The Red Finger Pulp Mystery Megapack: 12 Tales of the Masked Hero

by Arthur Leo Zagat

  He knew her only as “Flower.” Drawing the rose on the desk, he wondered where she was. Whether she was still alive. She might lie in a nameless grave, for all he knew, and his heart with her.

  But he did not forget to watch the street through the aperture in the window. He did not forget that his identity and his lair might somehow have been discovered. There was a price on his head in the chancelleries of half the world. There were those who needed no price to make them thirst for his blood. Now, even now, death might be stalking him.

  A footfall thudded on the sidewalk. A tall, cadaverous man came into view. He had a white envelope in his hand, and every once in a while he would look up at the numbers on the store doors, scrutinizing them. Ford Duane watched him.

  The man reached the front of Duane’s bookstore. His waxed mustache twitched. He turned. He was coming in.

  The glass-panelled door opened, closed again. “Señor Ford Duane?” Alcido Tiano inquired, bowing.

  “I am Duane,” Ford rose. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “Sometimes known as ‘Pat’?”

  “Yes.” There was no surprise in Duane’s reply, no change in his expression. But a pulse throbbed in his wrists. Pat! The three letters, P-A-T, were a signal to him that he was again being called to sit in on the Game. In many and various ways that signal had reached him, and always after that men had died. Perhaps, this time, it would be his turn to die. “Yes. I am called that by one or two close friends.”

  “Ah. Zen zis lettair ees for you.” The Mexican slid it onto the desk. “Perhaps zere ees an answair. Eef you don’t mind I weel look at your so manee books.” He was infinitely suave, infinitely courteous. “I haf ze passion for ol’ books.”

  “Of course.” Duane watched Tiano move away, far back into the shelf-cast shadows, heels clicking on the floor. Then he picked up the envelope, opened it.

  “Pat dear: The boss—You understand, don’t you? Flower!”

  Little muscles ridged Duane’s blunt jaw. Her hand had written this note! But what did it mean? There was no indication of what code she had used. It was too short for any code…

  “Zis first edeetion of Butler’s Hudibras!” the messenger’s excited exclamation came from the gloomy depths of the store. “Weel you come here please, Señor Duane? I weesh to ask you…”

  Of course! The real message was verbal. Flower’s note was only an introduction, a warning that the bearer was to be trusted. The man wanted Duane to come away from the front of the store, to where there would be no possibility of their colloquy being observed by some chance entrant.

  “Right with you, sir.” Duane thrust the letter into the breast pocket of his alpaca coat, where it rustled against the dried petals of a rose whose faint fragrance had reminded him for weeks that once it had been a token from the Flower that she had escaped a lethal trap. He padded back between the high bookstacks, rounded the end of one of them to whence Tiano’s voice had sounded.

  He wasn’t there. No one… A shadow moved on the floor…!

  Duane whirled, his muscles exploding into instantaneous action. A lithe figure leaped at him from the covert to which it had moved, knife-metal glinting in a down-flailing arc. Duane ducked, lightning-swift, under the murder-blade. The outflick of his fists was a rapier thrust, pounding one-two into the assassin’s belly. Then his fingers, steel strong, were clenched on Tiano’s knife-wrist and his free hand was darting under the lapel of his gray jacket.

  “Sacré!” the Mexican hissed. “You are too smart.” His features contorted, a gargoyle-writhing mask of malevolence. “Bot how do you like—thees.” His other hand lashed out, stabbing another knife at Duane’s breast. So close he was that it could not miss…

  A jet of thin vapor spewed from under Ford’s coat, into Tiano’s face. And the killer was suddenly nerveless, limp—the knife clattering from his fingers, his thin body slumping after it—collapsing like a gutted meal sack.

  Ford Duane stood above his victim, swaying. Once again unremitting watchfulness, split-second coordination of senses and brain and muscles, utter preparedness for any eventuality, had saved him. But he knew the adventure was not ended. It had only begun. There was no doubt that the Flower had written that note. The signature itself was known only to the two of them. The very fact that the killer had brought it told him that she was in dire danger.

  Or that she was beyond all help.

  The American’s countenance was a grim false face, his eyes two glowing, terrible orbs. Her message was concealed in the apparently meaningless words, then. What was it? He did not have to take it out of his pocket. Every character was burned into his brain.

  “…I can’t get away.” She was a prisoner, somewhere. Possibly in the office on whose letterhead the letter was typed—“the boss” indicated that. “I’ll see you—if I can.” She knew herself to be in deadly peril. “…How the game comes out.”

  “The game”—there was only one Game to the two of them, the game they played against death and the secret armies of their country’s secret enemies. “…You never played for such high stakes…”

  Such—high—stakes. The stakes of their Game were always the safety of America. If he had never before played for such high stakes…

  He must find her—at once. Time later to decide what to do about the assassin he had vanquished. Duane dropped to one knee. There was strong cord in his pocket. Lashed about the man’s wrists, his ankles, it should keep him safe…

  * * * *

  A desk-clock ticked loudly in the stillness. The girl who called herself Jane West sat slumped in a chair, her wide, staring eyes fixed on the dial of that clock, and on the telephone next to it. Ho Chien sat bolt upright in another chair, a window behind him framing his exotic figure, his peculiarly round head. His hands played idly with a pearl-handled revolver on the desktop, but his blue-nailed forefinger was never far from its trigger.

  Jane knew that the instant she tried to move out of her chair a bullet would thud into her quivering flesh.

  “You were very clever, my girl.” Ho Chien said chattily. “I never would have thought of looking into the box you had standing against the partition, where you kept that hat of yours so it wouldn’t get dusty. Smart to have the microphone and amplifier in its false bottom, picking up the vibration of voices from in here. But it’s all over now.”

  No use for deception any longer. “Maybe it isn’t all over yet,” Jane said quietly.

  “Your friend Tiano hasn’t returned, and it is three minutes to seven already.”

  The man smiled, without humor. “That will not make any difference. If Tiano is not back when Manuon calls, I will tell him to play the Mañana Rumba. And after that—you will pay for deceiving me—as many other of your female compatriots will pay, tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.”

  There was terrible significance in the way his lips curled back from his pointed teeth. It told Jane what lay in store for the women of her country if ever that lilting melody was broadcast. The pulsing strains to which they had so often danced would be a signal of despair for them.

  The clock ticked, ticked, each separate tick a hammer blow of agony on her soul. Duane had not received her note. No—Tiano had taken it to him—and had killed him. That was why the Mexican was not back. He had been caught, arrested. But the dreadful deed was done. Otherwise Duane would be here…

  Tick. Tick. Tick. Two minutes more. Oh God! Two minutes to seven. Two minutes to—Hell.

  Tiano wasn’t back yet. Maybe Ho Chien was lying. Maybe Manuon would not take orders from him.

  “I arranged for Tito Manuon’s time on the broadcast,” the spymaster answered her unspoken thought. “He will do whatever I say.”

  No hope. No hope anywhere. The fate of a nation, of America, trembled in the balance. And there was nothing she could do. Nothing anyone could do, now
.

  Jane West could not know it, but five stories below a frantic man rattled the knob of a door that was closed and locked, a man who had been led to the address by the letterhead on Jane’s note. Inside that door a Negro boy and a grizzled watchman lay on the lobby floor, their throats slit from ear to ear. Alcido Tiano did not believe in taking any chances…

  Tick. Tick. Tick. The longer hand of the desk dock moved, imperceptibly, indomitably, toward the end of the hour. To the end of America’s last hour of freedom. In cactus thickets swarthy men crouched, muffling the clank of their rifles, nursing their machine guns. Far out on the Pacific great gray vessels rose and fell on a heaving tide, and stocky, saffron-visaged pilots warmed up the motors of great bombing planes. In a thousand cellars in a thousand cities, other men waited, waited—for seven o’clock and the palpitant, throbbing strains of the Mañana Rumba…

  * * * *

  And in a fifth floor New York office—the only lighted office in the building—a tawny-haired girl watched a clock’s minute hand move, her dilated eyes measuring the distance between herself and the telephone that stood next to the dock. If she moved swiftly enough, she wondered, when the telephone bell started to ring, would her momentum carry her across that space, as bullets pounded into her? Would there be life enough left in her when she got across it to smash the instrument to the floor, to smash it so that it could not be used? Even if she did, would Manuon give the signal anyway?

  Tick. She could only try. Tick. It was the only chance left and if it did not come off she would be dead anyway. Tick. She would want to be dead. Tick. Thirty seconds more. Her muscles gathered for the desperate effort, her eyes clouding to veil her intention. Tick…

  Glass smashed in, from the window! A swirl of black draperies showed in the jagged aperture for an instant. Ho Chien twisted…

  An appalling figure leaped into the room from the fire escape, led to the room by the lighted window. Tall, black-swathed, black-masked. Felt hat pulled low down. Black-gloved hand outthrust, a curiously thick-barreled pistol snouting from it. The finger curled about that trigger startlingly, awesomely red; the red of spurting blood.

  It was the sight of that finger that paralyzed Ho Chien for an all-important instant. Long enough for Jane to leap from her chair and knock the pearl-handled revolver out of his reach. Then a name spewed from his suddenly pallid lips.

  “Red Finger!”

  A word of terror, that name, in the subterranean world where the endless war is fought. Ace of counter-spies, the bravest of America’s secret enemies trembled at the very thought of Red Finger. Many had died at his hands, many had limped home to tell of failure at the moment of success. But he wore no medals. He was on no Roll of Honor…and never would be!

  “Yes, I am Red Finger. Your hands up, Ho Chien. Way up…”

  Jane didn’t hear the rest. She heard only the shrill clamor of the telephone. She twisted, reaching for the cradled instrument.…

  A shot barked. A red hot slug pounded into her shoulder, slammed her across the desk.

  “I weel take zat call,” a voice said, and there were shots again, loud and thunderous in the small room. Tiano was flinging into it, his gun spewing orange-red flame at Red Finger, at Jane. Ho Chien was on the floor, wet, pungent mist from the thick-barrelled pistol following him down, but the American counter-spy was disarmed, his curious weapon shot from his hand. He was darting about the room, dodging Tiano’s flaming bullets. The telephone clamored. Lethal lead plucked at Red Finger’s black cloak.

  The Mexican reached the desk, reached for the receiver. Jane, rolling in her agony, sank sharp, fierce teeth in his wrist. He cursed, struck at her with his gun-barrel. The sight slashed her cheek.

  Red Finger leaped, a great black bat swooping through midair, spattering blood-drops as it flew. He came down on Tiano’s shoulders. The two pounded to the floor. Jane plucked the telephone receiver from its cradle.

  “Hello.” There was none of her pain, her agony, in her voice. “Hello, Manuon.”

  “Who ees zis?” the receiver squeaked in her ear. “I want to talk to…”

  “Señor Tiano? He is unable to answer you, Señor Manuon. He is very busy. But he wants me to tell you not to play the Mañana Rumba. Something has happened at the last moment to change his plans.”

  The hard rubber cylinder slipped from her strengthless fingers. Dizzying dark pulsed about her…

  Red Finger pushed himself up from the floor. His black cloak was clotted, viscid, gashed in countless places. He swayed, looking down at the writhing figure at his feet.

  “I thought,” he choked, “I left you safely tied up.”

  A snarling smile twisted Alcido Tiano’s face. “You forget eet ees Tiano wiz whom you deal. Zere ees no rope made zat weel hol’ ze great Tiano. Especially eef eet ees in a place where zere are sharp edges on all ze feet of ze book shelves, place’ zere by a man who expec’s sometime to be tied up in hees own store.”

  “I would have remembered that,” Red Finger’s voice sounded as if he was laughing, with pain threading his laughter, “if I hadn’t been thinking about a flower.” He stopped. There was no use talking to a dead man, a man whose spine had been snapped by a trick of jiu-jitsu learned long ago.

  * * * *

  Many messages throbbed out over the Americo-Oriental’s telephone that night. There were thousands of quiet arrests, all over the country, thousands of prisoners in Federal jails the next morning. A gray fleet steamed home, baffled. Disappointed bands of marauders skulked across cactus prickled deserts, cached their weapons against a revolution that sooner or later would be sure to come…

  But before those messages started, before Jane West got out her lists of addresses and her files of letters, there was a very human moment in the dusty fifth floor office where one man lay dead and another unconscious. A moment in which soft words were whispered that had nothing to do with the Game. A moment in which lips met in a caress older, by many centuries, than the endless war.

  ENVOY OF DOOM

  Ford Duane, tall and lank and wearily stooped, slowly threaded a shadowy labyrinth of tall bookstacks. Outside, the hush of dusk, gray with quiet melancholy, brooded between the drab facades of the ancient loft buildings that line the Fourth Avenue block so completely given over to the sale of dog-eared, tattered volumes it is known as the Port of Missing Books.

  Elsewhere New York was astir with the bustle of home-seeking thousands, was alive with the roar of traffic, the chatter of many voices, the tramp of many footfalls. Here the wide-flung turmoil was muted to a dull, rumbling growl that disturbed not at all the street’s dusty drowse.

  Here the threat of Death brooded. Within this somnolent shop peril lurked tigress-like; a gray, indomitable shadow waiting for the inevitable instant when momentarily its quarry’s guard must relax. It would leap then, a gray flash, and strike steel claws into Ford Duane’s flesh, sink tearing fangs into his throat.

  Duane came to the pamphlet-hung door of the store, reached a slow hand to the switch that would light the single cluttered display window. The street lamps blinked on, abruptly necklacing the quiet block with high-hung, bright topazes…

  A lilting whistle sprayed the hush with the first notes of ‘Pennies from Heaven’. Shuffling footfalls were startingly loud, coming along the sidewalk.

  Duane’s fingers hesitated for an eyeblink of time, then clicked over the switch tumbler. The dingy luminance from his window streamed across the pavement. The bookseller had tensed, almost imperceptibly.

  His lids drooped a bit more, as if the better to hide the sudden keen stab of blue eyes beneath them. A shadow blotted the cracked concrete and then the whistler came into the frame of the doorway.

  He was a boy, a gamin of the gutters shabbily clothed, his freckles almost hidden by grime, his hatless hair unkempt and startlingly red. Duane knew at once, t
hough he seemed not to see him at all, that the youngster’s shoes were broken, that his frayed knickers had been clumsily patched at the knees, and that there was a rather awkwardly wrapped small package in one dirty hand.

  The alpaca-smocked shopkeeper relaxed. Nothing to worry about… The boy turned and slouched toward him past a trestled box with the sign—

  YOUR CHOICE—15¢

  2 for 25.

  “Dis Duane’s bookstore?” he asked. “Yuh Mr. Duane?”

  “Yes, son.”

  “A guy over on Toid Av’noo gimme dis package ter bring yuh.” The lad made no move to hand it to Duane. “He said he found it w’ere he woiks in de Brighton cafeteria and yuh must uh lost it dere when yuh came in for a cup uh coffee this afternoon. He said ter say Pat found it and decided he’d better send it.”

  “Pat? Oh, yes. The bus-boy!” Duane had not left his store that day. He knew no one in the Brighton Cafeteria named Pat. “I’ll have to give him a tip next time I see him.” But the letters composing that name—P-A-T—had a startling meaning to him. “And here’s a quarter for you.” As the initials of the title of a book offered for sale, as the first letters of a peddler’s cry, in many other forms, they had presaged the delivery of a message to Ford Duane, had each time presaged a bout with danger, with death.

  Hitherto it had been the death of others those letters had prefaced. This time it might mean his own.

  He fished in his pocket, exchanged a worn silver disk for the string-tied bundle. “T’anks, mister,” the youngster grunted, and darted away, his whistle jubilant.