Tales of Masks and Mayhem V4
Edited by Ginger Johnson
Night to Dawn Magazine & Books
ISBN: 978-1-937769-12-3
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 by Ginger Johnson
Cover Illustration: Matthew Lovato
Interior art: C. A. Murphy and Matthew Lovato
Editor: Ginger Johnson
This book, including characters, incidents, and dialogue, is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For additional information or permissions, contact Night to Dawn Magazine & Books, P. O. Box 643, Abington, PA 19001.
Credits
The Hooded Hunter by Steve Mitchell
Perils of the Prophet by Eric Turowski
The Crimson Mask’s Justice by Charles Green & Tom Johnson
His Master’s Voice by Michael A. Black & Raymond Lovato
Partners in Crime by Tom Johnson
All rights reserved.
Night to Dawn Magazine & Books
P. O. Box 643
Abington, PA 19001
www.bloodredshadow.com
First Edition, printed in the United States of America
Dedicated to all of our heroes throughout the world.
INTRODUCTION
GINGER JOHNSON
It has been five years since Tales of Masks & Mayhem Volume 3 was published in 2006, and I have wanted to release a new volume ever since. However, to put it plainly we lost a lot of money on the first three volumes, and wasn’t anxious to repeat the mistake. With a new publisher in NTD, we think our luck may be changing. If so, Volume 5 is already in the making.
But first, we should concentrate on this one. With Volume 4, I’ve selected five action-filled stories that will keep you turning the pages. Two of the stories are reprints from our old Fading Shadows imprint, plus one story is a rewrite of a rejected Phantom Detective yarn, and then our old friend Doc Atlas is back in a brand new adventure. To end the volume is a character that first appeared in the pulps, but only played a minor role at the time. Now she’s carrying her own adventures.
Maxentius Andor Scarlatti (Steve Mitchell) starts the volume with “The Hooded Hunter,” a tale that first appeared in Classic Pulp Fiction Stories #17 and 18 (October and November 1996). Steve told me that his inspiration for the story was the old Saturday Matinee serial, The Masked Marvel. You will find the required fistfights and gun battles, as well as cliffhangers in this pulpy yarn.
Lamont Wentworth (Eric Turowski) penned the second story originally for Double Danger Tales #12 (1998), featuring The Masked Avenger, a character created by Tom Johnson and did a bang up job with the story. I thought it was about time more readers had a chance to read it.
Frank Johnson (Charles Green) wrote the third story originally planning it as a Phantom Detective yarn, but it didn’t work. A little collaboration with Tom Johnson, along with a few changes, he found that it worked better as a Crimson Mask story. We think it does too! See Author Credits.
We could not have a volume of Tales of Masks & Mayhem without Doc Atlas. The good Doctor has been in every issue so far, and he is a welcome fixture with the title. Michael A. Black and Ray Lovato see to it that Doc has plenty of work cut out for him in this tale.
When Tom Johnson read The Totem Pole Murders, featuring The Angel Detective, he discovered the mysterious Black Cat. A character that he felt was really more fascinating than the hero of the yarn. Yet she was only a minor player in the story, and overlooked by the publisher. The Angel Detective was only around for one issue. Tom decided the Black Cat deserved her own adventures.
I also want to thank Matt Lovato for supplying the great cover for this volume. Matt has already offered to work with me again, so I’m hoping Volume 4 of Tales of Masks & Mayhem does well enough for another volume. I’ll sure ask Matt for a new cover!
Enough of my small talk, it’s time to turn to the first story …
THE HOODED HUNTER
MAXENTIUS ANDOR SCARLATTI
Chapter One: The Masked Crusader
The hour was almost midnight. A man crept through the darkness of the alley behind Taylor Street, moving silently from shadow to shadow as he approached the rear of a decrepit waterfront building. He was a tall, spare figure, clad in a grey double-breasted suit and a fedora hat. A tight-fitting black hood covered his entire head except for his mouth and chin; from that hood, a pair of steely eyes gleamed. The man held a revolver in his right hand.
He paused as he reached the back wall, alert for any sound that might betoken a hidden guard. But he could hear nothing except the distant murmur of the harbor traffic to the north along Arundel Bay. Tentatively, the man reached out his left hand for the knob on the door that led into the building. He turned the knob slowly, quietly. The door was unlocked. The man gently pulled the door open and peered inside. He saw a shadowy hallway, with doors on either side part way down the corridor.
The man in the black hood slipped into the hall and stepped cautiously toward the two doors. He could hear voices as he approached—voices coming from the door on the left. He leaned forward, put his ear against the wooden paneling of the door, and listened. From the sounds he could hear, he concluded that several men were gathered in the room beyond the door. One of those men was speaking now, his voice heavy with the guttural accents of the underworld.
“I want all of you to pipe down. The Black Eagle said he’d contact us at midnight, and it’s almost twelve now.”
The Black Eagle! A thrill of anticipation ran through the hooded figure as he heard those words.
“Say, Scar, who is this Black Eagle, anyway?” growled another voice.
“A man with a lot of money—that’s all you need to know. He doesn’t like people asking—”
An eerie hum echoed from beyond the door, breaking in upon the words of the man called Scar. The hooded stranger tensed, tightening his hand on his gun.
“I am—the Black Eagle!” spoke a new voice—a voice laden with cold menace.
“Hey, where’s that coming from—?” began one of the unseen men, but the voice of the Black Eagle cut him off.
“I am speaking to you through a concealed radio hook-up. It does not suit my plans to reveal myself to you—yet!”
“I don’t like working for someone I can’t see,” came a grumbling voice.
“Fool! Did you think I would expose myself to risk by appearing to you in person? Especially when the Hooded Hunter stands outside the hall door!”
“The Hooded Hunter!” echoed a chorus of voices. There was a sudden commotion in the room. In the hallway outside, the Hooded Hunter whirled and raced down the corridor. He leapt into the alleyway, even as the first gunshots whistled harmlessly through the air behind him, then turned and ran to his right.
Halfway down the alley, he dodged behind a large crate. As a number of men burst into the alley from the back of the building he had just fled, the Hooded Hunter leveled his revolver and fired. The foremost man threw his hands up into the air and then fell to the ground. Several shots were fired in the Hooded Hunter’s general direction, but in the darkness, all went wide of their mark.
Then the voice of Scar came bellowing through the night air. “Back inside,” he ordered. “We’re like sitting ducks out here!”
The Hooded Hunter watched as the men piled back into the building. When he was convinced that they were not going to return to the attack, he turned and continued down the alley. In moments, he had regained his car—a long, black sedan, parked at the intersection of Taylor and Perrin. He gunned the engine and was soon racing away from the harbor district.
He stripped off his hood as he drove rapidly toward the center of the city, revealing a determined, angular face. He kept a sharp eye on the rear-view mirror, but there was no sign of pursuit behind him: Presumably Manton and his thugs had paused to receive any final instructions from the Black Eagle before abandoning the building on Taylor Street. The man in the car reached out and flicked the “Transmit” button on his car-radio.
“Hooded Hunter calling police headquarters—Hooded Hunter calling police headquarters.”
“Come in, Hooded Hunter,” came a crisp voice.
“Send men to 1234 Taylor Street. Scar Manton and his men have been meeting there. Search the building for clues. That is all.”
“Message received, Hooded Hunter.”
At Police Headquarters, a dispatcher rushed to the office of Captain Benjamin MacLaglen. “We’ve just received a message from the Hooded Hunter!” the man exclaimed.
“Show me,” the Captain ordered, reaching for the paper on which the dispatcher had jotted down the Hunter’s message. “Scar Manton, eh? Well, the Hunter said he thought Manton might be involved. Better send the patrol cars to that location on Taylor Street!”
“Yes, sir!” The dispatcher turned and departed. Captain MacLaglen’s expression was thoughtful as he considered the situation. The police in Banner City had received instructions directly from the Governor to cooperate with the Hooded Hunter’s investigation. Which meant that the case was of the greatest importance. . . .
Early the next morning, a small group of people were gathered in one of the conference rooms at the offices of Experimental Research Associates. A tall, white-haired man in naval uniform was speaking. “I received a message from the Hooded Hunter last night. It was his wish that we meet here today.”
“See here, Captain,” another man began to expostulate, “I don’t see why our schedules should be disturbed at the whim of some vigilante!”
Captain Edwin Frazier frowned. “I think you’re mistaken in your estimation of the Hooded Hunter, Dr. Loomis. He has worked with the government on a number of important cases. Why, just last summer he broke up a major Japanese sabotage-ring out on the West Coast. I’m sure the Hooded Hunter has an important reason for asking us to meet with him.”
“Thank you, Captain,” came a resonant voice.
“The Hooded Hunter!” several voices exclaimed at once.
The mystery avenger strode into the room, closing the door behind him. His steely gaze moved quickly from one person to the next. There were five people in the room. The Hooded Hunter had already studied files on each of them.
Dr. Clifton Loomis was the director of Experimental Research Associates, a stocky, middle-aged, balding man of somewhat temperamental nature. Dr. Stanley Andrews was younger, blonde, and slender; he served as Loomis’ assistant and project coordinator for the organization’s scientists and technicians.
The Hooded Hunter paused briefly as he considered a tall, black-haired man with a fixed, impassive face. This was Laurence Cranford—not a scientist himself, but the principal investor in Experimental Research Associates.
Finally, there were Captain Frazier, naval liaison to the firm, and his daughter, Allison, a trim, attractive, dark-haired woman who served as her father’s assistant.
“Please, sit down,” the Hooded Hunter said, gesturing to the long table that ran the length of the room. He took the seat at the head of the table. “I’ve asked you here to discuss what I believe is a grave threat to the American war effort. Recently, I received a message from John King—he’s one of our top agents in the European theater. King had learned that the Nazis have sent the Black Eagle to America.”
“The Black Eagle—who is that?” wondered Cranford.
“No one knows his true identity,” the hooded man replied. “He served with the Luftwaffe during the early part of the war, flying terror-bombing missions in Poland and France and Russia. But he is also one of the Third Reich’s leading spies. He’s operated throughout Europe and the Middle East. If he’s here in America now, it can only mean one thing—he’s come to damage our defense capability, through whatever means he can.
“After I received the message from King, I followed clues that led me here to Banner City. Last night, acting on a tip from an underworld informant, I went to a building near the waterfront. My informant said that a local gangster named Scar Manton was supposed to meet with the Black Eagle there. But the Black Eagle didn’t come in person—he talked to Manton and his men over a radio hook-up.”
“So you didn’t actually see the Black Eagle yourself?” asked Allison.
The Hooded Hunter shook his head. “No, but I’m fairly certain the Black Eagle was in the area. I was seen entering the building, and the Black Eagle warned Manton and his men.”
“That’s all very interesting, I’m sure,” remarked Dr. Loomis, “but what does it have to do with our organization here?”
“Your group is conducting important research for a number of military applications,” the Hooded Hunter said. “I have no doubt that the Black Eagle would like to get his hands on your latest discoveries and convey them back to Germany—or, at the very least, to prevent them from being used by the United Nations. Tell me, Dr. Loomis, what do you consider your most important project at this time?”
“Why—probably the Kingsley Torpedo. Dr. Benedict Kingsley is close to completing his first prototype.”
“And what is the significance of the Kingsley Torpedo?” demanded the Hooded Hunter.
Dr. Andrews leaned forward. “I can answer that. With the new chemical fuel that Dr. Kingsley has developed, the Kingsley Torpedo should operate at virtually triple the range of current torpedoes. Think what a vital advantage this could be for our submarines and warships, both in the Atlantic and the Pacific.”
“I’m also thinking what it could mean to the U-Boat war, if the Nazis gained this secret for themselves,” the Hooded Hunter said grimly. “Very well. Based on your information, I feel I should visit Dr. Kingsley and review his security procedures.”
“He’s not located in our central offices,” Dr. Andrews said. “Because of the nature of his research, his laboratory is on the waterfront.”
“I know where it is,” stated Allison Frazier. “I can drive you there, if you like.”
“Good,” the Hooded Hunter said, rising to his feet. “Let’s go there now.”
A few minutes later, in another part of the Experimental Research Associates offices, a man picked up a telephone receiver and dialed a number.
“Yeah?” came the answering voice.
“Do you know who this is?” the man said.
“Yes, sir!” came the response.
“Good. I have a job for you, Scar, but you will have to move fast. The Hooded Hunter just left here. He is planning to visit the laboratory of Dr. Kingsley. I had not planned to move against the Doctor this soon, but the Hooded Hunter has forced my hand. If you hurry, you can arrive there before the Hooded Hunter. Take some of your men to—”
Following Allison’s directions, the Hooded Hunter drove to the Southside waterfront district and parked his sedan in front of a building on Lorraine Street. He realized that he was only a few blocks away from Taylor Street, the site of the previous night’s activities. He and Allison got out of the car and walked up to the entranceway. A small metal plaque announced “Experimental Research Associates, Harbor Station”.
“That’s odd,” Allison said, when she saw that the door stood slightly ajar. “That door is supposed to be kept locked. You have to ring the bell, and the guard inside presses a button to open the lock.”
The Hooded Hunter’s hand slipped into the hip pocket of his jacket and withdrew his revolver. “Better go back to my car, Allison—use the radio set to contact the police. Tell them there’s been a possible break-in.”
He pushed the door open wide. There was a small reception area in front of him. A uniformed guard was sprawled across a desk, a trickle of blood running down the side of his face. The Hooded Hunter paused to check the man’s pulse, and found that the guard had just been knocked unconscious. Then he threw open the door that led to the laboratory area in the interior of the building. He found himself in a long, wide room, fitted up as a workshop, with a confusing array of mechanical and chemical fixtures on the various benches and tables. Windows in the far wall gave a view of the harbor.
‘The Hooded Hunter!” came a cry from the far end of the room.
There, three men were struggling with a white-coated figure, trying to force him out a door. One of the thugs was a tall, burly man with a long white scar running down one cheek. Scar Manton—hireling of the Black Eagle! Manton raised his revolver and crashed it down on the white-coated man’s head. “Get him to the car,” he snarled to one of his henchman. Then he turned and, pistol leveled, fired at the Hooded Hunter.
The crime-smashing avenger dodged behind a workbench, firing a shot of his own as he did so. His bullet caught Scar Manton’s other companion in the chest. The man dropped, coughing blood. Seeing that he was alone, Scar ducked out the back door, as another bullet from the Hooded Hunter slammed into the wall nearby.
The Hooded Hunter leapt to his feet and ran toward the door. He paused before stepping through the doorway, wary of ambush. Two slugs ripped into the doorjamb, sending splinters flying, as he started to peer around the comer!
The Hooded Hunter dropped to one knee, snapped off a shot through the doorway. No response—
He gathered himself for a mighty leap and sprang through the entrance, rolling quickly to the right when he touched the ground outside. Scar Manton, he saw, was running down an alleyway toward the dock area at the back of the building. The Hooded Hunter raced after him. He lined up a shot, but Manton was around the comer before he could fire.
The Hooded Hunter ran out onto the wharf and looked swiftly around him. Twenty yards to the left, Scar Manton was piling into a car. The Hooded Hunter sprinted toward it as he fired his final two shots, which slammed into the rear of the vehicle. Just as it started to pull away, the Hooded Hunter reached it, leaping up onto the rear bumper and holding on precariously by one hand to the knob on the luggage compartment. The car clattered down the wharf, then turned down an alley in the direction of Lorraine Street.
Through the rear window, the mystery-man could see Dr. Kingsley. The kidnapped scientist was slumped down in the back seat. Then Scar was turning around in the front seat, aiming his pistol, and firing! Two bullets shattered the glass of the rear window and narrowly missed the Hooded Hunter. He crouched low on the bumper. The chamber of his revolver was empty, and he was in no position to reload it.
The Hooded Hunter started to raise his head again and saw that Scar was stepping out onto the running board on the passenger-side. The gangster held his gun in his left hand now, using his right hand to grasp the window-post. No doubt he was trying to find a better angle from which he could shoot. When Scar saw his opponent, he snapped off a shot. A sudden flame of pain ripped along the Hooded Hunter’s right shoulder, and the crime fighter lost his grip and tumbled to the roadway.
The gangsters’ car sped away, taking with it Dr. Benedict Kingsley—now a prisoner of men who served the Black Eagle!
The Hooded Hunter hurried back down Lorraine Street to his own car, but by the time he reached it, he realized that Manton had far too great a lead. He brushed aside Allison’s questions—her eyes widened as she saw the blood seeping from the flesh wound in his shoulder—and turned on the radio. He could at least give the police a description of Manton’s car, although he had no real hope that the gangster would be caught before reaching a hideout.
“You can remove his blindfold now.”
The commanding voice came to Dr. Kingsley just moments before the cloth that had been tied around his eyes was ripped away. He gave a brief cry as the light flooded into his eyes. He was seated on a wooden chair, arms bound at his side. He blinked, staring about him at a small room with stone walls, unfurnished save for the chair he occupied. Two men stood to one side. One of them the scientist remembered, the husky man with the scar on his face—the man had led the ruffians who had broken into his laboratory. The second man he had not seen before. The third man—
He was a tall, ominous figure, clad entirely in black, a long black coat belted about his waist, black gloves upon his hands, and a black veil pulled down over his head. From behind that veil, two eyes stared at the captive scientist implacably.
“You may scream for help if you like, Dr. Kingsley,” the man in black said. “But it will do you no good. No one can hear you. No one can find you. You are completely at my mercy—at the mercy of the Third Reich!”
“No!” gasped the scientist
“I assure you, Doctor, it is quite true. And I am certain you know why we have brought you here—what we want from you.”
Dr. Kingsley remained silent, unable to speak, overwhelmed by the enormity of his situation.
“You will recreate for us the plans for the Kingsley Torpedo!”
“You—you can’t make me,” the scientist stammered, realizing, even as he spoke, what a foolish statement he was making.
The man in black laughed—cold and mocking laughter. “Before I am through, Doctor, you will beg me to let you serve the Reich! In any way that I choose!”
The Nazi spy-lord turned to his American confederates. “Scar, Pete—you may leave us now.”
“You sure you don’t need us to help?” asked Scar Manton.
Again, that chilling, taunting laughter. “To make him talk? Do you think I have learned nothing during this war? Just be sure to close the door as you leave.”
A minute later, as the two gangsters stood in the passage outside, the screaming began. Their callous expressions revealed their indifference to the agony being enacted just a few dozen feet from them.
Once again the Hooded Hunter had called for a meeting at Experimental Research Associates. Frazier, Loomis, Andrews, and Cranford were present, as was Allison. All looked grave.
“This is very serious—very serious indeed,” reflected Captain Frazier. “If the Nazis acquire the plans for the Kingsley Torpedo and arm their U-Boats with it, the war in the Atlantic could be lost—England starved into submission!”
“I agree, Captain,” the Hooded Hunter said. “After the Allied victories at Stalingrad and EI Alamein—the capture of Tunisia and the invasions of Sicily and Italy—it seemed the tide of war was turning in our favor. But if the Nazis are able to deploy the Kingsley Torpedo against the convoy routes. . . .” He did not need to complete the thought.
“I’ve spent the last three days searching for a lead to either the Black Eagle or to Scar Manton,” continued the Hooded Hunter. “I thought I might uncover a trail through the man I killed at the harbor office. The city police had a file on him—he was a gangster named Shell Gunnels. I tried tracking down his known associates, places of residence, but I had no success at all.”
“And in the meantime,” said the Captain, “I imagine the Black Eagle has been torturing poor Kingsley to wring every last bit of information from him.”
The mystery-man nodded. “I’m sure the Black Eagle has been interrogating Dr. Kingsley with. . .the customary Teutonic thoroughness.” He turned toward Dr. Loomis’ assistant, “Tell me, Dr. Andrews, who else has been working with Dr. Kingsley on the plans for the torpedo?”
“Well—he’s had a couple of men assisting him with the mechanical design. This incorporates some new features in gyroscopic control and stabilization. But the great innovation in the Kingsley Torpedo lies in the new chemical fuel that Dr. Kingsley has devised—and he is the only person who knows the formula!”
“What do you mean?” the Hooded Hunter demanded. “Surely there are samples of the fuel that can be analyzed, so its formula could be recreated.”
The blonde scientist shook his head. “No, Dr. ‘Kingsley only manufactured enough of the fuel for his tests, and destroyed any surplus afterward. He was very much afraid that the fuel formula might fall into the wrong hands before his work was completed, so he committed the formula to memory instead of writing it down.”
“Did he ever discuss anything with you—anything at all—that might give some clue to the composition of the formula?”
Dr. Andrews frowned in concentration. “I do remember that it included a chemical compound called Hydronite. Very rare, and very expensive. I had to counter-sign the invoice slips for our orders.”
A look of speculation came in the Hooded Hunter’s eyes. “If the Black Eagle gains the formula from Qr. Kingsley—and I think we must assume the worst in this case—I believe he will try to build and test a prototype of the torpedo here in America before returning to Germany. After all, he wouldn’t want to present the Kingsley Torpedo to his Nazi overlords until he was certain that it worked. The Nazis are notoriously intolerant of failure!”
“If that’s true. . . .” Dr. Andrews began.
“Then the Black Eagle will need Hydronite for his prototype,” the Hooded Hunter completed the sentence for him. “Can you give me a list of chemical warehouses that stock Hydronite?”
“That’s easy,” the scientist replied. “There’s only one warehouse that we need to consider. The Combined Chemical Company, located on MacRae Street, is the only business in the city that’s currently licensed to handle Hydronite.”
The Hooded Hunter stood up. “In that case, gentlemen, Miss Frazier. . .I have a visit to make.”
“Hello, Pete.”
“Yes, sir!” It was evident the man on the other end of the line recognized the caller’s voice.
“Did Scar leave for the chemical warehouse yet?”
“Yeah, a little while ago. He took Eddie and Quint with him.”
“Then leave Cole and Thorne there with Dr. Kingsley, and drive as fast as you can to catch up with Scar. Tell him he is heading for trouble. The Hooded Hunter knows about the Hydronite and has just left here for the warehouse!”
The Combined Chemical Company occupied a large, three-story building that covered most of the block on MacRae Street between Howes and Thompson. The Hooded Hunter parked his sedan across the street from the front entrance. He made a brief visual examination of the area, but saw nothing to arouse his suspicions. Then he strode across the street and entered the building.
“The Hooded Hunter!” gasped the pretty blonde receptionist, startled at the unexpected appearance of the famous avenger.
He gave her a brief, reassuring smile. “I understand your firm is the city’s only supplier for Hydronite,” he said.
“Why, yes, that’s true.”
“I know you have filled orders for Hydronite for Experimental Research Associates in the past. What I need to know is if any other company has placed an order for Hydronite in the last two days.”
“Here’s Mr. Lewis, our shift manager,” the girl told him. “I’m sure he can help you.”
A young, pleasant-faced man had emerged from an inner office to listen to the last part of the exchange. “I’m Norman Lewis. You are interested in Hydronite?” he asked.
“I’m interested in anyone else who is interested in Hydronite,” the Hooded Hunter told him.
“Well, we received an order for Hydronite today, from an organization called Adler Enterprises. A new customer.”
The Hooded Hunter’s expression was thoughtful as he considered that statement. “Have they already picked up the order?”
“No, they’ve just brought their truck around to the back. They’re loading it now.”
The Hooded Hunter gripped the man’s arm tightly. “Show me! This is urgent!”
The Hooded Hunter’s reputation was sufficient to the occasion. Young Lewis led him swiftly through several inner office suites, till they came to a large loading dock area. Two men in overalls were loading metal canisters the size of milk-pails into the back of a large, flatbed truck. Two other men in civilian clothes stood nearby, surveying the operation. One of them looked up as the Hooded Hunter appeared. He nudged his companion and muttered something.
The Hooded Hunter walked over to the two men. “Are you the representatives from Adler Enterprises?” he asked. The two men were dressed reputably enough, and it was possible they were legitimate business agents. But the Hooded Hunter was well aware that the German word for eagle was Adler. . . .
“That’s right.”
“I’d like to see some identification.”
“Say, what’s this all about?”
“Never mind,” snapped the Hooded Hunter. “Just show me your papers.”
“Well, okay,” and the first man fished into his jacket pocket for his billfold. He extended it toward the Hooded Hunter—and just as the latter reached for the wallet, the man dropped it and threw a punch at the Hooded Hunter’s jaw!
The crime fighter staggered back a step; and in a moment, both men were upon him, fists flailing. The Hooded Hunter struck out, a powerful right cross, and one of the men went hurtling backward. The remaining man aimed a vicious jab at the Hooded Hunter’s stomach, but the masked crusader turned his body and blocked the blow. Then he responded with a right uppercut that caught the man under the jaw and literally lifted him up off the floor.
As the man fell back to the ground, the Hooded Hunter took advantage of the momentary respite to draw his revolver. The two Combined employees had stopped their loading to watch the brief fight. Now the Hooded Hunter gestured toward them. “Get back inside,” he said. He turned to Lewis. “Better go with them and call the police. They’ll want to take these men into custody.”
“Right away, sir!” said Lewis, and he followed his men back into the building.
The two men from Adler Enterprises had slowly regained their feet and were eyeing the Hooded Hunter sullenly. He kept them covered with his revolver. “If you men are smart,” he told them, “you’ll tell me where I can find the Black Eagle. If you do, I’ll recommend that the authorities go easy with you.”
One of the men sneered. “We didn’t do anything wrong. We just bought a supply of chemicals. That’s not a crime.”
“It is when those chemicals are being taken to a Nazi spy!” the Hooded Hunter barked. “In this country, we put traitors in front of firing squads!”
The two men looked at each other nervously. But before they could say anything, a new actor entered the scene. Scar Manton had been sitting in the truck’s cab when the fight had started. During the commotion, he had slipped down to the parking lot and circled his way around to a position behind and to the left of the Hooded Hunter. Now, revolver leveled at the avenger’s back where he stood on the loading platform above, Manton called out, “That’s enough, Hunter. Drop that gun!”
Slowly, the Hooded Hunter turned his head to the left, just enough to bring Manton into his field of vision. He realized that Manton had the drop on him. Manton could blast him before he could begin to turn sufficiently to bring his gun arm into line. Reluctantly, the Hooded Hunter extended his hand and let his weapon fall to the floor.
Scar Manton’s two associates started toward the Hooded Hunter, their fists bunched. But Manton called to them. “Eddie, Quint, you birds back away.” With puzzled expressions, the two gangsters obeyed their leader’s orders and stepped back several paces.
An ugly grin spread across Manton’s face. He aimed down the barrel of his revolver and began to pull back on the hammer with his thumb.
“You’re through, Hunter!” he rasped.
Chapter Two: Mechanical Executioner
Tires screamed in protest as a light-colored roadster made a sharp turn from MacRae Street into Howes. In another moment, the speeding vehicle turned again, this time into the alleyway that ran parallel to MacRae. At the wheel of the car, Pete stared ahead toward the loading dock at the rear of the Combined Chemical Company. There was the truck—and there was Scar, standing in the parking lot and pointing up at someone on the dock.
Pete pressed down hard on the car’s horn, trying to attract Scar’s attention. He had to give Scar the message from the Black Eagle!
For one brief moment, Scar Manton looked away from the Hooded Hunter, jerking his head around when the automobile horn blared behind him. That was all the opportunity the Hooded Hunter needed. He bent low in one lithe motion and scooped up his revolver. He began to spin, preparing for a shot at Manton—when Eddie and Quint tackled him from behind! The crime fighter lost his grip on his pistol and went down beneath their combined weight.
Angry fists rained down on his head, but the Hooded Hunter ignored the pain. He struck a back-hand blow that sent Eddie reeling, then he pushed to his feet to grapple with Quint. The two men staggered back and forth across the loading dock, neither one able to gain an advantage. The Hooded Hunter saw that they had moved near the edge of the platform. With a quick twist, he pushed Quint to the edge and then shoved him over.
Manton, watching the fight, realized that Eddie and Quint would keep the Hooded Hunter distracted long enough for him to escape with the Hydronite. The loading had almost been completed before the masked avenger’s arrival. Manton supposed there was enough of the chemical compound on the truck to let the Black Eagle begin his experiments. He leapt back into the cab, started the engine, and pulled out from the loading dock.
Quint lurched to his feet just as the truck was starting to move away. He had no intention of being left behind to face the Hooded Hunter. He ran forward and jumped up on the running board on the passenger side. Meanwhile, Pete, seeing Scar take off in the truck, and finally realizing that one of the men on the loading dock was the Hooded Hunter, pressed down on the accelerator pedal and drove down the alley toward Thompson behind Manton.
On the loading dock, Eddie had shaken off the effects of the Hooded Hunter’s earlier blow. He reached into his jacket and started to pull out his pistol, but the crime fighter sprang upon him before he could complete the move. The two men struggled for the gun—there was a sudden crashing sound—and Eddie slumped to the ground, blood streaming from a wound in his chest. The Hooded Hunter cast a glance down the alley, but Manton’s truck had already disappeared from sight.
“But I have you, my friend,” he told the unconscious gangster. “And as soon as the doctors patch you up, I’ll make you talk!”
“Say, what are you so sore about?” Manton growled. “We got the Hydronite, just like you wanted. You can have Kingsley start building his prototype now.”
“Yes,” snarled the Black Eagle, “but you left Eddie behind. The Hooded Hunter called Experimental Research Associates to tell us that he had wounded Eddie and was taking Eddie to the hospital. He’s going to stand guard there until Eddie has been operated on, and then start to question him.”
“Ah, there’s nothing to worry about,” Manton said dismissively. “Eddie won’t talk.”
“I would not be so sure about that, Scar. The Hooded Hunter is a clever opponent. Given time, he might find a way to get the information he wants from Eddie. Information that could lead him straight here!”
“Well, so what do you want to do about it? You know the Hooded Hunter will arrange to have guards all over that hospital. It won’t be easy to get in there.”
A mirthless chuckle came from behind the Black Eagle’s veil. “I have a plan that should resolve our difficulty with Eddie, right under the nose of the meddling Hooded Hunter! Now here is what you must do. . . .”
Dr. Holcomb, chief of surgery at Municipal General Hospital, pulled off his gloves as he walked down the hallway. Behind him, two orderlies were pushing a gurney, on which lay the anaesthetized form of Eddie Durand. The orderlies conveyed the gurney to Room 654. A uniformed policeman and the Hooded Hunter stood at the door to the room.
Dr. Holcomb spoke to the Hooded Hunter as the hospital aides began to transfer Eddie from the gurney to the bed in the room. “Your man should recover. He lost lot of blood, but there was no serious internal injury.”
“When will he be able to talk?” demanded the Hooded Hunter.
Dr. Holcomb glanced at his watch.
“He’ll probably regain consciousness by mid-afternoon. You can talk to him then, for a short time. But I don’t want you to wear him out—he’s still weak from the effects of the operation.”
“I understand, Doctor. But the man has important information that could help us break open a Nazi spy-ring.”
The doctor nodded thoughtfully. “I take it that’s why there are all these policemen in the hospital.”
“Yes,” replied the crime fighter. “I’ll be staying right here at Durand’s door. At my request, the police have posted guards on each door or stairway leading to the sixth floor.”
“What about the window?” the Doctor wondered.
“There’s a policeman on the fire-escape landing there as well.”
“Well, I can see you have the situation well in hand. I’ll leave you now; but I’ll check back on my patient in a little while.”
The doctor strode off down the corridor. From the other direction, the Hooded Hunter heard a feminine voice calling his name. He turned; Allison Frazier smiled as she approached him.
“My father wanted me to come over and get a full report. You didn’t have time to tell us very much over the telephone.”
“Stay here, Rollins,” the Hooded Hunter ordered, and he and Allison stepped down the hall a little way, where they could talk without being overheard. The Hooded Hunter kept his head turned toward the door of Room 654, though; no one was going to enter that room without his authorization.
Quickly, the Hooded Hunter filled in the details of the encounter at the Combined Chemical Company.
“Then Scar Manton was able to get away with the order of Hydronite?” Allison said.
“That’s right. And that means the Black Eagle can start building his own prototype of the Kingsley Torpedo. But before he’s able to complete it, I hope to have Eddie talking.”
“Do you think you can persuade him?” asked Allison.
“I’ll certainly try. In the meantime, there’s another line of inquiry that we should pursue. I can’t leave the hospital, but. . . .”
“I’ll be glad to help,” Allison declared. “What do you have in mind?”
“The men who came to pick up the Hydronite said they worked for a firm called Adler Enterprises. I’m sure that’s a phony organization, but they had to present some kind of documentation to establish an account at Combined Chemical Company. I want you to go there and talk to Mr. Lewis, the shift manager. Have him check his records and find out anything he can about Adler Enterprises.”
“I’m supposed to meet Father for lunch and tell him the latest news from you. After that, I’ll go straight to the chemical firm!”
Scar Manton pulled back the curtain and pointed out the window. “Over there—on the sixth floor. Do you see the cop on the fire-escape?”
Joe Garver, a stocky, pasty-faced thug in a cheap black suit, nodded. “Yeah. Is that where they’ve got Eddie?”
“Yes, in Room 654. I already had Thorne check the area. Eddie’s out from his operation, but the Hooded Hunter and another cop are standing guard at the door.”
“So what are we going to do?” Garver wondered.
For answer, Scar Manton began to unwrap the long, tubular package he had carried with him to this apartment building overlooking the hospital. From within, he withdrew the barrel, scope, and stock of a rifle and began to assemble the components. Then he added a special silencing mechanism to the gun-barrel.
“You go to the hospital, Joe,” Manton instructed. “The Hooded Hunter hasn’t seen you yet, and anyway, you’re not likely to run into him. You take the elevator to the top floor, and then you find a stairway up to the roof. Once I see you on the roof, I’ll shoot the cop. You should have time to come down the fire-escape and go into Eddie’s room before anyone can raise an alarm. You know what to do then!”
“Yeah. What about him?” Joe flicked his eyes at the man slumped upon the carpet near the apartment door. Manton and Garver had scouted a location that would give them a field of fire on the policeman guarding the fire-escape and had settled on the Washburn Apartments. They had selected a room at random on the sixth floor and knocked at the door. When an elderly man answered the door, they had unceremoniously smashed him over the head with their pistol barrels.
“‘He’s out,” answered Manton. “He’s not going to hurt anyone. Now get going. Remember—as soon as I see you on the roof, I start shooting. So be ready to hurry down those stairs.”
“Got it!” The beefy gangster departed, and Manton settled himself by the window, sighting through the scope and preparing himself for his task. Peering down, he saw Garver leave by the side door of the Washburn and walk across to the hospital. Garver disappeared inside. Now Manton switched his attention to the roof, atop the eighth floor of the building. Five minutes passed, and then Manton saw Garver emerge from around a large air duct and make his way toward the fire escape.
Quickly Manton brought the rifle up and lined up his shot. The cop’s blue chest filled the center of the scope. . . .
Manton fired, three times. There was a muffled crump at each shot, and the unsuspecting policeman fell. Manton dropped the weapon and watched now as Garver hustled down the metal steps of the fire escape, then climbed over the windowsill into Eddie Durand’s hospital room. There was nothing further to do here; Manton disassembled his rifle and returned it to the circular tube. Then, with a sneer of derision at the unconscious man on the floor, the gang boss left the apartment.
Pistol in one hand, Joe Garver stepped into the hospital room. Eddie Durand lay upon the bed, his eyes closed, bandages swathed around his torso. Garver glanced at the door. He felt a stab of fear at the thought of the Hooded Hunter standing just a few feet on the other side. But not for long . . . Garver slipped his pistol back into his jacket pocket and withdrew a long knife instead. He crept over to Eddie’s bed. It was too bad about Eddie, but they couldn’t afford to have him talk, and they couldn’t take him out of there, either.
Clamping his free hand down upon the doomed man’s mouth, Garver brought up the knife and then plunged it down once—twice—three times! Then he looked at the door once more. The Hooded Hunter shouldn’t have heard anything. . .no, the door handle was not turning. Garver started to turn toward the window.
And the door swung open, and the Hooded Hunter came hurtling across the room to tackle Garver from behind. Garver twisted as he fell to the floor, tried to grab at the gun in his hip pocket. But the Hunter’s steely fingers closed over his wrist. The two men thrashed about on the floor, overturning one of the chairs; then Garver managed to push with his free hand and shove the Hooded Hunter back.
Garver leapt to his feet and dashed for the window. The Hooded Hunter was close behind him. Before Garver could step across to the fire-escape, the Hooded Hunter caught him from behind. Garver lost his balance and started to fall, pulling the crime fighter with him. Both men tumbled out onto the narrow fire escape landing.
Somehow they staggered to their feet; then Garver threw a blow at the hooded man’s face. The Hooded Hunter snapped his head aside, and countered with a terrific right uppercut. Garver reeled backward—and then, before his opponent could act to save him, he toppled over the railing, arms flailing wildly as he plunged six stories to the concrete of the street below!
The Hooded Hunter shook his head and turned to step back into the hospital room. Officer Rollins was inside, examining the form on the bed. He glanced at the avenger. “Dead,” he said, “stabbed through the heart.”
“Flynn’s dead too,” the Hooded Hunter said, referring to the officer who had been standing guard on the landing. “They shot him.”
Rollins frowned. “But we didn’t hear anything.”
“They probably used a silencing mechanism when they shot Flynn, then had their man slip into Durand’s room through the window.”
“What made you go in the room?” the patrolman asked.
“Just an instinct. I wanted to see that nothing was wrong.”
“Well, I better call Captain MacLaglen.”
“Tell him I’ll talk with him later,” the Hooded Hunter instructed. “‘There’s something I need to check on now.”
Norman Lewis flipped through the papers on his desk. “Yes, here it is, Miss Frazier.” He extracted a folder and opened it. “The Adler Enterprises account. An attorney named Royal, Henry Royal, provided the documentation to establish the account Of course, we assumed these papers were genuine.”
“May I?” Allison asked, reaching for the file. She scanned over the papers. “You haven’t dealt with this Henry Royal before?”
“Not that I can recall,” said Lewis. “I’m fairly certain that we haven’t.”
“May I borrow these for the time being? I’ll want to show them to the Hooded Hunter.”
“Certainly, Miss Frazier.”
“It indicates here that Royal has an office on Osborne Street. He should still be at his office. I think I’ll go there now. Thank you for your help, Mr. Lewis,” the pretty brunette said, rising.
Lewis stood also. “My pleasure, Miss Frazier. Please let us know if we can be of any further assistance.”
Allison returned to her coupe and drove across town to the Osborne Street address. Royal’s office, she discovered, was located in a three-story building in the northern suburbs. There was no elevator; she walked up the two flights of steps. At the door marked “Henry Royal, Attorney at Law”, she paused. Although it was possible that Royal had been duped into providing the paperwork for the Adler organization, it was equally possible that the man was an agent of the Black Eagle. Allison realized that she might be heading into a situation of some danger.
She opened her purse and withdrew a small, snub-nosed automatic pistol, one she had been carrying since she had begun her duties as her father’s assistant. She slipped the gun into the pocket at the waist of her jacket, where it fit snugly. She could reach the weapon quickly if she needed to.
Allison brushed her hair back with one hand and then entered the office. There was a receptionist’s desk, but no one was sitting there. A partially open doorway revealed an inner office. Allison stepped to the door and called out, “Mr. Royal?”
The door swung all the way open. A darkly handsome man of about forty, with combed-back black hair and a black mustache, eyed Allison intently.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Your receptionist appears to be out of the office.”
“She’s taken the afternoon off. In fact, I’m about to leave the office myself. Is this something that can wait till tomorrow?”
Allison shook her head firmly. “No, Mr. Royal, I’m afraid it can’t. I’m an investigator working with Experimental Research Associates, and I need to ask you some questions.”
The attorney deliberated for a moment, and then, with obvious reluctance, motioned Allison to take a seat in front of his desk. He sat down on the other side. “Now then, Miss—?”
“Frazier. Allison Frazier. Mr. Royal, I have papers here showing that you represent an organization called Adler Enterprises. You opened an account on their behalf with the Combined Chemical Company.”
“That’s true,” Royal agreed.
“What do you know about the people at Adler Enterprises?”
The attorney frowned. “As I’m sure you must be aware, Miss Frazier, any information of that nature is confidential. I cannot, in good conscience, violate the trust of my client”
“Even when your client is a Nazi spy?” Allison demanded. She was watching him carefully to see what reaction he would make to her statement. She kept her right hand in her lap, close to the pocket in her jacket.
“Are you serious?” he asked, after a few moments of silence. Whatever he was thinking, his features gave nothing away. “Do you have any proof for your accusation?”
“One of the men who showed up at Combined Chemical this morning to pick up an order for Adler Enterprises was a gangster called Scar Manton. Our investigation has already established that he’s working directly for a Nazi spy-ring.”
“I see. Hmm. . .I’ve heard of Manton before. He’s supposed to be a pretty rough sort. But why would he throw in with the Nazis?”
Allison shrugged. “For money, I suppose. His type never cares where it comes from. Now, Mr. Royal—considering the importance of the case, are you willing to share your information with me?”
The attorney deliberated. “I suppose I must,” he said at length, “if what you’ve told me is true. I have some papers in my cabinet that you may want to look at, including the names and addresses for the directors of Adler Enterprises.”
He stood and walked around his desk to a large metal filing cabinet. He pulled a small key from his vest pocket, unlocked the cabinet; and pulled out the top drawer. His back was to Allison as he reached inside.
And when he turned around, there was a large automatic pistol in his hand.
“I won’t hesitate to shoot you if I have to,” the attorney said, in a calm, matter-of-fact way that was somehow more chilling than an exaggerated threat might have been. “So please don’t cry out, and put your hands behind your head.”
“So! You are working for the Black Eagle.”
Henry Royal smiled faintly. “As you said, Miss Allison—my type never cares where the money comes from. And the Black Eagle pays very well, indeed. Now, I want you to stand up and turn slowly to your right. You see the door in the sidewall? Please walk toward it. You may open it when you reach it”
Allison obeyed his instructions. She had been fairly caught, and for the moment, she dared not reach for the gun in her pocket. But if Royal should let his attention wander for just the slightest fraction...
She walked toward the door, turned the knob, and pushed it open. The room on the far side was evidently a storeroom of some kind; there were numerous boxes piled up, and shelves laden with old law-books and dossiers.
“Please go in,” Royal said, prodding her gently in the back with the barrel of his automatic. “Now go over there, by the wall, and sit down in that chair.
Allison sat down in an old, straight-back chair. She continued to keep her hands behind her head. “And now,” he said, stepping close to her, “I could tie you up, but this will be simpler.”
And he brought the barrel of his automatic down upon the crown of her head, and she slumped into unconsciousness.
“Stupid woman,” he muttered, as he slipped his pistol into his pocket. He opened the lid of one of the cardboard containers and withdrew a large, square apparatus, a box-like device with a control dial on the top surface. The dial was marked off in increments of one, counting from ten back to one. The increment marked “one” was indicated in red, and the words “Firing Zone” appeared next to it.
Royal turned the dial until it rested on the ten increment. Then he flipped a switch next to the dial. Immediately, a pronounced clicking sound began. The attorney placed the box on the floor—directly in front of Allison Frazier!
He returned to his office, and closed and locked the door behind him. The door could only be opened from this side.
The Frazier woman had exactly ten minutes of life left to her! Swiftly, he gathered his remaining papers and placed them in a large briefcase. All set, he thought. But before departing, he paused long enough to place a telephone call.
“Royal here,” he said, when the voice at the other end answered. “Yes, everything’s set. The bomb will go off, taking with it any trace of Henry Royal or his secrets. Something else, though—the Frazier woman showed up. She’d tracked me down using the paperwork I had to file with the chemical outfit. No, don’t worry. I knocked her out. She’s taking a beauty nap next to the bomb right now. Too bad she won’t live long enough to wake up again!”
Royal said “Yes” in response to some final comment from the other end, and then hung up the receiver. He cast a final look around his office, then walked through the receptionist’s area and closed the door behind him.
“Royal just called,” spoke the Black Eagle. “It appears that we are making a trade with the Hooded Hunter.”
Scar Manton sat bolt upright at that statement. The man in black chuckled briefly at the gangster’s response. “I mean a trade in lives. The Hooded Hunter managed to kill Garver at the hospital.”
Manton didn’t need reminding. He’d been waiting in the car, watching the fire escape for Garver to come back out of Eddie’s room and start his descent. And instead, he’d seen Garver, pursued by the Hooded Hunter, and then—Garver’s long drop to death.
“But Royal had an unexpected visitor. No, not the Hunter. Miss Frazier, from Experimental Research Associates. As I expected when we were exposed at the chemical warehouse, our adversaries managed to follow the paper trail to Royal. Not that it will do them any good in this case.”
“What do you mean?” Manton asked.
“Royal captured the Frazier woman and knocked her out. He left her behind in his office. . .with the bomb.”
Manton grinned at that bit of news. “Say, that’s swell. That’ll shake up the Hooded Hunter and his gang. But what about Royal? You’re asking him to give up an awful lot, leaving his practice and skipping the country.”
The Black Eagle sat behind a massive desk and toyed idly with a large gold-inlaid crystal paperweight. “This was not Royal’s first assignment. He has been working for us for many years now. Before the war, he provided legal services to many of our Bund agents, and handled accounts for them. I knew there was some risk of his being exposed in this matter, but we had to have access to the Hydronite. Do not worry about Mr. Royal. The Third Reich rewards its servants well. Royal will soon be on an airplane, bound ultimately for South America, where he will start a new, and very comfortable, life.”
“How’s Kingsley coming along with his prototype?” the gang boss wanted to know.
“We are still assembling materials for him. Fortunately, other than the Hydronite, our remaining purchases should arouse no suspicion. He was very close to completing his design when he became our guest. With suitable persuasion, I feel he can produce a working prototype for us within a matter of days. And then, there is the matter of a test. . . .”
As he passed through the hospital lobby, the Hooded Hunter paused at the front desk and asked to use a telephone. He dialed a number, and in a few moments, a familiar female voice answered, “Combined Chemical Company. This is Gloria.”
“Hello, Gloria. This is the Hooded Hunter.”
“The Hooded Hunter!”
“Yes, you remember that we met this morning. May I speak to Mr. Lewis?”
“Certainly, sir! I’ll connect you at once!”
The voice of Norman. Lewis came on the line. “Hello, how may I help you?”
“I believe that Allison Frazier was going to visit you earlier today.”
“Yes, I’ve already talked to her.”
“Were you able to give her any useful information?” the Hooded Hunter asked.
“I think so. I found the name and address of the man who filed the papers for Adler Enterprises with us. An attorney named Henry Royal. He has an office out on Osborne Street I believe she was planning to visit him next. Would you like the address?”
“Please.” The hooded avenger listened carefully to the address given him by Lewis and then hung up. He emerged from the hospital and crossed the street where his sedan was parked. Several passers-by noticed the distinctive black hood and stopped to stare, but the crime fighter paid them no attention. He started his car and drove north, headed for Osborne Street.
In the storeroom at Henry Royal’s office, the indicator on the dial was sweeping slowly clockwise. One minute—two minutes—three minutes—four minutes—five minutes.
Five minutes more till a terrible flaming death enveloped lovely Allison Frazier!
Chapter Three: Cathedral of Carnage
The Hooded Hunter spotted Allison’s coupe and parked his sedan behind it. Evidently she was still inside talking to Henry Royal. The crime fighter entered the building lobby, noted the room number on the directory. There was no elevator, he saw, so he climbed the stairs to the third floor. He reached out a gloved hand to turn the doorknob on the outer door at Royal’s office, and found, to his surprise, that the door was locked. But it was much too early for the office to be closed, and Allison’s car was still outside.
The Hooded Hunter rapped at the door, but received no response. Something in this situation was not right.
He stepped back, then kicked out with one powerful leg, trying to force the lock open. Again, and again—and the door ripped open. The Hooded Hunter rushed into the room beyond the door. A lobby area—vacant. He crossed the room and went through the door on the far side. This was plainly attorney Royal’s office, but it was empty too.
He noted the door in the side wall. It was locked, but the release was on this side. The Hooded Hunter swung the door open. Inside was what appeared to be a storeroom.
He saw Allison Frazier, slumped in a chair. There was a large box-like object on the floor next to her. The Hooded Hunter bent to inspect this. He saw a dial approaching a red-shaded band marked “Firing Zone.”