Chapter XXI: Mr. Shei's Stratagem

A swarm of jumbled thoughts and emotions crowded each fraction of a second as The Gray Phantom, standing with his back against the door, heard Slade's slow and precise voice pronounce the numerals. At each distinctly spoken word he started as if a rapier had prodded his flesh. His gaze was fixed on Helen, who from her position in the stairway stared down on the scene with eyes that appeared to see nothing, and the blank look in her face told him that she was mercifully oblivious of the meaning of it all.

With the speed of lightning, stray thoughts and impressions flashed through The Phantom's mind. Slade had warned him that Helen would die when he had counted ten, unless The Phantom surrendered in the meantime. At Helen's back, shielded by her body against a possible bullet from The Phantom's revolver, stood the executioner, ready to press the trigger.

Things swam in confusion before The Phantom's eyes. He would gladly have given his life if thereby he could save Helen from her predicament. But Slade dared not kill him just yet, not until he had learned where Doctor Tagala was hidden, and so he hoped to force The Phantom into submission by threatening Helen. The plan was subtle and fiendishly clever, and more than once, as the seconds dragged by, The Phantom had been on the point of yielding. The only thing that had restrained him was the belief that his surrender would only make the situation worse. It would deprive him of his precarious advantage, and then Helen's position would be doubly desperate.

Once he glanced at the automatic in his hand, wishing that he could fire a bullet into the figure crouching behind Helen. It was a forlorn hope, for the coward knew better than to expose himself. Again Slade's voice, pronouncing each syllable with excessive precision, broke in upon his thoughts:

"--five--six--seven----"

The Phantom jerked up his head as an inspiration flashed through his mind. He still had an advantage, though his aching mind had not been able to grasp it until this very minute. Again his eyes sought the pistol drooping from his nerveless right hand.

"--eight--nine----" A note of hesitancy crept into Slade's accents, and he looked expectantly at The Phantom. Evidently he was reluctant to pronounce the final word, the word that would mean Helen's death. He vastly preferred that The Phantom should accept his terms, but his face showed no sign of yielding from his purpose.

His lips opened, and in another moment the fatal word would have been spoken. But in that brief interval The Phantom acted, and the word never left Slade's lips. Instead he uttered a long-drawn-out exclamation of amazement.

The Phantom's maneuver had been both swift and surprising. The blue steel of his automatic had flashed for an instant in the dim light, and then he had pressed its muzzle firmly against his heart. For a few moments the crowd stared in dumfounded amazement; then a startled look in Slade's face showed that he understood. He bit his lip and suppressed a cry of rage.

"If Miss Hardwick dies, I die, too," declared The Phantom in gritty accents; and the metallic gleam of his eye and the note of grim earnestness in his voice left no doubt of his sincerity. "And you can't afford to let me die, Slade. With me dead, you would never find Tagala, and then the bottom would drop out of Mr. Shei's scheme."

Slade fumed and gnashed his teeth in impotent rage. A glance at The Phantom's face, smiling and yet grimly determined, seemed to increase his fury. But The Phantom's airy confidence was all on the surface. He knew that his dramatic gesture had only postponed the crisis, and already his mind was planning another move.

At last Slade's rage cooled and his reason reasserted itself. Pointing to the stairway, he bawled an order to the man behind Helen to take her back to her room. The Phantom drew a long breath of relief as she was half led, half carried up the remaining steps; but the comfort the sight gave him was of brief duration.

Now Slade's finger was pointing at himself. "Take his gun away," he ordered the men lined up behind him. "Make a rush for him, all at once, but don't shoot. Go!"

The men bounded forward, but in the same instant The Phantom's pistol spoke twice. Two yells of pain followed the sharp cracks of the weapon, and the leaders of the rush sank to the floor. The others stopped, stared diffidently at the steadily pointing pistol, then wavered and fell back. Once more The Phantom had triumphed. He cast a quick glance at the two who had fallen. He had aimed to cripple, not to kill, and he could see that their wounds were not serious.

Slade shook his fist at the cowering men.

"Are you all white-livered kittens?" he shouted. "Are you going to let one man bluff you? Rush at him again, all together!"

The Phantom tensed himself for the attack. He quavered inwardly as he recalled that only two slugs remained in his cartridge chamber. He crouched behind the pistol, fixing each man in turn with a piercing gaze. The line advanced with a rush. Someone, more intrepid than the others, seized one of his legs and tried to pull him to the floor, but The Phantom disposed of him with a vigorous kick. The next was dispatched with a well-aimed bullet, and the third went reeling to the floor from a blow with the butt of his pistol. He took careful aim before he fired his one remaining shot, and a scream of agony told that the bullet had found its mark. Again the line wavered and broke. On the floor lay five who had been maimed by The Phantom's bullets and one who was still unconscious from the blow with the pistol. Of the original eleven combatants only five remained, but also The Phantom's ammunition was spent, and at any moment one or more of the wounded might revive and get back into the fray.

Slade's face was white with helpless rage. He could not know that The Phantom's cartridge chamber was empty. He stamped his foot and again shook his fist at the men. Taking advantage of his temporary distraction, The Phantom glided forward and, stooping quickly, snatched a pistol from the cramped fingers of one of the wounded. Then he threw down his own weapon and hurried back to his position at the door.

Slade noticed his sudden move out of the tail of an eye, but not soon enough to prevent it. He turned again to the remnant of his little army. His face was dark and bore an ominous scowl.

"We will get him yet," he declared, snarling. "Form a line and take aim, but don't shoot to kill. Aim for the arms and legs only. Don't shoot until I give the word."

The men spread out in a half circle, and The Phantom saw five pistols pointing at him. There was a malevolent grin on Slade's lips as he watched the preparations. Then he stepped to one side of the half circle.

"Fire!" he commanded.

The Phantom ducked just as a chorus of shots rang out. A stinging sensation in the shoulder told him he had been hit, but he choked back the cry of pain that rose in his throat. A dense film of powder hung in the air, and for a few moments the firing line was only a row of shadowy forms. The Phantom thought of flight, but someone opened a window and the smoke quickly scattered. In the next instant the blare of a motor horn was heard in the distance.

The men exchanged quick glances, and The Phantom fancied he saw a look of relief on Slade's face. In the muttered conversation that followed he made out the name of Mr. Shei, and new misgivings caused him to forget the stinging pain in his shoulder. Slade's handling of the situation had exposed him as a bungler, but for Mr. Shei's ingenuity and resourcefulness The Phantom had a high respect. If Mr. Shei had arrived, as the blare of the horn and the conversation among the men seemed to signify, then a new and more critical situation awaited him.

He glanced toward the end of the hall. A faint glimmer of dawn showed against the window back of the stairway railing. The night had been crowded with exciting events, and the time had passed more quickly than he realized. Again Mr. Shei's name was mentioned among the men, and then a hush fell over the group. A door opened at one side of the hall, and in the next instant The Phantom's eyes widened into a bewildered stare.

The tall man who entered and was received with such marked deference by Slade and the others was none other than Vincent Starr!

A film floated before The Phantom's eyes. It seemed almost unbelievable at first, but a succession of minor incidents and circumstances that had vaguely puzzled him at times suddenly came back to him in the light of a new significance. He had been blind, he told himself; yet it was no wonder that he had been deceived. His concern for Helen had been uppermost in his mind, and he was forced to admit that Starr had played his game very shrewdly.

The newcomer cast a swift, comprehensive glance up and down the hall, then turned to Slade, and the two engaged in a low-voiced conversation. Now and then Starr mentioned Culligore's name, and The Phantom gathered from isolated words and phrases that something of an unpleasant nature had happened to the lieutenant. He learned, too, that there had been developments that necessitated quick action on Mr. Shei's part and that the latter had made a quick motor trip from New York to Azurecrest. The Phantom absorbed these bits of news with interest, but all the time he was studying the characteristic gestures with which Starr emphasized his statements. Once before, while standing in the Thelma Theater, it struck him that there was something familiar about them, and the same impression came to him now. He was searching his memory for half-forgotten facts when Starr suddenly turned round and faced him.

"Surprised?" he inquired, and his smile exposed two rows of flashingly white teeth.

"A little, at first, but I think I understand it all now," was The Phantom's nonchalant reply. Then, of a sudden, his figure stiffened. Starr had delivered another of his oddly expressive gestures, and it had started another train of recollections in The Phantom's mind. "Starr," he added impulsively, "you were once a member of my organization."

"Only a very humble one," admitted Starr, "and it was years back, so it's no wonder you didn't recognize me at first. In those days you scarcely noticed me, but I was watching and studying you all the time. There were a lot of melodramatic notions in my head, and The Gray Phantom was my hero. I dreamed of some day eclipsing his achievements, and I think I have succeeded. You see, the Thelma Theater, for all the fun I got out of the experiment, was only a cover for my other and more fascinating activities."

"My first impression was correct, then," murmured The Phantom, addressing himself rather than Starr. "I suspected Mr. Shei was a former follower of mine and had learned his methods from me, and that's why I decided to defeat his purpose and break up his organization. Now I'm doubly glad that I took up the cudgels against you, Starr."

"Glad?" A puzzled frown crossed Starr's face. "You are a beaten man, defeated by a once insignificant pupil of yours. Why should you be glad?"

"Defeated?" The Phantom threw back his head and smiled. "Not just yet, Starr. The Gray Phantom doesn't even know the meaning of the word. Before I drop out of this game you and your crowd will be in jail."

A cloud gathered on Starr's forehead. "You are a curious character. I have beaten you at every turn. I have you so completely cornered that you can't even raise your pistol against me without endangering the life of a certain person whom you are deeply interested in. By the way, Slade has bungled this situation. He tells me that you have kidnaped Doctor Tagala and refuse to tell where he is hidden."

"He has told you the exact facts. You will never see Tagala again until I release him, and that I won't do until Miss Hardwick has been freed and the antidote turned over to me."

Starr's lip curled scornfully. "As I said, Slade has bungled the situation. He doesn't seem to understand what kind of persuasion to exert on a man like you. I think I can suggest an improvement. Miss Hardwick, as I think you know, received a dose of datura poison calculated to produce death within seven days. What is the matter?" he added quickly as The Phantom winced and touched his left shoulder. "Ah! You have been wounded!"

"Only a scratch," said The Phantom coolly, despite the sharp twinges that now and then shot through the injured shoulder. "What about Miss Hardwick?"

"As I said, the injection she received was calculated to kill within seven days. As you know, if you read the accounts of Virginia Darrow's death, the dose can be so adjusted as to produce death in a much shorter time--say fifteen minutes or half an hour. Doctor Tagala, who is a very fascinating gentleman, explained the method to me very carefully."

"I don't quite see----" began The Phantom, an uneasy flicker in his eyes; but Starr had already turned to his lieutenant.

"Slade," he crisply commanded, "in one of the drawers of the desk in the laboratory you will find several bottles of datura poison. Bring me one of those marked 'Series A.' Fetch a hypodermic syringe, too, and be quick about it."

Slade withdrew. A horrifying suspicion was entering The Phantom's mind. Starr's methods were subtler and far more frightful than his subordinate's.

"You look faint," observed Starr with a glance at The Phantom's face. A trace of sarcasm edged his words. "I'm afraid the wound is very painful. Too bad Doctor Tagala isn't here to treat it."

The Phantom was about to reply, but just then Slade returned and handed his superior a syringe and a small bottle containing a dark liquid. Starr studied the label for a moment.

"Correct," he murmured. "It's fortunate Doctor Tagala taught me how to use a syringe. In a few moments Miss Hardwick will have received a second dose of datura poison--one that will kill her inside half an hour unless Doctor Tagala should administer the restorative in the meantime."

A cry broke from The Phantom's lips. The severe pain in the shoulder, together with the terrifying realization that had just flashed through his mind, made him suddenly dizzy. He leaned weakly against the wall. In the same instant Starr, quick to seize the opportunity, wrenched the pistol from his hand.

"This is ever so much better," he murmured elatedly. "I think you will be willing to produce Doctor Tagala as soon as I have injected the second dose of poison into Miss Hardwick's veins. Hold him, Slade, till I come back."

He instructed one of the other men to follow him and hurried away, but his words kept dinning in The Phantom's consciousness. He made a strong effort to fight down the treacherous weakness that was stealing over him. He wondered why his eyes saw nothing but whirling specks and why his knees shook so. The loss of blood, he reflected, must have weakened him more than he had realized. Suddenly everything went black, and with a despairing moan he sank to the floor.

He heard Slade's derisive laugh, but it had an unreal and far-away sound.

"Dead to the world," muttered Slade, and The Phantom was dimly conscious that someone was bending over him. "Well, I hope for the girl's sake that he comes to before the half hour is up."