Chapter XV: A Warning From the Duke

The Phantom walked briskly, with an easy, carefree swagger, breathing freely for the first time since the beginning of the strange events that had attended his efforts to solve the mystery of the Gage murder. In the role of an irresponsible journalist with a weakness for strong liquor he could feel reasonably secure, for the police had been so cruelly nagged and ridiculed that they would think twice before repeating their sad blunder.

"Stop!" commanded a voice as he swung into Houston Street. The Phantom halted and smiled impudently into the face of a plain-clothes man who emerged from a dark doorway to look him over.

"Oh, Granger," muttered the officer disgustedly after a glance at his showy attire and a sniff of the whisky with which the Phantom, making use of the reporter's bottle, had prudently scented himself. "Sober for a change, I see. Where do you get the stuff, anyhow?"

"That would be telling. Any news of the Phantom?"

"Naw! We thought we had him a while ago, over at a Third Avenue L station, but he blew away. I s'pose you're out to nab him and get a scoop for that yellow rag of yours."

"Maybe," said the Phantom cheerfully. "It would be quite an event in my young life. I'll be on my way, if you're sure you don't want to take me to headquarters and get another sample of my finger prints."

"Aw--beat it!" muttered the detective, touched in a sore spot. The Phantom chuckled and moved on. His new role promised to be amusing as well as profitable, and the ease with which he had passed the first test gave him added confidence. Twice within the next fifteen minutes he was stopped and questioned, only to be dismissed with a disgusted grunt or a facetious remark.

As he crossed the Bowery a stocky figure in patrolman's uniform appeared around the corner and moved down the street a few paces ahead of him. After studying his gait and bearing for a few moments, the Phantom knew it was Officer Pinto. He slackened his pace and followed, stepping softly so as not to attract the policeman's attention.

Pinto's steps faltered as he approached the middle of the block, and he walked with a shuffling and uncertain air. Finally he stopped, and the Phantom thought he was gazing at a window directly in front of him. He tiptoed a little closer, and now he saw that the building on which the officer's attention was fixed so intently was none other than the murky and silent structure that had been occupied by Gage and his housekeeper.

The policeman drew a little closer to the window, then stood rigid and motionless, as if the building were exerting a peculiar fascination upon him. At that moment the Phantom would have given a great deal to know what was going on in the mind of the man he was watching. He could make a guess, but guesses were unsatisfactory. At length the officer shrugged his shoulders, as if to shake off something that oppressed him, then tried the lock in matter-of-fact fashion and moved on down the street.

The Phantom hastened after him. He was no longer trying to avoid detection, and his footfalls sounded clear and sharp in the quiet street. The policeman stopped, looked back, and peered sharply at the oncomer.

"Granger--huh!" he snorted after giving the Phantom a derisive once-over. "Say, does your ma know you're out as late as this? Getting all them glad rags mussed up in the rain, too! What's the idea?"

"The Phantom has got my goat," confessed the pseudo reporter. "It isn't natural for a man to pop in and out the way he does without getting caught."

"Well, what are you going to do about it?" grumbled the patrolman, resuming his walk.

The Phantom fell into step beside him, now and then casting a sidelong glance at his sour and uncommunicative face. All of a sudden he wondered whether the policeman was aware that a second murder had been committed in the Gage house, and again it struck him as bafflingly strange that no mention had been made of the finding of the housekeeper's body. What had become of it, and how much, if anything, did Pinto know?

"Something seems to be eating you," he observed casually, trying to adopt a phraseology suited to his role. "You were staring at that window as if you expected old Gage's ghost to take a stroll. What were you thinking of, Pinto?"

The policeman gave a quick, searching look. "Say, you've been watching me, ain't you? What's the big idea? And how do you know my name?"

The Phantom laughed engagingly. "How touchy we are to-night! I wasn't watching you, exactly. Just strolling along, hoping to bump into the Phantom and cover myself with glory. Then I saw you, and I couldn't imagine what you were seeing in that window. As for knowing your name, I happen to be aware that the officer on this beat is one Joshua Pinto and that he was called by the housekeeper the night Gage was murdered."

The patrolman, evidently satisfied with the explanation, mumbled something under his breath.

"But you haven't answered my question," persisted the Phantom, speaking in gently teasing tones. "I am still wondering what you were thinking of while standing in front of the window."

"Why, I was--just thinking, that's all."

"How illuminating! I wonder if, by any chance, your profound meditations had anything to do with the present whereabouts of Mrs. Mary Trippe, Gage's housekeeper."

The patrolman came to a dead stop. Of a sudden his face turned almost white and his eyes grew wider and wider as they stared into the questioner's face.

"What--what d'you mean?" he demanded thickly.

The Phantom laughed easily. "Why, Pinto, you're the scaredest cop I ever saw. Your nerves must be in a bad way. I was only wondering if you've seen anything of Mrs. Trippe lately."

"My nerves _are_ a bit jumpy," admitted Pinto. He was moving again, but there was evidence of weakness in the region of his knees. "They've been that way ever since I had a touch of indigestion last month. What was it you asked me about Mrs. Trippe?"

"I walked over there yesterday afternoon, meaning to ask her a question or two in connection with the murder. I couldn't find her, and the neighbors said they hadn't seen her for a day or two. Got any idea where she is?"

"No, I haven't." Pinto was speaking in calmer tones now. "Likely as not she's visiting friends or relatives somewhere. Wimmen don't like to stay in a place where there's been a murder."

"Something in that. By the way, Pinto, when were you last inside the house?"

Again, for a mere instant, the patrolman's steps faltered. He threw the man at his side an uneasy glance. "Why, let me see. It was the day I had the Phantom locked up in the bedroom and he gave me the slip. Why did you want to know?"

"No reason in particular. I was just thinking that--But my mind's wandering. Got a bit tanked early in the evening. Guess I'll turn in. See you later."

With a yawn, he turned back, fancying there was a note of relief in the policeman's farewell. He smiled as he walked along. His conversation with Pinto had cleared up one point in his mind. The officer knew something of Mrs. Trippe's fate. The dread he had evinced at mention of the housekeeper's name proved that, and his prevarications and evasions were further evidence. The plea of indigestion and nervousness, coming from one of Pinto's robust physique, was highly amusing.

Yet, illuminating as his verbal fencing match with the patrolman had been, it had merely confirmed suspicions already firmly rooted in the Phantom's mind. As yet he had not a single iota of concrete evidence, and there were several snarled threads that had to be untangled before he could accomplish much. For instance, there was the mystery surrounding the murder of Mrs. Trippe and the equally perplexing riddle of what had become of the body. Both of them must be solved before he could go far toward attaining his object.

He stopped, noticing that his mental processes had guided his steps toward the Gage house. It was still drizzling, and he was tired and hungry and wet, but the problem on which he was engaged drove all thought of rest and food from his mind. The blackness overhead was slowly breaking into a leaden gray, and from all directions came sounds of awakening life. He walked up to the door, believing that the answers to the questions that troubled him were to be found inside the house.

Then, out of the shadows, as it seemed to him, came an undersized creature with a slouching gait and glittering cat's eyes peering out from beneath the wide brim of a soft hat. The Phantom felt a slight touch on his elbow, and for an instant the sharply gleaming eyes scanned his face, then the queer-looking character shuffled away as swiftly and silently as he had appeared.

The Phantom was tempted to follow, but just then he noticed that a piece of paper was cramped between his fingers. He unfolded it and examined it in the meager light. All he could see at first was something crude and shapeless sketched with pencil, but gradually the blur dissolved into a symbol which he recognized.

It was a ducal coronet. The Phantom smiled as he looked down at the emblem of his old rival and enemy, the Duke. The paper handed him by the curious messenger was a reminder that the hand of his antagonist was reaching out for him, that though the Duke himself was in prison, his henchmen and agents were active, being at this very moment on the Phantom's trail.

He put the paper into his pocket, and in the same moment the amused smile faded from his lips. For a time he had forgotten that, to all practical purposes, he was no longer the Gray Phantom, but one Thomas Granger, journalist. His lips tightened as again he gazed at the tracings on the paper. Did it mean that the Duke's emissaries had seen through his disguise and alias, or did it mean--his figure stiffened as the latter question flashed in his mind--that Thomas Granger was a member of the Duke's band?

In vain he pondered the problem, unable to decide whether the paper had been intended for himself or for Granger. If for himself, it seemed a somewhat idle and meaningless gesture on the Duke's part, for his old enemy surely could gain nothing by sending cryptic messages to him. On the other hand, assuming that the reporter was the intended recipient, what hidden meaning was Granger supposed to read into a ducal coronet?

He tried to dismiss the problem from his mind until he could have a talk with Granger, but thoughts of the mysterious message and the strange messenger pursued him as he once more turned to the door. The entrance to the store was padlocked, but the lock on the side door yielded readily to manipulation with one of the tools in his metal case. A quick glance to left and right assured him he was unobserved. Closing the door and taking out his electric flash, which he had transferred among other things to the suit he was now wearing, he ran up the steep and creaking stairs.

He stood in a long and narrow hall. At one end was a stairway, presumably leading to the store below, and along the sides of the corridor were three doors. Opening one of them, he played the electric beam over the interior, for he did not think it safe to turn on the light. It was a small, tidily furnished bedroom, and the prevalence of feminine touches hinted that it had been occupied by the housekeeper. In the neatness and immaculateness of things there was not the slightest suggestion of tragedy, and he looked in vain for a sign that the occupant had been snatched from a humdrum life to a horrible death.

Yet, as his eyes flitted over the room, he felt a vague and haunting sense of oppression. It must be the air, he thought, which was heavy and stale, as if the window had not been opened for several days. The note handed him by the queer messenger was still a disturbing factor in his thoughts, and he took it from his pocket and examined it in the light of his flash.

At first he saw nothing but the crude pencil tracings in which he recognized the emblem of the Duke, but presently, as he gave closer attention to the outlines of the design, he detected tiny waves and jags that impressed him as being there for a purpose. He placed his magnifying lens between the electric flash and the paper, and now the uneven strokes dissolved into uncouth but fairly legible letters. He chuckled as he perceived that the Duke, always a lover of the theatrical, was in the habit of communicating with his agents by means of writing that had to be read through a magnifying lens.

Quickly he deciphered the script hidden in the ornate tracings. His face grew hard as a welter of ideas and suspicions surged through his mind. The message read:

Traitors sometimes die. Report at once.

The six words seemed to throb with a sinister meaning. They started a long train of thoughts in the Phantom's mind. For one thing, they proved that the message was intended for Granger, since there was no reason why the Duke should accuse the Gray Phantom of treachery. They also made it clear that the reporter was a member of the Duke's new organization and that by some faithless act he had incurred the displeasure of the leaders of the band.

The Phantom loathed a traitor, but the Duke himself was no stickler for fair methods, and that a member of his gang should have been caught in a perfidious act was not particularly surprising. As the Phantom saw it, the chief importance of his discovery lay in the fact that he was still laboring under a serious handicap. He had thought that in assuming the guise of a newspaper reporter he would insure himself against molestation from all sides, but now it appeared that the man whose identity he had borrowed was an object of suspicion and possible vengeance. The threat in the first sentence of the message was clear and to the point.

He scowled darkly at the message, then folded it carefully and put it in his pocket. He still had an advantage, he told himself, for he was safe so far as the police were concerned. What he had to guard against was the stealthy machinations and intrigues of the Duke's band. On the whole, it was fortunate that the note had fallen into his possession, for forewarned was forearmed. Increased alertness and a few extra precautions would see him clear of the pitfalls.

Extinguishing his flash, he left the room and descended the stairs at the end of the hall, emerging behind the counter in the front of the store. He walked down the narrow aisle between the show case and the shelves that lined the wall. The door to Gage's bedroom was unlocked, and he entered. A shaft of gray light slanting in beneath the window shade gave blurry outlines to the objects in the room. He passed to the window and pulled the curtain aside. It was a dull, bleak dawn, as dismal and gray as the one that had greeted him twenty-four hours ago when he crawled out of the tunnel.

His inspection of the room shed not the faintest ray of light on the questions in his mind. He searched carefully, sweeping the dark corners with his flash, but nothing appeared to have been touched since his last visit. Of the tragedy he had witnessed, not the slightest sign was to be found. Yet the scene was so vividly impressed on his mind that he felt as though the very walls were alive with the echoes of the dying woman's groans. He could still see the quickly moving hand that had held the knife.

"Whose hand?" he asked. It had been a mere flash, and, as far as he could recall, there had been nothing distinctive about it. It was not likely he would recognize the hand if he should see it a second time; yet the question was already settled in his mind. The housekeeper herself had given him the answer to it in the few words she had gasped out just before the blow was struck:

"He's killing me! He's afraid I'll tell!"

She had referred to Pinto, of course, for her previous words and looks, the Gray Phantom thought, had clearly shown that she suspected the policeman of having murdered her employer. It was a safe inference, then, that Pinto had slain the housekeeper in order to seal her lips forever, and the Phantom wondered whether the patrolman was not also responsible for the barricade at the end of the tunnel. It seemed plausible enough. Pinto must have known that there had been a witness to his deed, though he probably did not know that this witness had seen only a hand and a knife. It was even possible that the policeman had seen more of the Phantom than the Phantom had seen of him. At any rate, he was doubtless aware that the housekeeper's words had been addressed to someone hidden in the opening back of the revolving frame. Fearing that this person would betray him, he had quickly slammed the frame into place, after which he had run around to Doctor Bimble's cellar and blocked the mouth of the passage, intending that the witness to his crime should smother to death.

So much seemed clear; at least it furnished a hypothesis in the light of which the strange events of the night before were explainable. The only puzzling factor in the situation was the disappearance of the body. The Phantom, cudgel his wits as he might, could see no other solution than that the murderer must have removed it. No one else would have been likely to do so. If the body had been found by anyone else the matter would have been promptly reported to the police, and without doubt another crime would have been chalked up against the Gray Phantom. Scanning the mystery from every angle, the Phantom could see no other explanation than that the body had been concealed by the murderer.

"But why?" he asked himself. So far as he could see, the murderer could have had no reason for covering up the crime, which in the absence of contrary proof would have been imputed to the Gray Phantom. The police and the press would have jumped instantly to the conclusion that the arch-rogue had followed up the killing of Gage with the murder of the housekeeper, and their fertile brains could easily have invented several plausible motives. This, to all appearances, would have suited the murderer to perfection. Why, then, had he gone out of his way to keep the crime secret?

The Phantom's mind churned the problem for several minutes before the answer came to him. As is often the case, it was so ludicrously simple that he wondered why he had not seen it at once.

"Clear as daylight!" he decided. "The murderer knew the crime couldn't be fastened on me, because I had an alibi. I was in jail, so to speak, when the murder was committed. Of course, I was in jail only by proxy, the real prisoner being Tommie Granger, but the murderer didn't know that until later. He thought I was locked up, and that was enough for him."

The Phantom backed out of the room. His visit to the scene of the two murders had helped him to clarify certain problems, but he had accomplished nothing definite. His suspicions in regard to Pinto had become stronger, but as yet he had not a shred of actual proof against the man. He considered what his next step should be as he walked across the store and started up the stairs. For several reasons, he decided, he must have a talk with Thomas Granger at once.

He paused for an instant outside the housekeeper's bedroom, then walked on to the next door, which opened into a kitchen. The third door, the one farthest down the hall, gave access to a large room, and the tall tiers of boxes and packing cases indicated that Gage had used it for storage purposes. Abstractedly he let the gleam of his electric flash glide over the floor and the long, jagged cracks in the begrimed ceiling. He was looking for nothing in particular, and apparently there was nothing to find.

Yet, as he started to walk out, something held him. He could not analyze the sensation at first, but it was one he had experienced before, and it was associated in his mind with dreadful and awe-inspiring things. He could not name it, but it gave him the impression that he stood in the presence of death.

He started forward, but of a sudden he checked himself and listened intently to sounds coming from the direction of the stairs. They were short, creaking, and irregular sounds, like those produced by a heavy man when he tries to walk lightly, and they gave the Phantom an impression of hesitancy and furtiveness.

The stealthy footfalls drew nearer. Quietly the Phantom pushed the door shut, took the pistol from his pocket, and stepped behind a row of packing cases. The footsteps were now almost at the door. An interval of silence came, as if the person outside were hesitating before he entered, then the door came open and a dark shape prowled across the floor.