Chapter VII: Doctor Bimble's Laboratory

She was the last person the Gray Phantom had expected to see at that moment, and this was the last place where he would have dreamed of finding her. He stared into her face until the flame of the match bit his fingers.

"You!" He dropped the stub and trampled it under his foot. She stood rigid in the shadows, and the wan glint of the pistol barrel told that she was still pointing the weapon at him. Her breath came fast, with little soblike gasps, as if she were trying to stifle a violent emotion.

"How did you get here?" she demanded, her voice scarcely above a whisper.

"By a tight squeeze," he said lightly. "I must be a sight."

"You came through the--tunnel?"

"I did as a matter of fact, though I don't see how you guessed it."

Staring at her through the dusk, the Phantom was conscious that his statement had exerted a profound effect upon her. She drew a long breath, and her figure, scarcely distinguishable in the gloom, seemed to shrink away from him.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, an odd throb in her voice. "Then you did it!"

"Did what?"

"Murdered Sylvanus Gage."

The Phantom shook his head. "You deduce I am a murderer from the fact that I got here through a tunnel. Well, that may be very good feminine logic, but----"

"It is excellent logic, my friend," interrupted a voice somewhere in the darkness; and in the same moment there came a click, and a bright electric light flooded the scene. The Phantom had a brief glimpse of a ludicrous little man with an oversized head, a round protuberance of stomach, and short, thin legs encased in tightly fitting trousers; then he turned to Helen Hardwick and gazed intently into her large, misty-bright eyes.

"Oh, they're brown, I see," he murmured. "I had a notion they were either blue or gray. Queer how one forgets."

The girl looked as though utterly unable to understand his levity, for as such she evidently construed his remark. The thin-legged man stepped away from the door through which he had entered and approached them slowly, giving the Phantom a gravely appraising look over the rims of his glasses. The Phantom had eyes only for Helen Hardwick. He studied her closely, almost reverentially, noticing that her eyes, which upon his entrance had been steady and cool, were now strangely agitated, radiating a dread that seemed to dominate her entire being. The hand that clutched the pistol trembled a trifle, and there were signs of an extreme tension in the poise of the strong, slender figure, in the quivering nostrils, and in the pallor that suffused the smooth oval of her face.

"Remarkable!" murmured the spectacled individual, drawing a few steps closer to obtain a clearer view of the Phantom. "The young lady and myself are covering you with our pistols, and yet you exhibit no fear whatever. Most remarkable! May I feel your pulse, sir?"

The Phantom's lips twitched at the corners as he looked at the speaker. The latter's automatic, pointed at a somewhat indefinite part of the Phantom's body, seemed ludicrously large in contrast with the slight stature of the man himself.

"My name, sir," declared the little man with an air of vast importance, "is Doctor Tyson Bimble. You may have heard of me. I have written several treatises on the subject of criminal anthropology, and my professional services have occasionally been enlisted by the police. Not that such work interests me," he added quickly. "The solution of crime mysteries and the capture of criminals are the pastimes of inferior minds. As a man of science, I am interested solely in the criminal himself, his mental and physical characteristics and the congenital traits that distinguish him. Again I ask you if I may feel your pulse."

Smiling, the Phantom extended his hand. Admonishing Miss Hardwick to keep a steady aim, Doctor Bimble pocketed his own weapon and took out his watch.

"Perfectly normal," he declared when the examination was finished. "At first I thought that at least a part of your superb coolness was simulated. It is all the more remarkable in view of the fact that at this very moment you are surrounded on all sides by the police. They have thrown a cordon around the block and every house is being systematically searched."

The Phantom stiffened. His abrupt and unexpected meeting with Helen Hardwick had momentarily blunted his sense of caution, causing him to forget that he was still in imminent danger. He threw her a quick glance noticing a look of alarm in her face. He made a rapid appraisal of the situation. His flight through the tunnel could not have taken him more than twelve or fifteen yards from the rear of the Gage establishment, and he was almost certain that the passage had extended in a straight southerly direction. Consequently the place in which he now found himself must be one of the shed-like structures he had seen from the window of Gage's bedroom.

His eyes opened wide as he looked around. Whatever the place might look like from the outside, the interior certainly did not have the appearance of a shed. It was a strange setting, and it seemed all the stranger because he had found Helen Hardwick in it. At one end was a long bench covered with bottles, glass jars, tubes, and a queer-looking assortment of chemical apparatus. The walls were lined with rows of tall cabinets with glass doors, each containing a skeleton, and above these was a frieze of photographs and X-ray prints in black frames.

He wondered how Miss Hardwick happened to be in such strange surroundings. Her large, long-lashed eyes avoided him, and her right hand, cramped about the handle of the pistol, wavered a trifle. She had changed since their last meeting, he noticed. She had seemed half child and half woman then, a vivacious young creature with a mixture of reckless audacity, demure wistfulness and adorable shyness whose bewildering contradictions had enhanced a loveliness that had gone to the Phantom's head like foaming wine. In the course of a few months she had acquired the subtle and indefinable something that differentiates girlhood from womanhood. Her face--he had liked to think of it as heart-shaped--had sobered a little, and the graceful lines of chin and throat seemed firmer. Faintly penciled shadows at the corners of her lips hinted that a touch of somberness had crept into her mood, but even such a trifling detail as a few wisps of loosened hair dangling sportively against her cheeks seemed to go a long way toward upsetting this effect.

Doctor Bimble's thin and rasping voice startled the Phantom out of his reverie.

"My laboratory, sir," he explained with a comprehensive wave of the hand. "What you see here is probably the most remarkable collection of its kind in the world. Each of these skeletons represents a distinct criminal type. Here, for instance are the bones of Raschenell, the famous apache. They are supposed to be buried in a cemetery in Paris, but a certain French official for whom I once did a favor was obliging. In my private rogues' gallery you see photographs of some of the most notorious criminals the world has ever known, and these X-ray pictures illustrate various pathological conditions usually associated with criminal tendencies. Quite remarkable, you will admit."

"Quite," said the Phantom a little absently, as if his mind were occupied with more pressing matters than the bones of notorious malefactors.

"You may feel perfectly at ease, my friend." The little doctor, noticing the Phantom's abstraction, spoke soothingly. "I think I have already made it clear that the pursuit and capture of criminals don't interest me. Without doubt we shall arrive at some amicable understanding that will insure your safety."

"Understanding?" echoed the Phantom, having detected a slight but significant emphasis on the word.

"Yes; why not? You have interested me for some time, Mr.--ahem. Let me see--I believe your real name is Cuthbert Vanardy?"

The Phantom nodded.

"Making due allowance for the exaggerations of stupid newspaper writers, I have long recognized that you are a remarkable individual. Yes, remarkable. You do not belong to any of the types mentioned by Prichard, Pinel, and Lombroso, but you are a type of your own. Naturally you arouse my scientific curiosity. Nothing would please me more than to add you to my collection."

The Phantom glanced at the grisly contents of the cabinets. A serio-comic grin wrinkled his face. "Aren't you a bit hasty, doctor? I am not dead yet, you know."

"True--quite true. But a man like you leads a precarious existence. If he doesn't break his neck in some rash adventure the electric chair is always a menacing possibility. The chances are that I shall outlive you by a score of years. Promise that you will give the matter due consideration."

The Phantom blinked his eyes. Doctor Bimble seemed amiable enough, yet the man was scarcely human. His whole being was wrapped up in his science and his entire world was composed of anthropological specimens and fine-spun theories.

"You wish me to make arrangements to have my body turned over to you after my death?"

"Precisely, Mr. Vanardy. That is what my friend and neighbor, Sylvanus Gage, did. An inferior personality, yet he had his points of interest. I am obliged to you for hastening his demise."

A tremulous gasp sounded in the room. The Phantom turned, and his brow clouded as he noticed the expression of anguish that had crossed Helen's face at the doctor's words.

"You're mistaken, Bimble," he declared sharply; "I didn't kill Gage. If I had done so, I should scarcely be here at the present moment."

Doctor Bimble shrugged his shoulders. "The matter is of little consequence, my dear sir. Whether or not you killed Gage is not of the slightest interest to me. However," with a significant glance at Vanardy's mud-streaked clothing and begrimed features, "I am strongly of the opinion that you did. The only thing that perplexes me is that you are taking the trouble to deny it. Did I hear you say that you came here through the tunnel?"

"I did." As he spoke the two words, the Phantom felt Helen's eyes searching his face.

"Enough." The anthropologist made a gesture expressive of finality. "Your admission that you came through the tunnel is an admission that you killed Gage. I perceive you do not follow me. Well, then, the circumstances of the crime prove conclusively that it was committed by someone who was aware of the existence of the tunnel. What the foolish newspapers refer to as astounding and miraculous is simplicity itself. The murderer entered Gage's bedchamber by way of the underground passage and made his escape by the same route. Nothing could be simpler."

The Phantom laughed mirthlessly. The doctor's theory, though at first glance shallow and far-fetched, impressed him uncomfortably, instilling in his mind an idea that had not occurred to him until now. Helen, standing a few paces away, was regarding him intently.

"To-day, I infer, you returned to the scene of your crime," continued the doctor, speaking in the dry tones of one developing a thesis. "Criminals often do, but why you, a superior type, should exhibit the same failing is beyond me. Some time in the near future I shall write a monograph on the subject, with particular reference to your individual case. However, the fact remains that you returned to the scene of your crime. I take it that by some blunder or careless move you betrayed your presence. At any rate, you found yourself trapped in Gage's bedchamber. What more natural than that, for the second time within a week, you should use the tunnel as a means of escape?"

The Phantom was silent for a moment. Helen Hardwick seemed to be searching his soul with eyes that gave him a distressing impression of doubt, suspicion, and reproach.

"You're mistaken." He was addressing the doctor, but the effect of his words was intended for the girl. "I went to Gage's house this afternoon, hoping to find some clew to the murderer."

"Ah!" The doctor's chuckle expressed amusement. "You were acting on the idea that it takes a crook to catch a crook, I suppose. Go on. Your ingenious explanations are diverting."

"I found myself cornered," continued the Phantom, stifling his resentment. "With the house surrounded and the police pounding on the door, I had only a few moments in which to find a way out. I used the tunnel, but I discovered the opening by merest accident."

"Impossible--flatly impossible! Yes, I see your wrist is scratched, but that proves nothing. That opening, my dear sir, could never have been discovered by accident."

"You seem to know something about it yourself," remarked the Phantom pointedly.

"I do," admitted the anthropologist, with a broad grin.

"And the tunnel runs into the cellar of your house."

"So it does." The doctor seemed not at all disturbed by Vanardy's sharp gaze. "Years ago, when I was looking for an inconspicuous and out-of-the-way place in which to pursue my studies in quiet, I leased the house to which this laboratory forms an extension. I saw Gage now and then, and the man interested me. Even before we became confidential I had noticed phrenological manifestations that seemed to classify him as belonging to one of the types described by Lombroso. Step by step I became familiar with his history and mode of life. I learned that he was conducting an extensive traffic in stolen goods, and that he had a broad circle of acquaintances in the underworld. Gage proved useful, introducing me to criminals whom I wished to study at close range, and, in addition to that, the man himself interested me. I saw traits and peculiarities in him that were strangely contradictory. And so, when one day he confided to me that he was living in constant fear of the police, who were likely to raid his premises at any time and confiscate his valuables, I made a proposition to him."

"You offered to help on the condition that he sign his body over to you for dissecting purposes," guessed the Phantom.

"Exactly, my friend." Bimble rubbed his hands in glee. "I offered to invent an avenue of escape that would be absolutely safe and proof against detection. Gage accepted, and I set to work fulfilling my part of the bargain. The result, if I may bestow compliments on myself, was a work of genius."

The Phantom gazed in frank astonishment at the versatile anthropologist. "The police have a nasty name for that sort of thing," he observed.

"The police and I are friends. I help them on occasions, when the spirit moves me and the case interests me. And a scientific man, my dear sir, cannot afford to have moral scruples. The ends of science justify all other things, even assisting a criminal to escape. Incidentally I derived a lot of entertainment out of the planning of the tunnel. In the first place, the window was purposely built so small that no one would consider it for a moment as a possible means of escape. Still less would any one think of looking for an exit hidden behind the frame of such a window. You noticed the nail, of course. A lot of psychology is centered around that nail."

"So it's a psychological nail, eh?" The Phantom looked at the scratch on his wrist.

"I knew, from my observations of the workings of the human mind, that not one person in ten million would give a second thought to that nail. Even if, by remote chance, someone should touch it, he would never suspect that it was a part of a mechanism. If, by a still remoter chance, he would investigate more closely, he would not know how to operate it. So, you see, there is not one chance in a billion that a stranger would find the tunnel. Do you blame me for doubting your statement that you found it by accident?"

The Phantom looked at Miss Hardwick. Doctor Bimble's explanation seemed to have impressed her strongly. He did not wonder at this, for he knew there was logic in the anthropologist's argument. Nothing but his firm belief that Gage had provided himself with an emergency exit of some sort had prompted the Phantom to give the nail a closer scrutiny.

Doctor Bimble gave him a mildly amused look.

"You agree with me--don't you, Vanardy? I think my logic holds together. Only a person familiar with the tunnel could have committed the murder. Conversely, a person betraying a knowledge of the tunnel is a worthy object of suspicion."

"Haven't you forgotten something?" The Phantom suddenly called to mind his own theory of the crime. "One other person could have committed the murder without a knowledge of the tunnel."

"Yes, I know," said the doctor wearily. "You are thinking of Officer Pinto. The possibility that he might be the guilty one occurred to me as soon as I saw the newspaper account, but the probabilities of the case controverted that view. Officer Pinto is an honest, dull-witted, conscientious soul--nothing else. That kind of man doesn't com----"

The jangling of a bell in front of the house interrupted him. There was a humorous twinkle in his eyes as he looked at the Phantom over the rims of his spectacles. Helen inhaled sharply.

"The police have come to search the house, I think," Doctor Bimble murmured languidly. "My man Jerome--an estimable fellow, by the way--is already admitting them. In a few moments they will be coming this way. Of course, if I tell them that I have seen nothing of a fugitive, they will go away without making an extended search."

Vanardy stiffened. His head went up and his eyes narrowed; then he glanced quizzically at the doctor. It seemed to him that Bimble had stressed the word if, as though a condition were implied.

"Well, Vanardy?" The anthropologist's tone was light and playful. Sounds of distant footfalls reached their ears. The Phantom's darting eyes rested for an instant on one of the skeletons, and in a twinkling he understood. He laughed shortly, for the idea impressed him as grotesquely humorous.

"I see," he said quickly. "You'll say the necessary word to the police if I agree to dedicate my earthly remains to your private hall of fame."

"You grasp my meaning exactly. But the time is short and I sha'n't press you for a definite promise. Only give me your word that you will consider the proposition."

"Very well; I'll consider it," promised the Phantom. "But I warn you that I have no burning ambition to become a skeleton for some time yet."

A pleased grin wrinkled the doctor's face. The footfalls, mingling with gruff voices, were coming closer, signifying that the searchers were rapidly approaching the laboratory.

"This way, Vanardy." The doctor beckoned the Phantom to follow as he started toward the door. Approaching footsteps caused him to draw back. A look of bewilderment came into his face.

"We have wasted too much time," he said complainingly; then, as he looked about the room, his face brightened. "But this will do for a hiding place. Better come along, Miss Hardwick. It may save you embarrassing questions."

He stepped hurriedly to one side of the room, opened a door and motioned them into a narrow closet. A moment later they heard a key turn in the lock.