CHAPTER XIX
A FUTILE SEARCH
Walking with his usual listless and shuffling gait, LieutenantCulligore mounted the steps in front of police headquarters andentered the office of Inspector Stapleton of the detective bureau. Itwas late in the afternoon, and Culligore might have quickened hissteps and carried himself with more animation if he could have knownthat at this very moment The Gray Phantom, seated in the secretchamber at Azurecrest, was planning his second move against theredoubtable Mr. Shei.
Stapleton, a huge, thick-necked man with a reddish face and a tendencytoward irascibility, looked up with a scowl as the lieutenant walkedin.
"Well, what's new?" he demanded.
"Nothing," said Culligore patiently and flopped into a chair besidethe inspector's desk, "except that our friend Mr. Shei seems to begetting away with it."
Stapleton glared at a pile of newspapers he had been reading. Histemper was on edge from his perusal of several editorials that chidedthe bureau for its failure to circumvent Mr. Shei.
"Two of the seven moneybags are already showing the white feather,"Culligore continued, "and two or three of the others are gettingwabbly. By the end of the week I guess most of 'em will be ready topay Mr. Shei's price. I don't know how he means to manage thetransaction, but I'll bet a pair of pink socks he'll figure out a safeway."
"What are the doctors doing? Still loafing on the job, I suppose?"
"They're up a tree--every mother's son of them. They can't dope out thedisease at all. If they had seven months instead of seven days, theymight be able to do something, but as it is, they're at the end oftheir tether. Their only hope is that one of the seven will beobliging enough to die before the others, so they can perform anautopsy."
Stapleton jerked his head savagely to one side. "This is the twentiethcentury and we're living in a civilized country," he muttered. "A mancan't put over a thing like that in these times."
"Just what I've been telling myself for the last three days," admittedCulligore. "I've been saying it can't be done--but Mr. Shei is goingright ahead and doing it."
"And he's pulling the trick right under our noses," supplemented theinspector. "That's what gets my goat. It's plain as day that Mr. Sheiis The Gray Phantom. Nobody but The Gray Phantom ever got away with athing like this, and this job has all the ear-marks of his work.Well," and his huge fist descended on the desk with a slam, "we'll gethim yet, and when we do I'll see to it that he's put away for keeps."
Culligore drew the palm of his hand across his mouth as if to stifleone of his infrequent grins.
"Keeping something up your sleeve again?" demanded the inspector, whohad noticed the gesture. "If you've got something on your mind, whydon't you spring it?"
The lieutenant shifted his lanky figure in the chair. "I've beentrying all day to get a line on Fairspeckle," he said slowly, withoutdirectly answering the inspector's question. "Queer how that oldduffer vamoosed. I tried to question the Jap valet, but all he knowsis that there are two bumps on his head where there was only onebefore. The doctor and the nurse got rough treatment, too. Of a suddenthe lights went out, and old Fairspeckle seemed to go out with them.Anyhow, he was gone when the doctor came to." Culligore paused tolight one of his vicious-looking cigars. "Something queer about thatold goat's disappearance--eh, inspector?"
Stapleton stared hard at his subordinate, as if trying to read thethoughts stirring behind his stolid countenance. "Of course there is,"he said irritably. "There's something queer about every disappearance.Just what are you driving at? You don't doubt that Fairspeckle waskidnaped by Mr. Shei's agents?"
"I doubt everything, inspector. Know of any reason why Mr. Shei shouldgo out of his way to abduct the old geezer?"
"No, I don't," admitted Stapleton after some thought. "The kidnapingof Fairspeckle doesn't seem to fit into the pattern of Mr. Shei'sscheme. What's your idea, Culligore? You don't suppose Fairspecklekidnaped himself?"
"Stranger things have happened, inspector. By the way," and thelieutenant reached into his pocket and took out several typewrittenslips, "I meant to hand you these yesterday, but was too busy withother things. I found them beside the typewriter on Fairspeckle'sdesk. What do you make of them?"
Stapleton picked up the slips and glanced at them. His eyes widenedinto a stare as he read the typewritten lines. He read them twice, andthen he transferred his gaze to Culligore.
"Holy mackerel!" he muttered. Then he sat silent for a time, wrigglinghis ample frame to and fro in the chair. "Why, these things make itlook as though Fairspeckle was Mr. Shei."
"They show that the mystery isn't quite so simple as you thought,inspector. They sort of knock the pins from under your theory that TheGray Phantom is Mr. Shei."
For a few moments longer Stapleton's bewildered eyes rested on theslips. Then he read aloud the list of names beneath the introductoryparagraph, and the pucker on his forehead deepened. Finally he lookedquizzically at the lieutenant.
"Yes, I noticed it, too," said Culligore. "There's something queerabout that list. Looks as though Mr. Shei, whoever he is, hadn'tfollowed his original programme. Seven men were inoculated, but onlyfive of them are named in Fairspeckle's list. The other two namesdon't jibe."
Stapleton pondered for a while. He seemed to have great difficultyreadjusting his thoughts to a new fact.
"And here's another interesting thing," Culligore pointed out. "Everyone of the seven men mentioned in Fairspeckle's list was a member of aring that fought him tooth and nail some years ago."
"And this is Fairspeckle's way of getting even with them," venturedthe inspector.
"Maybe," said Culligore guardedly. "Anyhow, a fairly strong motivecould be made out of it."
"But how do you account for the fact that Fairspeckle didn't carry outhis original programme?"
"I'm not trying to account for it just now. There might have been aslip of some kind. _If_ Fairspeckle is Mr. Shei, the fact that herevised his list doesn't really cut any ice. Any man has a right tochange his mind."
Inspector Stapleton sat up straight. He looked at Culligore in adetermined way. "What I can't understand is why you didn't show methese slips yesterday. You say you were too busy with other things.I'd like to know what other things could be more important. Never mindthat, though. The thing to do now is to find Fairspeckle."
Again Culligore drew his palm across his mouth. "And when you havefound him, inspector, what are you going to do with him?"
"Eh?" Stapleton seemed to think the question a strange one. "Do withhim? Why, we'll see to it that he gets the stiffest sentence the lawprovides. If we once get our hands on him we'll put him in a placewhere 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'lldie like rats unless the antidote is administered in time. You can'tmake Mr. Shei fork over the antidote by putting him in jail. He's wiseenough to know that as long as the antidote is in his possession hehas a hold on us, and he won't be likely to give it up. He knows weare not going to let seven of the biggest men in the country die justfor 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 histongue. Evidently Culligore's argument had made a strong impression.He dropped back against the chair and peered diffidently into space.
"I'm hanged if I'm going to sit with arms folded and let Mr. Shei putthis thing over," he muttered at last. "He's a slick crook, but thereought to be a way of dealing with him."
"I think there is, inspector," agreed Culligore, leisurely rising fromhis chair. "I can't see it just yet, but maybe my mind will workbetter after a little walk. So long, inspector."
He shuffled from the room, followed by Inspector Stapleton's puzzledgaze. After leaving the headquarters building, he walked to a near-byrestaurant and ordered a substantia
l meal. He seemed in no hurry, forhe ate slowly and lingered for a considerable time over his coffee andcigar. An observer, noticing his languid air and phlegmaticexpression, might have thought that Mr. Shei was farthest from hismind. It was dark when he left the restaurant, and it was a littleafter eight o'clock when, after a leisurely stroll in a zigzaggingdirection, he reached the Thelma Theater.
His decision to visit the Thelma once more might have been due to thefact that it had been the scene of several mysterious incidents whichwere more or less directly traceable to the activities of Mr. Shei.The death of Virginia Darrow had occurred there, and the bullet thathad missed The Gray Phantom by such a narrow margin was still imbeddedin one of the pillars. But Culligore's expression gave no indicationof his purpose as he stood on the sidewalk across the street from thetheater and glanced up at the windows of Vincent Starr's privateoffice on the second floor.
The windows were dark, so evidently Starr was not there, and theentire structure presented a gloomy and lifeless appearance. Culligorehummed a little tune as he walked to the nearest street intersection,then cut diagonally across the thoroughfare, continued half a block tothe west, and finally ducked into a dark basement entrance. The easewith which he made his way suggested that he had traveled the sameroute before. After walking down a dirty and foul-smelling passage, heemerged into a vacant space bordered at one side by the rear wall ofthe theater.
He crossed the inclosure, then ran down a short stairway, and broughtup against a door. Now he took a number of keys from his pocket andtried several in the lock before he found one that fitted. At last thedoor came open, and the lieutenant, locking it carefully behind him,stood in the basement under the Thelma Theater.
On all sides was total darkness. For a time he stood still, listeningfor sounds, but nothing but dull and distant noises from the outsidereached his ears. Having satisfied himself that he was apparentlyalone in the basement, he took out his flash light and began athorough and comprehensive search. With the electric flash peeringinto every nook and corner, he explored the dressing rooms, peepedbehind piles of discarded scenery, examined odds and ends of stageproperty, looked into the barrels and boxes in the dusty storerooms,and even tapped the walls here and there to assure himself that therewere no hollow spaces.
At last he gave up. His search had taken almost an hour and it hadbeen complete and painstaking in every respect, yet LieutenantCulligore seemed not quite satisfied. On his face was a look ofhesitancy that seemed to suggest a lingering suspicion that somethingmight have eluded him. Standing in the center of the basement, heextinguished the flash light, for it had been his experience that hisother senses were more acute when his eyes received no impressions.
For a little while, standing in impenetrable darkness, he scarcelybreathed. He had a curious sensation that a faint sound was passinghim and dissolving in the dank air. It was so slight and elusive thathis ears could scarcely detect it, yet it appealed to his imaginationwith peculiar insistence. It might have been either a moan or a sigh,or perhaps a cry coming from a great distance. Somehow, though hecould not analyze the sensation, he fancied it expressed a great,overwhelming anguish. Whether it came from above, below, or the sideshe could not determine, but it inspired him with a haunting feelingthat he was not alone.
Again he took up the flash, and instantly the impression vanished, asif it had been a wraith fleeing from the light. Once more, step bystep, he went over every square foot of the basement, covering theground he had already searched so patiently, but he found nothing thatgave the slightest clew to the peculiar sound. Finally, half inclinedto believe that his imagination had deceived him, he ascended thestairway and continued his search on the ground floor. With doggeddetermination he explored the space in the wings and back of thestage, then went up and down the aisles in the auditorium. Hisinspection of the boxes was fruitless, and he found nothing ofsignificance in the little niche where, on his previous visit to theThelma, he had strongly suspected that an eavesdropper was hiding.Finally he went through the offices on the street front, occupied, aswas indicated by the brass plates on the doors, by the treasurer,business manager, and stage director. Here also his quest wasunavailing, and nothing now remained but Vincent Starr's privateoffice on the upper floor.
The moment he entered, Culligore felt as though he were invading theden of a sybarite. His flash light, flitting slowly over the room,revealed soft color harmonies and exquisite decorations. Faint anddelicate perfumes mingled with the fresh and alluring scents offlowers. Culligore's feet sank deep into costly rugs as he moved aboutthe office, peeping behind chairs, desks, and cabinets, andoccasionally sounding the walls for hollow spaces. After an hour ofintense and patient effort, he was forced to admit that he had exertedhimself needlessly and that his impressions while standing in thebasement could have been nothing but figments of his fancy.
Finally he sat down in the luxuriously upholstered chair besideStarr's desk. His watch showed a quarter past eleven, and he tried toreconcile himself to the thought that the only thing he could do wasto go home and sleep. He was disappointed, for he had hoped that hissearch would yield some tangible results. He scowled a little as hisgaze roamed idly over the orderly piles of papers on the desk. The inkstand, the paper cutter, and the pens were all of ornamental design.The only plain and undecorative objects in the room were the twotelephones standing at one side of the desk. It struck him as a littleodd that there should be two of them, but then he noticed that one wasan automatic instrument without outside connections and communicatingonly with the various departments in the building.
Presently he yawned ostentatiously. He could not quite understand hisreason for remaining after his fruitless task was done, nor could hecomprehend the feeling, vague but uncannily persistent, that the nextfew minutes would bring some startling developments.
A gentle buzzing caused him to sit up straight in the chair. Thetelephone was ringing, and instinctively he reached out his hand forone of the instruments. He spoke a soft "hello" in the transmitter.There was no response, but the ringing continued. A little dazedly hehung up the receiver and peered fixedly at the other telephone. Hejerked it to him, thrust the transmitter to his ear, and instantly thebuzzing ceased.
A gasp of amazement fell from his lips. Someone was calling on theautomatic telephone, the one that had no outside connections. Theperson calling must be inside the building, then, despite the factthat his patient search had convinced him that there was no otherhuman being within the four walls of the structure.
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