Major Lacy was tall, well knit, supple as a whip. Thin lips, sensitive nostrils, a close-cropped sandy mustache. You looked at him and you thought polo, foxhunt, cavalry. He had served in France and you knew that too. In France they called him the Iron Major. Plenty of good soldiers had died in his machine-gun battalion. But no man of his command died because of stupidity or bungling. He was a gallant and shrewd leader.
Charlie Weaver had served under him as a company commander, as captain. He was short, nervous, fidgety. He looked more like an insurance adjuster than an ex-captain of marines. But Lacy knew better. When the Emergency Council for Crime Control called upon him to lead a patriotic and secret war against criminals—death against death—the Iron Major made Charlie Weaver his chief of staff and he had never regretted it.
He clapped the little man softly on the shoulder. There was a deep bond of affection between the two.
“Are you certain you fooled him, Jack?” Weaver growled.
“Fool him?”
Tattersall Lacy smiled.
“My dear Charles, the fellow fairly begged to be fooled. Like all killers and paid assassins, Mr. Tough Tony Farino possesses a most—er—primitive type of intelligence. I had only to creep upstairs, don a ridiculous red mask and talk as though I had catarrh—and he fell for the deception like a ton of bricks.”
His smile deepened.
“Luckily I got rid of the girl fairly easily. Had she stayed I’d been afraid to pump him. Women detect bluff quicker than a man will. You’re married, Charles, and I trust you’ll bear me out in that, eh? However, the girl Ethel left like a lamb.”
“Think she went straight back to Boston?”
“Pat Harrigan will tell us the answer to that when we get back to the Cloud Building.”
Weaver’s nervous fingers twisted.
“Let’s shove off. Let’s get out of here.”
“No hurry at all, Captain,” Lacy said mildly. “That wretched oaf two floors above us will sleep like a log for a couple of hours. When he does awake I’ll wager he sits tight and keeps his dazed mouth shut. The name of the Scarlet Ace seems to work positive wonders in that respect.”
“I wish to God we could get our hands on that same damned Scarlet Ace!”
“Softly, Charles… We will,” said Lacy cheerfully.
“Eh?
“Tonight, little man, if the gods are good.” Weaver fairly bounced with excitement.
“What do you mean? Did Farino—”
“Farino did. He pumps quite easily. To be quite blunt he—er—spilled his guts very prettily. I expect to use him as a decoy duck tonight. We have a date with the Scarlet Ace—at his headquarters, Charles—and I sincerely hope he’s at home.”
“Where’s his headquarters this time? Did you find out? “Weaver rapped.
“Haven’t the foggiest. Not the slightest idea. Shall we leave that detail to Farino? I’m sure he’ll show us the way… Quite ready, Charles?”
Tattersall Lacy picked up his light Malacca stick, adjusted his Homburg hat to a precise angle and unlocked the door.
He punched the elevator bell with the end of his cane and the two men rode down in the cage to the lobby.
“Good day, Mr. Major,” said the clerk and Lacy nodded genially to him.
He had registered earlier under the name of John Major.
The two men passed a rank of taxis and walked halfway down the block where a red-and-blue Paragon cab waited. A bronze-faced hackman threw open the door deferentially. He was Sergeant Dillon, the major’s personal chauffeur. The custom-built cab he drove was a special job with a braced chassis, concealed steel shutters and a racing motor under the deceptive hood.
This particular cab had seen some hot adventures since the hour of that quiet penthouse conference when Amusement, Incorporated, was born and christened so oddly by the major’s freakish humor. There was a paneled recess behind the chauffeur’s compartment. Inside it a Tommie gun hung on hard rubber hooks. Below, in a shallow drawer, were Mills bombs and a half dozen tear-gas projectiles. The whole arrangement was a bit of clever built-in camouflage.
To the casual eye the cab was just an ordinary looking hack with a scuffed paint job. The only unusual thing about it was that it never stopped for fares and paid no attention to the whistle tootings of infuriated doormen in comic-opera uniforms.
Lacy leaned forward in his seat and spoke in a low voice to Dillon.
“Did Mr. Harrigan follow a girl from the hotel, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Get us to headquarters immediately.”
The cab sprang away with a smooth leap and purred round the corner into traffic. Dillon eased over to Sixth Avenue and presently the cab slowed down. It turned in across a stone driveway at the rear of the towering Cloud Building. It descended a concrete vehicle ramp to the basement of the skyscraper.
CHAPTER III
THE MAN IN A MASK
There was a bus terminal down there and a waiting room and platform for Gray Goose passengers. Dillon drove through an archway well beyond the platform and halted in the gloomy repair shop of the bus line. At the far side, in a square concrete recess, were the closed doors of a small private garage.
Dillon got out and unlocked the doors, switched on a light and drove in. He busied himself with his motor and his two passengers alighted. The bronze panels were set flush in the surface of the inner wall. They slid apart at the major’s touch. Weaver followed Lacy into a tiny electric elevator. The doors closed.
The elevator rose silently through the heart of the skyscraper toward the penthouse apartment at its very pinnacle. There was no perception of motion. Rose lamps in antique bronze fixtures bathed the interior of the car with a soft glow. Neither man spoke.
High above them the enunciator in the major’s foyer began a peculiar clacking signal.
Tak, tak, tak, tak…
When the car stopped the doors opened automatically. A civilian-clad marine stood on guard in the foyer with a rifle. He presented arms stiffly and went back to port arms. Lacy snapped him a curt salute.
A deft butler in somber broadcloth took the major’s hat, stick and overcoat and did the same for Weaver. Under the man’s calm, respectful exterior there was an unmistakable hint of the military. As a matter of fact, Lacy had won his employment at cards in a lucky game with his friend, Captain Nigel Huntley of the Royal Air Force, back in those wild, reckless nights that followed the armistice.
“Has Mr. Harrigan returned yet, Hawkins?” Lacy asked him.
“Yes, sir. I believe he’s in the library with Mr. Corning.”
“Excellent. Come along, Charles.”
A log fire was crackling in the big fireplace. A beefy, red-headed man with fists like hams sat idly toasting his shins before the fire. A stout man with a ruddy face was sprawled nearby in a deep leather chair. The stoutish man was Ed Corning. The big Irishman with the over-sized hands was Pat Harrigan. Together with Charlie Weaver they formed the major’s board of strategy for Amusement, Incorporated.
At sight of Lacy the big red-headed giant came forward with a rumbling sound of welcome. Pat had a voice like the wash of surf on rocks. There was no formality in these private councils of war that took place in the lofty beamed library of the penthouse.
“Howdy, Jack!” Harrigan roared. “Hello, Charlie! What are you grinning about? You look like a wizened little ape that’s just found a coconut.”
“Coconut, hell,” Weaver rejoined. “Jack claims he’s found the Scarlet Ace—or found out how to find him—or something.”
Pat gave an Indian whoop of delight.
“Is that it? Then God be praised I was born in the south of Ireland!” He doubled up his right fist and looked at it speculatively as though it were a small wormy chestnut. “I smell a grand bloody fight coming by the grace of Saint Monica!”
“Did you trace the girl when she left the hotel?”
“Yes. She went straight to Newark airport. Bought a ticket and left twenty minutes later for Boston in a scheduled transport ship.”
“Splendid. That makes it easier to handle Farino.”
Pat frowned.
“How about giving us the lowdown on this particular shindig, Jack? Was the undercover tip from the Council correct about Tough Tony Farino?”
“It was. The Scarlet Ace has brought him in from Boston to do a murder job. The price is ten thousand dollars, cash on delivery.”
“And the victim?” Ed Corning asked dryly.
“Farino had a photograph in his inside coat pocket.” The major smiled like the thin edge of a bolo knife. “The candidate for death is an ex-major of marines now actively engaged in the secret pursuit of criminals. A man named John Tattersall Lacy.”
He lit a long graceful panatela and blew fragrant smoke. Pat looked at him with a kind of loving awe.
“Did you actually pull the masquerade act? And how in the name of the seven blessed martyrs did you get him to spill the arrangements for the bump-off?”
“Not the actual bump-off, Pat. That hasn’t been arranged yet so far as I know. But he did spill something damned interesting for the ears of the Emergency Council. He gave me the lead, the tip-off, the open sesame, by Judas Priest!—to the hitherto undiscovered hangout of the kingpin of crime in New York, the latest headquarters of the Scarlet Ace.”
“Where is it?” Corning cut in swiftly. Ed’s sleepy eyes were wide open.
“I don’t know yet.”
“But you just said—”
Tattersall Lacy waved his panatela grimly. “Sit you down, gentlemen,” he said in crisp command. “I’m going to tell you all I know at present. If any one of you asks a stupid question or makes me repeat a fact twice, I’ll bar him from the adventure tonight. Is that clear? Very well…”
He frowned at the long expensive ash on his cigar tip.
“You know already about our undercover tip on Farino and his—er—paramour. Weaver and I went to the hotel as planned and engaged a room two floors below Farino. My theory about the killer from Boston was not very flattering to his intelligence but it had the merit of boldness and surprise—two cardinal virtues of military tactics. I had the advantage in that my every movement, tone of voice, my whole deception in fact, had been carefully considered in advance. By Jove, it was a sort of trench raid, except that instead of blacking up my face and hands I donned a red silk mask…”
He shrugged impatiently. Explanations always bored him.
“Briefly, gentlemen, here is what happened…”
* * * *
Tough Tony Farino swaggered out of the lobby of the hotel and stood a moment on the dark, windy sidewalk, idly picking his teeth. He looked as flashy as a glass diamond and as hard as Gibraltar. Tony had his own ideas about evening wear. He had on a derby, a light fawn-colored overcoat over a blue suit and cherry-colored shoes. He wore only one grey glove; the other he held bunched loosely in his gloved hand. Tony had seen a picture once in a theatre program of a guy who wore his gloves that way and it looked pretty classy to him.
He lit a cigarette and the cold night wind whipped at the sparks.
“Taxi, sir?” said the doorman.
Farino looked at him with a slow, Metropolitan air.
“Ixnay,” he said courteously. “Jist takin’ a stroll, see? A short stroll after me dinner.”
He swaggered down to the corner and turned south on the avenue. He swaggered because he was puzzled, out of his depth. He still had a slight headache as a memento of the Scarlet Ace’s visit. He felt like a sap. You could talk to the big shots in Boston—but this mug in the red mask! Tony felt a prickling of awe in his scalp as he recalled how easily the Scarlet Ace had given the bum’s rush to Ethel. And Ethel was nobody’s lap-dog, not in Boston, anyway.
The thought of Boston made Tony’s lip curl. That was out from now on. The Big Town for Tony! He’d show this monkey in the trick mask that he had a first-class cannon on the payroll, a guy to play ball with in a big way. The ten grand for bumping Tattersall Lacy would be only a starter. As for the kid, Ethel—she could stay the hell in Boston.
A daring idea made Farino lick his thick lips. He’d look around, get set, and grab off one of these perfumed broads from Park Avenue. A swell educated kid that high-hatted you in lace pajamas till you slapped her down and let her see who’s who. After that she’d go for you like a roman candle. Tony’s dark eyes glowed at the thought. He’d seen ’em in the movies; they went all soft and uh-uh for a hard guy who wouldn’t take no.
He shot his cigarette butt out across the dark asphalt and signaled a rolling cab.
“Madison Square,” he told the hackman.
The man took a quick, shrewd look at the overcoat and shoes.
“Yuh mean the Garden, Bud?”
“Listen, monkey; did I say Garden? Dig the dirt outa yer ears. I wanta go to Madison Square on Twenty-third Street.”
He settled back on the cushions with a grunt. That was the way to talk to these wise mugs! Show ’em they weren’t dealin’ with a sap!”
He got out at Twenty-third, glanced at a street sign under a lamp and discovered that the dope had let him out on the wrong side of the park. He took a winding path past benches sparsely filled with shivering bums and walked up Fifth to the north end of the Square. There was a circular metal standard on the curb with a printed sign on it: NUMBER THREE BUSES START HERE.
Farino sat down on a bench and listened to the clock in the Metropolitan Tower chiming the quarter hour. At nine o’clock it chimed again. An empty bus rolled in presently and he got on and climbed to the upper deck.
The conductor was a laugh! He had a cute little plate on his uniform with his name on it: Mr. P. Gilhooley. He held out a little dingus and you shoved a dime in it, which the wise Mick promptly shook out and slipped in his pocket. Tony winked at him. “Okay wit’ me, kid. Make all yuh kin.”
He craned his head with a grunt of awe as the bus passed the Cloud Building. The lighted tower seemed to scrape the cold and distant stars. Jeeze, wotta dump that was!
As he neared Fiftieth his eyes narrowed watchfully. There was a man on the corner standing under the lamp in a brilliant circle of light. The man glanced idly at the approaching bus. He wore a small red flower in his lapel. Farino buzzed the signal bell, clattered down the steps and got off.
The man with the flower turned on his heel and walked south at a fairly rapid pace.
At Forty-ninth he turned west and so did Farino.
The street was a dark, gloomy tunnel. The sidewalk was roofed over with timbers to prevent injury to pedestrians from the construction work of Radio City. The ground floor level was a series of dark, gaping holes, with watchman’s fires burning here and there like windy will-o’-the-wisps.
Farino hastened his steps and the man ahead of him slowed down. A dark sedan stood at the curb a few paces onward.
Farino cleared his throat and obeyed instructions.
He said, hoarsely, “Got a match, Mac?”
“Okay,” the other man nodded.
He was a paunchy, soft-looking man with a fat face and shrewish ferret eyes under straw-colored eyebrows.
He said: “Right on the dot, fella. Good stuff. The Big Guy likes that.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. And don’t talk so tough, Farino. I gotta sore ear.”
They walked to the quiet sedan and the two men got in the back. The chauffeur hunched around and cocked a sleepy eye at them.
“Where’s the big shot’s hangout?” Farino muttered. “Is that where we’re goin’?”
“He’s got a dozen joints, sweetheart. You’re goin’ to one of ’em. And if yuh got any more que
stions, call up information.”
He pulled down the curtains and Farino submitted to being blindfolded.
“Oke?” said the driver.
The man with the light eyebrows said oke.
The sedan jumped away from the deserted curb and bored smoothly along at a careful legal speed.
There was plenty of traffic going south. Tires whined a steady song; horns tooted noisily. The lights ahead were like a long string of magic beads—presto, red!—presto, green! Cars turned in, turned out, an ever changing throng.
But there were a few cars that didn’t change. An inconspicuous Chevy tailed the sedan for a while and then dropped back. A Pontiac breezed along for a half mile. There were at least two Paragon cabs in the procession. And farther back, in constant touch with the changing trailers, rolled a glossy closed delivery wagon that belonged to the Blue Front Grocery Stores.
Blue Front was a subsidiary of Continental Foodstuffs. The chairman of the Continental board was Hiram Vandaman Cutler, the international sports-man and polo player. Hiram Vandaman Cutler had another secret name that his wife and social acquaintances had never heard. He was Mr. Saturday in the Emergency Council for Crime Control. The truck was his—but there were no groceries in it.
The chauffeur of the sedan that carried Mr. Tough Tony Farino glanced dutifully in his mirror from time to time; but he saw nothing in the traffic to alarm him. He was unaware of skillful shadowing.
CHAPTER IV
THE LAST CARD
He drove, finally, into a dim street that was mostly warehouses and factories, with here and there a detached and dilapidated dwelling. Halfway down the block he stopped in front of one of the latter, with his engine purring musically.
The ground floor of the dwelling was an ancient bakery shop, boarded up and empty. There was a “To-Let” sign swinging crazily in the cold night wind. Not a peep of light showed anywhere in the building. The windows were all shuttered tight. Alongside the house was a narrow alley with nothing visible except an empty and lopsided ash-can and a gaunt black cat that skittered away with tail erect.
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