by Otto Penzler
Squad call!
The police sedan cruising along the side of City Park was not a squad car, though it was one of the police fleet. Its radio was tuned to the headquarters wave length, and its loud-speaker was rattling.
“Top speed to the Van Ormond place! The museum is being robbed by men wearing red masks.”
Red masks!
The two men in the car jerked startled eyes toward each other. The grim-faced detective at the wheel muttered: “By damn!” One dismayed moment his jaw-muscles bunched hard beneath his leathery skin. Then his foot thrust against the accelerator and he swung the sedan through a sharp U-turn.
Detective Lieutenant Gilbert McEwen, ace sleuth of the plain-clothes division of police headquarters, born hunter of men, sent the police car whizzing up the avenue with all the power eight cylinders could furnish.
“Red masks!” the young man beside McEwen exclaimed. “Sounds like—”
“The Red Six!”
Detective Sergeant Stephen Thatcher, son of the chief of police, realized even more keenly than McEwen the startling import of the frenzied squad call. The Red Six, the most daring criminal combine that had ever operated, were at work again—preying even at that moment on the famed, priceless Van Ormond collection.
Tires whined as McEwen swerved around a corner. At the far end of the block the Van Ormond home stood, an imposing edifice of white stone. The museum wing extended along the street up which McEwen sped the car. As he trod on the brakes he saw other cars lined up at the curb, with men guarding them—masked men.
Black-masked faces turned toward McEwen’s sedan as it creaked to a stop.
Swiftly he ducked out, grabbing at his service gun. Steve Thatcher eased to the sidewalk beside him. Except for the parked cars, the street was empty. None of the radio patrol machines had yet appeared. Seconds would bring them—but even as McEwen ran toward the entrance of the museum, its broad door opened and half a dozen masked men crowded out.
Gun metal flashed in the light of the street lamps. The nozzles of the masked men’s revolvers became black spots pointed at McEwen’s hurrying figure.
“Stay back and you won’t be harmed!” a voice called in sharp warning.
McEwen fired.
—
The quiet of the street disappeared in the thunder of roaring revolvers. The masked men answered McEwen’s bullet with a fusillade. Slugs clacked against the buildings beyond and caromed screamingly off the sidewalk. Hornets of lead flew as McEwen ducked for the shelter of a doorway and yelled to Steve Thatcher:
“Cover, Steve!”
The blasting bullets separated Thatcher from McEwen in one swift moment. He ducked into the shelter of a car standing by the curb. Another blasting chorus of reports rang out, and again lead whined, forcing McEwen deep into the doorway and Thatcher low behind the car.
The black-masked men were like an advancing army. Separating from the door, alert, ready to fire again should either McEwen or Thatcher dare show themselves, they left a clear space across the sidewalk. Instantly other men appeared, some carrying suitcases, some bearing paintings still in their frames, others carrying glass display racks.
As they scrambled inside the cars at the curb with their priceless booty, still more masked men appeared in the doorway of the museum. And the faces of these men, the last to appear, unlike the others were covered with red. On the foreheads of their masks were Roman numerals: II, III, IV, V, VI.
As the pillagers hurried into the waiting cars, the whine of a siren sounded far away—the shrill warning of one of the squad cars coming like a banshee down the next avenue.
McEwen risked another shot. Bullets swarmed at him and he ducked back, cursing. Steve Thatcher was crouching low in the shadow of the car. He saw masked men advancing toward him, closing him in. He crouched to spring away; but at that instant light flashed down the street, and tires rubbed the pavement as a squad car swung into view.
Instantly there was a shout, and the masked men whirled to attack the car. Bullets rained at it, crashing against the windshield. The men in the seat huddled back before the storm of gunfire. For one instant attention was distracted from Steve Thatcher—and one instant was enough for his quick, sure move.
He was crouched behind a heavy roadster. He twisted the rumble-seat handle and leaped up. Swiftly he slid into the hollow darkness of the rear compartment, and let the seat click back into place.
The blasting guns sounded muffled as Steve Thatcher crouched. He lay on his side, gun directed at the closed rumble lid. He heard heels beating on the pavement. Then the car swayed as some one stepped on the running board, and the starter ground.
Swiftly the car lurched away.
Gil McEwen stood backed in the doorway, grimly gripping his revolver. His coat was ripped in two places where bullets had cut through. His hat was punctured. Breathing hard, he reached out and risked a shot as the cars snarled past him.
Withering fire answered his attack. The hot breath of bullets forced McEwen to drop, gasping. One short moment, and the cars of the museum thieves were streaking away, a black, mechanical herd.
“After ’em!” McEwen yelled at the squad car stopped near the corner.
Motors were roaring. The wail of the siren was growing louder. A second squad car darted into sight as McEwen sprinted toward the first. A third swung from the opposite direction. A fourth was streaking down the avenue toward the intersection. McEwen scrambled through the door of the foremost car as it started up in chase.
The plunderers were already at the farther corner, turning both ways. All the black fleet twisted out of sight as McEwen’s sedan reached the halfway point of the block. Behind him the other squad cars were racing. They picked up speed swiftly as the intersection neared. Then—
McEwen yelled hoarsely: “Look out!”
From a hidden spot beyond the corner, a huge van appeared. It looked as big as a box car as it swung to enter the street. A moving barricade, its length crossed the pavement—and there it stopped. Two men leaped from its seat and sprang away. Before the radio cars could stop, the two men had darted out of sight beyond the corner buildings—and the outlet of the street was blocked.
Brakes screeched as McEwen’s car slowed. He thumped against the windshield, thrown forward. Shouts came from the cars behind as brakes smoked and bumpers clashed. McEwen stumbled out, gun in hand, and ran past the huge hulk of the van.
Far up and down the avenue flanking the park, black cars were racing.
McEwen sprang back. “Get after ’em! Corner ’em! Get around the block! By damn, you’ve got to move fast!”
Gears snarled. Bumpers clanked again. Engines raced as the squad cars backed. McEwen climbed into the van and spent a wrathful moment trying to start its engine, but the ignition had been locked. When he climbed down, the radio cars, jouncing over the curbs in their frantic haste to chase the escaping thieves, were rushing toward the far and unbarricaded corner.
“Yeah,” McEwen said sourly as they swerved out of sight. “ ‘Get after ’em and corner ’em.’ ” He started grimly for the open doorway of the Van Ormond museum. “A swell chance they’ve got. A swell chance!”
—
Complete darkness enveloped Steve Thatcher. The exhaust of the rushing roadster rumbled in the closed space around him. He was swayed back and forth by the turning of the car as it swung past corners. For long minutes he lay listening, gun in hand, as the roadster sped over smooth pavement.
Then it began to tremble over rougher streets. Steve Thatcher guessed bricks or cobbles. This continued for moments. Thatcher tried to reason where the car was, but it was hopeless. There were more turns, and a continued trembling of the car chassis; and then, abruptly, a swerve and a stop.
The men in the front of the car got out. There were quick, muffled voices, and heels tapping the pavement. The purring of other cars sounded close. Gradually the sounds lessened, then vanished completely. Thatcher waited, listening, through long moments of silence.
He edged forward, and pushed at the padded rumble-seat cover. It held firm. It was latched in place; and there was no handle on the inside. Thatcher had had no opportunity to slip something in the crack to keep the catch from clicking into its socket. He was locked securely in.
He fumbled out a folder of matches and struck a light. Turning on his back, he could see the latch-belt resting in its socket. He thrust at it, and it moved. Striking another light, he brought out a key, and used it to press the bolt back. It was almost free when—
A click sounded. The rumble seat swung up. Over the edge appeared a hand gripping an automatic. The barrel of the gun looked down at Steve Thatcher as he stared.
“Come out!” a voice commanded.
Thatcher dragged himself up quickly. Doing so, he saw another hand and another gun pointing at him from the opposite side. Now two heads appeared, two faces that were masked in black. The same voice commanded curtly:
“Drop your gun and climb out!”
The beam of a flash light sprang into the rumble space, blinding Thatcher. Wry-faced, helpless in the stare of the two guns, he obeyed orders; he dropped his own weapon. He climbed over the side, while the two masked men covered him.
“Enjoy your trip?” one asked tartly.
“You knew I was in there all the time, did you?” Thatcher asked disgustedly.
“Certainly. This way, if you please.”
The firm direction of the guns belied the suave politeness of the suggestion. Thatcher’s arms were taken by curling fingers. He was led across a black sidewalk. Glancing around quickly, he saw a dark, deserted alleyway, flanked by sooted brick walls. A lifetime of living in the city gave Thatcher no clue to his whereabouts. Abruptly he was stopped before a placarded door.
The door was opened, and he was pushed through it. He found himself in a vast, musty room. It was filled with old furniture piled high. A single bulb threw black shadows on the brick walls. With the gun prodding him, Thatcher was led along a lane through the furniture, toward another door.
There the hands left his arms. The guns prodded him again. The voice commanded:
“Go inside.”
Steve Thatcher stepped past the sill. The door was closed behind him. Bright light dazzled him a moment. His returning vision revealed to him a small room contrasting utterly with the larger one he had just left.
This one was hung with tapestries. Old paintings hung on the walls. Statuettes stood on pedestals. Valuable, all of them; Thatcher realized that at a glance. But his gaze left them at once, and centered on a desk in the room, over which soft light was flooding.
Behind that desk a man was sitting. His face was masked with a red domino. On its forehead was the Roman numeral II.
“Good evening,” he said, “Mr. Moon Man!”
Chapter II
Secundus Speaks
Steve Thatcher’s muscles jerked tight. He peered appalled at the smiling face of the man at the desk. Words struggled behind his pressed lips, words of protest that would not form.
“You are, of course, Mr. Thatcher,” the red-masked one went on, “the Moon Man. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Secundus. I am the chief of what was until recently the Red Six, and what is now the Red Five.”
Stephen Thatcher could do no more than stare.
“I was really very gratified to see you lock yourself in the rumble seat of my roadster,” Secundus continued smoothly. “I had been planning to get in touch with you. Now that we are alone, we can talk.”
“Talk—about what?” Thatcher blurted.
“If you recall the late Primus, which you no doubt do,” said the red-masked man, “you scarcely need ask. Sit down, Mr. Thatcher. Sit down.”
Thatcher sank into a luxurious chair because his legs were threatening to give way. He stared dismayed at the man who called himself Secundus as that gentleman, still smiling, poured whisky from a decanter into two glasses and shot seltzer into them. He pushed one highball toward Thatcher and settled back comfortably.
“No doubt this is an unpleasant surprise to you, Mr. Thatcher,” Secundus remarked. “You thought you were free of the Red Six, did you not? You believed that no one save Primus knew you to be the Moon Man. A mistake, Mr. Thatcher. I knew.”
Secundus sipped. Thatcher did not even move to touch his drink. His eyes clung fascinatedly to the red mask.
“By the simple expedient of overhearing you talking with Primus when he called you to our headquarters a month ago, Mr. Thatcher. I learned then that your thumbprint matches perfectly that of the Moon Man which is on file at police headquarters. I learned, Mr. Thatcher, your secret.”
Thatcher could not move.
“Interesting, indeed,” Secundus went on. “Knowing that Detective Sergeant Thatcher, son of the chief of police, is leading a double life. That, on the one hand, he is a respected officer of the law, and on the other the most notorious criminal wanted by police headquarters.
“Interesting indeed. The chief of police bending every effort to capture the Moon Man, not knowing the Moon Man is his own son. Gilbert McEwen striving his utmost to bring the Moon Man to justice, not dreaming that the Moon Man is his closest friend, the young man engaged to marry his only daughter.”
Thatcher asked hoarsely: “Why—why did you have me brought in here? What do you want? If—”
Secundus’ smile returned. “Your crimes, I believe, as the Moon Man, include innumerable robberies—so many that you should be sent to jail for the rest of your life, Mr. Thatcher. I believe, also, there is the matter of several kidnapings and a murder. I suspect that you are innocent of the murder, but you could never prove that now. Could you, Mr. Thatcher?”
“I asked, what do you want?”
“I’m coming to that. The point I am making is that if you were caught, you’d doubtless die in the electric chair. But that, I fancy, is the least horrible consequence your exposure would bring about. Even more terrible would be the tragedy it would bring into the life of your father. And the girl you love, Gil McEwen’s daughter—what would she do if she learned that her fiancé is the Moon Man?”
“God! Don’t—”
“Naturally,” Secundus continued, sipping, “you dread exposure worse than death. Well, then, let us not think of it. I intend to keep your secret, Mr. Thatcher—on the same terms made to you by the late Primus, who introduced you into the organization of the Red Six—now the Red Five.”
“You can’t force me to—”
“Co-operate with us? I think I can, Mr. Thatcher. You must realize that you are inescapably caught. You will again become one of us, you will again follow our orders. You will again act as our special informer on police activities. You will serve us loyally, Mr. Thatcher, as long as we wish you to—unless you desire that your father, and McEwen, and your sweetheart shall learn that you are, in fact, the notorious Moon Man.”
—
Thatcher said grimly: “You know I didn’t rob for the sake of the money. You know I played the Moon Man and robbed to help—”
“That doesn’t matter, Mr. Thatcher. You are the Moon Man, and that is the whole point. Let’s not argue.”
Thatcher leaned forward tensely. “You’re right,” he said in a sibilant whisper. “To me exposure would be worse than death. I’ll face anything rather than that. I’ll—I’ll even commit murder. Do you understand that? Murder.”
“You’re threatening me, Mr. Thatcher.”
“I won’t allow you to hold that weapon over my head. I won’t allow you—”
“I?” Secundus rose quickly. “I alone, Mr. Thatcher? You are laboring under a delusion. I am not the only one of us who knows your secret. Look!”
Secundus stepped to the side of the room and pulled a cord. A tapestry drew back from the wall. Disclosed behind it was an open, glassless window. Beyond it lay another room like the one in which Thatcher stood. Seated in that room, facing Thatcher now through the opening, were four men.
All of them were masked. All the masks were numbered. On
the scarlet foreheads were the consecutive Roman numerals III, IV, V, and VI.
“They, you see,” said Secundus, “have listened to our little conversation. You see how futile protest is, Mr. Thatcher—unless you choose to attempt five murders here and now. That, I suggest, would scarcely be wise.”
Thatcher stared at the red-masked faces beyond as the voice of Secundus lost its suavity and hissed.
“One move of treachery on your part, Thatcher, one suspicious action, and your secret will be disclosed instantly to your father, the chief of police. Remember—always remember—‘We give silence for silence!’ ”
Steve Thatcher’s mind whirled. Echoing in his memory were words once spoken, in grim determination, by Gil McEwen. By McEwen, who had sworn some day to bring the Moon Man to justice:
“Nothing’ll stop me from putting that crook in the electric chair—not even if you were the Moon Man, Steve.”
—
Slowly Steve Thatcher pushed open the door labeled “Chief of Police” on the second floor of headquarters. He found Gil McEwen pacing the floor wrathfully. He found his father, Chief Peter Thatcher, silver-haired and kindly-faced, seated in his cushioned chair behind the old rolltop desk. Chief Thatcher came erect and Gil McEwen stopped short when Steve Thatcher entered.
“Steve!” McEwen blurted. “Where’ve you been?”
Thatcher answered grimly: “I made a try at following that gang, Gil, but I didn’t get very far.”
“Well, by damn, you’re safe, anyway,” McEwen growled. “ ‘Didn’t get very far’! Neither’ve I. It’s the damnedest thing I ever ran up against!”
“What did they get out of the museum, Gil?” Thatcher asked.
“Everything they could take! All they left were the pieces too big to carry out. Alarms, guards, nothing stopped ’em. They had plenty of nerve!”
Thatcher asked tightly: “No clues?”
“Clues!” McEwen snarled. “Clues, Steve, are sadly lacking. You think a shrewd gang like that would leave any clues about? Not one! Only it’s plain as day that the job was pulled with inside help. It had to be done that way.
