The Pulp Hero

by Theodore A. Tinsley

  “And there were twenty-five of them—twenty-five vicious, depraved criminals who can no more rid themselves of the urge to evil than a leopard can change its spots. Those men are loose somewhere in the country, hiding out, planning death and destruction!”

  The Agent had spoken forcefully, eloquently, with a purpose. Now, Leane sat tensely, gripped by the picture of menace that his words had evoked. She listened raptly as he continued.

  He was still smiling for the benefit of those at the other tables. But his words were in deadly earnest.

  “It goes without saying that they did not escape without outside help. Therefore there must be someone, somewhere, who knows about them, perhaps holds the secret of their present hiding place. So far all the forces of the law haven’t turned up a single clue.” His voice dropped even lower than before.

  “I want to find those men! I am asking everybody with whom I have contacts to keep their eyes open—to watch for any little hint that may be of help. I am asking you to observe carefully everything that happens here in the Diamond Club; and for a very good reason—Baylor and Nagle, two of the escaped convicts, used to be ‘Duke’ Marcy’s private gunmen. It is just possible that Marcy may have had something to do with the escape. Keep constantly alert, report everything to me no matter how trivial—”

  She interrupted him, her face suddenly flushed.

  “I think I can tell you something, Mr. Vardis. Baylor and Nagle—I’ve heard their names mentioned here, but it slipped my mind until you just brought them up. It was on the very day of the jail break, too. Linky Teagle had come in to see ‘Duke’ Marcy. You know Linky Teagle?”

  “Yes. I’ve seen him around. He used to be Marcy’s pay-off man.”

  She nodded nervously. “That’s right, Mr. Vardis. Teagle and Marcy came out of the private office in back, past the dressing room. I had come in early, and I was resting there. They thought they were alone, and I heard Teagle say, ‘Baylor and Nagle are in on it, too, Duke.’ Marcy said something I couldn’t hear, and then they stepped out of the hall. At the time, the names didn’t mean anything to me, so I paid no attention. But now—”

  The Agent leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming on the table. “Teagle!” he repeated. “Teagle would never talk. However, it’s worth trying. Thanks, Leane.”

  “Another thing,” she went on swiftly. “Marcy had been staying away from here more and more, until a couple of days ago. Just yesterday he began spending more time here. His old girlfriend, Mabel Boling, with whom he’s supposed to have broken off, has been here to see him twice today, and twice yesterday. She comes in the back way, and goes right to his office. Everybody is supposed to think they’re angry at each other, but it’s not so. They’re up to something, those two.”

  The soft music of the waltz hardly made it necessary to raise the voice above a whisper. Leane watched the calm face of Mr. Vardis as he cogitated the information she had just given him. She felt almost as if she were under a spell beneath the keen, penetrating eyes that burned in that otherwise austere face. Though she knew nothing about Mr. Vardis, except that a friend of her fiancé’s had recommended him highly, she felt that she could trust him, that the fortunes of herself and her sweetheart were secure in his hands.2

  She started to speak again. “If Linky Teagle should come here again—”

  Suddenly she stopped, lowered her eyes, and her voice changed to a casual, conversational tone. “I’m so thankful that I have this job, Mr. Vardis. It’s easy work, and the pay is good—”

  No muscle of Mr. Vardis’ face moved to show that he was aware of the reason for the sudden change of tone. But he had noted as quickly as Leane, the shadows that suddenly stood near the table. One was their waiter, carefully carrying a musty wine bottle which he held in a napkin. The other was a huge man, faultlessly attired in evening clothes—“Duke” Marcy himself.

  While the waiter poured the wine, “Duke” Marcy bowed first to Leane, then to Mr. Vardis, as Leane introduced him. Marcy spoke in a soft, unctuous voice that went ill with his tremendous physique. He said, “Forgive me for taking the liberty of stepping over to your table. I was eager to meet this friend of Miss Manners, who displays such an excellent taste in ordering wines.” His eyes followed the almost caressing hands of the waiter who handled the bottle. “Only a connoisseur of the first rank would order Montrachet of the vintage of 1904. It is the only bottle we have. I had hoped to preserve it for my own use.”

  Mr. Vardis, who had arisen, said politely, “You will join us, of course?”

  As “Duke” Marcy seated himself in the chair which the waiter brought, he said with a grand gesture, “No, Mr. Vardis, I am not joining you. You are joining me. This bottle of Montrachet comes with the compliments of the house!”

  Mr. Vardis accepted graciously. Leane Manners fidgeted as they sipped the exquisite Burgundy. Marcy’s eyes were veiled throughout the conversation that followed. As he turned from Vardis to Leane in the course of the talk, the huge muscles of his shoulders and upper arms showed in rippling undulations through his dress jacket. The corded veins of his thick, squat neck moved as he spoke. He seemed capable, should the occasion arise, of taking a man like Mr. Vardis and breaking him in his hands.

  Leane’s hand shook as she sought Vardis’ eyes. Had Marcy heard her utter the name of Linky Teagle? Was he playing with them?

  The waltz ended, and as Marcy turned for a moment to view the next number of the floor show, Leane caught a distinct flicker of the eyelid from Mr. Vardis, and a slight nod of reassurance. She smiled once more, relieved. She trusted him implicitly.

  Marcy evinced no disposition to leave. He seemed bent on outstaying Mr. Vardis.

  When this became apparent, Mr. Vardis rose, excusing himself. There was no point in his remaining now. The single name that the girl had uttered had been sufficient for him. There were some other things that he wanted to know, but he could get the other information elsewhere. He bowed in courtly fashion over Leane’s hand, shook hands with Marcy.

  Marcy’s huge paw encircled his own hand, and Marcy, grinning, with his eyes narrow-slitted, began to exert pressure. It was his favorite means of instilling respect in men he met. That crushing bear grip of his brought sweat to men’s foreheads, left them weak and tingling, with their right hand useless for hours afterwards.

  But now, Marcy’s brows contracted in surprise. This man was his match.

  Leane, who knew that trick of Marcy’s, watched breathlessly, helpless to stop the pain she knew was going to be inflicted on her friend. But suddenly she sighed in relief as she saw Mr. Vardis’ hand wriggle slightly, clasp itself about Marcy’s big paw, and contract.

  Mr. Vardis’ hands were slim, long fingered and powerful. The tips of the fingers barely met behind Marcy’s knuckles, yet Marcy winced. Only a second did Vardis continue the punishing grip, then he suddenly released his hold, still smiling courteously. Once more he bowed to Leane, and made his way leisurely toward the door.

  Marcy gazed after him with a puzzled expression. He said to Leane, “Say, girlie, that friend of yours is no slouch.” His lower lip protruded slightly, his eyes became pinpoint. “I’ll have to pay more attention to him in the future!”

  CHAPTER III

  LINKY TEAGLE

  Mr. Vardis had excused himself at the Diamond Club, stating that he had an appointment for which he was late. But upon leaving the place, he no longer seemed to be in a hurry. Instead, he strolled down Broadway in a leisurely manner, and entered a cigar store. He stepped into the telephone booth and dialed a number that was not in any book. Almost at once, a precise voice came over the wire. “Bates talking.”

  Vardis asked, “Who is on duty tonight, Bates?” Bates recognized the voice, answered quickly, “Stegman and Oliver, sir. They are here now, awaiting orders.”

  “Good,” said Mr. Vardis. “Have them go out and inquire around cautiously. I want to
know where Linky Teagle can be found tonight. I will call back in an hour.”3

  Bates repeated the orders crisply to be sure he had them right. “Information is wanted as to the whereabouts of Linky Teagle. It is wanted within an hour.” He paused a moment, and “X” heard him issuing swift instructions at the other end. Then his voice came again. “Okay, sir. Stegman and Oliver have left. Anything else?”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Vardis. “What reports have you on the robot murders?”

  “Nothing helpful, sir,” regretfully. “All the witnesses of the crimes who have been interviewed by our men swear that the murderers are a strange race of robots. They did not talk, and they walked stiffly, as automatons do. The four murders reported have netted them large sums of cash and were all attended by an absolute lack of mercy. In no case were the victims warned, or threatened. In fact, no word was spoken. The robots merely shot to kill, then walked off with the money.”

  “I know all that,” Mr. Vardis said shortly. “I will call you back every hour from now on. Have the men circulate in the underworld; let them try for any kind of lead to these robots. Any further reports now?”

  “Only one, sir. The man who is shadowing ‘Duke’ Marcy reports that Marcy has done nothing suspicious today, in fact seems to be busy running the Diamond Club. The only thing of possible interest was a short conversation that Marcy had only a few minutes ago with a stranger named Vardis. Our man recommends looking up this Vardis.”

  “Vardis is all right,” said Mr. Vardis. “I know all about him. Proceed with the investigation of the robot murders, and with the matter of Linky Teagle.”

  Mr. Vardis left the telephone booth and walked east, purchasing an evening paper on the way. He turned in at a dilapidated brownstone house west of Sixth Avenue. This was one of a row that had deteriorated into boarding houses for down-at-heels theatrical people. Mr. Vardis had been able to secure the basement floor at a nominal rental, and he lived here alone, coming at odd times, going as he pleased, with no one to note his actions, which were, at times, more or less surprising. Now, in the seclusion of an inner room, he set himself to scan the paper carefully, studying the reports of the so-called “robot murders.”

  A great deal of space was devoted to them, for they bore all the qualities of sensational terror that aided in the building of newspaper circulation.

  The first of them had occurred the day before yesterday, and had been attended with an exhibition of daring, ingenuity and ruthlessness that had left the city gasping.

  At eleven-thirty at night, four figures had strutted stiffly into the office of the cashier on the mezzanine floor of the Grand Central Station. This was the office where all the ticket clerks brought their cash from the ticket windows on the upper level of the station. It was estimated that the cash on hand exceeded twenty thousand dollars.

  The four figures might have been men—they had the faces and bodies of men—except for the fact that they moved stiffly, jerkily, like automatons, and never uttered a word. They bore a striking facial resemblance to each other—so much so, that they might have all been cast from a single mould. Their faces were youthful in appearance, pleasant and harmless looking. But they quickly demonstrated that they were far from harmless. For they drew automatics with silencers attached, and shot to death the cashier, the assistant cashier, and a guard on duty in the office.

  Then they scooped up the cash in sacks which they produced from under their clothing, and boldly marched out through the lower level exit. It was not until they were well away that the bodies of the murdered men were found in the office. The assistant cashier lived long enough to tell the story to the police.

  The police might not have believed the story in its entirety, even though the four robots had attracted attention in their march through the station, had there not come in swiftly upon the heels of this crime, the news of three other robberies committed at almost the same time by men answering the same description. In one case a patrolman on the beat where the robbery took place had seen them escaping with a sack of loot from a local post office, and had emptied his service thirty-eight at them. Bystanders swore that every one of the patrol-man’s shots had struck the robots, yet they were not wounded. Instead, one of the robots turned as if impelled by some mechanical device, raised its gun and fired at the policeman, killing him instantly.

  For three days now those robberies had continued with impunity, the robots striking in parts of the city where they were least expected, always avoiding spots where the police had massed to trap them. The city was growing panicky. Deputy Commissioner Pringle, in charge while Commissioner Foster was away in Europe, had cancelled all leaves, had every available man on duty.

  Mr. Vardis put down the paper, clenched his hands tightly. His eyes were bleak, almost fathomless. This menace of inhuman robots devoted to crime was a possibility that he had often envisaged with dread—not for himself, but for the community where they would strike. For it was inevitable that at some time or other there would arise a criminal with a mind of such scientific skill, of such devilish ingenuity, that it might develop such robots to do its work.

  Such a criminal would be difficult to combat, for he would be clever, dangerous; he would remain hidden in security while his machines robbed and killed. And even if some of those machine-like fiends of man’s creative skill should be caught or disabled, the criminal himself would still be free to continue in his diabolical traffic.

  If this thing had arisen now, it was a most inopportune time for the agencies of law enforcement, because of the added menace of those twenty-five hard-bitten convicts who were still at large, and who might be heard from at any moment now—also with reports of pillage and murder.

  The newspaper flares about these escaped criminals had not died down yet, even after a month. The accounts of the nationwide search being conducted for them shared honors with the robot murders. In addition to the rewards offered by the government, many individual newspapers were offering large sums for information leading to their capture—dead or alive. But no amount of tempting cash reward had so far succeeded in coaxing a single hint as to their whereabouts. Were they out of the country? The editorial writers hoped so—for, though it might reflect on America’s penal institutions that these convicts had been able to make a clean getaway, yet thousands of citizens would sleep easier if they were sure that those vicious men were no longer a hidden menace to their families.

  “X” was almost certain that they were still somewhere in the country, hiding in some extremely clever retreat until they were ready to make their presence felt. The task of locating them, however, seemed utterly hopeless. He had reports from his agents everywhere—with not a single helpful hint among them.

  So far, the only lead he had was the name which Leane Manners had spoken—that of Linky Teagle, “Duke” Marcy’s former pay-off man. “X” knew him as a crook of a low order of intelligence, who, since Marcy had turned from bootlegging to other, possibly more subtly insidious enterprises, had existed as a hanger-on at the fringe of the aristocracy of the underworld.

  It was his business to “spot lays” for daring hold-ups, to “put the finger” on likely looking victims for kidnap plans; it was quite likely that a man like him would know where those escaped convicts were hiding out—but very unlikely that he would impart this information to a casual questioner. His very value to the underworld lay in the fact that he could be relied upon not to talk under any circumstances. Many a time had he been sweated in headquarters, “put through the mill,” but never had he uttered a word of betrayal. Teagle must be handled in a skillful manner to be induced to disclose information.

  Mr. Vardis opened a cunningly concealed door in the wall of his room. A closet was disclosed, containing a row of filing cabinets. From one of the drawers labeled “G,” he took a thick folder, and proceeded to examine its contents carefully.

  The name on the edge of this folder was “Gilly”4—a
name he had good cause to remember. It was also the name of one of those twenty-five vicious criminals who had been released from State Prison.

  Delving into the folder, Mr. Vardis picked out several sheets which were clipped together. They were headed, “Friends of Gilly.” Among them was a sheet containing photographs, side and back, of one John Harder, once an associate of Gilly’s. Harder was a fugitive from justice in the Middle West, and there was very little likelihood of Gilly’s having been in touch with him recently.

  Mr. Vardis placed these photographs on a little dressing table in one corner, turned on a strong daylight bulb, and spread out the contents of a flat black box which he withdrew from a drawer. This box contained all the material necessary to change the appearance of his face; a wide range of pigments, specially prepared plastic material, face plates of different sizes and degrees of concavity, nose plates, even sets of plates of various sizes to slip over the teeth.5

  The long, facile fingers worked swiftly. Under their deft manipulation, the face of Mr. Vardis began to melt, finally disappeared, revealing for an instant the true features of that man of mystery—Secret Agent “X.” They were young, strong features, expressive of indomitable will, high intelligence, keenness and courage. They were features that no man now living could boast of ever having seen.

  Only for a moment did that powerful face remain under the glare of the daylight bulb. The long skillful fingers worked surely, efficiently, and shortly there appeared the face of John Harder—the fugitive from justice, the friend of Gilly, the gunman.

  An hour later of that same evening a man might have been seen making his way west across Times Square, hat brim pulled down and coat collar turned up against the steady drizzle that was slanting downward out of a pitch-black sky. Any policeman in New York would have recognized the features of that man if he had looked into his face; for they were the features of the notorious John Harder, wanted for murder in three states, whose picture had been broadcast in every newspaper in the country.