Chapter XX: Trapped

"Hello--hello!" shouted Culligore into the mouthpiece. From head to foot he was tingling with suspense. It was one of the rare occasions within recent years when he felt the thrill of excitement.

A hoarse and rasping voice responded, but at first he could make out no words. The person at the other end seemed to speak with great difficulty and was evidently on the verge of hysterics.

"Speak a little louder, can't you?" urged the lieutenant. "Who are you?"

A jumble of split words and syllables sounded distantly in his ear. Now and then, between efforts to speak clearly, came a titter and a giggle that awoke a startling suspicion in Culligore's mind.

"Tell me who you are," he said in loud tones.

A short, cracked laugh came over the wire. It was followed by a groan, as if the speaker were despairing over his inability to make himself understood. Then he tried again. "Fair--Fairspeckle."

"Oh!" Culligore's teeth clicked out the exclamation. He nodded at the instrument, as if the name just spoken had confirmed a suspicion in his mind. "Where are you, Mr. Fairspeckle?"

"I can't--can't tell you," came gropingly over the wire.

"Haven't you any idea?"

"None. I'm locked in a--a room, and I am--dying! For God's sake get me out!"

"Listen, Mr. Fairspeckle," said Culligore tensely. "You're somewhere in the Thelma Theater, and I am going to find you. It may take some little time, but don't worry. It won't be very long."

A groan of relief mingled with pent-up suspense sounded in Culligore's ear, and then he slammed the receiver back on the hook. His eyes were twinkling and there was a new eagerness in his face. He jumped up from the chair and took a step toward the door. Then he drew back, and in the next moment his face had resumed its habitual sluggish expression and there was nothing in his manner to indicate that anything out of the ordinary had happened.

The door opened and in walked Vincent Starr. The theatrical manager, faultlessly attired in evening dress, topcoat, and silk hat, shrank back at sight of the man standing beside the desk. Then, recognizing the lieutenant, he instantly gathered himself.

"You startled me, Culligore," he explained with an apologetic laugh. "So many strange things have happened in this place that I am naturally a little nervous. I often come here late at night to read or write, according to my mood, but of late I approach the place in fear and trembling." He eyed the detective inquiringly. "I wonder what brings you to my private office at such an hour."

"Hope you don't mind my snooping," said Culligore genially. "I have been looking around a bit. There were a couple of things I wanted to get straightened out in my mind. As you say yourself, there have been a lot of strange doings in this place, and I've got a sneaking suspicion that Mr. Shei is back of them all."

Starr doffed his hat and ran his fingers through his long, glossy hair. The discoloration of his nose had diminished greatly, but his face was still pale and drawn.

"That's precisely my idea," he said nervously. "I shall never feel safe until that scoundrel is behind iron bars. Unless he has a private grievance against me, I am at a loss to understand why he can't keep away from my theater. By the way, did you obtain any light on the things that were puzzling you?"

"Not much," said Culligore disgustedly, with a furtive glance at the telephone. "I searched every square inch of the place without finding what I was after."

"Yes?" Starr seemed politely curious. "I infer, then, that you had a definite object in view, that you were not just searching at random."

"Oh, no." Culligore looked about him as if not quite at ease. "I suppose we're alone?"

"Not another soul in the building. You can speak as freely as you like."

"Then I'll tell you exactly what I think. The way Mr. Shei's men have been sneaking in and out of this place is mighty suggestive. Just why they should be turning your place into a rendezvous is something I don't understand, but that's exactly what they seem to be doing. They were right on the job the night you opened your new play. They gave Virginia Darrow a shot of poison just at the psychological moment, before she could spill what she knew. Then they sneaked the body away right under our eyes, and we have not yet discovered how they managed it. Only the other day, somebody took a shot at either you or The Gray Phantom. All this looks mighty queer."

"It does," assented Starr. He took out a jewel-studded case and lighted a cigarette. His pale, uneasy eyes did not leave the detective's face for a moment. "What is your theory?"

Culligore looked musingly into space. "Mr. Shei is very clever, but he is of flesh and blood, like the rest of us. There must be a simple and natural explanation for all these strange doings. I'll bet my hat that he has found a secret entrance to your place."

"Impossible," said Starr promptly. "This theater was built according to my own directions and my own architects supervised every detail of the construction."

"That may be, but I still stick to the idea of a secret entrance. Don't you see, Mr. Starr, even if you didn't have such an entrance made when you constructed your theater, Mr. Shei's men may have drilled a hole through the wall or the floor somewhere? Nothing else explains how they have been slipping in and out of the place."

"But why?" demanded Starr, and his fingers trembled as he took the cigarette from his lips. "Why should they do such a thing?"

Culligore smiled faintly while his muddy little eyes scanned the other's face.

"I think you can make a pretty fair guess," he said dryly.

Starr's face turned a shade paler. For an instant there was a look of positive dread in his eyes, but it vanished quickly. A sad smile came to his lips.

"I see I must be frank with you," he murmured, "much as I dislike to discuss matters pertaining to my private life. Don't ask me to go into details, for there are excellent reasons why I should not do so. In plain words, I do not care to incriminate myself. I have not always been what I am to-day. There was a time, quite a number of years ago, when I led a very violent life and when the law and I were not on the best of terms. I made enemies--a number of them--and it is possible that they are pursuing me to-day. In fact I----"

He paused, and his narrowing gaze slanted to the floor. Culligore repressed a start. In the intense silence of the moment he heard a faint buzzing. Somewhere, in one of the offices on the ground floor, a telephone was ringing, and he guessed that Fairspeckle had grown impatient and was calling one of the other departments of the intercommunicating system.

"In fact," Starr went on after a moment's pause, quickly controlling his astonishment, "if I were to come face to face with Mr. Shei to-day, I strongly suspect that I would recognize in him one of my old enemies. Don't ask me to explain any further, Culligore. You will appreciate the delicacy of the matter."

"I do, and you've said enough to explain the funny doings that have been going on here. I want you to answer one question frankly. Have you any idea who Mr. Shei is?"

"Have you?" was Starr's prompt rejoinder.

Culligore chuckled. "Maybe I have and maybe I haven't. I'm pretty sure of one thing. Some people think The Gray Phantom is Mr. Shei, but they're dead wrong."

Starr's lips twitched into a knowing smile. "I agree with you, there, Culligore. Shall we go a step farther? With The Gray Phantom eliminated, the range of available suspects narrows down to one man. Am I right?"

"I think you are on the right track, Mr. Starr."

The theatrical manager, once more quite composed, seemed to find a great deal of amusement in the speculative drift of the conversation.

"It is diverting to try to read other people's minds," he observed. "I wonder how close I can come to an accurate reading of yours. A detective's thoughts travel a devious route, but I will try to look at the situation from your point of view, taking all the circumstances into account. If you were to mention the name of the one remaining suspect, I fancy it would be W. Rufus Fairspeckle."

Culligore stared as if dumfounded at the other's astuteness, but his lips curled into the faintest grin as soon as Starr averted his gaze.

"You might as well admit that I was right," said the manager with a smile of elation. "For once a mere layman has read your mind like an open book. The next question is what has become of Fairspeckle. Do you suppose----"

He broke off short. His glance darted involuntarily to the automatic telephone on the desk. Its summons sounded clear and distinct in the tense silence. Once more a tinge of gray crept into his face. With a tightening of the lips he looked furtively at Culligore.

"Queer!" muttered the lieutenant, fingering the green cord attached to the instrument and tracing it to the sound box. "Someone is calling on the private wire. And you just told me that you and I were alone in the building."

The buzzing continued. Starr stared helplessly at the instrument, but out of the tail of an eye he was watching the expression on the detective's face. Finally, with a jerk of the shoulders, he emerged from his daze.

"I don't understand it," he murmured, "but we shall soon see what it means."

He sat down and drew the instrument to him. His face took on a look of determination, but there was also a baffling and inscrutable expression that might have puzzled the detective. But Culligore's thoughts seemed to be elsewhere. He looked as though he foresaw a critical moment and realized that quick thinking and prompt action were necessary. While Starr was speaking into the telephone, he looked quickly about the room. From his vest pocket he took a small box and removed the lid, exposing a reddish substance that looked like salve. Rubbing a little of it onto his finger tips, he softly crossed the room and quickly smeared a thin coating of the reddish material on the doorknob.

Starr hung up the receiver just as the little box disappeared into Culligore's vest pocket.

"I don't understand it," said the manager frettingly. "Someone was speaking. It was a man's voice, but I couldn't make out what he was trying to say. It is very mysterious." He smiled faintly. "It's beginning to look as though I was mistaken and there was someone else in the building besides you and me."

"It certainly looks queer," admitted Culligore. "I searched everywhere, but we might as well go over the ground again."

Starr acquiesced readily, and Culligore saw to it that the manager preceded him out of the room. He noticed with gratification that the other's fingers closed firmly around the knob as he opened the door, and he knew that Starr was too preoccupied to take heed of the faint smear left on his hand from contact with the greased metal. He chuckled inwardly as he followed the manager down the stairs and through the offices in front of the building. After a brief and somewhat perfunctory search, they entered the auditorium.

"Shall I switch on the lights?" whispered Starr, walking beside the detective.

"I wouldn't. If there's a prowler around the place, we don't want to warn him. My electric flash will do."

For a time they conducted the search in silence, the detective cautiously darting the electric gleam over floor and walls and into dark corners. Finally he paused before a niche in the wall and pointed to an aperture behind the marble shelf that spanned the opening.

"Do you know," he whispered, "that the other day, while I was talking with The Gray Phantom, I had a funny feeling someone was hiding back there and listening to our conversation? Who do you suppose it could have been?"

There was no response. Culligore had been peering into the recess behind the marble ledge. Now he looked up quickly, but Starr was gone--and the twitching of the detective's lips signified that the manager's sudden disappearance did not surprise him greatly. In an instant he was amazingly alert. Jerking his electric flash hither and thither, he moved quickly back and forth within the narrow space where he had last seen the manager, sweeping the surrounding objects with his electric gleam and examining the surfaces of chairs, pillars, walls, and decorative articles.

Presently he brought up in front of one of the larger pillars supporting the balcony. He had previously noticed its huge dimensions, and now he gauged them again with a quickly calculating eye. It was there The Gray Phantom had stood when the mysterious shot was fired the other day, and Helen Hardwick had been leaning against the same pillar when the curious individual with the repulsive features glided past her.

The electric gleam moved swiftly over the white surface of the post with its ornate trimmings of dull gold. Again, as once or twice before, he wondered whether there was any hidden significance in the fact that The Gray Phantom had stood in this identical spot at the moment the shot was fired. Was it possible that the skulking assailant had feared that The Phantom was about to make an important discovery, and was that why he had fired the shot? Culligore pondered the question while scanning every square inch of the pillar.

Suddenly the electric gleam stopped at a point near the floor, and Culligore could scarcely repress an exclamation of elation. His ruse had succeeded, for on the white surface of the post was a faint discoloration which signified that Starr's hand had recently touched that particular point. There were no other marks, and this one was only a few inches from the floor. Culligore's fingers ran quickly over the surrounding space, and occasionally he pressed his thumb firmly against the wood, but without discovering anything. His hand slid downward to where the rich Persian carpet was neatly tucked around the base of the post, and suddenly his exploring fingers touched a slight knoblike projection. He pressed firmly, and he felt an exultant tingle as there came a soft, whirring response. A panel in the post, ingeniously hidden in the gold-lined grooves, was sliding back, forming an aperture.

The electric gleam showed a look of keen elation on Culligore's face. His discovery had taken only a minute or two of valuable time, for he had moved fast since he noticed that Starr was gone. Yet, but for a happy inspiration and the resultant reddish stain on the post, he might have searched for days without finding the opening.

Now he squeezed his figure through the narrow aperture, at the same time pocketing his electric flash and drawing his automatic. His feet encountered the upper rungs of a ladder that pointed straight down. He descended rapidly, making no sound. At the bottom was a narrow passage extending in the direction of the street, and at its farther end he saw a faint glow. He approached quickly, warned by a sixth sense that he had no time to waste.

He came to a door. It stood open a crack, and through the narrow opening he saw a strange scene. An elderly man, with a thin and haggard face and sunken eyes that stared about him in an agonized way, was lying on a cot. Starr, bending over the recumbent man, was winding pieces of rope around his feet and hands and drawing them into tight knots.

"There, Mr. Fairspeckle," he tauntingly declared when he had fastened a gag around the other man's mouth, "I don't think you will work loose a second time. Even if you should, you will find that the telephone is out of order."

He laughed, turned away from the cot, and uttered a gasp as he looked into the muzzle of Culligore's pistol. Every trace of color faded from his face, but he gathered himself quickly.

"You are a most astounding person, Culligore," he remarked coolly. "I wonder how you found your way down here. Not that it matters," he added with a shrug, "but I am naturally curious. I won't press you for the information, however. Any way I can be of service?"

"Yes, Mr. Shei," said Culligore, emphasizing each word and looking straight into the other's eyes, "you can hold out your hands and not make any fuss while I put the handcuffs on you."

Starr laughed derisively. "Sorry not to be able to oblige you, but I have a distinct aversion to handcuffs. Won't you sit down and be comfortable? An underground room like this has many advantages. In the chests you see against the walls I occasionally store things that the police and private detectives would give a great deal to be able to lay their hands on. It is an excellent hiding place, and it serves several other purposes besides."

"So I see," muttered Culligore with a glance at the man on the cot. Fairspeckle's face bore a dazed look and he seemed to understand nothing of what was being said, but his staring eyes held an expression of terror.

"I would like to know," murmured Starr, fixing his pale eyes on the lieutenant's inscrutable face, "how and when you learned that I was Mr. Shei. I was under the impression that you suspected Fairspeckle."

"I meant you should be," said Culligore with a dry chuckle. "I knew somebody was listening behind the marble ledge the day I had that talk with The Gray Phantom upstairs, and I guessed it was either you or one of your men. I pretended to believe that Fairspeckle was Mr. Shei, and I encouraged The Phantom in thinking the same thing, but all the while I was talking for the benefit of the fellow behind the marble slab. I had a pretty good suspicion as to who Mr. Shei was, and I wanted to throw him off his guard. Once a man gets careless it isn't hard to catch him."

Starr grinned appreciatively. "I'll admit that you are far shrewder than you look, Culligore, but I am not so sure that I have been guilty of carelessness. That remains to be seen. What I am curious to know is when you first began to suspect that I was Mr. Shei. You see, I have nothing to fear from you, so I frankly admit the fact. But I would like to know by what sort of reasoning you were led to suspect me."

"There wasn't any course of reasoning," said Culligore, maintaining a steady grip on his pistol. "It was only a flash here and there. The first flash came when I saw the note Virginia Darrow sent you the night she died. I guessed then that she had learned in some way that you were Mr. Shei, and she wanted to tease you with it. A little later, when you were handed that bump on the nose, I didn't know exactly what to think. Then it came to me that, if you really were Mr. Shei, you would have yourself assaulted along with the others to turn suspicion away from you. It was a clever move, Mr. Starr, but it didn't fool me for long. Well, a number of other things happened that strengthened my suspicion, but I wasn't really sure until I walked into this room to-night."

Starr scowled a little. "You are a bit disappointing, Culligore. I had hoped you would give me an example of fine-spun deductive reasoning of the kind that always drips from the lips of story-book detectives. Just one more thing before we close this pleasant interview. How do you account for Mr. Fairspeckle?"

"Oh, that part was fairly easy. Fairspeckle is a queer sort, but he never did any real harm. He's been troubled with insomnia, and when a man can't sleep, he's likely to do any foolish thing, from writing poetry on a park bench to murdering his mother-in-law. The deeper the mystery, the simpler the explanation. That has been my experience, and it has held true in Fairspeckle's case. I'm not dead sure of my facts, but I can make a pretty close guess. The night Mr. Shei's notices were posted, Fairspeckle had been roaming the town as he always did when he couldn't sleep. He saw one of the notices in Times Square and, being one of the seven richest men in town, he didn't like the idea a bit. Then The Gray Phantom came strolling along, and Fairspeckle recognized him. Like many others, he jumped at the conclusion that The Phantom was Mr. Shei, and right away he began to study out a way of beating Mr. Shei's game.

"By some hook or crook he got The Phantom into his apartment, and there he tried to drug him. He had two objects in view. One of them was to keep The Phantom under cover for a time so he wouldn't be able to go on with his scheme, and the other was to get even with certain enemies of his by throwing an almighty scare into them. While the real Mr. Shei, as he supposed, was a prisoner in his apartment, he meant to carry the scheme just a step or two farther--just far enough to put fear into his old enemies. It just so happened that five of those enemies were among the seven richest men in town. Well, Fairspeckle got a typewriter and went to work and typed a new set of notices, supplementing the ones that had already been posted. I hope he had a good laugh while he was typing the seven names, for that's all the good his scheme did him. A few hours later he was kidnaped. That was another fairly clever move, Starr."

Starr seemed to enjoy the compliment. "Thanks, Culligore," he murmured. "I knew you would appreciate that little touch. After overhearing the conversation between you and The Phantom, in which I thought you made it plain that both of you suspected Fairspeckle, I saw a still more effective way to divert suspicion from myself. Since you already suspected Fairspeckle, as I thought at the time, it occurred to me to let the suspicion take firmer root by having Fairspeckle disappear. A man who vanishes mysteriously is always an object of suspicion."

Culligore nodded absently. Only half his mind had been on Starr's speech. Now, still holding the automatic firmly leveled, he came a step closer to the other man.

"I don't like to muss you up," he said softly, "so please put out your hands and make no trouble."

Starr chuckled amusedly. "You are really surprisingly simple, Culligore. Your pistol doesn't frighten me, for I know you won't use it. And arresting me won't do you any good. If you put me in jail, the antidote will never be found, and then seven of the biggest men in the country will die. Don't you see, Culligore, that there isn't a thing you can do?"

His tones were soft and teasing, and his words expressed the same idea that Culligore himself had voiced in Inspector Stapleton's presence. Slowly the lieutenant ran his eyes over the walls. The underground chamber, and especially the steel chests stacked along the side, would serve excellently as a hiding place. What more natural than the antidote should be concealed in one of the chests? It seemed----

He got no farther in his reasoning. Too swiftly for Culligore to interfere, Starr's hand moved to the wall at his side. A faint click sounded, and then blackness fell. Culligore sprang forward, but already a loud slam signified that the door had closed. He hurled himself against it, but he might as well have been pitting his strength against a brick wall.

"Trapped!" he muttered.