Dusk was falling, and the little room was almost dark. The sudden
attack, all the more surprising because of Pinto's previous air of
stolidity, had left the Phantom a trifle dazed, but in a twinkling he
realized the full seriousness of his dilemma. The door had no sooner
slammed than he was on his feet, regaining his breath and flexing his
muscles for action.
With a spring agile as a panther's he threw himself against the door.
Once it had succumbed to the superior weight of Patrolman Pinto's body,
but the Phantom's leaner and nimbler figure was no match for its solid
resistance. After thrice hurling himself against the obstruction, he saw
that he was only wasting time and strength.
Hurriedly he switched on the light. From his pocket he took a box
containing an assortment of small tools which on several occasions had
stood him in good stead. In vain he tried to manipulate the lock,
finding that it was too solidly imbedded in the wood. Next he tried the
hinges, but the flaps were fastened on the other side of the door and
therefore inaccessible. He cudgeled his wits, but to no avail; evidently
the door was an impassable barrier. It seemed by far the most
substantial part of the room, suggesting that Gage might have had it
specially constructed as a protection against burglars.
He sprang to the window, then recalled that he had already ascertained
that it was too narrow to permit him to crawl through. Another
precaution of the wily Sylvanus Gage, he grimly reflected. His eyes,
quick and crafty, darted over floor, ceiling, and walls, but nowhere
could he see a sign of a movable panel or a hidden passage, and he
remembered Mrs. Trippe's statement that headquarters detectives had
spent half a day searching for a secret exit. Though he worked his wits
at furious speed, the situation baffled his ingenuity.
The Phantom perceived he was trapped. The amazing luck that had attended
him in the past had made him reckless and indiscreet, and now it seemed
to have deserted him like a fickle charmer. He supposed that Pinto, too
shrewd to attempt to deal single-handed with such a slippery and
dangerous adversary as the Gray Phantom, was already in communication
with headquarters, summoning reenforcements. In a few minutes he would
be hemmed in on all sides and pounced upon by overwhelming numbers of
policemen, and in a little while the newspapers would shriek the
sensation that at last the Gray Phantom had been captured.
It surprised him that he could view the end of his career with
philosophical calm, unaffected by vain regrets. He had always suspected
that some day an overbold play on his part would result in his undoing,
and he had trained himself to look upon his ultimate defeat with the
indifference of a cynic and fatalist, but he had never guessed that the
crisis would come like this. He smiled faintly as it dawned on him that
the disaster which now stared him in the face was the direct result of
his determination to vindicate himself in the eyes of a woman. He had
played for high stakes in the past, but Helen Hardwick's faith in him
was the highest of them all.
His smile faded as quickly as it had come. There was a sting in the
realization that his boldest and biggest game was foredoomed to failure.
Only a few more minutes of liberty remained, and after that all chance
of exculpating himself would be gone. Officer Pinto, having become
famous of a sudden as the Gray Phantom's captor, would now, more than
ever before, be beyond suspicion, and he could be depended upon to make
the most of his advantage. The Phantom, whose hands had never been
sullied by contact with blood, would be an object of horror and loathing
as the perpetrator of a vile and sordid murder. Helen Hardwick, like all
the rest, would shudder at mention of his name.
The dismal thoughts went like flashes through his mind. Only a few
minutes had passed since the door slammed. The thought of Helen Hardwick
caused a sudden stiffening of his figure and imbued him with a fierce
desire for freedom. He refused to believe that his star had set and that
this was the end. Many a time he had wriggled out of corners seemingly
as tight and unescapable as the present one, chuckling at the
discomfiture of the police and the bedevilment of his foes. Why could he
not achieve another of the astounding feats that had made his name
famous?
He spurred his wits to furious effort, repeatedly telling himself that
somewhere there must be a way out. It was hard to believe that a man
like Sylvanus Gage, living in constant danger of a surprise visit by the
police, had not provided himself with an emergency exit. Despite the
failure of the detectives to find it, there must be a concealed door or
secret passage somewhere, though without doubt it was hidden in a way
worthy of Gage's foxlike cunning.
He ran to the door and shot the bolt. The police would be forced to
break their way in, and this would give him a few moments' respite.
Again, as several times before in the last few minutes, his eyes strayed
to the window. Though he knew it was far too narrow to afford a means of
escape, it kept attracting his gaze and tantalizing his imagination.
Deciding to make a second attempt, he hastened across the floor, pushed
up the lower sash, and edged his shoulder into the opening. Writhe and
wriggle as he might, he could not squeeze through. Even a man of Gage's
scrawny build would have become wedged in the frame had he attempted it.
Outside the house a gong clanged, signaling the arrival of the police
patrol. From the front came sharp commands and excited voices. Already,
the Phantom guessed, a cordon was being thrown around the block,
ensnaring him like a fish in a net. Precious moments passed, and still
he was unable to take his eyes from the window. A vague and
unaccountable instinct told him that his only hope of safety lay in that
direction.
He raised the shade a little and looked out upon a court disfigured by
ramshackle sheds and heaps of refuse. Several temporary hiding places
awaited him out there, if he could only get through the window. Even an
extra inch or two added to its width would enable him to wriggle out of
the trap. But how----
The answer came to him with sudden, blinding force. Yet it was simple
and obvious enough; in fact, the only reason he had not thought of it
before was that his mind had been searching for something more intricate
and remote. It had not occurred to him that the extra inch or two that
he needed could be provided by the simple expedient of dislodging the
window frame.
Already his fingers were tearing and tugging at the woodwork. He noticed
that the casements were thick, so that the removal of the frame would
give him considerable additional space, yet he had been at work only a
few moments when he discovered that his plan was far more difficult of
execution than he had expected. The frame, at first glance, ill-fitting
and insecurely fastened, resisted all his efforts. His nails were torn
and there were bleeding scratches on his fingers. He looked about him
for something that he could use as a lever.
Someone was trying the lock, then came a loud pounding on the door.
"Open!" commanded a voice.
The Phantom, failing to find any implement that would serve his purpose,
inserted his fingers beneath the sill and tugged with all his strength.
"Come and get me!" was the taunt he flung back over his shoulder. Then
he pulled again, but the sill did not yield. He straightened his body
and attacked the perpendicular frame to the right but again he
encountered nothing but solid resistance.
"The game's up, Phantom," said the voice outside the door. "Might as
well give in. If you don't we'll bust the door."
The Phantom worked with frantic strength. His knuckles were bruised, his
muscles ached, and sweat poured from his forehead.
"I'll drill a hole through the first man who enters this room," he cried
loudly, hoping that the threat would cause the men outside to hesitate
for a few moments longer before battering down the door. Then, placing
his feet on the sill, he centered his efforts on the horizontal bar at
the top.
A quick glance through the window revealed a broad-shouldered man in
uniform standing with his back to a shed. Evidently the cordon was
tightening. Even if he succeeded in getting through the window, he would
have to fight his way through a human barrier. The outlook was almost
hopeless, but he persisted with the tenacity that comes of despair. He
sprang from the sill, turned the electric light switch, plunging the
room into darkness and hiding his movements from the eyes of the man
outside, then leaped back to his former position and tugged frenziedly
at the horizontal piece.
Of a sudden his hand slipped and a metallic protuberance scratched his
wrist. With habitual attention to detail, he wound his handkerchief
around the injured surface, stopping the flow of blood. If by a miracle
he should succeed in getting out, he did not care to leave behind any
clews to his movements. Another sharp glance through the window
satisfied him that the man at the shed was not looking in his direction.
Then he ran his fingers along the horizontal frame, found the object
that had wounded him, and discovered that it was a nail.
The hubbub outside the door had ceased momentarily. Suddenly there came
a loud crash, as if a heavy body had dashed against the door. The
Phantom, a suspicion awakening amid the jumble of his racing thoughts,
fingered the nail, twisting it hither and thither. It occurred to him in
a twinkling that it was an odd place for a nail, since it could serve no
apparent purpose. In a calmer moment he would have thought nothing of
it, but his mind was keyed to that tremendous pitch where minor details
are magnified.
Another crash sounded, accompanied by an ominous squeaking of cracking
timber. He bent the nail to one side, noticing that its resistance to
pressure was elastic, differing from the inert feel of objects firmly
imbedded in solid wood. An inspiration came to him out of the stress of
the moment. He twisted the nail in various directions, at the same time
tugging energetically at a corner of the frame.
Once more a smashing force was hurled against the door, followed by a
portentous, splintering crack. Quivering with suspense, his mind fixed
with desperate intentness on a dim, tantalizing hope, the Phantom
continued to bend and twist the nail at all possible angles. He knew
that at any moment the door was likely to collapse, and then----
He uttered a hoarse cry of elation. Of a sudden, as he bent the nail in
a new direction, it gave a quick rebound, and in the same instant the
frame yielded to his steady pull, as if swinging on a hinge, revealing
an opening in the side of the uncommonly massive wall. For a moment his
discovery dazed him, then a terrific crash at the door caused him to
pull himself together, and in a moment he had squeezed his figure into
the aperture.
He drew a long breath and wiped the blinding, smarting perspiration from
his face. Thanks to an accidental scratch on the wrist, he had
discovered Sylvanus Gage's emergency exit. And none too soon, for
already, with a splitting crash, the door had collapsed under the
repeated onslaughts of the men outside, and several shadowy forms were
bursting headlong into the room.
The Phantom, wedged in the narrow opening, seized the side of the
revolving frame and drew it to. A little click signified that a spring
had caught it and was holding it in place. Excited voices, muffled by
the intervening obstruction, reached his ears. He smiled as he pictured
the consternation of the detectives upon discovering that once more the
Gray Phantom had lived up to his name and achieved another of the
amazing escapes that had made him feared and secretly admired by the
keenest sleuths in the country.
He had no fear that the police would follow him, for his discovery of
the secret exit had been partly accidental and partly due to the
accelerated nimbleness of mind that comes to one laboring under
tremendous pressure. To the police the nail on the top of the window
frame would be nothing but a nail. It is the hunted, not the hunter,
whose mind clutches at straws, and they would never guess that the nail
was a lever in disguise. The Phantom, as he contemplated the ingenious
arrangement, found his respect for the dead man's inventiveness rising
several notches.
From the other side of the wall came loud curses, mingling with dazed
exclamations, baffled shouts and expressions of incredulity. With a
laugh at the discomfiture of his pursuers, who but a few moments ago had
thought him inextricably trapped, the Phantom moved a little farther
into the opening. It appeared to be slanting slowly into the ground, and
it was so narrow that each wriggling and writhing movement bruised some
portion of his body. Inch by inch he worked his way downward, wondering
whither the passage might lead. Now the voices in the room were almost
beyond earshot, and he could hear nothing but a low, confused din.
Presently he felt solid ground at his feet, and at this point the
passage turned in a horizontal direction. There was a slight current of
dank air in the tunnel, suggesting that its opposite terminus might be a
cellar or other subterranean compartment. Limbs aching, he moved
forward, with slow twists and coilings of the body. He estimated that he
had already covered half a dozen yards, and he wondered how much farther
the passage might reach. One thing puzzled him as he writhed onward. Why
had Gage not made use of the secret exit on the night of the murder? Was
it, perhaps, because the murderer had come upon him so suddenly that he
had not had time to reach the hidden opening?
He dismissed the question as too speculative. A few more twists and
jerks, and he found himself in an open space where he could stand
upright and move about freely. For a few moments he fumbled around in
the inky darkness, finally encountering a stairway. He ascended as
quietly as he could, taking pains that the squeakings of the decaying
stairs should not disturb the occupants above. Reaching the top, he
listened intently while his hand searched for a doorknob. Slowly and
with infinite caution he pushed the door open. Again he stopped and
listened. The room was dark and still, and he could distinguish no
objects, yet his alert mind sensed a presence, and he felt a pair of
sharp eyes gazing at him through the shadows.
Then, out of the gloom and silence came a voice:
"Don't move!"
The words were a bit theatrical, but the voice caused him to start
sharply. A few paces ahead of him he saw a blurry shape. His hand darted
to his hip pocket; then he remembered that he had left his pistol in the
grip at his hotel, for when he started out he had not expected that his
enterprise would so soon take a critical turn.
"Hold up your hands," commanded the voice, and again an odd quiver shot
through the Phantom.
Nonchalantly he found his case and thrust a cigarette between his lips.
Then he struck a match, advanced a few paces, gazed sharply ahead as the
fluttering flame illuminated the scene, and came to a dead stop.
He was looking straight into the muzzle of a pistol, and directly behind
the bluishly gleaming barrel he saw the face of Helen Hardwick.