The New Adventures of Jim Anthony, Super-Detective

by Josh Reynolds

  But beneath the shroud of worry that dominated his thoughts, his mind was still clicking along like clockwork. As he ran, a mental blueprint of the Waldorf-Anthony unfolded across the surface of his mind. There were any number of ways one could get in and out of the building without being seen, but all of them took time. And time was one thing he didn’t have, he suspected. Madmen kept their own schedule, and they weren’t prone to sharing it or deviating.

  When he finally reached the police cordon in front of the Waldorf-Anthony, he barely slowed. As uniformed police officers yelled for him to stop, he caught hold of the barricade and swung himself over. He spotted how Koschei and his men had made their entrance almost immediately—a heavy paneled truck, like the US Army used for transport, had been crashed through the front doors and into the lobby. Koschei definitely wasn’t the subtle sort.

  “Anthony! Stop—Anthony!” a harsh voice shrilled, stopping Anthony in his tracks even as he raced across the cordoned area. He turned and saw the familiar, long-legged lolloping shape of Inspector Healy hurrying toward him, flapping at the air with a shapeless brown homburg. He was followed by a bevy of uniformed police officers that trailed after him like agitated starlings.

  Healy had thin, sallow features and currently looked—indeed, always looked—like he’d slept in his clothes and only just woken up, but his lazy appearance belied a mind like a steel trap. The word around the squad room was that he’d earned his promotion the hard way, by marrying the then-Commissioner’s daughter. If that was the case, then Healy had more than made up for that bit of nepotism with twenty years of ruthless crime busting and aggressive back room politicking.

  “What in the Sam Hill do you think you’re doing, charging through my crime scene, you lousy sonnuva—” Healy began.

  “Stop yowling, Healy, you’ll wake the dead,” another voice interjected. “Frankly, we should be thankful he’s not already in the building.” Anthony saw the round, overcoat-clad figure of Commissioner Warner hurrying toward him.

  The older man shook Anthony’s hand when he reached him. Warner had made his name by being at the forefront of the ongoing citywide manhunt for a number of masked mystery men, including the Black Bat. Anthony saw little practicality in wasting tax dollars on treating vigilantes any differently from any other criminal, but the Powers-That-Be wanted men like the aforementioned Bat off the streets. Idly, he wondered whether that distaste for extracurricular law enforcement would eventually transfer itself to men like him, whose activities were theoretically sanctioned. At the moment, the bulldog-like Warner seemed only too happy to see him. “You got here darn quick, Anthony. The situation…”

  “I know,” Anthony said quickly, cutting him off. “Dawkins told me. He’s been in contact with you?”

  “I talked to him not ten minutes ago,” Healy said. “He’s still sitting tight, like you told him.” He shook his head. “That old Limey was ready to go down there, guns blazing, if you can believe that. I was tempted to let him too.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t,” Anthony said. He had no doubt that Dawkins would have made quite an impression on Koschei and his men, but even so, the danger of an innocent being hurt in such a crossfire was too high. Especially if that innocent was Dolores. “Have they made any demands?”

  “They want to talk to you,” Warner said. He looked at Anthony. “Does this have anything to do with that business in Bayonne last night? I spoke with Mayor Donovan this morning, and Mayor LaGuardia as well. This isn’t something like that Death’s Head Cloud business, is it?”

  “No,” Anthony said. “Though I have no doubt those men in there are every bit as dangerous as the Death’s Head Man was.”

  “Wonderful,” Healy muttered. He slapped his thigh with his hat. “So what do we do? We can raid the place, but we’ll lose people. We can wait them out, but we’ll lose people that way too. Any way we do it, blood’s going to get spilled.”

  “I know of one way we might be able to avoid that,” Anthony said.

  “You aren’t serious,” Warner said.

  “I’m afraid I am, Commissioner,” Anthony said. “If they want me, then they’re going to get me. I might be able to get the hostages out once I’m inside.”

  “And they might just shoot you the minute you reach the lobby,” Healy said.

  “I doubt that,” Anthony said. “I have something they want. And without me, there’s no way that they’re going to get it.” He sounded more confident than he felt. If Koschei were as unstable as he feared, then there was every chance that Healy was correct. But there was a distressing lack of options.

  Warner shook his head dolefully, but didn’t protest. He’d worked with Anthony often enough to know when to trust him. Healy didn’t look nearly as convinced, but he said nothing. “You want a gun?” he said, as he escorted Anthony toward the doors.

  Anthony shook his head. He had only brought his knife and a tomahawk that had belonged to his mother. A pistol, useful as it would have been, had a tendency to put people on alert. For some reason, men with guns rarely worried about someone carrying only a knife, or a hatchet. Healy shrugged. “Your funeral, Anthony. Try not to take anybody important with you, hunh?”

  “I’ll do my best,” Anthony said. He glanced at Healy. “Thank you,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation.

  Healy nodded sourly. “Protect and serve, Anthony. That includes you,” he said. Then, he plopped his battered homburg back on his head, turned on his heel, and strode back toward the barricades.

  Anthony didn’t waste any time. He clambered past the truck and squeezed into the lobby, his hands held out away from his body, to show that he wasn’t carrying a gun. “I’m here,” he called out. “One Super-Detective, at your service.”

  “Hello, Super-Detective. I am Koschei. Welcome home,” a deep voice replied. The words echoed like a bell through the vaulted lobby of the Waldorf-Anthony. Anthony saw a row of people—guests of the hotel, he thought—standing near the stairs, under the watchful eyes of several hard-faced gunmen. Among the former, he caught sight of Dolores and Magda Sirko. Dolores caught his eye, and he gave a slight shake of his head. It was best not to let her captors know that they had a connection.

  Koschei was sitting on the banister of the main stairs, still dressed as he had been the last time Anthony had seen him. In the light of day, he looked like a Cossack gone to seed, but no less dangerous for all that. He had an aristocrat’s features beneath the scars that marked his face, and cold, blank black eyes that might as well have belonged to one of the eagles Anthony had seen the night before. “We have made ourselves at home. I hope you do not mind,” Koschei said. There was no trace of humor in his words, no hint of sarcasm.

  “The Waldorf-Anthony is always happy to meet the needs of its guests,” Anthony said. “I’m guessing I was recognized last night, then?”

  “Even in the wildest hinterlands of Europe, the name and face of the Super-Detective is known,” Koschei said. “Too, I have seen you before, though only at a distance. At an event hosted by a mutual friend… Rado Ruric. You know him, yes?”

  Rado Ruric. The name pierced Anthony’s thoughts like a dagger. Rado Ruric, the terrorist-for-hire who had been his mortal enemy for more years than he cared to consider, their battles raging from Tibet, to Central America, to the heartland of the United States. Rado Ruric, who had been blown to atoms during his last, desperate attempt to kill Anthony during the ‘Madame Murder’ extortion affair. Anthony nodded slowly. “I knew him.”

  “Then you remember his misadventures in Peking? I was involved in that affair, though only tangentially,” Koschei said. “I remember you, though. When you confronted Ruric in the Temple of the Moon, during those mad final days before the Japanese set up their puppet government. It was a stirring sight, that clash.”

  “Nostalgia aside, why are you here?” Anthony said.

  “It is simple, Mr. Anthony,” Koschei said. He dropped off the banister and his boot heels made a dull sound as they connected w
ith the marble floor of the lobby. He tossed aside his cigarette and drew a flat bladed knife from beneath his coat. He gestured toward the women with the knife. “I want Tornovsky. I want him here, now. If I do not get him, I will kill them.” He spread his arms to indicate the crowd his men held at gunpoint. “I will kill all of them. I will make this fine palace an abattoir, you understand? I will go door to door, floor by floor, and drown you in blood.”

  He spoke calmly, as if he were discussing the weather. Anthony bristled at the threat, but restrained his impulse to simply hurl himself across the lobby at the other man. Koschei waggled the knife at him, as if reading his mind. “Bring me Tornovsky,” he said.

  “Tornovsky’s dead,” Anthony said, flatly.

  “You’re lying,” Koschei said.

  “I’m not lying,” Anthony said. He raised his hands, palms out. “He tried to kill me, when I questioned him about the gold. That is what you’re after, isn’t it? A rail car full of Romanov gold? And your name isn’t Koschei, it’s—”

  “Quiet,” Koschei said, mildly. “Do not speak of the dead.” He frowned. “You are lying. I must teach you not to lie.” He tapped his lips with the flat of the knife. Then, without warning, he spun on his heel and snatched Magda Sirko from the arms of her captor. He dragged her around by her hair, and as she screamed, he plunged the knife into her heart. Koschei let the old woman’s body fall. He met Anthony’s shocked gaze and smiled. “Now you know.”

  10.

  Koschei pointed at Anthony with the bloody knife. “Where is Tornovsky?”

  “I told you—he’s dead,” Anthony snarled.

  “You are still lying. I will kill more. Then we will see if he is still dead.” Koschei turned and aimed his knife at Dolores, who struggled against the man holding her. “Her next,” Koschei said. “I will kill her, and then I will start on the crowd.”

  “No!” Anthony shouted. “Damn it—he’s dead!”

  Koschei waved his free hand. “I’ve changed my mind. Pick three from the crowd. Shoot them as well,” he said to his men. He turned toward Dolores. Anthony sprang forward with a roar as Koschei reached for her. He tore his tomahawk and knife from their respective sheaths as he charged toward Koschei. The Russian jerked back, eyes widening slightly in surprise as Anthony came at him. He avoided the sweep of the tomahawk, and the knife tore through his coat as he whirled and drew his revolver.

  “Jim, look out!” Dolores shouted, as she slammed her heel down on her captor’s instep. The man howled and let her go. She twisted, grabbed his wrist and tossed him over her hip to the floor. Dolores had spent her formative years in various boarding schools, including the Kingscote School for Girls, St. Trinian’s and a Freiburg dance academy of dubious reputation, and had been tutored in various martial arts, including baritsu by the best tutors money could buy. She could pluck the eye from a gnat with a handgun or dislocate an opponent’s shoulder with equal vigor. She displayed her knack for the latter even as her captor’s rear hit the ground. As he tried to struggle to his feet, Dolores held him pinned with a foot on his throat and kept hold of his arm. She twisted it until it gave an audible pop, eliciting a shriek of agony.

  Meanwhile, Anthony leapt over Koschei as he fired, and the shot punched through the skull of one of Koschei’s own men. Anthony struck the banister and flipped backwards, hurling his tomahawk toward the closest of the gunmen. The axe took the man in the chest and he collapsed backwards into the now dispersing crowd. Koschei tracked him as he landed, and fired again and again, his shots plucking divots out of the floor as Anthony ran for cover. He dove behind one of the thick decorative columns that lined the main drag of the lobby as Koschei’s men followed their leader’s example and opened up with their weapons.

  Back pressed to the cool stone of the column, Anthony tore open his shirt. A flat roll of wide leather, akin to a money belt, was wrapped around his taut belly. The belt had a number of reinforced pouches, and his fingers dipped into several of these, extracting a number of small, brightly coloured spheres resembling marbles, but composed of hard gel. He clasped the spheres tightly in both hands. There were too many innocents in the line of fire. He needed to remove as many potential hostages as possible from Koschei’s grasp.

  The spheres, warmed by the heat of his hands, began to dissolve and thin trickles of multi-coloured smoke slithered through his interlaced fingers. Each sphere was composed of a different colour-coded chemical solution and would remain in its semi-solid state until sufficiently warmed. When combined properly, they created a number of interesting chemical reactions, including acids, knockout gas and Anthony’s favourite—an obscuring smoke cloud. He would have preferred to use the knockout gas, but the lobby was too open for that. It’d disperse before it made anyone woozy. As it was, the smoke cloud wasn’t going to last long. He’d have to do what he could, in the time provided.

  A moment later, powerful leg muscles bunched and then uncoiled, propelling Anthony from his crouch and out from behind the column. As he moved, Anthony released the dissolving spheres. Smoke exploded, spreading quickly through the lobby. Men and women ran everywhere, screaming. Anthony loped through the smoke, hunting his prey. He caught a stumbling gunman with a heavy blow, dashing him to the floor. Another came at him, coughing, and Anthony reversed his knife and gave the man a swat between the eyes with the pommel of his knife. He needed at least one alive, for questioning later, if there was a later.

  All too quickly, the smoke began to thin and clear. Most of it was rising toward the ceiling, or being pulled out the revolving door. He aimed himself through the haze and started toward the stairs. He could make out a knot of bodies there, and realized that Dolores had gotten loose only to be grabbed again, by another of Koschei’s gunsels. Anthony saw her struggling and bounded toward them, intent on getting Dolores out of danger.

  But even as he reached for her, a bullet creased his thigh, spinning him around. He hit the floor and bobbed to his feet, already searching for cover. Bullets chased him like a swarm of hornets. He caught sight of the registration desk and vaulted over it. The desk was turquoise inlaid teak, and built dense enough to survive a car slamming into it. Shots chewed the wood, but none penetrated. He sank down and tried to come up with a new plan as he took stock of his situation.

  He heard Koschei bark an order in Russian. The guns fell silent. The lobby stank of cordite and blood. Anthony peered around the edge of the desk and saw Koschei push himself away from the stairs and aim his pistol at Dolores, who had only just managed to untangle herself from her captor. “Very good,” Koschei said, loudly. His voice echoed through the now mostly empty lobby. The crowd had dispersed as soon as the first gun went off, streaming toward the doors. The smoke and chaos had provided them ample opportunity to escape, as Anthony had hoped. Koschei’s men hadn’t bothered to try and stop them, being more concerned with Anthony. “Very good,” Koschei said again. “You surprised me, Mr. Anthony. I am not often surprised. But we still have a hostage, and now I am thinking that maybe you are telling the truth, and there is no reason to keep either you or she alive.”

  Anthony hesitated. Then, knowing he had precious few options, he shouted, “You will if you want to find that gold!”

  “Tornovsky is dead,” Koschei said. “You said so yourself. He would not have told you of the gold’s location.”

  “He didn’t. But I’m a detective, remember?” Anthony said. “I figured it out.”

  “Tell me where it is,” Koschei said.

  “Let her go, and I will,” Anthony shouted back.

  “Tell me, or I kill her,” Koschei replied, implacably.

  “It’s in a train car,” Anthony said.

  “Where,” Koschei pressed.

  Anthony didn’t answer. Koschei grunted. Anthony closed his eyes, praying that he had judged his opponent right. How badly did Koschei want that gold? Very badly indeed, it turned out, much to Anthony’s relief.

  “Fine. You will lead me to the gold. Or I will kill the woman. Whe
n I have the gold, I will give her to you. Are we agreed?”

  Anthony counted to three, and then said, “Agreed. You have a plane, I trust?”

  “One can be acquired. It is in Mongolia, isn’t it?” Koschei asked, slyly. He didn’t wait for Anthony to answer. “Yes, I knew that is where it would be. In the red heart of Shambhala, where the Mad Baron’s imaginary kingdom was born and died in a single blink of the Buddha’s eye.” He laughed and rattled off a series of numbers. “That is the radio frequency you can use to contact me, when you know where you are going. You will give us the coordinates and we will follow you, with the woman. We will follow you, detective. Lead me to my gold. But first, you will lead us out of here, yes?”

  Anthony closed his eyes. “Yes,” he said. He took a breath and pushed himself from out of his hiding spot. He didn’t look at Dolores. He couldn’t afford to let Koschei know that she was anything other than a random hostage. His shoulder blades itched and he expected to get a bullet between them at any minute as he led Koschei and his men out of the lobby and onto the street. Policemen levelled weapons and incipient violence had stamped itself on the air. Anthony raised his hands.

  The truck that had been used to smash Koschei’s way into the lobby of the hotel shuddered as gears ground and wheels spun. It began to creep backwards as Anthony hurried toward Healy. “Tell your men to lower their weapons,” he shouted.

  Healy looked startled. “What in Sam Hill are you talking about, Anthony?”

  “They’ve got a hostage—Senator Colquitt’s daughter,” Anthony said, turning to watch as the truck backed out into the street, nudging aside a police car as it did so.