Chapter VII: Mr. Shei Shows His Hand

In the dusk of the following morning a tall, gray-clad figure alighted from a train in the Grand Central terminal, glanced cautiously to right and left among the thin scattering of passengers, and with a furtive air traversed the vast concourse and gained the street by one of the side exits. With the habitual vigilance of a hunted man, he paused for a few moments under the canopy and scanned the face of each loiterer and passer-by. A dull, discordant din testified that the city was awakening, and a pale shimmer of dawn was shattering the mists hanging like a gauzy veil over Manhattan. Finally the gray-clad figure moved on, walked a block and a half to the west and, selecting an unpretentious restaurant, stepped in and ordered breakfast.

The Gray Phantom's campaign was on.

Perils lurked everywhere. Though he had changed his ways, he had not yet paid off his old scores. He still had the law to reckon with, for the outstanding charges against him were grave and numerous enough to send him to prison for the rest of his life. The capture of The Gray Phantom, once one of the most celebrated of rogues, would create a profound sensation and confer great fame on the captor. Once it became known that he had emerged from his hiding place, the entire city would be converted into a huge man-trap with claws set to catch the celebrated outlaw.

That was not all. The newspaper accounts of the police inquiry into the Thelma tragedy, which The Phantom had carefully perused on the train, had hinted rather broadly that Mr. Shei and The Gray Phantom were identical. It was pointed out that Mr. Shei's exploits were the only ones in recent years that had equaled The Phantom's as to magnitude and daring, and that there were many points of similarity in the methods of the two rogues. To be sure, The Phantom had never been known to stoop to murder, but this did not necessarily eliminate him as an object of suspicion, and it was significant that the commission of the crime had been hedged in with all the subtlety and mysteriousness that characterized The Gray Phantom's tactics. It was predicted that if The Phantom were apprehended, the mystery surrounding the identity and the movements of Mr. Shei would be cleared up automatically.

The Phantom smiled faintly as he finished his breakfast and walked out. His step was elastic, and his eye held the steely gleam which his former associates had learned to interpret as a sign that their leader was bent on some stupendous adventure. It was still early, and there was only a thin sprinkling of traffic in the streets, and the chances of his being recognized were correspondingly slight.

As yet he had no definite plan in mind. His decision to make war on Mr. Shei had been made suddenly and largely on the impulse of the moment. It was in keeping with his determination to blot out that part of himself which the world knew as The Gray Phantom. The realization had come to him in a flash that the work of his other self was being carried on vicariously by the person known as Mr. Shei. If his suspicions were correct, and if the latter was indeed a disciple of his, then Mr. Shei was a part of the past he had vowed to uproot and destroy. His regeneration would not be complete until this object had been accomplished.

He chuckled a little as he walked along. It was odd, he thought, that Wade should have guessed the motive for his determination to tear his past to shreds. Throughout his striving and reaching for something higher and better, The Phantom had vaguely and instinctively felt that the bright, brown eyes of Helen Hardwick were his lodestars, but Wade's crudely phrased remark had been needed to make the impression clear. He knew it was largely because of Helen's faith in him that he was now attacking the hardest and most perilous task of his career. Vaguely he wondered what she would think when she heard of his latest adventure, and he felt a fleeting temptation to tell her of his decision. He rejected it, however, resolving it would be time enough to make his plans known to her when they were in a more mature shape.

The sight of a knot of curious idlers outside a drug store in Times Square caused him to quicken his steps. He knew the psychology of city crowds and that the merest trifle is sufficient to attract a throng, but this gathering seemed to have been drawn together by something out of the ordinary. As unobtrusively as he could, he wedged his way through the little crowd, consisting mostly of homeward-bound night workers and belated pleasure seekers, and now he saw the object of their interest was a small square of paper pasted to the pane of the show window. A flicker of surprise crossed The Phantom's face as he read the typewritten inscription:

For the diversion of the public and the edification of the police, I
beg to announce that my next, and so far, greatest, coup will be
directed against the seven wealthiest men in New York City, whose
names I shall take a pleasure in announcing in a day or two. By a
unique and sensational method of persuasion these gentlemen will be
induced to transfer half of their respective fortunes to me.

Mr. Shei.

A grin tugged at The Phantom's lips as he read the announcement a second time. Mr. Shei, in flaunting his intentions before the eyes of the public and the police, was living up to time-honored traditions of melodrama. It was of a piece with the rascal's erratic and extravagant nature, and the boastful phrasing of the announcement, as well as the incidental taunt flung at the police, was quite characteristic of him. Yet, despite the pompous claptrap with which Mr. Shei was adorning his project, the magnitude of it appealed to The Phantom's imagination. It was fully as great and daring an enterprise as The Phantom himself had ever attempted. If the scheme succeeded--and Mr. Shei's undertakings invariably did--the loot would run well into ten figures.

From remarks dropped by the bystanders he gathered that stickers bearing the same boastful announcements had been distributed during the early morning hours at various points throughout the city. Mr. Shei seemed to have spared no pains in his effort to startle the metropolis. The Phantom was edging away from the throng when a few words, spoken in low and drawling tones, caused him to look quickly aside.

"Pardon, but haven't we met before?"

The Phantom felt a faint thrill of apprehension. Recognition at this point might prove disastrous to his plans. Beside him, with tired and red-lidded eyes peering into his face, stood a tall, gaunt man whose somewhat ludicrous appearance was accentuated by full evening dress.

"I think not," he said hastily, and started to walk away. The other, refusing to be squelched, fell into step beside him.

"Now, isn't that queer?" he remarked with a wheezy chuckle. "The moment I saw you it occurred to me that your face seemed familiar. By the way, what do you think of Mr. Shei's latest?"

"Quite ambitious." The Phantom gave his uninvited companion a keen glance, and the covert scrutiny stirred several shadowy recollections in his mind. The curious individual seemed well past middle age, and his sallow complexion and furrowed face indicated decrepit health. He walked with a shuffling gait and a catarrhal affection of the nose necessitated frequent use of his handkerchief. The Phantom was trying to recall when and under what circumstances they had met before, but his face indicated nothing but annoyance at an unwelcome intrusion.

"Ambitious is the word," assented the man in evening dress. "Do you know, my dear sir, that if Mr. Shei carries out his threat and annexes fifty per cent of the seven biggest fortunes in town, his net gain will run into the billions? I can only hope that I am not one of the seven selected for shearing."

The Phantom gave him another quick glance. A gleam of humor relieved the woe-begone expression of the man's face. Again The Phantom searched his memory. The last remark had carried a strong hint to the effect that his companion was a man of great wealth.

"My name, as you probably know, although you pretend to have forgotten it, is W. Rufus Fairspeckle," continued the other, taking The Phantom's arm and turning into a side street. "I don't know how many millions I have, but I have enough to make me a shining mark for Mr. Shei's latest offensive. Ah, I see you remember me now!"

The Phantom's involuntary start had betrayed him. The mere mention of Mr. Fairspeckle's name had instantly clarified his hazy recollections. He recalled now that, some five or six years ago, he had had a brief and casual encounter with the man. It had occurred in the course of one of The Phantom's spectacular adventures, and he had almost forgotten the incident that brought them together. Now, as the memory of it flashed back into his mind, he gazed more intently at his companion.

As the man himself had intimated, W. Rufus Fairspeckle was one of the wealthiest men in New York City. Mostly through luck and partly through an inborn genius for speculation, he had amassed a huge fortune. At fifty he had retired from business, declaring that he had worked hard all his life and was entitled to a rest and a little diversion. Then he had promptly proceeded to the enjoyment of the pleasures that had been denied him in his youth, and he had gone about it with an avidity that created a great deal of jocular comment and made him known as a very eccentric individual.

"You have a long memory," observed The Phantom, glancing uneasily at Mr. Fairspeckle's formal attire. It drew many amused glances from pedestrians, and The Phantom did not care to attract unnecessary attention. "Now, if you will excuse me, I think I will wish you good morning. I have a busy day ahead of me."

"Not so fast," protested Mr. Fairspeckle, clutching The Phantom's sleeve with his long, bony fingers. "You are coming with me."

The words had a peremptory sound. The Phantom knitted his brows.

"Why, if I may ask?"

"See that cop?" Mr. Fairspeckle pointed to a blue-coated figure half a block ahead. "He's a hard-working soul and presumably he is ambitious to obtain promotion. The capture of The Gray Phantom would be quite an event in his humdrum life."

The Phantom sensed a threat. He glanced about him quickly. The streets were rapidly filling with traffic, and to break away might not prove easy. Besides, he was curious to know the reason for Mr. Fairspeckle's evident determination to detain him. Deciding to adopt the safer course, he simulated an affable smile.

"Suppose we let the hard-working cop earn his promotion some other way," he suggested. "Where to, Mr. Fairspeckle?"

"My apartment at the Whipple Hotel. We're almost there. Glad you are going to be reasonable, Mr. Vanardy. I need someone to talk to. Ever suffer from insomnia?"

"Never."

"Lucky dog! Insomnia is the bane of my existence. At times, when I can't sleep, I sit at the club and bore my friends to death. When I have no friends to talk to, I walk. Last night I walked from one end of Manhattan Island to the other and halfway back again. Oh, yes, I'm more chipper than you would think from looking at me. Well, my rambles last night explain why you see me in these togs. I was just about tired enough to fall asleep standing on my feet when I saw Mr. Shei's notice. In an instant I was wide awake again. Confound the fellow's impudence! Here we are."

The Phantom was conducted through the chastely carved portals of one of the quieter hotels in the upper Forties, and a few moments later they were facing each other across the redwood table in Mr. Fairspeckle's library. The apartment, though luxuriously appointed, was a faithful reflection of the eccentric nature of its occupant.

"You are careless, Mr. Vanardy," said Mr. Fairspeckle musingly. The partly drawn shades admitted only a vague half-dawn into the room, and the shadows lent an air of mysteriousness to his appearance. "It isn't safe for a man in your position to walk about without disguise."

"Disguises are treacherous things. I have used them now and then, but ordinarily I feel safer without them. Anyhow, no one but you is aware of my presence in New York."

Mr. Fairspeckle drew a palm across his chin. His red-lidded eyes regarded The Phantom shrewdly. "I wonder what brings you to New York at this particular time--at the very time when Mr. Shei is launching his most ambitious scheme. You will admit the coincidence is rather striking?"

"Some people might deduce from it that I am Mr. Shei," suggested The Phantom, smiling. "They would be wrong."

There was a quiver at the corners of Mr. Fairspeckle's thin lips. His eyes held a suspicious twinkle.

"Perhaps," he commented dryly. Then he fell to drumming the table with his finger tips. "What I would like to know for certain is whether I am one of the seven. You see, I wouldn't object to being murdered by this Mr. Shei. Most people think I'm leading a useless life and ought to be dead, anyhow. It won't be long until an undertaker pumps my carcass full of formaldehyde. What I object to is the idea of being swindled out of my money. No man ever got the best of me yet, and I don't intend that Mr. Shei shall make a fool of me. He can kill me, but I won't hand him a cent. I'll be hanged if I will!"

He thumped the table with his fist. There was something so ludicrous about his grim earnestness that The Phantom could scarcely repress a smile. At the same time he was conscious of a suspicion for which he could not quite account. Mr. Fairspeckle's indignation seemed not quite natural. Even the vehement thump of his fist against the table had an artificial sound. An intuition, flashing into his mind out of nowhere, held The Phantom spellbound for a moment. In the next instant he laughed inwardly at the absurdity of it, telling himself that he must hold his imagination in leash.

"It will be interesting to see how Mr. Shei intends to proceed," he casually remarked.

"It will," spluttered Mr. Fairspeckle. "You can trust him to work some devilishly clever scheme. He always does. Do you suppose," and he bent his bony frame over the table and gazed searchingly at The Phantom, "that the murder at the Thelma Theater night before last was the first episode in this latest enterprise of Mr. Shei's?"

"You mean the murder of Miss Darrow? There seems to be no doubt but that Mr. Shei had a hand in it. Everything points to----"

He paused of a sudden. All at once it occurred to him that there was something odd about Mr. Fairspeckle's question. Immediately upon reading of the Thelma murder, The Phantom had suspected that it was the prelude to another of Mr. Shei's spectacular adventures, but the suspicion had been wholly intuitive. As far as outward appearances went, there was nothing in the murder of Virginia Darrow to suggest that it was anything more than an isolated incident. It was curious, therefore, that Mr. Fairspeckle should look for a connecting link between the crime at the Thelma and Mr. Shei's threat.

"Everything points to Mr. Shei as the perpetrator of the murder," he guardedly went on, "but whether the crime has any bearing on Mr. Shei's new venture is hard to tell. It doesn't seem likely. How could he possibly further his scheme by an act of that kind? His plan is to separate seven of New York's richest men from half of their wealth. How is the death of Miss Darrow going to help him in an undertaking of that kind?"

A sly smile twitched the corners of Mr. Fairspeckle's lips. "Nevertheless," he observed, "I think that you and I agree. I am a pretty good judge of faces, and your expression a moment ago betrayed you, Mr. Vanardy. My question seemed innocent enough at first, but on second thought it startled you. Suppose we be frank. Both of us believe that the Thelma affair was the beginning of Mr. Shei's latest move. We can't see how or why just now, but we know that his schemes run deep. Isn't it so?"

The Phantom, momentarily baffled by the older man's shrewd deductions, gazed pensively at the ceiling. A jumble of thoughts and questions shot back and forth through his mind. Did Mr. Fairspeckle suspect that Mr. Shei and The Gray Phantom were identical? Or was it possible that---- He did not finish the thought. The suspicion that had come to him several times during the interview seemed just as unreasonable as it was startling, and it had no firmer foundation than two or three puzzling circumstances and a tantalizing touch of mysteriousness in Mr. Fairspeckle's attitude.

"It's an interesting theory, and I've given quite a little thought to it," he finally admitted. "Strange that the same idea should have come to both of us, isn't it? Especially since there seems to be neither reason nor logic behind it. How did you happen to think of it, Mr. Fairspeckle?"

The other man stroked his lean chin with a self-satisfied air. "What's that old saw about great minds traveling in the same channel? I don't know just how the idea came to me, but I'm glad we understand each other. Now we can talk without quibbling. But first I want a cup of coffee. Hope you will join me. Haiuto!"

He fairly shouted the last word, but The Phantom doubted whether his thin and rasping voice went farther than the walls.

"Haiuto!" Again Mr. Fairspeckle's voice rose to a shrill but inadequate crescendo. "That confounded Jap's pretending he is deaf again. Excuse me, will you?"

He strode irately from the room and slammed the door. A wrinkle of deep perplexity appeared on The Phantom's brow. Mr. Fairspeckle puzzled and intrigued him. Either he was a very slippery individual, or else ingenuousness itself. When he returned and announced that Haiuto would serve their coffee in a few minutes, The Phantom searched his face in vain for a sign of guile. If anything, he was a little more affable than on leaving the room.

"That fool doctor of mine tells me I mustn't drink coffee," he confided. "Tells me it's bad for my nerves and keeps me awake. But my nerves are worn to a frazzle, anyhow, and I never can sleep except when I want to stay awake. What were we talking about? Oh, yes--Mr. Shei."

He clasped his hands across his diaphragm. A queer smile, at once beatific and diabolical, came over his face.

"Do you know," he went on in confidential tones, "that I don't care a rap if Mr. Shei carries out his scheme as far as the other six are concerned. Of course, I don't know for certain who they are, but it's a safe bet that they are no friends of mine. I have a hunch that every one of them belongs to the old ring that fought me tooth and nail while I was climbing up in the world. It's a long story, and I'm not going to bore you with it, but you can see why I have no love for them. I could die happy to-morrow if I could see them lick the dust to-day. I feel different toward you, Vanardy. We had a tilt once, but you fought fairly. The others tried to knife me in the back. They can go to blazes for all I care."

"Then you and Mr. Shei seem to have at least one aim in common," The Phantom pointed out. He smiled genially, but his eyes were studying every shifting expression in Mr. Fairspeckle's face. For once he felt certain that the older man was not dissembling. The glint of wrath lurking in the depths of his weak eyes and the vindictive sneer about his lips told that he had spoken in all sincerity.

"We have," he declared grimly. "I hope he sends the other six to the poorhouse. But I have no intention of letting him pluck me, you understand. That's where our aims clash. He can go as far as he likes with the others, but I'll fight like a drunken Indian before I give him a red cent. I'll see myself in Hades before I----"

A knock and the opening of the door interrupted him. A Japanese with a face as expressionless as mahogany entered with a tray and served them coffee.

"Queer character, Haiuto," observed Mr. Fairspeckle when the servant, silent as a wraith, had retired. "I think he would cheerfully commit hara-kiri if I asked him to do such a senseless thing." He sipped his coffee with an air of keen enjoyment. "Great bracer for fagged nerves, eh? Would you believe that for days at a time I live on nothing but coffee? But let's get back to the subject. What shall we do with this pestiferous Mr. Shei?"

"What would you suggest?" cautiously inquired The Phantom, lifting the cup to his lips.

A beam insinuated itself in the creases of Mr. Fairspeckle's face. "Now we're getting down to essentials. As I said, Mr. Shei can fleece the other six to his heart's content, but he's got to keep hands off me. When I saw you standing in front of the drug store reading Mr. Shei's announcement, I was turning a little plan over in my mind. Then I didn't quite see how to work it, but I do now."

Again The Phantom brought the cup to his lips. He regarded his companion inquiringly.

"You and I are going to handle Mr. Shei together," declared Mr. Fairspeckle. His face glowed as if a pleasing prospect were warming his soul. "We will put a crimp in his scheme and show him--why, what's the matter, Vanardy?"

The Phantom had slouched down in his chair, and now his head began to wag from side to side.

"Nothing," he murmured dazedly. "I just feel a bit drowsy. Would you mind opening the window? The--the coffee----"

His eyes rolled, then the lids fluttered and closed, and he sagged limply in the chair. With a gratified chuckle Mr. Fairspeckle stepped to the other side of the table and regarded him gloatingly.

"The Gray Phantom isn't half so clever as he's supposed to be," he mumbled. Then his hand went out and touched a button. A moment later Haiuto stood at attention in the doorway.

"Haiuto," inquired Mr. Fairspeckle, "how much chloral did you mix in Mr. Vanardy's cup of coffee?"

"Plenty," said the servant, and this time the ghost of a grin flickered across his face. "He sleep long time."

Mr. Fairspeckle nodded elatedly. "Take him to my bedroom," he instructed, "and make him comfortable."

With an ease which showed that he possessed all the agile strength of his race, Haiuto carried The Phantom into one of the adjoining rooms in the suite, placed him on the bed, and adjusted a pillow under his head. For a few moments he stood peering down into the motionless man's face. Then he silently left the room and closed the door behind him.

A minute later The Phantom raised himself to a sitting posture and blinked his eyes at the sunlight streaming in beneath the drawn window shades.

"You are fairly clever, Mr. Fairspeckle," he said half aloud, "but you ought to modernize your methods. Drugged coffee has gone out of fashion. Hope I didn't kill the potted fern at the window behind my chair."