The Big Book of Rogues and Villains

by Otto Penzler

  “Boss! Look out!”

  They were halfway down the steps. Dargan cried out as a shadow moved in the darkness below. A man raised from a huddled position and sprang in front of Thatcher and Dargan. His movement was so swift that Thatcher did not have time to pause before he lunged.

  The unknown man’s right hand swung up, and the blade of a knife glittered in the street lights.

  “Look out, Boss!”

  Dargan snapped it, twisting forward. His right fist shot beyond Thatcher’s shoulder. His hard knuckles cracked against the assailant’s jaw. The man jerked back. The knife, slashing downward, hissed close to Thatcher’s face.

  “Look out for it—poisoned!” Thatcher gasped.

  He leaped aside as the unknown man straightened, still clutching the knife. Dargan ducked low, arms thrown into the defense position of a professional boxer. His eyes glittered as he danced out, toward the man with the knife. Again the arm swung, the knife glittered.

  Cloth ripped. Steve Thatcher groaned as he heard the sound. Dargan raised on tiptoes, slamming out his fists. The other man rushed in desperately. Dargan snatched at the knife and caught the man’s wrist as their bodies strained in a clinch.

  Suddenly they dropped, rolling over. Thatcher saw the knife glittering between the two of them. He was leaping toward Dargan when Dargan broke free and jumped up. The other man lay on the pavement, writhing. Dargan’s fists grabbed into his clothes; he jerked the man up.

  One terrific straight-armed clout, smashing full into the assailant’s face, sent him sprawling in the gutter.

  Dargan whirled.

  “Skip, Boss!”

  He raced along the sidewalk with Thatcher at his side. Past the next corner they darted. Headlights were shining in the street; a car was approaching. Colored lights proclaimed it a taxi. Thatcher signaled it to a stop and jerked the door open.

  “Inside, Angel! Did he get you?”

  “Sliced through my coat, Boss—never touched me! If any of them saw you with me—”

  “Take it fast, Angel!”

  “So-long, Boss!”

  Thatcher slammed the door. The taxi spurted away, with Dargan peering out the window. Thatcher hesitated as it rolled past the intersection into the darkness of the street beyond. His impulse was to rush back to the man who had attacked them; but he checked it.

  Turning, walking swiftly, he lost himself in the darkness of the streets.

  “Thank God, Angel,” he moaned, “they didn’t get you!”

  Chapter IV

  The Scarlet Power

  Black headlines streamed across the front page of the afternoon newspaper:

  LLOYD VAN ORMOND DYING OF TETANUS!

  Seated in his father’s chair, in the chief’s office in police headquarters, Steve Thatcher read the account for the twentieth time.

  Lloyd Van Ormond, youngest son of the noted family, had collapsed at the breakfast table that morning. Rushed to the hospital, his case was diagnosed as tetanus. There was a small cut on his arm, evidently made by a sharp knife, through which the bacilli had entered his body.

  Grimly Steve Thatcher read that. It was Van Ormond then, a tool in the hands of the Red Five, who had attacked Dargan and Thatcher on the steps of the rooming house. In the fight with Dargan the poisoned blade had cut him. Now he was gripped in the throes of lockjaw—dying.

  “No hope is held out for his recovery,” the newspaper article read.

  Steve Thatcher glanced up as the door banged open. Gil McEwen marched in, red of face. He dropped into a chair, chewing angrily on a cigar. Steve Thatcher half rose and asked anxiously: “Did he talk any, Gil?”

  “Talk?” McEwen blurted. “He couldn’t talk. Jaw’s locked. Got sent to the hospital too late. Haven’t I been there all day, trying to get something out of him? I tried to make him write what he knew, but all he would write was that it was an accident.”

  McEwen sighed wearily. “Maybe. On the other hand, it’s a certainty that Van Ormond had been drawn into the crime ring. They’d forced him to be one of them. He was forced to help them steal his father’s collection. Poor guy—dying like that. You ought to know, Steve. You saw Colchester die.”

  “I know,” Thatcher said quietly.

  Only too well he knew. But for the swift power of an ex-pug’s fists, the man dying in the hospital tonight might have been Ned Dargan—or Steve Thatcher.

  “Van Ormond’s death will only tighten the hold of the crime ring on the others. It’ll make ’em still more afraid of dying the same way. By damn, it’s driving me crazy! Trying to fight—”

  The telephone clattered sharply. McEwen broke off with a growl as Thatcher took up the instrument. A suave voice came over the wire.

  “Good evening, Stephen Thatcher. I recognize your voice. This is Secundus talking.”

  Thatcher’s hand went white around the phone as he sent a sharp glance toward McEwen. “What do you want?”

  “You are to be at our headquarters within ten minutes, Mr. Thatcher. Ten minutes at the outside. Orders are waiting for you.”

  Thatcher breathed hard. “And if I don’t come?” he demanded grimly.

  “You know full well the absolutely certain result that would have. Your father and McEwen will be informed of your secret identity. You will not forget that—we give silence for silence.”

  Thatcher swallowed hard. “All right. All right.”

  “Within ten minutes.”

  And the line went dead.

  Steve Thatcher rose stiffly. McEwen was eyeing him. The leather-faced detective grimaced. “What do you think about this thing, Steve? Who do you think is behind it?”

  Thatcher’s throat tightened. “I—I’m stumped, Gil,” he said strainedly. He put on his hat and strode to the door, as McEwen eyed him strangely. “Just got an important call—I’ve got to go.”

  McEwen’s bright eyes haunted him as he ran down the stairs. In the police garage he climbed into his roadster. He started off, swinging into the street, hands clamped white to the steering wheel. “Within ten minutes,” Secundus had commanded inexorably, and Steve Thatcher was obeying.

  Rendezvous with the red power!

  —

  Steve Thatcher walked quickly from his car into the richly decorated lobby of the Royale Apartments. He stepped into the elevator and the huge, brutal-faced operator clacked the door upon him. The giant’s eyes pierced Steve Thatcher during the ride up. When the cage stopped, Steve crossed an empty corridor.

  He pressed a button at a door. An electric lock clicked. Stepping through, Thatcher found himself in a small, curtained room. Except for a table at one side, it was empty. Thatcher’s gaze dropped to an object lying on the table—a black domino mask.

  A voice came from behind the curtains: “Cover your face, if you please.”

  Feverishly, Steve Thatcher obeyed. In a moment the curtains parted, and two men came through. They were attired in tuxedoes, and their faces were also covered with black dominos. They stationed themselves beside Thatcher and suggested politely:

  “This way.”

  Impotent rebellion tore at Steve Thatcher’s mind as he was led along a dim corridor. A door was opened before him. He was led across a room to a chair which was facing a wall. He was gestured into it, and when he sat the two black-masked men withdrew.

  Silence in the room. Steve Thatcher rose and crossed quickly to the door. He found it locked. Another door in the room was also firmly fastened. The window was thickly curtained. Puzzled, Steve Thatcher returned to the chair, and sat again facing the wall.

  Startled, he saw an image appear on it. The image was being thrown across the room, through a small porthole in the opposite wall, through which a lens looked. The picture was that of another room, richly furnished, brightly lighted. In the center sat a desk, and behind the desk was seated a man wearing a red mask, on the forehead of which was the Roman numeral II.

  The image moved as Thatcher watched it. The lips of Secundus parted and suddenly a voice spoke i
n the room where Steve Thatcher sat.

  “What you see,” came the voice of Secundus, “is an image produced by wired television, Mr. Thatcher. I am in an adjoining room, speaking to you. I cannot see or hear you—indeed, no one can while you remain locked in—but you will be able to witness everything that is said and done in this office during the next few minutes. The wired television apparatus will allow you to look in upon me exactly as though you were present, and a microphone and loud-speaker will reproduce every word.

  “Watch!”

  The flickering image of Secundus had been looking straight at Steve Thatcher. Now the red-masked man sat back, and pressed a button on his desk. A moment of silence followed, while Steve Thatcher watched, puzzled, fascinated. Then a door, on the far side of the room in which Secundus sat, opened swiftly.

  A girl took three swift steps inward and stopped. At sight of her, Steve Thatcher jerked to his feet and cried out in anguish. The girl’s face was clearly visible on the screen, and her name burst explosively from Thatcher’s lips: “Sue!”

  —

  The sound of Thatcher’s voice brought no response from the image of the girl on the screen. She could not hear him. She was standing, rooted with surprise, gazing at the red-masked man at the desk. As her lips moved, her reproduced voice echoed in the room with Thatcher: “Where is my father?”

  Secundus said, gesturing: “Sit down, Miss McEwen.”

  “I came here because I received a telephone message that my father had been hurt,” Sue McEwen said quickly. “Where is he? Who are you? Why are you masked?”

  “Permit me,” Secundus said, rising and gesturing again toward the chair. “The message concerning your father was only a trick, I must confess. So far as I know, he is in perfect health, and certainly is not here. It was only a means of bringing you here, Miss McEwen.”

  Steve Thatcher moaned again as he watched: “Sue!” The girl turned and strode to the door through which she had entered; but her pulls at the knob were futile; now it was locked. She was pale now, and frightened. She exclaimed: “You’re one of the Red Six!”

  “Chief of the Red Five,” Secundus corrected politely. “Please sit down. I have very interesting information for you. You will not be harmed, of course. You won’t sit down?”

  Sue McEwen stood defiantly. “What do you mean? Is this a kidnaping? Don’t you realize that I will be missed and that—”

  “You will be released in a few minutes, Miss McEwen. I will explain quickly. This, you see, is our headquarters—where the organization of the Red Five is centered. Here we make our plans. You have become a part of them—an important part.”

  Sue McEwen blurted: “You must be mad! Once you let me go, I’ll have this building surrounded by radio cars in five minutes! You and your headquarters will—”

  “You won’t do that, Miss McEwen. Because, you see, you are about to become one of our workers. You are a young woman with many important connections, some of them in police headquarters. We will make valuable use of you. Through your friends, on and off the detective force—”

  “Absurd!” Sue exclaimed. “How do you think you can force me to do as you say? I demand that you let me go at once.”

  “In a moment, Miss McEwen. You will work with us quite willingly, I’m sure, and keep our secret as faithfully as our other workers keep it. For, you see, I am about to make a disclosure to you. Some one very close to you is a member of this organization—and you wouldn’t want him arrested as a criminal, would you, Miss McEwen?”

  Steve Thatcher, watching the image, stood stunned.

  The girl’s voice came: “I don’t believe that!”

  “It’s quite true. I am speaking, Miss McEwen, of your fiancé, Stephen Thatcher.”

  Steve Thatcher moaned in anguish. Intently he watched the image of the girl. She took a quick step closer to Secundus.

  “Steve! One of you? That’s preposterous!”

  “Not at all, Miss McEwen. He is not only a member of this organization. He is also the notorious criminal known as the Moon Man.”

  —

  Cold weakness overcame Steve Thatcher. He sank appalled into the chair. His eyes clung haggardly to the image on the wall.

  Sue McEwen laughed shortly. “You’re talking like a madman. Steve Thatcher is the finest person alive. He could never—”

  “A difficult thing to believe, I’m sure, Miss McEwen,” came the voice of Secundus. “A difficult thing to convince you of. I shan’t try—I shall leave that to you. There is one means of proving conclusively that Steve Thatcher is the Moon Man.”

  Again the girl declared indignantly: “I don’t believe it!”

  “Your father, Gil McEwen, has the thumbprint of the Moon Man on file at headquarters. No doubt you are thoroughly familiar with it. It will be a simple matter, you know, to compare Steve Thatcher’s thumbprint with that of the Moon Man. I assure you, you will find them identical.”

  The girl was staring transfixed at Secundus. The red-masked man was smiling suavely. And still Steve Thatcher watched, paralyzed.

  “I have only one further thing to say, Miss McEwen,” Secundus continued. “Until you convince yourself that what I say is true, I advise you to remain silent concerning this visit you have paid me. If you decided, prematurely, to send the police crashing into this headquarters it would result, certainly, in the arrest of Steve Thatcher as the Moon Man.

  “It has been a hard shock to you, to learn his secret. It would be a severe blow to Steve Thatcher’s father—no doubt it would break the old man’s heart and perhaps kill him. It would even crush Gilbert McEwen to discover that his daughter’s fiancé is the Moon Man.

  “I urge discretion upon you, Miss McEwen. You had best remain silent. And, when orders come to you from us, obey them without question. Now—good-night.”

  The girl was still standing, gazing dumfounded at Secundus. Now the door opened, and two masked men advanced. They led the girl toward the door, and she dazedly went with them through it. It closed—shutting her from view.

  Suddenly the televised image vanished off the wall.

  Steve Thatcher jerked to his feet in the dim light. He swiftly crossed the room and strained at the door knob; but the door would not give. Throat tight, chilled to the core, he stood motionless.

  “Sue!” came in agony through his lips.

  One of the three who must never know—had learned. The girl Steve Thatcher loved. The girl he was engaged to marry. Sue, who had once contemptuously called the Moon Man “nothing but a petty pilferer.” In her was bred the creed of her father—hatred for the Moon Man’s kind. And now she knew!

  “Sue!”

  The latch of the door clicked. Steve Thatcher snatched at the knob. He jerked over the sill and stopped short. Two black-masked men were in the corridor. In their hands automatics were gripped, leveled. Behind them stood Secundus, a smile on his lips.

  “You dared do that!” Thatcher blurted.

  “I fancy,” Secundus answered calmly, “you now find additional reason for loyalty to us—since the young lady has become one of us.”

  “I’ll kill you for that!”

  The leveled guns stopped Steve Thatcher’s furious step forward. Secundus’s smile did not fade. His hand slipped inside his coat and he withdrew an envelope, proffering it to Thatcher.

  “So we grow strong,” he said. “Your orders, Number Thirteen. You will obey them, of course, to the letter.”

  Steve Thatcher found the envelope in his hands, and he fumbled it into his pocket. Secundus strode down the hallway and disappeared through a door. The guns prodded Steve Thatcher. He was forced along the corridor, into the curtained vestibule.

  There he was suddenly left alone. He sensed that the automatics were still trained on him behind the curtains, but he gave no heed to the threat. He ripped the black mask off his face. Swiftly he stepped through the doorway into the corridor.

  It was empty. Frantically he punched the button of the elevator. The torture within h
im made the minutes seem ages until the car appeared. With the evil eyes of the brutelike operator studying him, he rode to the foyer. He ran out it, glancing swiftly up and down the street.

  Sue McEwen was not in sight. One agonized moment Thatcher hesitated. Then, grimly, he ran to his parked roadster. The starter snarled, and he jerked away from the curb. Swiftly he drove in the direction of Sue McEwen’s home.

  Chapter V

  Moon Man’s Orders

  Thatcher’s roadster bucked to a stop in front of a modest house in an outlying residential district. He ran to the porch, and punched the bell button. He waited anxiously until a shadow crossed the pane of the door.

  The latch clicked, and Sue McEwen looked out. Steve Thatcher could not speak. The girl gazed at him silently a long minute, deep into his eyes.

  “Sue, I’ve got to come in.”

  “Of course, Steve. Do come in.”

  Her voice was not strained now. She stepped back, and he entered. He kissed her, pressing feverish lips to her cool mouth. Quickly he strode into the living room beyond. In the lighter light, he saw that Sue’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes clouded with worry. She came toward Steve, forcing a smile.

  “It’s the first time we’ve been alone in a long while, Steve.”

  “Yes. I—I’ve got to talk with you.”

  “What—about?”

  She turned her eyes from him and sat down. Her manner puzzled him. She was trying to seem her old self, but the pain in her eyes, the lingering doubt, betrayed her. She looked up at Thatcher and smiled again.

  “You know,” she said, “I’ve just heard a perfectly horrible story about a—a very dear friend of mine, and it’s upset me. I’ll be all right in a little while. I don’t believe it at all—I simply don’t.”

  Thatcher sat down stiffly, peering at her. “Would it matter a great deal if it were true, dear?” he asked softly.

  She gazed at him, not answering, as the color left her face. The moment of silence was torture to Thatcher. At last the girl smiled again.

  “But I don’t believe it, so it can’t matter. A cigarette, please, Steve?”