For a time the little group in the laboratory stood as if turned into
inanimate shapes, their senses under the spell of the hoarse shouts in
the street. The Phantom felt a curious churning in his head. The
anthropologist was still smiling, but the smile was gradually growing
thin and hard. Helen fixed the Phantom with a stony look.
"It appears a mistake of some kind has been made," muttered the doctor
at length. "It was a fortunate one for you, my friends, for the officers
were becoming quite insistent. Luckily the cries diverted their
attention from the closet, and they went away apologizing after
telephoning headquarters and verifying the report."
The Phantom, still feeling Helen's gaze on his face, pocketed the pistol
he had been holding. The newsboys' cries had given him a jolt that left
him a little dazed and caused his mind to turn to trivial things. He
found himself admiring Helen's simple little hat and plain but tasteful
dress, noticing that they seemed as much a part of her as her hair and
her complexion. He saw that she tried to be brave despite a crushing
disaster to her illusions, and somehow he felt sorry for her.
Doctor Bimble turned on him with a frown.
"Sir," he demanded, "are you the Gray Phantom or merely a clumsy
impostor?"
The question seemed so ludicrous that the Phantom could only chuckle.
"It has long been my desire to meet the Gray Phantom," pursued the
doctor, still scowling darkly. "I should dislike to think I have been
imposed upon. But that can't be, unless"--with another suspicious
look--"you are acting as a foil for the Phantom. Well, we shall see
presently, I suppose. In the meantime, you may consider yourself at home
under my roof."
Without knowing why, the Phantom hesitated before accepting the
invitation. To take advantage of the doctor's hospitality was clearly
the proper thing to do. In a little while the police would learn they
had blundered, and then the man hunt would be resumed with redoubled
vigor. To venture forth on the streets after that would be little short
of madness. The Phantom, conquering his misgivings--which, after all,
were nothing more than a vague doubt in regard to the doctor--murmured
his appreciation.
Bimble's manservant, a lanky, thin-faced individual with a gloomy
expression and wary eye, entered with a copy of the extras. The Phantom
gave him a quick and keenly searching glance, and again he felt
strangely bewildered. The man looked innocent enough, and it was nothing
but an intangible something in his gait and his manner of carrying
himself that caused the Phantom to look twice.
Doctor Bimble took the damp sheet, still redolent of ink, and read aloud
the triple-leaded article under the scare head. During the perusal Helen
regarded him with strange, expressionless eyes, while now and then the
servant shot the Phantom a stealthy glance which the latter found hard
to interpret.
Evidently the extra had been hurriedly prepared, for the article
contained only a few pithy facts. It seemed that the Phantom, with an
audacity and a recklessness characteristic of him, had for some
unaccountable purpose visited the East Houston Street establishment in
which the murder of Sylvanus Gage had been perpetrated. Wearing no other
disguise than a black beard, which he had evidently grown since his last
appearance in public, he had approached the housekeeper, introduced
himself as Mr. Adair, of Boston, a criminal investigator, and requested
to inspect the scene of the murder. The unsuspecting housekeeper had
admitted him, little guessing that her visitor was one of the most
celebrated criminals of the age.
The Gray Phantom had been in the room only a few minutes when Officer
Joshua Pinto appeared on the scene. With laudable perspicacity the
officer recognized the Phantom almost immediately, despite the
disguising beard, and by clever maneuvering managed to lock him in the
room, standing guard outside the door while the housekeeper telephoned
headquarters. In a few moments an impenetrable cordon had been thrown
around the house, and the capture of the Phantom seemed an absolute
certainty. Yet, when the door was battered down, the astonished officers
saw that the room was empty and that the notorious rogue had achieved
another of his miraculous escapes.
Apparently, so the article stated, the Phantom had accomplished the
impossible, but then the Phantom's entire career had been a series of
incredible accomplishments. How he had managed to leave the room and
elude the cordon of police would probably remain a mystery forever
unless the criminal himself should divulge the secret. His capture,
which had taken place while the police were making a systematic search
of the houses in the block, had been due to one of the strange
aberrations which seize even the astutest criminals. A brawl had
occurred in a "blind pig" in Bleecker Street, and the commotion had
attracted the attention of a passing sergeant. After sending in a hurry
call for help the sergeant had raided the place, and among the prisoners
taken was one who was almost instantly recognized as the Gray Phantom.
The identification was rendered all the easier by the fact that he had
removed his beard after making his sensational escape from the East
Houston Street establishment. The belief was expressed that the prisoner
would be induced to make a statement as soon as he had recovered from
the effects of the raw whiskey he had consumed in the dive, presumably
in celebration of his latest coup.
"Rot!" ejaculated the doctor, throwing the paper down with a gesture of
disgust. "A fool would know that a man of the Gray Phantom's
temperament, whatever other folly he might commit, would not get
intoxicated at a critical moment like this. This proves--But what's
become of Miss Hardwick?"
The Phantom looked up with a start. The girl was gone. Evidently she had
taken advantage of the other's absorption in the newspaper article to
slip out unnoticed. Jerome, a crestfallen look on his long face, hastily
left the laboratory, returning in a few moments with the report that
Miss Hardwick was nowhere in sight. The Phantom imagined that there was
an expression of sharp reproach in the doctor's eyes as they rested on
the servant, but the impression was fleeting.
"The young lady has probably gone home," ventured the anthropologist.
"She must have been tired, and in a measure her task was accomplished.
The question is, can you rely on her not to communicate what she knows
to the police?"
The Phantom looked a trifle doubtful. He had perceived that the impulses
of her heart had been swamped by logic. It was possible she had gone
away hating him, firmly convinced he was a murderer, and in that event
her sense of duty might easily overcome everything else.
"Frankly, I don't know," he declared. "At any rate, I am about as safe
here as anywhere for the present. I should like a bath, if I may presume
on your hospitality."
"By all means. And as soon as you have rested a bit we shall dine. Dear
me, it is almost nine o'clock! Jerome!"
He instructed the servant, and the Phantom followed the silent and
soft-footed man to the bathroom. As he splashed about in the tub, he
tried to forget the bitter ache which Helen's words had left in his
heart. Her frigid attitude and her abrupt going away had merely
strengthened his determination to convince her of his innocence. He saw
that he must act quickly and take advantage of the comparative security
which he could enjoy until the police discovered that they had arrested
the wrong man.
His mind was at work on a plan while he hurried into his clothes, which
Jerome had brushed and pressed while he was in the tub. A question that
troubled him greatly was how far he could safely take Bimble into his
confidence. The sharp-witted anthropologist, with his keen insight into
human nature, would prove a valuable ally, but the Phantom felt a great
deal of mystification in his presence. There was something about the man
which his senses could not quite grasp. Likely as not, it was only the
scientific temperament, which gave him an appearance of secretiveness
and dissimulation, but of this the Phantom could not be sure.
The dinner, which he ate in the doctor's company, was excellent, and
Jerome served them in a faultless manner, proving that the
anthropologist's devotion to his science had not blunted his taste for
physical comforts. The host discoursed learnedly and brilliantly on
Lucchini's theory in regard to the responsibility of the criminal, and
it was not until the servant had withdrawn and they had reached their
coffee and cigars that he mentioned the subject on the Phantom's mind.
The dining room, furnished with an approach to elegance that one would
scarcely have expected to find on such a shabby street, was lighted by a
heavily shaded electrolier. The lights and shadows playing across
Bimble's face as he gesticulated with his head gave him an added touch
of mystery and accentuated the general air of inscrutability that
hovered about his person. He broached the subject of Gage's death while
lighting his cigar.
"Come now, Vanardy, let us be confidential. It was you who murdered
Gage. Why deny it?"
Smiling faintly, the Phantom shook his head.
Bimble regarded him curiously. "The only thing about the crime that
interests me is your denial. But I think I understand. In some criminals
there is an aesthetic sense which revolts against the vulgar and sordid.
Having, on the impulse of the moment, committed a sordid crime, your
aesthetic sense reasserts itself, and you want to forget the ugly affair
as quickly as possible. Am I right?"
The Phantom laughed. "You clothe the thing in such attractive phrasing
that I almost wish I could plead guilty. But I didn't kill Gage, and
that's all there is to it."
"You still insist that Pinto did?"
"Until two or three hours ago I was firmly convinced of it."
"Ah! Now we are getting down to facts. Until two or three hours ago you
were certain Pinto was the murderer. Why?"
"Because at the time I felt sure that no one else could have committed
the crime. The mysterious circumstances could be explained in no other
way than on the assumption that Pinto was the perpetrator."
"Exactly. Your logic was not at all bad. But I infer that within the
last three hours you have changed your mind."
"Not quite; I have merely modified my opinion. I am no longer positively
certain that Pinto committed the murder."
"Why?" A shrewd grin twisted the anthropologist's lips. "What has caused
you to modify your view--the tunnel?"
"Yes, the tunnel. The existence of the tunnel makes it possible for
someone other than Pinto to have committed the murder. It suggests
another hypothesis, in the light of which all the circumstances are
explainable. Without the tunnel I should be morally certain of Pinto's
guilt; with it in existence I am no longer sure."
"Bravo, my friend! You are doing very well for an amateur detective.
Your idea is that the murderer entered Gage's bedchamber by way of the
tunnel and took his departure the same way. Do you know," with a broad
grin, "that I thoroughly agree with you? The only point of difference
between us is the identity of the human mole."
The Phantom's face darkened a trifle. "I advanced the idea only as a
hypothesis," he declared a little testily, "and as yet I am not at all
sure that it has any value. For instance, in order to reach Gage's
bedroom by way of the tunnel, the murderer had to go through your house
and get down in the cellar."
"Which could easily be done. Both Jerome and myself are sound sleepers
and the house has no burglar protection."
"But that isn't all. After traversing the tunnel, the murderer had to
enter the bedroom. In order to do so he had to work the mechanism which
controls the revolving window frame. From the inside of the chamber it
is worked by the nail. Can it be manipulated from the outside as well?"
"Dear me!" exclaimed the doctor, almost jumping out of the chair. "I
never thought of that."
The Phantom eyed him keenly, though he seemed wholly absorbed in
contemplation of the salt shaker. The exclamation, he thought, had not
sounded quite natural.
"You invented the contraption," he pointed out. "Surely you ought to
know whether the mechanism can be worked by a man approaching the room
by way of the tunnel."
"So I thought. An inventor ought to know the children of his brain." He
gave a forced chuckle, as if fencing for time in which to frame an
answer. "The fact of the matter is that the contrivance was intended to
be an emergency exit and nothing else. The spring by which the mechanism
is operated can't be reached by a man approaching the room by way of the
tunnel. But that," with a grin which wrinkled his whole face, "does not
exclude the possibility of a man getting through by the use of force.
For instance, the frame could be budged by prying."
"Perhaps. As matters stand, the whole question hinges on whether the
room can be entered from the tunnel. If it can't, then it is certain
that Pinto committed the murder. If it can, there is a possibility that
someone else did it, though the preponderance of evidence still points
in Pinto's direction, for it is extremely unlikely that the murderer was
aware of the existence of the tunnel. However----"
He checked himself, deciding to let the thought remain unspoken. The
anthropologist, having recovered from his temporary embarrassment, gave
a hearty laugh.
"You are incorrigible, my friend. You are willing to admit almost any
theory but the plain and obvious one, which is that the Gray Phantom
committed the murder. Reminds me of Pinel's excellent treatise on the
psychology of the criminal. But you must be tired. Please excuse me
while I make a telephone call."
The Phantom regarded him narrowly as he trundled from the room and
closed the door behind him. The doctor intrigued and baffled him. He was
almost certain that Bimble had been guilty of equivocation in regard to
the tunnel and the revolving frame. On the other hand, this and other
peculiarities might be due to an erratic temperament. His stubborn
insistence on the Phantom's guilt could be the result of mental laziness
and a disinclination to exert himself over a case which did not interest
him. Yet, after making all due allowances, the Phantom could not feel
wholly at ease.
The doctor, smiling placidly and without a sign of guile in his face,
interrupted his reflections.
"I've just had my friend Inspector Wadhane on the wire," he announced.
"It has been decided to let the prisoner sleep off the effects of his
debauch. He will not be questioned until along toward morning. So, my
friend, you can sleep in peace. Shall I show you to your room?"
The Phantom, blinking his eyes drowsily, expressed a desire to retire at
once. Doctor Bimble conducted him to a pleasant bedroom with two large
windows facing the street, saw that everything was in order, and wished
his guest a hearty good night. Even before he was out of the room the
Phantom had started to remove his clothes.
Yet, no sooner had the door closed than he hurried back into the
garments. Though only a few moments ago he had showed signs of great
drowsiness, he was now fully awake, and his springy motions and the
twinkle in his eyes hinted that sleep was farthest from his mind.