Adventure Tales, Volume 6

by John Gregory Betancourt

  All this brought the war closer than ever, and precautions were necessary. Air Raid Wardens would be at their posts, fire houses and hospitals on the alert.

  Steps had been taken to simulate actual air-raid conditions as closely as possible. Everything would be there—save the bombs.

  Twenty minutes before the zero hour, traffic already was subsiding. Hotel windows were draped with black curtains, apartment houses were prepared to throw switches to darken every room.

  In one of the poorer sections of the city were three large tenement houses, now abandoned and ready for wrecking crews. They were close together, with narrow, dismal alleys between them. Nobody on the streets noticed a window being slowly opened on the second floor of the middle building. A man—his features harrowed by terror, ducked his head out and looked around. He turned pale when he saw the distance to the cement paved alley, but there was little hesitation on his part.

  He thrust one leg over the window sill and sat astride it for a moment while he looked up and down the alley below him. Certain he was unobserved, the man secured a hold on the sill with his fingers and let himself drop down. Apparently he overestimated the strength in his fingers for—as the full weight of his body came down on them—they slipped and let go. He dropped like a leaden weight hit the pavement and lay there for a few seconds.

  With a great effort that must have been induced by some compelling reason, he got to his feet, took a couple of forward steps and fell again.

  He reached his feet once more and leaned weakly against the brick wall. Then he started limping forward. Every few steps he’d look over his shoulder as though he expected grim shadows to spring out of the darkness upon him. The man obviously was frightened and just as obviously determined.

  When he reached the mouth of the alley, he saw a taxi roll smoothly down the street. He waved frantically, and the cab pulled into the curb. The man limped toward it, wincing with each step. He got the door open and tumbled into the tonneau.

  “The airport—as fast as you can travel!“ he gasped to the driver. “The one where those photographic planes are ready to take off. Hurry!”

  The driver grimaced.

  “Can’t do it, pal. In twenty minutes there’s gonna be a blackout and nothin’ can move, y’see? It’ll take me pretty near that time to reach the field. Or wait—things are quieting down. Maybe I could make it.”

  “Fifty dollars if you do—but hurry. This is a matter of life and death. If I fail to reach the airport in time, twelve men will die. Can’t use the telephone because they’d never believe me. Will you please get started?”

  The driver seemed to realize the seriousness of all this. He shifted into gear and shot away, taking the next corner on two wheels. As he suspected, traffic had all but stopped already. He skipped through several lights, made expert turns against others and soon crossed the Queensborough Bridge. The airport was only a short distance away now—but the minutes were passing rapidly.

  The driver squirmed around in his seat and spoke without taking eyes off the road.

  “You ain’t thinkin’ about going into the airport, pal? They got marines posted all around the place. If you try it, they might take a pot shot at you.”

  “I’ll risk that—only hurry! Hurry!”

  The driver shrugged and opened his cab wide. Soon they saw the lights of the airport—which were due to wink out in just two minutes. The injured man kept massaging his swollen ankle. It gave him something to do—something which took his mind off the grim tragedy that impended.

  The cab rolled up fairly close to the gate. Two marines were on duty with bayoneted rifles. The cab driver got out and opened the car door.

  “I’m telling you,” he warned the middle-aged passenger, “it’s impossible to get by those babies at the gate. Nobody is allowed on the field for the next hour or so.”

  “Help me,” the passenger, groaned as he put weight on his injured ankle. “They can’t stop me, I tell you! Absolutely nothing must stop me!”

  The cab driver helped him up to the gate, where the two marines instantly challenged them. Before any explanations could be offered, the zero hour was at hand. Every light winked out, and the roar of big bombing planes broke the moment of silence.

  “Let me by,” the injured man pleaded. “I’ve got to reach those planes.”

  The marine sentries, momentarily blinded by the sudden darkness and partly deafened from the big plane motors, blundered against one another. The cab driver raced back to his taxi. The injured man ducked low, passed the sentries and then started a limping run across the field. He waved his hands and shouted at the top of his voice.

  Someone must have heard him, because a searchlight swept the field, picked him out and centered on him. He was a wild looking specimen, hair rumpled, hat missing, clothes grimy and torn. The look on his face could easily have been mistaken for mad hatred instead of the horror that shone there.

  Several men started running toward him. Then it happened. The searchlight made it impossible for those who witnessed the event, not to believe their own eyes. They last saw the man, arms raised high, voice yelling something indistinguishable. Then, in the spot where he had been, was a tall tower of flame and fury. Debris shot skyward, a crater appeared mysteriously, as if someone had dug it from below the ground.

  After the blast, the concussion set in as air rushed to occupy the vacuum caused by the explosive. Trees swayed wildly. Two light planes, not far away, were half turned around by the force of the air currents. The sound went roaring into space, almost shattering the ear drums of the witnesses.

  Those who finally reached the spot, now bathed in the glare of half a dozen big searchlights, found very little to indicate that a human being had been there only a moment before. There were a shoe, somehow intact, a few bits of clothing and buttons.

  Colonel Whately, in charge of the photography flight, yelled orders. Field lights came on. The two sentries were running up, panting, barely able to talk.

  “He got by us when the blackout came,” one gasped. “He was crazy as a bug, sir. Kept saying he had to reach the reconnaissance planes.”

  “Get back to your posts,” Whately ordered. “And close the gates too. We’re going ahead with the plans as before. Nobody gets in—reporters or anyone else. Watch yourselves, now. That’s all.”

  Whately turned to several officials of the field who stood gaping at the whole in the ground.

  “It’s rather evident,” Whately explained, “that this man, whoever he was, came here with the intentions of sabotage. He was carrying a bomb which he hoped to use on the photography planes. He must have overestimated the time fuse, and it went off before he could put the thing to its intended use.”

  “Thank heavens for that,” one man sighed. “He might have killed a lot of people. I—uh—hardly suppose he’ll ever be identified.”

  “Hardly!” Whately said. “Now please get back to your posts I’m going to have the planes checked before they take off. Never expected any sabotaging of this plan—seems utterly nonsensical, but saboteurs think strangely at times.”

  Whately gave the necessary orders, and a dozen men went over the three big bombers with fine-tooth combs. Every nook and corner of them was examined until even Whately expressed complete satisfaction that no nefarious machines could be hidden in them.

  Three men came out of one hangar, each carrying a bulky box-like affair—the valuable cameras which would photograph New York City while it was under complete blackout. These were installed in the planes by experts. The flares were checked, and crews took into their specified positions.

  Radio messages from the bombers, now flying above the city, indicated that the blackout test was highly satisfactory. Then came word for the photography planes to take off. Each contained four men—two pilots, the photographer and a radio operator. They swung into position for the takeoff and then, one by one, roared down the field. Breaking contact with the ground, they nosed toward the stars.

  Colonel
Whately stood in the darkness, watching them fade from sight. He bit at his lower lip.

  “My prayers go with them,” he said softly. “I’m not given to hunches, but there’s a premonition in my heart. I can’t get it out no matter how hard I try.”

  “Nonsense,” another officer laughed. “What could happen to them? The destruction of a saboteur by his own bomb was rather a ghastly business. Thank heavens, it destroyed him and not what his bomb was meant for.”

  But Colonel Whately’s premonition was right. Those three reconnaissance bombers, now heading for the center of the city, were doomed. The men who flew them had no more chance than a convicted murderer, strapped in the electric chair. New York was going to get some fireworks all right—but far more furious fireworks than its citizens expected.

  CHAPTER II

  Oblivion

  On the West Side of town, among the stately mansions lining one of the most exclusive sections, was a large dwelling, set back from the street like its neighbors. Trees and carefully cultivated shrubs completely shrouded it from its neighbor to the north. On the south side of the house was a cross street.

  A neat iron gate offered admittance, and beside it was a brass nameplate indicating that this was the residence of Anthony Quinn.

  At this particular moment every light was out, in accordance with the requests of authorities in charge of the blackout. Tony Quinn and his man of all trades, Silk Kirby, were both in the spacious garden behind the house.

  Tony Quinn was tall, rugged looking, and at one time he might have been handsome. Now there were deep, ugly scars burned into the flesh around his eyes. Those eyes were blank and lifeless too. He used a cane with which to feel his way along, although Silk Kirby was at his side to guide him.

  Silk looked something like his nickname. He was bald, about forty, and slender. But he had a polished way about him, one calculated to arouse the greatest confidence in others, even strangers. Silk had worked hard to acquire that polish, and it served him well when he had been one of the smartest confidence men in the country.

  “I think, sir,” Silk looked around, “we’re quite safe. The trees and shrubs, together with the blackout, won’t permit anyone to see you.”

  Quinn nodded. Those dead eyes of his suddenly were alive. It was a miraculous change and, so far as Tony Quinn was concerned, an actual miracle, too.

  “We’re getting a taste of what war will be like if we get into it,” he said in a pleasant voice. “Listen—the planes are coming over. I can also see them about a dozen bombers simulating an attack. Now the fighting planes are sweeping in to meet them. They’re really doing it up brown, Silk.”

  Silk tried to penetrate the gloom. He shook his head slowly.

  “So you can even see the planes way up there. I must say, sir, that you have been repaid with interest for your months of real blindness.”

  Quinn smiled.

  “Yes, Silk. Darkness means nothing to me. I can even see colors in a pitch black room… Now the bombers have been theoretically driven off. The photography planes are coming in. They’ll drop flares and take pictures of the city. If any land near us—within a quarter of a mile—keep your eyes closed. They are extremely bright things. The planes are gaining altitude. They’ll let the flares go at any moment now.”

  Suddenly the blackness was illuminated by an intense, blinding light from a dozen big flares. At that precise instant there were three distinct flashes of crimson—high in the sky. Quinn gave a sharp cry of horror.

  “Silk! The planes! They’ve exploded in midair! I saw them one moment—and the next there was only the flash of three bombs. They exploded simultaneously. Silk! That was murder! Sabotage!”

  “But how?” Silk gaped.

  “If one of the planes had blown to bits it might have been accidental, but when three of them are blasted at the same split second, that’s no accident, Silk. Let’s go back into the house and listen for radio reports on what happened.”

  * * * *

  They ran lightly toward the back door. Suddenly street lights came one, house windows were lit again. Tony Quinn slowed up abruptly, his eyes blank and blind once more. He tapped his cane as he walked along, with Silk guiding him. They climbed the stairs tot he back door and went in. Even here, within the privacy of his home, Tony Quinn continued to carry out his pose as a blind man.

  He went into his study, sat down in a deep, worn and comfortable leather chair in front of the fireplace and reached for pipe and tobacco, fumbling across the top of the small table beside the chair. Silk snapped on the radio. He turned the dial, but apparently news rooms hadn’t released the story of destruction in the sky as yet.

  While they waited, Quinn sucked impatiently on his pipe. Those eyes of his were filmed over, and he stared at a blank wall. Yet the same eyes had been able to penetrate the inky darkness, a mile in the sky, and watch the maneuvers of the planes.

  Tony Quinn had once been a fighting young district attorney, earnestly engaged in cleaning up crime. Then, one day in open court, crooks had attempted to destroy evidence by hurling acid upon it. In the struggle, Tony Quinn received the contents of an acid bottle squarely in the eyes. He’d gone blind instantly.

  Wealthy enough to retain the best eye surgeons in the world, he had traveled extensively, seeking one man who would say there was a chance. But none did. So far as the world in general was concerned, Tony Quinn was blinded for life.

  Just before the catastrophe, Silk Kirby had appeared. He’d slipped into Quinn’s home to rob it, but by a lucky coincidence had saved Quinn’s life from murdering gangsters. Silk had remained with him then and when Quinn became blind, he proved an indispensable aide.

  One night, months after he’d gone blind, a girl appeared at his home. She was Carol Baldwin, whose father lay dying in a midwestern town, the victim of a gangster’s bullet. Carol came with a strange proposition, inspired by her father. As a police official, he’d fought crime tooth and nail until finally it caught up with him. He knew of Tony Quinn, had followed his spectacular career and recognized in him potentialities that might prove useful in the everlasting battle against criminals.

  Tony Quinn, grasping at straws, had gone willingly with Carol to this small town. There, a little known surgeon had performed a miracle. He transplanted parts of Carol’s father’s eyes into Tony Quinn’s head. Carol’s father died soon after, and then there were weeks of indescribable suspense when Tony Quinn wondered if he would see when the bandages were removed.

  He did see—with a sight more profound than any other man. Nature had repaid him for those dismal days of darkness. He could see in the night—penetrate the inky blackness as easily as the average man sees by day. Not only that—during his blindness nature had also recompensed him by adding to his sense of touch, hearing and smell. These improved faculties remained with him.

  He saw Carol Baldwin, too, in all her blond beauty. They made plans—and so the Black Bat was created. Wearing a hood that covered his face and hid those telltale scars, a cape which was ribbed like the wings of a bat, Tony Quinn challenged the underworld. Soon his name became the most dreaded word uttered in the dens where crime was hatched.

  * * * *

  He operated in a wholly unorthodox manner, without heed to laws and rules. The police sought him because—when it was necessary—the Black Bat’s twin automatics spat death. He always branded his victims with a small sticker in the form of a bat so that no one else would be blamed for the killings.

  Gradually the reputation of the Black Bat reached the far corners of the globe, and those men who moved in the shadows of guilt, cowered when he stepped into the game. There was a price on his head, and thousands of crooks willingly would have tried to collect it save that the Black Bat shot faster and vanished more completely than any other man alive.

  Jack O’Leary, known better as Butch, was the fourth member of the little organization working with the Black Bat. Butch was a huge, slow-thinking man who had often proved his worth. He had hands lik
e hams, a bull neck and a mild disposition until crossed. Then he became a human tornado of action and strength.

  Others might suspect that blind Tony Quinn was the Black Bat, but there were not many who could reconcile themselves to believing that a man pronounced incurably blind by famous doctors was the Black Bat. The most prominent exception was Captain McGrath of the Police Department. He had sworn to arrest the Black Bat, and he strongly suspected that Tony Quinn and the Black Bat were synonymous.

  All his efforts to prove this had been in vain, although several times Captain McGrath had no idea how close he’d come. McGrath was honest, efficient and capable. Tony Quinn liked him despite the manner in which he thrust himself into cases and sought to corner the Black Bat. That was McGrath’s job.

  Police Commissioner Warner, long a friend of Tony Quinn, also may have possessed an inkling, but even if Warner could prove the fact, he never would have done so. The Black Bat worked on the side of law and order. He broke open some of the toughest cases Warner had ever known. Yet, because of his methods, the Black Bat was subject to instant arrest if caught. This only lent more spice to the game so far as Tony Quinn was concerned.

  He’d gone back into private law practice recently because it helped to relieve the boredom between cases and also provided him with an open method of investigating certain circumstances connected with the various cases. He maintained an office downtown and was creating a substantial practice.

  * * * *

  Now Tony Quinn waited impatiently for the first news flash. It came but it was brief because facts were not known. Every person in those three planes had been blown into eternity. Even the planes were reduced to slivers of wood and hunks of metal. Sabotage was suspected, and the complete story of the man who was blown to bits by his own

  bomb also was made public.

  Silk shut off the radio. Quinn leaned back with a frown.

  “Ghastly business—but interesting from our angle, eh, Silk? It does look like the work of saboteurs, but could it be? Why did they destroy those three planes when they might have done a great deal more damage with the larger and newer bombers that simulated an attack on the city? It doesn’t make sense.