by Otto Penzler
He drew his silver case from his vest, eyes fast upon hers. He was startled when she took from him, not a cigarette, but the case. She peered at it—peered closer. The cold shock that passed through Thatcher was like a physical blow.
She was studying a smudge on the smooth silver—a print left by Steve Thatcher’s thumb.
“Darling—oh, God!” he blurted. “Please don’t!”
Now her eyes were wide, her lips parted in hurt amazement as she searched his eyes. He took the case from her and tucked it away. He tried to speak, but words choked him. It was her soft whisper that broke the strained silence.
“Steve! You are—”
“Sue, darling! Listen!” Thatcher caught her cold hands in his. “It’s true. I confess it’s true. But let me explain. I’ve got to tell you the truth—”
Her hands in his were unresponsive. She was stunned, her face blank. Words now poured past his lips.
“I did it—only to help, Sue! To help people who had to be helped—or they would die. You—you’ve been in social work. You know how terrible conditions have been—whole families starving—ill—human bodies broken by privation. You know that the city charities act slowly, and can’t take care of every one. It’s what I tried to do, Sue—to help those that couldn’t be helped otherwise—because it was more than I would bear to see them suffer.”
Sue did not speak.
“Once you called the Moon Man a petty pilferer, Sue. Because he stole small sums as well as large. He did it—I did it—because that money was necessary to save lives, to feed starving people. It was breaking the written law—I know. It was a higher law I was obeying, Sue—the law of humanity. I couldn’t stand by and see people starving and cold and sick. And so I stole—to help them.
“Yes, Sue. I’m the Moon Man. I’m the crook your father has sworn to send to the chair. I swear to you, Sue, that every penny I stole went to the needy. If I did anything more than steal it was because I was forced to do it to get money for them. There’s a murder charged against the Moon Man—but I’m innocent of that, before God! I swear it, Sue—I swear I’m telling the truth!”
Still Sue was silent, gazing deep into Steve Thatcher’s eyes.
“You have only my word for it, Sue, but you’ve got to believe me. Oh, Sue, believe what I’m telling you!”
Silence.
Steve Thatcher’s voice came quietly. “Perhaps it’s too much to ask, Sue. Perhaps it makes too much difference to you. Perhaps you can’t love a man—who’s done what I’ve done—‘a petty pilferer.’ Perhaps you could never bring yourself to marry a man like me. I hope to God—”
He broke off, gazing at her in anguish.
“I love you, Sue—love you more than any one else in the world. It’d kill me if you stopped loving me but—I wouldn’t blame you. I wouldn’t blame you, Sue.”
She took her hands from his. She rose quietly and stood rigidly erect. He came to his feet beside her and searched for an answer in her eyes.
“Steve—please go.”
“Sue! You must—”
“Please go, Steve!”
He drew back. His face was haggard, his lips dry, his throat throbbing and tight. He said slowly: “I’ll go.”
She stood without moving as he took up his hat and walked to the door. He glanced back once, to see her still standing there, not looking at him. A tear glistened on her cheek as he closed the door; a single sob broke through her lips. And then sight of her was shut from him.
—
Hunched at the wheel, staring blankly into the gleam of his headlights, Steve Thatcher drove his roadster. A country road unrolled as his foot pressed hard to the accelerator; his engine roared and miles flashed past.
For an hour he had been driving, scarcely aware of his own actions, scarcely aware of where he was. The pinching pain in his heart had grown sharper with the moments. Leaden fatigue loaded him. At last, catching his bearings, he turned his car and drove back toward the city.
In front of police headquarters he parked. While minutes passed he sat slumped at the wheel. He was dropping the ignition key into his pocket when he heard the rattle of paper, and drew out a legal envelope, sealed.
“Your orders,” Secundus had said.
Grimly Thatcher tore the envelope open. He spread the closely typewritten page. To it a flat key was attached. He read by the light of the dash:
To: Number 13.
Concerning: Operations on the Municipal National Bank.
Subject: Orders.
Tomorrow night, the night following your receipt of these orders, the Municipal National Bank is regularly open from seven until nine o’clock P.M.
At exactly eight-fifty P.M. you will enter the bank. You will carry with you a small case containing the back robe and the glass mask which comprise the regalia of the Moon Man.
“Oh, God!” Steve Thatcher moaned.
You will ask to be allowed to look into safe-deposit box Number 109. This box, part of our preparations, is rented under the name of Milton Argyle. You will step into one of the booths provided for the purpose of handling the contents of such boxes and immediately garb yourself in the regalia of the Moon Man.
With sickened eyes Steve Thatcher read the remainder of the orders—orders which were part of a plan for looting one of the largest banks in the city—orders commanding him, as the Moon Man, to appear to control the movements of the criminal band which was to swoop down on the bank. The words swam in Thatcher’s vision as he finished.
He remembered the anguish in Sue McEwen’s eyes.
He read again the inexorable command: “Garb yourself in the regalia of the Moon Man!”
Chapter VI
Menace in Scarlet
Eight-fifteen, read the old clock in the office of Chief of Police Peter Thatcher. It ticked sonorously in the empty silence of the room.
Steve Thatcher thrust the door open. He closed it tightly behind him and strode to the desk. He sat with hand upon the receiver of the telephone, eyes narrowed, lips pressed together, waiting.
Almost twenty-four hours had passed since the orders of the Red Five had been placed in his hands. Almost twenty-four hours had passed since he had last seen Sue McEwen.
Anxiously Thatcher waited with the phone in his hands. The seconds ticked by. And suddenly the bell shrilled. Instantly Thatcher had the receiver to his ear.
“Steve?” asked Doyle, the phone sarge downstairs. “Call for you.”
“Put it on!”
A new voice came over the wire. “Hello—Steve Thatcher?”
Thatcher said in a breath: “Angel!”
“Right, Boss!”
“Thank God you got my note, Angel! I sent it as soon as I heard from you—and a package.”
“I got ’em both, Boss. I waited to call you right on the dot, like you asked. Say. I don’t like it, calling you at headquarters when—”
“There was no other way, Angel. Is that package safe? You read that letter carefully?”
“I know it by heart, Boss!”
“It means a lot, Angel—everything. The plan’s got to click through to the split second. You’ve got to be careful—damn’ careful.”
“Trust me, Boss! But what about you? You’ll be taking an awful chance—”
“There’s no other way. For God’s sake, Angel, watch yourself. Remember—remember the brass head—the warning.”
“I’m not forgetting it! Time’s short now. I’ve got to go if—”
“Bless you, Angel—and good luck!”
Thatcher hung up the receiver. He glanced at the ticking clock as he rose. Quietly he left the office and trod down the stairs. He was passing the door which connected with the headquarters garage when he heard a voice booming—the voice of Gil McEwen.
Steve Thatcher paused, looking into the garage. McEwen was standing beyond the door, facing into the vast room. Against the walls a score of squad cars were lined. In the center space were forty-odd men, wearing police uniforms, members of the squa
d car crew. McEwen was snapping at them angrily.
“A swell bunch you are—fine!” he rasped. “You moved so damn’ slow that every one of the crooks’ cars got away from you the other night. What the hell do you do while on duty, anyway? Go off somewhere and eat picnic lunches? Stop in every speak-easy in every block? Look for blondes to pick up! By damn, no matter what you’ve been doing, from now on you’re going to be on the job!”
Steve Thatcher listened grimly.
“Every time after this a squad call goes out, you’re going to be clocked. If it takes you more than sixty seconds by the watch to answer the call, you’re sunk. Every damn’ one of you’ll go back to pounding the gas-house beats. You’re not worth a damn unless you move fast. You’ll move fast, all right, after this. You will—or else!”
Thatcher turned away, but McEwen’s voice stopped him again.
“I’ve got a hunch that something’s going to break tonight—something big—and my hunches are never wrong. I want double patrols in the downtown section. I’m going to be in one of the cars myself—just on that hunch. And if a squad call comes—you’re going to move faster than you’ve ever moved before, I promise you!
“That’s all—dismissed!”
Anxiously Thatcher turned away, glancing at his watch. Minutes had passed. It was nearly time for the orders of the Red Five to be executed. As Steve Thatcher hurried from the door of headquarters, McEwen’s words rang in his ears.
Double patrol! Got a hunch something’s going to break tonight—something big. I’m going to be in one of the cars myself.
Loaded with worry, Thatcher hurried to his roadster. He lifted the rumble cover and peered into the compartment, at a small black case lying there—the case containing the precious regalia of the Moon Man. With a sigh he climbed to the wheel and tramped on the starter.
Just as his car moved off, another drew to a stop on the far side of the entrance. A girl got out of it quickly. She was Sue McEwen, her face drawn, her eyes anxious. She saw Steve Thatcher at the wheel of the rolling roadster and took quick steps after him.
“Steve!” she called.
He did not hear. His roadster picked up speed as she called again. One moment she hesitated anxiously. Then, turning quickly, she returned to the wheel of her own car. Starting up, she began to follow the roadster that was carrying Steve Thatcher toward the Municipal National bank.
A red light stopped her, and Thatcher’s roadster gained. She spurted ahead several blocks, and then was surprised to see the other car swerve to the curb and stop. Steve Thatcher got out of it almost directly in front of the lighted windows of the Municipal National.
High overhead the clock in the spire of the Apex Building was indicating the hour: eight-forty-nine.
—
Steve Thatcher swung the black case from the rumble compartment of the roadster. He did not see Sue McEwen’s car stopping in the next clear space fifty yards behind. He walked through the swinging doors of the bank, into the lobby.
Bright light filled the bank. At the bronze grilles of the tellers’ windows queues of people had formed, waiting in line. Behind the counters employees of the bank were busy. As Steve Thatcher, cold and grim, crossed toward the grilled partition, his gaze went to one man standing in the file of depositors.
His hair was flaxen, falsely so. One of his ears was cauliflowered. He had no neck.
Ned Dargan.
Dargan was carrying a fat brief case. His eyes found Steve Thatcher and moved away quickly without a glint of recognition coming into them. Steve Thatcher moved on, to the grille door, and when a girl stepped close he said:
“I want box one hundred and nine. The name is Argyle.”
“Step this way, sir.”
Thatcher strode through the opened door. The girl took the key from him and suggested he wait in Booth B. As she strode back toward the open vault, Steve Thatcher sidled into the small, partitioned space.
He glanced at his watch.
Eight-fifty and a half.
The zero hour of the Red Five was at hand.
Latching the door, Thatcher quickly opened the small case he had carried in. From it he unrolled a long, voluminous black robe. He drew it over his shoulders swiftly. On his hands he pulled black gloves. He lifted carefully from the suitcase a sphere of silver glass—the precious mask of the Moon Man—and placed it over his head.
Steve Thatcher vanished and the Moon Man appeared.
Again he glanced at his watch. The globular mask seemed as bright and opaque from the outside as a mirror, but through it the Moon Man could see as clearly as though it were finest crystal. Seconds were ticking by. Into his black-gloved hand the Moon Man took an automatic.
The orders of the Red Five were singing through his tortured mind as he waited.
Suddenly, outside, in the lobby of the bank—a shrill whistle.
Instantly the Moon Man thrust wide the door. His black robe flapped as he strode toward the open vault. Against the wall, desks were arranged. A bound put him on top of one of them. He whirled, turning his gun upon the startled tellers behind the grille. Through his shell of a mask his voice rang muffled:
“Hands up! Everybody hands up!”
Startled cries rang out. Some hands lifted. A second of tense, alarmed silence followed. During it, the Moon Man’s eyes shifted quickly right and left behind his silver mask.
He jerked; a gasp of agony crossed his lips. His gaze paused on a girl standing in the lobby of the bank—a girl separated from the others—a girl peering at him in consternation.
Sue McEwen!
—
While the Moon Man’s command still echoed, the doors of the bank swung open sharply. Cars had drawn up outside, and from them men were pouring—masked men. Faces hidden behind black dominos appeared as if by magic. Guns flashed in the light. Into the Municipal National came the masked swarm.
Commands rang: “All hands up! Form lines against the wall!”
From his high vantage point, the Moon Man still stared at the girl who was gazing in horror at him. He tore his eyes from her, and peered at the door. Hordes of black-masked men were appearing. Two lines of them had formed outside the door, guarding the entrance, holding passers-by back.
Others were crowding the depositors against the wall, commanding them to raise their hands. One who was forced to comply with Ned Dargan. He lifted his arms, still holding the fat brief case. He saw Sue McEwen standing motionless; his eyes shifted in terror to the black apparition which was the Moon Man; and a sob caught in his throat.
The Moon Man leaped down. The orders from the Red Five had revealed to him the location of the electric button controlling the grille door which gave into the space behind the tellers’ desks. He pushed it, and the latch chattered. Instantly black-masked men came crowding through.
Then red-masked men appeared. They darted in from the sidewalk, guns leveled, eyes glittering. The Moon Man glimpsed Secundus, stationing himself in the center of the lobby. Tertius—III—sprang toward the grille door with Quintus—V—at his side. The others darted to positions of advantage. While women screamed, while men cried out hoarsely, the masked men moved swiftly.
Tertius stepped briskly behind one of the tellers’ cages. He saw the young man there desperately pressing a button on the floor with his foot. An expression of amazement was on the teller’s face. Tertius’s voice came swiftly.
“No use! The batteries on that alarm are dead—we’ve seen to that. Every alarm in the place is out of commission. Keep your hands up!”
The teller in the next cage, listening through the mesh partition, heard the amazing announcement. Instantly he whirled, and snatched at the telephone in his booth. He grabbed up the receiver and called huskily.
“Police! Robbery—”
He got no farther. Quintus was crowding in upon him. The gun in the hand of the red-masked man belched fire. The rocking report shocked through the room. In the tense silence that followed, the teller twisted away from the telephon
e. It dropped from his hands as red gushed upon his shirt. With a strangled moan he fell.
Murder!
“That’s a warning!” rang the voice of Quintus shrilly.
The Moon Man straightened, peering at the red mask numbered V. Behind the silver glass, his unseen face grew hard and grim. Cold fury turned his gun toward Quintus.
Then, a warning call froze him. He jerked, to see Secundus staring at him through the grille. Secundus’s glittering gun was directed at the black-covered form of the Moon Man. And the voice of the red-masked one rang in a hushed whisper:
“Silence for silence!”
Tertius shouted to the black-masked band: “Follow orders!”
The black-faced crooks were already swarming into the tellers’ cages, into the vault. Before their threatening guns the clerks and bookkeepers quailed. Canvas bags were whisked into view from the coats of the masked band. Money began tingling into the bags; fistfuls of currency were thrust into them. In the vault, three men were dragging from its place the huge safety drawer in which the cash reserve of the bank was stored.
The Moon Man’s eyes darted to one of the figures lined against the wall—Dargan, holding his hands straight up, the brief case clenched in one hand.
“Now, Angel!” he whispered softly. “Now!”
Dargan’s hands were moving. While guns faced him he dared click open the catch of the brief case. One hand slipped inside and came out gripping a shiny, elongated object. Swiftly Dargan tossed it, straight into the middle of the foyer.
A crash. A hollow report. White fumes sprang into the air.
Tear-gas!
—
There were other bombs in the case which Dargan held—bombs taken from the headquarters supply—sent to Dargan by Steve Thatcher during the day.
A shout of consternation broke from the masked men. They whirled as the blinding, choking fumes swelled to enormous volume. As they swung back, Dargan’s hand hurled another bomb.
The crashing puff released a fresh cloud of vapor, and the room filled with the stinging mist.
A gun barked, and a bullet tore through Dargan’s coat. He sprang toward the base of a stairway which led into the foyer and upward to a balcony overhead onto which doors opened. As he leaped up the steps bullets cracked at him; but the blinding gas was having its effect, and the aim of the gunners was untrue. Bounding, Dargan tossed another bomb, and another.
