The Gray Phantom Part 10

"Everything points to Mr. Shei as the perpetrator of the murder," he guardedly went on, "but whether the crime has any bearing on Mr.

Shei's new venture is hard to tell. It doesn't seem likely. How could he possibly further his scheme by an act of that kind? His plan is to separate seven of New York's richest men from half of their wealth.

How is the death of Miss Darrow going to help him in an undertaking of that kind?"

A sly smile twitched the corners of Mr. Fairspeckle's lips.

"Nevertheless," he observed, "I think that you and I agree. I am a pretty good judge of faces, and your expression a moment ago betrayed you, Mr. Vanardy. My question seemed innocent enough at first, but on second thought it startled you. Suppose we be frank. Both of us believe that the Thelma affair was the beginning of Mr. Shei's latest move. We can't see how or why just now, but we know that his schemes run deep. Isn't it so?"

The Phantom, momentarily baffled by the older man's shrewd deductions, gazed pensively at the ceiling. A jumble of thoughts and questions shot back and forth through his mind. Did Mr. Fairspeckle suspect that Mr. Shei and The Gray Phantom were identical? Or was it possible that---- He did not finish the thought. The suspicion that had come to him several times during the interview seemed just as unreasonable as it was startling, and it had no firmer foundation than two or three puzzling circ.u.mstances and a tantalizing touch of mysteriousness in Mr. Fairspeckle's att.i.tude.

"It's an interesting theory, and I've given quite a little thought to it," he finally admitted. "Strange that the same idea should have come to both of us, isn't it? Especially since there seems to be neither reason nor logic behind it. How did you happen to think of it, Mr.

Fairspeckle?"

The other man stroked his lean chin with a self-satisfied air. "What's that old saw about great minds traveling in the same channel? I don't know just how the idea came to me, but I'm glad we understand each other. Now we can talk without quibbling. But first I want a cup of coffee. Hope you will join me. Haiuto!"

He fairly shouted the last word, but The Phantom doubted whether his thin and rasping voice went farther than the walls.

"Haiuto!" Again Mr. Fairspeckle's voice rose to a shrill but inadequate crescendo. "That confounded j.a.p's pretending he is deaf again. Excuse me, will you?"

He strode irately from the room and slammed the door. A wrinkle of deep perplexity appeared on The Phantom's brow. Mr. Fairspeckle puzzled and intrigued him. Either he was a very slippery individual, or else ingenuousness itself. When he returned and announced that Haiuto would serve their coffee in a few minutes, The Phantom searched his face in vain for a sign of guile. If anything, he was a little more affable than on leaving the room.

"That fool doctor of mine tells me I mustn't drink coffee," he confided. "Tells me it's bad for my nerves and keeps me awake. But my nerves are worn to a frazzle, anyhow, and I never can sleep except when I want to stay awake. What were we talking about? Oh, yes--Mr.

Shei."

He clasped his hands across his diaphragm. A queer smile, at once beatific and diabolical, came over his face.

"Do you know," he went on in confidential tones, "that I don't care a rap if Mr. Shei carries out his scheme as far as the other six are concerned. Of course, I don't know for certain who they are, but it's a safe bet that they are no friends of mine. I have a hunch that every one of them belongs to the old ring that fought me tooth and nail while I was climbing up in the world. It's a long story, and I'm not going to bore you with it, but you can see why I have no love for them. I could die happy to-morrow if I could see them lick the dust to-day. I feel different toward you, Vanardy. We had a tilt once, but you fought fairly. The others tried to knife me in the back. They can go to blazes for all I care."

"Then you and Mr. Shei seem to have at least one aim in common," The Phantom pointed out. He smiled genially, but his eyes were studying every shifting expression in Mr. Fairspeckle's face. For once he felt certain that the older man was not dissembling. The glint of wrath lurking in the depths of his weak eyes and the vindictive sneer about his lips told that he had spoken in all sincerity.

"We have," he declared grimly. "I hope he sends the other six to the poorhouse. But I have no intention of letting him pluck me, you understand. That's where our aims clash. He can go as far as he likes with the others, but I'll fight like a drunken Indian before I give him a red cent. I'll see myself in Hades before I----"

A knock and the opening of the door interrupted him. A j.a.panese with a face as expressionless as mahogany entered with a tray and served them coffee.

"Queer character, Haiuto," observed Mr. Fairspeckle when the servant, silent as a wraith, had retired. "I think he would cheerfully commit hara-kiri if I asked him to do such a senseless thing." He sipped his coffee with an air of keen enjoyment. "Great bracer for f.a.gged nerves, eh? Would you believe that for days at a time I live on nothing but coffee? But let's get back to the subject. What shall we do with this pestiferous Mr. Shei?"

"What would you suggest?" cautiously inquired The Phantom, lifting the cup to his lips.

A beam insinuated itself in the creases of Mr. Fairspeckle's face.

"Now we're getting down to essentials. As I said, Mr. Shei can fleece the other six to his heart's content, but he's got to keep hands off me. When I saw you standing in front of the drug store reading Mr.

Shei's announcement, I was turning a little plan over in my mind. Then I didn't quite see how to work it, but I do now."

Again The Phantom brought the cup to his lips. He regarded his companion inquiringly.

"You and I are going to handle Mr. Shei together," declared Mr.

Fairspeckle. His face glowed as if a pleasing prospect were warming his soul. "We will put a crimp in his scheme and show him--why, what's the matter, Vanardy?"

The Phantom had slouched down in his chair, and now his head began to wag from side to side.

"Nothing," he murmured dazedly. "I just feel a bit drowsy. Would you mind opening the window? The--the coffee----"

His eyes rolled, then the lids fluttered and closed, and he sagged limply in the chair. With a gratified chuckle Mr. Fairspeckle stepped to the other side of the table and regarded him gloatingly.

"The Gray Phantom isn't half so clever as he's supposed to be," he mumbled. Then his hand went out and touched a b.u.t.ton. A moment later Haiuto stood at attention in the doorway.

"Haiuto," inquired Mr. Fairspeckle, "how much chloral did you mix in Mr. Vanardy's cup of coffee?"

"Plenty," said the servant, and this time the ghost of a grin flickered across his face. "He sleep long time."

Mr. Fairspeckle nodded elatedly. "Take him to my bedroom," he instructed, "and make him comfortable."

With an ease which showed that he possessed all the agile strength of his race, Haiuto carried The Phantom into one of the adjoining rooms in the suite, placed him on the bed, and adjusted a pillow under his head. For a few moments he stood peering down into the motionless man's face. Then he silently left the room and closed the door behind him.

A minute later The Phantom raised himself to a sitting posture and blinked his eyes at the sunlight streaming in beneath the drawn window shades.

"You are fairly clever, Mr. Fairspeckle," he said half aloud, "but you ought to modernize your methods. Drugged coffee has gone out of fashion. Hope I didn't kill the potted fern at the window behind my chair."

CHAPTER VIII

THE VOICE ON THE WIRE

The Gray Phantom lay on his back in W. Rufus Fairspeckle's ample bed and tried to grasp the meaning of what had happened. His host's attempt to drug him savored strongly of melodrama, and it seemed somewhat grotesque in view of the fact that it had occurred in an up-to-date and centrally located hotel. What puzzled him most was the motive behind the attempt. If Mr. Fairspeckle suspected that he was Mr. Shei, why had he not handed his guest over to the police? On the other hand---- But his conjectures in that direction brought The Phantom face to face with a theory that made his thoughts whirl.

His eyes flitted over the room. The color combination was restful, but the decorations, and especially the pictures, bespoke rather extreme tastes. He had gathered, from what little he had seen of the surroundings, that Mr. Fairspeckle was occupying a luxurious apartment consisting of several rooms and that it had been fitted up to suit his individual requirements. Haiuto, the rat-footed j.a.panese servant, seemed to be his only companion.

An hour pa.s.sed, and The Phantom's cogitations brought him back to the starting point. Nothing seemed certain beyond the indubitable fact that Mr. Fairspeckle was a highly mysterious individual. The rest was full of vague and hazy surmises. The Phantom waited patiently, wondering what his host's next move would be, for he had decided to play a pa.s.sive role for the present. He explored his pockets and was thankful that his automatic had not been taken from him. Evidently his jailer was depending on the drug to keep him in a harmless condition.

His keen ears detected footsteps approaching the door, and in a twinkling he was lying p.r.o.ne on the bed, simulating the complete insensibility that comes with drug-induced sleep. The door came open, then furtive steps crossed the floor, and The Phantom felt a pair of sharp eyes on his face. His regular breathing seemed to satisfy the silent watcher, for after a little he turned away. As he reached the door, The Phantom flicked open an eyelid and saw Haiuto. Evidently the servant had entered the room to make sure that the effects of the drug were not wearing off.

The door closed almost noiselessly. Again The Phantom sat up. A glance at his watch told him it was a few minutes after two. He slid his feet from the bed and tiptoed cautiously to a window and raised the shade.

As he looked out, an undersized figure on the opposite sidewalk instantly caught his eye. As far as appearances went, the man might have been only an idler engaged in the pastime of ogling the feminine pa.s.sers-by, but The Phantom's practiced eyes saw at once that he was there for a purpose. The stealthy glances which he occasionally leveled at the windows of Mr. Fairspeckle's apartment gave an unmistakable clew to his mission.

The Phantom's brows contracted as he quickly lowered the shade. Was it possible someone had seen and recognized him on his way from the station and later trailed him to Mr. Fairspeckle's apartment. The thought was annoying, for he disliked having his movements hampered by spies. Then, as he turned away from the window, another possibility suggested itself. Perhaps Mr. Fairspeckle, and not himself, was being kept under surveillance of the fellow on the sidewalk. The theory was startling and rather improbable; yet it coincided with the suspicion that had kept flashing in and out of The Phantom's mind.

He examined the mechanism of his automatic and made sure the cartridge chamber was loaded. He sensed a hint in the air that before long he might have occasion to use the weapon. He was in the act of returning it to his hip pocket when of a sudden he p.r.i.c.ked up his ears. From somewhere in the apartment came a series of faint, clicking sounds. At first he tried in vain to identify them, but finally it came to him that someone was using a typewriter.

"Typewriter?" he mumbled. The word seemed to hold a hidden significance, but for a while his mind was unable to grasp it. He did not believe that either Mr. Fairspeckle or Haiuto had occasion to use such an instrument, yet he was almost certain that the sounds were coming from one of the adjoining rooms. The clicks were slow and irregular, he observed, indicating that the writer was unfamiliar with the machine and was having some difficulty picking out the characters on the keyboard.

He stole to the door and opened it a crack. The sounds became louder, and the writer's awkward groping for the keys was more noticeable now.

For a moment The Phantom stood listening; then his figure grew suddenly tense. A thin smile hovered about his lips as he recalled that the announcements which Mr. Shei had distributed throughout the city had been written on a typewriter.

It might mean little or nothing, but there was a keen glitter in The Phantom's eyes. In itself the clicking of the machine signified scarcely anything, but in conjunction with other circ.u.mstances it was fairly suggestive. With noiseless tread The Phantom tiptoed in the direction whence the sounds were coming. Now and then he darted a quick glance about him, as if expecting a rear attack from the j.a.panese servant, but Haiuto was nowhere in sight. He traversed several rooms before he came to a dead stop in a doorway.

At a table near the window, with his back to The Phantom, sat Mr.

Fairspeckle. He was hunched over a typewriter, laboriously poking at the keys with the index finger of each hand. Silently The Phantom approached until he stood directly at the older man's back. Mr.

Fairspeckle, all his energies centered on his difficult task, noticed nothing. Leaning slightly forward, The Phantom cast a swift, comprehensive glance at the paper in the machine. Then his twinkling eyes looked downward. On the desk, at Mr. Fairspeckle's elbow, lay a little pile of papers. The topmost one was partly covered with typewriting, and the wording was precisely the same as that on the paper in the machine.