In vain the Phantom spurred his wits to find a way out, but the thought
that hurt him most was that he was helpless at a moment when Helen
Hardwick might be in danger.
What had happened to her? His imagination pictured one fearful
possibility after another. The one that seemed most likely was that the
Duke's agents, aware of the Phantom's interest in the girl, had lured
her into a trap. The Duke, thorough and artful in all things, could be
depended upon to miss no opportunity to make his revenge complete.
He tried to clear his mind of harrowing surmises. His situation was
desperate, and now as never before he needed to think coolly and act
quickly. At any moment Pinto might return, and the seconds were
precious. The thought that sustained him was that his wits had never yet
failed him in an emergency, and that always in the past he had contrived
to squeeze out of tight corners by performing some astounding feat.
Yet, was his dismal afterthought, he had never before faced a situation
quite like this. To escape with a lifeless form gyved to his hand was
out of the question. He looked swiftly about the room, but saw nothing
that suggested a means of deliverance. Even the pistol he had dropped
had been removed by the thoughtful Pinto. If he escaped, was his
conclusion, it would be only by a stroke of amazing luck.
Suddenly, as a new thought came to him, he thrust his free hand into his
inside breast pocket. His face brightened a little. Pinto had overlooked
something, after all. His case, with its assortment of carefully
selected tools, was still there. Evidently Pinto had not thought it
necessary to search his pockets. He took out the little box and ran his
eyes over the snugly packed implements, each of which had been prepared
with a definite purpose in view.
Quickly he tried several of his sharp-pointed tools in the locks of the
handcuffs, but the mechanism was proof against manipulation, and he soon
gave up the attempt. Next he picked out a small, fine-toothed saw, but
he realized he would only be wasting time if he tried to cut through the
chilled steel of which the links were made. It might be done if he had
hours at his command.
A step sounded in the hall. One more hope remained. From his case he
took a small capsule, pointed at one end and scarcely longer than a pin.
It contained a combustible powder, and the Phantom had carried it with
him for just such an emergency as this. Now he took one of Granger's
cigarettes from his pocket, inserted the capsule at one end, and put the
cigarette in his mouth. Then he returned the case to his pocket and,
just as the door came open, was making an elaborate pretense of hunting
for a match.
He looked up with an air of unconcern--and in the next instant the
cigarette dropped from his gaping lips. He had expected Pinto to walk in
with one or more of his colleagues, but instead he saw the dwarfish
creature who had handed him the paper bearing the Duke's emblem.
For a few moments the little man remained in the doorway, sweeping the
room with a quick, nervous glance, then closed the door and came
forward. Mechanically the Phantom restored the cigarette to his lips
while staring at the queer intruder. The electric light lent a yellow
tinge to his shriveled face--a face so gloomy and sour that it gave the
impression of never having been lit up by a grin. He drew a pistol from
his pocket as he approached the Phantom.
"Well, Granger, you sure got into a mess," he observed, speaking in a
wheezy, drawling voice.
"So it seems," agreed the Phantom, his mind working quickly. "Got a
match?"
The weazened individual handed him one, but the Phantom seemed in no
hurry to light his cigarette.
"I kinda thought you'd get yourself in bad, the way you carried on,"
continued the little man, gazing indifferently at the body. "Didn't you
savvy the note I slipped you?"
"It was plain enough."
"But you paid no more attention than if it had been an invitation to a
dog fight."
"I didn't think there was any great rush," said the Phantom cautiously.
"I thought to-morrow would be time enough."
"Time enough? He, he! Well, you're a queer one, Granger. Guess you don't
know the big chief the way I do. When he sends for you it means he wants
you right away. He's already kinda leery about you and-- But that's your
funeral. Hope for your sake you can square yourself with him. It's a
lucky thing I turned back and got on your trail after slipping you the
note."
The Phantom, wondering what had happened to the policeman, looked
uneasily at the door. "Where's Pinto?" he asked after a pause.
"The cop? Oh, I fixed him. Handed him one from the rear as he was
starting down the stairs, and he never knew what struck him. Just gave a
grunt and went down like a bag of cement. You see, I'd been standing at
the door trying to get the hang of the gabfest between you and him. I
couldn't hear much--only a word now and then--but when the door opens
and the cop walks out I know there's trouble, and so I hand him one on
the bean. Say, how much is that cop wise to?"
"Eh?" The Phantom stared for an instant, uncertain how he should play
his role, but he quickly grasped the threads of the situation. "Oh,
Pinto is away off on his hunches. Hasn't the least idea I'm one of your
gang, but thinks I am dragging a red herring across the Phantom's trail.
Rich--what?"
The other chuckled mirthlessly. "I'll say it is. Well, the cop won't do
any talking for quite a long stretch, and when he comes to things will
be kind of hazy in his coco. You'd better come along with me and make
your spiel to the big chief. You'll have to do some tall explaining,
and, unless you can square yourself, you may wish the cop had got you."
There was an ugly smirk on the man's lips and he spoke the last words as
if gloating over the ordeal in store for the other.
The Phantom shrugged his shoulders. "I can explain things to the big
chief. What worries me is the bracelet on my wrist!"
"I'll get the key out of the cop's pocket," announced the little man.
The Phantom gazed after him as he left the room. A little while ago he
had told himself that only a stroke of magic could save him, and the
weazened creature's appearance at the crucial moment seemed almost
miraculous. Yet he looked a trifle dubious.
"I'm coming out of the fire," he mumbled, "but I haven't the least idea
what the frying pan will be like. The little rat may be hard to shake,
and Pinto will spoil my alibi as soon as he comes out of oblivion."
The small man returned and tossed a metallic object at the Phantom's
feet, then stood aside, with pistol leveled, while the handcuffs were
being unlocked. His sharp eyes followed every move the Phantom made, but
evidently there was not the faintest suspicion in his mind as to the
identity of the man with whom he was dealing. In all likelihood he knew
Granger but slightly and had never seen much of him.
"There!" exclaimed the Phantom as the link around his wrist parted.
"Pinto will be the most surprised cop in creation when he walks in here
and finds the bird flown. I'm dying for a smoke."
He rose to his feet and struck the match, glancing narrowly at the other
as he lighted his cigarette. There was a look of habitual alertness in
the little man's glittering eyes, and the pistol in his hand more than
equalized his physical disadvantage.
"Look here, Granger," he said in harsh, wheezy tones, "I don't quite
know how to size you up, but you and the chief are going to have a chat
directly. I'm putting my gat inside my pocket--like this. I'll have my
finger on the trigger all the time, so you'd better watch your step.
We're off."
He motioned the Phantom to start. With a hard pull on his cigarette, the
Phantom drew in all the smoke his mouth could hold, strolled forward
with an easy swagger, and, turning abruptly on the little man, blew a
cloud of smoke into his face.
The victim gasped, spluttered, and choked, then was seized with an
attack of sneezing that racked his sides and convulsed his entire body.
Spasm after spasm shook the puny figure until the little man was quite
exhausted. Covering his nose and mouth, the Phantom stepped behind him
and snatched the pistol from his pocket.
"The sneezing powder worked even better than the last time I tried it,"
he observed with a chuckle.
"Ker-choooo!" was the other's explosive comment. "Ker-chooooo!"
Slowly the acrid fumes drifted toward the ceiling. The little man, with
tears streaming from his red-lidded eyes, lurched toward one of the rows
of packing cases and leaned against it. The smoke was scattering, but
repeated fits of sneezing were still jolting his frame.
The Phantom smothered the cigarette under his heel. A simple trick had
turned the situation in his favor, but now he faced another problem. How
to dispose of the little man and Pinto was a poser. The former did not
worry him, for he had bungled his job miserably, and silence and
discretion were highly esteemed virtues in the Duke's organization.
It was different with Pinto. The policeman had seen through the
Phantom's disguise. Immediately upon recovering consciousness he would
report that the Phantom was masquerading as Thomas Granger, and that
would be the end of the ruse. The personality he had borrowed would no
longer protect the Phantom, and he would once more be a hunted man and
obliged to watch his step at every turn.
On the other hand, it was just possible Pinto would not tell what he had
discovered. The policeman had a bad conscience, and that in itself made
a difference. Besides, the Phantom had twice slipped out of his hands
and he had achieved nothing whereof he could boast. His pride and his
conscience, each a powerful factor, would be very likely to seal his
lips.
Suddenly he smiled. To make doubly sure, he would provide Pinto with a
third motive for maintaining silence. Without doubt the policeman shared
the average man's fear of ridicule, and the Phantom could work on that.
The sneezings had ceased. The victim, looking as though every ounce of
strength had been drained from him, peered vacantly at the Phantom while
the latter removed the second link from the dead woman's hand. Exhausted
by the sneezing fits and deprived of his weapon, he was as helpless as a
snake stripped of its poisonous glands.
"Put your hands behind you," directed the Phantom.
The little man made as if inclined to resist, but thought better of it
and obediently put his hands at his back. He uttered a feeble yawp as
one of the links was clasped about his wrist. With the other in his
hand, the Phantom led him from the room and turned toward the stairs. A
dark, inert heap lay at the head of the stairway, with legs sprawling
over the steps. It was Pinto.
"Sit down," ordered the Phantom.
The puny man looked about him dazedly, then sat down on the top step,
uttering a weak protest as he found himself handcuffed to the
unconscious man.
The Phantom examined Pinto's head. A large swelling at the back told
that the little man had put far more force behind the blow than one
would have thought it possible for such a dwarfish creature to exert.
The pulse was weak and fluttering, and the eyes had a rigid and glassy
look. The Phantom had known of similar cases in which the victims had
remained unconscious for days, and many things might happen before
Pinto's mind and tongue were functioning again. Upon awakening and being
told that he had been found handcuffed to a rat of the underworld, the
policeman, already troubled by an evil conscience and wounded
self-respect, would hardly invite the taunts and jeers of his fellow
officers by going into exact details. At any rate, the Phantom felt he
was playing his best card.
"Say, Granger," whined the little man, "ain't going to leave me like
this, are you? Not after I got you out of the fix you were in?"
"It is a bit rough on you, I admit, but you will have to make the best
of it. Your reasons for getting me out of the scrape weren't entirely
unselfish. I believe it was your intention to put me on the carpet
before the big chief."
The other jerked his head in the direction of the storeroom. "They'll
say I croaked that woman in there," he muttered.
"Not a chance. Examination of the body will show that the murder was
committed more than twenty-four hours ago. What they probably will think
is that Pinto caught you in the act of robbery and that you assaulted
him after he had handcuffed you to him. One guess will be about as good
as another, though, and you will have to lie yourself out of the mess
somehow. I wish you luck."
He started down the stairs, but in the middle he stopped and looked
back. What if Pinto should never recover consciousness? If he should die
before the two murder mysteries were fully cleared up, the Phantom's
efforts to exculpate himself would encounter a serious hindrance. But
nothing was to be gained by worrying over what might happen, he told
himself, and just now he had something far more serious to think about.
His fears concerning Helen overshadowed all other things.
He went out onto the street. The morning was far advanced and the sun
was struggling through a curtain of scattering clouds. The glaring
headlines of the morning papers spread out on the news stands at the
corner told how the Phantom, after having been seen at an elevated
railway station the night before, had once more slipped through the
dragnet. After a brief glance at the introductory paragraphs, he crossed
the street and entered the telephone booth in the rear of a drug store.
There he consulted the directory and called the number of the Hardwick
residence.
A woman, evidently a servant, answered. The Phantom announced that he
was a reporter on the _Sphere_ and wished to speak with the master of
the house. After a few moments' wait a masculine voice came over the
wire. It trembled a little, as if its owner was trying to control an
intense excitement. Mr. Hardwick was at first unwilling to discuss the
matter, but after repeated urgings admitted that he had requested the
police to search for his daughter, who had been missing for two days.
She had left home without explanations of any kind, and nothing had been
heard from her since. As it was entirely unlike her to go away for any
length of time without notifying her father, Mr. Hardwick feared
something had happened to her.
The Phantom's face had a blank look as he emerged from the booth. He
remembered Miss Hardwick's sudden and mysterious disappearance from
Doctor Bimble's laboratory. Something must have befallen her after
leaving the scientist's house, and the fact that she had not
communicated with her father was disquieting.
He went out on the sidewalk and turned toward the corner. Of a sudden he
was all caution and alertness. Someone was watching him.