“That’s the one. The front is boarded-up, and from the street it looks like a vacant house. Nobody would suspect that it was the headquarters of the Duke’s gang. I suppose Bimble owns or controls both houses, and there is probably a connecting passage somewhere.”
The Phantom knitted his brows. He had seen no such passage when he searched the Bimble residence. However, that proved nothing, for it might be so carefully concealed that a hasty search would not reveal it. The arrangement, he thought, was rather ingenious. No one who had seen the anthropologist’s home, where everything suggested artlessness and love of simple comforts, would have suspected that the occupant was using the adjacent house for the conduct of criminal enterprises.
“Miss Hardwick is somewhere in the building,” he remarked. “Her safety is the first consideration.”
“Worse still. You and I might be able to fight our way through, but with a woman on our hands it’s almost certain death. It wouldn’t be so bad if there weren’t so many against us. I have only one gat. How about you?”
“A watch, a handkerchief, a package of cigarettes and some matches are my sole possessions just now.”
The reporter scowled. “The Duke’s men would be sure to pounce on us before we could get her out of the house, and I don’t suppose Miss Hardwick is bullet-proof.”
“What would you suggest?”
Granger reflected. “Have you any friends in town?”
“As far as I know, Peng Yuen is the only one. There may be others, but I wouldn’t know where to find them.”
“Peng Yuen doesn’t look much like a scrapper. We can’t appeal to the police, for they are after you just as hard as the Duke’s men are. I’d give half my life to be able to meet that bunch in a fair and even fight. Too bad you haven’t any friends handy. Say”—and Granger looked as though he had suddenly snatched an inspiration out of the air—“what about the place where you live? Haven’t you got some friends there?”