For just an instant she poised on the lip of the fountain shell, and then leaped lightly to the floor. As the lights from the four corners followed her, she began a slow dance to the strains of the half-savage music, which seemed to blend with the shades of colored lights, and made them seem like a part of the very air.
The crowd grew tense as the strange witchery of sound and light crept into their blood. Hearts pounded and hands clenched with passion as the desire to become primitive cast its insinuating spell upon them.
Not a sound was heard as the music went on, and that silent, beautiful figure of gold gyrated maddeningly before them; no sounds except the raking intake of breath in bodies reverting to the abysmal.
Like a wild creature of the forests the dancer began to move in a creeping glide that carried her ever nearer to the tinkling fountain, and then, in one crashing crescendo from the orchestra hidden in the shifting shadows, she leaped onto the fountain and froze into statuesque immobility.
Before the crowd could relax, a staccato blur of shots rang out from the center of the farthest wall, and as the spitful orange flames cut the semilighted shadows of color, the statue toppled from her pedestal and fell into the shallow water with a sodden splash.
At the same instant the lights went on, and from five different places in the crowded room, a fusillade of shots was directed toward the huge bouquet of deep red roses. The hidden lights were shot out, and clipped roses flew from the frame as the bullets from the guns of the detectives chopped their way into the heart of that massive rosebud.
The crowd stood still, holding their breaths with the surprise of it all, wondering whether it were a part of the entertainment, or whether some new debt of gangdom were being paid.
From behind the grilled doors Dan Conley came in at a crouching run, his gun held at his side as he approached that mutilated offering of roses.
From the far end of the room came the orchestra, spread out fan-wise as every man held a rod ready before him. In the center of the room a dripping figure was climbing out of the splashing fountain, and then the fountain sank again below the level of the floor, as the dancer disappeared behind a group of palms.
Conley and his men ripped the large floral rose to shreds, and deep in the heart of that token of love and good wishes they found nothing— except six brass shells from an automatic, and the rubber print of a woman’s shoe!
Again the waiters took up their task of serving the crowd, and again the orchestra played the latest number for the dance. The spell had passed, and the crowd was once again occupied with the business of having a good time in their separate ways.
Behind the palm by the grilled doors Conley sat with Trent, trying to figure out where he had slipped. He felt sure that he could not be wrong, and he was glad that he had insisted that Carmen wear the thin suit of gilded chain armor for her dance. It cost plenty to get that costume, but if they had trapped the murderer it would have been worth it. Even at that, her body would wear the bruises of those bullets for weeks.
From behind the orchestra came a brilliant figure clad in a gown of deepest red that accentuated the contours of her flawless figure with artistic perfection. The only relief to that deep rosebud red was a narrow trimming of black around the bodice.
“Carmen!” The crowd shouted the one word.
She held up her hand for silence, as she reached the exact spot where the fountain had been. And strangely enough, she faced the mutilated rosebud of roses.
“Thank you all,” she said simply. “I hope you liked the show. It is not over yet, but it will soon be finished.”
She crouched as she spoke, her eyes never leaving that emblem of love along the wall. Without warning, the flood-lights from two cor-
ners of the room were focused on that shattered token, and the crowd missed the lightning move of the dancer in the center of the room.
Her right hand flashed to her leg, and came away spitting blood-colored flashes of flame into the heart of that huge rosebud. A figure seemed to emerge from the heart of the rose, and sagged through the crushed flower, to drop on the polished floor.
The crowd gasped. A messenger boy!
Detective Conley started as he turned over the still figure, and closed the glazing eyes. Then he pushed back the small uniform cap and disclosed the blond mannish bob of— ”Clerical Clara!”
“I saw a messenger boy when the lights went out!” he muttered half to himself.
“I saw a footprint,” said Carmen. “I knew she wouldn’t resist trying it again. We wouldn’t be looking for it. And now the devil has a dam’ good bookkeeper to keep his records straight.”
Black Legion
Lars Anderson
COSTUMED HEROES in the pulp era were pretty thick on the ground, largely due to the enormous success of the Shadow, who was soon followed by crime-fighters using sobriquets that made them sound more villainous than heroic: Doc Savage, The Spider, The Phantom, The Whisperer, The Ghost, The Black Bat. What was decidedly unusual was a female masked avenger. The Domino Lady in her real life was Ellen Patrick, a gorgeous twenty-two-year-old who swore vengeance on criminals after her father was murdered. She has curly blond hair, penetrating brown eyes, is tall, and has a stunning figure. Her modus operandi generally finds her at a party or social gathering in a thin, low-cut, backless dress that clings to her every curve. When she discovers the item that she came to steal from her adversary, she slips into a bedroom or closet, peels off her dress and dons another one (both dresses so gossamer that they fit in a small handbag), puts on a mask, and returns to the party. Her disguise apparently works, just as Clark Kent’s removal of his glasses appears to make him unrecognizable. When successful, she leaves a card bearing the inscription: “Compliments of The Domino Lady.” There were only six stories about her, five of which appeared in Saucy Romantic Adventures and one in Mystery Adventure Magazine. Little is known of the author, whose career appears to have lasted only about four years (1935-1938), and all of whose stories were published in the second-level pulps.
“Black Legion” was first published in the October 1936 issue of Saucy Romantic Adventures.
Black Legion
Lars Anderson
CHAPTER ONE
THREATENED
ELLEN PATRICK, radiantly youthful and possessed of that intangible something which lends allure to some fortunate women, rose from the crimson chaise longue.
Pink-nailed fingers patted her perfect sun-touched coiffure and straightened the blue silken kimono that she wore. She smiled up into the dark, good-looking features of a man.
“You must be very careful, Paul,” she breathed softly, “I’m afraid this is more than a mere threat. That Black Legion wouldn’t hesitate to kill you, you know.”
She laughed nervously, stepped closer to his side. The man could see the tiny fires of interest blazing deep in her great brown eyes, and he laid a caressing hand upon the heated velvet that was her rounded shoulder.
Paul Cathern flashed white teeth in an engaging grin. He was of medium height, slender, wiry, and possessed more than his share of vibrant magnetism. Astutely fearless, he was known as one of the most successful special investigators working out of the sheriff’s office. His deep voice was low, passionate.
“You’re sweet, Ellen!” he told her, his gray eyes frankly admiring her sensuous figure, set off as it was by the filmy kimono. Lovely bosom, lithe thighs, slender calves, trim ankles, dainty feet.
His grin widened.
“Of course, I’ll be careful, honey. It’s part of my job. But they can’t scare or bluff me off! I’m out to get the goods on this outfit, and I’m not quitting cold when success is in sight! Why, the information on the Obispo rendezvous alone gives me a swell chance of rounding up some of the ringleaders.”
Ellen quivered within the depths of her being. Paul Cathern had long been an intimate friend, and more. She admired him greatly, loved him not a little. Now, the mysterious Black Legion threatened his life because of his activities a
s investigator into their atrocities along the Pacific Coast! Theirs was no idle threat.
Already two detectives had been cruelly tortured by black-hooded creatures. Another had mysteriously vanished without a trace. And judging from their cowardly ultimatum delivered to Cathern’s apartment a few hours previously, the young sleuth was to be next on their list!
Ellen’s brown eyes were filmed with worry as she walked to the door with her caller. There, she lifted her moist, red lips for his goodnight kiss. As Cathern bent his dark head to the pale oval of her face, he clasped her in his arms. She laughed softly at his hungry zeal.
“You’re sweet, Ellen!” he repeated, huskily, gazing into her eyes. The little adventuress thrilled to the touch of his hands and the caress of his long fingers.
She couldn’t resist liking the possessive embrace of his arm about her pliant waist as Cathern drew her close to him. Her ductile curves were flattened against him, and she experienced an emotion that was strangely new to her! She returned the kiss as his lips were pressed to the ripe contours of her cerise mouth.
“I’ll be seeing you in a couple of days, Ellen,” he whispered as he reluctantly released her, and opened the door.
“As soon as I’ve investigated that hide-out a bit further, I’ll have some good news for you, I hope. Keep sweet, honey.” And he was gone.
Ellen did not move for a little while. Her agile brain was clicking rapidly over the details of the disclosures concerning the Black Legion which Paul Cathern had given her.
Her piquant face was grim as she moved sensuously over the deep-piled rug, procured a cigarette from a black and silver box which stood on an end table, and lighted it. Filling her lungs with the fragrant smoke, she began to pace back and forth with feline grace, her racing mind sorting and filing the information she had obtained.
Ellen Patrick, known in certain circles through California as The Domino Lady, was nearing twenty-three.
Just tall enough to be majestic, with a figure whose curves set men’s pulses hammering, her beautiful rounded features, crowned by a coronet of silky, golden curls, often graced the rotogravure supplements of the Sunday newspapers as one of the Southland’s prettiest debs. Yet no one connected Ellen Patrick with the notorious Domino Lady!
Her father, Owen Patrick, had been the czar of California politics at one time.
A murderer’s cowardly bullet had cut him down in his prime some three years before. Rumor was that the killer had been an employee of the state political machine. A small trust fund, and a wealth of wit and courage, had been his bequeathal to his lovely, orphaned daughter.
Previous to her father’s brutal slaying, Ellen had lived a life of comparative ease as befitted the only child of Owen Patrick.
She had graduated at Berkeley, spent several glorious months in the Far East, and then an assassin’s slug had robbed her of the one who meant more to her than life itself! Small wonder that her life had been dedicated to a campaign of vengeance against the murderers of her parent!
Ruthless, roguish, Ellen at times accepted almost impossible undertakings simply for the sake of friendship and an inordinate craving for adventure! For example, her recent exploits in Santa Anita, in which she had matched wits and daring with the notorious Kilgarlin gang, and emerged victorious.
At other times she was coldly involved in hazardous schemes, aimed at the discomfiture and embarrassment of the authorities whom she blamed for her father’s death, at the same time earning a princely income, most of which was donated to a worthy charity.
Oft-times, her adventures were so arranged as to encompass both the friendship and vengeance angles, and those were the ones in which she gloried, particularly.
Only a short time ago, she had retrieved a packet of compromising letters for a friend in a daring raid upon the penthouse apartment of Rob Wyatt, aspirant for political honors, and at the same time had bluffed the big game hunter and politician into a state of oblivion!
A unique black and white, or white and black ensemble was widely recognized as The Domino Lady’s costume, and mention of it in certain circles was always productive of inward shudders! No vulpine politician or unscrupulous crook in all California wanted any part of The Domino Lady!
Now, as she moved back and forth about the beautifully-furnished apartment, Ellen was prodding her keen mind, searching for some method by which she could aid Paul Cathern in his struggle with the Black Legion, and perhaps save his life.
The special investigator had confided in Ellen, never dreaming that he was betraying secrets to the formidable Domino Lady! Without a doubt, leading politicians (some of them Ellen’s sworn enemies) were members of the feared organization, according to Cathern, and especially was he convinced that this was true in the case of J. Riggs Saint, the district attorney.
Saint, campaigning for reelection, was loud in his vociferations against the Black Legion. His newspaper editorials were heated protests against their reputed outlawry and murder.
He cried long and loud for some scrap of evidence with which to push prosecutions, knowing full well that there was scant possibility of any such damaging material coming to light. In fact, the very storm of his indignation and threats was the moving factor behind Cathern’s conviction of the district attorney’s implication!
Two days previously, the special investigator had chanced upon a Black Legion rendezvous in the Obispo country; a wild spot well-suited to their campaign of torture and death.
He had kept the fact strictly to himself, but had called the district attorney for another detective to aid him in his Legion investigation, dropping the hint that he expected results, shortly. Then, he had received the anonymous death threat, commanding him to cease all operations immediately, and get out of the state!
With typical courage, the young sleuth had squared his craggy jaw, and ignored the cowardly ultimatum! All these facts harassed Ellen as she pondered the dilemma. What an opportunity to clean up the state, expose crooked politics, if Cathern’s information was correct! And Ellen felt sure that it was.
A frown puckered her lovely features, and a chain of cigarettes overflowed from the ashtray as she paced the floor. The frown was still there as she peeled the kimono from her shapely body, and stepped into pajamas. And, when Ellen retired for the night, long moments passed before she drifted off to her usual dreamless sleep.
CHAPTER TWO
A DARING VENTURE
The odds-and-ends closet was small, really nothing more than a locker built into one corner of the garage.
Slightly stooped, Ellen Patrick found it exceedingly uncomfortable. Although the door was open a few inches, it was stuffy and unbearably close within the cramped quarters. Perspiration bedewed her smooth white forehead and pert upper lip. From one beautifully-shaped hand protruded the ominous snout of a small, black automatic.
The upper part of her face was covered by a domino mask of black silk. A form-fitting backless frock of white satin covered her shapely figure, the scanty bodice caught in a halter neck across the creamy expanse of her lovely bosom. The cape of black silk concealed bare, kissable shoulders, and her hands were gloved.
For some hour and a half, Ellen had been waiting like this.
She was beginning to wonder if she had guessed wrong. Raising a gloved hand, she wiped the perspiration from her forehead with a tiny wisp of lace. Then a tight little smile curved the corners of her red mouth.
“He should be along any minute now!” she reassured herself, silently. “And I’ll get things straightened out, or give him a dose of his own medicine!”
There was no thought of failure in the little adventuress’ mind. For two nights, she had checked on J. Riggs Saint and his movements. He always arrived home at the same hour, and alone. It shouldn’t prove difficult to get the drop on the district attorney, she mused.
Forty-eight hours before, Paul Cathern had disappeared, vanished from his apartment and usual haunts. The sheriff’s office had hunted feverishly for their ace sleuth, but
to no avail. The disappearance had spurred Ellen into action.
Cautious inquiries on her part had been in vain. Immediately, she had thought of the Black Legion warning. Was her good friend to vanish as had other victims of the hooded organization?
Not if The Domino Lady could help it, she decided. In consequence, she had decided upon the boldest move of her daring career; the snatching of the unscrupulous district attorney whom she was convinced was a ring leader in Legion affairs!
The hour was nine o’clock, and it was very quiet in the residential section of town. Flattened within the tiny locker, Ellen prayed for quick action to ease the strain on her aching body and quivering nerves.
Abruptly the purr of a powerful engine came to her keen ears, and the whisper of rubber on concrete.
A yellow glow of headlights shone through the frosted glass panels of the doors, dimly illuminating the inner confines of the spacious garage.
It was impossible for Ellen to be sure that this was J. Riggs Saint, but her nerves snapped taut and her slender fingers tightened about the corrugated butt of the automatic. Her mouth was suddenly dry. This was one of the most crucial moments of her career! An overwhelming desire for a cigarette assailed her, but she dared not risk it. Her presence must not be suspected at this stage of the game.
Came the sound of footsteps outside the garage doors, and a key gritted in the lock. The big doors swung gratingly open a moment later, and Ellen shot a surreptitious glance from her place of concealment. J. Riggs Saint, dapper, slender, was outlined in the glow of the headlights as he walked back to a powerful sedan! Her zero hour was at hand!
The big car purred smoothly as it rolled into the garage. Through the crack in the door, Ellen looked closely at the district attorney.
His features were refined, but hardened, his blue eyes icy, flint-hard. A half sneer played about his thin-lipped mouth, giving him a sinister look.
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