Adventure Tales, Volume 6

by John Gregory Betancourt

  “Okay,” one man said. “Wade in with me and we’ll hold them down for ten minutes. That ought to do the job right.”

  Rough hands seized Silk’s legs and he was dragged beneath the water. In two or three minutes he’d be dead. Silk didn’t mind that half as much as the fact that he’d utterly failed to avenge the Black Bat. He prayed that Carol would fade into obscurity before they got on her trail too. In all the Black Bat’s history of fighting crime, he’d never come up against men as ruthless or clever as the Patriot. What could Carol do against a killer like him?

  The dory, with a dark figure standing in the prow, drifted a little closer. A couple of the men looked up. Someone gave a startled scream. The others halted in their grisly tasks, Like rats they fled for dry land, clawing at their guns.

  The figure in the dory had moved slightly and now the wind billowed out the black cape he wore until he looked like a huge bird. A bird that had flame spitting talons because the guns in his hands began dealing out justice.

  With a leap, during which he seemed to actually fly, the man in black reached the beach and kept up his barrage. Three of the thugs were down. Another was crawling away, twisted in agony. The other four returned the fire, but their nerves were completely shattered.

  The dead had arisen!

  This was the Black Bat!

  “We give up,” someone shouted. “We give up. Don’t shoot!”

  “Drop your guns,” came the order. “Get those two men out of the water. Quickly—if they’re dead—all of you will die.”

  From the house came the roar of a car motor and tires scraped against the cinder drive. The Patriot and Gus were making good their escape, but that couldn’t be helped. Silk and Butch were more important than that master of murder.

  * * * *

  Silk sat up, blinked a few times and then almost lapsed into unconsciousness. The Black Bat moved toward him. The four remaining thugs were flat on their faces in the sand, arms outspread. The Black Bat cut Silk loose, pressed the knife into his hand and signaled he was to free Butch.

  “Don’t ask questions now,” the Black Bat said in a satisfied voice. “I reached here in time. The Patriot got away—but that’s all right, so long as you two are safe. What of Carol?”

  “She’s checking up on the King girl, sir.” Silk was trying to bring Butch out of it. The big man had suffered more than Silk and probably been fighting so hard he forgot to fill his lungs with oxygen as the killers thrust him below water.

  The Black Bat handed Silk a gun. “Watch those four—and the wounded one over there. The one called Mike, who went for the boat, is dead. He chose to fight and fell unconscious into the sea. I’ll attend to Butch.”

  Butch opened his eyes a few moments later, looked straight up into the hooded face of the Black Bat and gave a long, satisfied grunt. Then he did a quick double take, sitting up and gaping at the man who rescued him.

  “You’re dead,” he gulped. “You you’re dead. Then I must be dead too, huh? Only I don’t get it. I’m still on the beach.”

  “And still alive—like me, Butch,” the Black Bat said. “See if you can stand up. I need your help.”

  “Sure—sure, Boss.” Butch got to his feet and almost collapsed. With a great effort, he gathered his strength and waited for orders.

  “Those five men—one is wounded badly-are to be wrapped up for the police. While Silk holds a gun on them, use their clothing to tie them up. Do a good job, Butch.”

  “Oh, boy,” Butch growled, “will I? Is that smart mug named Gus here too? He took a dozen swings at my nose while I was tied down and I’d like to hear how a rat’s neck sounds when it busts.”

  “He’s gone, Butch. These others are small fry, but the police won’t mind meeting them. And Butch—don’t try to make them talk because they have no more knowledge of the Patriot’s real identity than you or I.”

  “Yeah—Gus made ‘em all scram when the big shot showed up. Said If they saw him, they’d get rubbed out. Okay, boss, leave these lice to me. I’ll fix ‘em right.”

  The Black Bat made his way to the big house, found the door open and went in. He saw a telephone in the library, sat down behind the desk and then dialed for the operator.

  “Would you give me the charges on a call I just put through over this number, please?”

  He was connected with long distance immediately and the Black Bat repeated his question.

  “There was no overtime,” the operator said. “A call to New York is twenty cents, Sir.”

  “To New York?” the Black Bat asked with pretended amazement. “Are you sure we’re both referring to the same call?”

  “It was the last one made from that number, sir. You called Mandaley 6-9740.”

  “Thank you.” The Black Bat hung up and sat back. He was still there when Butch and the first pair of crooks arrived, tucked beneath his big arms. He dropped them on the floor and grinned.

  “Gosh, Boss, I thought I was dead. Honest I did. It was funny, too, because I didn’t mind none when I saw you there too.”

  “That,” the Black Bat said, “is a compliment. Now bring in the others. You’ll find a car behind a big white oak a quarter of a mile down the road. Drive it here-and hurry—we have things to do.”

  * * * *

  When all five of the men were laid out on the floor, the wounded member made as comfortable as possible, the Black Bat used the phone again and called New York police Headquarters. He asked for Captain McGrath and spoke in a natural tone.

  “If you would like to see how a dead man rounds up certain members of the Patriot’s band, why not pay a visit to James Halton’s summer home at Pelham? I’m sure you’d be interested.”

  He heard McGrath give a half strangled cry. “Hey—don’t hang up yet. You sound like the Black Bat, but you’re not fooling me. The Black Bat is dead—lots of people saw him get blown completely to pieces.”

  The Black Bat chuckled softly. “Really, Captain, I’m all in one piece. Take my advice—come to Halton’s summer home and bring an ambulance. One of the men has been injured. Oh yes—three others are dead. Not like me, Captain. They’re really dead.”

  The Black Bat hung up, walked over to where the five men were lying on the floor and calmly pasted one of his stickers on the forehead of each one. Silk was doing the same thing outside—with the three dead crooks.

  Not more than two minutes later the Black Bat, Silk and Butch were traveling back toward New York. Butch drove, but with his head twisted oddly so he could hear the Black Bat’s story and still watch the road.

  “It was close,” the Black Bat admitted. “Much too close for comfort. When the fight started in the cottage on the cliff overlooking the river, I shot one man and he dropped. The others ran out and I started after them, but the crook I had a duel with had only been stunned by a ricocheting bullet.

  “He came to and opened fire again. I batted him around a bit, knew that if I emerged with my outfit on, I’d be a perfect target so I changed clothes with the crook. My intentions were to get close enough to that lethal machine to wreck it—and some of the higher-ups who were nearby.

  “Then it was you, dressed like one of those crooks, who came out and started running,” Silk broke in. “The thug you’d knocked out recovered his senses, reached the doorway and began shooting at you. The blast came and—it was him I saw blown to bits.”

  “If you’d looked closer,” the Black Bat removed his hood and grinned broadly, “you’d also have noticed me flying through the air with the greatest of ease. The blast tossed me to the cliff so I just kept on going and dived into the river.

  “I knew I’d be declared dead and while I hated to let you, Butch and Carol continue to think that, it was a perfect way to force the Patriot to get busy, and, perhaps, expose himself in doing so. I actually phoned the house twice, but nobody answered. I suppose all of you had left.”

  “But how did you happen to reach Halton’s seashore home?” Silk asked. “You didn’t trail the Patriot the
re, did you? You don’t know who he is?”

  “Unfortunately—no. His appearance was coincidental. I never expected him to show up. You see, after I dried myself I decided to follow a clue which had tantalized me for some time. Remember the man who was held prisoner at Kurt Miller’s abandoned tenement house where the printing press was located? Of course you do.

  “Well—he really had been held prisoner and I have identified him. He died in that blast at the airport, but he wasn’t trying to sabotage those planes. I’m certain of that. All he wanted to do was warn them of impending danger. In the cab that he rode, I discovered ink smears. I found more of them in the old tenement house. Obviously the man’s hands had been covered with ink—which tied up with the printing machine.

  “I looked for a printer who probably had a small place of his own, and was missing for a couple of days.

  “The police helped me via the telephone, though they had no idea of it. The dead man was named Herbert Marks. He received a call one night a few days ago, that he was wanted for a special job. The caller asked if he was alone and Marks, somewhat suspicious, said yes. In reality his wife also was present. He was told to report at once to Halton’s summer home. The caller offered a sizeable sum for his trouble and indicated the work was to be done secretly.”

  “And Marks fell for it,” Silk sighed. “He went to Halton’s summer home and they made him print those phony newspaper outer pages on a press they’d installed in Miller’s vacant tenement. Marks deserves a lot of credit for what he tried to do.”

  “Naturally I paid a visit to Halton’s place and found you and Butch. All of which leaves us almost exactly where we were before,” the Black Bat said. “True, we’ve broken up the Patriot’s mob rather well, but he can easily get more men. I have a couple of clues, one of which is just a phone number and might fizzle out.

  “I was able to do a little investigating, though, especially in connection with the two explosions, one at the airport and the other on the river.

  “I discovered that after Marks was blown to bits, the authorities naturally became suspicious and examined the

  three doomed planes very thoroughly. Then, after that was done, the cameras were loaded aboard. The torpedo boats, likewise were gone over and then—speedometers were taken aboard. I think something connected with those cameras and speedometers is responsible for the blasts. Right now though, we’d better head for home as fast as possible—without getting pinched, Butch—so that when Captain McGrath comes around to prove that Tony Quinn is dead, he’ll find a live corpse.”

  “Perhaps,” Silk added gently, “Carol might also be responsible for the speed you want, sir?”

  “Exactly, Silk. Exactly.”

  CHAPTER XV

  The Patriot’s Move

  Meanwhile, Carol forced all thoughts of Tony Quinn out of her mind. She’d been well trained by the Black Bat and knew exactly how to approach a house without being seen herself. Luckily, she carried out her training well for as she neared Viola King’s cottage, she saw dark forms in a field two or three hundred yards from the house.

  Carol circled them, getting closer to Joel King’s workshop at the rear. Her intentions were to search for clues-anything that might prove or disprove that Halton possessed the greatest possibility of being the Patriot. Like the others, she was more or less convinced of his guilt.

  Crawling through the high grass, she encountered a wire, avoided it completely and then suddenly realized just what it meant. G-Men or Police had tapped Viola King’s phone—perhaps also installed a dictaphone. They had run the wire into the field and were listening there now.

  An encounter with them would be embarrassing. She reached the workshop, made certain no police were inside and stepped in herself. With a small flash, shaded by her hands, she inspected the premises. Five minutes passed to no avail. Then a telephone, hooked to the wall beside the door, suddenly jangled and made Carol break out in a cold sweat. She hurried to the phone, carefully lifted the receiver and as she placed the instrument to her ear, someone in the house also answered.

  “Viola?” a man’s voice inquired.

  “Father!” Viola King gasped. “Father—are you all right?”

  “Perfectly all right, my child,” the man replied. “Don’t worry about me. We’re going to be rich, Viola. More money than we ever dreamed about.”

  “The—invention?” Viola asked breathlessly. “Dad—you can’t sell it. You didn’t make it for that purpose. You never even told me you’d perfected it. Dad—what’s come over you?”

  “An influence,” the man answered blithely. “It’s called money. A very clever man pointed out to me how we can all make a lot of money. No more of that struggling for an existence. And—better yet—it can be done without the slightest bit of suspicion being thrown on me. I’ll return and say I was kidnaped.”

  “But you were, Dad—you must have been. Think of what you’re doing. Think of me.”

  “I have been, my dear. I was kidnaped and I had my choice of co-operating or being killed. When I demonstrated my invention, the Patriot—as he calls himself—promised to let me share in the profits. Did you see those planes go down, those torpedo boats smashed to bits, and that fool at the airport who was blown to kingdom come?

  “That was my invention at work, Viola. Those men had to die so I might prove the capabilities of the device. I’m satisfied—so is the Patriot—and the government soon will be. Unless they are utter fools and refuse to deal with us. In that case we have someone else bidding for it.”

  Viola half screamed. “You can’t do that. You can’t! You’re an American. Please, Dad—give the invention to the government. Please—they’ll never let us rest if you don’t.”

  “Bosh,” came the chiding reply. “In this world it’s every man for himself. I’m convinced of the Patriot’s policies. Now listen carefully: I was permitted to phone you for two reasons. First, to assure you I’m safe and well. Secondly, to warn you that very soon now we’ll require your aid. The instructions you will receive must be carried out. Do you understand, Viola? If you fail—I’ll be killed.”

  “I-I’ll do as you say.” Viola was crying bitterly. “Perhaps we can work something out when you’re free. Be careful, Dad. I…”

  The connection was cut off. Carol leaned limply against the wall. The Patriot was getting ready to strike. Joel King worked with him; and now his daughter was forced into the plot. G-Men, probably, had overheard the conversation and would be ready to move in on them promptly.

  Carol felt utterly lost. Unless Silk and Butch had dug up something, the case had reached an impasse. The Patriot had covered up his tracks and there was nothing left to do but wait. When his demands came, perhaps they’d find some way to circumvent the man.

  Carol peered through a window, saw the men in the field moving toward the street. She went out and hurried away into the night. There was nothing for her to do at Viola King’s. The girl was probably just as miserable as Carol right now,

  She drove to Tony Quinn’s house, left the car up the street and reached the lab through its tunnel. Butch was there. The big man sprang to his feet as Carol entered. He grasped both her shoulders and looked down into her eyes.

  “Easy now,” he said and his face was wreathed in the biggest grin Carol had ever seen. “I got somethin’ to tell you. Swell news, Carol. He’s okay!”

  “He’s—okay?” Carol repeated the two words very slowly. Then she grasped Butch’s big arms. “Butch—what are you trying to tell me? You mean Tony—he isn’t…”

  “Sh-h-h,” Butch cautioned. “He’s in there right now—with Captain McGrath. I’ll open the secret door just a crack. Silk parked McGrath with his back to the door on purpose. Take a look!”

  Carol’s hand shot to her mouth to stop the glad cry that rose involuntarily to her lips. Tony Quinn, clad in his smoking jacket, with his pipe between his teeth, sightless eyes staring at the fireplace, was listening to McGrath.

  The Detective Captain hadn�
��t quite recovered from the shock of finding Tony Quinn at home—alive.

  “Okay, okay,” McGrath said for the third time. “I admit that if the Black Bat really is dead, I was all wrong about you. But listen to this—somebody phoned me about an hour ago. Said he was the Black Bat and, so help me, he sounded like him. I was told to make tracks for Jim Halton’s summer home in Peiham and, believe me, I travelled.

  “When I got there, I found four of the Patriot’s mugs tied up and another wounded. On the beach were three more—dead, They were all branded—with the Black Bat’s stickers. Now I saw him blown to bits with my own eyes. Maybe you got an idea about that, Mr. Quinn?”

  Quinn asked casually: “I’m afraid not. If you saw the Black Bat killed—then he must either have a double, or an imposter is at work.”

  “Yeah—only the five crooks who were still alive swore the Black Bat just came sailing toward them in a boat. They claim he flew at them, too—like a bird. Those guys were so scared they talked their heads off and we learned—just nothing. They worked for the Patriot and they say he has got a machine that can blast things off the map; but that’s all they knew. Not one of ‘em ever saw the Patriot.”

  “And why would they know him?” Quinn argued. “A man as clever as the Patriot wouldn’t entrust such knowledge to strong-armed, weakminded thugs as they. And Captain—when you came in here and saw me, you actually believed then that the

  Black Bat wasn’t dead.

  “You’re convinced I’m the Black Bat and you shook hands with me so often and so hard my fingers still are numb. Really, despite all the threats you make, I think you’d be delighted if you were certain the Black Bat was alive. Confess now—wouldn’t you?”

  McGrath looked at the tip of his cold cigar and grinned feebly.

  “Well now that you put it that way—I dunno—I felt like a heel after I thought he was dead. Sure he’s a law breaker and he ought to be flung into a cell, but he has done a lot of good too. Anyway he is dead. I’m—I think he’s dead. I opened up, Quinn. You come through now and admit you’re the Black Bat. On my honor, I won’t do a thing about it.”