Chapter XXX: The Room in the Basement

The reporter's face went white.

With lips gaping, he lay rigidly still, staring into the Phantom's hard face. There was a look of great fear in his eyes, and for several moments he seemed incapable of motion. Then he began to wriggle, twist, and squirm, but his efforts were rendered futile by the knee on his chest and the firm clutch in which his hands were held.

"When did you guess it?" he muttered, forcing a sneering grin to his face.

"Just a little while ago. I've acted the simpleton throughout the whole affair. I was so sure of Pinto's guilt that it never occurred to me to suspect anyone else. The moment Pinto was eliminated, I knew you were the murderer. I saw then what I should have seen at once--that Gage was murdered by a man who looked so much like me that, when Gage saw the face of the scoundrel, he was sure it was the Gray Phantom. That's why he told Pinto that I was the murderer."

Granger drew in his breath and opened his mouth as if to shout for help, but the knee pressing against his chest strangled the cry.

"It was all very cleverly arranged," the Phantom went on, "I suppose you were selected for the job because you happen to resemble me. The very entertaining story you told me at Peng Yuen's was probably a skillful blending of truth and fiction. How you happened to join the Duke's gang and how you carried out its orders under cover of your profession really make no difference. The only thing that matters is that you're going to the chair for those two murders."

The reporter, gathering his wits, gave a contemptuous laugh. "The chair, eh? Not just yet, I guess. Several things are likely to happen to you first."

"That remains to be seen. You are fairly clever, Granger, but your cleverness won't help you now. You hood-winked the police very neatly. They had the murderer once, but they felt so sure I was the man they wanted that they let you go as soon as you had satisfied them you were not the Gray Phantom. It was a fairly good joke. I perpetrated another good joke myself when I went to you and borrowed your identity, never guessing that you were the murderer. You took it all in good part, because you couldn't do anything else, but all the while you were scheming to hand me over to the Duke's crowd."

"It was rich! You were so easily taken in that I had to laugh whenever you turned your back."

"I admit it. The reason you took me in so easily was partly because you were a member of an honorable profession, and partly because of the note handed me by Dan the Dope, which seemed to prove that you were on bad terms with the Duke's crowd. That appeared to confirm your story that you had joined the organization for the sole purpose of obtaining inside information. The details of your relations with the gang are not clear to me yet, but neither are they important. If you don't mind, I'll relieve you of this handy little implement."

With a deft motion he reached into Granger's pocket and extracted the reporter's automatic. Then he removed the knee from the man's chest and covered him with the weapon.

"The cutest trick of them all," he continued with a grim chuckle, "was your crawling in here to-night through the window and pretending to have eluded the Duke's sentinels. Of course, the sole object of your dramatic entrance was to inveigle me into revealing the whereabouts of the place where I live. I suppose the worthy doctor had begun to despair of his ability to worm the information out of me by the original plan. It threatened to take too long and entail too many risks, and so he thought he would try a short cut. You led up to the proposition very adroitly, but I saw through the ruse almost at once."

Granger, having got a precarious grip on his nerves, laughed shakily. "You're a first-class guesser--but guessing won't get you out of this fix. It isn't very likely you'll ever see daylight again. As for the dear girl----"

"Leave her out of it!" commanded the Phantom curtly. He thought it unlikely Miss Hardwick would be molested further until Bimble had learned the result of Granger's mission. In the meantime, he told himself, he must make the most of the slight advantage he had gained. He studied the reporter keenly, and all at once an inspiration came to him. "Miss Hardwick," he went on in casual tones, "has an amazing knack of taking care of herself. It wouldn't surprise me at all if she had already found a way out of the amiable doctor's clutches."

"Hardly!" Granger gave another hoarse, sneering laugh. "She's smart, all right, but the big chief knows it, and he isn't taking any chances. He has locked her up in the basement, in a room barely large enough to turn around in, with a stout door and no window."

"The basement, eh?" The Phantom seemed not at all interested. "This room we are in is on the second floor, isn't it?"

"Third," said Granger, after puzzling for a moment over the question.

"Good!" The Phantom smiled. "You have told me exactly what I wanted to know, Granger, and since you couldn't know the object of my questions, I believe that for once you have spoken the truth. Kindly elevate your hands."

A thrust with the pistol emphasized the command, and Granger sullenly obeyed. With his free hand the Phantom explored the reporter's pockets until he found a small silver-handled knife.

"My property, I believe," he murmured, examining the tool with a critical eye. "It's one of the things you acquired when we swapped clothes and identities. A very handy article, Granger. I've been wishing all night for something of this kind, but the doctor thoughtfully emptied my pockets. Sit very still, Granger."

He spoke with a brisk, cutting emphasis. Moving to the other end of the cot and keeping one eye on Granger, he opened the knife and with the sharp-pointed blade began to pick at the lock that held the chain to his ankle. The pistol lay close at his side, ready to be picked up at a moment's warning. In a short time the lock had yielded to the deft touch of his fingers, and his ankle was free before Granger quite realized what he was doing. A shout rose in the reporter's throat, but in an instant the Phantom's fingers were at his windpipe.

"Quiet!" he warned. "I don't care to be interrupted just yet. Granger, I don't like the togs I've been wearing the last few days, and you have worn mine just about long enough. We are going to make a quick change. Strip!"

The reporter glared, but his lips trembled and the shaking of his limbs indicated that he was in need of his favorite stimulant.

"Hurry!" urged the Phantom, making a little flourish with the pistol. "Bimble is likely to walk in on us at any moment to see what is keeping you so long. Will you strip voluntarily, or must I tap you on the head and undress you? I don't like to be rough."

The reporter seemed impressed by the argument. With surly acquiescence he kicked off his shoes and started removing his suit. The Phantom, a thin smile hovering about his lips, followed the other's example, keeping the pistol within easy reach while the exchange was in progress. In a little while he was once more garbed in the familiar gray which was his favorite color.

"This is better!" he commented. With an absentminded air he picked up the chain. For a moment or two his fingers toyed with the lock; then, stooping quickly, he looped the end of the chain around Granger's leg. The reporter growled out a curse as the lock snapped shut.

"Put your hands behind you!" commanded the Phantom, again making a menacing gesture with the pistol. The reporter, his ashen face twitching, glowered savagely as he obeyed, and in a few moments the strings had been removed from his shoes and twisted tightly about his wrists. Finally the Phantom tore a strip from the table-cloth, fashioned it into a gag and thrust it between the reporter's teeth.

"I'm really very much obliged to you, Granger," he murmured dryly as he put the revolver and the knife into his pockets. "If you hadn't come to me with that barefaced hoax, I should still be wearing a chain around my ankle. Too bad I can't offer you a drink. You seem to need one."

With elastic step he walked to the door. There he pushed a button, and the room went dark. There was a glow in his cheeks and a tingle in his veins as he stepped out in the hall, closing the door behind him. Looking up and down the silent corridor, he saw a stairway at the farther end, and hastened in that direction. At the head of the stairs he all but collided with Doctor Bimble.

"Well, Granger?"

The Phantom thanked his lucky star that the lights in the hall were dim. Under the circumstances, it was the most natural thing in the world for Bimble to suppose that he was addressing the reporter. He knew that Granger had been wearing the Phantom's clothes, and the latter was supposed to be chained securely to a wall.

"_No luck_," announced the Phantom, simulating Granger's manner of speech. "I gave him exactly the line of talk you suggested, but he spotted the trick right off. He wouldn't listen to me at all."

Even in the dusk the Phantom saw a spiteful look creep into the doctor's face.

"Doesn't he still think you are on his side?"

"He seems to have his suspicions," answered the Phantom, carefully weighing his words, "but he is keeping them to himself. I tried my darndest to flimflam the information out of him, but it was no use. He's about the smoothest article I ever came across."

The doctor nodded curtly as he swung around and started to descend the stairs, the Phantom following.

"I'll break him yet," muttered Bimble vindictively. "In a few moments he'll hear a tune that he won't like. Miss Hardwick is going to make another trip to the spook chamber, as our mulish friend so aptly termed it. I guess he will come across with the information when he discovers that we mean business."

They reached the floor below. As they passed a light in the hall, the Phantom saw a look of venomous determination in the doctor's face, and he knew that a terrible ordeal would be in store for Helen if Bimble was permitted to have his way. The anthropologist opened a door, and the Phantom glanced into the room over his shoulder. About a dozen men, the expressions on their faces ranging all the way from low cunning to sullen brutality, sat at a long table playing cards.

"Jepson!" called the doctor, taking a bunch of keys from his pockets.

A tall, raw-boned individual with features suggestive of a gorilla's rose from the table and approached them, with dragging gait.

"I want you and Granger to bring Miss Hardwick here immediately," directed Bimble handing Jepson one of the keys.

The tall man nodded and slunk away. The Phantom, keeping in the shadows as much as possible, followed him down two flights of stairs. Here and there, at a turn in the halls or stairs, they encountered soft-footed, wary-eyed men who passed them in silence.

"The whole crowd seems to be about to-night," observed the Phantom.

"Sure," said Jepson. "The big chief don't like to take chances. He means to rush a bunch of us to the Phantom's place as soon as he finds out where it is. There may be a scrap when we get there."

"Quite likely." The Phantom repressed a smile. There was a fever in his veins, and he wished Jepson would walk faster. They descended into the basement, sparsely lighted by a small bulb suspended over the stairs, and Jepson picked his way carefully over the floor. Finally he stopped before a door, inserted a key in the lock, and walked in.

The room was dark, but a quick gasp, resembling a sudden intake of breath, told the Phantom it was occupied. His body tingled with suppressed excitement. Jepson was standing in the doorway, and a light scraping sound indicated that he was running his hands over the wall in search of a switch.

As light flooded the narrow room the Phantom stifled an exclamation. In a chair at the wall sat a slender figure, rigidly still save for the trembling of the hands clasped across the bosom. Long waves of lustrous hair framed a face white as alabaster, and the large brown eyes were staring at Jepson with an expression of dread. There was a quiver in the distended orbs, as if a frightful recollection were lingering in their depths.

She shrank back against the chair as Jepson lumbered toward her. For a moment longer she remained motionless, then a long-drawn moan sounded in her throat, and with hands thrust out she sprang from the chair.

"You sha'n't take me back there!" she cried in tones edged with fury and terror. "I won't go back! I won't!"

"Easy now, lady! No use kicking up a fuss." Jepson roughly seized her arm, squeezed it until she uttered a sharp cry of pain, and started dragging her toward the door.

Then, of a sudden, the Phantom's fist shot out. Hard as steel, it delivered a stinging, crunching blow between Jepson's eyes, and the big brute dropped to the floor like a dead weight. The girl stood immobile, staring at the twisted shape at her feet as if unable to understand what had happened. Then, very slowly, she raised her eyes until they met the Phantom's.

"You?" She spoke lowly, as if not quite recognizing him at first. Dazedly she drew her hand across her forehead. "Are you the Gray Phantom or----"

"I am the Gray Phantom. Don't you know me--Helen?"

She gazed at him long and searchingly. A soft gleam penetrated the film of terror in her eyes.

"Yes, you are the Gray Phantom." The words sounded hushed and strained. She came a step closer and placed her cold hand in his. There was a faint, tremulous smile on her lips. "Can you forgive me--for doubting you?"

"One little whisper from your lips makes everything right," he murmured softly, gently drawing her from the room and locking the door.

"I couldn't help it," she whispered. "Everything seemed to point to your guilt."

"It did," admitted the Phantom, "and I don't blame you. I suppose Granger lied to me when he told me he got into disgrace with the Duke's gang because of his refusal to abduct you. He's a skillful mixer of truth and fiction. What happened to you? Who kidnaped you?"

"One of Doctor Bimble's men, I suppose. I slipped out of the laboratory while you and the doctor were reading the paper. I was sick at heart. What you had told me while we were in the closet expressed my feelings. It seemed as though an idol had fallen off its pedestal and broken to bits, like ordinary clay. Well, I had almost reached the front door when someone sneaked up behind me, thrust a black cloth down over my head and carried me upstairs. I must have been chloroformed, for shortly afterward I lost consciousness.

"The next day Granger called on me in the little room where they were keeping me. I think his object was to learn the location of Sea-Glimpse. I was--well, I was stubborn and wouldn't tell him. I received a shock the moment I saw him and noted his striking resemblance to you. All at once I knew he was the murderer. It came to me in a flash, and of a sudden I understood the meaning of Gage's statement."

"There must be such a thing as feminine intuition, after all," was the Phantom's comment. "Of course you told him to his face that he was the murderer?"

"I guess I did. The words seemed to tumble out of themselves. I think I told Bimble the same thing that evening. He seemed greatly alarmed."

The Phantom started. "Intuition is sometimes a very dangerous faculty," he murmured. "It is very likely to--But this is no time for talking. Jepson will be dead to the world for some little time, but the house is bristling with gangsters. I must get you out of here somehow."

He looked quickly about the dimly lighted basement. There was a window on each side, but both were covered by shutters and iron grilles, and the only exit seemed to be the stairs.

"What about yourself?" asked the girl.

"Oh," with a low laugh, "I have a task that yet remains to be finished. But you----"

Suddenly a little gasp slipped from the girl's lips, and she seized his arm convulsively. Her gaze was rigid, and the Phantom looking in the same direction, saw Doctor Bimble standing in the stairs with a leveled pistol in his hand.

"Don't stir!" was the anthropologist's crisply spoken warning. "You will please note, my dear Phantom, that I'm not aiming at you, but at Miss Hardwick. She'll be dead the moment you make the slightest move!"