HANDS UNSEEN

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 888, 4 February 1930, Page 5

HANDS UNSEEN

A New Grey Phantom Detective Story

By

HERMAN LANDON

Copyright Oy Street and Smith Corp. serialized by Ledger Syndicate

CHAPTER XXII (Continued). “I perceive the drift of your re- : marks,” said Stanhope to the lieutenant. “You mean to imply that the Phantom knew the way out all the time. In other words, when he made his escape from this room a few minutes ago, he merely went back over the same trail he covered the night of the murder. To put it plainly, the Phantom is the murderer.” “Exactly, Mr. Stanhope. Ever since the murder I’ve been telling myself that when I found somebody who knew a way out of this room other than the door and the window, I would have found the man that murdered Craig. Good logic, eh?” “Logic or not," declared Bell in a drawl. Culligore was warming up to his argument. “A little while ago I wasn’t dead sure that the Phantom killed Craig, in spite of the letters he wrote and all the other evidence. Now I'm sure. The Phantom couvicted himself when he gave us the ' slip a few minutes ago. He proved to us then that he knows a way out of this room that nobody else knows.” "All interesting argument, but : rather loosely constructed,” was the lawyer’s comment. “Y'ou must admit it is conceivable that more than one person is familiar with the secret exit.” “It's conceivable, all right, but not very likely. There isn't more than one chance in a million that any one else knows about the other exit. And I'll go one step further. I’ll bet a pair of pink socks that the person who killed Craig killed William, too.” His eyes, with, a hint of a challenge in them, swept the faces of the listeners. They tarried for a moment on the lawyer’s fine, dark countenance. Stanhope was plainly ill at ease, but probably be was uncomfortably conscious of the deficiencies in his dress. Culligore's brows curved upward as the lawyer’s eyes fell beneath his gaze, but whatever perplexi-

ties he felt were interrupted by the return of the servant who had been sent to the garage. He reported that one of the cars, a high-powered sedan, was missing. Bowman growled under his breath, then obtained a description of the calami hurried out in search of a telephone. Stanhope rocked reflectively on his heels. His black eyes were quite tran quil again, and he faced Culligore with au affable smile. “Of course,” he murmured, “some of us have suspected all along the Grey Phantom killed my client. Your argument is a little shaky, but on the whole it affords strong collateral proof. I was surprised when you told me a little while ago that Philip Dawson was none other than the Phantom, yet I had my suspicions about the fellow from the start. Why do you suppose he came back here in disguise?” “Because it wasn’t safe for him to come back here any other way.” “But why did he come back at all?” Culligore scowled. “Don’t ask me why the Phantom does this or that. He always has a good reason, hut his reasons are hard to understand. I don’t know exactly why he killed Craig, but ” “You’re going too fast,” Bell interrupted. “I hate to rip up a fine argument, but yours has a hole in it big enough for an elephant to step through. Don’t think I’m trying to plug for the Grey Phantom. He can take care of himself. If he’s guilty, I hope you convict him. That would let me out.” “Nobody has accused you, Bell,” the lieutenant reminded him. “But some people have been doing some tall thinking. I’d be glad to see the Phantom jugged just because it would clear little old Harry Bell. No use going off half-cocked, though. Maybe the Phantom killed Craig, but your argument doesn’t prove he did.” “How so?” “Your idea is that the Phantom

convicted himself when he demonstrated that he knows a secret way out of this room. Well, evidently he does, but so does another person.” “Who?” asked Culligore sharply. “Don't know his name. Let me tell you something. I came up to this room tonight, along about 3 o’clock, to pay our friend Dawson a visit. I found him groggy from a tap on the bean. He had been badly mussed up, too. His glasses had been knocked off, and his beard didn’t look just right. Well, I saw at a glance that Dawson was the Grey Phantom. It gave him a little shock, I guess, to be recognised, but I told him he needn’t worry cn my account. Then he told me what had happened, or as much as he knew of it or cared to tell. It began with three raps on the door, just as the night Craig was murdered. The Phantom opened it, of course, but there was no one in the hall,' and the first thing he knew the light went out and he heard a vioce back in the corner. I don’t know the details after that, but when he let me in he was the sorriest looking sight I ever laid eyes on. Doesn’t that look as though somebody else knew a secret way in and out of this room?” Culligore seemed impressed, but in a moment he chuckled derisively. “The Phantom was only throwing dust in your eyes. He handed you a cock-and-bull story. I’m surprised you fell for it, Bell.” “Y’es? Just think a moment. His wooziness might have been only a bit of good acting, but would he have mussed up his disguise just to throw dust in my eyes? Is that reasonable? Remember that he was masquerading as Philip Dawson and that there was no reason for him to come out in the open as the Grey Phantom.” Culligore thought for a moment, then shook his head. “It looks queer, just the same. I'll bet a pair of pink socks the Phantom put one over on you. Why w-as he masquerading here as Philip Dawson? Where did Miss Hardwick bob up from all of a sudden? Why did the Phantom try to string me about leaving William trussed up in a place that nobody ever saw or heard of? If he didn’t kill Craig, who did?” Bell shrugged wearily. He moved his glance from Culligore’s face and fixed Stanhope with an impudent, halfhumorous stare. “Ever hear such a lot of silly questions, Stanhope?” he drawled. “Maybe you will answer the last one?” The lawyer stiffened abruptly. A wave of pallor rushed across his finely moulded features. He tried to mask his confusion with a smile while framing a suitable reply, but just then an interruption came from the door. One of Bowman’s deputies announced that Lieutenant Culligore was wanted on the telephone. When he was gone, Bell stretched out his legs. There was an illegible smile on his lips, a. queer twinkle in his half-shut eyes. The lawyer, standing with his back to the fireplace, seemed quite at ease once more. ‘Wou are quite a humorist, Bell,’’ he said genially. Bell looked up at him with a yawn. “Thanks for the compliment, old top. Y'ou’ve got a queer idea of humour, though. A humorist is a fellow who cracks jokes.” “Well, weren't you joking?” Bell chuckled. “I never satv a man turn as white at a joke as you did at that one. Stanhope. And you didn’t answer the question.” THE GREY PHANTOM AGAIN. A little pause fell. The lawyer’s black eyes bored into Bell's face, but

there was a smile on his lips. “If I should attempt to answer it,” he said evenly, “I might suggest that, granting the Grey Phantom did not kill Craig, and that you did not—” “What about yourself?” Beil interrupted bluntly. The lawyer's smile grew a little blander. “As you please. Granting that neither the Phantom, yourself, nor I killed Craig, there is still another possibility. It may he that the man who committed the murder is dead.” “Oh, you mean William ? He was a queer cuss, Stanhope—almost as queer as yourself. But you’re spoiling Culligore’s beautiful theory. He thinks William w-as bumped off because he knew who killed Craig, and w-as ready to squeal.” “There may be something in that,” the lawyer conceded, “but—” Culligore’s return interrupted him. The lieutenant looked a little flustered. “I’ve just had the Grey Phantom on the long-distance,” he announced. His tones sounded a. bit dazed. “He promised to come back here before night and pay us a visit.” CHAPTER XXIII. THE FACE AT THE WINDOW With the guarded movements of a hunted man, a tall, rain-coated figure traversed the rugged stretch of ground surrounding the huge frame dw-elling of Bryan Hollister. A how-ling, mois-ture-laden wind was sweeping across the desolate tract sloping away from the village tow-ard the white-capped expanse of the Sound. A short distance behind him, in the direction of Tuclcaway Camp, a few lights gleamed feebly through the swishing downpour. Despite the darkness and the rough ground, the man hurried along with an unfaltering step, as if guided by the instinct acquired by persons who spend much of their lives in dark and perilous places. Within 20 yards of the dwelling he stopped beside a cluster of half-famished cedars and looked round. Straight ahead of him, in one of the lower windows a subdued light w-as glowing against a shade, projecting a blurry beacon into the darkness. For a time the man stood motionless, tracing with his eyes the faint trail of luminance until it lost itself among the trees. Save for that slim thread of light, the entire landscape seemed swallowed up in an infinity of wind and gloom. A faint, creeping sound came, different in character from the booming serenade of wind and tide. The man veered sharply and looked behind him. It might have been a foot slipping on a wet rock, or the wings of a night bird flapping among the leafless branches of the trees. Again, it might have been only his own troubled thoughts stirred into dissonance by his overwrought imagination. He waited a moment longer, peering sharply into the vague formations of shrubs and rocks and trees. From a distance came a dog’s howl, a long, mournful w-hine, shattering the curious spell that had fallen over his senses. The man walked on, zigzagging like a shadow among the trees. As he drew nearer the lighted window, he proceeded w-ith even greater caution than before, stepping lightly and w-arily over the rocky ground. Now- he saw that the shade did not reach quite dow-n to the sill, but left a narrow- exposed space at the bottom. He stepped up to the wall and peered through the small opening. At the farther side of the room, w-ith his profile turned toward the watcher at the w-indow, sat Hollister in his wheel chair. The scene, with its blazing log fire, afforded a pleasant contrast to the howling night outside. The huge table lamp shed a subdued light over the room, whose appointments suggested the tastes of a quiet and scholarly man. The man in the chair sat with head bowed, gazing rigidly into the leaping flames, as if his mind were struggling w-ith some i abstruse problem. Possibly reassured to find Hollister j alone, the watcher stepped away from ; the window and turned toward the entrance. hugging close to the claphoarded wall. He had taken only a few- steps when something made him stop and, standing with his back to !

the house, look sharply to all sides. It was the kind of night that was apt to blur one’s perceptions, and perhaps he had only imagined that he had seen the flicker of a face among the shadows. He waited, but there was no movement except the swaying trees and no sound save the petulant howl of the wind and the creaking of timbers in the house. Mumbling under his breath, he mounted the wooden steps and approached the door. As if his arrival had been signalled to someone in the house, it opened instantly and a wizened old man motioned hint to enter. Without a word the caller was conducted to the room where Hollister sat before the fire. The old man who had admitted him stood aside to let him enter, then closed the door and withdrew. The occupant of the wheel chair turned his large, bald head and gave the visitor a penetrating stare. An amused light glimmered in his hard, beady eyes; a smile drifted slowly across his unprepossessing face. “Oh, it is the Grey Phantom again,” he observed with a dry chuckle. “Without disguise this time, I see. .Remove your raincoat and come up to the fire. Ah,” as Vanardy tossed aside his outer garment and revealed a bandaged left arm resting in a sling, “you’ve been hurt?” “Only a scratch,” said Vanardy, coming up to the fire and taking 'a chair. “Ran into a gang of ruffians this morning, and we had a little argument.” Hollister looked interested, but only for a moment. His sharp, round eyes moved up and down the figure of his guest, garbed in a loose-fitting grey suit and reclining easily, but with a trace of instinctive alertness, in the chair before the fire. “It is good to see you as you really are,” the cripple remarked. “Last night you were masquerading as Philip Dawson. It is difficult to be self confidential with a man when he isn t his real self. Dressed in grey, I see. Isn’t the Grey Phantom tempting fate?” “Something happened last night that made it impossible for me to continue in the role of Philip Dawson.” Again a flicker of interest showed m Hollister’s eyes, but it faded quickly. “Do you come from Tuekaway Camp?” he inquired. Ao, from New York. I’ve spent the day there.” In New "fork? Such recklessness! Didn't you know that the New York police are looking for you?” Vanardy nodded. ' “A reckless course is sometimes the safest. Any way, I had several things to attend to m New York. As a matter of fact ” and a faint smile parted his lips, “a report was circulated this evening that the Grey Phantom had been captured.” The invalid’s eyes widened. “Captured?” “Oh, the police have probably discovered by this time that the man they caught is only an understudv of mine, who has helped me out in that capacity several times.” Hollister smiled as if thoroughly amused. “Very clever.’ It seems the Grey Phantom always lives up to his name. By the way, you told me last night you intended spending the night in the blue room. How did you sleep?” “I didn't sleep a wink. If I were a superstitious man, I should sav that room was haunted, Mr. Hollister.” The cripple gave him a wondering glance, but asked no further questions about his experiences the previous night. “My servant tells me there has been another murder at Tuckaway Camp,” he remarked casually, as if the matter did not interest him greatly. (To be continued Tomorrow.)