Chapter XIX: The Big Story

"How is your guest, Peng Yuen?" was the Phantom's first question after entering the shop on Pell Street.

The Chinaman's eyes widened. "The guest? Ah, yes, I remember. I think the gentleman is well."

"Has he telephoned anyone, or sent out any messages?"

"No; he has remained in his room all the time. He asked me this morning for something to read, and I gave him a translation of 'Chin-Kong-Ching.'"

"Good. I have come to have a talk with him."

"Very well." The slight figure, arrayed in loose-fitting, straw-colored garments, stepped to the wall with the softly gliding gait characteristic of his race. He pressed a button, and the Phantom passed through an opening which instantly closed behind him.

Granger, lying on a couch, looked up drowsily. The little room had neither windows nor visible door. Air was wafted in through a mysterious recess in a corner of the ceiling, and a shaded lamp shed a greenish light over the scene. The walls were covered with yellow satin embroidered with quotations from Chinese philosophers. On a table standing near the couch were the remnants of a breakfast.

"Fairly comfortable, I see." The Phantom sat down. His glance, though seemingly casual, was taking in every detail of the reporter's appearance, "How are you feeling?"

"Rotten!" Granger rubbed his eyes and scowled disgustedly. "I asked the chink for something to drink, and he brought me a mess that tasted like vinegar and molasses. Then I dropped a hint that I would like some reading matter, and he handed me a book that put me to sleep before I had turned the first page. Say, how much longer are you going to sport my clothes and wear my name?"

"No longer than I have to. Your name suits me well enough, but our tastes in clothes differ."

Granger grinned. He was comfortably stretched out on his back and his eyes were lazily studying the arabesques in the ceiling.

"Anyhow, my clothes are harmless. That's more than can be said for my name. On the square, I am surprised to see you this morning."

"Why so?"

There was a twinkle in the reporter's eyes as he turned them on the Phantom. "Because you went in for a lot of trouble when you annexed my identity. I was pickled last night, and you took my breath away when you yanked off the mustache. Till then I hadn't had the faintest idea that my abductor was the Gray Phantom. If I hadn't been so flabbergasted I might have given you a friendly tip."

"A tip?"

"To the effect that Tommie Granger was a marked man. I'll tell you something interesting if you promise not to fall out of the chair. I am a member of the Duke's gang."

The Phantom's brows went up. For several hours he had been aware of Granger's membership in the criminal organization, but the glib admission surprised him. He had intended to pull the Duke's communication out of his pocket with a dramatic gesture and startle a confession out of the reporter and he was wholly unprepared for the latter's frank and voluntary avowal.

"Surprised you, didn't it?" Granger chuckled as if mildly amused. "I can hardly get used to the idea myself. Membership in that gang of cutthroats and grafters is nothing to be proud of, exactly. I've always had a sneaking admiration for the Gray Phantom, but the Duke's different. He's smooth and artful enough, but he's made of coarser stuff."

"Yet you are a member of his organization?"

"Sounds contradictory, doesn't it? Well, since I have told you the beginning, I'll have to tell you the rest. The cause of it all dates back to my birth. I came into the world with the face I'm wearing to-day, though it's undergone a process of beautification in the intervening years. You see, my face is the mainspring that has determined most of my actions in recent years--some of the more important ones, anyhow. I wouldn't be a newspaper man to-day if I had been born with a different face."

"I don't see the connection."

"Let me tell you how it came about. On seven different occasions, and in as many different places, I have been mistaken for the Gray Phantom and put in durance vile. The clippings in my scrapbook tell all about it. I was in Cheyenne, Wyoming, the first time it happened, and after I had satisfied the police dunderheads as to my identity, the editor of one of the local papers asked me to write up my impressions while in jail and tell how it felt to be mistaken for a celebrity like the Gray Phantom. I did, and that gave me a taste for newspaper work. The editor gave me a job on the spot and I've----"

"But what has all this to do with your membership in the Duke's gang?" interrupted the Phantom impatiently.

"Everything. I've been plugging away at the newspaper game ever since I got my start in Cheyenne. I never stayed long in a place, for I have something of a roving disposition and like change of scenery now and then. My face got me in bad almost wherever I went. I had no sooner struck a new town than some ambitious dick thought he saw a chance to get famous by pinching the Gray Phantom. Of course, that always meant a stretch in the lock-up--anything from two days to a week. I used to lie awake nights imagining that I was in reality the Gray Phantom and dreaming of great criminal exploits. That got me interested in crime and criminals, and I began making a study of the subject.

"Finally, I drifted into New York and landed on the _Sphere_. One night while prowling about the Chatham Square section I dropped into a Turkish coffee house. It was a low joint, a hangout for thugs and thieves. While sipping my coffee I made a study of the different types around me. One fellow interested me in particular. He was an evil-looking cuss, but there was something about him that fascinated me. He looked something like a Stevensonian pirate, and he had a great scar over his left eye. Presently I began to notice that he was looking my way now and then, and finally I motioned to him to come and sit beside me. We talked in whispers, like everybody else in the joint, and by and by he asked me if I was not the Gray Phantom.

"He seemed disappointed when I told him I was only the Phantom's double. We talked on for a while, and the next night we met again in the same place. The fellow piqued my curiosity, and I tried to draw him out whenever I had a chance. I knew he would shut up like a clam if I told him my profession, so I let him think I was a crook, though I didn't go into details. We met night after night, and each time we were more confidential. I could tell he had something on his mind that he didn't know just how to put into words, and of course, I did my best to lead him on. He approached the subject by slow and easy stages, dropping a cautious hint now and then. Finally, when he had convinced himself that I was to be trusted, he told me he belonged to a big criminal band and asked me if I would like to join."

"So that's how you happened to become a member of the Duke's organization?" observed the Phantom.

"To cut a long story short, that was the way it happened. I thought I could work the salamander stunt--play with fire without getting burned. The idea of getting on the inside of a big gang of crooks and studying its members at close quarters appealed to me. Aside from that, I saw a chance to turn up a big story for my paper, for it was my intention to get the goods on the gang and, eventually, hand it over to the police. But"--and a rueful smile wrinkled Granger's face--"I soon discovered that one can't play with fire without getting scorched."

"That explains," mumbled the Phantom thoughtfully, at the same time extending the communication handed him by the Duke's messenger. "There's a message worked into the design which is readable only under the lens. It's a pleasant reminder of what happens to traitors."

"Yes. I know. I received several such reminders before you came along and borrowed my clothes and name. I wasn't really a traitor, though. I merely refused to obey certain orders they gave me."

"You might have known that you would be expected to take part in the gang's activities. You didn't expect to be a member only in name?"

"Well, I thought I could stall for a while, till I got the dope I wanted. You see, I was hoping they wouldn't ask me to do any of the rough stuff till I had been a member for a while. I soon discovered my mistake."

"And so the big story will never materialize?"

"I'm afraid it won't. My obituary is the only kind of story that's likely to grow out of this adventure of mine. The Duke's crew doesn't stand for any nonsense. I've been told that members who don't obey orders usually disappear under mysterious circumstances. I never got next to the inner circle of the gang. I suppose they didn't trust me because I took a drink too many now and then. Anyhow, I didn't get the stuff I was after. I was a sort of probationer, reporting to one of the big chief's lieutenants, and I didn't get as much as a glimpse of the inner sanctum."

"Too bad, Granger." The disappointment written on the reporter's face seemed so ludicrous that the Phantom could not repress a smile. "Maybe it isn't too late yet. By the way," starting suddenly from his chair, "have you any idea where Helen Hardwick is?"

For a moment or two the reporter lay rigid on his back; then he jumped up and stared in dumfounded amazement at the Phantom.

"Why do you ask?" he inquired hoarsely, after a pause during which each man looked the other straight in the eye.

"Answer my question and I'll tell you my reason for asking it."

Granger swallowed hard. "Has anything happened to Miss Hardwick?"

"She has disappeared. Left her home two days ago and hasn't been heard from since. Her father has asked the police to search for her."

"Good Lord!" Granger groaned. "This is awful!"

The Phantom gripped his arm. "Tell me what you know," he commanded. "Your looks show that you are not entirely ignorant of the matter."

The reporter's face twitched. "I can guess what's happened to her," he declared, speaking in thick accents, "but I haven't the least idea where she is."

"Well, what do you think has happened to her?"

"She's been kid--kidnaped." As if to steady his nerves, Granger picked up a cigarette and lighted it.

"How do you know that?"

"Because I"--Granger drew in a whiff of smoke--"because I know the Duke's crowd wanted her abducted. They asked me to do it, and I balked. I couldn't--well, it simply went against the grain to do a thing like that. It was my refusal to do as they told me that got me in bad with the gang."

The Phantom's blood was slowly receding from his face. For a moment he sat rigid, lips tightly compressed, as if stunned. "Why did the Duke's crowd want Miss Hardwick kidnaped?"

"That I can't tell you. The leaders simply issue orders; they never explain their motives. I haven't the faintest idea what their reason for abducting Miss Hardwick could be."

Silence fell between them. The Phantom's steely gaze continued to search the other's face. Though evidently shocked by the news of Miss Hardwick's disappearance, the reporter did not once lower his eyes.

"They must have got somebody else to do it after I refused," he muttered, slowly getting a grip on himself. "Wish I had a drink."

The Phantom was hardly listening. His knitted brows told that his mind was struggling with a problem.

"Know an officer named Pinto?" he asked abruptly.

"I think I've heard of him."

The Phantom gave a brief summary of his adventures since arriving in the city. Granger listened attentively, his eyes expressing a mingling of astonishment and admiration. They opened wide as the narrator described the scene in the storeroom and Pinto's peculiar behavior, and he chuckled appreciatively at the account of the impostor's visit to the _Sphere_ office.

"That's the Phantom all over!" he remarked when the story was finished. "It's the nerviest thing I ever heard of. But what you have told me only puts a few extra kinks in the mystery."

The Phantom nodded thoughtfully. "How well do you know Miss Hardwick?"

"Scarcely at all. I have never met her. She called me up at the _Sphere_ office the day after the murder and asked me a lot of questions. I referred her to Doctor Bimble."

"So she told me."

"Bimble is a nut, but he has done several brilliant things along lines of criminology. I was busy the day Miss Hardwick called me up, and I got a little jolt when she told me her name. The thing was natural enough, of course, but it seemed a bit weird to be talking to the person I had been asked to kidnap. Well, I thought the easiest way to dispose of her was to suggest that she see Bimble."

The Phantom looked puzzled. "You never saw Miss Hardwick, and you have talked with her only over the telephone," he murmured. "That being the case, I wonder why Pinto asked me, while we were in the storeroom this morning, if I knew what had become of Miss Hardwick."

"Rumor has it that a romantic attachment exists between Miss Hardwick and the Gray Phantom. Pinto must have heard something about it."

"But at the time he put the question he had not the faintest idea that I was the Gray Phantom. He still thought I was Thomas Granger. It was my way of responding to the question that aroused his suspicions. Now, he must have had some reason for supposing that Thomas Granger knew something of what had happened to Miss Hardwick."

Granger considered. "Miss Hardwick may have told him about consulting me. But I think it just as likely that Pinto was playing a bit of clever strategy--that he had already suspected your identity and sprung that question about Miss Hardwick in the hope that you would betray yourself."

"Perhaps." The reporter's theory seemed so natural that the Phantom wondered why it had not occurred to him before. "If that was his purpose, the trick worked beautifully. Tell me, was it before or after the murder of Gage that the Duke's men came to you with the kidnaping proposition?"

Granger stared hard for an instant; then a glint of admiration appeared in his eyes. "Gray Phantom, you ought to have been a detective. That's as neat a piece of mental acrobatics as I've seen in many a day. The proposal came to me a few days before Gage was murdered."

"But the two plots might have been hatched simultaneously?"

"They might. I see what you are driving at. You think the two plots were related to a single object. Perhaps you are right."

"Granger, you don't think I murdered Gage?"

"No," after a long pause; "but neither can I tell you who did. You, of course, are going on the presumption that Pinto is the culprit."

The Phantom looked a trifle bewildered. The reporter had read his mind.

Granger chuckled. "I can see in which direction your mind is working. You think the bolted door and other circumstances prove that no one but Pinto could have committed the murder. You believe that after killing Gage he murdered the housekeeper in order to silence her. Pinto's queer conduct, especially the stunt he pulled off in the storeroom this morning, is sufficient proof, to your way of thinking, and you base your entire case on the guess that Pinto is a member of the Duke's gang."

"Don't you agree with me? I read between the lines of your stories in the _Sphere_ that you did not share the generally accepted opinion."

Granger looked up quickly. "The devil you did! I didn't mean to air my private opinions. It must have been a subconscious process. To be perfectly frank, I don't know whether I agree with you or not. I have an idea of my own on the subject, but it's vague as yet. Maybe I'll tell you later."

The Phantom shrugged his shoulders. "The mystery of the murders doesn't interest me particularly just at present. Granger, if you were in my position, how would you go about finding Miss Hardwick?"

The reporter considered for a long time. "My first step would be to get in touch with the Duke's gang and try to ascertain where Miss Hardwick is being concealed. That's a large order, and you will find it fairly exciting. The Duke, I've been told, hates you as he never hated anyone before, and he's almost as dangerous behind prison bars as outside. He froths at the mouth whenever he mentions your name to the other prisoners. Your borrowed personality won't give you a great deal of protection, for there are a lot of sharp-eyed men in the Duke's crowd, and, besides, you're in almost as great danger whether you appear as the Gray Phantom or as Tommie Granger."

The Phantom waved his hand deprecatingly. "I have considered all that. The question is, how am I to get in contact with the gang." He peered reflectively at the man on the couch; then an idea came to him. "How did the heads of the organization communicate with you? To whom did you report and from whom did you receive your orders?"

"From my acquaintance of the Turkish coffee house."

"The piratical-looking fellow?"

Granger nodded.

"How can I find him?"

"The coffee joint is in Catharine Street, not far from East Broadway. You can easily locate it, and you will probably find your man there about ten or eleven at night. But hadn't you better take me along?"

The Phantom shook his head emphatically. "You have just told me to what extremes you are willing to go in order to get a good story for your paper. The capture of the Gray Phantom would make an even bigger story than the one you were after. I can't quite trust you, Granger. You love your liquor not wisely but too well, and you're likely to give the show away. Besides, it wouldn't do for us two to be seen together."

"That's so," said Granger resignedly. "Well, anyhow, you might send me something for a bracer."

The Phantom promised to try. He got up and rapped on the wall, eyeing Granger steadily as he stepped through the opening that appeared as if by magic. But the reporter, evidently realizing that any attempt to escape would be useless, made no move.

An opium lamp was sizzling in a corner of the room. At a table sat Peng Yuen, his face as impassive as granite. If he had overheard any part of the conversation he showed no sign of it.

"You need food and sleep," he remarked tonelessly, pointing to the table, on which a meal was spread out.

The Phantom thanked him and sat down. He was famished and fagged out, and he could accomplish nothing until night came, so he gladly accepted the Chinaman's hospitality. As he ate, Peng Yuen regarded him stolidly while he smoked his acrid pipe of li-un. He did not speak until the Phantom had finished his meal.

"'The Book of the Unknown Philosopher,'" he remarked, without looking directly at his guest, "says that the overwise sometimes go far afield in search of truths that may be found at home."

The Phantom looked up, bewildered. "I suppose there is a priceless gem of wisdom hidden somewhere in that sentence, but I don't see how it can apply to me."

The Chinaman gave a queer laugh, half chuckle and half grunt, and deep in the almond-shaped eyes lurked a faint, shrewd twinkle.