by Otto Penzler
A knock sounded at her door. She dried her eyes, opened the door, and found a tough-looking young chap handing her an envelope. She took it as he said: “From a friend.”
He went away. Mrs. Betts opened the envelope and gasped with joy. From it she removed a pack of banknotes held together by a band of silver paper. They totalled just $200.
Ethel Knapp, twenty and not bad to look at, stood in her furnished room and peered at the gas jet. For ten minutes she had been peering at it, trying to summon the courage necessary to turn it on—without a lighted match above it. She had no money. She had come to Great City from her home in Ohio to work. She had no work. She had no way of returning to her mother and father. But she did have a way of saving herself from further hunger and humiliation. The gas jet.
She raised her hand toward it. Startled, she paused. A faint rustling sound came into the room. Looking down, she saw an envelope creeping under the door. She took it up, bewildered, and opened it. Inside lay money—currency held together by a band of silver paper—banknotes totalling $200!
She jerked open the door. The hall was empty. She ran down the steps. She saw a few persons on the street, and paused bewildered. She had no way of knowing that the money had been left her by the squatty, combative-looking young man who was just vanishing around the corner. But that money meant life and happiness to Ethel Knapp….
For the Rev. Edward Parker, $250.
For Maude Betts, $200.
For Ethel Knapp, $200.
Just $650 in all! …
CHAPTER II
THE MOON MAN SPEAKS
In their delight, neither Dr. Parker, nor Mrs. Betts, nor Miss Knapp noticed the oddity of the silver band which encircled the money that had so mysteriously come to them. None of them thought to associate it with the Moon Man.
Had they suspected, they might have thought the stocky chap to be the Moon Man. They would have been wrong.
Ned Dargan, ex-lightweight—he of the broken nose and cauliflower ear—walked along a dark street in a shabby section of the city. He glanced neither right nor left; he walked steadily; he knew where he was going. When he reached the black doorway of an abandoned tenement building—a structure condemned by the city but not yet demolished—he paused.
Making sure he was not observed, he entered the lightless hallway. He closed the door carefully and tightly behind him and trod up a flight of broken, uncarpeted stairs. Plaster littered them. Dust lay everywhere. The air was musty and close. Dargan walked along the upper hall to another door.
As he reached for the knob a voice called:
“Come in, Angel.”
Dargan went in, smiling. The room beyond was dark. A moment passed before his eyes became accustomed to the gloom. Gradually he was able to see a form standing behind a table, a figure that blended out of the blackness like a materializing ghost. The figure was swathed in a black cape. Its head was a smooth globe of silver.
“Evenin’, boss,” said Dargan.
A chuckle came from the silver-headed man. “You’ve distributed the money, Angel?”
“Yeah. Got it out right away. And it certainly was badly needed, boss.”
“I know…. You realize why I selected Martin Richmond as a victim, Angel?”
“I’ve got an idea he ain’t all he seems to be.”
“Not quite that,” answered the voice that came from the silver head. “He’s quite respectable, you know. Social position, wealth, all that. But there’s one thing I don’t like about him, Angel. He’s made millions by playing the market short, forcing prices down.”
“Nothin’ wrong in that, is there?” Dargan asked.
“Not according to our standards, Angel; but the fact remains that short-selling had contributed to the suffering of those we are trying to help. I’ve taken little enough from Richmond’s kind, Angel. I must have more—later.”
Dargan peered. “I don’t quite get you, boss. You’re takin’ an awful chance—and you don’t keep any of the money for yourself.”
A chuckle came from the silver globe. “I don’t want the money for myself. I want it for those who are perishing for want of the barest necessities of life. What would you do if you saw a child about to be crushed under a truck? You’d snatch her away, even at the risk of your own life.
“I can’t bear to see suffering, Angel. I can no more help trying to alleviate it than I can help breathing. If there were any other way of taking money from those who hoard it, and giving it to those who desperately need it—if there were any other way than stealing, I’d take that way. But there isn’t.”
“Don’t think I’m questioning you, boss.” Dargan hastened to explain. “I’m with you all the way, and you know it.”
“Yes, Angel,” said the Moon Man gently, “I know it. You’re the only man in the world I trust. You know what it is to suffer; that’s why you’re with me. Well, you’ve been scouting today. What’s the result?”
Dargan wagged his head. “Things are pretty bad, boss. The regular charities ain’t reaching all the folks they should, and they’re pretty slow. I don’t know what some of these folks would do without your help.
“There’s a steamfitter out of a job named Ernest Miller. He’s got a daughter, Agnes, who’s sick with consumption. The kid’s goin’ to die if she ain’t sent to Arizona. Miller can’t send her— he hasn’t got any money, boss.”
The Moon Man nodded his silver head. “Miller shall have money, Angel—all he needs.”
“Then there’s the guy named Frank Lauder, I told you about.”
“Lauder will be compensated, Angel.”
“Then there’re two kids—Bill and Betty Anderson—a couple of sweet kids they are. Their mother just died. They ain’t got nowhere to go but to their aunt and uncle, named Anderson. The Andersons are barely gettin’ along as it is, and can’t take the kids in. So they’ll have to go to an orphanage if somethin’ ain’t done for ‘em.”
“They won’t go to the orphanage, Angel. You’ve done your work well. I’ll have money for all of them tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Dargan peered again at the small moon which was the head of the man in the black cape. “Boss, ain’t you takin’ an awful chance, followin’ up so close? Last night—and now tonight! Ain’t it gettin’ dangerous?”
There was a pause. “Yes, Angel, it is getting dangerous. The police now have my thumb-print.”
“Your thumb-print! Holy cripes! Now if they ever catch you they’ll be able to prove you—”
“I don’t think it will occur to Gil McEwen to look in the right place for me, Angel!” the Moon Man interrupted with a soft laugh. “Still, as you suggest, I’ve got to be very careful. At any time McEwen might accidentally find a print which matches the one he found on the Richmond bedroom door knob last night—and when he does—”
“Cripes, boss!” gasped Dargan.
The Moon Man straightened. “Don’t worry, Angel. Keep an eye on yourself. Report back to me tomorrow night, half an hour after midnight, here. All clear?”
“Sure, boss.”
Ned Dargan turned from the room. He closed the door tightly on the Moon Man. He peered at the panel, as though trying to penetrate it with his gaze and read the secret of the man in the room—a secret even he did not know. He walked down the stairs slowly, and eased out the front door.
“I can’t figure out who that guy is!” he told himself wonderingly. “But, cripes! I know he’s the swellest guy that ever lived!”
Ned Dargan had a solid reason for feeling as he did about the man whose face he had never seen—the Moon Man. He’d gone bad in the ring. A weakened arm made further fighting impossible. He found it just as impossible to find work. He’d drifted downward and outward; he’d become a bum, sleeping in alleys, begging food. Until, mysteriously a message had come to him from the Moon Man.
Some day Ned Dargan was going to fight again. Some day he was going to get into the ring, knock some palooka for a row, and become champ. And if he ever did, he’d h
ave the Moon Man to thank for it….
The Moon Man stood in the center of the dismal room. He watched Dargan close the door. He listened, and in a moment heard a creak, then another. He knew those sounds the stairs made. The first was pitched at A Flat and the second at B in the musical scale. When B sounded before A Flat, someone was coming up. The Moon Man heard B follow A Flat and knew that Dargan was gone.
He turned away, opened a connecting door, and stepped into an adjoining room. He turned a key in the lock. The air was pitch black. The Moon Man made motions which divested himself of his cape. He pulled off his black gloves— luckily he had provided himself with more than one pair. He removed from his head that silver sphere, and he put all his secret regalia in a closet. The closet door he also locked.
Turning again, he silently opened a window, and eased out onto a rusted fire-escape. Rung by rung he let himself down into the alleyway behind. He paused, listening and looking around. Then he stepped forth….
The street-light’s glow fell into the face of Stephen Thatcher!
Steve Thatcher thought of things as he walked away from the house he had made the Moon Man’s rendezvous. In his mind’s ear he heard Gil McEwen saying: “I’ve sworn to get the Moon Man, and I will!” McEwen, the toughest detective on the force, who never failed to bag his man!
And he heard the voice of the girl he loved: “He’s nothing but a petty pilferer!”
Steve Thatcher lowered his head as though stubbornly to butt an obstacle. A wild scheme— his! He knew it. But, also, he knew the world— cruel and relentless—and he could not stand by and do nothing to save those who were suffering. The mere thought of letting others perish, while nothing was done to save them, was unendurable.
He was a cop’s son—revolt against injustice was in his blood—and not even the law could keep him from trying to right the wrongs he knew existed. Beyond the written law was a higher one to which Steve Thatcher had dedicated himself—the law of humanity.
And if he were caught? Would he find leniency at the hands of Gil McEwen and Chief Thatcher? No. He was certain of that. Even if McEwen and the chief might wish to deal kindly with him, they would be unable to. The Moon Man now was a public enemy—his fate was in the hands of the multitude. Steve Thatcher would be dealt with like any common crook—if he were caught.
He remembered Ernest Miller’s daughter, who must go to Arizona or die; he remembered Frank Lauder, who must be cared for; he remembered Bill and Betty Anderson, who must have help.
“It’s got to be done!” he said through closed teeth. “Damn, it’s got to be done!”
He walked swiftly through the night.
CHAPTER III
ANOTHER VICTIM!
Detective Lieutenant Gil McEwen’s phone clattered. He took it up. He glared at a photograph he was holding—a photograph of the Moon Man’s fingerprint—and grunted: “Hello!”
“Detective McEwen? Listen carefully. I’m calling—”
“Speak louder!” McEwen snapped. “I can’t hear you.”
“My name is Kent Atwell, Mr. McEwen,” the voice came more plainly. “I’m phoning you from a pay-station downtown because I don’t dare phone you from my home. I’ve been threatened—by the Moon Man.”
“What!” barked McEwen. He knew the name of Kent Atwell. Atwell was one of Great City’s most prominent citizens. His home was one of the finest. His influence went far. And here he was, huddling in a booth downtown like a rabbit in a hole, using a public phone because a threat of the Moon Man had filled him with fright! “The devil!” McEwen said.
“I’ve got to see you, Mr. McEwen—immediately. The Moon Man has threatened to rob me tonight. I don’t dare let you come to my home, or my office. Can I meet you somewhere?”
“Where are you?”
“In a drug store at State and Main streets.”
“You’re close to the Palace Theatre,” McEwen said briskly. “Buy a ticket and go in. Go down into the men’s room—be there in ten minutes. I’m coming right along, and I’ll meet you there.”
“Certainly. Thank you!”
McEwen pushed the phone back and scowled. He tramped out of his office into Chief Thatcher’s. He found the chief absent, but Steve Thatcher was sitting in his father’s old padded chair. The young man looked up.
“You come with me, Steve!” McEwen snapped. “This thing is getting worse and worse! The Moon Man’s going to stage another robbery—and this time he’s saying so ahead of time!”
“I’ll be damned!” said Steve Thatcher. “Listen, Gil. I’ve just found out—”
“Never mind! Come with me!”
McEwen went out the door. Steve Thatcher frowned; but he followed. He loped down the steps, crowded into a police-car beside McEwen, and said nothing until the car was whizzing down the street.
“Of all the damned gall!” the veteran detective blurted. “Sending a warning ahead of time! He must think he’s living a charmed life—that we can never touch him. I’ll show him where he’s wrong—then, by damn, he’ll wish he was on the moon!”
Steve Thatcher sighed. “I was about to tell you, Gil, that I think I’ve found out about this mask the Moon Man wears. You’ve wondered how he could see his way about, with a silver globe on his head. Well, evidently he can, because the thing isn’t silver at all, but glass.”
“Glass?” McEwen repeated. “How do you know?”
“It must be. That mask of the Moon Man’s has made us all curious, and I began trying to figure out how he could manage to move about with his head completely enclosed in a metal ball. Well, he can’t, of course. I browsed around the library today, and found the answer—Argus glass.”
“What’s Argus glass?”
Steve Thatcher smiled. “If you were a frequenter of speakeasies in New York, you’d know. Argus glass is named for the son of the mythological god, Zeus. Argus had a countless number of eyes, and some of them were always open and watching, so the legend goes. Argus glass is a mirror when you look at it from one side, and a perfectly clear piece of glass when you see it from the other.”
“Didn’t know there was any such thing!” McEwen snapped, sending the car swerving around a corner.
“Nor I, until I read about it. A big French jeweller’s store has in it several pillars of the glass. They look like mirrors to the customers, but they’re not. They’re hollow, and inside them sit detectives on revolving chairs. They can see everything that goes on in the store, but no one can see them. It wasn’t so long ago that speakeasy proprietors found out about the glass. They use it in their doors now instead of peepholes. Nobody can see in, but they can see out.”
“Say! Maybe we can learn who the Moon Man is by tracing that glass globe!” McEwen exclaimed. “Who makes the glass?”
“The Saint Gobain Company of France. Argus glass is the answer, Gil. The Moon Man can see as clearly as though he wasn’t masked at all, but nobody can see his face. His mask must be split down the middle so he can get his head into it, and he’s evidently painted the mirror surface to look like a moon.”
“By damn!” McEwen declared. “Just let me get within reach of that guy and I’ll take a whack at that glass mask. It’ll turn into splinters and then we’ll see who the Moon Man is!”
Stephen Thatcher smiled. He had not thought of that likelihood. A sharp blow would shatter the globe that masked the face of the Moon Man! … His smile faded. He was almost sorry now that he had divulged the secret. He had told McEwen this only because he was supposed to be working on the case and, to safeguard himself from suspicion, had decided that he had better make some discovery about himself.
“No kidding, Gil,” he said quietly. “Aren’t you keeping something back? Haven’t you some idea who the Moon Man is?”
“Not a damn’ notion!” McEwen declared. “How about you, Steve? Who do you think he is?”
“I,” said Steve Thatcher with a sigh, “couldn’t say.”
McEwen parked the police car a block from the Palace Theatre. He
strode to the ticket-booth with Steve Thatcher; they bought tickets and went in. Immediately they turned toward the downstairs men’s room. They entered it to find Kent Atwell waiting.
Atwell was thin, dapper; his eyes were dark and deep-set. And at the moment he was visibly agitated. When McEwen identified himself, he immediately launched into a frightened, indignant explanation of the Moon Man’s threat.
“Here!” he exclaimed, pushing a sheet of crumpled paper toward McEwen. “Read that! The incredible presumption of it!”
The bit of paper was torn irregularly at the bottom. It was typewritten—done, McEwen could not dream, on a machine in police headquarters! Its message was terse:
DEAR MR. ATWELL:
Withdraw from your bank today the sum of five thousand dollars. Place it in a safe in your home. I intend to call for it tonight. Let me warn you that if you notify the police of my intentions, you will suffer worse punishment than death. That is my promise to you.
McEwen looked blank. “How do you know this is from the Moon Man?” he asked sharply. “Where’s the rest of it—the part that is torn off?”
Atwell turned pale. “It’s of no importance—just the typewritten signature. I accidentally tore it off and lost the piece, so—”
McEwen gestured impatiently. “Mr. Atwell, I beg your pardon, but it is my business to know when men are telling the truth. You are not being frank with me. There was more of this message—and if I’m to help you, I’ve got to have it.”
“Really, there—”
“Unless you produce it right now, Mr. Atwell, you can count on no help from me,” McEwen snapped.
Atwell sighed. He fumbled in his pocket. McEwen quickly took the bit of paper he produced—the lower half of the sheet he had already read. And he scanned a second paragraph:
What do I mean by a “worse punishment than death?” I mean disgrace and humiliation, the loss of your friends and position, becoming a pariah. I know that, while you were handling the drive for money under the United Charities, you as the treasurer of the organization helped yourself to five thousand dollars of the funds. I can and will produce proof of my statement if circumstances demand it. It is that stolen five thousand I want. You will leave it for me in your safe, as I direct, and make no move to interfere with my taking it—or I will give the facts to the newspapers.
