The Black Master s-8

by Maxwell Grant

  The Black Master

  ( Shadow - 8 )

  Maxwell Grant

  THE BLACK MASTER

  Maxwell Grant

  CHAPTER I. TERROR GRIPS MANHATTAN

  IT was morning on Wall Street. Crowds of people were moving hurriedly along the pavements of that man-made ravine that threads its way through the heart of New York's financial district. Viewed from the buildings above, they appeared as tiny creatures.

  Two men turned into the thoroughfare from a side sweet. They jostled their way through a cluster of people who were waiting on the curb, and walked leisurely, side-by-side, down Wall Street.

  There was nothing in the appearance of these men to attract attention. They seemed typical of the drab passers-by who are seen constantly in that part of Manhattan.

  One man was carrying a briefcase. That, alone, distinguished him from his companion.

  Both were oblivious of their surroundings. They paid no attention to the walls of the huge buildings that loomed on either side of them. They came to a spot where construction was underway and they were forced to cross to the other side of the narrow street.

  The crowd had thinned for the moment. The men were nearing a corner. They stopped an instant as their path was blocked by a man hurrying in the opposite direction. Then they moved by him in single file, forced to the middle of the sidewalk by two large ashcans that stood against the wall of the building.

  The man with the briefcase brushed shoulders with the man who was going the other way.

  It was one of those unnoticed passings. A few seconds later, each would have forgotten the existence of the other, had the usual law of the city held true. But this passing was the forerunner of an unusual event.

  Before the hurrying man had moved ten feet along the street, a terrific explosion occurred. Where three men had been momentarily grouped, none remained.

  All along the block lay persons who were thrown to the sidewalks. Men were staggering, trying to recover from the mighty concussion which had shaken them.

  A gaping hole appeared in the front of the building on the right - a hole from which ran a series of irregular cracks. A deluge of debris poured from the building across the way. Helpless persons were buried amid loose stone and mortar.

  From the stricken area came a cloud of smokelike dust. Then followed an ominous silence that seemed to last for endless seconds. Out of the silence came the cries of the victims.

  Crowds began to gather at the ends of the block. As though by prearrangement, uniformed policemen appeared to take control. They made their way to the spot where the explosion had occurred.

  With disregard of danger, they began their work of rescue. While they labored, the clang of bells approached. With the amazing speed that characterizes the working of Manhattan's machinery, rescue squads were rushing to the scene.

  Patrols and ambulances arrived with fire trucks. Bodies of both living and dead were carried away.

  Groups of police blocked off the district.

  Then came reporters. Within thirty minutes after the catastrophe, mighty presses were grinding out the hideous details of the unexpected tragedy. Five men were known to be dead; the number of the injured was a matter of conjecture.

  One hour after Lower Manhattan had been rocked by the explosion, eager persons were buying newspapers in Grand Central Station.

  Only the meager details of the catastrophe were available; yet it had already become the sole topic of conversation in the great terminal.

  A man entered one of the small cigar stores near the main concourse and nodded to the clerk. He was reading a newspaper as he entered. He tucked it under his arm and approached the cigar case.

  The clerk came over and methodically removed a box of cigars. The newcomer was one of his hundreds of regular customers. The clerk knew the brand he smoked.

  "Big news today," remarked the clerk, indicating the newspaper under the customer's arm.

  "Yes," came the reply. "Terrible! They don't know much about it yet."

  "The next editions will be out soon," said the clerk. "They'll have a big account then. Those reporters work fast, you know."

  The customer drew a wallet from his inside coat pocket. He reached forward to pluck five cigars from the box that lay upon the counter. As his fingers slipped on the outside wrappings, the clerk politely raised the box.

  The customer's left hand rested on the counter as he grasped the cigars successfully. There was a slight smile upon his lips. It was the last action he made in life, and the one man who witnessed it did not remain to tell the tale!

  The cigar store was rocked by a mighty tremor. The counter and the cases disappeared in a tremendous explosion that sent pieces of wreckage flying in all directions. The crowds that were hurrying through the concourse of the terminal fell in struggling heaps.

  Showers of broken glass clattered everywhere. In a trice, the serene regularity of the huge depot had been changed to a scene of chaos! Smoke swept through the concourse! Women screamed in terror!

  Utter confusion reigned!

  Another catastrophe had terrorized New York! Here, scenes of Wall Street were reenacted, but in a different setting.

  Police arrived and were joined by hospital attendants. Railroad employees were prompt in giving aid.

  Trains were held; emergency orders were put in force.

  The explosion had been confined to a corner of the concourse. The cigar store and two neighboring shops were completely wrecked. Two clerks and three customers were killed in the cigar store.

  One man, who had been telephoning from a booth, escaped miraculously and was drawn from the wreckage virtually uninjured. Hundreds of persons had been stunned, and many had suffered minor injuries.

  The huge extent of the concourse, with its acres of open space and its high-domed ceiling, had offset the death-dealing power of the explosion.

  It became a day of terror in New York.

  The newspapers were spreading the details of these catastrophes like wildfire. With the exact reports of the Wall Street explosion came the stop-press news of the bombing in Grand Central Station.

  Police were appearing everywhere.

  It was exactly half-past twelve when an enterprising newsboy took his stand at the entrance to the downtown side of the Broadway subway at Columbus Circle. He had a stock of the latest editions of the afternoon newspapers. He was selling them with great rapidity.

  A well-dressed man stopped and gave the boy a twenty-five cent piece. The gamin fumbled for the change and found it. Some of the coins fell to the sidewalk as the boy turned to another customer and began his repeated cry:

  "Big explosions! Read about the big explosions! Hundreds killed in Wall Street -"

  The man who had bought the newspaper stopped and picked up the loose coins. He seemed annoyed.

  He drew a large watch from his pocket and glanced at the time. He noted that the watch was stopped.

  He looked around for a clock by which to set his timepiece. Then, apparently disturbed by his delay, he thrust the watch angrily in his pocket and hurried down the steps.

  Two of the automatic turnstiles were open at the right of the entrance to the subway station. A train was just pulling out. The man was too late to make it.

  Fuming, he went through the turnstile. Another man followed and bumped against him. The first man swung rather angrily; but the other paid no attention to him.

  "What's the hurry?" growled the well-dressed man.

  The other turned to look at him. But their argument went no further. The underground tube reverberated with a tremendous explosion that sounded like a mighty cannonade.

  The station became a mass of wreckage. Girders were twisted between the tracks. The change booth wa
s demolished and its occupant was killed. There were half a dozen people entering the southbound station; not one remained alive!

  On the street above, the newsboy's cry of "Big explosions!" came to a sudden end as the urchin was thrown headlong and his expressive words were drowned by the muffled report that came from below.

  People entering the subway staggered back in the face of a vast volume of white smoke that reeked with fumes of sulphur!

  From across the street, terror-stricken persons from the northbound subway station emerged from the kiosk, shouting frantically for assistance for those who remained below!

  Once again some unseen hand had caused doom and destruction! A third terror had come to New York, and another chain of hideous details was ready for the grinding presses that thrived on death and tragedy.

  The pleasant, open circle on the fringe of Central Park became the headquarters for a group of rescue workers, while mounted police arrived to drive back the curious thousands who assembled in spite of the danger which might still exist.

  In three hours, terror had gripped Manhattan! Three terrible calamities - each a horrible event in itself -

  had occurred at intervals of approximately sixty minutes!

  What might happen next was something that no one could venture to foretell. Any spot in busy New York might become a mass of wreckage, with victims shrieking their misfortune.

  Danger lay everywhere, and emergency squads of police could only wait, hopeful that they might be nearby to lend their aid should another mighty tragedy follow those that had gone before!

  CHAPTER II. THE MAN WHO FEARED DEATH

  OF all the mad frenzy that gripped New York on that momentous day, none could equal the wild excitement in the office of the Evening Classic.

  In the realm of tabloid newspapers, the Classic led all others in sensationalism. Its reporters were familiar with all quarters of the underworld. Its photographers stopped at nothing to obtain pictures.

  The Classic claimed an inside knowledge of all that went on in New York!

  From the moment that news of the first explosion reached the Classic office, the managing editor gave orders that resembled those of a general whose army is going into battle.

  The editorial offices of the tabloid were located in an old, squalid building that was on the verge of condemnation. The reporters' room was cramped for space. The city editor sat in a corner before a broken-down desk and gave out assignments to reporters as rapidly as they entered the office.

  The clicking of typewriters and the loud telephone conversations caused a continual hubbub.

  The Grand Central explosion added to the excitement of the Classic office. Photographers were dispatched to the new scene of tragedy. Reporters wrote wild rumors linking the two explosions.

  Acting on a hunch, one story predicted more bombings. The Columbus Circle explosion fulfilled the prediction.

  Basing its claims on vague inside information gained by its reporters, the Classic predicted a fourth catastrophe, setting it at half-past one in the afternoon, an hour after the third explosion.

  When two o'clock arrived and no news of a fresh calamity came to the Classic office, another sensational feature was launched by the tabloid.

  This was an offer of five thousand dollars reward for information that would lead to the discovery of the fiends who had started the wave of terror.

  Special editions of the Classic were rushed from the presses.

  Shortly after three o'clock, a tall, thin man came into the editorial office of the Classic and elbowed his way between the typewriter desks.

  "Hello, Grimes," said the city editor. "What have you got?"

  The tall man shrugged his shoulders.

  "Is the old man in?" asked Grimes.

  "Yes;" replied the city editor.

  "Guess I'd better see him," returned Grimes.

  He went to the corner door marked "Hardan Raynor, Managing Editor," opened it, and entered.

  A short, dark-visaged man was sitting in front of a mahogany desk. His surroundings seemed a marked contrast to the dilapidated furnishings of the reporters' room.

  The man, himself, was a contrast. There was no excitement in his bearing. He was carefully reading the latest edition of the Classic and he did not look up for several minutes.

  Finally he surveyed Grimes with a Napoleonic stare.

  Harlan Raynor, managing editor of the Classic, was the directing brain of the most sensational tabloid newspaper in the world.

  It was his offer of five thousand dollars that had brought Grimes to see him. Raynor knew it, for Grimes was one of the Classic's star reporters, a man whose value increased with the importance of whatever matter might be at stake.

  "I think we'll have something for you, chief," said Grimes quietly. "I've been working with Tewkson. He's been out all day, trying to locate a bird named Vervick.

  "Tewkson has inside dope that Vervick knows something about bombs. He thinks the five thousand dollars is going to work it! I've come in to keep contact with Tewkson."

  Raynor nodded approvingly.

  "This may fetch it, chief," said Grimes, picking up a late copy of the Classic. "I've got to hand it to you!

  Five grand for information - and no questions asked! Complete confidence!

  "That's the gag, all right! This stuff of rewards for arrest and conviction are all baloney. You've got the right idea! Keep it between ourselves; don't squeal on the guy that spills the dope! Every rat in the underworld will have his tongue hanging out when he sees that offer!"

  "That's only part of it, Grimes," said Raynor tersely. "I have planned further than you think. There may be several implicated in these explosions. Perhaps one of the guilty men may come to see us. Such things have happened before!"

  "That's right!" agreed Grimes admiringly. "And I'll tell you, chief, that Tewkson will pull it if this bloke he's after really knows something about it!"

  There was a knock at the door. A porter entered carrying a bundle of tied-up newspapers.

  "Put them in the corner," said the managing editor. Whenever a big story broke, Harlan Raynor kept two hundred copies of every edition. They were brought up to his office regularly.

  He handed a newspaper to Grimes and phoned instructions that any call for the star reporter should be relayed to the managing editor's office.

  Ten minutes passed before the telephone rang. Raynor answered it, then turned over the instrument to Grimes.

  "Tewkson," he said.

  Grimes spoke in short, disconnected sentences. Finally he said:

  "All right, boy, I'll meet you at the corner. I'll handle him from there on. Let me talk to him a moment."

  There was a pause; then Grimes continued:

  "This is Mr. Grimes of the Classic. You have heard of me? Good! Yes, I'm with Mr. Raynor, the managing editor.

  "He means just what he said in the newspaper. His promise is good. You'll come with Tewkson? All right!"

  He hung up the phone and turned to the managing editor, who was quietly marking lines in the newspaper that laid before him.

  "Tewkson has found Vervick," said Grimes. "He's bringing him here right away. I'll meet them outside."

  "Get him in here as soon as possible," ordered Raynor. He pointed across the room. "In the side door."

  "Okay, chief!"

  Fifteen minutes later, a taxicab stopped around the corner from the Classic office. Grimes stepped from the side of the building, to greet the two men who came from the cab.

  One was Tewkson, young, but hard-faced, with a mass of red hair upon his hatless head. The other, Grimes knew, was Vervick.

  The man looked like a Russian. His face was tense and showed intelligence. But despite an appearance of physical strength, the man seemed nervous and apprehensive.

  "Hello, Vervick," said Grimes, in a low voice. "I'm Mr. Grimes. Don't worry! We're with you!"

  The man nodded. Then he spoke in a thick voce.

  "It is not you," he said, "that make
s me afraid! It is someone else! The one who - I cannot tell you now!

  Take me where I may be safe!"

  He glanced up and down the street. The cab was pulling away. No one was in sight in this side alley.

  Vervick seemed a bit reassured. Grimes slapped him lightly on the back.

  "We're going to see Mr. Raynor," he said. "Come right along. We'll take care of you!"

  He led the way to a side entrance. They went into the building and climbed a flight of silent, dingy stairs.

  They came to a locked door. Grimes knocked softly. The door opened.

  Vervick blinked as they entered the office of Harlan Raynor. He seemed surprised at his surroundings.

  He pulled his hat from his head and twisted it between his hands.

  He did not advance after the door closed behind him. Then his eyes were fascinated by the steady gaze of the man who sat at the mahogany desk.

  "What do you have to say?" asked Raynor quietly.

  "I am afraid - I am afraid! I am afraid to die, and if I speak - I will die!"

  "You will be safe if you speak!" returned Raynor. "We will see to that! Whom do you fear?"

  "I cannot say his name! I am afraid! He strikes - and he kills!"

  "He cannot strike you here!"

  "He can strike anywhere! He is everywhere! I am afraid! I cannot speak!"

  The man closed his lips firmly. He bowed his head and gave every sign that he intended to remain mute.

  "Five thousand dollars," said Raynor quietly. "Five thousand dollars - and complete protection.

  Understand?"

  Vervick nodded, but remained silent.

  "Listen, chief," broke in Tewkson, "this man may not know everything, but he knows a lot! He told me some of it - but he's kept off the important details. He's got the story we want!"

  Raynor nodded. He rose from his, chair and walked over to Vervick. Vervick looked up at him and seemed to gain confidence.

  "This is the safest place in New York," said Raynor. "If you are afraid of someone, we can help you. We cannot help you unless we know your story.

  "There is a car waiting below. The minute you are through talking, you will be whisked away and only I will know where you are. I have helped men like you before. I can help you now. But you must tell me everything - now!"