolman?"
Pinto's figure squirmed beneath his gaze.
"Such a man would prove useful to the Duke, especially if he wanted to
frame an enemy," pursued the Phantom. "Nobody suspects a policeman. A
man in uniform is beyond reproach. Even if the circumstances of a crime
point straight to him as the perpetrator, it is always easier to suspect
somebody else, particularly someone who has a criminal record. I guess
you banked on that, Pinto."
His tones bespoke a free and easy confidence, but he felt none of it. He
believed that the murderer of Sylvanus Gage stood before him, but his
only reason for thinking so was that, so far as appearances went, no one
else could have committed the crime. He was poignantly aware that his
theory would be laughed at and derided, and that he himself would be
subjected to the hollow farce of a trial which must inevitably result in
his conviction. Once in the clutches of the police, his chances of
clearing himself would be extremely slender. "Well, Pinto, what about
it?" His tones were clear and faintly taunting, giving no hint of the
swift play of his wits. "Did you take the precaution of arranging an
alibi?"
"No, I didn't." The policeman spoke defiantly. For an instant he fumbled
about his pockets, as if searching for something. Evidently the object
he wanted was not to be found about his civilian garb. "I didn't have to
fix up an alibi. Say, Mr. Adair----"
He paused for a moment and came a step closer to the Phantom.
"Say," he went on, "while you're telling us so much, maybe you'll tell
us how long the Gray Phantom has been wearing a beard."
Momentarily startled by the verbal thrust, the Phantom was unprepared
for the physical attack that instantly followed. He felt the sudden
impact of the policeman's ponderous body, precipitating him against the
farther wall of the chamber. In a moment, with unexpected agility, the
officer had seized Mrs. Trippe by the arm and hurried her from the room.
Then a door slammed and a key turned gratingly in the lock. The Gray
Phantom was alone, a prisoner.