Dusk was falling as the Phantom, refreshed by Peng Yuen's excellent
cooking and several hours of sound sleep, left the shop in Pell Street
and cautiously picked his way through the reek and noise of the Chinese
quarter. He still felt a twinge of apprehension whenever he thought of
Helen Hardwick, but his nerves were steady once more, and he had the
springy step and the clear, alert eye of the man who feels sure of his
ability to meet any emergency.
His fears were allayed somewhat by the comforting thought that Helen was
as capable and keen-witted as she was reckless and audacious. She was
what the Phantom termed a thoroughbred. She had nerve, spirit, and
subtlety, and on several occasions she had evinced an amazing capacity
for handling a difficult situation. Besides, she had a robust vitality
and an athletic physique that in no wise marred her womanly charms.
The Phantom walked slowly, turning the complex situation over in his
mind, for it was still too early to go to the coffee house in Catharine
Street. At a corner news stand he bought an evening paper, glancing at
the headlines as he walked along. The murder of the housekeeper was
given glaring prominence because of the general belief that it had been
perpetrated by the Gray Phantom. The motives ascribed to him were
somewhat sketchy, but the police seemed convinced that he was bent on a
campaign of terror, and there was anxious speculation as to where his
bloodstained hand would appear next. In the meantime, the search was
being continued at fever heat, and the detective bureau expected to make
an important announcement within a few hours.
The Phantom smiled as he read. He had expected that the death of the
housekeeper would be charged to him, and he had drawn fortitude from the
firm belief that in a short time he would prove his innocence.
The odd predicament in which Pinto had been found was described
facetiously and at great length. The paper treated it as a mystery that
might not be solved until the officer, who had been taken to a hospital
suffering from a severe concussion of the brain, recovered
consciousness. His partner in the droll situation had stubbornly refused
to render any explanation, and was being held for investigation pending
Pinto's recovery. He had an unsavory record, according to the police,
and was known in the underworld as "Dan the Dope."
The Phantom was satisfied. From Dan the Dope he had nothing to fear, and
Pinto, even if he were inclined to tell what he knew, would not be able
to speak for some time. He was passably safe as far as the police were
concerned, and a little extra caution and vigilance would checkmate the
designs of the Duke's henchman. As far as he was able to tell, neither
side suspected that the Gray Phantom was masquerading as Thomas Granger.
He had still more than an hour to while away, and a hazy thought in the
back of his mind guided his steps in the direction of Doctor Bimble's
house. Everything seemed to indicate that Helen had disappeared shortly
after leaving the anthropologist's laboratory, and he might be able to
pick up some clew in the neighborhood that would help him to trace her
movements. He looked about him cautiously as he walked along, surmising
that the vicinity was being watched by spies of the Duke.
At the corner nearest the Bimble residence he turned into a cigar store
and purchased a package of cigarettes. He loitered near the door while
smoking one, amusing himself by studying the faces of the passers-by,
and presently a tall, angular figure approached from the other end of
the block. At a glimpse the Phantom had recognized the inscrutable
features of Jerome, the anthropologist's servant. The man walked
hurriedly, looking straight ahead, and in a few moments he was out of
sight.
A vagrant impulse told the Phantom to start in pursuit of him and see
whither he was bound, but he realized that he had no reason for doing
so. He had sensed something mysterious about Bimble and his servant, but
his interest in them was little more than an idle curiosity. If he had
any suspicions at all, they were of the intangible and intuitive sort
and afforded him no basis for action.
After a few minutes another figure appeared down the block, and the
Phantom pressed close to the wall at his back. Even at a distance he
recognized the enormous head, the jutting stomach, and the absurdly thin
legs of Doctor Bimble. With a beatific smile on his face, and looking
neither to right nor left, the anthropologist walked past him, evidently
bound in the same direction as his servant.
Again the Phantom felt an instinctive urge to follow. It struck him as
rather queer that master and servant had not come out together, but then
he told himself that the circumstance was probably meaningless and that
his imagination was magnifying trifles. He crossed to the opposite side
of the street and turned east, scanning the dark front of the Bimble
house as he strolled along.
Coming directly opposite the residence, he paused in the doorway of a
delicatessen store and looked across the street, scrutinizing the gloomy
and unprepossessing dwelling with an interest for which he could not
account. It seemed strange that Doctor Bimble should have chosen such an
unattractive location, but he remembered that the scientist had said
something about wishing to live in an out-of-the-way place where he
would be safe against intrusions on his privacy and where he could
conduct his researches in peace and quiet.
The house, flanked by a lodging house on one side and on the other by a
three-story structure of residential appearance, whose boarded-up
windows and doors hinted that it had stood vacant for some time, was
dark from attic to basement. Presumably Doctor Bimble and his man were
out for the evening. The house and its neighbors on each side held the
Phantom's gaze with a persistence that he could not understand. He
sensed an incongruity of some kind, and for a while he tried in vain to
analyze it. Finally, as he centered his attention on the building to the
west, the one with the boarded windows and doors, it came to him. It
seemed strange that a structure of that kind should be standing vacant
in the midst of a housing famine, when even the least desirable
dwellings commanded extravagant prices.
The Phantom laughed, a little disgusted with himself for allowing
another meaningless trifle to perplex him. As likely as not the house
was vacant for the simple and sufficient reason that it had been
condemned by the building commissioner. His gaze wandered to the door of
the Bimble residence, and a disturbing thought caused the chuckle to die
in his throat.
Only the other day Helen Hardwick had walked out of that door, he
remembered, and from that moment on her movements were veiled behind a
curtain of mystery. Which way had she turned, what had happened to her,
and where was she now? Had she been forcibly abducted as she stepped
from the house, or had someone lured her into a trap?
There had been nothing about her disappearance in the newspaper the
Phantom had just read, and he surmised that Mr. Hardwick had used what
influence he had to keep the matter out of the press. The door across
the street still held his gaze; and of a sudden, out of the jumble of
his fears and perplexities, came another harassing thought.
What if Helen had never walked out of the door across the way? What if
she should still be inside the house?
The Phantom's eyes narrowed as the suspicion came to him. It was
groundless, so far as he could see, and there was no reasoning behind
it. It had come out of nowhere, like a stray figment of the imagination,
yet it tormented him with an insistence that he could not shake off.
He walked to the end of the block, then crossed the street and moved up
the side on which the Bimble house stood. There were a few pedestrians
in the street, and to attempt to force the main door might prove unsafe.
The basement entrance was dark, and in a moment, concealed by the
shadows, he was at work on the lock. It yielded so easily to his deft
manipulation that he could understand how the prowlers of whom Bimble
had complained had managed to enter the house.
Pulling the door shut, he took out his electric flash, determined to
settle his suspicions by making a systematic search of the house. He
proceeded swiftly but with care, searching every nook and cranny and
occasionally tapping the walls and floors to make sure there were no
hollow spaces. He explored cellar and basement without finding anything
of suggestive nature, then walked up the same stairway he had ascended
after his first trip through the tunnel.
He was now in the laboratory, sweeping floor and walls with the electric
torch. At first glance it looked exactly as it had when Helen met him at
the head of the stairs with a leveled pistol, yet he sensed a difference
almost at once. His eyes flitted over the long workbench with its
collection of chemical apparatus, over the black-framed photographs and
X-ray prints, and then he glanced at the tall cages along the wall, in
which the skeletons stood, erect and grim as ghostly sentinels.
It was then his mind grasped the difference. On his first visit there
had been at least a dozen skeletons in the room; now he counted only
seven. The famous Raschenell, to whom Bimble had pointed with so much
pride, was among the missing ones. He paused only for a moment to wonder
what had become of the others, for Bimble and the servant might return
at any time and interrupt his search, and he wished to be at the Turkish
coffee house not later than half past ten.
He inspected room after room, but without result, finally mounting to
the attic and making the same thorough investigation there. He had found
nothing whatever to reward him for his efforts. He came to the
conclusion that his suspicions had been entirely unfounded, for if they
had had any basis in fact his investigation would have uncovered some
clew or hint pointing in that direction. One thing had been
accomplished, however, was his reflection as he walked down the stairs.
He had eliminated Doctor Bimble from the range of his suspicions and
would waste no more time and effort trying to explain the eccentricities
of a scientist.
Deciding to leave the way he had entered, he crossed the laboratory and
moved toward the stairs. With his hand on the doorknob, he looked back
and once more let his electric torch play over the floor and walls.
Again, without exactly knowing why, he counted the cages, vaguely
feeling that there was a hidden significance in the depletion of the
grisly company.
Finally, he extinguished his flash and resolutely turned away. Again he
was berating himself for bothering his mind over trivial things.
Doubtless Doctor Bimble had a sound and simple reason for removing a
number of the skeletons. As he walked down the basement stairs he
resolved to banish the anthropologist and his collection from his
thoughts.
An odd sense of apprehension took hold of him as he reached the bottom
step. He looked about him sharply; the darkness was so thick that he
could see nothing. He pricked up his ears and listened, but he could
detect no sound except those coming from the street. Yet he had a
feeling that he was not alone, that another being was lurking somewhere
in the darkness. It was a familiar sensation and he had learned to heed
its warning, for he had experienced it before in moments of danger.
He stepped down on the floor, at the same instant reaching for the
pistol he had taken from Dan the Dope. Before he could draw the weapon a
voice spoke sharply:
"Stay right where you are, friend!"
Then a click sounded, followed by a blaze of light. He turned quickly in
the direction whence the voice had come. He saw the glint of a pistol
barrel pointed toward him with a steady hand, and behind the pistol
stood Lieutenant Culligore.