card, hesitated, and looked again. "Uh, no, sir,"
he said. "I picked the five of clubs. This is the nine of
diamonds."
"What?
Impossible!" Harry darted forward and snatched the card from the
patrolman's hand, glaring at it with undisguised annoyance. "This
cannot be!" He winced at the sound of sniggering from the back
of the room. "Le Fantôme is
foolproof! Possibly its workings have become fouled through the years
of disrepair, or perhaps I failed to—"
We
never learned what Harry might have failed to do. Throughout his
tirade, a remarkable change had come over Le
Fantôme. Unseen
by Harry, who had his back to
the desk, the automaton stirred to life once again. This time, its
right hand—which held the tiny bamboo tube— rose from the
folds of its robe. With a swift, sure movement, the figure raised the
tube to its lips in the manner of a blow gun. Lieutenant Murray gave
a cry of warning and hurled himself across the desk at my brother.
The pair of them crashed to the floor just as some ten or twelve of
New York's finest dove for cover.
No
poison dart came. Instead we heard a gentle puff of air and the sound
of a wet splotch. Very deliberately, my brother disentangled himself
from Lieutenant Murray, dusted off his trousers, and rose to his
feet.
"I
appreciate your concern for my safety," he said, "but I
assure you it was not necessary. You will see that one of the
remaining cards is now marked with a spot of red pigment." He
held up the card to show a blob of red coloring. "This is what Le
Fantôme expels
from its pipe—and the only thing it is capable of expelling. So
you see, Le
Fantôme cannot
be the culprit. Therefore, someone else must have slipped into this
room, killed Mr. Wintour, and slipped out again without disturbing
the locks or arousing the suspicions of the household. I suspect,
Lieutenant Murray, that this will alter the direction of your
inquiries."
The
lieutenant said nothing. He stared down at Le
Fantôme' s wooden
smile while the tendons in his neck worked back and forth.
"Oh,
and one last thing," my brother said. He held up the card with
the red splotch. "Officer Robbins, would you care to show our
friends the card which Le
Fantôme has
marked?"
Robbins
flipped the card face-front to show the five of clubs.
From
the desk, we heard a soft wooden creak as Le
Fantôme's lips
pulled back in a chilling smile.
"Harry,"
I said, after we had walked a few blocks from the Wintour mansion,
"you really can't treat the police like that."
"Why
can I not?" he asked.
"It's
disrespectful. Lieutenant Murray is just doing his work. It's one
thing to make a suggestion. It's another to humiliate him."
"I
needed to demonstrate that Le
Fantôme could
not have been the instrument of murder."
"It
would have been enough to explain it to him. You didn't need to put
on the whole song and dance routine."
He
seemed to consider it. "It is my nature," he said. "I
see these men in uniform and something in me grows angry. Men in
uniform have not always been kind to me—to our family." We
walked on for a few moments in silence before he continued. "Besides,
it is what I do," he said, as if considering the matter for the
first time. "I escape from restraints. Chains. Ropes. Handcuffs.
One day, this will mean something to people—to the immigrants
who escaped to America just as our mother
and father did. They will see a man escaping from fetters and they
will recall their struggles. They will think of freedom."
I
studied his face as we passed under a street lamp. My brother was not
a man given to introspection. When it came, however, it was generally
worth the wait. "But you are probably right," he allowed.
"If I took an improper tone with Lieutenant Murray, I will
apologize in the morning."
"Are
you certain that you're right about this?" I asked. "Isn't
it possible that the automaton could have fired the dart?"
"Yes,"
he admitted, "but not without a splotch of red pigment. There is
no firing mechanism apart from a
he said. "I picked the five of clubs. This is the nine of
diamonds."
"What?
Impossible!" Harry darted forward and snatched the card from the
patrolman's hand, glaring at it with undisguised annoyance. "This
cannot be!" He winced at the sound of sniggering from the back
of the room. "Le Fantôme is
foolproof! Possibly its workings have become fouled through the years
of disrepair, or perhaps I failed to—"
We
never learned what Harry might have failed to do. Throughout his
tirade, a remarkable change had come over Le
Fantôme. Unseen
by Harry, who had his back to
the desk, the automaton stirred to life once again. This time, its
right hand—which held the tiny bamboo tube— rose from the
folds of its robe. With a swift, sure movement, the figure raised the
tube to its lips in the manner of a blow gun. Lieutenant Murray gave
a cry of warning and hurled himself across the desk at my brother.
The pair of them crashed to the floor just as some ten or twelve of
New York's finest dove for cover.
No
poison dart came. Instead we heard a gentle puff of air and the sound
of a wet splotch. Very deliberately, my brother disentangled himself
from Lieutenant Murray, dusted off his trousers, and rose to his
feet.
"I
appreciate your concern for my safety," he said, "but I
assure you it was not necessary. You will see that one of the
remaining cards is now marked with a spot of red pigment." He
held up the card to show a blob of red coloring. "This is what Le
Fantôme expels
from its pipe—and the only thing it is capable of expelling. So
you see, Le
Fantôme cannot
be the culprit. Therefore, someone else must have slipped into this
room, killed Mr. Wintour, and slipped out again without disturbing
the locks or arousing the suspicions of the household. I suspect,
Lieutenant Murray, that this will alter the direction of your
inquiries."
The
lieutenant said nothing. He stared down at Le
Fantôme' s wooden
smile while the tendons in his neck worked back and forth.
"Oh,
and one last thing," my brother said. He held up the card with
the red splotch. "Officer Robbins, would you care to show our
friends the card which Le
Fantôme has
marked?"
Robbins
flipped the card face-front to show the five of clubs.
From
the desk, we heard a soft wooden creak as Le
Fantôme's lips
pulled back in a chilling smile.
"Harry,"
I said, after we had walked a few blocks from the Wintour mansion,
"you really can't treat the police like that."
"Why
can I not?" he asked.
"It's
disrespectful. Lieutenant Murray is just doing his work. It's one
thing to make a suggestion. It's another to humiliate him."
"I
needed to demonstrate that Le
Fantôme could
not have been the instrument of murder."
"It
would have been enough to explain it to him. You didn't need to put
on the whole song and dance routine."
He
seemed to consider it. "It is my nature," he said. "I
see these men in uniform and something in me grows angry. Men in
uniform have not always been kind to me—to our family." We
walked on for a few moments in silence before he continued. "Besides,
it is what I do," he said, as if considering the matter for the
first time. "I escape from restraints. Chains. Ropes. Handcuffs.
One day, this will mean something to people—to the immigrants
who escaped to America just as our mother
and father did. They will see a man escaping from fetters and they
will recall their struggles. They will think of freedom."
I
studied his face as we passed under a street lamp. My brother was not
a man given to introspection. When it came, however, it was generally
worth the wait. "But you are probably right," he allowed.
"If I took an improper tone with Lieutenant Murray, I will
apologize in the morning."
"Are
you certain that you're right about this?" I asked. "Isn't
it possible that the automaton could have fired the dart?"
"Yes,"
he admitted, "but not without a splotch of red pigment. There is
no firing mechanism apart from a
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