HANDS UNSEEN

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 874, 18 January 1930, Page 22

HANDS UNSEEN

A New Grey Phantom Detective Story

By

HERMAN LANDON

Copyright by Street and Smith Corp. Serialized by Ledger Syndicate

CHAPTER VIII. LAW AND ORDER, INC. On Broadway, a few blocks north of Columbus Circle, stands a modest fivestorey brick building distinguished from Its neighbours by a fresh coat of white paint that seems to symbolise its triumphant resistance to the encroaching march of the skyscraper. A rococo roof and a somewhat ornate entrance, together with a series of small and bizarrely shaped dormer windows that look out upon the new order of things with a rakish and impudent blink, give evidence that the structure wa3 not always sanctified to the decorous pursuits of real estate brokers and insurance firms. Indeed, until a few years ago, and while Broadway was still a nightless lane, the entire five floors and attic were given over to bacchanalian carousals indulged In by the fastest of the fast set. The place was then known as Little Eden, and its proprietor, a former sergeant of police, was in the habit of boasting that he had the wealthiest as well as the most prodigal clientele in the city and that more high-grade champagne was consumed there in a night than in all the other Broadway restaurants combined. It seemed only fitting, then, that the building should do penance for its dissolute past by surrendering a portion of its floor space to the activities of an organisation devoted to the promotion of a stern moral code and the suppression of all forms of lawlessness. Law and Order, Inc., was the name of the little group of crusaders that occupied the fifth and attic floors of the erstwhile Little Eden. It had sprung up over night, as it were, and the organisers were ostensibly an obscure group of earnest men and women who modestly renounced the publicity their efforts undoubtedly deserved and preferred to do their work quietly and without ostentation. The sudden and unheralded appearance of the little society was nothing unusual in an age when organisations for the suppressions of all sorts of iniquity ■sprout like mushrooms and are sometimes as ephemeral. Asking no favours, and minding strictly its own affairs, Law and Order, Inc., appeared to justify its existence by conducting extensive investigations and distributing broadcast a vast mount of leaflets and circulars designed to promote strict enforcement of the law. The authorship of the society’s publications was veiled in anonymity, so the public at large had no inkling of the fact that most of them were the product of the facile pen of one Clifford Wade, a mountainous individual with a pudgy, good-humoured face and a. triple chin, who carried his enormous bulk through life with a sort of triumphant martyrdom. Wade’s antecedents were as obscure as those of the other promoters of Law and Order, Inc., and he had a set of engaging qualities that effectually forestalled any idle inquiries into his past. To all appearances he was the active

head of the organisation; at any rate, he was the only one of the executives whom casual callers were permitted to interview. Late one afternoon toward the end of March, W’ade gathered a few typewritten sheets from his desk, stepped out of his plainly furnished office on the fifth floor, and climbed heavily to the attic. Puffing hard, he delivered three measured raps on a door. “Come in,’’ said a deep, quick voice. Wade entered and carefully closed the door behind him. The room, having a single dormer window, looked as if it had been furnished recently and in haste, and its appointments suggested that it served its occupant both as office and living quarters. Except for a bunch of daphne in a plain glass vase on the table, it had evidently been arranged with an eye 6olely to practical things. The occupant of the room had risen at Wade's entrance. For a moment he stood erect, a marked tenseness in tiis manner, a trace of habitual caution in the glance he levelled at the door. The shaded extension lamp on the table illuminated only a narrowspace, leaving his face in shadow. Seeing the newcomer's squat features, flushed from the exertion of climbing a steep stairway, he relaxed and resumed his seat. "Oh, you, Wade,” he said quietly, yet with the strained undertone characteristic .of one who is constantly holding himself in leash. “Anvthing up?” Wade tossed the typewritten sheets on the table and eased his generous bulk into an armchair. There was about him a jauntiness and a sleekness of apparel that clashed ludicrously with his corpulence. “Lamp that, boss,” he said, with a faint show of pride, indicating the manuscript. “Just finished it. I’ve sailed it ‘Down "With the Bootlegger!’ Tell me if you don’t think its a knockout.” The other man picked up the first sheet and ran a languid oiye over the opening paragraphs. I>/en when in repose, as at present, his slightest movements indicated an unremitting vigilance, a constant readiness for action if the need should arise. The nostrils, fine and sensitive, seemed always on the alert for stray scents. The deep grey eyes, never quite at rest, had a hunted look, the lurking reflection of distrust and wariness characteristic of a man who has lived among perils. About the mould of the lips there was a faint suggestion of the dreamer, but there was also a touch of grimness, an unyielding flint-like quality, and the whole denoted a life of boundless aggressiveness coloured by a whimsical strain of humour. As he sat before the heavily shaded lamp, with shadows all around, his personality gave forth a suggestion of grey elusiveness that was carried out in the flashing grey eyes, the iron-grey at his temple, even in the suit of neutral grey he wore. His eyes, as he looked up, showed

TROUBLE AHEAD “What's the trouble, Wade

signs of severe strain, and sleepless nights, but a faint smile played about his lips. “What puzzles me about you, Wade,” he said slowly, "is that you talk like a rough-neck, but write like a college professor. What’s your grievance against the bootleggers?” “Nothing in particular,” said the fat man, “but we’ve got to keep up the bluff. Makes a fellow dry to turn out that kind of stuff, boss. Wish I had some of the bubble water that was guzzled in this joint in the good old days.” He licked his lips with a longing expression, but in a moment his face sobered. “Look here, boss, I’ve come to give you some straight talk.” The other looked a trifle bored. “It’s like this, boss. A month ago, when we raked the old gang together and started getting ready for bigtime stuff, I thought the Grey Phantom was coming back with bells on. It promised to be just like the old days, before you fell for the cutie with the heavenly hair and the 75 candle-power eyes. Wish I had your luck with the fair ones, boss. I would —” “Wade!” The interruption came in a low, quiet tone, but there was suppressed thunder in it. Wade stopped short, gaping ludicrously as he saw the effect of his banter. There was a menacing glint in the other's eyes. “Forgive me, boss,” said the fat man awkwardly. “Didn’t mean any offence. That tool tongue of mine is always three jumps ahead of my brain.” ‘“Learn to hold it in check,” said the other curtly. Then his face softened a little. “Oh, it’s all right. 1 know your heart is iu the right place, you lumbering old hippo. What’s worrying you, Wade?” The fat man regarded him doubtfully out of his small, eager eyes, marooned in layers of flesh. He spoke half reproachfully; “Several things are worrying me, boss. One of them is this dull and quiet life. You might give me a chance to work off some of this fat.” “You are doing your share. You got our old crowd together and put new blood into it. To handle such a big organisation we had to have a headquarters, a safe place where the police wouldn’t be likely to disturb us. You found this ideal location, and to make us doubly safe and secure against intrusion, you drew a cloak of respectability over us. This law and order society was your invention. I didn’t give a thought to that side of the matter because I knew I could rely on you. You are doing enough. What are you fretting about?” Wade contemplated his pudgy and expertly manicured finger-tips. “But it isn’t getting us anywhere,” he complained. “Always knew you would get back into the game sooner or later, but I didn’t think it would be this way. For three years you and me lay low out at Sea Glimpse. No excitement at all, except a few times when your old enemies tried to do you dirt. You spent most of the time in the gardens, poking seeds into the ground and mooning about a girl. I didn’t like it, boss, but I didn’t say much. Felt pretty sure The Grey Phantom would cut loose again before long. Honest to goodness, boss, the only thing kept me alive during those three years was the hope that you and I would go back to he-man stuff some day. W’ell, the day has come, but it isn’t what I expected.”

The fat man looked wistfully into space. “Don’t know as I can make it clear. Remember the old days, when people used to feel as if an earthquake had struck town every time The Grey Phantom’s name was mentioned? Those were the days, boss! We did some hard hitting then, and we struck out straight from the shoulder. Lots of people are still wondering how we did it. Some of them could never quite decide whether The Grey Phantom was man or devil. I was proud of you in those days, boss.” Wade's chest expanded; his plump face shone. The other tapped the desk with a pencil. “But it was only an emotional eruption, Wade. It gave us a few thrills, but the glamour soon wore off. It was madness—sheer madness. Now it’s different. I was dragged back into the old life. I didn’t go back voluntarily. It’s still madness —but of a different kind.” A twitching tremor crossed his pale, strained face. “In the past it was only play. Now it is a matter of life or death. How does *it strike you as different?” Wade thought for a moment. The glow faded from his face. “It must be the way we go about it. In the old days we struck out with a wallop, knocking ’em cold. Now we sit down and take our pen in hand. We send out polite letters to millionaires asking them to come across with a million each. If the letters don’t work, we strike—but the old punch is missing.” Wade sighed and spread out his fat legs encased in meticulously creased trousers. The other, his head bent low, looked off into space. “Those letters were Lavery’s idea,” he explained. “I still think he was right. They served a double purpose. Even in the old days that you rhapsodise about, I never felt like striking without giving the victim fair warning. Maybe it was a romantic notion, but I stuck to it. The police thought it was bravado; perhaps it was. Now, those letters that we mailed out to ten carefully hand-picked millionaires satisfied the old notion of mine, or whatever you choose to call it. Besides, the letters gave them a chance to spare themselves a lot of inconvenience. In each case there was a possibility that we wouldn’t have to resort to harsh measures.” “Maybe so,” said Wade uncertainly. “The Grey Phantom’s name: at the bottom of a letter is about as strong an argument as I know of. Just the same, I didn’t quite like the idea. It might have worked, but it went against the grain. If I had known you as well as I did, I would have thought that ” He looked • uncomfortably across the desk.

“Out with it, old scalawag. What would you have thought?” “That you’d gone dippy,” the fat man blurted out, as if anxious to get it said. The other chuckled faintly. “Well, perhaps you wouldn’t have been so very far off. About a month ago, just after the blow fell, I don’t think I was quite sane. “When Lavery came to me with his suggestion, I thought it was good, and still think so. I felt more justified in using force after giving the ten millionaires a chance to give me voluntarily what I wanted.” Wade scowled a trifle. “A few years ago yould wouldn’t have needed any justification, bo»s. That isn’t

what I object to, though. What I don’t like is that you didn't use any force after the letters failed. We had it all planned to crack the crip at the Atlantic Trust Company. The job was to have come off at midnight last night. The gang was ready to the last man. Y’ou had worked out all the details yourself. It was the cleverest plan you ever doped out, boss. A stroke of genus, that’s what it was. It would have come off like clockwork, too. It would have been a smooth, quiet, painless job, and you would have been about a million to the good. Then, when everything was ready, you called the whole thing off, and for no reason at all. It made me mad clear through.” Wade wiped the perspiration from his florid face and glared indignaitly at his companion. The other drew a hand across his forehead. “I can’t explain it, Wade. The plan you thought so brilliant was only apiece of madness. I couldn’t go through with it. but I can't explain why.” “I can,” grumbled the fat man. “You had too much girl on the brain. Y’ou haven’t been yourself since you fell for that little —for Miss Hardwick. No, boss, no use interrupting. I’m going to speak my mind this time. Y’ou called off the job that was planned for last night because Miss Hardwick doesn’t approve of that sort of stuff. Ugh;” W’ade made a gesture of vast disgust. “Miss Hardwick’s pretty brown eyes have locoed you completely, And here’s another thign. It’s about those letters you sent out. There was two or three of them I didn’t like at all, the one we sent to Craig, for instance.” The other’s eyes widened questioningly. Wade sat. contemplating his brightly polished shoes. “In the letter you wrote to Craig you mentioned something about Jack Frey and the old Climax Oil deal. Y’ou found the dope in the records we used to keep in ihe old days.”

“Well, what was wrong with it? It was Lavery's idea to incorporate a hint of that kind in two or ’three of the letters. The quickest way to break down the resistance of a stubborn old cuss like J. Pentletou Craig is to give him a good scare, and nothing scares him so much as the discovery that he has been found out, especially if it has to do with an incident h thinks everybody has forgotten.” Wade wagged his immense head with a doubtful air. “Sounds all right when you put it that way. but some people have an ugly name for that sort of thing.” “An ugly name"? What Co they call it?” THE PHANTOM ACCUSED “Blackmail.” The other started, then sat very still and tense, pering fixedly into the other’s face. “Blackmail? Ridiculous! Blackmail consists in extortion by threats of exposture. “I had no intention of exposing Craig’s old crookedness. My only idea was to break through his crust, to give him a wholesome shock.” “Sure, boss. I know blackmail was farthest from your mind. Others may not see it our way, though. You asked Craig to cought up a million, and at the same time you gave him a gentle dig about Frey and the old Climax Oil affair. To 911 people out of every 100 that looks like blackmail. It’s the way blackmailers work.” For a time the other scarcely breathed. His eyes glowed with a dull, waverding flame. “You are right,” he muttered. “More madness! Why didn’t 1 see it before?” "Because you haven’t been 3*ourself lately. Your thinking machinery has been running wild. I know, because I’ve been watching you. Now and then I've seen a couple of devils in your eyes. I knew all you needed was a hint to make you realise how those letters would look to others.