"How is your guest, Peng Yuen?" was the Phantom's first question after
entering the shop on Pell Street.
The Chinaman's eyes widened. "The guest? Ah, yes, I remember. I think
the gentleman is well."
"Has he telephoned anyone, or sent out any messages?"
"No; he has remained in his room all the time. He asked me this
morning for something to read, and I gave him a translation of
'Chin-Kong-Ching.'"
"Good. I have come to have a talk with him."
"Very well." The slight figure, arrayed in loose-fitting, straw-colored
garments, stepped to the wall with the softly gliding gait
characteristic of his race. He pressed a button, and the Phantom passed
through an opening which instantly closed behind him.
Granger, lying on a couch, looked up drowsily. The little room had
neither windows nor visible door. Air was wafted in through a mysterious
recess in a corner of the ceiling, and a shaded lamp shed a greenish
light over the scene. The walls were covered with yellow satin
embroidered with quotations from Chinese philosophers. On a table
standing near the couch were the remnants of a breakfast.
"Fairly comfortable, I see." The Phantom sat down. His glance, though
seemingly casual, was taking in every detail of the reporter's
appearance, "How are you feeling?"
"Rotten!" Granger rubbed his eyes and scowled disgustedly. "I asked the
chink for something to drink, and he brought me a mess that tasted like
vinegar and molasses. Then I dropped a hint that I would like some
reading matter, and he handed me a book that put me to sleep before I
had turned the first page. Say, how much longer are you going to sport
my clothes and wear my name?"
"No longer than I have to. Your name suits me well enough, but our
tastes in clothes differ."
Granger grinned. He was comfortably stretched out on his back and his
eyes were lazily studying the arabesques in the ceiling.
"Anyhow, my clothes are harmless. That's more than can be said for my
name. On the square, I am surprised to see you this morning."
"Why so?"
There was a twinkle in the reporter's eyes as he turned them on the
Phantom. "Because you went in for a lot of trouble when you annexed my
identity. I was pickled last night, and you took my breath away when you
yanked off the mustache. Till then I hadn't had the faintest idea that
my abductor was the Gray Phantom. If I hadn't been so flabbergasted I
might have given you a friendly tip."
"A tip?"
"To the effect that Tommie Granger was a marked man. I'll tell you
something interesting if you promise not to fall out of the chair. I am
a member of the Duke's gang."
The Phantom's brows went up. For several hours he had been aware of
Granger's membership in the criminal organization, but the glib
admission surprised him. He had intended to pull the Duke's
communication out of his pocket with a dramatic gesture and startle a
confession out of the reporter and he was wholly unprepared for the
latter's frank and voluntary avowal.
"Surprised you, didn't it?" Granger chuckled as if mildly amused. "I can
hardly get used to the idea myself. Membership in that gang of
cutthroats and grafters is nothing to be proud of, exactly. I've always
had a sneaking admiration for the Gray Phantom, but the Duke's
different. He's smooth and artful enough, but he's made of coarser
stuff."
"Yet you are a member of his organization?"
"Sounds contradictory, doesn't it? Well, since I have told you the
beginning, I'll have to tell you the rest. The cause of it all dates
back to my birth. I came into the world with the face I'm wearing
to-day, though it's undergone a process of beautification in the
intervening years. You see, my face is the mainspring that has
determined most of my actions in recent years--some of the more
important ones, anyhow. I wouldn't be a newspaper man to-day if I had
been born with a different face."
"I don't see the connection."
"Let me tell you how it came about. On seven different occasions, and in
as many different places, I have been mistaken for the Gray Phantom and
put in durance vile. The clippings in my scrapbook tell all about it. I
was in Cheyenne, Wyoming, the first time it happened, and after I had
satisfied the police dunderheads as to my identity, the editor of one of
the local papers asked me to write up my impressions while in jail and
tell how it felt to be mistaken for a celebrity like the Gray Phantom. I
did, and that gave me a taste for newspaper work. The editor gave me a
job on the spot and I've----"
"But what has all this to do with your membership in the Duke's gang?"
interrupted the Phantom impatiently.
"Everything. I've been plugging away at the newspaper game ever since I
got my start in Cheyenne. I never stayed long in a place, for I have
something of a roving disposition and like change of scenery now and
then. My face got me in bad almost wherever I went. I had no sooner
struck a new town than some ambitious dick thought he saw a chance to
get famous by pinching the Gray Phantom. Of course, that always meant a
stretch in the lock-up--anything from two days to a week. I used to lie
awake nights imagining that I was in reality the Gray Phantom and
dreaming of great criminal exploits. That got me interested in crime and
criminals, and I began making a study of the subject.
"Finally, I drifted into New York and landed on the _Sphere_. One night
while prowling about the Chatham Square section I dropped into a Turkish
coffee house. It was a low joint, a hangout for thugs and thieves. While
sipping my coffee I made a study of the different types around me. One
fellow interested me in particular. He was an evil-looking cuss, but
there was something about him that fascinated me. He looked something
like a Stevensonian pirate, and he had a great scar over his left eye.
Presently I began to notice that he was looking my way now and then, and
finally I motioned to him to come and sit beside me. We talked in
whispers, like everybody else in the joint, and by and by he asked me if
I was not the Gray Phantom.
"He seemed disappointed when I told him I was only the Phantom's double.
We talked on for a while, and the next night we met again in the same
place. The fellow piqued my curiosity, and I tried to draw him out
whenever I had a chance. I knew he would shut up like a clam if I told
him my profession, so I let him think I was a crook, though I didn't go
into details. We met night after night, and each time we were more
confidential. I could tell he had something on his mind that he didn't
know just how to put into words, and of course, I did my best to lead
him on. He approached the subject by slow and easy stages, dropping a
cautious hint now and then. Finally, when he had convinced himself that
I was to be trusted, he told me he belonged to a big criminal band and
asked me if I would like to join."
"So that's how you happened to become a member of the Duke's
organization?" observed the Phantom.
"To cut a long story short, that was the way it happened. I thought I
could work the salamander stunt--play with fire without getting burned.
The idea of getting on the inside of a big gang of crooks and studying
its members at close quarters appealed to me. Aside from that, I saw a
chance to turn up a big story for my paper, for it was my intention to
get the goods on the gang and, eventually, hand it over to the police.
But"--and a rueful smile wrinkled Granger's face--"I soon discovered
that one can't play with fire without getting scorched."
"That explains," mumbled the Phantom thoughtfully, at the same time
extending the communication handed him by the Duke's messenger. "There's
a message worked into the design which is readable only under the lens.
It's a pleasant reminder of what happens to traitors."
"Yes. I know. I received several such reminders before you came along
and borrowed my clothes and name. I wasn't really a traitor, though. I
merely refused to obey certain orders they gave me."
"You might have known that you would be expected to take part in the
gang's activities. You didn't expect to be a member only in name?"
"Well, I thought I could stall for a while, till I got the dope I
wanted. You see, I was hoping they wouldn't ask me to do any of the
rough stuff till I had been a member for a while. I soon discovered my
mistake."
"And so the big story will never materialize?"
"I'm afraid it won't. My obituary is the only kind of story that's
likely to grow out of this adventure of mine. The Duke's crew doesn't
stand for any nonsense. I've been told that members who don't obey
orders usually disappear under mysterious circumstances. I never got
next to the inner circle of the gang. I suppose they didn't trust me
because I took a drink too many now and then. Anyhow, I didn't get the
stuff I was after. I was a sort of probationer, reporting to one of the
big chief's lieutenants, and I didn't get as much as a glimpse of the
inner sanctum."
"Too bad, Granger." The disappointment written on the reporter's face
seemed so ludicrous that the Phantom could not repress a smile. "Maybe
it isn't too late yet. By the way," starting suddenly from his chair,
"have you any idea where Helen Hardwick is?"
For a moment or two the reporter lay rigid on his back; then he jumped
up and stared in dumfounded amazement at the Phantom.
"Why do you ask?" he inquired hoarsely, after a pause during which each
man looked the other straight in the eye.
"Answer my question and I'll tell you my reason for asking it."
Granger swallowed hard. "Has anything happened to Miss Hardwick?"
"She has disappeared. Left her home two days ago and hasn't been heard
from since. Her father has asked the police to search for her."
"Good Lord!" Granger groaned. "This is awful!"
The Phantom gripped his arm. "Tell me what you know," he commanded.
"Your looks show that you are not entirely ignorant of the matter."
The reporter's face twitched. "I can guess what's happened to her," he
declared, speaking in thick accents, "but I haven't the least idea where
she is."
"Well, what do you think has happened to her?"
"She's been kid--kidnaped." As if to steady his nerves, Granger picked
up a cigarette and lighted it.
"How do you know that?"
"Because I"--Granger drew in a whiff of smoke--"because I know the
Duke's crowd wanted her abducted. They asked me to do it, and I balked.
I couldn't--well, it simply went against the grain to do a thing like
that. It was my refusal to do as they told me that got me in bad with
the gang."
The Phantom's blood was slowly receding from his face. For a moment he
sat rigid, lips tightly compressed, as if stunned. "Why did the Duke's
crowd want Miss Hardwick kidnaped?"
"That I can't tell you. The leaders simply issue orders; they never
explain their motives. I haven't the faintest idea what their reason for
abducting Miss Hardwick could be."
Silence fell between them. The Phantom's steely gaze continued to search
the other's face. Though evidently shocked by the news of Miss
Hardwick's disappearance, the reporter did not once lower his eyes.
"They must have got somebody else to do it after I refused," he
muttered, slowly getting a grip on himself. "Wish I had a drink."
The Phantom was hardly listening. His knitted brows told that his mind
was struggling with a problem.
"Know an officer named Pinto?" he asked abruptly.
"I think I've heard of him."
The Phantom gave a brief summary of his adventures since arriving in the
city. Granger listened attentively, his eyes expressing a mingling of
astonishment and admiration. They opened wide as the narrator described
the scene in the storeroom and Pinto's peculiar behavior, and he
chuckled appreciatively at the account of the impostor's visit to the
_Sphere_ office.
"That's the Phantom all over!" he remarked when the story was finished.
"It's the nerviest thing I ever heard of. But what you have told me only
puts a few extra kinks in the mystery."
The Phantom nodded thoughtfully. "How well do you know Miss Hardwick?"
"Scarcely at all. I have never met her. She called me up at the _Sphere_
office the day after the murder and asked me a lot of questions. I
referred her to Doctor Bimble."
"So she told me."
"Bimble is a nut, but he has done several brilliant things along lines
of criminology. I was busy the day Miss Hardwick called me up, and I got
a little jolt when she told me her name. The thing was natural enough,
of course, but it seemed a bit weird to be talking to the person I had
been asked to kidnap. Well, I thought the easiest way to dispose of her
was to suggest that she see Bimble."
The Phantom looked puzzled. "You never saw Miss Hardwick, and you have
talked with her only over the telephone," he murmured. "That being the
case, I wonder why Pinto asked me, while we were in the storeroom this
morning, if I knew what had become of Miss Hardwick."
"Rumor has it that a romantic attachment exists between Miss Hardwick
and the Gray Phantom. Pinto must have heard something about it."
"But at the time he put the question he had not the faintest idea that I
was the Gray Phantom. He still thought I was Thomas Granger. It was my
way of responding to the question that aroused his suspicions. Now, he
must have had some reason for supposing that Thomas Granger knew
something of what had happened to Miss Hardwick."
Granger considered. "Miss Hardwick may have told him about consulting
me. But I think it just as likely that Pinto was playing a bit of clever
strategy--that he had already suspected your identity and sprung that
question about Miss Hardwick in the hope that you would betray
yourself."
"Perhaps." The reporter's theory seemed so natural that the Phantom
wondered why it had not occurred to him before. "If that was his
purpose, the trick worked beautifully. Tell me, was it before or after
the murder of Gage that the Duke's men came to you with the kidnaping
proposition?"
Granger stared hard for an instant; then a glint of admiration appeared
in his eyes. "Gray Phantom, you ought to have been a detective. That's
as neat a piece of mental acrobatics as I've seen in many a day. The
proposal came to me a few days before Gage was murdered."
"But the two plots might have been hatched simultaneously?"
"They might. I see what you are driving at. You think the two plots were
related to a single object. Perhaps you are right."
"Granger, you don't think I murdered Gage?"
"No," after a long pause; "but neither can I tell you who did. You, of
course, are going on the presumption that Pinto is the culprit."
The Phantom looked a trifle bewildered. The reporter had read his mind.
Granger chuckled. "I can see in which direction your mind is working.
You think the bolted door and other circumstances prove that no one but
Pinto could have committed the murder. You believe that after killing
Gage he murdered the housekeeper in order to silence her. Pinto's queer
conduct, especially the stunt he pulled off in the storeroom this
morning, is sufficient proof, to your way of thinking, and you base your
entire case on the guess that Pinto is a member of the Duke's gang."
"Don't you agree with me? I read between the lines of your stories in
the _Sphere_ that you did not share the generally accepted opinion."
Granger looked up quickly. "The devil you did! I didn't mean to air my
private opinions. It must have been a subconscious process. To be
perfectly frank, I don't know whether I agree with you or not. I have an
idea of my own on the subject, but it's vague as yet. Maybe I'll tell
you later."
The Phantom shrugged his shoulders. "The mystery of the murders doesn't
interest me particularly just at present. Granger, if you were in my
position, how would you go about finding Miss Hardwick?"
The reporter considered for a long time. "My first step would be to get
in touch with the Duke's gang and try to ascertain where Miss Hardwick
is being concealed. That's a large order, and you will find it fairly
exciting. The Duke, I've been told, hates you as he never hated anyone
before, and he's almost as dangerous behind prison bars as outside. He
froths at the mouth whenever he mentions your name to the other
prisoners. Your borrowed personality won't give you a great deal of
protection, for there are a lot of sharp-eyed men in the Duke's crowd,
and, besides, you're in almost as great danger whether you appear as the
Gray Phantom or as Tommie Granger."
The Phantom waved his hand deprecatingly. "I have considered all that.
The question is, how am I to get in contact with the gang." He peered
reflectively at the man on the couch; then an idea came to him. "How did
the heads of the organization communicate with you? To whom did you
report and from whom did you receive your orders?"
"From my acquaintance of the Turkish coffee house."
"The piratical-looking fellow?"
Granger nodded.
"How can I find him?"
"The coffee joint is in Catharine Street, not far from East Broadway.
You can easily locate it, and you will probably find your man there
about ten or eleven at night. But hadn't you better take me along?"
The Phantom shook his head emphatically. "You have just told me to what
extremes you are willing to go in order to get a good story for your
paper. The capture of the Gray Phantom would make an even bigger story
than the one you were after. I can't quite trust you, Granger. You love
your liquor not wisely but too well, and you're likely to give the show
away. Besides, it wouldn't do for us two to be seen together."
"That's so," said Granger resignedly. "Well, anyhow, you might send me
something for a bracer."
The Phantom promised to try. He got up and rapped on the wall, eyeing
Granger steadily as he stepped through the opening that appeared as if
by magic. But the reporter, evidently realizing that any attempt to
escape would be useless, made no move.
An opium lamp was sizzling in a corner of the room. At a table sat Peng
Yuen, his face as impassive as granite. If he had overheard any part of
the conversation he showed no sign of it.
"You need food and sleep," he remarked tonelessly, pointing to the
table, on which a meal was spread out.
The Phantom thanked him and sat down. He was famished and fagged out,
and he could accomplish nothing until night came, so he gladly accepted
the Chinaman's hospitality. As he ate, Peng Yuen regarded him stolidly
while he smoked his acrid pipe of li-un. He did not speak until the
Phantom had finished his meal.
"'The Book of the Unknown Philosopher,'" he remarked, without looking
directly at his guest, "says that the overwise sometimes go far afield
in search of truths that may be found at home."
The Phantom looked up, bewildered. "I suppose there is a priceless gem
of wisdom hidden somewhere in that sentence, but I don't see how it can
apply to me."
The Chinaman gave a queer laugh, half chuckle and half grunt, and deep
in the almond-shaped eyes lurked a faint, shrewd twinkle.