by E. J. Blaine
“We’re just wrapping up here. What’s going on?”
“He heard AEGIS has investigators on the case so he gave me a call,” said Edison. “He says he’s the poisoners’ next target.”
Chapter 3
The Ponderby estate wasn’t so different from the Cobb estate, Jack thought. It was just a little farther out on Long Island and a little farther back from the road. At first glance the grounds looked like forest, but Jack soon realized the place had been carefully designed by a landscape architect to give the illusion of wilderness. It was art whose whole purpose was to conceal itself.
The house looked like a castle set in a clearing. It was gray stone with peaked roofs and intricate leaded windows. The lawn around it was perfectly manicured, rolling gently past scattered topiaries until it blended into the landscaped wilderness.
“Quite a place,” said Doc, looking up at the gargoyles on the roof. “Maybe one day we’ll have a place like this,” she added with a grin.
“Oh don’t talk like that,” said Jack. “We’ve got plenty of good years left.”
Doc laughed and slapped his arm affectionately. “It’s not a tomb, Jack.”
“If you say so,” said Jack.
Ponderby’s butler answered the door and led them through cavernous halls to a pair of closed doors. He rapped, and a thin, reedy voice came from inside.
“Who is it?”
“Captain McGraw and Doctor Starr, sir,” the butler called out. “Mr. Edison sent them, as you requested.”
“Did he? Did he just? So you know Edison then? Know him well?”
“I think so,” Jack shouted back.
“Well, then. If you know Tom Edison, tell me about his tattoo!”
Jack looked to Doc and mouthed, “tattoo?” Doc sighed and nodded.
“Five dots,” she called back. “Four in a square with the fifth in the center, like a die. On his right forearm.”
Jack looked at her in amazement. Doc just shook her head in exasperation. “Long story.”
“Where’d he get it done, then?” came the voice.
“Did it himself,” Doc shouted back. “Experimenting with his electric pen.”
Jack heard the door latch click. “You can let them in, Phipps.”
The doors opened into a library lined with floor to ceiling bookshelves. At the far end French doors looked out onto the back yard. A large desk sat near the doors, and various chairs and smaller writing desks were scattered around. Jack liked the room. It looked comfortable, lived in.
J. Elling Ponderby stood near the bookshelves, pretending to read from a book he’d taken down. He turned as if just noticing them. As if none of that strange exchange through the library doors had taken place.
“Ah, you must be Captain McGraw and Doctor Starr,” Ponderby said, returning the book to the shelf. “So good of you to come. Welcome.”
Ponderby was in his 60s, Jack thought. A reed thin man with sparse, gray hair. He moved with a delicate grace, and though Jack was hardly one to keep up with fashion, he recognized that Ponderby’s suit was well out of date.
“Most charmed, Doctor, most charmed,” Ponderby said, taking Doc’s hand in his and performing a slight bow before releasing it.
“Mr. Edison said you’re in danger, sir,” Jack said. “What can we do to help?”
“I didn’t realize there were others at first,” Ponderby answered. “When Carter died, I wondered. And when they got Wolcott in Pittsburgh, then I knew. But what could I do? The police are useless. Couldn’t find a lost hat. But when I heard Edison had his people on the case. Well...”
“Maybe if you started at the beginning, Mr. Ponderby,” Doc said gently.
“Yes, yes, of course.” Ponderby paced around the room as he spoke.
“I received a letter nearly a month ago. Unsigned. But full of dire warnings of a horrible, agonizing death if I didn’t do as it said. They claimed they had created a terrible poison. Colorless, flavorless, undetectable by any chemical test. More deadly than anything heretofore known. Terrible agony and certain death if I didn’t meet their demands.”
“What did they want you to do?” Jack asked
“They wanted to dictate the management of my company!” said Ponderby. “They knew all about certain research projects that I’d thought were secret. Still need to work out how they’re getting their information from inside my company. But they said if I didn’t abandon those projects and destroy all the associated research, I’d be murdered.”
“And did you do what they said?”
Ponderby looked shocked. “Heavens, no! Let those scoundrels tell me how to run my company? Where would I be? Where would it stop?”
“Then they didn’t follow through on their threat?” said Doc.
Ponderby snickered. “Oh, I don’t doubt their intentions, my dear, but I’m too clever for them! All sorts of things can go wrong in this world. Fires, earthquakes, civil disturbance. All sorts of trouble. A wise man’s always prepared.”
He grinned at them, then dashed to the bookshelves and pulled out a particular volume. There was a grinding noise, and a whole section of books slid backwards and out of the way.
“Look,” said Ponderby. “Look how I fooled them!”
The hidden door revealed a bare-walled chamber stacked high with crates. “My emergency cache,” said Ponderby. “Preserved food and clean water from a spring in the Catskills. Enough to sustain me for months. I’ve been living off these supplies since the letter came. Nothing else has passed my lips. There’s no other food in the house now. The staff eat elsewhere. They’re under orders to let nobody in. Ha! Let them try and poison me.”
Jack decided Ponderby was about half crazy. But he had to admit he was clever too.
“But that won’t last forever,” said Doc. “We have to stop them.”
“Indeed,” said Ponderby. “I was relieved to hear Edison had someone on this. Tell me what you know about this business.”
“Not much, I’m afraid, sir,” Jack said. “Mr. Edison brought us in last night. We went to the Cobb estate.”
“Poor Eamon,” said Ponderby. “You’ve seen the body then?”
“We have,” said Doc. “They’re not bluffing. Whatever killed Mr. Cobb…it wasn’t pleasant.”
“We didn’t have a chance to learn much more,” Jack added. “The government has agents on the case. They seem to think it was socialist agitators.”
“Bah,” Ponderby sniffed. “Bureau of Investigation. I have a letter from them somewhere. No better than the police.”
Suddenly Jack heard the thundering report of a shotgun. The French doors exploded inward and showered the room with glass. Jack ducked and drew his .45 automatic. He glanced over and saw Doc diving for the floor, unhurt.
Ponderby stood in the middle of the room with a surprised look on his face.
“Are you hit?” Jack shouted.
“No, I don’t think so,” said Ponderby softly. “Just a nick from the glass perhaps? Oh…oh my.”
He turned to face them, and Jack saw a hypodermic dart sticking out of his chest. Doc saw it at the same moment. She gasped and looked to Jack with a horrified expression.
Jack ran to the wreckage of the French doors, shattered glass crunching beneath his feet. Peering around the ruined door frame, he saw two figures vanishing into the woods.
“Stay with him!” he called to Doc. Then Jack sprinted across the lawn in pursuit.
He crossed the lawn until it gave way to forest, then he dodged between trees and ran down a grassy path marked out by carefully placed shrubs. For all its apparent wildness, this place was a park, designed to be easily navigated. After a few hundred yards, he broke into a clearing around a pond. The two men were there on the far side of the water. Jack snapped off a shot but missed. One of the assassins spun and leveled a Thompson gun at him. Jack’s reflexes took over, and he dove to the side. He hit the ground and rolled as bullets shredded the foliage where he’d been. Then the gunner turned and vanish
ed into the trees again. Jack sprang up and followed.
The landscape had been designed with such skill that Jack was surprised when he suddenly came upon the wall at the edge of the estate. The attackers had rolled a large stone against it to help them get back over, and Jack saw one of them atop the wall. He aimed and fired, but the man dropped off the other side of the wall, and Jack’s shot only nicked the mortar where he’d been.
Jack jammed his .45 into his pocket and ran forward. He bounded off the stone and caught the top of the wall, pulling himself up. On the other side, Ponderby’s carefully crafted forest gave way to a narrow roadway and marshy flatland beyond it. Jack levered himself over the wall and dropped down.
As he got to his feet, he heard a car engine roar to life, then tires on gravel. He dashed to the road just in time to see a dark gray Packard fishtail as it wheeled around. He emptied his .45 at it but only managed to punch several bullets into the bodywork as the car sped away.
Jack turned and ran back down the road toward the estate’s main entrance. He remembered a garage set into the perimeter wall near the gate. He just hoped Ponderby had something there that was fast enough to catch a Packard with a head start.
He was breathing hard by the time he reached the garage. He sprinted across the pine needle-strewn ground and threw open a small side door. Inside he stopped, hands on his thighs, recovering his breath, and smiled to himself. A row of cars stretched out before him, each more expensive than the last. But what caught Jack’s eye was the motorcycle right in front of him. It was a brand new Harley Davidson JD, olive drab with a low slung seat, teardrop tank, and the new V-twin engine. It looked fast, and Jack knew it was. Jack had no idea why it was here. He couldn’t imagine Ponderby riding it. But it was exactly what he needed.
Jack slapped a full magazine into his .45, then opened the nearest set of bay doors. He was turning back to the bike when a mechanic ran in from behind the garage. He wore grease stained coveralls and gripped a heavy wrench.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he shouted and advanced toward Jack, brandishing the wrench.
“I…Mr. Ponderby’s…” Jack shrugged. “Ah, gosh, I sure am sorry,” he said. “But I don’t have time to explain.”
Then he laid the man out with a solid right cross. The mechanic collapsed in a heap and the wrench clattered away across the floor. Jack started up the bike and took off.
The Harley’s engine sang as he raced down the narrow road, past stands of pine. He passed a few small houses and a kid on a bicycle who whooped as Jack flew by. He didn’t see the Packard, but he was pretty sure this road ran straight back to the city. That’s where they’d be headed, Jack thought. They probably didn’t think he could follow them. If he was lucky, they might even be driving slowly to avoid attention. They had perhaps a five minute head start on him when he set out. He opened up the throttle to see how much of that lead he could wear away. Several more miles passed, but Jack didn’t see anyone else on the road at all.
Finally he glimpsed the Packard as he shot through a tiny village, past a post office and a handful of small stores. Heads turned as he roared by, but Jack’s focus was on the car ahead. He was closing the gap. Past the village they came into a long, empty stretch of straight road with scrub pine forest on either side. He had them.
Jack drew his pistol and prepared to take them on. He remembered they had at least the Thompson and a shotgun in the car. He’d close fast, then take out a tire or perhaps fire at the driver. This would be tricky.
Then the car did something Jack hadn’t seen before. The driver braked hard and deliberately threw the car into a skid. The back end slid out and the tires screamed as the car whipped around until it stopped dead in the road, facing him. Just as quickly, it accelerated straight toward him. Jack saw the passenger lean out with the Thompson. He opened up and Jack felt a round drill past him, too close. He fired back with his .45 and put a round into the engine compartment and another through the windshield. But he was outgunned, and the Packard was a ton and a half of mass charging straight at him. Suddenly, his plan didn’t seem like such a good one.
Then a shadow overtook him on the pavement. He heard the stutter of Lewis guns and saw the bullets stitch a line down the pavement and rake the Packard. The Packard’s windshield exploded into a storm of shattered glass and the engine gave off thick, black smoke. Jack braked hard and brought the bike to a stop as the Packard veered off the road. It ran into the woods and slammed into a tree with a sickening crunch.
Jack looked up as the Daedalus swept by overhead. Jack had never been so glad to see the airship appear out of nowhere. He got off the bike and ran toward the car. The engine had caught fire and the flames were spreading quickly. The driver slumped unmoving over the steering wheel, a bloody mess. But the passenger staggered out the other side and ran into the woods. Jack followed. He spotted spatters of blood on the grass.
Jack kept his distance and let the man run until he wore himself out. He was limping, and his long black coat dragged on tree branches. He’d lost the tommy gun, but he fired a pistol blindly over his shoulder. Jack saved his bullets. The man wouldn’t get away from him.
Eventually the trees ended in a sharply drawn line, giving way to cleared fields. Perhaps twenty feet past the tree line was a wire fence. The assassin realized he was out of room to run. He whirled and fired at Jack, but his shot went wide. Jack’s two shots didn’t miss. The man stumbled back and collapsed into the fence.
On the other side of the fence, the Daedalus was coming in to land in the empty field. Even before the ship touched down, Deadeye sprang down from the cockpit hatch and sprinted toward Jack with his Winchester carbine ready. But Jack was focused on the body of the assassin. It began to smoke and bubble. There was a horrible chemical smell. Jack backed off and turned away.
“You okay, Jack?” Deadeye shouted. “Doc called and said you were in trouble. Lucky we found you out here!”
“I’m okay,” Jack said quietly. “I owe you one.”
“Another one,” Deadeye replied with a grin. He flipped the safety on his Winchester and let it hang at his side. Then he noticed the body. Nothing was left of the corpse but smoking bones and clothes. The sleeve of the man’s black coat blew in the breeze like some horrible scarecrow. Jack knew they’d find the same thing back at the Packard. Nothing would be left of the driver but this.
Jack and Deadeye traded a dark look. They’d seen this before, and it could mean only one thing. Once more they were up against the Silver Star.
Chapter 4
By the time the Bureau of Investigation appeared on the scene, the Packard was a blackened, smoldering ruin. Jack and the crew had put out the fire as quickly as they could with the ship’s extinguishers. But the driver had been dead even before the fire. There was nothing to recover from the car.
Jack checked the pockets of the other assassin’s empty clothes. In addition to the gun, he found a wallet with some fake ID cards and a couple dollars, a pack of Lucky Strikes and a Zippo lighter, and a folded sheet of heavy paper that turned out to be the menu from a diner in Brooklyn. Jack knew the place. They made a really good cup of coffee. On the back of the menu, he found several rows of five-digit numbers, written quickly with a dull pencil. He stuck it in his pocket. Duke was the codes expert. Maybe he’d be able to make something of it.
Then they’d called back a report to an AEGIS operator at the airfield. Some phone calls had been made, and more radio messages came back, so Jack knew what to expect. Doc was unhurt, but Ponderby was dead. The Bureau was on the scene, but the Agent in charge was on his way to Jack’s location. Jack had a good idea who that would be.
When Jack saw the line of cars approaching, he and Deadeye were standing by the edge of the road. “Better let me handle these guys,” he told Deadeye. “Get back to the ship and tell Duke to take her up to a hundred feet or so and stay there.”
Deadeye raised an eyebrow. “Trouble?”
“I just know who’s comin
g,” Jack said. “If she’s on the ground, well, I don’t want him trying to commandeer the ship.”
Deadeye nodded and vanished into the trees.
Two Bureau cars pulled up in a line, followed by Doc in the Lincoln, and another couple Bureau cars bringing up the rear.
Doc ran to him, and he held her. “Oh Jack,” she cried, “it was horrible. There was nothing I could do. I just watched him die. It was so awful.” Her voice caught, and she buried her face in Jack’s shoulder.
Agent Shelby was striding toward them with a dismayed expression. Jack imagined Shelby thought a crime scene was no place for a woman, and that this display proved his point. But Jack knew how strong Doc was. He understood how hard this would have hit her. Her husband, Col. Dirk Starr, had become an AEGIS operative after the war. He’d been on a mission five years ago—a mission to retrieve the plans for the Daedalus’ engines, in fact—when he’d been poisoned by Silver Star operatives. It had been a slow poison, and Doc had struggled desperately to save him, but in the end, she failed. She’d been forced to watch for months as her husband slowly succumbed, all her medical knowledge useless. Jack knew this case must be bringing up painful memories for her. The fact that the Silver Star’s involvement was now beyond doubt would just make it worse. Jack wished he could spare her, but she had to know.
“We know who’s behind this,” Jack said over her shoulder to Shelby.
Doc looked up at him, and he nodded. Doc released her grip on him. She adjusted her jacket and stood beside him, resolute.
“We suspected after Cobb,” Jack added. “But now we know.”
Shelby studied what remained of the Packard. The front end was crushed against the massive tree. The fire had blackened its bark, but Jack and Deadeye had put the fire out before it could spread. The car was smoking and popping as it cooled. The paint had been burned away, and bullet holes could be seen in the bare metal.
