Adventure Tales, Volume 6

by John Gregory Betancourt

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Copyright © 2010 by Wildside Press LLC. All rights reserved.

  Editor: John Gregory Betancourt

  Assistant Editors: George H. Scithers, Spencer Koelle

  THE BLOTTER, by John Gregory Betancourt

  Welcome to the sixth issue of Adventure Tales—late, as usual.

  There are plenty of excuses, more than enough to go around, but I’m going to try even harder to get back on schedule.

  At any rate, we have the usual terrific lineup in place for this issue, all hopefully works with which you are unfamiliar. And this is the special issue celebrating the work of H. Bedford-Jones, the self-proclaimed “King of the Pulps.”

  Although largely forgotten today, the H. Bedford-Jones name on a magazine cover meant something special in the early part of the 20th century: a thrilling tale often in an exotic locale, with whip-tight writing and a breakneck pace. I have tried to include a good sampling of his work. “Mustered Out” is a contemporary story dealing with the question of “what next?” after military service. “The Badman’s Brand” is an action-packed western featuring Lefty Sage and Slivers Lawrence.

  Rounding out this issue are contributions by more favorite pulp authors: Vincent Starrett (who is still remembered well in the mystery field) returns with a tale of Chicago-based detective Jimmy Lavender, a real puzzler about a walking statue. John D. Swain’s “The Miracle” is a brilliant tale set in France, following the aftermath of World War I German occupation. “The Devil’s Heirloom,” by Anthony M. Rud is a “different” story. We return to the Amazon with real-life explorer Arthur O. Friel, for a tale in his “Pedro and Lourenco” series.

  * * * *

  With much sadness, I must report the loss of one of our staff members. George Scithers—founding editor of Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, former editor of Amazing Stories and Weird Tales—passed away earlier this year due to complications from a heart attack. He was 80. I had known him since the early 1980s, when I began reading the Amazing Stories slushpile while in college. This ultimately led to an assistant editor job, and we continued our association with many later projects, including Weird Tales, a literary agency, and more book projects than I can count.

  After his retirement, George became a part-time staffer at Wildside Press, contributing much publishing wisdom and sage advice, editing projects such as the “Cat Tales” anthology series, and typesetting many of our pulp-related books, including the Operator #5 series, the Phantom Detective series, and the various Talbot Mundy reprints.

  We miss him greatly.

  —John Gregory Betancourt

  THE FUGITIVE STATUE, by Vincent Starrett

  I

  Mr. Oakley Ashenhurst removed his pipe from his mouth with his left hand, and with a lift of his chin blew a cloud of smoke at the ceiling of his study. His right hand held open the volume he had been reading spread out upon the table; in the circle of bright light dropped upon the pages by the young man’s student lamp the black print seemed doubly black. Ashenhurst yawned luxuriously and lay back in his chair. The corners of his study, which was also his bedroom, sitting-room, library, and, on furtive occasions, his dining-room, were deeply dark with a darkness that lightened by degrees as it approached the spot occupied by the reading table and the funnel of intense light from the lamp. Upon a low mantel ticked a nickel-plated clock, and by a swift movement of the ingenious lamp the student ascertained that it was exactly midnight. At this instant, while he was registering satisfaction and relief, in the street beyond his window Oakley Ashenhurst heard the sound of running feet.

  They were steady footsteps, light but sharp, and they slapped the pavement with a staccato quality that was impressive in the silence. They approached, crescendoed before the house, and diminuendoed in the distance, as drumsticks simulate hoofbeats in the theatre. Reclined in his chair, young Ashenhurst heard them come and heard them go, with idle curiosity. Hazy speculations floated through his mind for a few moments; then with an effort he pulled himself together, marked his place in the volume, snapped off the light, and slipped out of his bathrobe and into his bed. In the morning, he thought nothing about the footsteps at all; he had forgotten them.

  But the next night, after a harrowing session at the evening medical class in which he was completing his education, as he toiled again over his Anatomy in the darkened room, the young man’s memory was jogged; he was reminded by the footsteps themselves. As before, they approached with soft distinctness, pattered sharply past the dark dwelling, and melted away in the silence.

  Ashenhurst’s mind stirred sleepily. Last night—midnight—very curious! He turned the light funnel on the little clock and registered mild surprise. Again it was midnight! An odd coincidence, thought Ashenhurst as he climbed into bed. Somebody in training for a race? The nights were getting cool for track suits, he chuckled. And anyway, why this short, deserted thoroughfare with its straggle of sickly street lamps and its old-fashioned, sober dwellings? Why not the fine stretches of the neighboring boulevard? Or, for that matter, the little park at the corner, with its cinder paths seemingly designed for such an enterprise? He was still speculating when he fell asleep.

  As he crossed the park, next morning, on his way to the office, young Mr. Ashenhurst thought again of the footsteps. Decidedly these cinder paths were the proper lanes for training. As a young man on the very brink of becoming a physician, Ashenhurst approved the activities of the midnight sprinter, but as a methodical young man he believed that a sense of fitness should direct the activity; and decidedly these cinder paths were preferable to hard asphalt. He paused for a moment beside the central fountain to admire the graceful figure of the faun from whose upturned pipes, the water burst like iridescent flute notes; he dabbled his fingers in the pool, and tossed crumbs to the stately couple—Mr. and Mrs. Swan he always called them—that sailed its bosom. Then, cheerily whistling, he continued on his way.

  “Really,” murmured Oakley Ashenhurst, just before he dismissed the matter from his mind, “I must have a look at this midnight runner, if he continues to frequent my block.”

  So that when, that midnight, again he heard the pattering footsteps in the street, young Mr. Ashenhurst was ready. Assuming that the athlete would operate upon a schedule, and that that schedule would take him past the house at midnight, the prospective Dr. Ashenhurst closed his volume of Anatomy at 11:55, snapped out his light, parted his window curtains, raised his window a trifle higher, and seated himself at the aperture. In the darkness, the small nickel-plated clock ticked on toward midnight. A mild breeze blew in from the street and gently stirred the curtains. Immediately opposite the house, on the other side of the street, a street light gleamed through dirty glass; there was no other for some distance, and the surrounding windows were as black as that of Oakley Ashenhurst, whose pipe bubbled contentedly in the darkness.

  At the first rumor of the steps, he sat forward and directed his gaze outward and downward. He turned his eyes up the street toward the little park which, however, was invisible. The middle of the street was bare, but something white was coming down the sidewalk on the near side. The slapping footsteps sounded clearly now. Lightly, evenly, with long, running strides, bounding as gracefully as an animal, the racing figure advanced out of semi-darkness into semi-light. Out of semi-light it moved into the rays of the dingy lamp. Then a cry that was a strangled scream burst from the lips of Oakley Ashenhurst, and, rising upright he seized the curtain beside him with such haste and vigor that it tore in his grasp.

  His eyes wide with horror, he saw the white figure pass below his window and enter the semi-light beyo
nd. Inexpressibly shocked; he saw it merge from semi-light to semi-darkness, and vanish into darkness. Its pattering footsteps seemed to beat against his stunned and startled brain.

  It was the nude stone statue from the fountain in the corner park.

  II

  And that was the sensational story I told my friend Lavender, the evening after the occurrence, as we sat in his Portland Street rooms and smoked over our coffee. It was just such a tale, I knew, as Lavender liked, for my friend Lavender, although a consulting detective of wide reputation, boasts as fantastic an imagination as I have encountered in print. He heard me through in silence, but with raised eyebrows that spoke his interest. I admit that I made the most of the incredible tale.

  “Extraordinary!” he commented, when I had finished. He added at once, “And, delightful, too! A fine theatrical touch to it. This Ashenhurst, I take it, is a sober young man?”

  “Quite,” I assured him. “I’ve known him only a few months, but I like him greatly. He’s in one of my classes, and is an excellent student. Not at all given to romancing, I should say. He strikes me as being eminently sane and practical.”

  “Yet he tells this insane story,” said Lavender, “and, if I am to believe you, tells it with entire belief.”

  “And very convincingly,” I added. “He certainly thinks he saw something, and it has upset him.”

  Lavender laughed shortly. “No wonder,” he said. “It would upset anybody. A very ingenious business! What do you think of it, Gilly?”

  “Nothing!” I answered promptly. “I think Ashenhurst was dreaming.”

  “Nothing of the sort.”

  “You don’t mean to say you believe it?” I demanded. “I knew it would please you, but I didn’t expect the story to be believed.”

  “I certainly don’t believe he saw the statue, if that’s what you mean; but he saw something very curious indeed. Now what did he see? And why did he see it? The second question is the more important of the two, and the hardest to answer.”

  He smoked in silence for a moment, thinking deeply. When he spoke, the current of his thought had changed.

  “You know Ashenhurst’s place?” he asked suddenly.

  “I’ve been there once. I know the neighborhood pretty well, and I’ve seen the statue, so to call it. Of course, it isn’t a statue; it’s a figure in a fountain.”

  “A distinction that doesn’t help the case,” observed Lavender with a dry smile. “Tell me about the street.”

  “Well, it’s called Cambridge Court, and it’s only a block in length. It runs from Belden Square—which is the little park—to Crayview Avenue, which is a through street, as you know, popular with motorists. Cambridge Court is an old street, and the houses are old—once toney, but shabby-genteel now. You know the kind; every other family keeps roomers. But it’s all very respectable, and the streets surrounding it are highly desirable residence thoroughfares. It’s sort of hidden away, as it were, and the people who live in the court have a quiet, subdued air about them—as if the world had forgotten them, and they were glad of it, if you understand what I mean.”

  “Perfectly,” smiled Lavender. “You are a bit of a poet, Gilruth. And the house?”

  “Three story and attic, I think. Basement, too, probably. Brick, of course. Porcelain doorknobs. I should think it was a handsome establishment back in 1895. The front windows are bay windows, and Ashenhurst’s room looks into the street from the second floor. He rents it from a family named Harden, who live in the back of the house. I think there are other roomers.”

  “North side of the street? Hm-m! I think I see it. You used your eyes well on your one visit. Well, well! And Belden Square a half-block from, the dwelling. The statue didn’t have to run far, did it? It could leave the fountain, run around the block, and be back in no time.”

  “Oh, easily!” I sarcastically agreed. “Don’t you think we ought to watch it tonight, and catch it as it steps out of the fountain?”

  Lavender laughed. “Not quite that, perhaps; but there is some watching to be done. I, for one, should like to see the thing. Shouldn’t you?”

  “I know Ashenhurst would like to have you,” I said.

  “You’ve mentioned me to him, eh? Well, you guessed right when you thought I would be interested. I am interested. Something very curious is going on, Gilly, or something tremendously unimportant. I don’t know which.”

  “I don’t follow you there.”

  “I only mean that if your friend saw what he thinks he saw, the matter is most important. If he was deceived—by a resemblance, let us say—then probably the solution is very simple and unimportant. You see, there are a great many possibilities. If Ashenhurst was deceived, then he may actually have seen only some innocent idiot running off his weight, clad in a track suit or something of the sort. If Ashenhurst had been thinking of the statue, for any reason, and had it in his mind, he might have imagined that he saw it; in which case the solution of the matter is that Ashenhurst needs a doctor and a vacation. Or he may have seen a lunatic running naked; that certainly would heighten the resemblance to our stone friend in the park. In which case the lunatic should be apprehended, although the affair would still be relatively unimportant. But—if Ashenhurst actually saw the statue—that is, of course, somebody made up to look like the statue—the case becomes highly important, for something very significant must be back of such an impersonation; something more than just lunacy, I should say.”

  “What, for instance?”

  He laughed again, and ran his fingers through his thick, dark hair with a familiar gesture that brought into prominence his single plume of white.

  “Well, just for instance—to frighten somebody to death! The thing certainly gave Ashenhurst a scare.”

  “That’s quite an idea,” I admitted, “but you don’t believe it.”

  “Don’t I? You don’t know what I believe, Gilly—and I don’t know myself yet. How should I? But you’re coming with me, of course?”

  “Yes,” I said promptly. “You may gamble on that.”

  He looked at his watch. “There’s three hours to midnight. I should like to have seen the statue first—out of curiosity, if nothing else—but we must assume that our friend will run again tonight, and I don’t want Ashenhurst to be alone!”

  Something in the earnestness of his last words arrested me, and I looked a startled inquiry. He slowly nodded.

  “Yes,” he said, “I don’t know why, Gilly, but I’ve a notion that this may portend evil to your friend. It’s just a feeling, too vague to put into logical thought, but—well, for two nights Ashenhurst didn’t look out of his window, and last night he did! You see? He saw the thing, whatever it is—and it must have known that he saw it. And so, tonight—? That’s all! I can’t make it any plainer.”

  An unpleasant thrill ran through me, for as he spoke I had the feeling, too.

  “Come on,” I cried; and got quickly to my feet. He followed more leisurely; and as we tramped down the dark stairs I added, “We can cross the park, Jimmie, if you want a look at that thing. It’s on our way.”

  “Well—perhaps,” he agreed. “But I should prefer not to be seen evidencing too great an interest in it.”

  The night was fine, with a good moon and plenty of stars, and when our taxi had set us down not far from Belden Square, Lavender determined to have his look.

  “There seems to be plenty of citizens abroad,” he argued, “and I’ll warrant there are more of them in the park. We may as well chance it.”

  So, sauntering easily and ostentatiously smoking, we plunged into the little park and began our stroll diagonally across its tapestry of moonlit grass. A number of couples passed us, arm in arm, and as we approached the fountain we saw that at least a dozen persons were patrolling the paths about it. The tinkle of water sounded pleasantly in the night as it rained into the pool, and the moonlight on the stone figure of the piping faun in the midst of the falling water was memorable.

  No one paid the slightes
t attention to us, as we idled for a moment at the stone brink; and after a careless glance or two we turned away.

  “A pretty picture,” I suggested.

  “Very,” said Lavender shortly. He added after an instant, “Well, he’s still there!”

  In five minutes more, still easily strolling, we had entered the little street in which lived and studied my classmate, Ashenhurst.

  Cambridge Court interested Lavender deeply, and his glance was everywhere as we proceeded into its dusky canyon.

  “Not many lamps,” he murmured. “Only three in the block. And the folks retire early. It can’t be more than 10:30, yet nearly every house is in darkness. Two lights down there near the corner, across the street, and one here on our left. The nearest, I suppose, is Ashenhurst’s?”

  I corroborated the supposition, and in a moment we had turned up the steps, to discover at the top, smoking his inevitable pipe, my friend, the student. Ashenhurst’s long body uncoiled and rose upright in the darkness.

  “Hoped you’d come,” he said briefly, but warmly. “This is Mr.—?”

  “Yes,” interrupted Lavender swiftly. “Happy to know you, I’m sure. Hope the studies are coming along well. Gilly says you’re an awful ‘dig,’ you know.”

  “Come up,” said Ashenhurst abruptly, sensing a mystery, and we trudged after him up the dark stairs and into his room at the front, where he turned a puzzled face to the detective.

  “It’s all right, old man,” smiled Lavender, “but your case is so peculiar that I thought it as well not to shout my name about the neighborhood. One never knows who may be listening. Nothing to add to Gilly’s story, I suppose?”

  The tall student shrugged, then glanced uneasily at the clock. “Not yet,” he answered, with a rueful smile, “Soon, maybe!”

  We spoke in low tones for a time, while Ashenhurst and Lavender became acquainted, and then the conversation languished.

  “It’s getting along,” remarked Lavender at length, “and it’s just as well not to talk too much. I’ve a funny idea at the back of my head. It won’t stand talking about, and it involves silence at this time. Literal silence! I may be quite wrong; but I think that from now until midnight we had better sit quite still. I’m sorry I can’t be more explicit.”