by Barry Reese
“That sounds accurate.” The Black Bat’s gloved hands danced dangerously close to his holstered .45s. “Now tell me what you want.”
“You have in your possession a trophy from a previous case. It is something dubbed the Knife of Elohim. There are three others in existence. Recently, two of them were stolen from Dr. Satan, which has driven the villain nearly insane with rage. I have no doubt that the parties responsible will be coming for your own blade next.”
“I remember the weapon,” Quinn admitted. “A strange thing. I never used it much. I trust my guns more than magic.”
Keane nodded, knowing that many shared such a view. “If you trust me, I would like to assist you in this matter. Anything involving Doctor Satan attracts my attention and my readings on the matter of the Elohim blades indicate that anyone bringing together all four of them could unleash a terrible evil.”
The Black Bat shifted, studying the man before him. Though he had little reason to do so besides Keane’s impeccable reputation, Quinn found himself trusting what he was being told. “Suit yourself, Keane. I’d heard rumors that two men named Arias and Malone were asking questions about me, trying to find out where my lair was. I’d bet my last dime they’re the ones who are after that knife.”
Ascott pursed his lips. Arias… that name was familiar to him. “My friend,” he whispered, “I believe this affair may be much more dangerous than I’d previously believed.”
CHAPTER III
His Satanic Majesty
Doctor Satan pushed the dead man’s neck over the large bowl, letting the blood drip steadily from the massive neck wound that had ended the poor fool’s life. Once the bowl was full, he shoved the corpse away from him, letting it fall to the floor like a discarded piece of trash.
Though Satan normally relied on the apelike Girse and the legless giant Bostiff, he sometimes employed outside agents for small tasks. One such task had recently been given to the man who now lay dead at Satan’s feet. All the idiot had to do was watch over the small brownstone currently occupied by Satan and his men when they were out of town. During one such time recently, someone—or a group of someones—had managed to get past the sentry and through Satan’s mystical wards. Two ancient weapons had been taken, which was an affront to Satan’s pride.
“What do you see, boss?” Girse asked. The brute stood next to the door, ready to flee if his employer’s temper should turn on him. A rolled up newspaper lay under one armpit, having been hastily set aside when Satan began his work.
Doctor Satan leaned forward, his eyes glittering as images began to form in the blood. “I’m trying to pinpoint exactly who came through my home, so that we might repay their kindness. I see… a man… but there are spells in place to prevent his face from showing through.”
“Think it’s Keane?”
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised.” Satan moved a red gloved hand over the pool of blood, casting a second spell to enhance the power of the first. Truth be told, he didn’t think Ascott Keane had done this act of thievery, but there was no reason to share that with Girse. If Keane had located Satan’s hideout, he would have stopped at nothing to capture the criminal. Stealing two daggers was hardly the type of thing the criminologist would engage in.
As the secondary spell took effect, the images in the blood pool swirled and began to clear. A man dressed in a long coat and tie shimmered into view, his face partially hidden by an odd domino mask adorned by a bird’s beak. In the man’s right hand was clutched a dagger almost identical to the ones stolen from Doctor Satan.
“Aha,” Satan whispered. “So now I know what you look like.”
Girse lumbered over and peered over his master’s shoulder. “I know who that is, boss!”
Satan turned to his attention this aide, a dangerous smile on his face. “You know the man who broke into my lair?”
“No, boss, it ain’t like that! I just know who he is, that’s all. I’ve heard people talk about him!”
“Go on.”
“They call ‘im the Peregrine. Say he used to hang out in Boston but he moved to Atlanta a few years back.”
Satan reached out and touched Girse on the arm. The goon’s simian-like face blanched in fear but he relaxed as his employer merely patted him like a puppy. “Very good, Girse. I’m impressed. I recognize that name now that you mention it.”
The criminal mastermind pushed past his accomplice and strode towards a shelf that bent under the weight of several large leather-bound books. He retrieved one and opened it, flipping to the center pages. There, tucked in amongst occult symbols and scribblings, were a collection of newspaper articles and letters. Satan pulled out an envelope and emptied its contents.
“Yes. The Peregrine,” he whispered. “An occult contact of mine wrote me some time back revealing that there was a vigilante with an interest in the macabre. The Peregrine is alleged to have come into contact with Nyarlathotep, the cult of the Shambling Ones and even the Bloodwerks organization. He certainly gets around, doesn’t he?”
Girse scratched his head uncertainly. “So the Peregrine broke in and took the knives?”
Doctor Satan placed the letter back in its original place, pursing his lips. Girse was an idiot but the doubt in his voice was echoed in Satan’s own heart. Something about all of this seemed… wrong, somehow. Nevertheless, the fact that the Peregrine already possessed one of the Elohim blades made it likely that perhaps he knew of the prophecy and wanted to prevent it from coming to pass. If all four blades were brought together… Satan nearly shivered at the thought, for it had long been a goal of his to someday attempt such a thing.
“I’m not certain what he had in mind when he came here,” Satan admitted. “But one thing is certain: I intend to get back what is mine and the first place to look seems to be with the Peregrine.”
“You want me and Bostiff to pack your things?”
Satan paused, thinking things through. “No,” he finally said after much deliberation. “Something tells me that our foe won’t be so away as that.” The villain cackled suddenly, snapping his fingers in the air. “In fact, given what we know of him, I suspect we can entice him into coming to a spot of our choosing.”
Girse stared at him blankly, eliciting a painful slap to the side of the head from Dr. Satan.
“We know this Peregrine fancies himself a hero and that he was once a resident of Boston,” Doctor Satan began to explain. “I happen to know that many vigilantes and adventurers frequent a club known as the Nova Alliance that’s in that city. It only makes sense that the Peregrine might have been a member as well. And if he is… then he might be interested in this man.” Satan snatched away the newspaper that still lay under Girse’s arm. There, on bottom of the front page, was a small article stating that renowned author and philanthropist Leopold Grace was in town for a speaking engagement.
“But… who’s that?” Girse asked dumbly.
“Leopold Grace is the chairman of the Nova Alliance… and he just might be the key to drawing the Peregrine out of his nest!” Doctor Satan laughed aloud at his joke, striding from the room with a flourish of his crimson cape.
CHAPTER IV
The Peregrine in Flight
The sleek black plane that cut through the air towards New York City was a specially modified one, whose passage was so silent that it was virtually undetectable. Most impressive of all was its speed and long-range flight capability, both of which outstripped most contemporary military designs.
The plane was the product of the Peregrine’s intelligent design and he felt wracked with guilt every time he took it to the air. War was coming to America, no matter how hard the United States might want to avoid getting caught up in the European or Asian conflicts. Max knew that his designs—not only for the plane but also for his pistols and his cars—could easily turn the tide. But what about when those designs were inevitably copied by the enemy? How many more might die eventually?
“You’re looking even more pensive than normal this mornin
g,” Evelyn said, sipping a small cup of coffee in the passenger seat. She wore a pair of black slacks and a matching button-up shirt, with a small jacket worn over both. It was what she had taken to calling her ‘action attire’ when accompanying her husband on his nocturnal adventures. A domino-style mask that was similar to the Peregrine’s own lay on her lap.
“Just thinking about the troubles with Hitler and his cronies,” Max admitted.
“You still think there’s no way we can stay out of it all?”
“None whatsoever,” he answered. “If we don’t choose to enter the war, something will force our hand. I just hope we’re ready when the day comes.”
Evelyn took another sip, trying to push thoughts of war from her mind. She hated to think about her son William growing up in a world decimated by the kinds of horrors she’d heard the Japanese were committing. And Max, who had visited Germany just last year, said things weren’t much better there.
Changing the subject, Evelyn asked “So did you get in contact with that fellow who’s always chasing after Doctor Satan?”
“Ascott Keane. Yes, I called his office but he was out. A man named Shakir answered but he refused to tell me where Keane was or when he would return.”
“Did you tell him you were the Peregrine?”
Max laughed. “No, I didn’t go into that.”
Evelyn shrugged, not seeing the humor in her question. If this Shakir hung about with Keane, he was probably used to much stranger things than phone calls from vigilantes.
* * *
Less than an hour later, the Peregrine’s plane had touched down at a private airfield and the husband and wife duo had rented a car. Ordinarily, Max would have preferred to somehow have his own modified roadster with him but there was no way to fit the car within the narrow hold of the plane.
Evelyn cast admiring glances out the window, recognizing landmarks here and there. Her career as an actress had been entirely off-Broadway (way, way off, she sometimes thought to herself), with stints on the Atlanta stage and in a string of B-movies. Most recently, in fact, she’d been starring as Tess Pureblood, the alleged girlfriend of the Peregrine in a series of god-awful movie serials based on the vigilante’s exploits. The stories were nowhere near the truth but they were popular enough and kept Evelyn from going stir-crazy at their plantation home.
Even with the relative success she’d had as an actress, Evelyn had always dreamed of Broadway. As they passed down the fabled streets, she could easily picture herself up on the stage as applause rained down upon her. I’m not too old yet, she told herself, though she knew that women in their thirties didn’t usually vault to the top of the showbiz ladders very often.
“Now it’s your turn to be contemplative,” Max whispered with an amused tone to his voice.
Evelyn smiled wanly, putting aside her foolish thoughts. She was a wife and mother, both decisions that had cost her some things in life… but which had proven to be far more rewarding than she had ever imagined. “Just thinking how lucky I am to be Mrs. Davies.”
Max took a hand away from the steering wheel to squeeze his wife’s arm. Then he turned his car into the driveway of the hotel at which Leopold Grace was staying. Before he went after Doctor Satan, Max wanted as much information as possible. If he couldn’t reach Ascott Keane, then Max was willing to bet that Leopold would know something of the shadowy villain.
Together, the husband and wife sleuths made their way to the third floor. Evelyn hid her “action attire” under a long trench coat that matched her husband’s. As they stood outside Leopold’s room, Max raised a fist to lightly rap at the door. His knuckles had barely brushed the wooden surface when the sound of something heavy hitting the floor within made him pause. The noise was quickly followed by an exclamation of pain.
“Leopold!” Max shouted. The noise within silenced immediately, falling so quiet that the hairs on the back of Max’s neck stood up. He took a step back and raised his foot, driving it hard against the door. It was necessary to repeat the action twice more before the door cracked and allowed him to push his way inside.
What he saw within froze the blood in his veins. A legless giant was lumbering about, using his arms, punctuated by two strong calloused hands, as a mean to move, while another fellow—this one with a rather Simian appearance, was lifting an unconscious Leopold off the floor, flinging him over his shoulder with ease.
Leopold was a thin man, a decade or so older than Max, but in fit condition. His hair had gone white over the years but was still full and somewhat curly. A cane lay on the floor near an overturned table and Max recognized it as his friend’s specially modified weapon. Within its hollow casing was a razor-sharp sword.
Max spared a quick glance over his shoulder. “Go and fetch the police!” he shouted to his wife, who responded with a quick nod of her head. Then she was gone, leaving her husband to deal with the two brutes before him.
Max was well aware that he was not wearing his mask but he hoped that his sudden movements might prevent them from getting a good look at him. He threw himself to the floor, rolling along the back of a small couch and freeing one of his pistols. He stood up and took fire quickly, aiming his shots at the legless man. Despite the fellow’s disability, he was astonishingly fast and only one of Max’s bullets found a home—landing squarely in the thug’s right shoulder.
Max then whirled on the ape-like figure, certain details starting to click in his head. The basic research he’d done on Doctor Satan had revealed that the villain frequently made use of two servants, both men of unusual appearance. “Girse?” Max asked. Seeing the shocked expression on the big man’s face, he continued on. “Your friend Bostiff is hurt but it’s not fatal… not yet. I’ll kill both of you if force me to do so.”
“Nothing you could do would be as bad as what Satan would do to us,” Girse muttered. He eyed the open window and Max wondered how he and Bostiff had entered the building. It was on the third floor and Max was certain that the fire escape was on the other side of the building.
“Set Leopold down,” Max continued, stepping around the couch so that he was slowly closing the distance between himself and Girse. Bostiff was on the ground, moaning and holding his injured limb. “I swear to you that I’ll push for leniency with your cases. And if there’s some hold that Satan has over you, I’ll work to free you from it!”
That brought a harsh laugh from Bostiff. When Max looked at him, Girse hurled the limp form of Leopold Grace straight at the hero. Max tried to dodge but it was too late. The impact knocked him to the floor and in that moment the ape-like brute was upon him, flinging fists the size of hams against Max’s head.
Any normal man would have broken under the powerful assault but the Peregrine had studied with the great martial arts masters of the world. He was able to compartmentalize his pain, separating it from his line of thinking. In that clarity, he focused on a plan: Max shot up a hand, extending his fingers out into hard points. These he drove into a set of nerves located on the side of Girse’s neck. The blunt trauma sent the henchman into a shock, as his body began flopping about in a seizure.
Max rose to his feet again, his face covered in bruises and a swollen lip. Both Leopold and Bostiff were gone, sending Max running to the window. Peering out, Max saw a horned figure dressed in red standing atop what appeared to be a moving cloud. With him were the legless henchmen and the still unconscious form of Leopold Grace.
Satan’s taunting voice came to him from afar, growing fainter as the mobile cloud suddenly picked up speed, carrying him farther and farther away from the Peregrine. “I’ll have back what you’ve taken from me,” the villain bellowed. “Doctor Satan shall have vengeance!”
Max turned away from the window, growing thoughtful. He trussed up Girse as the man began to calm again, using a special high-tensile cord from the various pockets of his jacket.
When Evelyn burst into the room with a police officer in tow, Max had come to an inescapable conclusion: Doctor Satan had accused hi
m of being a thief, which was patently untrue.
Someone was attempting to play the Peregrine against Doctor Satan… but who? And for what purpose?
“One way or the other, I’m going to find out,” he whispered to himself. “And I’m betting that Doctor Satan would be interested in finding out the truth as well…”
CHAPTER V
The Black Bat’s Cave
Ascott Keane had to admit that he was impressed. The Black Bat’s private laboratory would have been the envy of virtually any scientist in the world. Beakers of brightly colored liquids were intermingled amongst spectroscopes, x-ray machines and several devices that Keane could not positively identify.
The Black Bat had remained in full costume after bringing the criminologist to his lair, taking care to arrive via the secret tunnel that led beneath his stately home. There should be no way that Keane could link the lair to the house above, though something in the detective’s manner suggested to Quinn that Keane probably knew more about the Black Bat than Tony would have wanted.
“You know this Arias person?” the Bat inquired, sitting down near a table where he’d earlier been practicing with various types of smoke canisters.
“I am familiar with him,” Keane admitted. “Several years ago, I consulted with several officers in a Texas town just north of the border. They were having trouble with a number of cattle mutilations and some people were beginning to suspect the occult. I was able to confirm this and track down the culprit: a red-haired gentleman named Arias.”
“Why was he doing those things? Mutilating cows?”
“It was part of a complex ritual involving the reanimation of an ancient entity that was built from the remains of animals.”
“And did he succeed?” Tony asked, shifting a bit. He preferred his villains to be packing lead not magical spells.
