Artemis set to work on his device. There was a curled grin on his face and his eyes seemed to be staring through the device he worked on. It was like his brain was mapping the work out and his hands were following without need of his eyes. Rosco stood and watched unnoticed. He had no comprehension of what was transpiring. He wished only for his friend to be happy.
Rosco finally moved to the small bed he had set up. He knew his friend would be at it all night and would not require his assistance. He laid his head down and was snoring in no time. He dreamed of simple things as simple people do.
The next morning Rosco awoke to his name being reverberated throughout the warehouse. Artemis was obviously in need of him. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and headed for the lab. He arrived to see Artemis sitting there with the head-set on and a twisted smile and piercing bloodshot eyes. Artemis raised a fist and spoke like a warlord who had conquered some battlefield.
“I’ve done it, Rosco! I have figured out what this Crime Spectacularist did to interrupt my device. I have taken measures so that this will never happen again.” Artemis gave Rosco a very simple list of things he needed and instructions to have the van ready by seven that night. He would again prove his genius by crushing Foster Fade.
***
Fade had the Planet abuzz with activity. He had emptied the place of all but a few police officers disguised as newspaper people. He had all his little gadgets in place including a special set of rubber soled boots he had just finished that day. Now it was just a matter of waiting to see if his bait drew the rat into the trap.
The front desk of the Planet was manned by a policeman so when Artemis and Rosco entered the Planet followed by a large pack of rats, calmness prevailed. The officer, though packing heat, had no choice but to follow Artemis’s instructions as the rats surrounded him from all ends. He calmly directed Artemis to the elevators that would take him up to the fortieth floor. The officer hit a small button along the desk alerting Fade that Artemis was there. It was all he could do, as the rats were left to keep an eye on the lobby.
Fade approached the control panel for his jamming device and flipped a few switches and threw a few buttons. The device hummed into action sending its jamming waves out. Little did he know that they were having no effect on the rats down below. Fade approached his desk and watched the glass screen to await the approach of the madman. He didn’t have to wait long before Artemis and Rosco were standing outside his door. Fade was almost in disbelief that a black man in a wheelchair with a black halfwit could accomplish the things they had. He guessed the descriptions were right after all.
Fade took a deep breath and hoped that his plans would pan out. If not, he knew he would be up the proverbial creek without a paddle. He drew a deep breath as he approached the door to greet the man and his lackey. He opened the door and stood straight in front of the wheelchair with his feet spread apart to mimic the width of the chair. The two stared silently for a second and it was in this instance that Fade pushed down on the backs of his heels. In that instance, a small stream of liquid that shot forward from each booth splashing unnoticed on the wheel chair’s tires.
Fade stepped back as the lackey wheeled the madman into his office. Fade noticed the headset and the glare of pure hatred in the man’s eyes. He moved to a spot so that his foot sat perfectly at the edge of a line patterned in his rug. He spoke then.
“It seems, my friend, that you are quite an inventor. I have however figured out how to thwart your plans.”
The man in the wheel chair chuckled unamused, then with a sinister smile he finally spoke. “My dear Mr. Foster Fade—The Crime Spectacularist—you have been as much trouble as a simple gnat that one swats when he becomes annoying, or a roach that one crushes beneath his boot. That is what I am here to do this night—to swat you like the gnat that you are.”
Fade wiped some sweat from his forehead. “Well you have me at a disadvantage. You seem to know my name but I have no idea who you are.”
The man chuckled again. “What is in a name, Mr. Fade? It will serve you no purpose, but as a—shall we say last request?—I will tell you. I am Artemis Gray, a name that will soon strike fear into every person in this city. My friend is Rosco.”
“Well, Artemis, why don’t you do yourself a favor and give it up? I am sure the nice men at the padded room hotel will give you and your friend lots of neat stuff to play with.”
Artemis just laughed at this notion, a loud and obnoxious laugh. Then he spoke in a cold and drull voice. “I am afraid, Mr. Fade, that your time in the spotlight has come to an end.” He raised his hand and snapped his fingers and the lackey jumped out producing a burlap sack which he was intent upon opening. Fade jumped into action, lifting the arm with the wristwatch and pushing the little button. There was a low hiss and Rosco slapped at his neck, pulling the small dart that his probing fingers discovered. This didn’t stop him though as he snarled and readied the sack to launch at Fade.
Fade reacted quickly and twisted his right knee a certain way, again there was a light hiss, and again Rosco clawed at his neck. This time though the dart did its job and the man fell to the ground unconscious. The sack upon dropping however, opened enough to expose its content.
Fade stood in momentary shock as he stared face to face with two black mambas. These were two of the deadliest snakes on the planet, and from the looks in their eyes, he was their target. Fade had only one shot, he pushed down on a secret pressure switch that he had lined his foot with. Instantly, special coils of thin wire that were literally weaved into the pattern of the rug were charged with electricity. The snakes hissed and jumped about, before finally writhing no more, unconscious or hopefully…dead.
Fade looked at Artemis and noticed he had a blank stare about him. There was no movement other than some twitching of his cheek muscles. Then the headset began to smoke. Artemis sat there with mouth agape and drool hanging from his lip. It was over. Artemis would never be the same. Foster Fade had triumphed yet again—in spectacular fashion.
***
The next day, the office had been cleaned up and Fade sat at his desk, tinkering with another gadget. The phone began to ring which brought an instant grimace to his face. “Din!” He shouted. After two more rings and no answer from the platinum blond, Fade muttered some expletives and, setting the gadget down, yanked the receiver from its cradle.
“Fade…wait…hold on a second damnit…it what?” Fade listened, trying to get in a word edgewise. “A million dollars in gold bullion just vanished into thin air from the Reserve. Yup, definitely sounds like something that would be right up my alley Inspector.” Fade hung up the phone and rushed out the door. Another spectacular case awaited.
THE END
GRUDGE MATCH
by H. David Blalock
Chapter 1
FADE IS ACCUSED
There is an old saying that 3:00 AM is the midnight of the soul.
The Planet employees—the inkers and letterers as well as the machinists and deliverymen—had no inkling of the event that would shortly impact them all. The presses at the Planet were being prepped for the morning edition when the first explosion happened.
On the fortieth floor of the Planet building, Foster Fade was in his apartment suite, dreaming peacefully about his coming fishing trip to the Poconos. Just as he was about to land a record trout, the raucous jangling of his telephone dragged him back to reality. He blinked blearily as he fumbled for the handset, knocking over his alarm clock in the process. The face on the timepiece shattered on impact, further jarring his already raw nerves.
“What is it?” he growled into the phone.
“It's your fault, Fade,” a high-pitched, squeaky voice said. “Remember that. Your fault.”
The line went dead.
Fade looked at the phone. Had he dreamed that? He jiggled the cradle hook.
“Operator,” came the tinny response of a bored voice.
“This is Foster Fade. Did you just route a call to me?”
“Who was it?”
“I'm sorry, Mr. Fade. I didn't ask.”
Of course she didn't, he thought. Why should she? “Never mind,” he mumbled and hung up.
He fished the broken clock off the floor. Its last report had been 3:07. He took one of the slippers by the bed and swept the broken glass under the nightstand. He turned over and went back to sleep.
***
Fade overslept. It was nearly midmorning before he stuffed his lanky, nearly seven-foot body into the shower. He passed a hand perfunctorily through his perpetually disheveled hair and turned on the radio. The story of the explosions was already circulating, but he wasn't listening too closely. He was going over the checklist for his fishing trip in his head as he washed up. Finally, he headed downstairs for breakfast in the little cafe. It might be a little late for it, but the dolls in the cafe were very accommodating when it came to his little eccentricities.
As usual the lobby was bustling, but he ignored the gawking tourists looking at the huge rotating metal globe that dominated the chamber and the maps of the world spread all on the walls. They were murmuring at the impressive extent of the modernistic architecture. About an hour later, toothpick digging at the remnants of his bacon and eggs, he pressed the button for the elevator and idly watched as the indicator swung down from 30.
“Mr. Fade!”
A boy of about twelve in short trouser pants and sporting a Yankees’ baseball cap ran up to him. Fade smiled as the boy skidded to a stop. The little fellow was one of a troop of street gophers working for loose change. Over the last few months, Fade had gotten used to him being underfoot.
“Hello, Tim. What gives?” he asked.
“Two tough looking customers just went up to forty,” the boy said breathlessly. “Be careful.”
He yanked off the cap, tousled the kid's towhead, then jammed his hat back on. “Thanks, pal. I will. Run some sandwiches up for Din, will ya? Tell 'em to put it on my account. Get one for yourself while you're at it.”
Tim smiled broadly. “You betcha, Mr. Fade.”
The elevator door opened.
“Good morning, Mr. Fade,” the operator droned gruffly. Like all the operators in the building, he was powerfully built. The Planet made sure their elevator operators often doubled as company security.
Fade stepped inside, saluting the boy, who scurried off to his task. “Morning,” he said absently to the operator.
The doors closed and the room rose in response to the operator's urging.
Fade reached his office to find Dinaminta Stevens sitting at her desk in the outer office with a wry smile. She was a strikingly beautiful lass, a platinum blonde with the voluptuous figure of Mae West and the soft looks of Veronica Lake. Her maroon beret matched the Chanel suit she wore and somehow never wrinkled. It was her pen that made Fade famous with the Crime Spectacularist articles in the Planet. In shocking contrast to her looks, her writing was full of violence and gore.
“You been a bad boy, boss?” she asked, raising one pretty eyebrow.
“Not recently that I know of. Why?”
She tilted her head toward the door to his office. “Two detectives waiting in there, and they're unhappy about something.”
The Planet's articles on the Crime Spectacularist often depicted the police as all but incompetent. Fade knew this was not going to be pleasant.
“You know, a lot of the reason they hate me has to do with you and your fictions,” he needled her.
She batted her eyes innocently. “I just write the truth, Fade. Is it my fault they come off the way they do?”
Fade shook his head. “Call the Marines if I'm not out in five minutes.”
He straightened his coat and opened the door to the office.
There wasn't that much difference between them in appearance. Nondescript gray suits, spit-shined wingtips, thin black ties. They stood impatiently with arms crossed, facing the door as he entered.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said to them. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“What do you know about the paper mill bombing?” one of them asked.
“Bombing?” Fade repeated as he walked to sit behind his desk.
The other detective dropped a piece of paper on it. “This was delivered to the precinct this morning.”
Fade bent forward and looked. It was an article about the Crime Spectacularist and a murder mystery containing bugs and bad guys.
“So?” he asked.
The detective handed him another paper. It was a note made of letters cut from several glossy magazines.
IT’S FADES FAULT. EXPECT MORE. 03121230
Fade looked from the note to the detective. “What's my fault?”
“You tell us. That was found at the paper mill.”
Fade leaned back. The telephone call the night before leaped to mind, but he wasn't going to let these flatfoots know. “I don't know anything about it.”
The detective leaned on his desk. He smelled of old coffee and gun oil. “Then why does the note say it was your fault?”
“How should I know?” Fade countered, returning the man's glower.
“Look,” the policeman said, pointing a finger at him. “If you had anything to do with this you better come clean. It'll go easier for you.”
“Why would I blow up a paper mill?” Fade asked, exasperated. “I have reservations at the Poconos for a fishing trip.”
“What does it mean by 'expect more'?” the detective pressed.
Fade closed his eyes and sighed. “I already told you, I don't know anything about it.”
The detective straightened with a snort. “You just watch it, Mister Crime Spectacularist,” he snarled. “We'll be on you like white on rice if we find out you're dirty.”
Fade stood. “You've made your point,” he said tautly. “Now, I have work to do.”
The detective frowned and looked at his fellow, then jerked his head at the door. They left with one last glare at him.
***
Fade's office was full of gadgetry but very little of it was obvious to the casual visitor. In the hallways outside, his network of interconnecting gizmos performed sentry duty and provided him a safe avenue of escape in an emergency. The very floor was rigged to deal with intruders, the deep shag rug's disc and bar pattern embedded with enough wiring to make any bad guy dance. Fade had no trouble handling difficult situations. It was difficult people that gave him the most heartburn.
The Honorable Gubb Hackrox, the owner and publisher of the Planet, was one of the most difficult people you could ever meet. He peered at Fade from behind his eyeglasses, their ribbon hanging against his fat cheeks. His ample frame threatened to crush the great chair he occupied behind his desk. Hackrox was rumored to have pulled a good five million from the Planet even during the Depression. He ran the newspaper through the intimidation and ruthlessness of a hard-nosed businessman. He usually had a soft spot for Fade. After all, it was the Crime Spectacularist stories that sold thousands of extra issues every week. Today, however, his mood was foul toward everyone.
“Don't sit down,” he said, growling. “You won't be here that long.”
Fade paused halfway into the seat then straightened slowly.
“I got an interesting telegram today,” Hackrox barked. He tossed the paper on the desk in front of him. “Read it.”
Fade picked up the note.
IT’S FADES FAULT STOP ASK HIM STOP 03121230 STOP
Fade chucked the paper back onto the desk. “I'm getting tired of this,” he said.
“You have something to say?”
“All day long people have been showing me messages like that.”
The publisher looked unimpressed at the revelation. “All right. I'm asking. What's your fault?” Hackrox scowled.
“How the deuce should I know?”
“What do the numbers mean?” the publisher demanded, thumping the pape
r with a stubby forefinger.
Fade huffed and waved his arms helplessly. “I don't know!”
“Well, you better find out, Fade. My paper's reputation hangs on your being a straight arrow. If I find out different...” He left the threat unfinished.
“Don't worry. I plan on getting to the bottom of this bucket of clams.”
“You better. I've got enough aggravation. I just threw a hack writer out of here. Everybody thinks they're F. Scott Fitzgerald, even elevator operators.” Hackrox frowned at him for another moment, then grunted. “Get out.”
Fade got.
He was in a dark mood by the time he got back to his office. He stormed through the door.
“Somebody kill your cat?” Din asked from behind her desk.
“I just got read the act by the boss.”
Din grinned broadly. “Really? Good for him!”
He scowled at her. “Settle down.”
“So, what does Old Gubb want?”
“My soul,” Fade complained. “He got a poison pen note with my name on it.”
“Oh, that reminds me,” she said, pushing some papers around. “I have a telegram for you. Here it is.”
Fade unfolded the paper, half suspecting what he would find.
TO FOSTER FADE
FROM AN ADMIRER
03120300 03121230 03130530 03131745 03141200
STOP IT IF YOU CAN STOP
“Who brought this?” he asked, indicating the telegram.
“Western Union,” Din answered. “Any ideas?”
The New Adventures of Foster Fade, The Crime Spectacularist Page 14
