Chapter XVIII: The Starting Point

The Phantom feigned utter unconcern as he continued toward the corner. His acute senses had instantly registered the fact that he was an object of scrutiny. It vexed him not a little, for he was anxious to get on Helen Hardwick's trail, and he had no relish for another adventure with the police. He looked about him out of the tail of an eye as he advanced with a leisurely swing.

It took him but a few moments to pick out the watcher from among the sprinkling of loungers and pedestrians on the sidewalk. The man's dull face and stolid expression did not deceive the Phantom for a moment. He stood with his back against a shop window, and part of his face was hidden by a newspaper he pretended to be reading. The Phantom walked up beside him.

"You're a detective, aren't you?"

The man lowered the newspaper and gazed at the questioner out of deceptively sluggish eyes.

"What makes you think so?"

The Phantom chuckled, though he knew he was treading on dangerous ground. It was just possible that Granger, although he had not been long in the city and therefore could not have an extensive police acquaintance, had met this particular detective. A careful study of the man's face reassured him, however.

"Oh, I spotted you easily enough," was his answer. "I suppose you have heard of me. I am Thomas Granger, of the _Sphere_."

The other gave a slight nod. A faint grin creased his face. "I've heard of you, all right. On the day you were pinched, they tell me, you had the beautifulest jag on that's been seen in this town in many a day. Why don't you put a fellow wise to your source of supply?"

"I may," with a knowing wink, "if you promise not to jug me again."

"Well, you needn't rub it in, Granger. You look a lot like the Gray Phantom. If you didn't have those glad rags on, I wouldn't be able to tell the difference. I never met the Phantom face to face, but judging from his picture I should say you're as much alike as two peas. By the way, my name is Culligore--Lieutenant Culligore."

The Phantom repressed a start. He had seen the name in the earlier newspaper accounts of the murder and remembered that Culligore had been one of the detectives assigned to the case. He wondered whether it were possible that he and Granger had not met while the reporter was getting the facts of the tragedy for his paper. The detective's face showed no sign of suspicion, but the Phantom noticed that he had an odd habit of rubbing his upper lip against the tip of his nose, and the little mannerism impressed him as significant of deep and devious mental processes.

"That reminds me!" he exclaimed suddenly, as if just recalling something. "There's been a brand-new murder committed over at the Gage house."

The detective lifted his brows.

"I was snooping around, hoping to find some new twist to the case," explained the Phantom. "In a storeroom on the second floor I found the body of the housekeeper. She looked as though she had been dead a good many hours. Pinto is lying on the stairs with a bump on the back of his head, and he's handcuffed to a little shrimp that looks like a dope fiend."

Lieutenant Culligore stared as he heard the strange report. "Been drinking again?"

"Go and see for yourself."

Culligore at last showed signs of activity. "Better come along," he suggested. "If you've been telling me the truth, there ought to be a good story in it for you."

"I've seen enough. Going back to the office to write it up."

The two parted. As Culligore started to cross the street, he made a curious motion with his hand, and the Phantom fancied he was signaling someone on the other side. He walked briskly toward the elevated station. Evidently Culligore had put a colleague on his trail, thereby showing that he was not so unsuspecting as the Phantom had thought. He ascended the stairs and walked out onto the platform without a single backward glance, but his ears, trained to catch and classify the slightest sounds, told him a pursuer was behind him.

The train, a southbound one, was crowded with passengers. The Phantom selected a strap near the rear end of one of the cars. The many curious glances leveled in his direction told him he was being recognized as the newspaper reporter who had won fame by being mistaken for the Gray Phantom and whose photograph had appeared side by side with that of the notorious rogue. While ostensibly absorbed in an advertisement, he cast a sidelong glance at the platform of the car just ahead. The brief glimpse sufficed to identify his pursuer as a broad-shouldered individual in a brown suit, whose rather commonplace features were shaded by the brim of a derby.

The Phantom was in a quandary. He could accomplish nothing with a "shadow" at his heels, and there was something maddening in the thought that he was losing time while Helen Hardwick might be in danger. He could probably elude his pursuer without much difficulty, but that would be a confession that he had something to hide, and might possibly result in his being picked up on a general alarm. He was safe behind the personality of Thomas Granger only so long as he did not engage in suspicious conduct.

An idea flashed in his mind as he caught a glimpse of the skyscrapers of City Hall Park. He would take the bull by the horns, he decided. The safest and surest way of averting suspicion from himself was to play his borrowed role boldly and thoroughly. He would proceed at once to the offices of the _Sphere_ and make a judiciously colored report of the latest affair at the Gage house. It was a dangerous experiment, but the Phantom believed he could carry it out. A bold play, a bit of clever acting, and the usual accompaniment of good luck were all that was necessary.

He was still conscious of pursuit as he alighted and turned in the direction of the _Sphere_ Building. A glance at the bulletin board in the rotunda showed him the location of the editorial rooms, and he ascended in the elevator. The mirrors lining the walls of the cage threw back at him a reflection showing signs of suspense, worry, and want of sleep. His face was drawn and furrowed, and the usual luster of his eyes was a trifle dimmed, but these symptoms might also be indications of heavy drinking, and they enhanced his resemblance to Granger.

The building throbbed with the pulsations of presses. From above, like a continuous rattle of shrapnel, came the din and clatter of the linotypes. Faint odors of ink and whiffs from the sterotyping and photo-engraving plants hung in the air.

The Phantom stepped out with a jaunty appearance, though inwardly he was quailing a trifle. A sign on frosted glass told him which door to enter, and a red-haired youth presiding at a desk in an anteroom grinned broadly as he passed through. A dozen typewriters jabbered noisily in the room beyond. As the Phantom walked in, a spectacled, shirt-sleeved man seated at a desk near the entrance looked up and regarded him with twinkling eyes.

"'Lo, Granger," was his good-humored greeting. "Understand 'Old War Horse' tied a can to you last night."

"Did he?" asked the Phantom, guessing that the individual referred to was the autocrat who had ordered Granger bounced. "It was a large night, and I don't remember the minor details." He looked uncertainly about the room, as if his vision was a trifle clouded. "Where is the old fire-eater? Don't see him around."

"Of course, you don't." The spectacled man laughed. "Old War Horse is in bed, where he belongs. I guess you haven't quite recovered your bearings yet, or you'd know that Slossdick is on the day shift. I see him looking this way, as if he had designs on you."

The Phantom trailed the spectacled man's glance to a glass-partioned cubby-hole at the other end of the room, where a bald and sharp-nosed man sat at a desk. He advanced airily, grinning in response to the knowing winks and well-meant banter that followed him, and boldly approached the scowling personage at the desk.

"Don't you know you're fired?" demanded Slossdick, jabbing at a page of "copy" with his pencil.

"Am I?" inquired the Phantom innocently. He spoke with a little catch, as if he had a slight cold, and he avoided the sunlight streaming in through the window. "It hadn't occurred to me."

"No? Old War Horse had you kicked out, didn't he? You'd been insulting him again, I understand." Slossdick's devastating pencil ripped an entire paragraph out of the copy before him. "What's biting you this morning?"

"Nothing," said the Phantom blandly. "Just thought you might like to know that there's been another murder at the Gage house."

The slashings of Slossdick's pencil ceased abruptly. He swept the Phantom's face with a quick, searching glance. Briefly the impostor told as much as he thought prudent, describing the scene in the storeroom and at the head of the stairs, without telling of his own part in the night's events or of Pinto's mysterious conduct. He was not yet ready to accuse the policeman openly, and for the present it suited his purpose to leave the affair vague and mysterious.

There was a flicker of interest in Slossdick's eyes. "Housekeeper murdered and policeman lying at the head of the stairs handcuffed to a dope. Rattling good yarn, Granger. But"--and a look of doubt crept into his face--"we've had nothing from the police on this."

"Good reason. The police didn't know of it till a few minutes ago. If you hurry, you will beat the other papers to it."

Slossdick snatched up the telephone and called a department. "First page make-over," he snapped when the connection had been established. Then, turning to the Phantom: "Think you can see the typewriter keys this morning?"

The Phantom quavered inwardly. Typewriting was not among his accomplishments, and the entire proceeding was strange to him. He hesitated, noticing that the rumble of the presses had already ceased.

"Well, never mind," grumbled Slossdick, his pencil already at work on an eight-column caption. "Give the dope to Fessenden and let him write it. Then go home and get some sleep. You look as if you needed it. And, for the love of Mike, steer clear of the booze! Fessenden!"

In response to the explosive shout, a lanky and dyspeptic-looking man appeared at the door to the cubby-hole. After receiving a few terse directions from Slossdick, he led the Phantom to his desk and sat down before his typewriter. He inserted a sheet of paper in the machine while listening, and his fingers were racing over the keys even before the Phantom had finished his recital.

"Bully yarn you've turned up," came his appreciative comment over the clatter of the keys. "A peach!"

The Phantom walked away. The story would, of course, rouse another storm of indignation against himself, but there was no help for that. On the whole, he had bettered his chances and enhanced his temporary safety by giving the _Sphere_ a start of twenty minutes or half an hour in its race against competing newspapers.

His shadow was nowhere in sight as he emerged from the building. Either the man's suspicions had been disarmed by the Phantom's move, or else he had grown tired of waiting and dropped into a near-by restaurant for a bite of food. Standing at the curb, the Phantom glanced stealthily to right and left. There was no sign of espionage in either direction. At last he was free to begin his search for Helen Hardwick, but the trail seemed to have neither beginning nor end. In vain he searched his mind for a starting point.

His hands were in his pockets, and presently his absently groping fingers touched a piece of paper. He drew it out, starting as his eyes fell on the ducal coronet.

"Guess I'll see Granger," he reflected. "I have a strong hunch he is my starting point."