Dillon, who had received detailed orders, began tuning up the powerful motor of the camouflaged armored car.
Pat and Ed entered the private elevator—a luxurious little cave of soft rose lights and onyx fixtures—and ascended swiftly to the penthouse level.
As they stepped out into the foyer the doors of the elevator closed automatically together. The mechanical enunciator in the foyer ceased its warning tak, tak, tak, tak! and the black clad figure of Hawkins advanced courteously.
“The major is waiting for you in the library, gentlemen. He wishes to see you at once. I believe there’s to be an immediate conference.”
“Right,” Corning growled.
The two staff officers handed over their hats and coats and hurried through the foyer. They found a rather glum and subdued Weaver conferring in low tones with Lacy. The little man’s face swung toward them as they entered.
“How’s poor Hogan getting along?” he asked quietly.
“He’s okay,” Pat replied. “Don’t worry about the Sarge, Charlie. He’s a tough toddy!” Pat’s laugh rumbled. “He’s as mad as hell that he’s out of action in case anything develops. That’s all that’s worrying Hogan right now. Got a nasty hole in him but Doc Barton says that barring possible infection and fever, he’ll have him back on his number ten brogans in a week or so.”
“The thing that makes Hogan the sickest,” Corning remarked, “is that the shot that wounded him was fired by one of our own trusted—”
“I know, I know,” Tattersall Lacy muttered irritably. “We’ve all been thinking about that.” He turned to Weaver. “Charles, what about this man Caxton? You’re in charge of recruiting. Was he well recommended?”
“He certainly was, Jack. He has a splendid military record. I went over his papers and citations and verified everything.”
“Ummm… Did he seem queer or moody lately? Has he been acting differently? Or would you say he seemed to you quite normal?”
“I suppose so. I didn’t notice particularly. He’d been away on leave, you know.”
“How’s that? He’s been away?” Lacy looked immediately alert. “Why was he on leave?”
“His sister upstate is very ill and a week ago he applied to me through his corporal and sergeant for permission to visit her. He came back yesterday and reported for duty.”
“I see… Did you observe him closely when he came back?”
“Why, no.” Weaver looked startled. “What are you getting at, Jack? Do you mean to imply that there’s been some kind of substitution? You mean that the man who returned as Caxton might have been a double, an imposter? A spy?”
“I wonder,” Lacy murmured. He drummed rapidly with his lean fingers on the padded arm of his chair.
Harrigan grinned incredulously. “That’s damned nonsense, Jack. I had a quick look at the fella just before he jumped—and he certainly looked like Caxton to me. Hogan thought he was Caxton too.”
“And yet, Pat, he did jump, didn’t he? And he certainly tried to kill me right in this very room. And Hogan is in the hospital with a fresh hole in him from a blazing .45.”
His eyes clouded and he glanced at Corning. “Ed, did you notice anything unusual about the fellow?”
“Sorry, Jack. Can’t help you, I’m afraid. I paid no attention to him at all. I simply took it for granted that he was Caxton. I’ll admit I didn’t talk to him since he came back from his leave.”
Ed sat up suddenly and swore. “Wait a minute! If that guy wasn’t what he seemed, then where’s Caxton? What’s happened to him?”
“Exactly.” The major sounded dry and remote. “If we’ve all been fooled by a clever actor, where’s the man who went away a week ago on leave? Where’s the man whose military record and trustworthiness were investigated and okayed by Charles here? In short, gentlemen, where is private Caxton of Amusement, Inc.?”
“I still think you’re up the wrong tree, Jack,” Harrigan insisted stubbornly. “Men have gone crazy before this. I remember once in Santo Domingo—”
“But not crazy enough to smuggle in a parachute, Pat. An insane marine doesn’t have a printed card ready to hand to a policeman so as to get us some swift and unpleasant newspaper notoriety. Gentlemen, say what you will, this whole thing was planned shrewdly from start to finish. It was a cold-blooded attempt at assassination by a man with enough guts and daring—or fear, maybe—to try murder in the heart of our guarded headquarters. And to make a ghastly leap into space.”
He swung his gaze at Pat. “Would you have jumped, Pat?”
“Not me,” the redhead grunted. “I’ll take a chance any time; but not that kind of a chance.”
“There’s only one man I can think of who can frighten his hirelings to a point of desperation like that. He’s the man who accepts no excuse for failure.”
“The Ace,” Corning muttered. “Remember what happened to the Man in the Top Hat?”
Tattersall Lacy closed his eyes suddenly. He was trying to recall more vividly the face of the man who had jumped. The telephone rang suddenly and Lacy answered it.
“Hello?” His eyes flashed with a watchful flame. “Yes, Yes! Just a moment before you say a word. Are you in a soundproof booth? Excellent. Keep your voice low but distinct. Full report please, from the moment you left.”
His lips jerked away from the transmitter and he spat a single explanatory word: “McManus!” McManus was the marine who had descended swiftly to the street in the penthouse elevator before the major’s maddened assailant jumped. The three staff officers of Amusement, Inc. sat forward on the edges of their chairs, watching narrowly, trying to make out the faint metallic buzzing that came from the receiver.
It was exclusively a one-way conversation. Lacy said nothing at all. He listened intently, making hasty pencil notes on a small scratch pad at his elbow. Once or twice he nodded, but his face remained expressionless.
He said, finally: “Very well done, McManus! Remain where you have described—in the clearing—until I have you relieved. If the—er—party leaves the house in the meantime, follow him at once and report his movements by telephone the first chance you get. There will be someone here on duty in headquarters to receive such messages and forward them if necessary. And—McManus!” His voice purred like a kitten. “Keep alert!”
He hung up and faced his three associates with a flinty smile.
“We seem to have stumbled upon a most promising lead, gentlemen. McManus kept his eyes open and stuck close to Caxton from the very moment he wriggled away from the patrolman and vanished like a chip in a millrace. He hailed a cab and drove to the West Side subway, popped calmly underground and boarded the first Van Cortlandt Park train that came into the station. So did McManus—in a rear car of the same train. The fugitive apparently made no effort to dodge a shadower.”
“Isn’t that a bit queer?” Weaver asked in his worried tone.
“Certainly it’s queer, Charles. The whole damned thing is queer. It’s possible that Caxton may have deliberately encouraged a shadow. If he did, it means only one thing—a trap. But trap or no trap, he’s our one link with the Scarlet Ace. And by everything holy, gentlemen, we’re going to investigate.”
“Where did the trail lead?” Harrigan asked.
“It led right to the end of the subway line at Van Cortlandt Park. Caxton descended from the elevated structure to the street, hired a taxi at the cab stand and drove north. McManus thought fast and acted shrewdly. Instead of following in another cab and arousing Caxton’s suspicions he made a note of the license plate and hung around out of sight until the taxi returned. He slipped the driver a ten dollar bill and got the address without any difficulty. He pretended to be a private dick on an adultery case. He’s on duty now at a place where he can watch the road leading to the grounds. So far Caxton is still there too. Unless he slipped out while McManus was telephoning.”
�
�Grounds?” Ed Corning asked. “What is this place, an estate or something?”
“Something of that sort. It’s beyond the Riverdale district on Tarleton Road. According to McManus the house is a dilapidated, unkempt looking old dwelling set back from the road in spacious grounds. It’s surrounded by a weedy lawn and uncut shrubbery that hasn’t been trimmed in six months. There’s a low stone wall along the road and a big wooden ‘For Sale’ sign at the entrance. Nothing around it for a mile or so but scrub oak. According to McManus, the fugitive Caxton went into this apparently empty house and he hasn’t come out since.”
“Tarleton Road,” Harrigan mused slowly. “Must be somewhere pretty close to the Hudson.” For answer Tattersall Lacy arose, walked to the east wall of the library and touched a spring. Panels slid smoothly aside and revealed a large rectangular map of New York City and its environs. On it was etched in tiny microscopic detail, streets, transportation lines, airports, ferries, bridges, tunnels. Red inked asterisks marked the map here and there but the major paid no attention to these symbols of past adventures. His long finger traced upward toward Riverdale and beyond.
Behind him Weaver smiled as Lacy’s finger passed smoothly over an asterisk in the upper city. The ink-spot was a prosaic reminder of a wild, windy night when Harry Lipper, the Torch King, had died from a bullet in Lacy’s gun, with the flames from a burning building bathing his smug well-fed face with mocking scarlet. At that time Lipper’s death had seemed like an important victory in the war on organized and interlocking crime. They knew differently now—these somber eyed men in the lofty penthouse.
The existence of an astute criminal overlord had never even been suspected. It was only as Lacy climbed the rungs patiently from lesser to greater scoundrels that the hidden figure of the Scarlet Ace emerged. He was out in the open now behind the mystery of his blood-red mask.
The major’s slim finger paused on the map. “Here we are. Tarleton Road. You were right, Pat. It’s fairly close to the river. There’s the railroad line; and here’s a dot which I presume is a local station. Mmmmm… Ed, fetch me the detail survey map for this particular sector. B-47, please. Better get out B-48 too.”
After a while Lacy nodded. He shoved the detail maps aside and the twinkle that dry little Weaver loved come into his eyes.
“How many men available for immediate duty, Charles?”
“Eleven, sir.”
“Plenty. Issue the necessary orders. Better make Minsky acting sergeant. How are we on transportation? Have the Grey Goose people finished overhauling our—er—passenger bus?” Weaver nodded.
“Have it gassed then and equipped immediately. Notify Sergeant Dillon to have the staff car ready for a quick run to Riverdale. Hawkins will take care of any phone calls that may come in from McManus. I’ll arrange a relay in case it’s necessary.”
“Any other orders, sir?”
“I fancy that’s all, Charles, except—”
He clapped the little man briskly on the shoulder. “Except speed, my boy! Speed and precision, eh? Bundle along, Charles!”
Weaver disappeared toward the barrack rooms in the rear of the penthouse. The huge suite that housed Amusement, Inc., covered the better part of two floors. The major, rich as he was, could never have begun to afford the rent it was legitimately worth. As a matter of fact, he paid no rent at all. The explanation was simple; it dated back to the formation of the Emergency Council for Crime Control.
There were six directors on that Council, answering only to code names based on the days of the week. The Council provided the sinews of war, Tattersall Lacy the field leadership. The chairman of the corporation which had financed and built the towering skyscraper answered to another name which newspaper readers had never heard of. He was simply Mr. Wednesday. Which would have interested the Scarlet Ace, had he known…
Pat Harrigan’s broad back moved toward the window. He stared out at the busy smoke plumes of Manhattan. His big fist clenched as he beheld the world’s greatest city in its outspread beauty of steel and stone and circling rivers. A city plundered daily by thieves and murderers.
Pat was no lawyer. He had small use for writs, indictments or courtrooms. Bullet for bullet was Pat’s simple code; death for death. That was all those slimy rats understood!
He stared out the window at the city he had been born in and he made his belligerent little prayer:
“Please, God, we grab the Ace red-handed in that house in Riverdale! Please God, I sneak past the major and get in there first!”
Pat was quite a religious guy.
A big Grey Goose bus lumbered up through the great stone archway of the Cloud Building and turned into Sixth Avenue. It rolled north under the striped stilts of the elevated structure for a few blocks and then swung over to Broadway.
The destination sign on the bus was marked SPECIAL. The sides were draped with frayed bunting; and on the rear an oilcloth poster flapped in the breeze. On the poster was stenciled in faded lettering:
ANNUAL OUTING—TIMOTHY O’FLANNIGAN ASSOCIATION
The bus, like the car that preceded it up Broadway was not exactly what a casual eye might suppose. Its chassis was a specially braced job; its sides were armored with thin plate from floor to windowsill; under each window, in a slotted recess, were steel shutters that could be raised at a moment’s notice.
Lean looking men with ruddy outdoor faces rode inside the bus. Behind the draped chintz curtains on the windows they lolled pleasantly on upholstered leather seats, smoked cigarettes, kidded one another. They wore dark grey suits, tan shirts, black ties. Their snap-brim hats were all the same color—pearl grey.
In the racks over their heads were unpainted wooden boxes that might contain lunch but didn’t. Webbed belts sagged heavy with ammunition, each with a bayonet in its swinging scabbard. Springfield rifles hung neatly suspended on double hooks.
The job of driving that heavy bus was a cinch for the tobacco chewing bozo behind the wheel. He had learned on Nash Quads and Four Wheel Drives, bumping along between hell and heaven with Jerry shrapnel to help him along.
He kept the bus monotonously to Broadway. Ditto for the staff car that kept always a block or two ahead. At Kingsbridge Road a red light brought them side by side and a swift signal passed between Sergeant Dillon and the driver of the bus.
The sedan immediately increased its speed until it became a dot far ahead and finally passed from sight. It reached Van Cortlandt Park, turned west toward the hills of Riverdale and so came at last to Tarleton Road.
“Not too fast, Dillon,” Tattersall Lacy cautioned.
Dillon obeyed like an automaton without the slightest sign that he heard the order. He was Lacy’s personal chauffeur; he always drove the staff car. Weaver and Corning sat on either side of the major. Pat Harrigan’s beefy body was like a squatting mountain on one of the folding seats. Corning made sly cracks about it and offered him a newspaper to read.
They watched Tarleton Road slip by. It was a narrow macadamized highway that cut along the base of wooded green hills like a winding dusty ribbon. The car passed a crossroad presently where there was a huddle of frame stores and a one story grocery shack. This was the spot from where the patient McManus had telephoned. Lacy’s keen eye noticed the familiar blue and white telephone sign outside as they sped by.
A mile or two beyond the crossroad Lacy said curtly: “Left turn, Sergeant!” and Dillon slowed and spun his wheel.
They turned into a rutted dirt lane that wound into the scrub oak and widened out in a small clearing. A path led from the clearing toward a low stone wall that was almost covered by underbrush and a thick tangle of trailing creepers.
Beyond this side wall was the house they had come to raid. The house itself was invisible from the clearing.
There was no sign of private McManus. “That’s funny,” Weaver said in a low voice. “Wasn’t McManus supposed to wait here, Jack?”<
br />
Lacy didn’t bother answering the question. He turned to Corning:
“Ed, get back to the road right away. Slide along cautiously till you reach the front wall of the estate. Take a careful look at the house without exposing yourself. Weaver, you wait at the head of the lane and see that the bus turns in here as quietly as possible when it arrives.”
“Do you think there’s anything wrong, Jack?”
“Of course there’s something wrong,” Lacy snapped irritably. “Damn it man, use your head! McManus was supposed to be here. He isn’t. He’s not the man to walk away from his post and pick daisies. He’s been captured! It proves, I’m afraid, what I suspected. Caxton knew he was being trailed to this hangout! He must have had orders to lead McManus—and us—deliberately to this spot.”
“Then the Scarlet Ace,” Corning growled, “doesn’t give a good damn whether we raid him or not. Is that what you mean?”
The major shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine, Ed. Get going!”
Corning stepped obediently down the road to reconnoiter the house from the front wall. Weaver went with him to flag the bus at the head of the lane. Lacy poked carefully around in the little clearing in a patient search for some sort of clue that might throw light on the mysterious disappearance of McManus.
He found a cigarette butt or two, but nothing else. If McManus had been surprised and captured it must have happened swiftly. The thick growth of weeds showed no signs of a struggle.
A low rumble sounded and the big camouflaged bus of Amusement, Inc., backed up the narrow lane. Under Charlie Weaver’s low voiced commands the men piled out in disciplined haste and began assembling and distributing equipment.
The thud of heavy feet sounded. Ed Corning was racing back from his inspection tour in panting haste.
“They’ve got McManus!” he cried breathlessly. “They’ve got him in the house somewhere!” Harrigan swore.
The Pulp Hero Page 8
