Chapter XII: The Phantom Has an Inspiration

"Remarkable, sir; most remarkable! May I feel your pulse?"

The Gray Phantom knew, even before he opened his eyes, that the speaker was Doctor Tyson Bimble. He was lying in bed, undressed, in the same room his host had assigned him the night before. The lights were on, so he must have slept through the day, and he felt correspondingly refreshed.

The anthropologist, sitting in a chair beside the bed, was timing his pulse beats. The doctor's thin legs were wrapped in the same tight trousers he had worn on their first meeting, and an acid-stained coat was tightly buttoned across his plump stomach.

"Normal," he declared admiringly, pocketing his watch. "You possess extraordinary recuperative powers, my friend. What a constitution!"

The Phantom's lips tightened. Scraps of recollection were coming to him. He gazed narrowly into the doctor's guileless face.

"A little chloroform goes a long way even with a constitution like mine," he remarked pointedly.

"Ah, but you were utterly exhausted, my friend. Otherwise my excellent Jerome would not have had quite such an easy time with you. A little strong-arm play and a whiff or two of chloroform were all that was necessary. The effect soon wore off, and you lapsed into a natural and invigorating sleep."

"So, it was Jerome. I guessed as much." The Phantom looked perplexedly at the doctor. "But wasn't it a rather rough way of putting a man to bed?"

"It was the only safe way of dealing with an impulsive and strong-headed man like you. But for the timely appearance of my admirable Jerome, you would undoubtedly have walked straight into the arms of the police."

The argument sounded plausible enough. The Phantom realized that the reaction following his escape from the tunnel might have caused him to do several foolish things.

An astute grin creased the doctor's face. "Even the Gray Phantom is at times very transparent. Last night, when you started removing your clothes in my presence, I knew that you had no intention of going to bed. However, I reasoned that you were an intelligent man and could be trusted to take care of yourself. I woke up at an early hour this morning and stepped to your door. You had not returned. Greatly alarmed, I told Jerome to look for you. The estimable fellow found you shortly after you had dug your way out of the tunnel. You ought to feel deeply indebted to him, sir."

"I do," with a faint trace of sarcasm. "But I should like to wring the neck of the practical joker who blockaded this end of the passage while I was at the other."

The words were no sooner spoken than the doctor's face underwent a startling transformation. The affable smile vanished, giving way to a look of such violent wrath that even the Phantom felt a little awed.

"The hound shall get his just deserts, sir," declared the doctor in snarling tones. Then, as if regretting his display of temper, he laughed easily. "Provided, of course, we learn who perpetrated the outrage."

Again the Phantom was puzzled. He was certain the anthropologist's ferocious outburst had been genuine. It had been far too real and convincing to be feigned even by a clever actor. Yet he sensed a contradiction. Whoever was responsible for the blockaded door must have traversed the doctor's house on his way to the cellar. It did not seem likely that strangers could be taking such liberties in a private residence without the knowledge of its occupant.

"I really ought to have new locks put on the doors," observed Bimble, addressing himself rather than his guest. "That collection of mine is too valuable to be left unprotected."

It sounded convincing, and the casual tone went a long way toward quieting the Phantom's misgivings. He knew that an unduly suspicious nature is as bad as a gullible one. Hadn't he been too prone to put the wrong construction on the eccentricities of a scientist? Everything considered, the doctor's actions had certainly been friendly. Had his intentions been hostile, he could easily have turned his guest over to the police.

The Phantom shifted the subject. "Well, at any rate, I proved to my satisfaction that Gage's bedchamber can't be entered by way of the tunnel."

The twinkle behind the lenses expressed doubt and amusement. "And so you have convinced yourself that Pinto committed the murder?"

"That nobody else could have committed it," corrected the Phantom.

"Which means precisely the same thing. Even if we grant that you are being frank with me--which I strongly doubt, by the way--you seem to have a passion for drawing obvious inferences. From the fact that you were unable to operate the mechanism from the outside you deduce that the murderer could not have entered the room via the tunnel. That, my friend, is very superficial reasoning. For instance, Gage himself might have admitted the murderer through the revolving frame."

The Phantom's brows went up. The possibility suggested by the doctor had not occurred to him. The next moment he grinned at the sheer preposterousness of the idea. "But few men are obliging enough to welcome their murderers with open arms."

"Not if they come as murderers." The doctor gave him a keen, searching look. "But suppose they come in the guise of friends? That's only a random suggestion, but you will admit the possibility exists." He shrugged his shoulders, as if to dismiss the subject. "Jerome has repaired the damage you wrought in the tunnel last night, covering up all traces of your little adventure, so there is no danger of the police tracing you here."

"Thoughtful," murmured the Phantom a little absently.

"Which reminds me," added the anthropologist, "that you are again a hunted man. The police have seen their mistake and the prisoner was released this morning. He bears a superficial resemblance to you, but comparison of his finger prints with those of the Gray Phantom proved conclusively he was not the man they wanted, and he seems to have given a satisfactory account of himself in every way."

"What else?" asked the Phantom, deeply interested.

Doctor Bimble laughed merrily. "Every newspaper in town is poking fun at the stupid police--and well they might. The prisoner proved to be a reporter employed by the _Sphere_, whose only offense is an inclination to forget that these are dry times. A reporter, of all persons! It's delicious!"

"A reporter--on the _Sphere_!" echoed the Phantom, sensing a possible significance in the combination. "Not, by any chance, the one who reported the Gage murder?"

"The same. That's what lends an extra touch of humor to the silly blunder. Imagine a journalist, confronted with a scarcity of news, going out and committing a murder in order to have something to write about!"

The Phantom joined in the doctor's laughter, but his face sobered quickly. "Is this unfortunate journalist wearing a beard?"

"No; but I understand your photograph in the rogues' gallery shows you smooth shaven, so the absence of a beard really enhances the resemblance to the pictures published."

The Phantom was silent for a time. There was a hint of deep thought in the lines around his eyes. His hand passed slowly across his beard, still gritty and tangled from his experience in the tunnel. Suddenly the muscles of his face twitched.

"Anything else in the papers, doctor?"

"Only the usual silly doings of a silly world."

"I mean in connection with the murder. No new developments?"

"None whatever, except that the search for the Gray Phantom has been renewed with increased vigor. There is an interview with the police commissioner, in which that optimistic soul declares the rascal cannot have left New York and that he will surely be captured within the next few hours."

The Phantom smiled amusedly, but there was a fog in his mind. Was it possible no one had yet discovered that a second murder had been perpetrated in the Sylvanus Gage house? With his own eyes the Phantom had seen the housekeeper's face fade into the ashen hue of death, and it seemed incredible that the body had not been found.

"By the way," remarked Doctor Bimble, as if carrying out the other's train of thought, "I wonder what has become of Gage's housekeeper. I walked over there this morning to see if I could do anything for the poor lady. The front door was unlocked, but Mrs. Trippe wasn't about."

It required a little effort on the Phantom's part to keep his voice steady. "H'm. She has had quite a shock. Perhaps she is lying ill and helpless in some part of the house."

"The same thing occurred to me, and so I looked in every room in the house. The lady was nowhere in sight, however. Naturally she found it unpleasant to live alone in the place after the murder. She may have gone away for a visit."

"Yes, quite likely." It was on the Phantom's tongue to tell what he had seen, but for a reason not quite clear to himself he desisted. Doctor Bimble's revelation was somewhat staggering, and the disappearance of the housekeeper's body was a poser that baffled the Phantom's astuteness. The mystery seemed to grow more tangled and intricate with every passing hour, and he felt that, so far, his progress had been dishearteningly slow. Yet, with the whole city and its environs converted into a vast man trap, what could he do?

"Dear me!" The anthropologist jumped up with the abruptness of a rabbit. "I sit here babbling like a garrulous old woman while you must be famishing. I shall have Jerome bring you some food at once. I suppose," stopping on his way to the door and regarding the Phantom with a serio-comic expression, "it isn't necessary to warn you that it would be unwise to go out on the streets a night like this."

A grin masked the Phantom's searching look. "You seem deeply concerned in my welfare, doctor."

"Naturally." Bimble drew himself up. "With me a bargain is always a bargain. I hope you haven't forgotten our understanding."

"I see," the Gray Phantom replied. "You want my skeleton to come to you intact. Yes, doctor, I'm aware of the inclemency of the weather. You needn't worry on my account."

The doctor tarried a moment longer, cleared his throat as if about to say something else, then swung around on his heels and left the room. The Phantom looked about him. On a chair near the bed hung his clothes, neatly brushed and pressed, and on the dresser, laid out in an orderly row, were the contents of his pockets, including pistol, metal case, and watch. The Phantom slipped out of bed and examined the articles. Nothing was missing and nothing had been disturbed. Evidently Doctor Bimble trusted to his guest's good sense to keep him indoors.

And well he might, was the Phantom's grim thought. There were excellent reasons why he should remain under the anthropologist's roof--reasons which only a fool or a desperado would ignore. The police, goaded by ridicule and incensed at the way they had been made game of, were undoubtedly exerting every effort and using every trick and stratagem to ensnare their quarry. There were pitfalls at every crossing, traps in every block, prying eyes in a thousand places. To defy such dangers would be sheer madness.

Yet there were equally urgent reasons why the Phantom should not remain idle. One of them, and the most potent of them all, had to do with Helen Hardwick. Another was the Phantom's irrepressible passion for flinging his gauntlet in the face of danger. A third was the firm conviction that he could rely on his mental and physical agility to see him through, no matter what hazards he might encounter.

He sprang back into bed as a noise sounded at the door. The cat-footed and tight-lipped manservant entered with a folding table, a stack of newspapers, and a trayful of steaming dishes. The Phantom watched the nimble play of his long, prehensile fingers as he set the table.

"You're quite a scrapper, Jerome," he observed good-naturedly.

"Yes, sir." The man's gloomy face was unreadable.

"You didn't give me much of a chance to use my fists on you."

"No, sir."

The Phantom attacked the hot and savory soup. "Pugilistic and culinary talents are a rare combination, Jerome."

"Yes, sir."

"But you are not very much of a conversationalist."

"No, sir."

The man, standing with his back to the wall, apparently immovable save when he unbent to pass a dish or replenish the water tumbler, piqued the Phantom's curiosity. A grenadier turned to stone while standing at attention could not be more rigid and impassive than Jerome, yet there was a hint of constant alertness about the dull eyes and the lines at the corners of his mouth.

"There are moments when silence is golden," observed the Phantom. "Perhaps this is one of them."

"Perhaps, sir."

The Phantom finished the meal in silence. When Jerome had gone, he turned to the newspapers, noticing that the front pages were largely given over to himself. His own photograph was published side by side with that of the _Sphere_ reporter, whose name appeared to be Thomas Granger. Many thousands of dollars were being wagered on the outcome of the contest between the Phantom and the police, with the odds slightly in favor of the latter. A yellow journal was offering prizes to those of its readers who furnished the best suggestions for the capture of the famous outlaw. There were interviews with leading citizens in all walks of life, expressing amazement and indignation over the murder of Sylvanus Gage and the dilatory tactics of the officials. Even Wall Street was disturbed, for who knew but what the celebrated rogue was planning another of the stupendous raids that had rocked the financial world on two or three occasions in the past?

The Phantom was amused, but also a trifle perturbed. The handicaps he had to overcome if he were to accomplish his purpose were rather staggering. But for the eccentric anthropologist's hospitality he might even now be in the coils of the police. There was a troubled gleam in his eyes as he tossed the papers aside. For several minutes he sat on the edge of the bed, a thoughtful pucker between his eyes, abstractedly gazing down at the papers on the floor.

Of a sudden he roused himself out of a brown study. While his thoughts had been far away, his eyes had been steadily fixed on the two photographs in the center of the page spread out at his feet. Now a steely glitter appeared in his narrowing eyes and a smile spread slowly from the corners of his lips.

In an instant he was on his feet, glancing at his watch. It was almost ten o'clock. He hurried quietly to the door, listened at the keyhole for a few moments, then shot the bolt. From now on his movements were characterized by the brisk precision of one acting on an inspiration. Taking a sharp-edged tool from his pocket case, he stepped to the wash stand and mixed some lather. A few deft strokes and slashes, and his beard was gone. Since Patrolman Pinto had recognized him in spite of it, the beard was no longer useful, and the reddish and bristly mustache which he took from a wrapper in his metal case and affixed to his lips would serve fairly well as a temporary disguise. After a brief glance in the mirror, he put on his clothes and pocketed the articles on the dresser.

The Gray Phantom was ready for one of the maddest and most perilous enterprises of his career.