The Gray Phantom's Return

by Herman Landon

  CHAPTER III--BLUE OR GRAY?

  Cuthbert Vanardy was conscious of a disquieting tension in the air. Thelong shadows cast by the trees that stood in clusters on the lawn ofSea-Glimpse impressed him as sinister harbingers of coming events. Thewind had a raw edge, and it produced a dolorous melody as it wentmoaning over the landscape. Vanardy recognized the vague sense ofdepression and foreboding he experienced as he walked down the path thatwound in and out among flower beds and parterres of shrubbery. He hadnoticed it often in the past, and always on the eve of some tragicevent.

  He could not understand, for of late his life had fallen into serene andhumdrum lines, and there had been no hint of disturbing occurrences. Hishorticultural experiments had kept him well occupied, and he had deriveda great deal of satisfaction from the favorable comments which theproducts of his gardens had created among experts at the horticulturalexpositions in New York and Boston, as well as from the speculationsaroused concerning the identity of the anonymous exhibitor, who forprivate reasons preferred to remain unknown. Nothing of an excitingnature had happened in several months, and, but for his intangiblemisgivings, there was no sign of an interruption to his tranquil life.

  On the veranda he stopped and looked back into the gathering dusk. Thetrees and shrubs, colored and distorted by his restless imagination,took on weird contours and seemed to assume life and motion. No doubt,he told himself, the premonitions he had felt of late were also theproducts of his fancy. They could be nothing else, for he had severedall the links connecting him with the old life. Time had quieted all thedreams and impulses of his former self. He smiled as it occurred to himthat his highest ambition at the present moment was to produce a grayorchid.

  It was only a whim, a diversion from more serious work, but the noveltyof the experiment, as well as the difficulties in the way, appealed tohim. By intricate cross-breeding he was gradually developing an orchidof a dim, mystic gray, his favorite color. When once evolved, the hybridshould be known as the Phantom Orchid. It would be the living symbol ofwhatever had been good in his other self, the Gray Phantom.

  His thoughts went back to those other days when he had gone, like aswaggering Robin Hood, from one stupendous adventure to another. Evenhis bitterest enemies, and there had been many of them, had neveraccused the Gray Phantom of being actuated by considerations of sordidgain. The public had gasped and the police muttered maledictions as hegratified his thirst for thrills and excitement, always playing the gamein strict accord with his code and invariably planning his exploits sothat his victims were villains of a far blacker dye than he. Always hisleft hand had tossed away what his right hand had plucked. Hospitals,orphan asylums and other philanthropic organizations became therecipients of donations that were never traced to their source. Princelyand mysterious gifts poured into garrets and hovels in a way that causedsimple-minded people to believe in a return of the day of miracles.

  The Gray Phantom, through it all, maintained an elusiveness thatcompletely baffled the police and clothed his identity in a glamoroushaze. So astounding were his performances that there were those whoasked themselves whether he was not practicing black magic. Once, in theearly days of his career, he fell into the clutches of the police,satisfying the superstitious ones that he was really a being of fleshand blood, but an amazing escape a few days later revived the gossip ofa rogue who was in collusion with evil spirits. The Phantom was greatlyamused, and spurred his energies to even more dizzying flights, butthere were times when a softer mood came upon him, and then he wonderedwhy his restless spirit could not have found a different outlet. Perhapsthe reason was to be found in the remote and dimly remembered past when,friendless and homeless, he had derived his philosophy of life fromthieving urchins and night-prowling gangsters.

  The years passed, and the Gray Phantom's adventures made his sobriquetknown from coast to coast, but gradually the life he was leading beganto pall on him. His exploits no longer gave him the thrills he craved,and he began to search, at first blindly and haltingly, for a moresatisfying way of unleashing his boundless energies. There came longlapses between his adventures, and finally it began to be rumored thatthe Gray Phantom had gone into retirement with his accumulatedtreasures, for no one guessed that he had flung away his spoils as fastas he garnered them in. Nobody understood the true reason for the changethat had come over him, and the Phantom least of all.

  He often wondered at the obscure impulses that had impelled him to seekseclusion at Sea-Glimpse, a narrow stretch of wooded land surrounded onthree sides by jagged coast line and in the rear by forest and farmland. He could not understand them, except that his new mode of lifegave him a sense of pleasing remoteness from things he wished to forget,and at times he thought he would be content to spend the rest of hisdays in this secluded nook, secure from intrusion and free to devotehimself to his hobby and his books.

  But to-night a vague unrest was upon him. He peered into the shadows,constantly growing longer and darker, and it seemed as if the ghostlyfigures of his past were reaching out for him. Perhaps, there was stilla forgotten link or two that bound him to the old life. He shrugged, asif to banish disquieting thoughts, and entered the house. Stepping intothe library, he lighted his reading lamp and took a work on horticulturefrom the shelf. There was a problem in connection with the gray orchidthat he had not yet been able to work out satisfactorily. He sat downand opened the book, but the print danced and blurred beneath his eyes.A woman's face appeared out of nowhere, the same face that had hauntedhim in idle moments for months. His mental picture was dim andfragmentary, and he could not distinctly remember even the color of thehair or whether the eyes were blue or gray, but the vision pursued himwith the persistence of a haunting scent or a strain from an oldfamiliar song.

  Helen Hardwick and he had shared several adventures and perils together.Only a few months had elapsed since he rescued her from the clutches ofthe mysterious "Mr. Shei," the leader of an arch-conspiracy which thePhantom had frustrated. About a year before that he had emerged from hisretreat for long enough to restore to her father, curator of theCosmopolitan Museum, a collection of Assyrian antiques that Hardwick hadspent the best years of his life in gathering, and which had been stolenby a criminal organization headed by the Phantom's old-time enemy andrival, "The Duke." To Vanardy the achievement had meant little more thana pleasing diversion and an opportunity to humiliate a man whosepersonality and methods he abhorred, and Helen Hardwick's gratitude hadmade him feel that she was giving him the accolade of an undeservedknightship. She had come to Sea-Glimpse to thank him, and her partingglance and smile were still vivid in his recollection. He often glanceddreamily at the spot where she had stood when for an instant her handlingered within his. With the blood pounding against his temples, he hadexerted all his power of will to restrain himself from calling her back.There were times when he regretted having let her go like that, withouthope of seeing her again, but in his soberer moments he saw theinevitableness of the outcome. In the eyes of the world he was still anoutlaw, and too great a gulf separated the Gray Phantom and HelenHardwick. The memory of her eyes, warm, frank and bright, would be withhim always. He had her to thank for the finest emotions he had everexperienced, and he would try to be content with that.

  She seemed little more than a dream to him now, and even the dream wasfragmentary. Again he thought it strange that he could not remember thecolor of her eyes or hair, and that little remained with him save amisty and tantalizing vision of loveliness.

  He closed the book and passed to the window. The moon had risen, bathingthe narrow strip of water visible between the birches and hemlocks in awhite mist. The house, which Vanardy had restored from the dilapidatedcondition in which he had found it, was silent save for an occasionalcreaking of old timbers. Clifford Wade, once his chief lieutenant andnow the major-domo of his little household, had gone to the village forthe mail. The Phantom stood lost in reflections, his deep gray eyes softand luminous. On occasion they could sting and stab like points ofsteel, but in repo
se they were the eyes of a dreamer. The nostrils werefull and sensitive, and the arch of the lips was partly obscured by ashort-cropped beard that would have made him hard to recognize from hisphotograph in a revolving case at police headquarters.

  He turned as a knock sounded on the door. A fat man stepped through thedoor, groaning and puffing as if the task of carrying his huge bodythrough life were the bane of his existence. Wade, the ostensible ownerof Sea-Glimpse--for its real master was seldom seen beyond theboundaries of the estate--placed a bundle of mail on the table, gave hismaster a long-suffering look, and withdrew.

  With a listless air Vanardy glanced at the mail and began to unfold thenewspapers. He ran his eyes over the headlines, and a caption, blackerand larger than the rest, caught his languid attention. He stared at itfor moments, as if his brain were unable to absorb its meaning. Slowlyand dazedly he mumbled the words:

  DYING MAN ACCUSES THE GRAY PHANTOM

  Presently his quickening eye was running down the column of type. It wasa lurid and highly colored account of the murder of Sylvanus Gage, acrime said by the police to be one of the strangest on record.Headquarters detectives confessed themselves baffled by several of thecircumstances, and especially by the fact that the murderer seemed tohave accomplished the apparently impossible feat of making his escapethrough a door which had been found bolted on the inside when the policereached the scene.

  The murder, it was stated, would probably have gone down in the annalsof crime as an unsolved mystery but for the fact that the dying man hadwhispered the name of his assailant to Patrolman Pinto, who had beensummoned to the scene by the housekeeper, Mrs. Mary Trippe, after thelatter had been disturbed by a mysterious sound. The name mentioned bythe victim was that of Cuthbert Vanardy, known internationally as theGray Phantom and regarded by the police as one of the most ingeniouscriminals of modern times.

  However, the account went on, the Gray Phantom's guilt would have beenclearly established even without his victim's dying statement. It hadbeen learned that for some years a feud had existed between the two menand that the Gray Phantom had threatened to take his enemy's life. Thetotal absence of finger prints and other tangible clews stronglysuggested that the deed could have been perpetrated only by a criminalin the Phantom's class. The perplexing features added further proof ofthe Phantom's guilt. Who else could have made his escape in such aninexplicable manner? Who but the Gray Phantom, who was known to bepursuing a criminal career for pleasure and excitement rather than forthe profits he derived from it, would have left behind him a smallfortune in perfect stones, taking nothing but a worthless curio?

  These and other details Vanardy read with interest. He smiled as hereached the concluding paragraph, stating that a countrywide search forthe murderer was in progress and that the police confidently expected tomake an arrest within twenty-four hours. He glanced at the accompanyinglikeness of himself, made from a photograph taken in the early stages ofhis career.

  "What drivel!" he exclaimed, tossing the paper aside. Then, one by one,he glanced through the other early editions of the New York eveningnewspapers. All featured the Gage murder on the first page, and all theaccounts agreed in regard to essential details. In _The EveningSphere's_ story of the crime, however, he detected a subtle difference.It presented the same array of damning facts, pointing straight to theinevitable conclusion of the Phantom's guilt, yet, between the lines, hesensed an elusive quality that differentiated it from the others. Heread it again, more slowly this time; and here and there, in an oddlytwisted sentence or an ambiguous phrase, he caught a hint that thewriter of the _Sphere's_ article entertained a secret doubt of thePhantom's guilt.

  The suggestion was so feeble, however, that a casual reader wouldscarcely have noticed it, and whatever doubts the writer may have feltwere smothered under a mass of evidence pointing in the oppositedirection. He threw the paper down with an air of disdain. Here, in thissheltered retreat, what the world thought of him was of no account.Serene in his seclusion, he could snap his fingers at its opinions andsuspicions. He sat down at the piano, and a moment later his finelytapering fingers were flashing over the keys.

  Suddenly, in the midst of one of his favorite arias, his hands began tofalter. For a time he sat motionless, with lips tightening, gazingnarrowly at the point where Helen Hardwick had stood at the moment whenhe held her hand. His face was grim and troubled, as if a disturbingthought had just occurred to him. He got up and with long strides passedto the desk, where he pressed a button.

  "Wade," he crisply announced when the fat man reappeared, "I am going toNew York in the morning."

  Wade sat down, drawing a squeaky protest from an unoffending chair. "ToNew--New York?" he stammered.

  "Exactly. Tell Dullah to pack my grip. I shall leave early, about thetime you are getting your beauty sleep."

  Wade blinked his little eyes. "But why, boss?"

  "Here's the reason." Vanardy handed him one of the papers he had beenperusing, watching with an amused smile the flabbergasted look that cameinto the fat man's face as he read. As he approached the end of thearticle, wheezy gasps and indignant mutters punctuated the reading.

  "Rot!" he commented emphatically. "If I wasn't a fat man I'd lick theeditor of this sheet within an inch of his life. Why, you always playedthe game according to the code, boss. You never killed a man in all yourlife."

  "No, never."

  "And you were right here at Sea-Glimpse at the time the murder wasdone."

  "True enough. But I might have some difficulty proving it. Your owntestimony wouldn't be particularly impressive. Besides, there's justenough of truth in the police theory to give color to the lies. It istrue Gage and I quarreled, and I believe I once threatened to give theold skinflint a beating. It was a foolish wrangle, involving nothing buta cross made of imitation jade. I'd been wearing it attached to a chainaround my neck as far back as I could remember. Who put it there I don'tknow. Perhaps----"

  "Your mother--maybe," suggested Wade, slanting a searching gaze atVanardy.

  "I don't know, Wade. You may be right. I remember neither father normother. All I know is that the cross seemed to be the only connectinglink between my present and the past I couldn't remember. I fought likemad when the street urchins and gangsters tried to take it away from me,and somehow, through thick and thin, I managed to cling to it. Then, oneday about six years ago, I lost it. Probably the chain parted. Anyhow,in some mysterious manner the cross fell into Gage's possession. I wentto Gage and demanded it. He must have seen how anxious I was to recoverit, for he put a stiff price on it. I was willing to pay--would havepaid almost anything--but each time I began to count out the money Gagedoubled his price. So it went on for years, and I admit I sometimes feltlike strangling the old miser. But I never threatened to kill him and Inever wrote the letter mentioned in the papers."

  "Somebody's been doing some tall lying," declared Wade irately. "If Iwasn't so fat I'd make the fellow that wrote this article eat his ownwords. But you should worry, boss. They can't get away with it."

  "I am not so sure, Wade. Seems to me they've made out a fairly completecase against the Gray Phantom. The motive is substantial enough. Thereare enough mysterious circumstances to suggest that only the Phantomcould have committed the crime. The fact that the murderer stole a cheaptrinket and left fifty thousand dollars' worth of real diamonds behindhim is rather impressive. And you mustn't forget that a little evidenceagainst the Gray Phantom will go a long way with a jury."

  Wade, a picture of ponderous wrath, crumpled the newspaper in his hugefist. The fretful look in the small round eyes signified that his mindwas grappling with a problem.

  "The letter Gage got the day before the murder must have been forged,"he ventured at last.

  "Of course; but it may have been done skillfully enough to deceive allbut the keenest eye. Handwriting experts have been known to disagree inmatters of that kind."

  The fat man reflected heavily. "Why didn't Gage beat it for the tallwoods when he g
ot the letter?"

  "Because the tall woods are full of ambushes. Likely as not the lettergave him a jolt at first. Then, upon giving it a sober second thought,he cooled down. His principal consideration was that the Gray Phantomhad never been known to commit a murder, and that consequently theletter was either a joke or a bluff."

  "But he told the cop it was the Gray Phantom that stabbed him."

  "Naturally. A wound in the chest isn't conducive to clear thinking. Wemay assume that the murderer approached his victim by stealth and thatGage never saw the man who struck him down. Under the circumstances itwas natural enough for him to suppose that, after all, the Gray Phantomhad carried out his threat. What else was he to think?"

  An ominous rumble sounded in Wade's expansive chest. "You've beenframed, boss."

  Vanardy nodded. "And it doesn't require a great deal of brilliance tofigure out who engineered the frame-up. The Duke has the reputation ofbeing a good hater."

  The fat man seemed startled. "But the Duke's in stir," he argued. "Yousent him there yourself."

  "So I did." A pleased smile lighted Vanardy's features. "But two orthree members of his gang were not present at the round-up, and I havereceived tips to the effect that they have been organizing a new crowd.I suppose the Duke has been communicating with them through undergroundchannels and instructing them in regard to this frame-up. The Duke hassworn to get me, and undoubtedly this is his method of accomplishing hisaim. He chose the mode of revenge which he thought would hurt me most."

  "If I wasn't a fat man I would--" began Wade.

  "Save your threats. The Duke is a crafty rascal, just as clever as he'svindictive. That kind of a man makes a bad enemy. The only way to queerhis game is to track down the man who did the crime. That's why I amgoing to New York in the morning. The police will never find theculprit, for they are wasting their time and energies looking for theGray Phantom. Therefore it's up to me."

  A scowl deepened in Wade's rubicund face. "The world must be coming toan end when the Gray Phantom turns detective. It's the maddest, craziestthing you ever did yet, boss."

  "It will be quite an adventure." Vanardy's eyes twinkled.

  "It's too risky, boss. Why, every dick and harness bull and amateursleuth on the American continent is on the lookout for you."

  "Very likely."

  "The police have enough on you to send you to the jug for a millionyears, even without the Sylvanus Gage job. And you can just bet theDuke's gang will have their eyes peeled, watching their chance to leadyou into a trap."

  "I suppose so."

  The fat man sighed. He knew from long experience that his chief, oncehis mind was made up, was impervious to pleas and arguments.

  "Why don't you just sit tight?" was his final attempt. "I don't see whatyou're worrying about. They'll never find you here. Nobody knows whereto look for you. You're safe."

  "Sure of that?" Vanardy smiled queerly. "There's one person who knowswhere to find me."

  A look of startled comprehension came into Wade's face. "You mean thelittle queen who was so heart-broken because the Duke had stolen a lotof old Assyrian junk from her dad?"

  "I mean Miss Helen Hardwick," declared Vanardy stiffly. "I was fortunatein being able to recover the collection from the Duke and restore it toMr. Hardwick."

  "She was sure easy on the eyes!" rhapsodized Wade, unrebuked. "But youlet her slip away from you, after you'd stirred up most of the earth todry her tears. I never got you on that deal boss. Why, if I hadn't beena fat man----" He sighed and rolled wistful eyes at the ceiling.

  Vanardy scowled, then laughed.

  "Chuck the sentiment, you old clod-hopping hippo. As far as I know, MissHardwick is the only living person, outside our own circle, who is awareof my whereabouts."

  "Will she give you away?"

  "It depends," murmured Vanardy. "If she believes me guilty of murder shemay consider it her duty to inform the police, and she would beabsolutely right in doing so. But that's neither here nor there. I'mstarting for New York in a few hours to track down the murderer ofSylvanus Gage."

  Admiration clashed with anxiety in Wade's face. "I get you, boss. Youwant to keep the Gray Phantom's record clean. You don't want anybloodstains on his name. You don't want the world to think that you'vecommitted a murder."

  An odd smile played about the Phantom's lips. "Wrong, Wade. It goesagainst the grain to have a foul murder linked to one's name, but itisn't that. I'm not lying awake nights worrying about the world'sopinion. The only thing that troubles me is----" He broke off, and hiseyes sought the spot where Helen Hardwick had stood.

  "You needn't say it, boss." Wade's voice was a trifle thick as hestruggled out of the chair and gripped the other's hand. "If I wasn't afat man I'd tag right along, but I guess I'd only be in the way. Goodluck--and give my regards to the little wren."

  With slow, trundling strides he left the room. A moment later the doorhad closed behind him, and the Gray Phantom was alone. Once more, as hepaced the floor, his eyes were soft and luminous. Suddenly he paused andbent a reverential look on the rug at his feet, as if he were standingin a hallowed spot.

  "Blue or gray?" he mumbled.