The Phantom feigned utter unconcern as he continued toward the corner.
His acute senses had instantly registered the fact that he was an object
of scrutiny. It vexed him not a little, for he was anxious to get on
Helen Hardwick's trail, and he had no relish for another adventure with
the police. He looked about him out of the tail of an eye as he advanced
with a leisurely swing.
It took him but a few moments to pick out the watcher from among the
sprinkling of loungers and pedestrians on the sidewalk. The man's dull
face and stolid expression did not deceive the Phantom for a moment. He
stood with his back against a shop window, and part of his face was
hidden by a newspaper he pretended to be reading. The Phantom walked up
beside him.
"You're a detective, aren't you?"
The man lowered the newspaper and gazed at the questioner out of
deceptively sluggish eyes.
"What makes you think so?"
The Phantom chuckled, though he knew he was treading on dangerous
ground. It was just possible that Granger, although he had not been long
in the city and therefore could not have an extensive police
acquaintance, had met this particular detective. A careful study of the
man's face reassured him, however.
"Oh, I spotted you easily enough," was his answer. "I suppose you have
heard of me. I am Thomas Granger, of the _Sphere_."
The other gave a slight nod. A faint grin creased his face. "I've heard
of you, all right. On the day you were pinched, they tell me, you had
the beautifulest jag on that's been seen in this town in many a day. Why
don't you put a fellow wise to your source of supply?"
"I may," with a knowing wink, "if you promise not to jug me again."
"Well, you needn't rub it in, Granger. You look a lot like the Gray
Phantom. If you didn't have those glad rags on, I wouldn't be able to
tell the difference. I never met the Phantom face to face, but judging
from his picture I should say you're as much alike as two peas. By the
way, my name is Culligore--Lieutenant Culligore."
The Phantom repressed a start. He had seen the name in the earlier
newspaper accounts of the murder and remembered that Culligore had been
one of the detectives assigned to the case. He wondered whether it were
possible that he and Granger had not met while the reporter was getting
the facts of the tragedy for his paper. The detective's face showed no
sign of suspicion, but the Phantom noticed that he had an odd habit of
rubbing his upper lip against the tip of his nose, and the little
mannerism impressed him as significant of deep and devious mental
processes.
"That reminds me!" he exclaimed suddenly, as if just recalling
something. "There's been a brand-new murder committed over at the Gage
house."
The detective lifted his brows.
"I was snooping around, hoping to find some new twist to the case,"
explained the Phantom. "In a storeroom on the second floor I found the
body of the housekeeper. She looked as though she had been dead a good
many hours. Pinto is lying on the stairs with a bump on the back of his
head, and he's handcuffed to a little shrimp that looks like a dope
fiend."
Lieutenant Culligore stared as he heard the strange report. "Been
drinking again?"
"Go and see for yourself."
Culligore at last showed signs of activity. "Better come along," he
suggested. "If you've been telling me the truth, there ought to be a
good story in it for you."
"I've seen enough. Going back to the office to write it up."
The two parted. As Culligore started to cross the street, he made a
curious motion with his hand, and the Phantom fancied he was signaling
someone on the other side. He walked briskly toward the elevated
station. Evidently Culligore had put a colleague on his trail, thereby
showing that he was not so unsuspecting as the Phantom had thought. He
ascended the stairs and walked out onto the platform without a single
backward glance, but his ears, trained to catch and classify the
slightest sounds, told him a pursuer was behind him.
The train, a southbound one, was crowded with passengers. The Phantom
selected a strap near the rear end of one of the cars. The many curious
glances leveled in his direction told him he was being recognized as the
newspaper reporter who had won fame by being mistaken for the Gray
Phantom and whose photograph had appeared side by side with that of the
notorious rogue. While ostensibly absorbed in an advertisement, he cast
a sidelong glance at the platform of the car just ahead. The brief
glimpse sufficed to identify his pursuer as a broad-shouldered
individual in a brown suit, whose rather commonplace features were
shaded by the brim of a derby.
The Phantom was in a quandary. He could accomplish nothing with a
"shadow" at his heels, and there was something maddening in the thought
that he was losing time while Helen Hardwick might be in danger. He
could probably elude his pursuer without much difficulty, but that would
be a confession that he had something to hide, and might possibly result
in his being picked up on a general alarm. He was safe behind the
personality of Thomas Granger only so long as he did not engage in
suspicious conduct.
An idea flashed in his mind as he caught a glimpse of the skyscrapers of
City Hall Park. He would take the bull by the horns, he decided. The
safest and surest way of averting suspicion from himself was to play his
borrowed role boldly and thoroughly. He would proceed at once to the
offices of the _Sphere_ and make a judiciously colored report of the
latest affair at the Gage house. It was a dangerous experiment, but the
Phantom believed he could carry it out. A bold play, a bit of clever
acting, and the usual accompaniment of good luck were all that was
necessary.
He was still conscious of pursuit as he alighted and turned in the
direction of the _Sphere_ Building. A glance at the bulletin board in
the rotunda showed him the location of the editorial rooms, and he
ascended in the elevator. The mirrors lining the walls of the cage threw
back at him a reflection showing signs of suspense, worry, and want of
sleep. His face was drawn and furrowed, and the usual luster of his eyes
was a trifle dimmed, but these symptoms might also be indications of
heavy drinking, and they enhanced his resemblance to Granger.
The building throbbed with the pulsations of presses. From above, like a
continuous rattle of shrapnel, came the din and clatter of the
linotypes. Faint odors of ink and whiffs from the sterotyping and
photo-engraving plants hung in the air.
The Phantom stepped out with a jaunty appearance, though inwardly he was
quailing a trifle. A sign on frosted glass told him which door to enter,
and a red-haired youth presiding at a desk in an anteroom grinned
broadly as he passed through. A dozen typewriters jabbered noisily in
the room beyond. As the Phantom walked in, a spectacled, shirt-sleeved
man seated at a desk near the entrance looked up and regarded him with
twinkling eyes.
"'Lo, Granger," was his good-humored greeting. "Understand 'Old War
Horse' tied a can to you last night."
"Did he?" asked the Phantom, guessing that the individual referred to
was the autocrat who had ordered Granger bounced. "It was a large night,
and I don't remember the minor details." He looked uncertainly about the
room, as if his vision was a trifle clouded. "Where is the old
fire-eater? Don't see him around."
"Of course, you don't." The spectacled man laughed. "Old War Horse is in
bed, where he belongs. I guess you haven't quite recovered your bearings
yet, or you'd know that Slossdick is on the day shift. I see him looking
this way, as if he had designs on you."
The Phantom trailed the spectacled man's glance to a glass-partioned
cubby-hole at the other end of the room, where a bald and sharp-nosed
man sat at a desk. He advanced airily, grinning in response to the
knowing winks and well-meant banter that followed him, and boldly
approached the scowling personage at the desk.
"Don't you know you're fired?" demanded Slossdick, jabbing at a page of
"copy" with his pencil.
"Am I?" inquired the Phantom innocently. He spoke with a little catch,
as if he had a slight cold, and he avoided the sunlight streaming in
through the window. "It hadn't occurred to me."
"No? Old War Horse had you kicked out, didn't he? You'd been insulting
him again, I understand." Slossdick's devastating pencil ripped an
entire paragraph out of the copy before him. "What's biting you this
morning?"
"Nothing," said the Phantom blandly. "Just thought you might like to
know that there's been another murder at the Gage house."
The slashings of Slossdick's pencil ceased abruptly. He swept the
Phantom's face with a quick, searching glance. Briefly the impostor told
as much as he thought prudent, describing the scene in the storeroom and
at the head of the stairs, without telling of his own part in the
night's events or of Pinto's mysterious conduct. He was not yet ready to
accuse the policeman openly, and for the present it suited his purpose
to leave the affair vague and mysterious.
There was a flicker of interest in Slossdick's eyes. "Housekeeper
murdered and policeman lying at the head of the stairs handcuffed to a
dope. Rattling good yarn, Granger. But"--and a look of doubt crept into
his face--"we've had nothing from the police on this."
"Good reason. The police didn't know of it till a few minutes ago. If
you hurry, you will beat the other papers to it."
Slossdick snatched up the telephone and called a department. "First page
make-over," he snapped when the connection had been established. Then,
turning to the Phantom: "Think you can see the typewriter keys this
morning?"
The Phantom quavered inwardly. Typewriting was not among his
accomplishments, and the entire proceeding was strange to him. He
hesitated, noticing that the rumble of the presses had already ceased.
"Well, never mind," grumbled Slossdick, his pencil already at work on an
eight-column caption. "Give the dope to Fessenden and let him write it.
Then go home and get some sleep. You look as if you needed it. And, for
the love of Mike, steer clear of the booze! Fessenden!"
In response to the explosive shout, a lanky and dyspeptic-looking man
appeared at the door to the cubby-hole. After receiving a few terse
directions from Slossdick, he led the Phantom to his desk and sat down
before his typewriter. He inserted a sheet of paper in the machine while
listening, and his fingers were racing over the keys even before the
Phantom had finished his recital.
"Bully yarn you've turned up," came his appreciative comment over the
clatter of the keys. "A peach!"
The Phantom walked away. The story would, of course, rouse another storm
of indignation against himself, but there was no help for that. On the
whole, he had bettered his chances and enhanced his temporary safety by
giving the _Sphere_ a start of twenty minutes or half an hour in its
race against competing newspapers.
His shadow was nowhere in sight as he emerged from the building. Either
the man's suspicions had been disarmed by the Phantom's move, or else he
had grown tired of waiting and dropped into a near-by restaurant for a
bite of food. Standing at the curb, the Phantom glanced stealthily to
right and left. There was no sign of espionage in either direction. At
last he was free to begin his search for Helen Hardwick, but the trail
seemed to have neither beginning nor end. In vain he searched his mind
for a starting point.
His hands were in his pockets, and presently his absently groping
fingers touched a piece of paper. He drew it out, starting as his eyes
fell on the ducal coronet.
"Guess I'll see Granger," he reflected. "I have a strong hunch he is my
starting point."