Slowly and with difficulty the intoxicated man straightened himself and
looked unsteadily at his companion. They were in a dark street and their
faces were indistinct.
"Shay," demanded the tipsy one, "thish ish my cab. Get out!"
"Now, Granger," replied the Phantom with a chuckle, "you surely don't
mind giving a fellow a lift? By the way, where do you think you are
going?"
"Home, but----"
"You forgot to tell the driver your address."
"Dam' the driver! He ought to know enough--hic--to take a fellow home
when he's soused. Where elsh would I be going? Huh?"
"But your address----"
"Dam' my address! It's nobody'sh business. I live where I please--see?
I'm drunk. I get drunk when--hic--whenever I feel like it. Know where to
get the sh-stuff, too. Alwaysh carry a bottle on my hip. Want a drink?"
"Never touch it. Thanks, just the same. What was the matter back at the
office? They were treating you rather roughly."
Granger seemed to recall a grievance. He made an effort to draw himself
up. "I inshulted the city editor and--hic--he told the watchman to
bounce me. I alwaysh inshult people when I'm soused. Did I ever inshult
you?"
"Not yet, Granger."
"Maybe I will shome day. Shay, tell the cabby to turn back. I wanta go
back to the offish and clean out that bunch of stiffs."
"Now, Granger----"
"Lemme go! I'll show 'em they can't treat me that way. Lemme go, I tell
you! Hey, cabby, reversh the current."
Granger sprang from the seat, lurched against the side of the cab, and
would have hurled himself against the pavement had not the Phantom
jerked him back. The drunken man lunged out with arms and legs, but he
subsided quickly as he felt something hard pressing against his chest.
"Cut out the nonsense!" The Phantom spoke firmly and incisively. "I have
you covered, and I won't stand for any foolishness."
The touch of steel against his ribs seemed to have a sobering effect on
Granger. For a few moments he stared sulkily at his companion, then he
settled himself against the cushion, and his mind appeared to be groping
its way out of stupefying fumes. The cab was pursuing a zigzagging route
through crooked and dimly lighted streets, the jehu having been
instructed to drive at random until he received further orders. The
Phantom's mind worked quickly while he pressed the pistol against his
captive's chest. A new problem confronted him. He had kidnaped his man,
but where was he to take him? The logical answer was Sea-Glimpse, but
the trip would consume too much time, to say nothing of the risks
involved. Doctor Bimble's house? The Phantom shook his head even as the
idea occurred to him. The anthropologist was too erratic a man to
inspire confidence, and the Phantom needed someone whom he could trust
absolutely.
Presently he felt Granger's eyes on his face. The cool night air,
together with the steady pressure of the pistol, was rapidly driving the
alcoholic vapors from the reporter's brain, and now he was subjecting
his captor to a blinking, unsteady scrutiny, as if he were just
beginning to suspect that something was amiss.
"Is this a pinch?" he asked, his tones still a trifle thick.
The Phantom laughed. "No, Granger. I'm not an officer. Besides, why
should I be pinching you?"
"For being drunk and disorderly and carrying a bottle on my hip."
"Those heinous crimes don't interest me. Anyhow, I understand
journalists are more or less privileged persons. I am merely taking you
to a safe place, where you won't go around insulting people and getting
your head smashed."
Granger fell into a moody silence, and the Phantom thought he detected
signs of a growing uneasiness about his captive. Evidently the period of
depression that follows artificial stimulation was already setting in.
Because of the darkness and his befuddled state of mind, the reporter
had not yet recognized the man at his side, but his gaze was taking on a
keener edge and would soon penetrate the thin disguise afforded by the
mustache. The Phantom felt the need of a quick decision.
A clock struck one. In scrupulous obedience to his orders the jehu was
urging his nag over the darkest and most dismal streets he could find.
The Phantom looked out, and a glance at a corner sign told him that they
were crossing Mott Street and were not far from the heart of old
Chinatown. A recollection flashed through his mind, and in its wake came
an idea.
"Stop," he called through the trap. The hansom jolted to the curb and
halted. The street was silent and the sidewalks, as far as eyes could
reach, were deserted. There was a thin, lazy drizzle in the air and the
atmosphere was a trifle heavy.
"Listen, Granger," he spoke sharply. "We are getting out here, but I
intend to keep you covered every instant. The slightest sound or the
least false move will cost you your life. Is that clear?"
The reporter's response was surly, but the Phantom knew that his warning
had had the effect he desired. Holding the pistol with one hand, he took
out his wallet with the other and selected a bill. Then he stepped down
on the curb, ordering the reporter to follow.
"Here, cabby." He extended the bill, which, with the other the Phantom
had previously given him, was surely enough to make the jehu forget any
little irregularity he might have observed. With a fervent "Thank you,
sir," he whipped up the scrawny nag and drove away.
"Now, Granger." The Phantom spoke in low but commanding tones. "My life
depends on the success of this little undertaking. I'll shoot you the
instant you show the least intention to spoil my plan. Understand?"
Granger nodded, seemingly convinced that he was dealing with a desperate
man and that, for the time at least, it behooved him to obey orders and
ask no questions. The Phantom wound his arm about the other's back,
firmly jabbing the muzzle of the pistol against the fellow's armpit,
thus giving the appearance of steadying a slightly incapacitated friend.
They approached the center of Chinatown, keeping in the shadows whenever
possible. Granger was sullenly silent, and he seemed to be hoping and
watching for a sign of relaxing vigilance on his captor's part. The
Phantom understood, and as they left the shelter of darkness and turned
the corner at Pell Street, he pressed the pistol a little harder against
the reporter's armpit.
A slumberous gloom hung over the district, as if the famous old quarter
were brooding over memories of a lurid past, when terror stalked in
subterranean crypts and strange scenes were enacted under cover of
Oriental splendor. There were a few stragglers in the streets and some
of the shops and restaurants were lighted; but, on the whole, the
section presented a dull and lifeless appearance. The Phantom scanned
the signs and numbers as he hurried along with his captive, keeping the
latter close to his side, and constantly on the alert against lurking
dangers.
Finally he stopped before one of the smaller establishments and, after
descending a few steps, knocked on the basement door. Signs painted
across the window in Chinese and English announced that the place was
occupied by Peng Yuen, dealer in Oriental goods. Once, years ago, while
the district was ripped and rocked by one of its frequent tong wars, the
Phantom had chanced to do Peng Yuen a great favor, and the Chinaman had
sworn undying gratitude and promised to show his appreciation in a
practical way if the opportunity should ever come. A strange friendship
had developed, and Peng Yuen, though wily and rascally in his dealings
with others, had impressed the Phantom as a man whom he could safely
trust.
The front of the store was dark, but through an open door in the rear
came a shaft of light. As he waited, the Phantom threw an uneasy glance
up and down the street. Luck had been with him so far, but the tension
was beginning to tell on his nerves.
A puny figure crossed the path of light, then the door opened a few
inches, and the two arrivals were given a keen, slant-eyed scrutiny. The
Phantom knew a little Chinese, and a few words spoken in that tongue had
a magic effect on the man inside. With a curious obeisance, he drew back
and motioned them to enter. The Phantom, pushing his quarry ahead of him
through the door, spoke a few more words in Chinese, and their host
pointed invitingly to the door in the rear.
The three entered, and Peng Yuen, arrayed in straw-colored garments
embroidered with black bats, shot the bolt. His face was as impassive as
that of the image of Kuan-Yin _pu tze_ which stood on a shelf over a
lacquered teak-wood cabinet, and he was so slight of stature that it
seemed as though a puff of wind would have blown him to the land of his
ancestors. The air in the little den was heavy with scents of the East.
The light, filtering through shades of green and rose, gave Granger his
first clear view of the Phantom's face. With a start he fell back a step
and stared at his captor out of gradually widening eyes. The last signs
of stupor fled from his face, and a startled cry rose in his throat as
the Phantom smilingly snatched the false mustache from his lips.
The Chinaman, standing with arms folded across his chest, viewed the
scene with supreme indifference. Granger slowly ran his hand across his
forehead, as if wondering whether his senses were playing him tricks.
His lips came apart, and a startled gleam appeared in his bleary,
heavy-lidded eyes.
"The--the Gray Phantom!" he muttered shakily, wetting his lips and
falling back another step.
The Phantom looked amused. "Just think what a scoop you've missed,
Granger." He turned to the Chinaman. "Peng, you old heathen, I guess you
know they are accusing me of murder?"
"So?" said Peng Yuen in his slow, precise English. "I did not know. I
never read the newspapers."
"Then, of course, you are not aware that the police are conducting a
lively search for me?"
"My friend," said the Chinaman, unimpressed, "I have told you that I do
not read the papers."
The Phantom searched the almond-shaped eyes for a sign of a twinkle, but
found none.
"Peng Yuen, you are lying like a gentleman. It grieves me to shatter
such beautiful ignorance, but it must be done. I did not commit the
murder of which I am accused. For reasons of my own I desire to find the
murderer and hand him over to the police. I am seriously handicapped by
the interest the authorities are taking in me, which makes it unsafe for
me to move a single step. I have thought of a ruse by which that
obstacle may be removed."
The Chinaman lifted his brows inquiringly.
"This gentleman," continued the Phantom, indicating the inebriate, "is
Mr. Thomas Granger, a reporter on the _Sphere_. As you may have noticed,
he looks something like me. The police, deceived by the resemblance,
took it into their heads to arrest him. He was able to give a
satisfactory account of himself, of course, and his finger prints
quickly convinced the authorities they had made a mistake. They are not
likely to make that kind of mistake a second time. You follow me, Peng
Yuen?"
The ghost of a grin flickered across the Chinaman's face. "Your words,
my friend, have their roots in eternal wisdom."
"Thanks for that kind thought, Peng Yuen. I knew you would see the
point. Granger has seen it, too, though his mind is not functioning with
its usual brilliance to-night. He has consented to disappear for a few
days and has agreed to let me borrow his identity in the meantime. As
the Gray Phantom I can scarcely move a step. In the role of Thomas
Granger, newspaper reporter, I shall be able to move about unmolested.
What, Granger--not backing out of the bargain, I hope?"
A seemingly careless gesture with the pistol, together with a warning
look, quickly silenced the protests on Granger's lips. After a few
moments of fidgeting and indecision, he accepted the situation with a
good-natured grin, as if its humorous side had appealed to him.
"Excellent!" drawled the Phantom. "I knew you would be reasonable. Now
we strip."
He handed the pistol to Peng Yuen, placed his metal case on the table,
and began to remove his clothes. Granger followed his example, and in a
few minutes the two had exchanged garments. The reporter was addicted to
vivid hues and extreme designs. At first the Phantom felt a trifle
uncomfortable in the strange garb, but he knew it was necessary to the
role he was assuming. He studied the reporter carefully while he took a
number of tubes and vials from his case. Granger was a younger man, his
eyes were of a slightly different hue from the Phantom's, and there were
other differences which were easily discernible to the keen eye.
The Phantom, viewing himself in a cheval glass, daubed a dark tint over
the gray at his temples. With an occasional backward glance at the
reporter, he dappled his cheeks with a faintly chromatic powder, traced
a tiny line on each side of the mouth, poured a little oil on his hair
and patted it till it lay smooth and sleek against his head, performing
each touch with such a delicate skill that, though the resemblance was
greatly enhanced, there was scarcely a suggestion of make-up.
"What do you think, Peng Yuen?" he inquired, turning from the cheval
glass.
A look of admiration came into the Chinaman's usually woodenlike face.
Even the voice was Granger's. The expression around the mouth and the
eyes and the characteristic set of the shoulders were adroitly imitated,
and already the Phantom had picked up several of the reporter's
mannerisms.
"It is good," murmured Peng Yuen, putting the maximum of approval into
the minimum of words.
The Phantom was beginning to show signs of restlessness. He glanced at
his watch, then fixed the Chinaman with a penetrating look.
"Peng Yuen," he said, "in the good old days there were hiding places on
these premises where people could disappear."
"It may be so." The Chinaman's face was expressionless. "I do not
recollect."
But even as he spoke, a touch of his fingers produced an opening in the
wall. The Phantom motioned, and with a shrug of the shoulders the
reporter stepped through the aperture. A moment later a sliding panel
had shut him from view.
"The Phantom has disappeared," mumbled the Chinaman. "Except when I
bring him food and drink, I will forget that he exists. Going so soon,
Mr. Granger?" The bogus journalist grinned as he gripped Peng Yuen's
thin, weazened hand. He squeezed it until the Chinaman winced, then
hurried out into the dark, dripping night, turning his steps in the
direction of the house on East Houston Street.