With quick and nervous steps the Phantom walked back and forth within
the narrow semicircle allowed him by the chain. The solution of the
mystery had come to him in a flash of intuition, but his elation had
been brief. It was now half past eleven, and after cudgeling his wits
for hours, he found the problem of how to extricate himself and Helen
from their predicament as insolvable as ever.
Soon Bimble would receive word from his messengers that they had been
hoaxed, and then Helen would be subjected to another agonizing ordeal in
the dark room. The Phantom shuddered as his imagination pictured her
strapped to the chair in that chamber of ghastly things. Again he looked
sharply about the room, hoping against hope that something would suggest
a way of escape to him.
He found nothing. The only objects were the cot and the table, and they
offered no solution whatever. His pockets contained nothing but a
handkerchief and a watch, together with the cigarettes and matches
Jerome had brought him with his dinner. At least a score of times during
the late afternoon and evening he had given the chain a minute
inspection, only to be convinced that it could not be tampered with.
With the aid of a small nail or a penknife he might have been able to
pick the lock that held it to his ankle, but not even a pin had been
left him.
The Phantom was all but ready to admit defeat. His only fortifying
thought was that he had never yet been the loser in a game of wits, and
that for Helen's sake he could not fail now.
He rose quickly from the cot as the door opened and Doctor Bimble strode
into the room. His face was dark, and a look of sullen anger had taken
the place of his usual smile.
"You lied!" he declared gruffly. "I half suspected you would, but I
hardly thought you would attempt anything so clumsy as this. What have
you gained by it?"
"Time," said the Phantom, pretending a coolness he did not feel.
The doctor laughed derisively. There was a dull flush in his cheeks and
an ugly glitter in his eyes, but again he took care not to step within
the Phantom's reach.
"Time! Bah! Really, Vanardy, you're simpler than I thought. Just as if a
few hours more or less could make any difference! You will either tell
me what I want to know, or, Miss Hardwick will go to the madhouse or the
grave. She will be as harmless in one place as in the other. I trust you
understand?"
"Your meaning is perfectly clear." The Phantom spoke in level tones. "If
you would come a step closer, I should take extreme pleasure in beating
you within an inch of your life. But you have no inclination in that
direction, I see. Like most of your kind, you are a coward."
"Words never hurt."
"Furthermore," continued the Phantom, "you will be in jail before Miss
Hardwick goes to either of the places you have just mentioned."
"Jail?" The doctor stared as if he thought the statement utterly
preposterous. "Jail! Ha, ha! Good joke coming from a man who can't move
six feet."
"Enjoy it while you can. As you may remember, I perpetrated the same
kind of joke on the Duke, and he doesn't seem to relish that brand of
humor."
The doctor winced as if an unpleasant thought had been suggested to him,
then walked stiffly to the door. "Remember," was his parting shot, "if
you persist in your obstinacy, it will be either the madhouse or the
grave for Miss Hardwick."
He slammed the door as he went out, and the Phantom's face sobered the
moment he was alone. His threat had not been altogether an idle one, for
it had driven a wholesome misgiving into the doctor's heart; yet the
Phantom was painfully aware that he was in a desperate situation.
Throwing himself on the cot, he turned the problem over and over in his
mind. Black as the outlook seemed, he could scarcely believe that all
was lost. He still had faith in his star, and it was this that had
braced him and enabled him to speak with such confidence in Doctor
Bimble's presence.
After a while something drew his gaze to the window. He listened
intently. A faint scraping sound reached his ears, and it occurred to
him that it had been going on for several minutes, though he had been
too preoccupied to notice it until now. He got up and stepped as close
to the window as the chain permitted. Now he heard it again--a slow,
dull grinding and scraping that remotely suggested that someone was
attacking a metallic object with a blunt tool.
He waited breathlessly. Evidently someone was trying to enter the room,
and he wondered whether the intruder was coming as friend or foe.
Perhaps the amazing luck that had so often turned a critical situation
in his favor was once more coming back to him.
A click sounded, then the boards in front of the window came apart, and
the Phantom gasped as Thomas Granger jumped into the room.
"You!" he exclaimed.
"Not so loud!" whispered the reporter. He was still wearing the
Phantom's clothing, and the garments were wrinkled and streaked with
dirt. "The house is full of members of the Duke's gang. Holy smoke,
you're certainly in a fix!"
He stared at the cabin, then looked quickly about the room. "Don't ask
me how I found you. I had a devil of a time, and it's a longer story
than I've got time to tell. Lookouts are stationed in front and in rear,
and it was only by sheer luck and some quick fist work that I got
through. How am I to get you out of here?"
The Phantom regarded him thoughtfully. "Didn't you know that Doctor
Bimble was the Duke's chief representative?" he asked.
"Never had the faintest idea."
"This room is in the rear of the house, I believe."
"Yes, but----"
"You were lucky to locate my window as easily as you did."
"That wasn't luck. I tried several before I found yours. Twice I bumped
into the Duke's men. I hate to think what that bunch would do to me if
they caught me." He made a wry face. "But this isn't getting you out of
here. We'll have to get a move on."
Strangely enough, the Phantom seemed absolutely calm and in no hurry
whatever. "I haven't been able to get my bearings," he announced. "Where
is this house?"
"Next door to Doctor Bimble's."
The Phantom started. "The one with boarded windows and doors?"
"That's the one. The front is boarded-up, and from the street it looks
like a vacant house. Nobody would suspect that it was the headquarters
of the Duke's gang. I suppose Bimble owns or controls both houses, and
there is probably a connecting passage somewhere."
The Phantom knitted his brows. He had seen no such passage when he
searched the Bimble residence. However, that proved nothing, for it
might be so carefully concealed that a hasty search would not reveal it.
The arrangement, he thought, was rather ingenious. No one who had seen
the anthropologist's home, where everything suggested artlessness and
love of simple comforts, would have suspected that the occupant was
using the adjacent house for the conduct of criminal enterprises.
"Miss Hardwick is somewhere in the building," he remarked. "Her safety
is the first consideration."
"Worse still. You and I might be able to fight our way through, but with
a woman on our hands it's almost certain death. It wouldn't be so bad if
there weren't so many against us. I have only one gat. How about you?"
"A watch, a handkerchief, a package of cigarettes and some matches are
my sole possessions just now."
The reporter scowled. "The Duke's men would be sure to pounce on us
before we could get her out of the house, and I don't suppose Miss
Hardwick is bullet-proof."
"What would you suggest?"
Granger reflected. "Have you any friends in town?"
"As far as I know, Peng Yuen is the only one. There may be others, but I
wouldn't know where to find them."
"Peng Yuen doesn't look much like a scrapper. We can't appeal to the
police, for they are after you just as hard as the Duke's men are. I'd
give half my life to be able to meet that bunch in a fair and even
fight. Too bad you haven't any friends handy. Say"--and Granger looked
as though he had suddenly snatched an inspiration out of the air--"what
about the place where you live? Haven't you got some friends there?"
The Phantom looked thoughtful. Rumor had it that he had taken a few
carefully selected members of his former organization with him to his
place of retirement. His lips twitched a little.
"It would take sometime to get them here," he murmured, "and we must act
in a hurry."
"But it's our only chance. We'll wire them to get a fast car and burn up
the roads. I'm rather stuck on the idea of organizing an expedition and
rushing to the rescue of a fair lady in distress. Write out your
telegram, and I'll sneak out and file it."
The Phantom, chuckling as though he had caught the contagion of the
other's enthusiasm, made as if searching his pockets for pencil and
paper. "All right. I guess, after all, it is the only thing we can do. A
pitched battle in the heart of New York will be something of a novelty.
Have you a pencil and a scrap of paper?"
Granger stepped up to the table and handed out the desired articles.
With the reporter standing at his elbow, the Phantom placed the paper on
the table, poised the pencil over it, and stood as if framing a message
in his mind. Suddenly, with a motion as quick as that of a metallic
spring, his hand darted out and gripped Granger's. Then, with another
surprisingly swift movement, he jerked the reporter down on the cot and
shoved a knee against his chest.
"Tommie Granger," he said in low, measured tones that throbbed with
exultation, "I've been waiting a long time to lay my hands on the
murderer of Gage and Mrs. Trippe."