The Phantom strained his ears. Faint sounds of breathing came to him;
then a board creaked ever so slightly under someone's weight. A
watcher--or were there two?--was standing just inside the window,
guarding the exit. The discovery nettled him, for it meant the loss of
precious seconds, but he thanked the warning instinct that had prompted
him to muffle his movements. It had probably saved him from an
unexpected attack in the dark.
Warily he reached for the pistol in his hip pocket. He was still
listening, and now he was almost certain that two watchers were standing
close to the window sill. Doubtless they were armed and ready to spring
upon him the moment he betrayed himself, and his awkward position would
make it extremely difficult for him to defend himself.
He turned the situation over in his mind while he waited. It had been a
trap, of course. He remembered the slight sound that had told him of the
opening of the door to the laboratory while he was fencing for time with
Culligore. Someone had looked down on them from the head of the stairs,
remaining there long enough to take in the situation and decide on a
course of action. Doubtless he had suspected that the Phantom would make
an attempt to reach the tunnel, his only avenue of escape, and the plan
had been to attack him as he came out of the passage.
Again a board gave forth a slight creak, signifying that one of the
sentinels was growing impatient. The Phantom was in a cramped position
and, with his feet above his head, he would be at a decided disadvantage
in a fight. He could still use his pistol, but to do so would be
dangerous, to say nothing of the difficulty of taking aim in the dark.
He was still looking for a way out of the difficulty when one of the
watchers at the window spoke in a whisper.
"'Slim!'"
"Well?"
"Hear anything of him yet?"
"Not a sound. Suppose he shouldn't come out at all, 'Toots'?"
"What's in has got to come out. He'll come acrawlin' this way by 'n' by.
Don't you worry."
The whispering voices were unrecognizable, and the names were not
illuminating, but the Phantom did not think that the speakers were
officers. More likely they were members of the Duke's band and had
gained entrance to the house during the absence of Doctor Bimble and
Jerome. It was even possible that they had trailed the Phantom to the
anthropologist's residence.
Again the man named Toots spoke. "I don't like this job a little bit.
The Phantom's a bad customer--a reg'lar devil."
"But we've got him this time. He'll come this way as soon as he notices
the draft. He won't be suspectin' a thing, and all we've got to do is
grab him. It'll be as easy as picking a banana out of the peeling."
Toots was silent for a time. Evidently he stood in great awe of the
Phantom. "What about the dick?"
"Oh, he's taken care of. The boss is handlin' him. No danger of him
buttin' in on us."
The Phantom listened intently, but was barely able to distinguish the
faint whispers. Slim's last remark was interesting. If Culligore had
been attacked and overpowered while searching the cellar, then the
Phantom was in no danger from the police just at present. His only
immediate problem was how to deal with the two watchers.
"What's the lay, Slim?" Toots was asking. "Why is the big chief so
all-fired anxious to get his mitts on the Phantom?"
"Orders from the Duke. There's a big job on, but only two or three are
in the know of it. All you and me got to do, Toots, is to keep our
mouths shut, ask no questions, and collect our little bit when the time
comes. The boss will do the thinkin' part."
Again a silence fell between the watchers; then Toots asked: "Why don't
one of us go to the other end and smoke him out? I'm gettin' tired of
waitin'."
"What's eating you? Time's cheap, ain't it? The Phantom will come out
when he gets ready."
Another pause ensued; then the inquisitive Toots asked another question.
"What I don't get atall is how the 'skirt' figgers in the deal. Where
does she come in, Slim?"
The Phantom held his breath to catch the answer.
"Search me. All I know is that the Phantom has a crush on her. I s'pose
the boss thinks the Phantom will be easier to handle if he's got a grip
on the moll."
"Where's the boss keepin' her?"
"Say, ask me somethin' easy. The boss don't tell me his secrets."
The Phantom felt a twinge of disappointment. Toots' question had given
him hope of learning something about Helen's whereabouts, but Slim's
answer had quickly dashed it.
"I'm dying for a smoke," he heard Toots whisper.
"Well, get back in the corner and have one. But don't make any noise,
and be careful when you strike the match."
The Phantom heard Toots tiptoeing away from the window. Then came a
faintly scratching sound as of a match being struck. A daring idea
entered the Phantom's mind. For the time being the enemy's force was
divided, and there was only one watcher at the window. He saw a
chance--a slender and dubious one, but perhaps the only chance he would
have--to get the upper hand of the sentinels.
Bracing his shoulders against the wall of the passage, he drew his
electric flash from his pocket. His right hand was already gripping the
pistol. Holding both in readiness for instant action, he pricked up his
ears and listened. Sounds of breathing told him that Slim was standing a
few inches from his feet, perhaps looking directly at him through the
darkness. He had already decided that Slim was the more resourceful man
of the two. If Slim could be put out of action, his difficulty would be
more than half solved.
His finger touched the little button, and a shaft of light pierced the
darkness. In the same instant a head was thrust into the opening. A pair
of startled eyes stared at him for a moment--and in that brief space of
time the Phantom acted. His foot shot out, delivering a sharp blow in
the region of the nose and eyes. With a cry of pain the man tottered
back, blood streaming from his face.
The Phantom extinguished his flash and flung it through the opening.
Toots, evidently wondering what had happened, was jabbering excitedly,
but Slim gave no sound. With a swift and agile movement, the Phantom
jerked himself forward, dropping his legs over the sill, and in another
moment he was standing inside the room. He stooped, ran his fingers over
the floor, and recovered the electric torch, then darted noiselessly to
one side. A pistol shot sounded, followed by a sharp thud as the bullet
hit the wall a few feet from where he stood.
He leaped silently across the floor. The brief flash emitted by the
pistol had given him a glimpse of Slim at the opposite wall. Before the
man could move, the butt of the Phantom's pistol had crashed down on his
head. Uttering a feeble grunt, he sank limply to the floor, and in the
same instant came another crack and flash, and a bullet whistled past
the Phantom's head.
"You almost winged me that time, Toots," he remarked coolly, at the same
moment dropping to his knees and noiselessly crawling toward where Toots
stood with his back to the door. Another shot, fired at random, lighted
up the room for a brief instant, giving him another glimpse of his
adversary. Swiftly and without making the slightest sound, he advanced
toward the door. Now he reached out a hand, fumbling for a moment in the
darkness until he lightly touched one of Toots' shoes. With a swift and
powerful motion he jerked the man's feet from under him.
The Phantom sprang to his feet and rushed out of the room, turning the
key in the lock on the other side. He paused for breath while he brushed
some of the dirt from his clothes. He had vanquished his adversaries,
but possibly the shots had been heard, and haste was necessary. He ran
to the front of the store. The street outside was quiet and dimly
lighted. Cautiously he opened the door and stepped out, casting a quick
glance up and down the street.
He made a few rapid calculations as he walked to the corner. If
Culligore had fallen into the clutches of the Duke's gang, as seemed
likely from the remark dropped by Slim, then he was still reasonably
safe so far as the police were concerned. Yet, for the first time in
many years, the Phantom was haunted by misgivings. Each thought of Helen
Hardwick burned itself into his mind, leaving a scar. The realization
that the Duke's minions had her in their power was maddening. He felt an
urge to find her at once and snatch her away from her jailers.
Yet, at almost every step, he was hampered by the designs of his
enemies. There were traps and snares everywhere. He had just escaped
from one of them, but another time he might not escape so easily, and
what would become of Helen then?
He shuddered at the thought. His mind was as keen and his muscles as
pliant as ever, but he was playing against overwhelming odds, and the
mere thought of defeat was unbearable. To ask help of the police was out
of the question. His old organization was scattered to the four corners
of the earth. Wade, his former chief lieutenant and now his trusted
friend, had grown too fat to be of much use, and to reach him would be
difficult.
Suddenly he thought of Thomas Granger. The reporter's journalistic
instincts, coupled with his fondness of strong drink, had given the
Phantom the feeling that he was not to be trusted. Those two qualities
aside, he had rather liked the fellow. Granger had traits that appealed
to him strongly. He reconsidered the question as he stood on the corner,
glancing furtively in all directions to see whether he was being spied
upon.
In a few moments his mind was made up. For Helen's sake he must seek
assistance somewhere, and he was in no position to be squeamish about
his choice. A glance at his watch told him that it was half past eleven.
Pell Street was only a dozen short blocks away, and a brisk walk brought
him to Peng Yuen's door.
The wooden-featured Chinaman scanned his face as he held the door open
and bade him enter.
"There is fire in your eyes," he observed as he conducted his guest into
the den. "Is it the little Lotus Bud who is troubling the Gray Phantom?
The 'Book of the Unknown Philosopher' says----"
The Phantom interrupted him with a short laugh. "Peng Yuen, for a man
who doesn't read the newspapers, you are surprisingly well informed. I
have come to have a talk with my double."
The Chinaman regarded him stonily. Two incense sticks, burning before a
hideous joss idol, filled the air with acrid fumes. Peng Yuen, sucking a
bamboo pipe with gorgeous tassels, seemed to be turning over a question
in his mind.
"I think your friend is sleeping," he said at length.
"Then wake him," directed the Phantom impatiently.
The Chinaman shrugged his shoulders and touched a button on the wall,
then motioned the Phantom to enter. Granger was in bed, but he looked up
gloomily and stretched himself. There was a litter of cigarette ends on
the table, and torn and crumpled newspapers were scattered over the
floor.
"Hope you've brought me a drink," said Granger.
The Phantom shook his head. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed and
fixed the reporter's face with a keen and minutely searching gaze, as if
exploring the depths of his soul.
"What's the idea?" asked the reporter. "You look at me as if I were some
kind of curiosity."
There was a faint hint of doubt in the Phantom's face, but it vanished
soon.
"I think you will do," he declared. "There's just one quality in your
face, Granger, that I can't quite analyze. It's a weakness of some
kind--your craving for alcohol, perhaps. Anyway, I am willing to take a
chance on it. You are going with me."
The reporter sat up, his face all eagerness.
"Wait," commanded the Phantom; "I want to be sure that we understand
each other. I am making the biggest play of my career. I am going after
the Duke's crowd. My primary object is to get Miss Hardwick out of their
clutches. My secondary one is to put the whole gang of sneaks and
cowards behind the bars, where they belong. If I succeed, it will be as
great a sensation as the _Sphere_ ever sprang. You are welcome to it,
provided you accept the conditions."
"What are they?"
"I am very likely to get into trouble before the job is done. I may walk
into the arms of the police, or into one of the traps set by the Duke. I
may get shot, put in a dungeon, murdered, perhaps. You are to follow me
at a safe distance wherever I go, never letting me out of your sight. If
anything happens to me I want you to take up the search where I left
off. Above all else you are to get Miss Hardwick away from those
ruffians. Do you agree?"
Impulsively, without a moment's hesitation, Granger put out his hand.
The Phantom gripped it. As he held it for a moment, another look of
doubt flickered across his face, but it was soon gone.
"Then get into your clothes," he directed; "or mine, rather. We might as
well keep up the masquerade a while longer. I am just a shade safer when
I am hiding behind your personality."
"But what about me?" inquired Granger, making a wry face.
"Give the dicks and bulls as wide a swath as you can. At worst, they can
only pick you up again and take another impression of your finger
prints, and you will have to explain why you have shed your gaudy
feathers. If we have a bit of luck we'll pull off a stunt that the
police won't forget in many a day. They'll be so busy explaining their
own mistakes and blunders that they won't ask many questions."
He had found a whisk broom and was removing from his clothing some of
the grime and dust he had gathered in the tunnel. He glanced impatiently
at his watch, while Granger dressed with time-consuming care.
"Which way?" inquired the reporter.
"Do you suppose it's too late to find the coffeehouse pirate?"
"Doubtful, but you might try. Sometimes he hangs around the Catharine
Street joint till late."
"What's his name?"
"You might call him Matt Lunn. He has several names, and he isn't
particular which one you use."
The Phantom considered. "Is he close to the inner circle of the gang?
Does he share its secrets?"
"I think he does, but I wouldn't swear to it. Anyhow, he is a lot closer
to the big chief than I ever got."
The Phantom scowled while Granger adjusted his tie. The reporter seemed
almost as keen on sartorial polish as on journalistic attainments.
"By the way," inquired the Phantom, "who is the illustrious personage
that's referred to as 'the big chief'?"
"He is the Duke's chief agent. I don't know his name, and I've never
seen him. Through underground channels the Duke sends him orders from
his cell in Sing Sing. The Duke is the brain that plans, and the big
chief is the hand that executes. Say, I'm being consumed with curiosity.
Aren't you going to tell me something of your plans?"
"I haven't anything definite. I shall go to the Catharine Street coffee
house and try to cultivate the acquaintance of Mr. Matt Lunn. I mean to
obtain certain items of information from him. Just how I shall go about
obtaining them depends upon what sort of man I find him to be. We'll be
on our way whenever you are through primping."
At last the reporter was ready. Peng Yuen was stolidly smoking his pipe
as they passed out. The almond-shaped eyes narrowed a trifle as the
Phantom shook his hand, and for an instant he seemed about to say
something. In another moment he had changed his mind, however, and with
a queer little grunt in his throat he went back to his green-tasseled
pipe.
With a final admonition to exercise care and discretion, the Phantom
left Granger outside the shop and walked rapidly toward Catharine
Street. He had no reason for doubting the reporter's sincerity.
Granger's moral stamina might not be all that could be desired; but, on
the whole, the Phantom was well pleased with the arrangement. It had
already relieved him of much worry and enabled him to center his
thoughts and efforts on the task before him.
He had no difficulty in finding the coffee house, a crumbling and
evil-looking hovel squeezed between a sooty factory building and a
squalid tenement. Lights shone dimly through several windows in the
block, which had a gloomy and somewhat sinister appearance, and he was
looked at sharply by several wretched creatures who passed him on the
sidewalk. The window and glass door of the coffee house were covered
with green paper blinds, but there was a narrow opening through which
the Phantom could get a glimpse of the interior.
Some twelve or fifteen men were seated at long tables, drinking coffee
and smoking pipes or cigarettes. The air was so heavy with tobacco fumes
that the Phantom could not distinguish their features clearly, but he
got the impression that they were a disreputable lot. He looked in vain
for anyone answering the description Granger had given of Matt Lunn. He
walked away from the window and stood at the curb, scanning the street
in either direction. At a corner a block away, he saw a shadowy figure
leaning against a stack of boxes outside a grocery.
"Granger is on the job," he mumbled.
Then he turned quickly just as a huge, raw-boned man appeared from the
opposite direction and walked into the coffee house. The Phantom caught
a glimpse of his face as he opened the door and passed through, and that
glimpse revealed a great, livid scar over the left eye.
In an instant he knew that the man was Matt Lunn. A thin, audacious
smile hovered about the Phantom's lips as recognition flashed through
his mind. For a moment he hesitated, casting a swift glance to the
corner where Granger stood; then he crossed the sidewalk and resolutely
pushed the door open.
A minute or two later, in a cheap, all-night lunchroom a block down the
street, someone was impatiently jigging the hook of a telephone.