Читать книгу The Gray Phantom's Return - Herman Landon - Страница 6

DYING MAN ACCUSES THE GRAY PHANTOM

Presently his quickening eye was running down the column of type. It was a lurid and highly colored account of the murder of Sylvanus Gage, a crime said by the police to be one of the strangest on record. Headquarters detectives confessed themselves baffled by several of the circumstances, and especially by the fact that the murderer seemed to have accomplished the apparently impossible feat of making his escape through a door which had been found bolted on the inside when the police reached the scene.

The murder, it was stated, would probably have gone down in the annals of crime as an unsolved mystery but for the fact that the dying man had whispered the name of his assailant to Patrolman Pinto, who had been summoned to the scene by the housekeeper, Mrs. Mary Trippe, after the latter had been disturbed by a mysterious sound. The name mentioned by the victim was that of Cuthbert Vanardy, known internationally as the Gray Phantom and regarded by the police as one of the most ingenious criminals of modern times.

However, the account went on, the Gray Phantom’s guilt would have been clearly established even without his victim’s dying statement. It had been learned that for some years a feud had existed between the two men and that the Gray Phantom had threatened to take his enemy’s life. The total absence of finger prints and other tangible clews strongly suggested that the deed could have been perpetrated only by a criminal in the Phantom’s class. The perplexing features added further proof of the Phantom’s guilt. Who else could have made his escape in such an inexplicable manner? Who but the Gray Phantom, who was known to be pursuing a criminal career for pleasure and excitement rather than for the profits he derived from it, would have left behind him a small fortune in perfect stones, taking nothing but a worthless curio?

These and other details Vanardy read with interest. He smiled as he reached the concluding paragraph, stating that a countrywide search for the murderer was in progress and that the police confidently expected to make an arrest within twenty-four hours. He glanced at the accompanying likeness of himself, made from a photograph taken in the early stages of his career.

“What drivel!” he exclaimed, tossing the paper aside. Then, one by one, he glanced through the other early editions of the New York evening newspapers. All featured the Gage murder on the first page, and all the accounts agreed in regard to essential details. In The Evening Sphere’s story of the crime, however, he detected a subtle difference. It presented the same array of damning facts, pointing straight to the inevitable conclusion of the Phantom’s guilt, yet, between the lines, he sensed an elusive quality that differentiated it from the others. He read it again, more slowly this time; and here and there, in an oddly twisted sentence or an ambiguous phrase, he caught a hint that the writer of the Sphere’s article entertained a secret doubt of the Phantom’s guilt.

The suggestion was so feeble, however, that a casual reader would scarcely have noticed it, and whatever doubts the writer may have felt were smothered under a mass of evidence pointing in the opposite direction. He threw the paper down with an air of disdain. Here, in this sheltered retreat, what the world thought of him was of no account. Serene in his seclusion, he could snap his fingers at its opinions and suspicions. He sat down at the piano, and a moment later his finely tapering fingers were flashing over the keys.

Suddenly, in the midst of one of his favorite arias, his hands began to falter. For a time he sat motionless, with lips tightening, gazing narrowly at the point where Helen Hardwick had stood at the moment when he held her hand. His face was grim and troubled, as if a disturbing thought had just occurred to him. He got up and with long strides passed to the desk, where he pressed a button.

“Wade,” he crisply announced when the fat man reappeared, “I am going to New York in the morning.”

Wade sat down, drawing a squeaky protest from an unoffending chair. “To New—New York?” he stammered.

“Exactly. Tell Dullah to pack my grip. I shall leave early, about the time you are getting your beauty sleep.”

Wade blinked his little eyes. “But why, boss?”

“Here’s the reason.” Vanardy handed him one of the papers he had been perusing, watching with an amused smile the flabbergasted look that came into the fat man’s face as he read. As he approached the end of the article, wheezy gasps and indignant mutters punctuated the reading.

“Rot!” he commented emphatically. “If I wasn’t a fat man I’d lick the editor of this sheet within an inch of his life. Why, you always played the game according to the code, boss. You never killed a man in all your life.”

“No, never.”

“And you were right here at Sea-Glimpse at the time the murder was done.”

“True enough. But I might have some difficulty proving it. Your own testimony wouldn’t be particularly impressive. Besides, there’s just enough of truth in the police theory to give color to the lies. It is true Gage and I quarreled, and I believe I once threatened to give the old skinflint a beating. It was a foolish wrangle, involving nothing but a cross made of imitation jade. I’d been wearing it attached to a chain around my neck as far back as I could remember. Who put it there I don’t know. Perhaps——”

“Your mother—maybe,” suggested Wade, slanting a searching gaze at Vanardy.

“I don’t know, Wade. You may be right. I remember neither father nor mother. All I know is that the cross seemed to be the only connecting link between my present and the past I couldn’t remember. I fought like mad when the street urchins and gangsters tried to take it away from me, and somehow, through thick and thin, I managed to cling to it. Then, one day about six years ago, I lost it. Probably the chain parted. Anyhow, in some mysterious manner the cross fell into Gage’s possession. I went to Gage and demanded it. He must have seen how anxious I was to recover it, for he put a stiff price on it. I was willing to pay—would have paid almost anything—but each time I began to count out the money Gage doubled his price. So it went on for years, and I admit I sometimes felt like strangling the old miser. But I never threatened to kill him and I never wrote the letter mentioned in the papers.”

“Somebody’s been doing some tall lying,” declared Wade irately. “If I wasn’t so fat I’d make the fellow that wrote this article eat his own words. But you should worry, boss. They can’t get away with it.”

“I am not so sure, Wade. Seems to me they’ve made out a fairly complete case against the Gray Phantom. The motive is substantial enough. There are enough mysterious circumstances to suggest that only the Phantom could have committed the crime. The fact that the murderer stole a cheap trinket and left fifty thousand dollars’ worth of real diamonds behind him is rather impressive. And you mustn’t forget that a little evidence against the Gray Phantom will go a long way with a jury.”

Wade, a picture of ponderous wrath, crumpled the newspaper in his huge fist. The fretful look in the small round eyes signified that his mind was grappling with a problem.

“The letter Gage got the day before the murder must have been forged,” he ventured at last.

“Of course; but it may have been done skillfully enough to deceive all but the keenest eye. Handwriting experts have been known to disagree in matters of that kind.”

The fat man reflected heavily. “Why didn’t Gage beat it for the tall woods when he got the letter?”

“Because the tall woods are full of ambushes. Likely as not the letter gave him a jolt at first. Then, upon giving it a sober second thought, he cooled down. His principal consideration was that the Gray Phantom had never been known to commit a murder, and that consequently the letter was either a joke or a bluff.”

“But he told the cop it was the Gray Phantom that stabbed him.”

“Naturally. A wound in the chest isn’t conducive to clear thinking. We may assume that the murderer approached his victim by stealth and that Gage never saw the man who struck him down. Under the circumstances it was natural enough for him to suppose that, after all, the Gray Phantom had carried out his threat. What else was he to think?”

An ominous rumble sounded in Wade’s expansive chest. “You’ve been framed, boss.”

Vanardy nodded. “And it doesn’t require a great deal of brilliance to figure out who engineered the frame-up. The Duke has the reputation of being a good hater.”

The fat man seemed startled. “But the Duke’s in stir,” he argued. “You sent him there yourself.”

“So I did.” A pleased smile lighted Vanardy’s features. “But two or three members of his gang were not present at the round-up, and I have received tips to the effect that they have been organizing a new crowd. I suppose the Duke has been communicating with them through underground channels and instructing them in regard to this frame-up. The Duke has sworn to get me, and undoubtedly this is his method of accomplishing his aim. He chose the mode of revenge which he thought would hurt me most.”

“If I wasn’t a fat man I would—” began Wade.

“Save your threats. The Duke is a crafty rascal, just as clever as he’s vindictive. That kind of a man makes a bad enemy. The only way to queer his game is to track down the man who did the crime. That’s why I am going to New York in the morning. The police will never find the culprit, for they are wasting their time and energies looking for the Gray Phantom. Therefore it’s up to me.”

A scowl deepened in Wade’s rubicund face. “The world must be coming to an end when the Gray Phantom turns detective. It’s the maddest, craziest thing you ever did yet, boss.”

“It will be quite an adventure.” Vanardy’s eyes twinkled.

“It’s too risky, boss. Why, every dick and harness bull and amateur sleuth on the American continent is on the lookout for you.”

“Very likely.”

“The police have enough on you to send you to the jug for a million years, even without the Sylvanus Gage job. And you can just bet the Duke’s gang will have their eyes peeled, watching their chance to lead you into a trap.”

“I suppose so.”

The fat man sighed. He knew from long experience that his chief, once his mind was made up, was impervious to pleas and arguments.

“Why don’t you just sit tight?” was his final attempt. “I don’t see what you’re worrying about. They’ll never find you here. Nobody knows where to look for you. You’re safe.”

“Sure of that?” Vanardy smiled queerly. “There’s one person who knows where to find me.”

A look of startled comprehension came into Wade’s face. “You mean the little queen who was so heart-broken because the Duke had stolen a lot of old Assyrian junk from her dad?”

“I mean Miss Helen Hardwick,” declared Vanardy stiffly. “I was fortunate in being able to recover the collection from the Duke and restore it to Mr. Hardwick.”

“She was sure easy on the eyes!” rhapsodized Wade, unrebuked. “But you let her slip away from you, after you’d stirred up most of the earth to dry her tears. I never got you on that deal boss. Why, if I hadn’t been a fat man——” He sighed and rolled wistful eyes at the ceiling.

Vanardy scowled, then laughed.

“Chuck the sentiment, you old clod-hopping hippo. As far as I know, Miss Hardwick is the only living person, outside our own circle, who is aware of my whereabouts.”

“Will she give you away?”

“It depends,” murmured Vanardy. “If she believes me guilty of murder she may consider it her duty to inform the police, and she would be absolutely right in doing so. But that’s neither here nor there. I’m starting for New York in a few hours to track down the murderer of Sylvanus Gage.”

Admiration clashed with anxiety in Wade’s face. “I get you, boss. You want to keep the Gray Phantom’s record clean. You don’t want any bloodstains on his name. You don’t want the world to think that you’ve committed a murder.”

An odd smile played about the Phantom’s lips. “Wrong, Wade. It goes against the grain to have a foul murder linked to one’s name, but it isn’t that. I’m not lying awake nights worrying about the world’s opinion. The only thing that troubles me is——” He broke off, and his eyes sought the spot where Helen Hardwick had stood.

“You needn’t say it, boss.” Wade’s voice was a trifle thick as he struggled out of the chair and gripped the other’s hand. “If I wasn’t a fat man I’d tag right along, but I guess I’d only be in the way. Good luck—and give my regards to the little wren.”

With slow, trundling strides he left the room. A moment later the door had closed behind him, and the Gray Phantom was alone. Once more, as he paced the floor, his eyes were soft and luminous. Suddenly he paused and bent a reverential look on the rug at his feet, as if he were standing in a hallowed spot.

“Blue or gray?” he mumbled.