***
The taxi company dispatcher said they dropped the fare at an address in Yonkers. Fade wasn't surprised at that. He was surprised to find a message waiting for him in his office. Another telegram.
YOU DIDNT THINK IT WOULD BE THAT EASY DID YOU STOP 03131745 STOP BEDLOES ISLAND STOP IT IF YOU CAN STOP
Fade folded the message and grimaced. He was getting annoyed at being pushed around like a pawn, but there wasn't much choice. He reached into the box of cigarettes on his desk and took two out. Although he never smoked, he placed them in a silver cigarette case and tucked them into an inside coat pocket. He walked to the wall and simultaneously pressed two of the shiny metal strips set in the panels. A section of the wall opened to reveal a closet containing several changes of clothing. He reached into a heavy coat and pulled out a roll of cloth tied with a leather thong. This he placed in his pants pocket.
He was ready. Walking into the reception area, he tapped on Din's desk. She looked up from shining her nails.
“Want to see the Statue of Liberty?” he asked her.
“I thought you'd never ask.”
“Get your gear.”
***
New York Harbor was always busy. An airship buzzed overhead, bound for Lakehurst. Marine traffic carried on twenty four hours a day, but the ferry to Bedloe's Island sat idle at the wharf while Fade and Din walked about the walls of the old Fort Wood. Din carried a camera case. “To document the Crime Spectacularist in action,” she said.
“What time is it?” he asked Din after they had been completely around the island once.
“A quarter to four,” she told him. She sat down on one of the concrete rails and took off her shoe to rub her foot. “It's not here, Fade. Let's just go.”
He shook his head, pacing toward the beach. “There's something here, something the bomber wants me to see.”
“Like what?”
Something in the surf caught his eye.
“Like that,” he said.
It was a body, a man dressed in tweed. The water lapped over the face, but the bullet hole between the man's eyes was distinctly visible. Din hobbled over to look, then stifled a gasp.
“Is that him?” she asked.
“It looks like the same man,” Fade admitted.
“Well, he's not much of a threat anymore,” she observed.
Fade scrambled down the steep embankment to the body. He searched the coat and pants pockets. Nothing. No wallet, no watch. He settled back on his haunches and thought. The man must have brought the satchel to the island, whereupon the real bomber shot him. Obviously the man was just a distraction to confuse Fade. But why involve this man at all? Was he an accomplice? A partner?
He flipped the coat open. Underneath, the man's clothes were threadbare. His shoes had holes in the bottoms. He had a piece of rope for a belt.
“I don't think this one was ever much of a threat,” he called up to Din. “He's just a hobo.”
“That means the bomber's still out there,” Din answered.
“So is the bomb.” He stood and climbed back up beside her.
“Is this why he wanted you to come here? To find the body?”
Fade shook his head. “Remember the numbers. He's taunting me. We need to search again.”
“And if we find the bomb? What then?”
“We defuse it.”
Din sighed. “I was afraid you'd say that.”
***
It was 4:30 when they found it, hidden in a little alcove camouflaged against the very walls of the old fort.
Fade pulled the satchel out and carried it away from the public area. He set it on the ground. He produced the leather-bound cloth roll from his pocket and untied the cord. It unrolled into a small toolkit consisting of a little screwdriver, a tiny pair of gas pliers, scissors, a folded hacksaw with several blades, and a knife.
“You might want to stand clear,” he advised Din.
“What, and miss the fun?” She shook her head. She unloaded her camera and set it up. “I can see the headline now. ‘Crime Spectacularist Defuses Bomb'. Great stuff.”
“Suit yourself,” Fade shrugged. “Can't say I didn't warn you.”
He examined the satchel closely. There was no telltale ticking of a timing device, but he knew it had to have a detonator of some kind. What kind of timed bomb could it be?
He read recently about a device that used a capacitor to control the timing and detonation of a bomb. It took the place of the plunger generator or clock timer. It had the advantage of stealth, as it didn't give off any noise. The capacitor was put into a small electrical circuit connected to a battery. When it was fully charged it would discharge suddenly, causing a surge and detonating the bomb. If this was that kind of device...
The bag opened at the top, so he concentrated first on the locking straps. They snapped open easily and he warily pushed them back. He inserted the knife blade into the closed mouth of the bag and ran it very gently from one end to another. There was no resistance.
He slowly pulled the bag open. Inside was a metal box with two buttons on its cover. Fade reached in and carefully lifted the box out of the bag. He felt a slight tug and stopped cold. A drop of sweat tickled the end of his nose.
“Din.”
“Yeah?”
“I think there's a wire under the box. Have a look inside, will you?”
The blonde peeked in and whistled.
“What?” Fade asked.
“There must be six or seven sticks of dynamite in there.”
“Hell,” Fade growled. “Can you see the blasting cap?”
“Nope. All I can see is the dynamite.”
He lowered the box back into the bag and settled back to consider his next move.
“What about cutting out the bottom?” Din suggested.
“Leather's too thick. I don't think we have enough time.”
Din looked at her watch. “It's twenty until five. We have about an hour, if you're right.”
“I'd rather not run right up to the wire, if you don't mind.”
Din sat down beside him. “What about the buttons?”
They looked at the box. The buttons were exactly alike and spaced evenly between the edge of the box and each other.
“What do you figure?” she asked.
“A test,” Fade determined. “One disarms, one detonates. A test of how smart or how brave I am.”
“Well, it's fifty-fifty with the buttons or we chance cutting off the bottom in time.”
“Not much of a choice,” Fade said.
He looked again at the buttons. Why the test? Anybody could have stumbled onto the bag and opened it. The bomber couldn't have known who would have done it. He could have let the police do it. How would that have served to settle his score?
He reached in and pressed a button.
Din jumped back with a yelp. “Are you nuts?” she screamed.
Nothing happened. She leaned back in, but shrieked and fell back again when Fade pushed the other button.
“You're certifiable!” she scolded.
Fade laughed. “The buttons are dummies. It occurred to me this guy wants me to suffer. He wants to show he's smarter than me, so why blow me up? He wants to humiliate me, and he can't humiliate a dead man.”
“Well you could have said something!”
“Sorry about that. Anyway, this bomb is still live.”
Din started. “I thought you said it was a dummy.”
“I said the buttons were dummies.” He reached into the bag and pulled out the box. He yanked the wires out and tossed the box to Din. “There you go. A souvenir.” He peered into the bag. The dynamite sticks were bound with black tape. He gingerly wrapped his fingers around them and yelped when he felt something sting him. “Found the battery.” He shifted his hand. “I think I can get the whole thing out.” He proceeded to lift the entire bomb out of the bag and turned it over. There was no obvious timer, just a small metal can and two little bug like things, all connected b
y wires to each other. Fade set it down gently and picked up his scissors.
“You sure you know what you're doing?” Din asked.
“A little late to ask,” Fade said, not looking up from his task. “You still have time to get clear.”
“Just get on with it.”
He knew he couldn't chance cutting anything near the battery. That could cause the capacitor to discharge and blow them both sky high. From what he read he guessed the capacitor was the metal can with the leads coming out of its top. He placed the scissors on the wire from the capacitor to the blasting cap. He looked at Din.
“Ready?”
Din nodded.
Fade cut the wire.
Chapter 4
FADE TAKES A RIDE
Fade's convertible roared to a stop at the Yonkers address the taxi company had given him. The neighborhood was showing its age and the house he stepped up to had peeling paint and cracked windows. Fade peered through the windows and knocked on the door in vain. The place looked deserted. He reached into his pocket and took out his lock picks. In a matter of seconds the door surrendered and he was inside.
The furniture draperies were dusty and yellowed. Each step left a footprint on the floor, but his weren't the only ones. There had been traffic through these rooms, and recently. The footprints led to the back through the kitchen and up to the basement door. Fade pressed an ear to it but heard nothing. He turned the knob and opened the door a crack to peek around it. A darkened staircase led downward. He paused and listened again. Hearing nothing, he opened the door completely and searched for an electric light switch. He found it and twisted it on, flooding the basement with light from two bare bulbs.
There was no mistaking what the basement was used for. It was here the bombs were made. Electrical material, blasting caps, tools, even a box labeled High Explosives were scattered about. Fade poked about the room until his eyes rested on an envelope on the largest workbench. He picked it up.
It was addressed to the Crime Spectacularist.
Hello, Mr. Crime Spectacularist,
I don't want it to end just yet, so this is to let you know you have ten minutes from the time the lights came on.
An Admirer
Fade only took the time to tuck the letter into his pocket then shot upstairs and out of the building. The explosion obliterated the house with a blast that shattered windows for three blocks. The concussion threw him into the street and nearly knocked him out. He was just able to scramble out of the way of a passing car, too deafened to hear its blaring horn and squealing brakes.
He sat down on the sidewalk.
It had been a heck of a day.
***
Back in his office, he sat with Din and went over what they knew.
“The bomber finally made a mistake,” Fade told her. “He left me a note.”
“So?”
“All his other messages to me were by telegram. This one is typewritten.”
Din looked at the paper. “I don't get it. How does that help?” she asked.
“Every typewriter has a standard set of print heads, but over time they wear. Eventually you get letters with incomplete or filled loops. This one is new. The letters are crisp and clean. That means it was recently purchased.”
“So we check for typewriter sales in Yonkers for the last, what, month?” she ventured.
“Right. He probably bought it the same time he got the rest of his stuff.”
“And there can't have been that many people buying bomb making materials in the last month.”
“Off to the telephone with you, hussy!” Fade said. “Let's find out who has.”
The next few hours went by quickly, but Fade couldn't put one detail out of his mind: the last set of numbers in that telegram. 03141200. They only had until noon to solve this mystery. Would the bombings stop then? Or would they get another telegram? He had to solve this before that next bomb went off.
“Got it!” Din shouted in triumph as she brought him a memo pad filled with numbers. “A man fitting the same description bought supplies at a hardware store and from a demolitions warehouse two weeks ago. The owners remembered him because he had a scar on his left cheek and a tattoo of an anchor on his arm.”
Fade frowned. “I hope that's not another decoy.”
“I hadn't thought of that,” Din said, deflating a bit. “But you know, the description seems awfully familiar.”
“How's that?”
She snapped her fingers. “The elevator operator!”
“Who?”
“The mug who runs the elevator nearest the office. That's who I'm reminded of.”
Fade looked sideways at her. “The elevator operator?”
She nodded. “His name is Mark... something.” She clenched her teeth and rubbed her forehead. “What was it? Mark...”
“We can find his name in the company payroll records,” Fade pointed out. He made for the door. “Or, we can take the direct approach.”
“It's already 10:30,” Din told him, hurrying after.
They ran down the hallway to call the elevator. Fade watched the pointer above the door as it rose toward 40. It could be he was going to finally meet his tormentor face to face.
The elevator reached their floor and the doors opened to reveal a man of about 30 years dressed in an operator's uniform. He had a scar on his left cheek and Fade was sure there would be a tattoo of an anchor on his arm.
“Floor please,” the man said in a bored tone.
Fade and Din stepped into the car.
“Mark?” Fade addressed the man.
The operator started. “Yes, Mr. Fade?”
“Would you mind showing me your arms?”
The operator stood uncertainly looking at them for a moment. Then a gun suddenly appeared in his hand, pointed at them.
“So, you finally figured it out,” he said with a sneer. “Took you long enough.”
“Yeah,” Fade said. “What now? Shoot us here? You wouldn't get out of the building.”
The elevator call bell rang. Mark closed the doors without taking his eyes off Fade and Din.
“Oh, I'll get out all right. Don't worry about me. I have a bomb all ready to eliminate any evidence of my involvement and take care of the Crime Spectacularist at the same time. We'll take a little ride to Yonkers where you can enjoy your last few minutes, Fade.”
“If you mean that house with the booby trapped basement, I've already been there,” Fade revealed. “I'm afraid there's not much left of it.”
Mark frowned and grit his teeth. “Damn. Never mind. We're still taking that ride.”
“Look forward to it,” Fade told the operator with a grimace. “So, mind if I have at least one last smoke?”
The villain laughed. “Want a blindfold too?”
Fade shook his head. He reached for the cigarette case, pausing when Mark hissed and his hand tightened on the weapon. Fade opened his coat to show he wasn't armed. “Just a smoke will do.”
“Get on with it, then.”
“I have to hand it to you,” Fade said as he took out the silver cigarette case and drew a cigarette from it. “You've been hard to find.”
“And I was right under your nose the whole time,” the operator smirked.
“Before you kill us, why did you kill the hobo? Was he your partner?”
“Partner?” Mark laughed as he pushed the control to lower the car. “I gave him a fin to go to Central Park with the bomb to lure you to Bedloe's Island. The fool bungled it and then he wanted more money, so I took care of him.”
“Why did you want to lure me to Bedloe's?”
“To see how you did with the bomb, of course. After all, I needed to know how much you knew about the design.”
“What difference would that make?”
“It would make a great detail for the story I'm writing. 'The Last Case of the Crime Spectacularist'. Has a great ring to it, don't it?”
Fade stared at the man. “All this was for a story? You kille
d people, blew up buildings, for a story?”
“Great stories require sacrifice. Blood and sex sells. You should know that.”
The Crime Spectacularist shook his head. “That may be, but why me? What do you have against me personally?”
“I spent six months working on articles about Capone, right up to him being sent up. Took 'em to Hackrox and told him I'd let him use 'em for a song. You know what he told me? 'Capone is old news'. Old news? The biggest boss in history? Old News? 'Besides,' he said, 'we have the Crime Spectacularist.'“ The operator waved the gun at Fade menacingly. “Without the Crime Spectacularist, the Planet's just another rag. Hackrox shouldn't have turned me down. Pretty soon he'll know that. You'll be dead, the Planet'll be scooped on your last case, and Hackrox'll be small potatoes.”
The elevator reached the lobby and the operator stopped the car. Mark motioned them outside. “Just keep quiet and nobody else'll get hurt.”
Fade smiled grimly. He raised the cigarette to his lips, surreptitiously crushing the slim vial of sleeping gas inside its tube. He blew the gas into the operator's face, holding his own breath.
The man's face went instantly slack and he collapsed without another sound. After recovering the gun, Fade reached over the fallen form and cranked open the elevator doors. There was a sound behind him as the gas cleared. He spun, bringing the commandeered weapon to bear.
Din was sinking to the floor of the car, whether from the gas or the excitement. Fade grinned at her and shook his head.
“Sweet dreams,” he told her.
The people outside the elevator stood gaping at him. He grinned at them as they scurried away like startled pigeons. He couldn't help but chuckle when he thought about what they would be telling the police. The elevator operator and a real looker of a dame conked out on the floor of the elevator and a mad looking seven foot tall skeleton standing over them.
Oh well, the mystery was solved. He settled down beside Din to wait for the coppers. As he did, Din mumbled something and started to sit up.
“Have a nice nap?” he asked her.
The New Adventures of Foster Fade, The Crime Spectacularist Page 16
