The Gray Phantom Part 24

"And here's another interesting thing," Culligore pointed out. "Every one of the seven men mentioned in Fairspeckle's list was a member of a ring that fought him tooth and nail some years ago."

"And this is Fairspeckle's way of getting even with them," ventured the inspector.

"Maybe," said Culligore guardedly. "Anyhow, a fairly strong motive could be made out of it."

"But how do you account for the fact that Fairspeckle didn't carry out his original programme?"

"I'm not trying to account for it just now. There might have been a slip of some kind. _If_ Fairspeckle is Mr. Shei, the fact that he revised his list doesn't really cut any ice. Any man has a right to change his mind."

Inspector Stapleton sat up straight. He looked at Culligore in a determined way. "What I can't understand is why you didn't show me these slips yesterday. You say you were too busy with other things.

I'd like to know what other things could be more important. Never mind that, though. The thing to do now is to find Fairspeckle."

Again Culligore drew his palm across his mouth. "And when you have found him, inspector, what are you going to do with him?"

"Eh?" Stapleton seemed to think the question a strange one. "Do with him? Why, we'll see to it that he gets the stiffest sentence the law provides. If we once get our hands on him we'll put him in a place where he won't be able to trouble us for some time."

"Aren't you overlooking something, inspector?"

Stapleton stared perplexedly at his subordinate.

"What about the seven capitalists?" the lieutenant went on. "They'll die like rats unless the antidote is administered in time. You can't make Mr. Shei fork over the antidote by putting him in jail. He's wise enough to know that as long as the antidote is in his possession he has a hold on us, and he won't be likely to give it up. He knows we are not going to let seven of the biggest men in the country die just for the sake of sending him to jail. The fact is, inspector, that Mr.

Shei has us sewed up in a sack."

Stapleton seemed about to make an indignant reply, but it died on his tongue. Evidently Culligore's argument had made a strong impression.

He dropped back against the chair and peered diffidently into s.p.a.ce.

"I'm hanged if I'm going to sit with arms folded and let Mr. Shei put this thing over," he muttered at last. "He's a slick crook, but there ought to be a way of dealing with him."

"I think there is, inspector," agreed Culligore, leisurely rising from his chair. "I can't see it just yet, but maybe my mind will work better after a little walk. So long, inspector."

He shuffled from the room, followed by Inspector Stapleton's puzzled gaze. After leaving the headquarters building, he walked to a near-by restaurant and ordered a substantial meal. He seemed in no hurry, for he ate slowly and lingered for a considerable time over his coffee and cigar. An observer, noticing his languid air and phlegmatic expression, might have thought that Mr. Shei was farthest from his mind. It was dark when he left the restaurant, and it was a little after eight o'clock when, after a leisurely stroll in a zigzagging direction, he reached the Thelma Theater.

His decision to visit the Thelma once more might have been due to the fact that it had been the scene of several mysterious incidents which were more or less directly traceable to the activities of Mr. Shei.

The death of Virginia Darrow had occurred there, and the bullet that had missed The Gray Phantom by such a narrow margin was still imbedded in one of the pillars. But Culligore's expression gave no indication of his purpose as he stood on the sidewalk across the street from the theater and glanced up at the windows of Vincent Starr's private office on the second floor.

The windows were dark, so evidently Starr was not there, and the entire structure presented a gloomy and lifeless appearance. Culligore hummed a little tune as he walked to the nearest street intersection, then cut diagonally across the thoroughfare, continued half a block to the west, and finally ducked into a dark bas.e.m.e.nt entrance. The ease with which he made his way suggested that he had traveled the same route before. After walking down a dirty and foul-smelling pa.s.sage, he emerged into a vacant s.p.a.ce bordered at one side by the rear wall of the theater.

He crossed the inclosure, then ran down a short stairway, and brought up against a door. Now he took a number of keys from his pocket and tried several in the lock before he found one that fitted. At last the door came open, and the lieutenant, locking it carefully behind him, stood in the bas.e.m.e.nt under the Thelma Theater.

On all sides was total darkness. For a time he stood still, listening for sounds, but nothing but dull and distant noises from the outside reached his ears. Having satisfied himself that he was apparently alone in the bas.e.m.e.nt, he took out his flash light and began a thorough and comprehensive search. With the electric flash peering into every nook and corner, he explored the dressing rooms, peeped behind piles of discarded scenery, examined odds and ends of stage property, looked into the barrels and boxes in the dusty storerooms, and even tapped the walls here and there to a.s.sure himself that there were no hollow s.p.a.ces.

At last he gave up. His search had taken almost an hour and it had been complete and painstaking in every respect, yet Lieutenant Culligore seemed not quite satisfied. On his face was a look of hesitancy that seemed to suggest a lingering suspicion that something might have eluded him. Standing in the center of the bas.e.m.e.nt, he extinguished the flash light, for it had been his experience that his other senses were more acute when his eyes received no impressions.

For a little while, standing in impenetrable darkness, he scarcely breathed. He had a curious sensation that a faint sound was pa.s.sing him and dissolving in the dank air. It was so slight and elusive that his ears could scarcely detect it, yet it appealed to his imagination with peculiar insistence. It might have been either a moan or a sigh, or perhaps a cry coming from a great distance. Somehow, though he could not a.n.a.lyze the sensation, he fancied it expressed a great, overwhelming anguish. Whether it came from above, below, or the sides he could not determine, but it inspired him with a haunting feeling that he was not alone.

Again he took up the flash, and instantly the impression vanished, as if it had been a wraith fleeing from the light. Once more, step by step, he went over every square foot of the bas.e.m.e.nt, covering the ground he had already searched so patiently, but he found nothing that gave the slightest clew to the peculiar sound. Finally, half inclined to believe that his imagination had deceived him, he ascended the stairway and continued his search on the ground floor. With dogged determination he explored the s.p.a.ce in the wings and back of the stage, then went up and down the aisles in the auditorium. His inspection of the boxes was fruitless, and he found nothing of significance in the little niche where, on his previous visit to the Thelma, he had strongly suspected that an eavesdropper was hiding.

Finally he went through the offices on the street front, occupied, as was indicated by the bra.s.s plates on the doors, by the treasurer, business manager, and stage director. Here also his quest was unavailing, and nothing now remained but Vincent Starr's private office on the upper floor.

The moment he entered, Culligore felt as though he were invading the den of a sybarite. His flash light, flitting slowly over the room, revealed soft color harmonies and exquisite decorations. Faint and delicate perfumes mingled with the fresh and alluring scents of flowers. Culligore's feet sank deep into costly rugs as he moved about the office, peeping behind chairs, desks, and cabinets, and occasionally sounding the walls for hollow s.p.a.ces. After an hour of intense and patient effort, he was forced to admit that he had exerted himself needlessly and that his impressions while standing in the bas.e.m.e.nt could have been nothing but figments of his fancy.

Finally he sat down in the luxuriously upholstered chair beside Starr's desk. His watch showed a quarter past eleven, and he tried to reconcile himself to the thought that the only thing he could do was to go home and sleep. He was disappointed, for he had hoped that his search would yield some tangible results. He scowled a little as his gaze roamed idly over the orderly piles of papers on the desk. The ink stand, the paper cutter, and the pens were all of ornamental design.

The only plain and undecorative objects in the room were the two telephones standing at one side of the desk. It struck him as a little odd that there should be two of them, but then he noticed that one was an automatic instrument without outside connections and communicating only with the various departments in the building.

Presently he yawned ostentatiously. He could not quite understand his reason for remaining after his fruitless task was done, nor could he comprehend the feeling, vague but uncannily persistent, that the next few minutes would bring some startling developments.

A gentle buzzing caused him to sit up straight in the chair. The telephone was ringing, and instinctively he reached out his hand for one of the instruments. He spoke a soft "h.e.l.lo" in the transmitter.

There was no response, but the ringing continued. A little dazedly he hung up the receiver and peered fixedly at the other telephone. He jerked it to him, thrust the transmitter to his ear, and instantly the buzzing ceased.

A gasp of amazement fell from his lips. Someone was calling on the automatic telephone, the one that had no outside connections. The person calling must be inside the building, then, despite the fact that his patient search had convinced him that there was no other human being within the four walls of the structure.

CHAPTER XX

TRAPPED

"h.e.l.lo--h.e.l.lo!" shouted Culligore into the mouthpiece. From head to foot he was tingling with suspense. It was one of the rare occasions within recent years when he felt the thrill of excitement.

A hoa.r.s.e and rasping voice responded, but at first he could make out no words. The person at the other end seemed to speak with great difficulty and was evidently on the verge of hysterics.

"Speak a little louder, can't you?" urged the lieutenant. "Who are you?"

A jumble of split words and syllables sounded distantly in his ear.

Now and then, between efforts to speak clearly, came a t.i.tter and a giggle that awoke a startling suspicion in Culligore's mind.

"Tell me who you are," he said in loud tones.

A short, cracked laugh came over the wire. It was followed by a groan, as if the speaker were despairing over his inability to make himself understood. Then he tried again. "Fair--Fairspeckle."

"Oh!" Culligore's teeth clicked out the exclamation. He nodded at the instrument, as if the name just spoken had confirmed a suspicion in his mind. "Where are you, Mr. Fairspeckle?"

"I can't--can't tell you," came gropingly over the wire.

"Haven't you any idea?"

"None. I'm locked in a--a room, and I am--dying! For G.o.d's sake get me out!"

"Listen, Mr. Fairspeckle," said Culligore tensely. "You're somewhere in the Thelma Theater, and I am going to find you. It may take some little time, but don't worry. It won't be very long."

A groan of relief mingled with pent-up suspense sounded in Culligore's ear, and then he slammed the receiver back on the hook. His eyes were twinkling and there was a new eagerness in his face. He jumped up from the chair and took a step toward the door. Then he drew back, and in the next moment his face had resumed its habitual sluggish expression and there was nothing in his manner to indicate that anything out of the ordinary had happened.

The door opened and in walked Vincent Starr. The theatrical manager, faultlessly attired in evening dress, topcoat, and silk hat, shrank back at sight of the man standing beside the desk. Then, recognizing the lieutenant, he instantly gathered himself.

"You startled me, Culligore," he explained with an apologetic laugh.

"So many strange things have happened in this place that I am naturally a little nervous. I often come here late at night to read or write, according to my mood, but of late I approach the place in fear and trembling." He eyed the detective inquiringly. "I wonder what brings you to my private office at such an hour."

"Hope you don't mind my snooping," said Culligore genially. "I have been looking around a bit. There were a couple of things I wanted to get straightened out in my mind. As you say yourself, there have been a lot of strange doings in this place, and I've got a sneaking suspicion that Mr. Shei is back of them all."