Adventure Tales, Volume 6

by John Gregory Betancourt

  “Then too, the man who was blown to bits at the airport—that isn’t logical, either. Saboteurs know their business. They’d hardly flop on something like that. And, while we’re theorizing, why should preparations be made to blow up the planes when they were in the air while other plans indicated they were to be destroyed on the ground?”

  “Yes, sir,” Silk said hopefully. “Do you think it might be something for the—ah—Black Bat to look into, sir? We’ve been idle for several weeks now. Doesn’t do a man good to get stale, sir.”

  Quinn smiled slowly.

  “No matter what it is, Silk, we know someone has performed wholesale murder. All of which does interest the Black Bat. It just occurred to me that a man named Joel King was in the news lately just a casual mention. He’s an inventor and has claimed to have been hard at work on some device with which he hopes to be able to explode munitions dumps, gasoline supplies and even bombs on the racks of military planes.”

  Silk laughed.

  “The good old death ray stuff?”

  “No,” Quinn was serious. “Joel King is, or was, no fool. He was graduated from good schools and has done splendid work in the past. Two weeks ago he mysteriously dropped out of sight. The usual conjecture, that he overworked himself and is suffering from amnesia, has been advanced. Maybe it’s true.”

  Silk’s smile faded.

  “What if he did perfect something, and he’s trying it out? Some of those inventors are half crazy, anyway.”

  “Not Joel King,” Quinn contradicted. “I’ve been interested in his disappearance because it resembled another case on which we worked—one where a master crook kidnaped inventors and forced them to divulge what they knew and then stole their ideas.

  “I doubt that anyone else is trying that trick, but suppose people hostile to this country and democracy in general have snatched him, have taken his device and are using it here? Such an instrument in the wrong hands would create havoc we have never before known. I—”

  Silk was suddenly alert.

  “The new device we rigged up to announce the presence of somebody in the laboratory, just worked. It must be either Carol or Butch.”

  “Draw the shades,” Quinn instructed. “I’ll go in. You stay here and keep watch.”

  Silk drew the shades. Quinn arose, tapped his way across the room and then dropped the pose of a blind man. He thrust the cane under one arm, operated hidden controls on the wall and a section of book shelf slid away to reveal the entrance of a perfectly concealed laboratory which was the Black Bat’s workshop.

  On top of one bookcase section was a stuffed owl. Silk had noticed one of its eyes glow a soft green. It was the signal that the lab was occupied.

  Only two people, besides Tony Quinn and Silk knew how to reach the lab. Carol or Butch had to dodge through the garden gate entrance to Quinn’s estate, cross a dark area of trees and plants and then enter the garden house far behind Quinn’s residence. A trap door opened into a tunnel which, in turn, led directly to the lab.

  Butch was the visitor, and he seemed greatly agitated. The moment the door slid shut, he lumbered forward. He was almost tall enough to reach the ceiling, and his bulk actually filled a good portion of the room itself. Butch held a phonograph record in one hand.

  “Boss,” he said excitedly, “I was downtown, see? Them big planes blew up like you must know about by now. Well, a guy comes up to me and hands me this phonograph record. He says it’s free for nothing and I should take it home and play it. He handed out a lot of them to other people.”

  “Did you play it?” Quinn asked.

  “Sure! It was free, and I figured maybe it had a hot tune on it. So I went home, put it on my little radio phonograph and—boss—you gotta listen to it yourself. You gotta—because I only understand part of it.”

  * * * *

  Quinn took the recording and placed it on a portable machine which formed part of his laboratory equipment.

  The record started off with a song and then suddenly broke off while a sinister, crafty voice spoke.

  “My dear listener: You know what happened to those three planes during the blackout. You know what happened to a man who was rushing across the airport field. Those were not accidents nor acts of sabotage, but a warning and a lesson. I have perfected a means of destroying anything or everything on earth. The use of this device will make the United States undoubted master of the world—stop this war instantly.

  “You wonder why I do not present it to our government? Because I have spent money and time on it. The government would hardly pay my price once they knew its secret and they wouldn’t even negotiate until they did know its construction. Therefore, I take this means of informing you, a citizen of the United States, that for twenty million dollars your government may purchase my apparatus.

  “Twenty million dollars—a vast sum, but paltry in view of what it will buy—the means of stopping wars forever. At the present time I have nothing further to say, but I shall contact many of you again in the near future. Think it over. Twenty million dollars for the greatest instrument ever created by man.”

  Then the music came on again and played to a finish.

  Tony Quinn’s eyes were alive and sparkling. He looked at Butch.

  “It was come about as I expected. Butch the Black Bat is going to fly again—to operate against the greatest menace we’ve ever known—a man in possession of an instrument that can deal wholesale death. This is not the theoretical death ray of fiction, but an actual fact, scientifically composed.

  “Such an invention has been worked on for years. Now it is perfected and in the hands of a man who would blackmail the nation for its secret. Not only that—the man is an out-and-out murderer. The death of the unknown at the airport now is proven to be murder.

  “These phonograph records must have been made long before it happened so the person behind this mad scheme knew the mysterious victim at the airport was going to die—even knew the manner of his death. We’re not fighting a stupid individual, Butch.”

  “Yeah,” Butch’s big hands curled into massive fists. “I’d like to bust him one. He’s a real patriot, ain’t he? I’ll turn him into a dead one. Just say the word, boss. I’m ready for action.”

  CHAPTER III

  Welcome Client

  Tony Quinn, eyes blank and dead, sat behind his desk in

  the private office of his law suite. Silk sat in a corner, ready to help his blind employer when his services were required. Quinn’s mind wasn’t on his work this morning. He could still see those three planes as they burst into little pieces high up the sky. He could still hear that sneering, calculating voice from the phonograph record, preparing everyone for that demand upon the government for a huge fortune in cash.

  The annunciator buzzed. Quinn’s clerk in the outer office announced that Police Commissioner Warner and a girl were waiting to see him. Quinn ordered them in at once and arose with his right hand outstretched somewhat vaguely in the general direction of the door.

  Commissioner Warner, tall, militarily erect, grey haired and the best Commissioner of Police the city had ever had, grasped Tony Quinn’s hand.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you, Tony,” he said, “but I’ve brought along a client.”

  “Well, thanks,” Quinn smiled. He could see the girl—obviously somewhat frightened, but red-haired and distractingly pretty. “Won’t both of you sit down?”

  They did, and Warner nodded pleasantly in Silk’s direction before he explained the reason for his coming.

  “This very pretty young lady beside me is Viola King. Her father disappeared about a month ago. The case is in the Missing Persons Bureau now. Miss King came to see me and explained that her father’s mysterious disappearance had left her somewhat embarrassed financially, that he had money, but she couldn’t touch it. As an attorney, you can figure ways and means of providing her with the money Joel King left when he vanished.”

  “Of course,” Quinn said, and his calm manner indicat
ed none of the excitement that seethed in his brain.

  This was the daughter of Joel King—the man who might have invented a device by which planes and even men could be blown to bits. Through her he might get at the truth of this affair. It was a made-to-order case—and probably the deliberate work of Commissioner Warner, who may have hoped the Black Bat would become interested.

  The girl was making mincemeat out of a handkerchief between her fingers.

  “Mr. Quinn—that isn’t quite all. Dad wasn’t sick. He couldn’t have forgotten who he was. He-he’s dead. I know he’s dead. Hank doesn’t think so, but—”

  “Who is Hank?” Quinn asked soothingly.

  “He’s Hank Standish. We were going to be married when this happened. Hank says he just got lost and will turn up soon. But it’s almost a whole month.”

  “Miss King,” Quinn said. “I’ll get to work at once. Would you mind waiting in another office. Silk, please—”

  * * * *

  Silk escorted her out of the room. Quinn leaned across his desk. His eyes were directed about three feet to Commissioner Warner’s left.

  “Commissioner—in view of what happened last night—I’m just wondering a bit.”

  Warner smiled.

  “Exactly what I hoped you’d do. A man of your brains, Tony, could help us in this case. That was murder last night. You’ve heard about the phonograph records distributed all around the city? That’s proof of it.

  Now—what’s on your mind?”

  “From the very meager description of the man who was blown up at the airport I’m wondering if it could possibly have been Joel King. I spent a lot of time thinking this over last night. Silk faithfully reads all the newspapers to me, and I have a retentive brain. It has little else to do but absorb what I hear.

  “Now Joel King was an inventor who professed to be working on a device which could do to planes exactly what happene to those three. Joel King has disappeared, so what’s the logical line of reasoning?”

  Warner pulled his chair closer and dropped his voice.

  “Tony, I’m going to be very frank. As District Attorney you showed the shrewd mind you possess. Certain people believe you are the Black Bat. For my part I’m on the fence between doubt and theory.

  “I hope you are the Black Bat—which is a funny thing for a Police Commissioner to say, especially since a warrant is in my drawer calling for the Black Bat’s arrest.”

  “We’ve been through all that before,” Quinn said. “I’m stone blind, Warner. How could I be the Black Bat? Go on talking.”

  “I brought Viola King here deliberately because she offers a clue to this greatest of mysteries—the destruction of a man isolated in the middle of a wide open air field and the simultaneous destruction of three big bombing planes in the air.

  “From what we have pieced together, a taxi driver tells us that he picked up this mystery man who died at the airport, just twenty minutes before blackout time. A sentry at the airport noted the marker number of the cab, and we picked up the driver.

  “He was offered fifty dollars to get the man to the airport before those three planes took off. The man vaguely answers the description of Joel King. The taxi driver says that the man was injured—seemed to be limping badly, that his clothes were covered with dirt as though he’d fallen.”

  “Hm,” Quinn mused. “Interesting. The man obviously was injured from a fall of some kind. Therefore we can assume that he did not travel very far before he reached your taxi driver’s cab. It’s an angle to consider, but not for me. I’m only interested in locating the father of my new client. Could you get that taxi driver over here so I might question him a bit?”

  Warner picked up the phone on Quinn’s desk, called headquarters and gave orders that the taxi driver was to be brought over at once.

  “His name is Steve Cobb, and we’re holding him temporarily,” Warner explained. “He’s innocent, of course, but the only witness we have. I had some men go over the area surrounding the crater which was left by the blast. They didn’t find much. A shoe was blasted off the poor devil’s foot, but it gives us no clue.

  “I’ll turn it over to the labs after the medical examiner releases it. Together with a few other bits of cloth and buttons, the shoe is at the morgue—had to be taken here for the medical examination. Foolish, but the doctor was insistent about it.”

  “While you’re here, write me an order to see what was left of that man. See?” Quinn chuckled. “Oh yes, I still talk that way. Hope forever burns in a man’s heart. I’ll see the remains through the tips of my fingers.”

  * * * *

  Warner wrote the necessary order and rose.

  “I’ve got to go back. This business has the whole department on its toes, and the city is flooded with F.B.I. men. I only wish the Black Bat would take a hand in it. I’ve more faith in him than any other agency.”

  Quinn laughed softly.

  “If he happens to fly in my window, I’ll tell him, commissioner, and don’t think I’m not envious of him either. Thanks for bringing me my client. All I shall do on this case is try to ascertain whether or not the dead man was her father and see to it that she can get at the money in his name.”

  Twenty minutes later two detectives brought in the taxi driver. Quinn studied the man, although nobody present in the office would have thought so because Quinn’s eyes never rested upon him. Quinn sent for Viola King and had her sit down.

  “I asked you to come in, Miss King, because I want you to hear a description. It’s possible that this cab driver may have seen your father last night. Go ahead, Mr. Cobb. What did this man look like?”

  The driver dry-washed his hands nervously.

  “Well—I really didn’t get so much of a look at the guy. He was maybe fifty or sixty. Had grey hair.”

  “His nose,” Viola King broke in.

  “Was it long and narrow? Father had a long nose.”

  “No, ma’am. This guy just had an ordinary nose and kinda red cheeks. His ears stuck out a little bit too, and he had on a brown suit.”

  Viola King leaned back slowly.

  “That wasn’t my father. He never had a brown suit, and his cheeks weren’t red. His ears didn’t stick out either. It wasn’t Dad, thank heavens.”

  The taxi driver stepped closer.

  “Say, mister,” he addressed Quinn.

  “I’m in a bad spot, see? If I helped you out any, how about you gettin’ me outa this jam? I ain’t done nuthin’ except give this guy a ride for which I never got paid either, and he promised me fifty bucks. Will you give me a hand, mister? I need a mouthpiece bad.”

  Quinn smiled.

  “Clients simply are pouring in this morning. All right—I’ll see what I can do, but of course you’ll be required to answer any questions the Police and F.B.I. agents may ask.”

  “Okay. My pals call me Stevie, and that goes for you, mister. Thanks a million. I’ll do anythin’ you say.”

  After Steve Cobb and his detective escort had gone, Quinn arose. Keeping his fingertips lightly pressed against the surface of his desk, he followed the edge of it until he stood directly in front of Viola King.

  “Sometimes,” he said, “men like that taxi driver are apt to make up descriptions. Not intentionally, but we can’t take any chances. Last night a man was killed—literally blown apart by some death dealing device hurled at him or by a bomb he was carrying. Your father worked on a machine meant to destroy engines and gasoline supplies, didn’t he?”

  “Why yes, he did. I really don’t know how far he progressed because he wouldn’t talk about it even to me. Mr. Quinn—you don’t think my father had anything to do with the destruction of those planes last night? He couldn’t do such a thing. You wouldn’t accuse him of that if you knew him. He was always gentle and kind.”

  “I’m sure he was,” Quinn soothed her. “I merely wished to learn more about him. Now suppose we go down to the morgue. It isn’t a very pleasant place for a girl. However, there are some rema
ins—clothing—of the man who was killed last night. In order not to take any chances, I think you should look at them. Do you mind?”

  “No.” Her head came up resolutely. “If Dad is dead, I’d prefer to know it. I’ll do whatever you say, Mr. Quinn. I’m ready now.”

  Silk drove them to the morgue and helped Quinn inside. Quinn presented Commissioner Warner’s order to a clerk and received a carton containing a few envelopes of scanty bits of debris and one shoe, unmarked and undamaged. Quinn drew papers from his pocket, laid them on the counter and removed a mechanical pencil from his vest pocket. He retracted the point into its cylinder and then fumbled for the shoe.

  “No!“ Viola gasped in relief. “No, that isn’t Dad’s shoe. He wore only old-fashioned high ones and never owned a pair of brown shoes in his life. The size is different, too—much bigger than what he wore.”

  “Good,” Quinn said and laid the shoe down directly upon the papers he’d spread out as if to take notes. Idly the metal point of his pencil prodded at the instep. His fingers lightly dusted over the sole of the shoe and encountered small, very hard particles. Talking, to divert attention from his hands, Quinn managed to dislodge dirt from the instep and also to remove some of those hard particles from the sole. They fell onto the paper.

  He handed back the shoe to the clerk, picked up the papers and slowly folded them. His movements were casual, and nobody suspected what he’d removed from that shoe, probably was the only clue this case offered.

  “Be glad then, that this man wasn’t your father,” he told Viola. “We’ll drop you at your house now, and I’ll get a court order on your bank so money can be withdrawn from your father’s account. Will you take my arm? It isn’t very often I have the privilege of being escorted by a pretty girl. She is pretty, isn’t she, Silk?”

  “As a picture,” Silk opined. “I wish you could see her, sir.”

  CHAPTER IV

  The Black Bat Moves In

  After dark, in the privacy of Tony Quinn’s hidden laboratory, the Black Bat’s crew assembled. Carol Baldwin sat beside Tony Quinn on a davenport. She was blond, blue-eyed and beautiful enough to make any man’s head turn as he passed by. Butch straddled a straight-backed chair while Silk remained near the door beside a light which signaled when anyone approached the house or the phone rang.