Adventure Tales, Volume 6

by John Gregory Betancourt

  “Whoever is behind this scheme is, above all, not stupid,” said Quinn. “The manner by which he operates shows ingenuity. He knows very well that a demand for twenty million dollars would never be met. Yet his product is well worth that sum if he can get it.

  “However, he has resorted to murder, which means he will be hunted down even if the government does dicker with him. The man can’t be such a fool as to not realize this. So why in the world did he resort to murder in the first place? Unless—he wants to impress someone else—a foreign power, perhaps—with the efficiency of his machine.”

  “Of course,” Carol interrupted, “I listened to that recording while Butch and I waited here for you. The man makes no threats, but if he doesn’t get the money from this country, I’ll give you odds there are other nations who would pay him for such a weapon. That man holds all the cards, and even the deck is stacked in his favor.”

  “Stacked decks have been known to deal phony cards,” Quinn reminded her. “What you say is true. I’m afraid this man will give another exhibition of his machine, and there will be further murders. Even if he gets his money, there is no indication he won’t want more. We’re dealing with a criminal, an especially low-down rat, who should be exterminated and his method of mass murder turned over to the federal authorities.”

  “Yeah,” Butch put in, “but how do we find a guy like that and stop him cold, huh?”

  “We have one lead,” Quinn said thoughtfully. “The man who was blown to pieces at the airport. Of course his identity can’t be traced. We may be able to learn where he came from. He was injured, his left foot twisted. He was covered with dirt and dust, indicating he’d fallen.

  “Now a man, injured like that, obviously couldn’t travel very far. He took a taxi at a certain address which I’ll give you. Carol, you and Butch go there and look for an empty house with ceilings that are falling down.”

  “Are you clairvoyant?” Carol smiled.

  Quinn held one of her hands and patted it gently. There was something more than friendship between them.

  “Hardly, darling. I managed to scrape the instep and sole of the shoe blown off last night’s victim. He had been walking, for some time, on a floor covered with small particles of plaster—old plaster, too. Therefore, I assume the house or building he was in, must be falling apart.

  “Even an unkempt housewife would clean up debris like that. Call back when you have located the place. Oh yes—there were particles of sand adhering to the instep also. They covered the bits of plaster, indicating that the man must have walked on sand last. Therefore, also look for a sandy area outside this house.”

  “And you, Tony?” Carol asked as she arose. “Will we be apt to see the Black Bat prowling about?”

  “Not yet—unless something really breaks. I’ve got to get the hack driver I told you about out of police custody. It shouldn’t take long, and I especially want a ride in his cab. Silk will be waiting for your call. If you find anything, I’ll be along as quickly as possible. Just watch your step and remember we are not fighting a bunch of beetle-browed thugs. Good luck.”

  Carol and Butch made their way along the tunnel, came out in the garden house and slipped from the estate through the side gate. Butch had a car parked not far away, and they drove directly to the region from which the hack driver had picked up his mysterious fare.

  “You’d better stay in the car,” Carol told Butch. “I can duck a great deal faster and better than you. It takes half a house to conceal that torso of yours, and, anyway, nobody would suspect a girl.”

  “Suppose you don’t come back,” Butch said disconsolately.

  “Then you can start tearing those houses down. I’ll be in one of them. Park around the corner and keep an eye out for trouble. I won’t be long—I hope.”

  Carol swiftly located three deserted apartment buildings. She went down the alley between the first two and used a small pencil flash sparingly. She looked for any signs of a man having fallen, and for sand which he’d picked up as he walked through it.

  There were none, but in the next alley she did find a spot where sand had been dumped. Encouraged by this, she entered one of the two buildings whose side walls faced this alley. The doors were not locked so she was able to steal inside quietly. She examined one room after another, paying particular attention to the ceilings and floors. There was no plaster strewn about—in fact, the ceilings seemed remarkably well preserved in comparison to the rest of the place.

  She visited the other building. The first floor, consisting of four apartments, gave her no clue, but on the second floor she found that the Black Bat’s theory was correct. In one room of one apartment her feet scraped on tiny particles of plaster. There was something else which interested her—several pieces of rope which had been severed by a chunk of glass knocked from a broken window pane. She also picked up a twisted piece of cloth which might have been used as a gag.

  * * * *

  The mystery man who had been blown to bits had obviously been held prisoner in this old place. Therefore, he really had meant to give a warning, had been destroyed before he could accomplish his purpose. Carol shivered. Had he been destroyed by some lethal device which could be turned on anybody—anything—and blast it off the face of the earth? The man would hardly have carried a bomb in his pocket—not after making an escape from this room.

  She crept softly down the steps again. There were no signs of life in the building, but she was taking no chances. Her natural inclination was to search the whole place, but the Black Bat needed the information she’d acquired. Therefore, it was best that she forego any further investigation.

  She was at the front door when the floor beneath her feet began to rumble, and, very faintly, from far above, came the monotonous sound of machinery. Carol gulped. Was it something which might be turned upon her? She raced out of the place, turned north when she reached the sidewalk and kept going. Carol didn’t see a big car turn the other corner just as she emerged from the place. She didn’t see it stop and drop one man, who was well hidden by a turned down hat brim and a raised coat collar.

  Carol was in the coupe beside Butch and rolling away fast when the mystery sedan turned down the street a moment too late to detect them.

  At a convenient corner, Carol phoned Silk and reported her findings. Silk told her to drive back to the house, where Butch could pick up the Black Bat. They met, not far from the garden gate. Tony Quinn was now garbed in black. He wore a big hat of the same color, turned down to hide the scars around his eyes.

  They were a dead giveaway, but it was impossible for the Black Bat to ride around wearing his hood and cape.

  “Be careful,” Carol warned him. “I distinctly heard machinery moving—sort of a whining sound. I’ll stay in the lab until you return.”

  Butch drove off with the Black Bat beside him. They didn’t speak much during the fairly long ride down and across town. The Black Bat was busy checking the two automatics which lay on his lap now.

  “Had to squeeze time,” he told Butch. “Only got back five minutes before you arrived. I went to Headquarters in a taxi and rescued Steve Cobb. Incidentally, I knew his cab was parked back of Headquarters, and I made him drive me home.”

  “Sure,” Butch grunted. “That’s the only fee you’ll get out of them birds.”

  “You’re wrong,” the Black Bat chuckled. “I even forced the meter fare on Steve when he didn’t want to take it, because I got my money’s worth out of that ride. In the cab I found several hand marks and fingerprints.

  “Fortunately, I could see them very well in the dark. The police dusted the interior for prints, but missed these apparently because the murdered man grabbed at the back of the seat and smeared the compartment below the rear window with something that looks to me like ink.”

  “But what was he doin’ with ink on his hands?” Butch wanted to know.

  “I’m not sure—yet. Better pull down this Street. It runs directly behind the one on which those empty apa
rtment houses are situated. Stay with the car, Butch. If anything happens, use your own judgment. If I don’t return, tip off Commissioner Warner about this place.”

  * * * *

  The Black Bat got out, slipped across the sidewalk and faded from sight in the darkness of an alley. He ran lightly along this, hopping blithely over debris that would have tripped a man equipped only with average sight. Nothing remained hidden to the Black Bat’s super-sensitive eyes.

  He reached a high fence and scaled it with ease. Dropping lightly to the other side, he crouched for a moment while he drew on the black hood and donned the odd cape. Guns ready, he stole toward the house which Carol had indicated was the one in which the dead man had been a prisoner.

  There was a rear entrance, and he selected this as the best means of getting in unobtrusively. A moment later he found himself in a dismal, damp-smelling hallway. Whatever rumbling sound Carol had heard was gone now. A deathly silence held sway.

  Cautiously, the Black Bat moved to the front of the house. He examined several rooms on the first floor, and when he entered the one furthest down the hall, he sidestepped slightly so he’d be out of the way of the door.

  Someone was peering through the window. The Black Bat could see the man’s features in prominent detail. He had a wide face, closely clipped blonde hair and a bull neck. His nose was flattened against the window pane as he tried to see into the pitch dark room.

  Then, suddenly, the man vanished. The Black Bat didn’t pursue him. He had too much of a start and in addition, the contents of this house might prove more interesting.

  On the second floor, he found the room which Carol had described, saw the severed ropes, the broken glass. Part of the painted wall was smeared with a black substance, like ink. The noise of machinery had come from above, according to Carol, so the Black Bat stole up the stairway on rubber soles. Both guns were in his hands, and his extremely sensitive hearing was on the alert for the slightest sound.

  The ceilings, even in the prison room, were in good shape. Therefore, the particles of plaster must have been shaken loose by something like machinery. It jibed.

  On the top floor, the Black Bat found a closed door. He stowed one gun away, turned the doorknob slowly and gave the door a hard shove. Something seemed to bar its path for a bare instant. Two things happened simultaneously then. The door gave, and the Black Bat saw a room containing what seemed to be a complete printing press, large enough to print a newspaper, though not on the same big scale as a metropolitan daily.

  And there was a tremendous explosion somewhere downstairs. This time the ceilings gave up under the punishment. One whole section fell, hitting the Black Bat’s shoulder, and sent him flat on the floor. More plaster fell, and the sinister crackle of flames were evident to his ears. He got up, massaged his shoulder and ran into the hallway. From up the stairwell came a tower of livid flame. Rooms on the same floor with him, were burning furiously.

  Was this some more of the super-crook’s work with his invention?

  There was no time to puzzle it out. The Black Bat retired into the room with the printing press. One side of the heavy machine had gone through the floor. In about ten minutes the fire would eat away the rest of the supports and the Black Bat would be lucky if he didn’t crash into the cellar with the big machine.

  CHAPTER V

  Murder Advertises

  Heedless of his danger for the moment, the Black Bat scooped up the blank piece of paper and a rubber roller. He placed the paper upon the type already set up and used the roller to get a good impression. Without pausing to read the words, he folded the paper and put it into his pocket. His next move was to escape. He dashed into the hallway again, drew back hastily into the press room. It was the only room in the whole building that wasn’t burning furiously.

  He raised the window and looked out. He was five stories from the ground, no fire escape was in sight and nothing but sheer space was between him and the bottom of the alley. His eyes penetrated the crimson glow of the fire and saw a heavy cable burning rapidly. He knew then that this press was run from electricity, tapped from another building. The cable might have offered a way out, but it was already too late. Even as he watched, the cable parted and fell with a shower of sparks.

  Sirens were screaming raucously. The fire apparatus was here already. The Black Bat groaned. It meant rescue—yes—but at what a price! He’d be exposed as Tony Quinn, supposedly blind attorney. The Black Bat’s career would come to an immediate end because, if Captain McGrath didn’t arrest him, crooks would ferret him out, and their guns would silence the deadliest enemy they had ever encountered.

  He ducked back quickly. They’d managed to squeeze one of the fire trucks down the alley between buildings. The aerial ladder was already being raised. A sudden blast of heat made the Black Bat swerve about. He covered his face quickly. The fire had reached the press room now and was eating through the dried wooden floor like so much paper. The floor gave a sickening lurch, and another section of the heavy press crashed through it.

  Something hit the wall just outside the window. The Black Bat saw the top of a ladder, saw it shake slightly under the weight of a climbing man. He made up his mind swiftly then and drew back against the wall. The room was filled with smoke already and within the next five minutes the whole building would cave in. The Black Bat had to fight time, and he possessed no weapons for such a battle.

  A fireman stuck his head through the window and flashed a torch into the gloom. Prone on the floor, he saw a figure stretched out. The fireman climbed in, tested the sagging floor gingerly and then bent down to pick up the victim.

  A fist lashed out, and the fireman went to sleep, painlessly and quickly. The Black Bat scrambled up. dragged the fireman close to the wall and stripped him of his big peaked hat, rubber coat, boots and asbestos gloves. Then the Black Bat rolled up his hood and cape, stuffed them in an especially created pocket under his coat and picked up the fireman. He climbed onto the ladder, waved a hand to those below and went down a couple of rungs until he was able to slide the real fireman’s limp form off the window sill where he’d draped it temporarily.

  He went down the ladder fast, prayed the big hat would hide his features. Then, on inspiration, he stopped as if to rest, but in reality he stretched out one hand and rubbed it against a burned section of the window sill on the third floor. Then he rubbed his face and smudged it enough to make identification practically impossible.

  * * * *

  Willing arms reached up to help him, but the Black Bat clung to his unconscious victim, stepped down off the truck and moved onto the street where he saw a fire department ambulance waiting. In a city the size of Manhattan, fire department members hardly were apt to recognize every fireman they came across, so the Black Bat felt safe in presenting his victim for treatment.

  “Passed out from smoke, I guess,” he told the doctor. “I’m okay myself. Be seeing you.”

  He walked back toward the alley, but stopped abruptly because a small crowd had assembled, and someone was shouting astounding news.

  “The Black Bat is in there! I saw him with my own eyes! He wore a cape like wings and a hood. I am not mistaken, I tell you. Ach, you do not believe me. I am Kurt Miller. I own this property. I live two doors down the street. It was the Black Bat the fireman carried to the ambulance!”

  Two radio cops decided to investigate and the Black Bat realized this was certainly no place to tarry. He managed to get a look at the face of the man who called himself Kurt Miller. It was the face which had been pressed against the first floor window of this burning building as the Black Bat had searched it. The man owned this property, and he lived nearby. Such a person actually cried out for an investigation, and the right time to do it was now.

  Slipping down the alley, still clad as a fireman, the Black Bat managed to fade into the darkness beyond the range of the blaze. He stripped off the fireman’s regalia and quickly donned the Black Bat’s outfit. Then he crossed yards until he came
to the house described by Kurt Miller as his residence.

  There were no lights in the place, a two-story frame structure, indicating that Miller either lived alone or his family was away. The Black Bat crept up to the rear door, examined the cheap lock and had it open with a master key in two seconds. He closed and locked it behind him, walked into the middle of the kitchen floor and stood there, listening.

  Chairs and other furniture offered no handicaps in the darkness for he could see them plainly. The kitchen presented glowing evidence that Miller was a single man and without servants, because the sink was stacked high with dishes and dirt had been carelessly swept into a corner.

  Passing through the dining room, equally filthy, the Black Bat reached a rather spacious living room. His eyes darted around the place. It was just an average room. Then those uncanny eyes stopped, riveted on the bare floor beyond the rug.

  There were numerous scratches on the floor, as if someone had squatted down in front of an ordinary oak cabinet. It had a door equipped with a rather good lock. This fell quickly before the Black Bat’s prowess. Opening the door, he stared at the surface of a modern, expensive safe.

  Getting beyond that glistening combination dial was past the Black Bat’s capabilities, but he had an idea it might be worked. The contents should prove very interesting if Miller were involved in this business of destruction.

  * * * *

  THERE was a mirror hanging directly above the cabinet. The Black Bat tilted this at an angle so that it would reflect the dial to anyone hidden behind a big, overstuffed chair in the corner. Then he moved the wooden door to within an inch of being shut. He walked about the room and very carefully changed the position of several articles.