HANDS UNSEEN

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 873, 17 January 1930, Page 5

HANDS UNSEEN

A New Grey Phantom Detective Story

By

HERMAN LANDON

Copyright by Street and Smith Corp.

Serialized by Ledger Syndicate

CHAPTER Vl.—Continued. "No. Craig. A million is a lot, but I couldn’t consider it. I advised you yesterday to get the money from your bauk, but you refused to act on my suggestion. You can’t obtain such an amount without making a trip to New York, and you are such a slippery individual that I can't trust you to live up to your promise after you leave this room.” “PH stay right, here,” promised Mr. Craig eagerly. “I'll send a messenger for the money.” “And the messenger would bring the police back with him. Besides, no bank would deliver such a large sum to a messenger without making sure that everything was on the level.” “I’ll give you a cheque.” “You would stop payment by telephone as soon as I was out of your sight. Anyway, a cheque for a million might prove hard to cash. I’ll give you the unvarnished truth, Craig. I've been nursing a hatred against you ! for a long, long time. It’s the kind of hatred that money can’i quench. Even , if you had delivered the money voluntarily, I would have killed you just the same. I don’t care for all the dirty millions you ever had. It’s your life I'm after, and I’ve come to take it. My | idea in sending you those notes was j just to. give you a taste of what was going to happen. I wanted you to : suffer a few tortures beforehand. That's how I hate you—you viper!” The words were spurted out with a malignant hiss that made Mr. Craig's blood run cold.

“Who arc you?” he asked tensely, 1 staring wildly at the shadowy shape that stood before him. The room was i constantly growing darker. I “You will know before you die. I That ought to give you some satisfak:- | tion. Did you ever pray, Craig? If you know how, you had better be I quick about it. I’ll give you exactly j two minutes.” | The words were spoken in a tone of ' finality that shattered the last remi nant of Mr. Craig's fortitude. He tried to speak, but only a few guttural j groans came. “Only two minutes, Craig.” repeated the voice. "Better hurry.” Mr. Craig's breath came and went in wheezy little gulps. A cold, clammy perspiration was bathing his forehead. Of a sudden he started. A loud knocking sounded on the door, and he heard William excitedly calling hi 3 name. “Poor fool!” muttered the other ma n. “The door is bolted, and it will take some little time to break in. No, Craig, stay right where you are. If you move a single step, you will only hasten your death.” Mr Craig had been edging toward the door, but the threat made him stop. A wild pounding sounded outside He was torn between hope and despair. If he could only stay the murderous hand a little longer. "Don't —don't kill ine!” he croaked. “I'll give you everything —everything I have.” The other gave an evil, taunting laugh. “No use, Craig. It’s too late. Yesterday was your last chance to get the money from the bank. Let mo tell you something. I could have told you five minptes ago, while you were bidding for your life, but I didn't want to spring the surprise too soon. ‘ I believe all your ready cash is on deposit at the Atlantic Trust Com\pany?” . , ‘ “It is.” said Mr. Craig hoarsely. | “Well, you won’t live to read to- | morrow's newspapers, but if a miracle ; chould save your life you would dis- ! cover that the Atlantic. Trust Com-

pany's vaults had been cleaned out to the last penny. The robbery was timed to come off at midnight, so I suppose it is all over now. The depositors will be lucky if they get five cents on the dollar, but most of them are wealthy and can stand the loss. Now you understand why I can’t bargain with you.” The tumult at the door grew louder, but for the present Mr. Craig’s mind could grasp nothing but the statement he had just heard. “Robbery—at midnight?” he echoed in a thin, quavering voice. “But how do you know it came off? Maybe something interfered with the robbers’ plan.” “No chance, Craig. Nothing ever interferes with The Grey Phantom’s plans.” “Oh!” Mr. Craig littered a low, longdrawn groan. “The Grey Phantom A furious din at the door, sounding as if a heavy piece of furniture had been rammed against the panels, interrupted him. He looked aside, and in the same instant a hand seized his throat and an irresistible force hurled him to the floor. The hold at his throat relaxed, but a knee pressed firmly against his chest. “For Heaven’s sake —don’t—don’t kill me!” he spluttered chokingly, with a violent but unavailing effort to shake off the weight that held him down.

Again a loud crash sounded at the door. UNSEEN HANDS “No use. Craig,” hissed a voice in his ear. “You didn’t listen when poor Jack Frey begged you to spare his life. Y'ou had him down on the floor, just as I have you now. You ” “How do you know?” asked Mr. Craig in a weak, horrified tone. “Who are you?” “Y'ou will see in a moment—but you will never live to tell what you see.” A hand closed chokingly over Mr. Craig’s windpipe. The scratch of a match sounded in the darkness, and the flame was held close to his staring eyes, illuminating for a brief instant the face of his "assailant. A violent convulsion seized him. A name rose raspingly in his tortured throat, and then the match went out, leaving no other light than a feeble glimmer in the fireplace. For a moment, just before it fell with a swift downward motion, a hand was dimly silhouetted against the pallid glow. CHAPTERED. CULLIGORE TAKES A VACATION *A limp, youngish man with strawcoloured hair and small, cinnamonhued eyes walked wearily into -the office of Inspector Harrington at police headquarters. The hour was four in the afternoon. “Well, lieutenant?” The inspector,

a large, sun-browned man, who occasionally boasted that he could keep his mind on several things at one time, did not look up from the stack of reports he was examining. “Enjoying your vacation?” “So-so,” said Culligore, sitting down in the chair the inspector indicated with a nudge of his elbow. He leaned forward and slowly swung his soft brown hat between his knees. “Say, inspector, The Grey Phantom seems to have gone the limit this time.” “Serins to?” Half of the inspector’s mind was still on the papers before him. “Did he kill J. Pendleton Craig, or didn’t he?” A baffled grin twisted the lieutenant’s lips. “Well, Craig was murdered last night. There’s a knife wound between the fifth and sixth ribs. The job was done in a way that makes me think nobody hut The Grey Phautom could have done it.” “But you seem to have doubts about it?”

Culligore hesitated for a moment. “I’ll tell you exactly what I found out, sir, and you can judge lor yourself. As soon as I had got your permission to take a day off I beat it out to Annaudale this morning. I got out there about 11 o’clock and walked from the station to Craig’s place, about a* third of a mile or so. It is called Tucltaway Camp, and it looks something like those feudal estates you read about. The village authorities were on the job when I arrived. Fellow named Bowman was in charge. Bright chaji, though he doesn’t look it. A bit crude, which is to be expected, but he had sense enough not to muss up the scene more than he could help. Well, at first he gave me the cold shoulder. Couldn't see why a New York detective was butting in on a case in another State. I explained to him that I’ve had a goose to pick with The Phantom for a long time, that The Phantom had fooled me so often that I was ashamed to look myself in the face. Anyhow, I told him, I was taking a hit of a vacation and my visit was unofficial. All I wanted was to look around for a while. That thawed him out. He told me to go as far as I liked. “Now, inspector, there are several queer things about that case. In the first place, it seems Craig had a hunch something of that kind was going to happen. He had bSen having hunches of that sort for years, and whenever they came on he dropped everything and ran out to Tuckaway Camp. Apparently he felt safer there than in town, and, besides, his doctor told him his nerves needed rest and quiet. “Craig was a widower, as you know, and his only living relative was a niece, Miss Julia Wayne. She is an orphan, and it seems she was fond of her uncle in spite of his mean disposition. I guess the reason for that was that he was her mother’s brother. Anyhow, she’s a little brick, and she tagged along wherever her uncle went, trying to cheer him up when an attack of the blues came on. “All told, there were nine people staying at Tuckaway Camp. They were Craig and his niece, a butler named William; a cook and a second cook, two housemaids, the chauffeur, and a handy man. Every one of the servants has been in Craig's employ a long time. I looked them all over, and I’m willing to swear every one is cn the level, it seems Craig had tested them in various ways and found them absolutely reliable. “The queer doings began with a series of letters that were smuggled into the house in some mysterious way. William found some of them on the stand in the vestibule; the others seem to have been placed in some spooky fashion right under Craig’s nose while he was looking the other way. The letters seemed to have a terrifying effect on him, but nobody knew what was in them until they were found in his pocket after the murder. They were all typewritten, and all of them seem to have been tvritten by the Grey Phantom.” “Seem to?” said the inspector again, i still fixing 50 per cent, of his grey . matter oil the papers before him.

“That’s it, inspector. The Phantom’s name was typed at. the bottom of every one of them, but that doesn’t prove he wrote them all. Two or three were short and sweet. One of them said something about a person named Frey and an oil deal that took place way back in ninety-eight. Looked to me as if it was meant to put a scare into Craig. Another said the writer hoped Craig was enjoying his last night oii earth. Real creepy, that one. Then there was a long letter that was worded exactly like the one received oy President Eggleston of the Atlantic Trust Company a few days ago.” “Eh?” At last the inspector looked up and turned toward Culligore. “You mean the crazy letter in which The Phantom asked Eggleston to lend him a million dollars?” The lieutenant nodded. “The long letter found in Craig’s pocket was exactly like that one. The Phantom explained he needed ten millior dollars and had to liave the coin in a hurry. He was writing to nine other rich bugs, asking them to lend him a million each, at current interest, and promising to repay the money within a year. The letter made it plain that if the loan wasn’t granted voluntarily, The Phantom would take it by force, hut in any event he gave his w"ord of honour that the money would be returned within "a year.” "Craziest thing I ever heard of!” snorted the inspector.

“That’s what Eggleston thought. He sent the letter to headquarters and told us that he had laughed so heartily over it that his gout was relieved and that he would treat The Phantom to the best dinner in town if he only knew where to find him. Now. we know The Phantom wrote ten of those letters. One was sent to Craig, another to Eggleston, hut we don’t know who got the other eight. Evidently the others took it as a joke and did not even take the trouble to communicate with headquarters.” The inspector lighted a long, black cigar and clamped it fiercely between his teeth. “The Phantom must have gone plumb dippy. No sane man would expect a conservative business man to lend a million to a crook.” “True enough, hut everything The Phantom ever did looked crazy at first sight. There was always method in his madness, though, inspector. He never did anything without good reason. I am wondering how Eggleston’s gout is today after learning what happened to Craig last night. I bet a pair of pink socks that the other eight rich guns who received The Phantom's letters are also having a funny feeling in the pit of the stomach. That isn’t the point, though. What puzzles me is one of the other letters found in Craig’s pocket.” “What was it like?”

Culligore made a wry face. “It was evidently written on the same typewriter as the others, and the name of the Grey Phantom was typed at the bottom of it. That's where the resemblance ends, though. That letter was pitched in an entirely different tune, inspector. It was a plain come-down. It told Craig that, since he had failed to come across with a million, the Phantom took it for granted that he was hard up. and did not want to squeeze him too hard. If Craig couldn't raise a million, the Phantom would be satisfied with half. That was the gist of it.” “Well?” THE CRAIG CASE. Culligore pursed his lips and looked hesitantly at the broad tips of his shoes. “I’ll just bet a pair of pink socks, inspector, that the Phantom did not write that letter. He may have written the others, or some of them, but not that one. I never yet knew

the Phantom to hack down. With him it’s all or nothing.” ‘‘Just what are you driving at?” “I’ll get to the point in a minute. You can imagine what effect a letter of that kind would have on a wise old bird like Craig. Craig may have been scared at first, but that letter braced him up. It convinced him that the Phantom was weakening—that he was only making a big bluff. If he had been tempted to yield before, that letter put all thoughts of surrender out of his mind. Just the same, he didn’t feel quite at ease. I guess that big gloomy house looked kind of creepy to him, especially at night. And he couldn’t figure out how those letters had got inside the house. It gave him a spooky feeling, and. he was never long on nerve. He decided he would be safer with a bodyguard beside him, and so he sent for Harry Bell. “That crook?” exclaimed the inspector in disgust. Culligore grinned shrewdly. “Maybe there were reasons why Craig would rather have a crooked bodyguard than a straight one. Anyhow, he sent for Bell, and Bell came. One of the guest rooms three flights up—the blue room, it’s called —had been put in readiness for them, and they went there to spend the night. William had brought up food and refreshments and several armfuls of wood to keep a fire going all night. What happened may never be known, but along toward morning Miss Wayne heard a noise that sounded like a shot. With William and two other servants she hurried up to the blue room. They shouted and knocked on the door, but no response came. The wood is very heavy, and they could not hear what was going on inside. Finally the th»ee servants got a heavy piece of furniture which they rammed against the door, shattering one of the panels. I put William through a stiff crossexamination on what they found when they entered. It sounds fishy, but I’m convinced he told the truth.” The inspector, all attention now, leaned eagerly forward. “Here’s the queer part,” the lieuten-

ant went on. “In the first place, the door was bolted on the inside, and the bolt is equipped with a safety catch that absolutely precludes tampering of any kind. There is only one window in the room, and in front of it is a heavy shutter. Both the w-indow clasps and the fastenings on the shutter were intact. It didn’t seem humanly possible for anyone to have entered that room without being admitted by the occupant, and yet that’s exactly what happened. “When Miss Wayne and the servants entered Craig was lying on the floor at the farther side of the room, with the table between him and the door. An ordinary kitchen knife was sticking out of the wound in his chest. On the other side of the table, about six or eight feet away. Bell was sitting in an easy chair, dead to the world. He didn’t recover consciousness until three hours later, and then it was discovered that he had a goodsized lump on the back of the head. He said it all happened so quickly that he didn't know what was up until something struck him on the head and put him to sleep. It appears that about twenty minutes before it happened, someone knocked on the door. Bell opened and looked out in the hall, but couldn’t see anybody, and Craig would uot let him leave the room. When the door was locked again, a note was found in the chair Craig had occupied, it said the writer hoped he was enjoying his last night on earth. When Craig saw it, he turned woozy all of a sudden. He accused Bell of all kinds of crazy things; even threatened to kill him. While he was pointing his gun at Bell, there came a knocking on the door again. Bell opened and looked out, but Craig wouldn’t let him leave the room. Bell was plumb dis-

gusted. Then the murderer appeared.” “From where?” asked the inspector. “Nobody knows. From the looks of things, he must have stepped through a solid wall. Bell tells me he couldn’t have been hidden in the room, for he had made k thorough search. He had also examined the lock on the door, the fastening on the shutter and the window, and tapped every portion of the floor, walls and ceiling. There wasn’t a loophole anywhere. He can’t imagine how the murderer got into the room. For that matter, though, the way he got out is just as mysterious as how he got in, for there was no sign of him when Miss Wayne and the servants entered.” “Didn’t Bell see anything of the murderer?” “Not a thing. Craig was giving him enough to think about just then. All he remembers is that something struck him on the head.” “You think Bell is telling the truth?” Culligore hesitated for a moment. “Bell is a slick one, but if he wanted to tell a lie, why didn’t he tell a good one? What he did tell me sounds wild enough to be the truth.” The inspector stroked his robust chin reflectively. “There must be an opening somewhere in those walls, of course. Miracles don’t happen in this day and age.” “I’m not so sure about that, inspector. I’ve seen several murders that were committed behind solid walls and bolted doors, but in all of them there was a loophole somewhere. There’s none here, though. I spent a solid hour looking for one, and so did Bowman. It’s easier to believe that a ghost killed Craig than that a murderer got in and out of that room.” Harrington regarded him scowlingly. “That's rot, lieutenant. There must be a natural explanation somewhere.” “That’s what I’ve been telling myself, but I can’t find it.” “Haven't you a theory of an}' kind?” “Several, insprrtor. That’s the trouble—too many theories. Bowman has obtained a warrant for the Grey Phantom’s arrest. He thinks the letters in Craig’s pocket prove that the Phantom did it. Since anything is possible for the Phantom, he goes on the assumption that it isn’t necessary to explain how the. murderer got in or out of the room. I don’t quite agree with him.” “No? Well, lieutenant, come to think of it. you've always rooted for the Grey Phantom. If I didn’t know you as well as I do, I’d suspect you were getting a rake-off from him.” Culligore chuckled awkwardly. “The Phantom always played the game according to his code. He can raise more hell than anybody I ever knew and still act like a gentleman. I take my hat off to him, inspector, even if he is a crook. Just the same, if my chance ever comes, he needn’t expect any quarter from me. He's played a number of jokes on me that are rankling yet. If the Phantom is going to be pinched, I want a hand in it. That’s why I asked you this morning to give me a day off. I wish you would make it a week. It’s a stiff job, and it’s going to take time.” “All right, then. Take a week. If anybody can catch the Phantom, you can, and I’m going to rest a lot easier when he is under lock and key. But I have a feeling you are not sure he killed Craig.” “I’m not sure of anything just now. The natural thing, under all the circumstances, would be to suspect Bell. We all know Bell is crooked, and he was right there with Craig in the room. As far as anybody knows he had no motive, but he certainly had the opportunity. If we make up our minds that Bell committed the murder, all this spooky business is eliminated. But Bell has a bump in the . back of his head, and that seems to clear him. The doctor who examined him says he couldn't possibly 1 'nave inflicted that bump with bl-

own hand. Everything considered, t doi’t believe Bell did it, although that would be an easy solution.” “Then who but the Phantom could have done it?” IS THE GREY PHANTOM GUILTY? “That’s what I’ve been asking myself, inspector. Those letters look bad, though I don't believe the Phantom wrote all of them. If I suspect him at all, it is for the same reason that Bowman suspects him. I don't know of anybody else who can pull off a murder that way. There’s only one man alive who has the brains to dope.out a stunt like that, and that's the Grey Phantom. That’s the one big argument against him. All the other arguments point the other way. The Phantom has gone it straight for almost three years. He’s had some wild adventures, but he went into them for good reasons, and he did us several good turns. Here’s another thing. The murder of Craig, as far as we can see, had neither purpose nor reason behind it. It was a wanton crime and ” “Hold on,” interrupted the inspector. “The Phantom wrote to tea rich men, asking each one to contribute a million to his fund. Craig was one of the ten, and it seems he refused to come across.” “Wouldn’t it have been good poliev for the Phantom to scare the other nine into submission by making an example of Craig?” “Maybe, sir,” said Culligore doubtfully. “That would supply the motive. all right. On the other hand, we’ve got to remember that the Phantom has always steered clear of murder. He has cut some wild capers, but he always boasted that he never killed a person.” “Bad logic,” objected the inspector. “Every murderer could make the same boast until lie committed his first killing. He had to begin some time.” "Something in that, sir,” admitted Culligore, rising. “If the Phantom killed Craig, I hope to puf the steel bracelets on him before long, but I’m going to make sure first.” “And how are you going to make sure?” Culligore grinned and twirled his hat in an awkward way. “Maybe I’ll ask him.” “Ask him?” echoed the inspector incredulously. “Why not? The Phantom always does the unexpected thing. He might answer me truthfully, just to be original. That reminds me; I have never yet caught the Phantom in a lie.” Harrington gave him an astounded ] glance. "You’re an optimist about human nature, Culligore. Go ahead i and ask the Phantom if he killed Craig. But first, you have to find j him. Where are you going to iook i for him?” “I’m not going to look for him at all, inspector.” There was a mysterious twinkle in the lieutenant's eyes, i “Instead I'm going to do as t.ie French do—find the woman. It’s the quickest way.” “Wish you luck,” said Harrington dryly, as Culligore started to go. “You will need it.”