THE GREY PHANTOM’S ROMANCE

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 797, 18 October 1929, Page 5

THE GREY PHANTOM’S ROMANCE

SYNOPSIS OF PRECEDING INSTALMENTS

Late one night Patrolman Pinto is called into the shop of Sylvanus Gage, recluse tobacco dealer just off the Bowery, New York. The old housekeeper, who had summoned him, fears foul play to her master, who had recently received a threatening letter signed “Grey Phantom.” Breaking in the door, Officer Pinto finds Gage dying from a knife thrust and is just in time to catch the words, “Grey Phantom,” from the murdered man's lips. A motive for the crime, so foreign to the Grey Phantom’s code, lies in the disappearance of a small cross, once the property of the Phantom and recently come into Gage’s possession. This bauble is missing from the dead man’s effects, although 50,000 dollars’ worth of diamonds remains intact.

Down on Long Island at Sea Glimpse, the Grey Phantom's retreat, the supposed murderer is astonished to read a lurid account of the crime. Realising that he lias been framed and that the police will spend all their energies looking for him, the Grey Phantom determines to go to New York himself and seek out the real culprit, whom he believes to be in the gang of his old enemy, the Duke. But the strongest motive behind the Grey Phantom’s bold stroke is to clear his name in the eyes of Helen Hardwick. Posing as “Roland Adair, of Boston.” and disguised with a newly grown beard, he visits the scene of the crime. By chance. Officer Pinto also drops into the tobacco shop, recognises the Grey Phantom, and by a clever manoeuvre locks him in the same small room in which the murder was committed. CHAPTER VI. THE WAY OUT Hurriedly he switched on the light. From his pocket he took a box containing an assortment of small tools which on several occasions had stood him in good stead. In vain he tried to manipulate the lock, finding that it was too solidly imbedded in the wood. Next he tried the hinges, but the flaps

The Astonishing Adventures of a Lovable Outlaw. Copyright by Street and Smith Corp. Serialised by Ledger Syndicate •

were fastened on the other side of the door and therefore inaccessible. He cudgeled his wits, but to no avail; evidently the door was an impassable barrier. It seemed by far the most substantial part of the room, suggesting that Gage might have had it specially constructed as a protection against burglars. He sprang to the window, then recalled that he had already ascertained that it was too narrow to permit him to crawl through. Another precaution of the wily Sylvanus Gage, he grimly reflected. His eyes, quick and crafty, darted over floor, ceiling and walls, but nowhere could he see a sign of a movable panel or a hidden passage, and he remembered Mrs. Trippe’s statement that headquarters detectives had spent half a day searching for a secret exit. Though he worked his wits at furious speed, the situation baffled his ingenuity. The Phantom perceived he was trappfed. The amazing luck that had attended him in the past had made him reckless and indiscreet, and now it seemed to have deserted him like a fickle charmer. He supposed that Pinto, too shrewd to attempt to deal single-handed with such a slippery and dangerous adversary as the Grey Phantom was already in communication with headquarters, summoning reinforcements. In a few minutes he would be hemmed in on all sides and pounced upon by overwhelming numbers of policemen, and in a little while the newspapers would shriek the senstation that at last the Grey Phantom had been captured. It surprised him that he could view the end of his career with philosophical calm, unaffected by vain regrets. He had always suspected that some day an overbold play on his part would result in his undoing, and he had trained himself to look upon his ultimate defeat with the indifference of a cynic and fatalist, but he had never guessed that the crisis would come like this. He smiled faintly as it dawned on him that the disaster which now stared him in the face was the direct result of his determination to vindicate himself in the eyes of a woman.

He had played for high stakes in the past, but Helen Hardwick's faith in him was the highest of them all. His smile faded as quickly as it had come. There was a sting in the realisation that his boldest and biggest game was foredoomed to failure. Only a few more minutes of liberty remained, and after that all chance of exculpating himself would be gone. Officer Pinto, having become famous of a sudden as the Grey Phantom’s captor, would now, more than ever before, be beyond suspicion, and he could be depended upon to make the most of his advantage. The Phantom, whose hands had never been sullied by contact with blood, would be an object of horror and loathing as the perpetrator of a vile and sordid mur-

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der. Helen Hardwick, like all the rest, would shudder at mention of his name. The dismal thoughts went like flashes through his mind. Only a few minutes had passed since the door slammed. The thought of Helen Hardwick caused a sudden stiffening of his figure and imbued him with a fierce desire for freedom. He refused to believe that his star had set and that this was the end. Many a time he had wriggled out of corners seemingly as tight and unescapable as the present one, chuckling at the discomfiture of the police and the bedevilment of his foes. Why could he not achieve another of the astounding feats that had made his name famous? He spurred liis wits to furious effort, repeatedly telling himself that somewhere there must he a way out. It was hard to'•believe that a man like Sylvanus Gage, living in constant danger of a surprise visit by the police, had not provided himself with an emergency exit. Despite the failure of the detectives to find it, there must be a concealed door or secret passage somewhere, though without doubt it was hidden in a way worthy of Gage’s foxlike cunning. He ran to the door and shot the bolt. The police would be forced to break tbeir way in, and this would give him a few moments’ respite. Again, as several times before in the last few minutes, his eyes strayed to the window. Though he knew it was far too narrow to afford a means of escape, it kept attracting his gaze and tantalising his imagination. Deciding to make a second attempt, he hastened across the floor, pushed up ■ the lower sash and edged his shoulder into the opening. Writhe and wriggle as he might, he could not squeeze through. Even a man of Gage’s scrawny build would have become wedged in the frame had he attempted it. Outside the house a gong clanged, signalling the arrival of the police patrol. From the front came sharp commands and excited ' voices. Already The Phantom guessed, a cordon was being throwu around the block, ensnaring him like a fish in a net. Precious moments passed, and still he was unable to take his eyes front the window. A vague and unaccountable Instinct told him that his only hope of safety lay in that direction. He raised the shade a little and looked out upon a court disfigured by ramshackle sheds and heaps of refuse. Several temporary hidingplaces awaited him there, If he could only get through the window. Even an extra inch or two added to its width would enable him to wriggle out of the trap. But how—

The answer came to him with sudden, blinding force. Yet it was simple and obvious enough;* in fact, the only reason he had not thought of It before was that his mind had been searching for something* more intricate and remote. It had not occurred to him that the extra inch or two that he needed could be provided by the simple expedient of dislodging the window frame. Already his fingers were tearing and tugging at the woodwork. He noticed that the casements were thick, so that the removal of the frame would give him considerable additional space, yet he had been at work only a few moments when he discovered that his plan was far more difficult of execution than he had expected. The frame, at first glance ill-fitting and insecurely fastened, resisted all his efforts. His nails were torn and there were

bleeding scratches on his fingers. He looked about him for something that he could , use as a lever. Someone was trying the lock, then a loud pounding on the door. “Open!” commanded a voice.

The Phantom, failing to find any implement that would serve his purpose, inserted his fingers beneath the sill and tugged with all his strength. “Come and get me!” was the taunt he flung back over his shoulder. Then he pulled again, but the sill did not yield. He straightened his body and attacked the perpendicular frame to the right, but again he encountered nothing but solid resistance. “The game’s up, Phantom,” said the voice outside the door. “Might as well give In. If you don’t we’ll bust the door.” The Phantom worked with frantic strength. His knuckles were bruised, his muscles ached, and sweat poured from his forehead. “I’ll drill a hole through the first man who enters this room,” he cried loudly, hoping that the threat would cause the men outside to hesitate for a few moments longer before battering down the door. Then, placing his feet on the sill, he centered his efforts on the horizontal bar at the top. A quick glance through the window revealed a broad-shouldered man In uniform standing with his back to a shed. Evidently the cordon was tightening. Even if he succeeded in getting through the window, he would have to fight his way through a human barrier. The outlook was almost hopeless, but he persisted with the tenacity that comes of despair. He sprang from the sill, turned the electric light switch, plunging the room into darkness and hiding his movements from the eyes of the man outside, then leaped back to his former position and tugged frenziedly at "the horizontal piece. Of a sudden his hand slipped and a metallic protuberance scratched his wrist. With habitual attention to detail, he wound his handkerchief around the injured surface, stopping the flow of blood. If by a miracle he should succeed in getting out, he did not care to leave behind any clues to his movements. Another sharp glance through the window satisfied him that the man at the shed was not looking In his direction. Then he ran his fingers along the horizontal frame, • found the object that had wounded him, and discovered that it was a nail. The hubbub outside the door had ceased momentarily. Suddenly there came a loud crash, as if a heavy body had dashed against the door. The Phantom, a suspicion awakening amid the jumble of his racing thoughts, fingered the nail, twisting it hither and thither. It occurred to him in a twinkling that it was an odd place for a nail, since It could serve no apparent purpose. In a calmer moment he would have thought nothing of it, but his mind was keyed to that tremendous pitch where minor details are magnified. Another crash sounded, accompanied by an ominous squeaking of cracking timber. He bent the nail to one side, noticing that Its resistance to pressure was elastic, differing from the inert feel of objects firmly embedded in solid wood. An inspiration came to him out of the stress of the moment. He twisted the nail in various directions, at the same time tugging frantically at a corner of the frame. Once more a smashing force was hurled against the door, followed by a portentous splintering crack. Quivering with suspense, his mind fixed with des'perate intentness on a dim, tan-

talising hope, the Phantom continued to bend and twist the nail at all possible angles. He knew that at any moment the door was likely to collapse, and then — He uttered a hoarse cry of elation. Of a sudden, as he bent the nail in a new direction, it gave a quick rebound, and in the same instant the frame yielded to his steady pull, as if swinging on a hinge, revealing an opening in the side of the uncommonly massive wall. For a. moment his discovery dazed him, then a terrific crash at the door caused him to pull himself together, and in a moment he had squeezed his figure into the aperture.

He drew a long breath and wiped the blinding, smarting perspiration from his face. Thanks to an accidental scratch on the wrist, he had discovered Sylvanus Gage's emergency exit. And none too soon, for already, with a splitting crash, the door had collapsed under the repeated onslaughts of the men outside, and several shadowy forms were bursting headlong into the room. The Phantom, wedged in the narrow opening, seized the side of the revolving frame and drew* it to. A little click signified that a spring had c ught it, and was holding it in place. Excited voices, muffled by the intervening obstruction, reached his ears. He smiled as he pictured the consternation of the detectives upon discovering that once more the Grey Phantom had lived tip to his name, and achieved another of the amazing escapes that had made him feared and secretly admired by the keenest sleuths in the country.

He had no fear that the police would follow him, for his discovery of the secret exit had been partly accidental and partly due to the accelerated nimbleness of mind that comes to one labouring under tremendous pressure. To the police the nail on the top of the window frame would be nothing but a nail. It is the hunted, not the hunter, -whose mind clutches at straws, and they would never guess that the nail was a lever in disguise. The Phantom, as he contemplated the ingenious arrangement, found his respect for the dead man’s inventiveness rising several notches. From the other side of the wall came loud curses, mingling with dazed exclamations, baffled shouts and expressions of incredulity. With a laugh at the discomfiture of his pursuers, who but a few moments ago had thought him inextricably trapped, the Phantom moved a little farther into the opening. It appeared to be slanting slowly to the ground, and it was so narrow that each wriggling and writhing movement bruised some portion of his body. Inch by inch he worked his way downward, wondering whither the passage might lead. Now the voices in the room were almost beyond earshot, and he could hear nothing but a low, confused din. Presently he felt solid ground at his feet, and at this point the passage turned in a horizontal direction.

There tvas a slight current of dank air in the tunnel, suggesting that its opposite terminus might be a cellar or other subterranean compartment. Limbs aching, be moved forward, with slow twists and coiling of the body. 1-Ie estimated that he had already covered half a dozen yards, aud he wondered how much father the passage might reach. One thing puzzled him as be writhed onward. Why had Gage not made use of the secret exit on the night of the murder? Was it. perhaps, because the murderer had come upou him so suddenly that he had not had time to reach the hidden opening? He dismissed the question as too speculative. A few more twists and jerks, and lie found himself in an open space where he could staud upright and move about freely. For a few moments he fumbled around' in the inky darkness, finally encountering a stairway. He ascended as quietly as he could, taking pains that the squeakings of the decaying stairs should not disturb the occupants above. Reaching the top, he listened intently while his hand searched for a doorknob. Slowly aud with infinite caution he pushed the door open. Again he stopped and listened. The room was dark and still, and he could distinguish no objects, yet his alert mind sensed a presence, aud he felt a pair of sharp eyes gazing at him through the shadows. Then, out of the gloom and silence came a voice: “Don’t move!”

The words were a hit theatrical, but the voice caused him to start sharply 7 . A few paces ahead of him he saw- a blurry shape. His hand darted to his hip pocket; then he remembered that he had left his pistol in the grip at his hotel, for when he started out he had not expected that his enterprise would So soon take a critical turn. “Hold up your hands,” commanded the voice, and again an odd quiver shot through the Phantom. Nonchalantly he found his case and thrust a cigarette between his lips. Then he struck a match, advanced a few paces, gazed sharply ahead as the fluttering flame illuminated the scene, and came to a dead stop. He was looking straight into the muzzle of a pistol, and directly behind the bluishly gleaming barrel he saw ttie face of Helen Hardwick. CHAPTER VII. DR. BIMBLE’S LABORATORY She was the last person the Grey Phantom had expected to see at that moment, and this was the last place w'here 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 de-l manded, 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 a very good feminine logic, but ” “It. is excellent logic, my friend,” interrupted a voice somewhere iu the darkness; and in the same moment there came a click, and a bi-ight 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, 1 see,” Be murmured. “I had a notion they were either blue or grey. Queer how oue forgets.” The girl looked as though utterly unable to understand his levity, for as eueh 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 bejpg. 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, draw-lng 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 lip 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. 1 “My name, sir,” declared the little I man with an air of vast importance, "is Doctor Tyson Bimble. Yon may ! have heard of me. I have written j several treatises on the subject of I criminal anthropology, and my proj fessional services have occasionally ' been enlisted by the police. Not that I such work interests me,” he added | quickly. “The solution of crime j mysteries and the capture of criminals are the pastimes of Inferior minds. As a man of science, I am interested j solely in the criminal himself, his I mental and physical characteristics, I and the congenital traits that distinguish him. Again I ask you if I may feel your pulse.” (To be continued tomorrow.)