HANDS UNSEEN

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 879, 24 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 Xll.—Continued. “Sure thing, but it's the only way to handle the Phantom. He is up against a game this time that he can't beat. He can't find the professor without trailing me, and if he tries to trail me he signs the professor’s death warrant. Now, sweetie, you can see your father, but you’ll have to cut it short. This way. Careful you don’t stumble Don’t forget your hands are tied.’’ In a corner of the hovel was a dilapidated stairway, and Whipple started to ascend. In a black, despairing mood Helen followed him. On the upper landing he unlocked a door and pushed her into a room. The first thing she noticed was a faint reek of gas in the air. The room was crudely but comfortably furnished and showed signs of having been rendered habitable in a hurry. An electric lamp diffused a pleasant warmth, and books and magazines were heaped on the table. At her entrance, a white-haired man sprang from the chair he had occupied. There was a strained look in his face and a startled expression in his eyes as he saw the intruders. "Dad!” Helen cried, springing forward. A broken, husky voice answered, and in a moment she felt her father’s arms about her neck. All her thoughts were swallowed up in a whirl of emotions, but she managed to whisper a message of cheer in his ear before Whipple drew her impatiently away. She felt an aching void around her as she allowed him to lead him down the stairs. “Now I’m going to take you back to your car,” he announced, picking up the bandage he had removed from her eyes upon their arrival. “Not much danger that you’ll ever find this place again. Say. you’ll have a lot of things to tell the Phantom when you see him—eh, dearie?” His leering face sickened her, and she turned away. “If you dare to mistreat my father —” she began chokingly. “Mistreat him?” he echoed with a

| laugh. “That’s where you're wrong, . dearie. I bring him three square meals a day, and all the reading matter he wants. Now I’ve got to blindfold you, and then—” He stopped short, his eyes narrowing as they followed the direction of her gaze. Her glance had been roving idly about the room, until suddenly it fixed on an object at the opposite wall. It was an old rowboat that, along with many other discarded articles, had been stored in the place. It leaned against the wall, with the bottom turned out, and it seemed to be in a sadly dilapidated condition. The wood was partly decayed, and the paint had peeled off in spots, but the only thing that caught Helen’s eye was the name painted along the bow. She spelled it out with difficulty. It was “Tuckaway Camp.” For a moment she stared dazedly at the inscription, and then a whirling tumult in her head made her suddenly faint. She tried to steady herself, and not show that she had seen anything. It was at Tuckaway Camp that the murder of J. Pendleton Craig had occurred, the murder of which the Grey Phantom was accused. The realisation dazed her, but she made an heroic attempt to look unconcerned. Evidently it had not occurred to Whipple that a clue to the location of the place was in such plain sight. Then a muttered oath sounded at her back, and she knew that she had failed. “The programme’s changed,” said Whipple curtly. “You’re going to stay here. I’m afraid you might tell the Phantom too much.” CHAPTER XIII. WADE RECEIVES A CALLER. On the morning of the third day following the visit of the police to the offices of Law and Order, Inc., Wade was sitting in gloomy meditation at the desk usually occupied by Vanardy. His enforced idleness of the last two days had left him in an irritable mood. Beyond forwarding the note Miss Hardwick had entrusted to him, he had not been in communication with the Grey Phantom, but he supposed the latter was safely hidden iu the Chinese restaurant where he had sought refuge, in accordance with his prearranged plan, and would return as soon as developments made it safe . He glared sourly at a little stack of papers on the desk, flung them with a petulant air into the drawer, and just then Melton entered and placed a card before him. “Mr. Philip Dawson,” read the fat man aloud. “What does he want?” “He refused to tell me, sir,” said Melton, who had all the earmarks of a hard-working underpaid clerk, “but he wishes to sec you personally.” Wade grunted, fingered the card disdainfully, but finally consented to receive the caller. It was not prudent to turn visitors away from the establishment without granting them an interview, and he cc.uld probably dispose of this one in short order. He leaned back in the chair, and, when Mr. Dawson entered, surveyed him with a critical and deceptively indolent eye. The caller appeared to be a man past middle age with a grey-sprinkled and neatly trimmed beard and eyes that peered with a near-sighted look through a pair of shell-rimmed lenses. He stooped a little, and somehow Wade gained the impression that he had acquired both the stoop and the near-sighted I look through arduous poring over

books. His black overcoat and dark trousers looked somewhat shabby and his derby had a well-seasoned appearance, yet he cafried himself with an air that instantly stamped him as a gentleman. “Hope I am not intruding?” he asked in dignified, courteous accents that seemed a trifle husky from a recent cold. “I shall take only a few minutes of your time. My name is possibly familiar to you.” He smiled apologetically through his well-kept beard. “I have gained a modest reputation as an unofficial criminologist.” “Can’t say I’ve heard of you,” said Wade. He was in no mood to bandy the pleasant amenities of life, and he had a deep-rooted and highly uncomplimentary opinion of private criminologists. “Well, no matter,” said the visitor affably. “I merely wished to identify myself as a prelude to stating my business. It has to do with the murder of J. Pendleton Craig.” “Oh, Lord!” groaned the fat man inwardly, anticipating a tedious and amateurish exposition of his caller’s opinion of the case. “Really, Mr. Dawson,” he said aloud, “that’s a matter we are not particularly interested in.” ir Then I hope to arouse your interest,” said Dawson imperturbably. “Although the crime did not occur within their jurisdiction I believe the New York police are looking into the matter owing to the local prominence of the victim and also because the supposed perpetrator of the deed has a long criminal record in this city.” Wade nodded in an acutely bored way. “I also understand,” the irrepressible caller went on, edging his chair a little closer to the desk, “that the police came to these offices the other night expecting to find the suspect here.” “The police are fools!” said Wade undiplomatically. “Granted.” Dawson smiled and rolled an eye mysteriously. “They have an astounding capacity for making blunders. In this instance, however, they were not so far off the right track.” Wade regarded him guardedly. His visitor promised to be more interesting than he had anticipated. “What do you mean?” Dawson leaned toward the desk and spoke in a confidential tone. “I have very good reason to believe that the Grey Phantom was here, seated at this very desk, just before the police arrived the other night.” Wade had an uncomfortable moment. He looked at his caller blankly, noticing the faint, amused flicker behind the shell-rimmed lenses. If the man w ere a crank, as he appeared to be, he was a most unusual one. “That's strange talk,” the fat man remarked. “Suppose you explain yourself.” “Gladly. I'll go a little further, Mr. Wade. I have information to the effect that the Grey Phantom went direct from this establishment to a Chinese restaurant two doors north of here.” A look of alarm crossed Wade’s chubby features. He drew his immense well-groomed body erect in the chair and stared at his visitor. Suddenly Mr. Dawrson laughed outright, and this time the huskiness was gone from his voice. Wade leaned forward, eyes popping, and gave a violent start. “Holy mackerel!” he exclaimed. “The Grey Phantom!” THE PHANTOM HITS THE TRAIL “Sorry I frightened you,” said Vauardy in his natural voice, “but I wanted to put this new role of mine to the test. Since it deceived you, it is likely to deceive others.” “It’s a scream,” said Wade with conviction. “Some front! Where did you get it, boss?” “Sing Lee helped me. A new set of togs, a beard and a pair of spec-

tacles, plus a bit of reasonably competent acting, go a long way. You think I’ll pass?” “With bells on,” declared Wade fervently. “Any news?” The fat man looked suddenly embarrassed. “Our friend Culligore came "back the next morning and did some more nosing around. I think we’ve thrown him completely off the scent.” “Has Whipple been back?” “No, he telephoned yesterday that the gang expects an instalment of the ransom within two weeks. Blast his ugly mug! Say, wouldn’t I like a chance at it with my fists?” “Maybe your chance will come, Wade. What else?” Wade shifted uncomfortably in his chair and adjusted his cuffs with ostentatious care. Vanardy gave him a searching glance. “Out with it, Wade! I can see there’s something- on your mind. Heard from Miss Hardwick?” The fat man swallowed hard. “No, but- —well, you’ve got to know it sooner or later, anyhow. A runabout that has been identified as hers was found day before yesterday on a road just across the Connecticut State liiy ” Save for his fingers, which worked with a slow, twisting motion, Vanardy sat rigidly still. The bearded lips tightened; his eyes, behind the lenses, stabbed like dagger points. “But thaf doesn’t signify anything. ’ Wade hastened to point out. “It isn’t the first time Miss Hardwick has played queer stunts. She probably had a good reason for leaving the car in that place.” Vanardy’s chest heaved with a long intalte of breath. “Anyhow,” said Wade soothingly, “we know she’s safe as far as the kidnappers are concerned. If they meant to play her dirt, they would have done so at the start. They’re mighty anxious not to upset you too much. “Tfiey’re wise enough to know that it takes a clear brain to scrape together ten million dollars. You can bank on it, boss, that they’re keeping their dirty paws off Miss Hardwick.” Vanardy nodded slowly, as if impressed by the argument. His face relaxed a trifle. "Hope you are right, Wade. It is strange, though, that she should disappear like that after writing me a note asking me to hold up all my plans for the present. Looks as though she had *a scheme of her own on foot. Wonder if——” His brows came up with an expression of great intentness. “Does she know about Whipple’s arrangement regarding her father?” “I gave her a hint that Whipple musn’t be monkeyed with, but I didn’t think it was necessary to go into all the juicy details. Brace up, boss. I’ll bet my last dollar that the girl is all right. Say, that front you’ve got on makes you look like an honorary pallbearer. Going to a funeral?” “No, to Tuckaway Camp.” “Tuckaway Camp?” screamed the fat man, almost tumbling out of his chair. “Gone crazy?” “No, I’m as sane as I have been at any time in the last five weeks. I made up my mind last night.” “But—but ” The fat man choked. “But you're wanted for murder out there. Everybody thinks you bumped Craig off. There was a piece THE “LIFE” OF THE PARTY Jim is the “life” of his party—full of pep and vitality—always in a good humour. You see Jim is wise to the need or nourishing his nerves properly. He knows his food does not contain enough phosphorus for this important job. That’s why he keeps “Marshall’s” always handy. Try it! Marshall's Fospherine soothes, nourishes and strengthens the nerves by feeding them that element which is most necessary to their proper functioning—phosphorus. Get a bottle today!

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in tlie paper this morning where some smart reporter figured out what the Grey Phantom is the only man alive who can walk through solid walls, commit a murder, and walk right out again, without leaving a single clue as to how he did it. Better stay away from that joint, boss.” Vanardy smiled faintly. “Thanks for the advice, Wade, but I am going just the same. But don’t worry. I shan’t go as the Grey Phantom, but as Mr. Philip Dawson, amateur criminologist. Judging from the way you were taken in by my appearance, I think I shall be quite safe.” ‘But—but why?” stammered Wade, agnast. "Because I want to try a new tack —a short cut.” Wade gave a disgusted grunt. “Because Miss Hardwick has set her foot down, more likely, and told you not to be naughty any more. Wasn’t that what she said in the note she left for you?” Vanardy evaded the question. I have several reasons for going, Wade, and one of them I’ve discovered in the last ten minutes, while talking with you. Doesn’t it strike you as odd that Miss Hardwick’s car was found on the road to Tuckaway Camp?” Wade’s eyes opened wide; then he shook his head. “It wasn’t. It was found on a side road, about half a mile off the main road. And the main road, boss, runs to about a million places besides Tuckaway Camp.” Vanardy nodded. “I know, but something tells me there is a connection somewhere between the murder of Craig and the kidnapping of Mr. Hardwick. I can’t get away from the idea that those two events have a common origin, and I am all the more certain of it since you told me this about Miss Hardwick’s car. That’s why I am going to Tuckaway Camp.” Wade sighed ponderously. “It will be a funeral! I’m sure of it. But if you’ve made up your mind to go, a team of oxen couldn’t stop you. Let me give you just one tip, boss. Lay off Whipple.” Vanardy made a wry face. “Oh, I have no intention of running afoul of that estimable creature just yet. Some day I hope to settle my score with him, but for the present he has me at a disadvantage. If he calls again, remember there is an ancient and honourable game known as stalling. Well ” He looked at his watch, gave a little catarrhal cought and got up. In an instant, as he extended his hand, he resumed the dignified and scholarly appearance that had characterised him when he entered. “I am indebted to you for a very pleasant chat, Mr. Wade,” he said pleasantly, in a tone that was utterly unlike the Grey Phantom’s. “Good day, sir.” When he had gone, Wade sat gazing moodily at the door. “It will he a funeral,” he lamented. “A funeral!” CHAPTER XIV. TUCKAWAY CAMP. With a doleful and long-suffering air, William went to the front door in response to a ring. There had been a constant run of callers since the night of his master’s tragic death, and in addition William had been busy superintending the arrangements for closing the house. He moved with a sombreness and weariness that were in keeping with the darkened windows and the gloomy halls, and his manner when he faced the caller at the door was distinctly uninviting. With a scowl that triumphed over all his rigid training and all his years of impeccable servitude, he glanced at the card the visitor handed him. “What do you wish, Mr. Dawson?” "Is any member of Mr. Craig’s family living here at present?” “No. sir. There's nobody here except myself aDd two other servants. All the others have left.” “I was under the impression that I Mr. Craig had a niece.” “Miss Wayne left for the city on

Tuesday, sir, immediately after the funeral.” “Unfortunate,” murmured the caller. He had an engaging manner, despite his sombre attire, and under any other circumstance William would have been favourably impressed. Mr. Dawson showed just the proper degree of solemnity that was to be expected of a stranger calling at a house of tragedy. “Perhaps you would like to see Mr. Craig’s lawyer, sir?” William suggested. "I am expecting one of them out today.” The stranger shook his head. “No, my business has nothing to do with legal matters. I came here to ask a favour of someone in authority.” “I am in charge of the house at present, sir.” “Ah! And your name?” “William, sir.” Mr. Dawson seemed to choose his words deliberately. “Now, William, I am sure you were devoted to Mr. Craig, and that you are anxious that his murderer shall be punished. The police, as you know, have not made very great headway so far. Rural officials, as a rule, are not noted for their sagacity. I have established something of a reputation as a private criminal investigator. Will yon give me permission to go over the scene of the crime?” William seemed to regard the request with great disfavour. “It’s been gone over a good many times already, sir. The village authorities have been running in and out ever since the murder. Anyway, we all know who committed the crime. The problem is how to catch him. I’d give the rest of my life to see the low-down cur sent to the chair.” “Your sentiments do you credit, William. It may be that I can help you realise your ambition. I am just as anxious as you can possibly be that Mr. Craig’s murderer shall be punished.” William, standing in the doorway and showing no intention to admit the visitor to the house, shook his head with a determined air. “I don’t see that it would do any good, sir. If you will excuse me, I am very busy.” The caller’s face fell, and then, as he regarded the servant with a despondent expression, the light of a vagrant inspiration flitted across his features. His eyes narrowed behind the thick lenses; there was a look in them denoting one taking a leap into the dark. “By the way, William,” he said carelessly, hiding the intentness of his scrutiny behind an affable smile, "ever hear of a young lady by the name of Miss Helen Hardwick?” Involuntarily William shrank back a step. A tremor moved quickly across his stolid face, leaving an ashen pallor in its wake. His consternation lasted only a moment, and then he regained control of his twitching muscles and shaking limbs, but the faint gleam in the visitor’s eyes told that he had seen enough. “Miss Helen Hardwick?” William, his voice quite steady, echoed the name slowly, with a wondering expression. “No, I don’t think I’ve heard of her, sir. Why do you ask?” “It is rumoured she is missing. It is understood that she and the Grey Phantom are intimate friends. If we could find Miss Hardwick, it shouldn't be so hard to find The Phantom. You understood, William?” The servant’s blue eyes scanned the caller’s face suspiciously. “It sounds

reasonable, but I don’t see what led you to think that I knew anything about Miss —-what did you say her name was?” “Hardwick,” repeated the caller, repressing a smile. "I did not exactly expect you would be able to tell me anything about her, William. I am merely acting on the assumption that if you keep asking a question long enough you will eventually find someone who can answer it.” A shrewdgrin parted the caller’s bearded lips. “Well, William, I regret that you don’r. see your way clear to grant the little favour I asked, but I understand your sentiments. Perhaps some other time ” He paused and looked out over the frozen lawn, sprinkled with oaks and poplars. A car had just drawn up in front of the gate, and now a blackgarbed man, carrying a brjef case, came briskly toward the house. "That’s Mr. Stanhope, sir,” William remarked. “He’s one of Mr. Craig’s lawyers. He telephoned that he was coming out to look over Mr. Craig’s papers.” The caller waited expectantly. The newcomer was a man well past 50. long and lean and lithe, and carried himself with a certain military erectness. He wore a fur-lined overcoat whose flaps fluttered sportively in the breeze, and a black derby. A heavy, silver-knobbed cane gave an added touch of dignity to his appearance. “Hello, William,” he said airily. “Hope you have a fire in the library. I expect to be busy for several—Ah, you have a caller, I see.” “Mr. Dawson, sir.” William explained, a faint note of deprecation in his tone. “He tells me he is an investigator of crime and wants to look over the blue room. I told him I couldn't permit it.” The lawyer surveyed the suppositious Mr. Dawson with a gaze that was keen but not unfriendly. Evidently the inspection satisfied him. “An investigator of crime, eh?” he said, smiling indulgently. His leanly moulded face was blue-shaven. He had long, sensitive lips, a firm jaw, and very black, twinkling eyes that seemed to plumb and appraise everything at a glance. “Well, why not, William? If Mr. Dawson offers his assistance, I don’t see why we should reject it. We want to do everything possible toward apprehending the guilty wretch who murdered Mr. Craig. Show Mr. Dawson up to the blue room, William. After that I want a few words with you in the library.” Reluctantly William complied. As he followed the servant upward through the dim, silent house, it seemed to Vanardy that the lawyer had granted his consent with surprising readiness; but his mind was full of other thoughts. William s involuntary response to his question concerning Miss Hardwick had been startling. In a few moments of stark bewilderment the servant's expression had betrayed that he knew something about Helen’s disappearance, while it had also substantiated Vanardy’s hazy suspicion, a matter of intuition rather than reason, that Tuckaway Camp held the solution to more mysteries than one. William opened a door and stood aside to let him enter. For an instant their eyes met, but the servant's were expressionless, and in another moment he had withdrawn. (To be continued tomorrow)