Twelve or more pairs of eyes looked up as the Phantom walked into the
coffee house. They gave the newcomer a long, stony stare, followed his
brisk progress across the floor to a table in the rear, then looked down
again into coffee cups and pipe bowls, as if the new arrival had been
completely forgotten.
With a view to obtaining an unobstructed view of Matt Lunn's face, the
Phantom had chosen his position carefully. He wished to study the man
before he approached him. A glance told him that Granger's description
had been apt but incomplete. He was a wicked-looking creature, with
coffee-brown complexion, eyes that were as hard and emotionless as bits
of colored porcelain, and thick, coarse lips that were fixed in a
perpetual sneer and gave him a look of sullen ferocity that was set off
strikingly by the scar over his eye.
The Phantom noted these details and made his deductions while he gave
his order to a gaunt, hunchbacked waiter. So far Lunn, who sat alone
across an aisle between the tables, had not even looked in his direction
and seemed totally unaware of his presence. The others, too, appeared to
be ignoring him, but furtive glances and an occasional whisper warned
the Phantom that he was under surveillance.
He sipped a little of the coffee that was brought him, shoved the cup
aside and strolled across the aisle, seating himself opposite the man
with the scar.
"Hello, Lunn," he said easily, imitating Granger's manner of speech. It
was a convenient opening, even if he should not be able to deceive the
man in regard to his identity.
Slowly the other lifted his flinty eyes, fixing a vacuous stare on the
Phantom's face, and pulled hard at his pipe. "Hullo, yourself," was his
gruff response.
"A bit grouchy to-night, Lunn?" bantered the Phantom, resuming his study
of the man at closer range and confirming his previous suspicion that
Matt Lunn was a bully with a coward's heart. A cranning of necks and
lowering glances signified that the rest of the men in the room were
following the conversation.
"You called me by a different name last time you saw me," grumbled Lunn
suspiciously.
The Phantom masked his momentary confusions behind a grin. After all, he
had scarcely hoped to fool Lunn, for the latter and Granger had been
intimately acquainted for some time, and this was putting the ruse to
the acid test.
"You've got so many monickers, Lunn, that I can't remember them all.
Which particular one would you like to have me use to-night?"
"The same one you always used before, if you know which one that is."
Of a sudden the Phantom wished that Granger had given him more explicit
information regarding Lunn. The man with the scar was plainly
suspicious, and the Phantom was not yet quite ready for action.
"Tell me where I can connect with a drink," was his jocular evasion, "or
I'll call you a name you never heard before."
The other sneered. "There are some things that hurt a lot worse than
names do. One of them is a knife in the side, and I've been told a
fellow whose name is Tommie Granger is going to get just that unless he
explains certain things to the big chief."
The Phantom's face sobered. "I'm ready to explain. That's why I looked
you up to-night. But we can't talk in here. Suppose we take a walk
around the block?"
Lunn laughed derisively. "I was referrin' to a guy named Tommie Granger.
He looks a lot like you and he hands out pretty much the same kind of
spiel, and yet I could tell the difference almost as soon as I put my
lamps on you. Just the same, I'd as soon walk around the block with the
Gray Phantom as with anybody else."
He spoke the last sentence in a whisper, accompanying the words with a
grin that rendered his face all the more repellent. The Phantom cast a
quick glance at the evil-looking faces at the other tables, wondering
whether Lunn had any confederates in the room. They were the scum of the
lower levels of the underworld, and their blotched and hardened features
bespoke lives steeped in loathsome iniquities, but, unless there were
members of the Duke's organization among them, the Phantom saw no reason
why they should side against him.
He paid the hunchback and walked behind Lunn toward the door. Sullen and
covert glances followed him, but none of the men rose, and he was
permitted to reach the door without interference. He glanced back as he
stepped out on the sidewalk and made sure that Lunn and himself were not
being followed.
The man with the scar took a few steps down the street, then stopped and
whirled round.
"What's the idea?" he demanded brusquely. "Why did you walk in there and
try to pass yourself off as Tommie Granger?"
"Not so loud, Lunn." The Phantom glanced about him quickly. For the
moment the block happened to be deserted. Lunn was standing with his
back to the dark doorway of the factory building which adjoined the
coffee house. There was a menacing scowl in his face and his right hand
was hovering over one of his pockets.
Again the Phantom darted a quick glance up and down the street. The only
person in sight was the lonely figure leaning against the stack of
grocery boxes on the farther corner. Evidently Granger had not moved a
single step from his post.
"I'm listening," said Lunn. "What's the answer?"
"This is your answer." With one hand the Phantom pinioned Lunn's arm;
with the other he jerked his pistol from his pocket and pushed it
against the other's waist, shoving him into the shelter of the doorway.
Lunn, startled by the swift maneuver, gave a throaty squeal.
"Be quiet!" commanded the Phantom. "I have a few things to say to you,
and I don't want any interruptions. I happen to know that you're a
member of the Duke's gang. Your crowd is after me tooth and nail, and
the reason you were so willing to take a walk with me was that you hoped
to catch me off my guard and hand me over to your chief. You're a fool,
Lunn. Cleverer men than you have tried that and failed. Feel that?"
He jabbed the pistol harder against the other's waist, and a yawp of
terror proved that he had read Lunn's character accurately. The big man,
who would have been a dangerous adversary if he had gained the upper
hand, was cowering.
"Now, Lunn," said the Phantom sharply, "a few quick answers may prolong
your life by a good many years. Did you ever hear of a young lady named
Miss Hardwick?"
"The name sounds kind of familiar."
"Don't stall! Miss Hardwick was kidnaped by members of the Duke's gang."
"Ye-es." Lunn gulped. "I--I think she was."
"You _know_ she was. Don't you?" The question was emphasized with a
little extra pressure on the pistol.
"I've been told the lady was kidnaped, but that's all I know. I didn't
have anything to do with that job."
The Phantom regarded him sharply, but his face was indistinct in the
gloom. "Who did?"
"I don't know; I never heard."
"Where was she taken?"
"I can't tell you that, either. Say, there's no use poking a hole
through me with that gat. I can't tell what I don't know."
The Phantom was inclined to believe him. Evidently Granger had
overestimated Lunn's store of inside information regarding the gang's
activities.
"There's one thing you can tell me, and you had better speak quickly.
Where does this precious gang hang out? Where is its headquarters?"
Lunn did not answer. He was breathing stertorously, and he uttered a
groan or grunt whenever the pressure on the pistol was increased.
"Out with it!" The Phantom cast an uneasy glance behind him as he spoke,
but no one was in sight. "You'll never get out of here alive unless you
tell."
The big fellow trembled. "I've sworn to keep my mouth shut."
"Well, I guess it wouldn't be the first time you have violated an oath.
Where is the place?"
"Will you let me go if I tell you?"
An affirmative answer was on the Phantom's tongue, but he held it back.
"No, Lunn, you are not going to get off quite so easily. You might give
me a fictitious address, and I would have no way of verifying it until
too late. You will have to take me there, and I sha'n't let you go until
I have satisfied myself that it is the right place."
Lunn groaned; and the Phantom looked dubiously along the street. The
words were no sooner out of his mouth than a sense of diffidence
assailed him. To march an unwilling and treacherous guide through the
streets would be a hard and perilous task even at that late hour. Then
an idea came to him. He would signal Granger and instruct him to find a
taxicab.
He turned slightly and looked out of the doorway, waving his hand at the
solitary figure on the corner. In the next moment a short exclamation of
surprise fell from his lips. A big black car was gliding down the
street, slackening its pace as it drew nearer. The Phantom, still
pressing the pistol firmly against Lunn's body, saw that it was a
limousine, and he was at a loss to understand what a car of that type
was doing in such a squalid neighborhood. Now it was crawling along very
slowly, swerving close to the curb as it came within a few feet of the
entrance to the coffee house. The driver was leaning from his seat, as
if looking for someone.
Of a sudden a hoarse cry rose in the Phantom's throat. Forgetting Lunn,
he sprang from the doorway. A face had appeared at the window of the
car--a white, rigid face with staring eyes and the look of death spread
over its features.
The face was Helen Hardwick's.