The Phantom awoke with a start, vaguely conscious that he had been
sleeping for several hours. Shortly after his interview with Doctor
Bimble, he had been removed to a small dark room with a single shuttered
window, through which no sunlight or air entered. The ropes around his
wrists and ankles had been removed, but his movements were restricted by
a chain only a few feet long, one end of which was padlocked to his
right leg while the other was clamped to the wall.
Jerome, more tight-lipped than ever, had brought him a meal, and he had
eaten with relish, after which he had lain down on the cot and gone to
sleep. A lessening of his mental tension had come with the conviction
that Helen was in no immediate danger and would be safe until the doctor
heard from his messengers, which he probably would not do until after
midnight.
He had slept soundly, and now he was refreshed in body and mind. He
inspected his surroundings with a keen eye. The little room was
admirably adapted to the purposes of a cell. Even if he were inclined to
shout for help, the shutters doubtless would render such an effort
useless. The room was sparsely lighted by an electric bulb in the
ceiling, and he noted that the door, walls, and floor had a substantial
appearance. The only objects within his reach were the cot and a table.
His face fell as he took an inventory of his pockets, noticing that all
that remained of his belongings was a watch and a handkerchief. His
wallet, with Dan the Dope's pistol, was gone, and so was the little
metal box that on so many occasions had enabled him to squeeze out of
tight corners. The chain was not heavy, but strong enough to resist all
the force he could muster, and each end was fastened in a way that left
him no hope of escape.
"The worthy doctor is taking no chances," he muttered. "He has left me
as helpless as a newborn babe. Wonder where I am."
He had no idea where the black limousine had taken him, for it had
traveled a devious course, and he had been chloroformed before it
reached its destination. He was certain he was not in Doctor Bimble's
house, for he had searched that dwelling from cellar to attic and there
had been no room in it that resembled this one. Probably he was in some
other house controlled by Doctor Bimble or one of his associates.
After all, where he was did not matter, greatly. The one thing that
concerned him was his helplessness, for evidently the doctor had taken
every conceivable precaution against his prisoner's escape. Everything
considered, it was as hopeless a situation as the Phantom had ever
faced.
A glance at his watch told him it was nearly four o'clock. He had eight
hours in which to accomplish the seemingly impossible before the doctor
should learn from his agents that they had been sent out on a wild-goose
chase. He shuddered as he contemplated what would be the consequences if
he failed. Yet, he told himself, the course he had taken was the only
one possible under the circumstances. If he had directed the doctor's
agents to Sea-Glimpse, Helen's usefulness to the organization would have
been ended, and then----
He turned quickly as the door opened, admitting Doctor Bimble, with a
newspaper in his hand.
"Thought you would be interested in the news about Pinto," began the
doctor, advancing somewhat cautiously and taking care not to step within
the narrow half circle that bounded his prisoner's movements. The
Phantom regarded him languidly, for his mind was on other things.
"Has Pinto recovered consciousness?" he asked indifferently.
Bimble nodded. "Much sooner than the doctors expected, and he has
celebrated his return to consciousness by making a rather interesting
statement."
"Not a confession?" The Phantom was still speaking in dull tones. In the
last few days he had almost lost sight of the purpose that had called
him to New York. The danger threatening Helen Hardwick had seemed far
more important than the mystery of the two murders.
"Well, you might call it that, though it probably isn't the kind of
confession you have in mind. Pinto has made a clean breast of
everything, but he still insists that you murdered Gage."
"That's a contradiction," mumbled the Phantom. "He is not making a clean
breast of things so long as he denies his guilt."
"His statement sounds fairly convincing, nevertheless. He admits
practically everything except that he committed the murder. For
instance, he frankly admits that he concealed the body of the
housekeeper and----"
"That in itself is evidence of his guilt."
"But Pinto has what looks like a satisfactory explanation. He seems to
be an honest, hard-working, unimaginative fellow, not overintelligent,
and deeply devoted to his wife and baby. You probably know the type. He
says that for months before Gage was murdered he had a queer premonition
that something of that kind was to happen, and he never passed the house
without an uneasy feeling. I suppose what he really means is that he had
noticed signs of strange doings about the place, and that without
analyzing his impressions he found it getting on his nerves.
"Pinto reiterates his previous assertion that Gage made a dying
statement accusing you of the crime. He admits, however, that he felt
nervous about the whole affair. The poor fellow was in a very trying
position. After forcing the door, which was bolted on the inside, and
listening to Gage's dying words, he made a careful examination of the
room, paying particular attention to the little window which was so
narrow that no grown person could possibly have crawled through it. He
did not understand how even an accomplished person like the Phantom
could have committed the murder and escaped from the room.
"Then, all of a sudden, Pinto got panicky. Even his crude intellect
perceived that it looked as though nobody but himself could have
committed the murder. He thought of his wife and his baby, and he did
not relish the idea of being tried for murder. As he saw it, he might
easily be convicted and sent to the chair. However, his fears proved
unfounded, for nobody accused him of the crime, and Pinto could breathe
freely once more."
"But what about the housekeeper?" inquired the Phantom, gradually
becoming more interested.
"I am coming to that. After the murder of Gage Pinto got into the habit
of visiting the house between rounds. He was still hoping to discover a
way whereby the Phantom could have escaped from the room. Late one
night, according to his statement, he found the housekeeper's body in
the same room where Gage had been murdered. He says the body was still
warm, so the woman could not have been dead long. At the discovery all
his fears returned with trebled force. The supposition, he thought,
would be that the murderer of Gage had also killed Mrs. Trippe. The Gray
Phantom was supposed to be in jail at the time and therefore could not
be accused of having murdered the housekeeper.
"Pinto was in a terrible quandary. Since, as he thought at the time, the
Phantom could not have murdered Mrs. Trippe, it might be questioned
whether he had murdered Gage. The whole case might be reopened, in which
event he feared the finger of suspicion must inevitably point to him.
Again Pinto thought of his wife and baby, and, the more he thought of
them, the more nervous he became. He did a foolish thing, as men often
do when fear conquers reason. He could think of nothing to do but cover
up the crime until he could get a chance to think the thing over, and so
he carried the body upstairs and concealed it behind some packing cases.
Later, after it developed that the Phantom had not been in jail and had
no alibi, he saw no reason for concealing the body longer. He explains
at length what happened when he went to the storeroom to drag it out and
was interrupted by you."
Bimble smiled blandly, but he was studying the Phantom's face out of the
corner of an eye. "What do you think of Pinto's confession?"
The Phantom considered while he glanced at the papers Bimble handed him.
The statement was there, just as summarized by the doctor. Granting a
crude intellect and a mind not too analytical, he thought it quite
possible that an innocent man might act exactly as described in Pinto's
statement. Further, the story had all the earmarks of truth, for a
guilty mind would have tried to invent a less grotesque tale. Of a
sudden the Phantom found that all his calculations and theories in
regard to the murder had been upset by Pinto's surprising and unexpected
explanation.
"Why ask me?" was his reply. "You know the murderer."
"Perhaps. I was just curious to hear what you would think."
There was a wrinkle of perplexity on the Phantom's brow. Assuming that
Pinto was innocent, the difficulties in the way of solving the mystery
and exculpating himself had been vastly complicated.
"If Pinto didn't do it," persisted the doctor suavely, "who do you
suppose did?"
The Phantom could not tell why, but the question gave him a mental jolt.
In the past few hours his concern for Helen had claimed all his
thoughts, and before that he had been so firmly convinced of Pinto's
guilt that there had been no room in his mind for other suspicions. The
possibility that someone other than the policeman might be involved had
not occurred to him.
He looked up and found the doctor's soft eyes searching his face with an
odd intensity. Bimble seemed intent on ascertaining what deductions his
prisoner would make from Pinto's statement, and apparently this had been
the only reason for his call.
"My question seems to have stumped you," he observed.
The Phantom shrugged his shoulders. "With Pinto eliminated, I'm entirely
at sea. In view of the bolted door and the size of the window, I don't
see how anyone else could have murdered Gage, unless----" He checked
himself abruptly, and of a sudden he saw a great light. In the next
instant a smile masked his agitation. "Unless," he finished with a
chuckle, "I did it myself."
Bimble seemed satisfied. "Excellent logic, my friend," he murmured as he
stepped to the door. With his hand on the knob he turned and fixed his
gaze on the Phantom's face. "I shall pay you another visit as soon as I
hear from my men."
His tone carried a sinister emphasis, but the Phantom scarcely noticed
it.
"With Pinto eliminated," he said half aloud when the door had closed,
"only one other person could have committed the murders. And I know that
person!"