Chapter XIX: A Futile Search

Walking with his usual listless and shuffling gait, Lieutenant Culligore mounted the steps in front of police headquarters and entered the office of Inspector Stapleton of the detective bureau. It was late in the afternoon, and Culligore might have quickened his steps and carried himself with more animation if he could have known that at this very moment The Gray Phantom, seated in the secret chamber at Azurecrest, was planning his second move against the redoubtable Mr. Shei.

Stapleton, a huge, thick-necked man with a reddish face and a tendency toward irascibility, looked up with a scowl as the lieutenant walked in.

"Well, what's new?" he demanded.

"Nothing," said Culligore patiently and flopped into a chair beside the inspector's desk, "except that our friend Mr. Shei seems to be getting away with it."

Stapleton glared at a pile of newspapers he had been reading. His temper was on edge from his perusal of several editorials that chided the bureau for its failure to circumvent Mr. Shei.

"Two of the seven moneybags are already showing the white feather," Culligore continued, "and two or three of the others are getting wabbly. By the end of the week I guess most of 'em will be ready to pay Mr. Shei's price. I don't know how he means to manage the transaction, but I'll bet a pair of pink socks he'll figure out a safe way."

"What are the doctors doing? Still loafing on the job, I suppose?"

"They're up a tree--every mother's son of them. They can't dope out the disease at all. If they had seven months instead of seven days, they might be able to do something, but as it is, they're at the end of their tether. Their only hope is that one of the seven will be obliging enough to die before the others, so they can perform an autopsy."

Stapleton jerked his head savagely to one side. "This is the twentieth century and we're living in a civilized country," he muttered. "A man can't put over a thing like that in these times."

"Just what I've been telling myself for the last three days," admitted Culligore. "I've been saying it can't be done--but Mr. Shei is going right ahead and doing it."

"And he's pulling the trick right under our noses," supplemented the inspector. "That's what gets my goat. It's plain as day that Mr. Shei is The Gray Phantom. Nobody but The Gray Phantom ever got away with a thing like this, and this job has all the ear-marks of his work. Well," and his huge fist descended on the desk with a slam, "we'll get him yet, and when we do I'll see to it that he's put away for keeps."

Culligore drew the palm of his hand across his mouth as if to stifle one of his infrequent grins.

"Keeping something up your sleeve again?" demanded the inspector, who had noticed the gesture. "If you've got something on your mind, why don't you spring it?"

The lieutenant shifted his lanky figure in the chair. "I've been trying all day to get a line on Fairspeckle," he said slowly, without directly answering the inspector's question. "Queer how that old duffer vamoosed. I tried to question the Jap valet, but all he knows is that there are two bumps on his head where there was only one before. The doctor and the nurse got rough treatment, too. Of a sudden the lights went out, and old Fairspeckle seemed to go out with them. Anyhow, he was gone when the doctor came to." Culligore paused to light one of his vicious-looking cigars. "Something queer about that old goat's disappearance--eh, inspector?"

Stapleton stared hard at his subordinate, as if trying to read the thoughts stirring behind his stolid countenance. "Of course there is," he said irritably. "There's something queer about every disappearance. Just what are you driving at? You don't doubt that Fairspeckle was kidnaped by Mr. Shei's agents?"

"I doubt everything, inspector. Know of any reason why Mr. Shei should go out of his way to abduct the old geezer?"

"No, I don't," admitted Stapleton after some thought. "The kidnaping of Fairspeckle doesn't seem to fit into the pattern of Mr. Shei's scheme. What's your idea, Culligore? You don't suppose Fairspeckle kidnaped himself?"

"Stranger things have happened, inspector. By the way," and the lieutenant reached into his pocket and took out several typewritten slips, "I meant to hand you these yesterday, but was too busy with other things. I found them beside the typewriter on Fairspeckle's desk. What do you make of them?"

Stapleton picked up the slips and glanced at them. His eyes widened into a stare as he read the typewritten lines. He read them twice, and then he transferred his gaze to Culligore.

"Holy mackerel!" he muttered. Then he sat silent for a time, wriggling his ample frame to and fro in the chair. "Why, these things make it look as though Fairspeckle was Mr. Shei."

"They show that the mystery isn't quite so simple as you thought, inspector. They sort of knock the pins from under your theory that The Gray Phantom is Mr. Shei."

For a few moments longer Stapleton's bewildered eyes rested on the slips. Then he read aloud the list of names beneath the introductory paragraph, and the pucker on his forehead deepened. Finally he looked quizzically at the lieutenant.

"Yes, I noticed it, too," said Culligore. "There's something queer about that list. Looks as though Mr. Shei, whoever he is, hadn't followed his original programme. Seven men were inoculated, but only five of them are named in Fairspeckle's list. The other two names don't jibe."

Stapleton pondered for a while. He seemed to have great difficulty readjusting his thoughts to a new fact.

"And here's another interesting thing," Culligore pointed out. "Every one of the seven men mentioned in Fairspeckle's list was a member of a ring that fought him tooth and nail some years ago."

"And this is Fairspeckle's way of getting even with them," ventured the inspector.

"Maybe," said Culligore guardedly. "Anyhow, a fairly strong motive could be made out of it."

"But how do you account for the fact that Fairspeckle didn't carry out his original programme?"

"I'm not trying to account for it just now. There might have been a slip of some kind. _If_ Fairspeckle is Mr. Shei, the fact that he revised his list doesn't really cut any ice. Any man has a right to change his mind."

Inspector Stapleton sat up straight. He looked at Culligore in a determined way. "What I can't understand is why you didn't show me these slips yesterday. You say you were too busy with other things. I'd like to know what other things could be more important. Never mind that, though. The thing to do now is to find Fairspeckle."

Again Culligore drew his palm across his mouth. "And when you have found him, inspector, what are you going to do with him?"

"Eh?" Stapleton seemed to think the question a strange one. "Do with him? Why, we'll see to it that he gets the stiffest sentence the law provides. If we once get our hands on him we'll put him in a place where he won't be able to trouble us for some time."

"Aren't you overlooking something, inspector?"

Stapleton stared perplexedly at his subordinate.

"What about the seven capitalists?" the lieutenant went on. "They'll die like rats unless the antidote is administered in time. You can't make Mr. Shei fork over the antidote by putting him in jail. He's wise enough to know that as long as the antidote is in his possession he has a hold on us, and he won't be likely to give it up. He knows we are not going to let seven of the biggest men in the country die just for the sake of sending him to jail. The fact is, inspector, that Mr. Shei has us sewed up in a sack."

Stapleton seemed about to make an indignant reply, but it died on his tongue. Evidently Culligore's argument had made a strong impression. He dropped back against the chair and peered diffidently into space.

"I'm hanged if I'm going to sit with arms folded and let Mr. Shei put this thing over," he muttered at last. "He's a slick crook, but there ought to be a way of dealing with him."

"I think there is, inspector," agreed Culligore, leisurely rising from his chair. "I can't see it just yet, but maybe my mind will work better after a little walk. So long, inspector."

He shuffled from the room, followed by Inspector Stapleton's puzzled gaze. After leaving the headquarters building, he walked to a near-by restaurant and ordered a substantial meal. He seemed in no hurry, for he ate slowly and lingered for a considerable time over his coffee and cigar. An observer, noticing his languid air and phlegmatic expression, might have thought that Mr. Shei was farthest from his mind. It was dark when he left the restaurant, and it was a little after eight o'clock when, after a leisurely stroll in a zigzagging direction, he reached the Thelma Theater.

His decision to visit the Thelma once more might have been due to the fact that it had been the scene of several mysterious incidents which were more or less directly traceable to the activities of Mr. Shei. The death of Virginia Darrow had occurred there, and the bullet that had missed The Gray Phantom by such a narrow margin was still imbedded in one of the pillars. But Culligore's expression gave no indication of his purpose as he stood on the sidewalk across the street from the theater and glanced up at the windows of Vincent Starr's private office on the second floor.

The windows were dark, so evidently Starr was not there, and the entire structure presented a gloomy and lifeless appearance. Culligore hummed a little tune as he walked to the nearest street intersection, then cut diagonally across the thoroughfare, continued half a block to the west, and finally ducked into a dark basement entrance. The ease with which he made his way suggested that he had traveled the same route before. After walking down a dirty and foul-smelling passage, he emerged into a vacant space bordered at one side by the rear wall of the theater.

He crossed the inclosure, then ran down a short stairway, and brought up against a door. Now he took a number of keys from his pocket and tried several in the lock before he found one that fitted. At last the door came open, and the lieutenant, locking it carefully behind him, stood in the basement under the Thelma Theater.

On all sides was total darkness. For a time he stood still, listening for sounds, but nothing but dull and distant noises from the outside reached his ears. Having satisfied himself that he was apparently alone in the basement, he took out his flash light and began a thorough and comprehensive search. With the electric flash peering into every nook and corner, he explored the dressing rooms, peeped behind piles of discarded scenery, examined odds and ends of stage property, looked into the barrels and boxes in the dusty storerooms, and even tapped the walls here and there to assure himself that there were no hollow spaces.

At last he gave up. His search had taken almost an hour and it had been complete and painstaking in every respect, yet Lieutenant Culligore seemed not quite satisfied. On his face was a look of hesitancy that seemed to suggest a lingering suspicion that something might have eluded him. Standing in the center of the basement, he extinguished the flash light, for it had been his experience that his other senses were more acute when his eyes received no impressions.

For a little while, standing in impenetrable darkness, he scarcely breathed. He had a curious sensation that a faint sound was passing him and dissolving in the dank air. It was so slight and elusive that his ears could scarcely detect it, yet it appealed to his imagination with peculiar insistence. It might have been either a moan or a sigh, or perhaps a cry coming from a great distance. Somehow, though he could not analyze the sensation, he fancied it expressed a great, overwhelming anguish. Whether it came from above, below, or the sides he could not determine, but it inspired him with a haunting feeling that he was not alone.

Again he took up the flash, and instantly the impression vanished, as if it had been a wraith fleeing from the light. Once more, step by step, he went over every square foot of the basement, covering the ground he had already searched so patiently, but he found nothing that gave the slightest clew to the peculiar sound. Finally, half inclined to believe that his imagination had deceived him, he ascended the stairway and continued his search on the ground floor. With dogged determination he explored the space in the wings and back of the stage, then went up and down the aisles in the auditorium. His inspection of the boxes was fruitless, and he found nothing of significance in the little niche where, on his previous visit to the Thelma, he had strongly suspected that an eavesdropper was hiding. Finally he went through the offices on the street front, occupied, as was indicated by the brass plates on the doors, by the treasurer, business manager, and stage director. Here also his quest was unavailing, and nothing now remained but Vincent Starr's private office on the upper floor.

The moment he entered, Culligore felt as though he were invading the den of a sybarite. His flash light, flitting slowly over the room, revealed soft color harmonies and exquisite decorations. Faint and delicate perfumes mingled with the fresh and alluring scents of flowers. Culligore's feet sank deep into costly rugs as he moved about the office, peeping behind chairs, desks, and cabinets, and occasionally sounding the walls for hollow spaces. After an hour of intense and patient effort, he was forced to admit that he had exerted himself needlessly and that his impressions while standing in the basement could have been nothing but figments of his fancy.

Finally he sat down in the luxuriously upholstered chair beside Starr's desk. His watch showed a quarter past eleven, and he tried to reconcile himself to the thought that the only thing he could do was to go home and sleep. He was disappointed, for he had hoped that his search would yield some tangible results. He scowled a little as his gaze roamed idly over the orderly piles of papers on the desk. The ink stand, the paper cutter, and the pens were all of ornamental design. The only plain and undecorative objects in the room were the two telephones standing at one side of the desk. It struck him as a little odd that there should be two of them, but then he noticed that one was an automatic instrument without outside connections and communicating only with the various departments in the building.

Presently he yawned ostentatiously. He could not quite understand his reason for remaining after his fruitless task was done, nor could he comprehend the feeling, vague but uncannily persistent, that the next few minutes would bring some startling developments.

A gentle buzzing caused him to sit up straight in the chair. The telephone was ringing, and instinctively he reached out his hand for one of the instruments. He spoke a soft "hello" in the transmitter. There was no response, but the ringing continued. A little dazedly he hung up the receiver and peered fixedly at the other telephone. He jerked it to him, thrust the transmitter to his ear, and instantly the buzzing ceased.

A gasp of amazement fell from his lips. Someone was calling on the automatic telephone, the one that had no outside connections. The person calling must be inside the building, then, despite the fact that his patient search had convinced him that there was no other human being within the four walls of the structure.