[CHAPTER XIII—A MESSAGE FROM MR. SHEI]
The city, consuming the news of Mr. Shei’s amazing coup along with its coffee and toast the following morning, reacted to the sensation much as a child might react to the sight of a fabled monster. The whole affair seemed monstrous, unbelievable—and yet the facts could not be reasoned away. Seven of the city’s wealthiest men had been inoculated with a malady of such a mysterious nature that the most celebrated physicians in New York City had admitted they were unable to diagnose it.
An air of bafflement and suspense hung over the city. Mr. Shei’s name was on every tongue, and the blow he had struck was discussed by groups that gathered on street corners, in cafés, and in public squares. Among the seven victims were several of the most important capitalists in the country, so the effect of Mr. Shei’s astounding maneuver was an assault on the financial nerve center of the nation.
The name that, next to Mr. Shei’s, was most often spoken in the street corner discussions, was that of The Gray Phantom. The spectacular nature of the coup, as well as the daring and resourcefulness exhibited by its perpetrator, seemed ample proof that The Gray Phantom had returned to his old ways under the nom de guerre of Mr. Shei. No one else, it was argued, could have engineered an achievement of such magnitude without bungling and falling into the clutches of the police. Already wagers were being placed on The Phantom’s ability to evade capture until he should have consummated his plans.
At ten o’clock, just as newsboys were raucously crying the latest extras, a taxicab stopped before a dingy establishment in a squalid and disreputable section of the lower East Side. The Gray Phantom alighted, hurriedly tossed the driver a bill, then disappeared in a basement entrance. The door was opened by a surly-looking man wearing a soiled apron, and The Phantom took a seat at one of the tables in the rear. He looked nervously at his watch. Lieutenant Culligore, whom he had reached by telephone at police headquarters, had promised to meet him at ten sharp, and he had suggested Lefty Joe’s place as a reasonably safe rendezvous.
The Phantom cast a slanting glance at the rough-looking customers scattered about the place, and just then the door opened and Culligore walked in and took a seat beside him.
“Any luck?” inquired the lieutenant, though the question seemed superfluous in view of The Phantom’s dejected appearance.
“None. That’s why I wanted a talk with you. How is Fairspeckle?”
The lieutenant, a little bleary-eyed and with a trace of diffidence in his manners, looked queerly at the questioner. “Why single out Fairspeckle? He’s in the same boat with the six others. Neither better nor worse, though the doctors say his age and poor health will weigh against him.”
“You still think that Fairspeckle is Mr. Shei?”