by Otto Penzler
“There is really,” he said almost wearily, “no use in pretending surprise or indignation. Four days ago we bagged the Wolf—he made a full and complete confession…”
The sunlit quiet of the promenade was broken by the throaty cry of the Countess d’Yls. She jumped up, her blue eyes cold, blazing stars.
“Yes, you devil!” she said unsteadily. “Yes, Monsieur Ferret, we took the pearls—I took the pearls! The Wolf did not get them! No one else shall! I have hidden them well! Take me, take us both—jail us—you will never find the necklace—no one ever will!”
Murgier snapped his fingers twice. The men who had come up the dusty road in the travel-stained motor rounded the corner of the walk. The Countess laughed insolently at the man who faced her.
“In a measure,” Murgier said quietly, “your statement is true. No one will ever reclaim the de Valois pearls. Let me tell you something. When the Wolf made his appearance that night at the warehouse, you saved the necklace from him by dropping it into the mouth of an open cask. Is that not correct? You marked this cask so you might distinguish it again. When you foiled the Wolf your agent began a search for the cask. It had been stored away in the warehouse—there were difficulties—so far your aid has not been able to locate it—but you have hopes. Madame Countess, it is my duty to disillusion both you and—” he nodded toward de Remec—“your husband. There was one thing you over-looked—the contents of the cask in question—”
The Countess drew a quick breath, leaning forward as if to read the meaning of the other’s words.
“The contents?”
Murgier smiled.
“The cask,” he explained, “we found to be half full of vinegar. The pearls are no more—eaten up like that! Pouf! Let us be going.”
Rogue: Mr. Amos Clackworthy
A Shabby Millionaire
CHRISTOPHER B. BOOTH
AS WAS TRUE for so many writers for the pulp magazines of the 1920s and 1930s, Christopher Belvard Booth (1889–1950) was prolific, producing ten mysteries under his own name between 1925 and 1929 and another eight crime novels between 1924 and 1935 under the pseudonym John Jay Chichester. Approximately fifty short crime stories, published in Street & Smith’s Detective Story Magazine, all appeared in the 1920s and 1930s as well. Booth also wrote a number of Western stories, five of which were filmed. After that avalanche of fiction, Booth appears to have vanished, as no works attributed to him appeared in the 1940s or after. Booth, born in Centralia, Missouri, also worked as a journalist for the Chicago Daily News and later owned his own newspaper.
Mr. Clackworthy appears in two short story collections, Mr. Clackworthy (1926) and Mr. Clackworthy, Con Man (1927); in both of them he preys on victims who deserve to be swindled: greedy bankers, crooked stock brokers, and their ilk. Readers rooted for the grifter even though, like so many of the crooks of the era, he did not play the part of Robin Hood; he kept the money. Clackworthy was described by his publisher as “a master confidence man, smooth-spoken, grandiloquent, full of clever schemes for the undoing of rascals more unscrupulous than himself.” His partner, James Early, is a roughneck henchman who was so well known to the Chicago police that he was given the nickname “The Early Bird.”
“A Shabby Millionaire” was originally published in Detective Story Magazine; it was first collected in Mr. Clackworthy, Con Man (New York, Chelsea House, 1927).
A SHABBY MILLIONAIRE
Christopher B. Booth
THAT GENIAL HARVESTER of “easy money,” Mr. Amos Clackworthy, was again in funds. And none too soon; for eight unprofitable months he had seen his best-laid plans miscarry, his shrewdest schemes come to naught but approaching bankruptcy.
When it had seemed as if the ebb tide would sweep his last dollar from him, together with his sumptuous establishment in Sheridan Road, where he had lived for more than three years in ease and luxury, there had come a turn in his luck. Even without working capital—that confidence-inspiring display of wealth which had lured so many wealthy victims—he had been able to trim a certain Mr. MacDowell, and a canny Scot at that, to the merry tune of twenty thousand dollars.
Not a great sum for a man who had accustomed himself to the spending pace of a millionaire, but it had certainly saved Mr. Clackworthy from the humiliation of bankruptcy court, and the rich furnishings of his apartment from the auctioneer’s hammer. The immediate future was safe.
Mr. Clackworthy sat in a high-backed chair beside his rosewood library table, the elbows of his dinner coat resting upon the arms, and the tips of his long, slender fingers touching lightly. Upon his face there was a pensive expression, as he looked at the far wall, where there hung a small painting.
Across the room was Mr. Clackworthy’s friend and chief assistant, James Early, nicknamed in those crass days, when his movements were of extreme and often embarrassing interest to the police, “The Early Bird.” The latter occupied his favorite seat by the window which looked down upon Sheridan Road and its endless procession of motor vehicles.
The master confidence man’s thoughtful mood, his meditative abstraction, gave James an expectant thrill. Perhaps, he told himself hopefully, a new scheme was under way. In funds or out of funds, The Early Bird knew only complete happiness when they were engaged in one of those fascinating adventures to which he referred as “raking in the coin.”
Some minutes had passed in silence; presently Mr. Clackworthy relighted his cigar which had gone out, exhaled a cloud of rich, blue smoke, and reached to the table for a magazine. The Early Bird’s thin shoulders heaved a sigh, and a groan of disappointment escaped him.
“Something seems to trouble your peace of mind, James,” murmured the master confidence man, and there was the suspicion of a twinkle in his eye.
“My piece of mind, huh?” growled The Early Bird. “Mebbe I ain’t got no eight-cylinder noodle on me; mebbe I’m only a light four and only hittin’ on three cylinders at that, but I can tell you something.”
“I never turn a deaf ear to words of wisdom, James,” chuckled Mr. Clackworthy. “Pray, proceed, although, before you do, I must assure you that I intended no reflection upon your mentality.”
“Yeah, I gotcha, boss,” grunted The Early Bird, “but I’m gonna spill you an earful just the same. When I see you sittin’ there, lookin’ like a medium gone into a trance, I says to myself, ‘The boss is cookin’ up somethin’; the boss has got a hen on, and in a couple of minutes I’m gonna hear biddie doin’ a proud cackle.’ And now there you go, stickin’ your nose inside one of them there magazines. Huh, readin’ that truck ain’t gonna help us to grab any new kale!”
Mr. Clackworthy laughed, as he fingered the point of his Vandyke beard.
“Evidently,” he said, “you observed my thoughtful mood, as I sat here looking at my little painting on yonder wall. I was wondering what price it would have brought at a forced sale.”
“Mebbe five bucks,” ventured The Early Bird, who depreciated art as well as literature.
“Oh, come, James!” remonstrated the master confidence man. “You forget that picture is a Hulbert. Haven’t I told you that I paid two thousand five hundred dollars for it?”
“Say, boss, don’t waste no time talkin’ about pitchers when we’ve busted our hoodoo and has got things breakin’ our way again. What if we did get our mitts on twenty thousand smackers when we throwed the hooks into that Scottish goof? I ain’t denyin’ that there’s been times when a century note looked like all the dough in the world, but, the way you’re livin’, it ain’t gonna last forever. Huh, there was days, when you was hittin’ it up good, that fifty thou’ wasn’t so much.”
Mr. Clackworthy’s mood became more sober, and he nodded his head in agreement with the remarks of his coplotter against the safety of carelessly chaperoned bank balances.
“James, you are right; there were those days when we had twenty or thirty thousand in cash that we could risk on a turn of the wheel and take a loss without embarrassment. More than once I have seen our personal
fortune come very close to a quarter of a million.
“However, my friend, as I sat here speculating what that painting would have brought under the auctioneer’s hammer, it forced me to a fresh realization of how narrow was our escape from disaster, and how important it is—”
“That we step out an’ clip another woolly lamb,” finished The Early Bird, with a grin of delight. He hitched forward in his chair in an attitude of engrossed attention. “Crank up the old talkin’ machine, boss, an’ lemme listen to that favorite record, ‘We’re gonna go fishin’ for suckers.’ Boss, lemme in on the who, when, and how of this new trimmin’ expedition.”
“The plan so far, James,” responded Mr. Clackworthy, “is, I regret to say, in a somewhat nebulous state, but—”
“Whatcha mean neb-nebulous state?” interrupted the other. “Trim down them words to my size an’ lemme have the facts in first-reader langwich. Y’know I ain’t chummy with that Webster guy like you are.”
“I mean that the scheme is not in definite shape—little more than a bare idea, the details of which are to be decided. The next victim on our list is as yet unknown. The how is a bit hazy, too, but as to the when I can answer you. Immediately, James, immediately. Also, my dear friend, I can answer you where. We shall very shortly depart for that popular resort where the ailments of the rich are taken and left behind upon their return. It’s a good rule, when seeking wealth, to go to a place where wealth is to be found. And it is a foregone conclusion that we shall find such surplus wealth at Boiling Springs.”
The Early Bird wrinkled his shallow forehead and stared at the master confidence man, with a dubious and questioning expression.
“Y’mean, boss,” he demanded incredulously, “that you’re gonna grab a rattler for this Boilin’ Springs place without knowin’ who you’re gonna throw the hooks into, or how you’re gonna do it?” Since Mr. Clackworthy usually had his schemes perfected to precise detail, this mode of procedure was somewhat surprising.
The master confidence man smiled blandly.
“When one goes fishing, James,” he answered, “there is no way of knowing what particular fish will be caught, but when one fishes in a stream where the finny tribe is plentiful, uses good bait, and has a little patience, there’s a rather good chance that the hook will be swallowed.”
“But what’s the bait?” The Early Bird urged pleadingly. “Ain’tcha just said that you didn’t know how you was gonna—” The question jarred to a stop, as Mr. Clackworthy picked up the magazine from the table and began to turn the pages.
“I have noticed here, James, an article that has ensnared my interest; it is, in a way, a biography. The subject thereof is none other than Mr. Rufus Gilbanks.”
Across the face of The Early Bird there flashed an expression of joy.
“Gee, boss! The millionaire oil man!” he exclaimed, leaping to his feet. “Whatcha mean is that Gilbanks is puttin’ up at Boilin’ Springs, and that we’re gonna trot down there an’ skim off a few thousand barrels of flowin’ gold. Lead us to ’im, boss!”
“Not so fast, James. I have not said that Rufus Gilbanks was to contribute to the rehabilitation of our fortune. In fact, I have no such thought in mind. Calm yourself and allow me to read you a few extracts from this most interesting article.
“In the first place, Mr. Gilbanks is referred to as ‘the silent mystery man of American oil.’ He rose from obscurity and remains in as much obscurity as he can manage. He detests publicity and the spotlight; he has never sat for a photograph. Except for a very poor snapshot now and then, the curious public can merely speculate as to what Mr. Rufus Gilbanks, one of the country’s richest men, looks like. He never talks for publication; he moves in a cloak of mystery. Let me read you a brief word picture of the man.”
“Spiel,” grunted The Early Bird. Mr. Clackworthy turned to the magazine and read:
“A tall man with a beard, which would seem to serve the purpose of shielding his features from exposure to the gaze of a curious public, Rufus Gilbanks might be considered distinguished in appearance, except for a carelessness of attire that is almost shabby. His clothes, ready made and inexpensive, cling to him in a wrinkled mass. His collars never fit him and are usually a trifle soiled. No jewelry, except a heavy watch chain spread across his vest, and to this chain there is fastened a worn silver dollar said to bear the date of 1867, and generally supposed to be the first dollar which the multimillionaire oil man ever earned.”
The master confidence man put down the magazine and smiled; the smile broadened into a grin, and a throaty chuckle reached The Early Bird’s ears, as the latter struggled in vain to understand just what the other was driving at.
“Boss,” he complained, “I don’t getcha—I don’t getcha a-tall.”
Mr. Clackworthy’s hand went to his pocket and reappeared with an ancient silver dollar. He tossed it into the air, with a flip of his fingers, and the coin described a brief arc across the room. The Early Bird caught it and saw that it bore the date of 1867.
“Is—is it Gilbanks’s dollar?” he gasped. “Y’mean that you’ve had somebody lift it offn him?”
“Not Mr. Gilbanks’s dollar, James, but one like Mr. Gilbanks’s dollar. If you think it’s easy to lay hands on a coin like that, try it. I got it from a dealer, and it cost me fifty.”
“A good-luck piece?” inquired The Early Bird, being able to think of no other plausible explanation.
“I trust so, James, and I have a hunch that it’s going to bring us quite a bit of good luck—the coin, along with a few other properties. A watch chain with heavy gold links, a supply of collars too large for me, and a couple of hand-me-down suits badly in need of pressing. I already have the beard.”
The Early Bird’s eyes widened, and across his face there came a look of extreme apprehension.
“Holy pet goldfish, boss!” he exclaimed in a hoarse whisper. “Whatcha mean is that you’re gonna go down there to Boilin’ Springs an’ tell them rich guys that—that you’re Rufus Gilbanks? Nix on that stuff, boss! It’s five years in stir, if they catch us at that sort of game.”
“I shall tell no one any such thing,” Mr. Clackworthy retorted severely. “I shall deny it. Moreover, I shall deny it extensively and repeatedly.” He paused for a moment and then laughed. “You know, James, the human mind is peculiar; if you deny a thing often enough you convince a considerable number of people that it must be true. It is upon that bit of psychology that I am building our plans of taking our next victim to a trimming. Ring for Nogo, and we shall drink a toast to the success of our new adventure.”
Rogue: The Moon Man
Crimson Shackles
FREDERICK C. DAVIS
IN ADDITION to nearly sixty full-length novels, Frederick C. Davis (1902–1977) wrote more than a thousand short stories, producing more than a million words a year during the 1930s and 1940s. He created several series characters, including Professor Cyrus Hatch under his own name, Lieutenant Lee Barcello under the Stephen Ransome byline, and twenty pulp thrillers about Operator 5 as Curtis Steele. None of his creations, however, was more popular than the Moon Man—Stephen Thatcher, a policeman by day and a notorious robber by night.
The son of the police chief, Sergeant Thatcher was utterly dedicated to helping those unable to handle the trials of America’s Great Depression, even if it meant breaking the law. In the tradition of Robin Hood, he stole from the wealthy to give to the poor.
To keep his true identity a secret, Thatcher donned the most peculiar disguise in all of pulp fiction—not a mask, but a dome made of highly fragile one-way glass, fitted with a breathing apparatus that filtered air. The glass, known as Argus glass, was manufactured in France and was, at the time, unknown in the United States. As the perpetrator of innumerable crimes, he was the most-hunted criminal in the city, saving lives in equally impressive numbers along the way.
There were thirty-nine adventures about the Moon Man, all published in Ten Detective Aces between May/June 1933 and January 1
937.
“Crimson Shackles” was originally published in the March 1934 issue of Ten Detective Aces; it was first collected in Davis’s The Night Nemesis (Bowling Green, Ohio, Purple Prose Press, 1984).
CRIMSON SHACKLES
Frederick C. Davis
Chapter I
Nemesis in Scarlet
A RED LIGHT FLICKERED on the switchboard in police headquarters. Phone Sergeant Doyle plugged in. Over the wire came a strident voice:
“They’re robbing the place! They’re robbing the museum! Send the police!”
Doyle jerked up straight. “Who’s calling? What museum? Talk fast!”
“The Van Ormond collection. They’re taking it! Men in red masks. They’re—he-elp!”
The cry was prolonged, piercing. Doyle, pressing the earphones close, heard a clattering thump that told of the distant telephone being dropped to the floor. Then there was another scream, far away:
“They’ve got me!”
The line went dead even as Doyle plugged into the socket labeled “Broadcasting Studio.” “Hell’s hinges!” Doyle gasped. As the studio answered he blurted: “Mason! Squad call! The museum in the Van Ormond place is being robbed! Snap it out!”
“On the air!” Mason sang back.
Across the corridor, in a room half filled with filing cabinets, the announcer pushed the phone away. His lips worked fast as he leaned toward the microphone and threw a cam.
“Calling cars Five, Ten, Fifty-one, Seventy-four! Calling Five, Ten, Five-one, Seven-four! Top speed to the Van Ormond place, Glassford and Buckingham Streets. The private museum is being robbed. All other cars stand by for further reports!”
Through the night air the invisible power of the radio antenna lightninged.
