Alena Van Arendonk
Inspector Rex Regent paused in the sheltered doorway of a shabby warehouse to light a cigarette. The flare of a wooden match briefly illuminated his face—more youthful than others in his line of work, but marred by a livid scar down one cheek—and sputtered out, leaving only the cigarette’s red tip to interrupt the darkness.
Regent extended his arm and held the conspicuous cigarette as far from his body as possible as he advanced into the dark alley. Every few steps he flicked the stub to knock ash free and keep the tip glowing bright, so it would be clearly visible to anyone waiting at the end of the alley. At this range, the only way to make certain a gunman missed was to trick him into aiming three feet off center mass.
Rex reached the end of the alley without incident and stubbed out the cigarette on a garbage bin. The next street was awash in neon twilight, and he allowed his eyes to adjust and probe every corner between his location and the yawning entrance of the Dark Horse Inn. By design, the area was pockmarked with hiding places; every two-bit bookie and cheap floozy in town had a working address along this block. Each of them paid tribute to Johnny Malone, and not one would shed a tear over a lone officer of the law.
Rex had never set foot inside the Dark Horse itself, but he’d stormed enough of the dive’s cousins to know exactly what he’d find inside: A handful of thugs, some pinstriped hoodlums, a couple of mafiosos, and a half-dozen tawdry hostesses wearing cheap perfume and little else would decorate the bar. Another doorway—probably concealed behind a tobacco-stained velvet curtain—would lead to a back room where a a single green-shaded chandelier would illuminate a high-stakes poker game.
Upon entering, Rex noted the two-bit thugs had been upgraded to half-dollar heavies for the occasion of his visit. One or two recognized him and shifted uncomfortably, but no one pulled a gun. Rex was glad of that; while he didn’t shy from a fight when necessary, the six rounds in his Colt Official Police .38 were useless against a dozen armed men.
Rex exchanged a glance with the bartender, who nodded at a door at the far end of the smoky room where the velvet curtain had been tied to one side. Before he could knock, the door swung inward, revealing a small, balding man with a mustache and wire-rimmed spectacles.
“Come in, inspector,” simpered the little man. “You are expected.”
Rex shouldered past him and fixed his eyes on the room’s only other occupant, seated at the poker table. “I got your invitation, Malone. No game tonight? I’m disappointed.”
Johnny Malone chuckled, but the sound quickly turned into a wracking cough. The bespectacled man hurried back to his employer’s side and rummaged in a bag strapped to the chair. The chair slid forward, and Rex realized it was a wheelchair. That was new.
Malone swallowed the pill pressed on him by the little man, then waved him away. “Wait outside,” he rasped.
The assistant’s eyes boggled behind his glasses. “But boss—” His gaze shifted meaningfully to Regent.
Rex rolled his eyes. “What, you think I’m going to collar your boss and drag him off downtown? All by my lonesome, past all your friends out there?” He jerked a thumb toward the bar. “Relax, sunshine. I like this coat, and I don’t want to see it turned into cheesecloth.”
“Go on, Benson, scram. Wait, bring the wine first.” Benson placed a pair of tumblers and a bottle of wine on the baize tabletop, then Malone shooed him out. Benson gave Rex a final glare before closing the door behind him.
Malone gave a little sigh and wheeled himself closer to the table. “Sit down, Regent.”
Rex didn’t move. “You wanna tell me why I’m here?”
Malone grinned. “This was the only one of my joints low enough for you to take my invitation seriously. Besides—” He glanced around the dim room. “—I wanted to see how far I’ve come. This is where I got my start, you know.”
Rex followed his gaze. “You certainly have come up in the world. But you didn’t call me here for a nostalgic romp down memory lane.”
“More of a roll, now,” Malone replied dryly. “Don’t pretend you ain’t noticed.” He patted the wheel of his chair.
“I was trying not to stare.”
“You always was a polite kid.” Malone settled back in the chair. “I’m dying, Regent.”
“Tough break.” Rex frowned. “Is that why you called me here? To bid farewell to your bosom… enemy?”
“Not exactly. I need a favor.”
“Something tells me it’s not accepting your many confessions so you can pass on with a clear conscience.”
Malone rasped another laugh. “I’d see you in hell first, kid. No, I want you to do something for me.”
Rex squinted at him. “You sure you called the right Regent?”
“Shut up and listen. There’s this… this young lady, see. She needs your help. She’s… sorta been kidnapped.”
“Sorta?”
“It’s a long story. What matters is, the moment I kick the bucket, her life is gonna be in danger. I want your word you’ll rescue her.”
“Hold on,” Rex broke in. “Who is this sorta-kidnapped girl? Why would she be in danger if you die?”
Malone sighed. “She’s my daughter. She don’t know about my business,” he added hastily. “I always tried to protect her from this life. Maybe that was my mistake.” He coughed. “You know the Martinellis?”
“Do you mean the Martinellis who run the little fruit stand over on Euclid Avenue, or the Martinellis who own the East Side and are your syndicate’s most bitter rivals?”
“If you had half as much brains as you got mouth, kid, there’d be no crime left in this city,” Malone scowled. “A while back, see, the Martinellis found out about Teresa. We’d had a… disagreement over the whiskey trade, and we’d just nabbed Giacomo Martinelli’s grandkid, Giovanni. To make sure nothing happened to him, they took my girl. We couldn’t come to terms to exchange, so we agreed to leave things as they was. Each family would keep the other’s kid as a kind of insurance. We agreed that if there was a change in the head of either family, we’d swap the kid out for someone in the next head’s family. Figured that was good insurance against anybody in our own organizations getting too ambitious, too.”
“Every time I think you guys couldn’t get more ruthless…” Rex shook his head. “So what’s the problem? If you die, won’t they just let your daughter go?”
Malone shook his head. “See, a few months back, Giovanni up and died. Doc said it was a burst appendix. Of course we didn’t tell the Martinellis, on account of they’d blame us. But Fast Frank—my second—he don’t have no kids, so when he takes over it’s only fair that the Martinellis are gonna want Giovanni back, since they got no insurance on Frank. Only when they find out their kid’s dead…”
“They might take it out on Teresa.” Rex considered Malone thoughtfully. “What I don’t get is why you’re talking to me. You’ve got a whole organization of tough guys who do whatever you tell them. Why not have your own men go after your daughter?”
“Three reasons,” Malone rasped, holding up the appropriate number of fingers. “One… You and I have spent a lot of years duking it out, and even with all those tough guys weighing in on my side, the best we’ve come to is a draw. So I figure if I have to trust Teresa’s safety to one man, you give the best odds. Two, Teresa’s an innocent bystander in all this. And I know you well enough to know you wouldn’t let an innocent girl get hurt, even if she is my kid. And three…” Malone grinned. “Because there’s something in it for you.”
Rex crossed his arms. “You know I don’t take bribes, Malone—”
“Winnie the Witch Doctor.”
Rex blinked once, then leaned forward over the table. “Dr. Winifred Gothel? Martinelli’s chemical specialist?”
Malone’s smile turned smug. He gestured to the scar marring Regent’s left cheek. “I know you want her.”
Rex’s mouth twitched reflexively, and the still-healing wound across his cheek twinged. “You’re telling me you can deliver her?”
Malone shook his head. “You’ll get her when you free Teresa. Rather, that’s how you’ll get her. According to my sources, Teresa’s being kept in the old Tower Hotel. That’s where the Witch Doctor has her laboratory.”
Rex let out a low whistle. “That’s inside Giacomo Martinelli’s private estate. Practically a secure compound.”
“As I said, I have my sources. I can give you the layout. Teresa’s witnessed a lot, living in the Witch Doctor’s attic. With her testimony, you’ll have enough to put Winnie away for good—maybe even send her to the chair.” Malone rummaged in the bag behind his wheelchair and produced a leather document wallet. “All the information you need to rescue her is in here,” he said, slapping the wallet on the table. “I asked for your word, Regent. Do I have it?”
Rex hesitated, but his department had been after Gothel for years. If Malone’s information were genuine, it could save a lot of lives. “You do,” he said at last.
“Good.” Malone pushed the folder across the table. “Pour the wine and we’ll drink on it.”
“I’m on duty,” Rex pointed out.
“What, you think I’m gonna tell your boss?” Malone chuckled, but stopped when it threatened to trigger another fit of coughing. “You know how I do things, Regent. No toast, no deal.”
The bottle had already been opened, presumably by Benson, so Rex splashed some of the expensive Cabernet into each glass. Malone stared into it meditatively. “There’s something you need to know about Teresa before you meet her.” He paused to cough, but the rattle in his breathing grew worse as he hacked. Soon he was wheezing, and he reached feebly for the bag behind him. “Pills,” he gasped.
Rex hurried around the table and dug through the bag until he found a glass pill bottle. He shook a few tablets out onto the table, where Malone’s trembling fingers grasped two of them and pushed them into his mouth. He managed to stop coughing long enough to wash them down with a generous mouthful of wine, but it was another minute before the coughing subsided.
Finally Malone fell back against the chair, panting. His face was flushed red, and the glass shook in his hand. “Teresa,” he gasped. “She’s—”
The tumbler slipped from his fingers then, splashing dark wine across the rug, and Rex watched in horror as life drained out of the man in the wheelchair. He seized Malone’s wrist, but no pulse beat beneath the flushed skin.
Rex used a handkerchief to lift his own glass, still untasted, to his nose. The distinctive bitter-almond odor was not quite covered by the rich fragrance of the wine. Cyanide. Someone had wanted both men dead—someone who not only knew Regent would be coming here tonight, but knew how Malone traditionally closed his deals. A traitor in Malone’s organization?
Rex went to the door, but hesitated. If the men outside were loyal to Malone, Rex doubted they’d wait for an explanation before avenging their boss’s apparent murder by his long-time police rival. If they were working for whoever had poisoned the wine, he still wouldn’t be allowed to leave the building alive. Rex quietly slid the bolt home, thankful for once the poker room was designed to repel police raids, and looked around. Though windowless and single-doored, these rooms always had an escape hatch somewhere.
He had examined half of the room’s wainscoting for secret panels when Malone’s thugs discovered the locked door and began battering against it. He didn’t have long before they started shooting, and while the bolt was strong, he doubted the door was bulletproof. He turned back to the wall and saw it—a tiny knothole in the floorboard, no bigger than a mouse hole. Pulling back the rug, he found a long seam in the boards a few feet from the wall. He scanned the walls and ceiling until he spotted a long metal rod with one hooked end in a gap above the crown molding.
Rex pushed Malone and his wheelchair out of the way—“Sorry, Johnny”—and climbed onto the table. He caught the knothole with the hooked end of the pole and a four-foot-square section of boards lifted on a hinge, revealing a narrow packed-dirt tunnel.
Rex dropped into the tunnel just as the first shot splintered the door behind him. He took the hooked pole with him into the passage and sealed the panel over his head. It wouldn’t stop his pursuers, but lacking the proper tool to open the wide trap door might slow them down.
It took half a box of matches to light his way through the tunnel to the exit, which turned out to be a slimy stormwater drain that emptied along the waterfront. Rex hastened back to his apartment, keeping to bright, regularly-patrolled streets in case Malone’s men were inclined to pursue him, and used the pay phone in the lobby of his building to call his captain at home.
“I’ll send the coroner’s van to the Dark Horse, then call Judge Harper about a warrant on the Martinelli place,” Captain Axford said. “He won’t be happy about being awakened at this hour, but if anyone overheard Malone say that the girl is willing to testify, her life could be in immediate danger.”
Rex agreed. “Get men there as soon as you can, so they’re ready to go in as soon as you get the warrant. With any luck, the flock of black-and-whites on their doorstep will distract the Martinellis from the girl for a while. I’ll head over myself as soon as I get into some dry clothes.”
“Regent,” the captain warned, “don’t do anything stupid. You of all people know how dangerous Gothel and her inventions are.”
Rex grinned into the receiver. “When was the last time I did anything stupid?”
“What day is it again?”
“Very funny. See you at the Martinelli place.”
While he changed out of his mud-caked clothing, Rex perused the documents Malone had provided. In addition to a photograph of a fair-haired child of ten or eleven, an odd collection of papers outlined his mission: A sketch of Martinelli’s compound was accompanied by a note warning of traps set on every door of the former Tower Hotel. An ink-stained cocktail napkin detailed guard rotations. The most curious item was a sheet of notepaper with the words “fire escape” scrawled across it. A strip of adhesive tape anchored a lock of wheat-colored hair to the paper.
Once dressed, Rex donned his shoulder holster and checked that both snap pouches were loaded with extra ammunition. He hoped it wouldn’t come to a shootout. If Judge Harper came through with the warrant in time, they could remove the girl safely and legally from the Martinelli property. Even so, he knew Axford had been right: Once Malone’s traitor reported back to Martinelli, Teresa Malone’s life wouldn’t be worth the paper her photograph was printed on.
Rex only hoped he wasn’t too late already.
***
“Inspector?” called a uniformed officer, waving at Rex. “Captain’s on the radio, asking for you.”
Rex abandoned the trench he was wearing into the ground and hurried around the patrol car. When he’d arrived, Martinelli’s goons and the police were already ensconced on their respective sides of the drive gate, trading meaningless threats through the bars. Until the warrant arrived, Rex could do nothing but pace the street and wait.
He hated waiting.
“How’s that warrant coming, captain?” he asked, taking the handset from the officer.
“Not quickly,” came the reply. “Judge Harper’s dragging his feet. I don’t think he wants to ruffle any Martinelli feathers this close to election season.”
Rex stifled a growl. “Have you told the judge a child’s life may be in danger? Looks pretty bad to voters when you get a kid killed this close to election season.”
“I have. And he told me—strictly off the record—that a child of such criminal parentage was of no particular concern to the voters of this city.”
Rex stared at the handset in disbelief. “Well, he just lost this voter’s support,” he snapped when he’d found his voice again. “And you can tell him that, on the record.”
“I’ll keep working on him,” Axford sighed. “But it doesn’t look good.”
“What would it take to—” Rex broke off and swore under his breath as a sleek automobile pulled up to the line of police cars. The driver laid on the horn.
“What’s wrong?” Axford demanded.
Rex left the handset in the seat and jogged to the new vehicle, where an officer was examining the driver’s license. “Out of the car, Bernard,” Rex ordered. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”
The driver blinked with exaggerated innocence. “Bernard? I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else, officer. My name is Thackeray. Morris P. Thackeray.” He pointed to the license in the policeman’s hand.
“It seems to be in order,” the officer told Rex doubtfully. “Gives this as his home address.”
Rex leaned an arm on the roof of the car. “Tell me, Mr.—Thackeray, was it?—where were you, say, two hours ago?”
“Why, I was at the cinema with Mrs. Thackeray.” The balding man turned to the passenger seat, where a woman waved cheerfully. “We saw the new Cagney film. Even have the ticket stubs to prove it.”
“Sir?” The officer glanced from Rex to the driver. “Should I let them through?”
“You have insufficient cause to make an arrest, inspector,” Thackeray added, grinning.
“An arrest, probably not. But it just so happens that you match the description of a murder suspect.” Rex opened the car door. “Morris P. Thackeray, I’m detaining you for questioning. Watkins, take him in.”
The constable escorted Thackeray to a patrol car, and Mrs. Thackeray slid over behind the wheel. “What an unfortunate misunderstanding,” she sighed. “Well, I’m sure it’ll all be cleared up in the morning. Good night, inspector.”
“Hold on.” Rex propped an elbow on the wing mirror. “Just where do you think you’re going?”
“Home.” Mrs. Thackeray pointed through the Martinelli estate’s gate. “Unless I look like a murder suspect, too?” She smiled engagingly.
She had him over a barrel, and they both knew it. Rex gritted his teeth, smiled, and patted the roof of the car. “Have a lovely evening, Mrs. Thackeray.”
Rex returned to the radio. “We just ran out of time,” he told Axford. “Bernard—or whatever his name is—just pulled up, minus the mustache and glasses. I’ve detained him, but he had a woman with him, and I had no cause for holding her. She’s going in now. Please tell me we have a warrant.”
“We don’t.” Axford sounded battle-weary. “I’m beginning to think Harper is on Martinelli’s payroll.”
Rex scrubbed a hand over his face. “Well, that means there’s only one thing to be done.”
“What’s that?”
“Something stupid.”
***
Sneaking into the Martinelli estate proved easier than Rex had imagined. The compound was surrounded by a high stone fence, which—according to the cocktail napkin—was ordinarily patrolled by armed guards. But the police presence had drawn all the guards to the front gate, allowing Rex to simply climb the fence with the help of some overgrown shrubs, then drop to the ground inside.
Of course, getting out was going to be trickier than getting in, especially encumbered with a child, but he’d think of something. Provided he didn’t get himself killed first.
Locating the former Tower Hotel didn’t require the map in his pocket, either. The structure loomed heavy and black against the night sky, rising ten stories above the surrounding gardens. The nearly-full moon cast a long shadow behind the tower, and Rex stayed in the strip of darkness until he could hug the brick. Most of the windows were dark, but lights burned in a few ground-level rooms, as well as one at the top of the tower.
He crept carefully around the perimeter of the building until he spotted the fire escape, a rickety structure of ladders and platforms clinging precariously to the brick wall. The lowest rung of the lowest ladder was more than eight feet off the ground, and his fingers scarcely brushed it when he stretched up on his toes.
He gathered himself and leaped. His hands closed on the metal bar of the bottom rung, but the impact sent a shower of rust cascading over his face. He hissed in pain as flakes of metal struck his eyes, and had to drop to the ground and blink them clear. He brushed the grit gingerly from his face with a handkerchief before attempting the jump again—this time, with his eyes closed.
The climb was slow and harrowing; under Rex’s body weight, bolts shifted, rungs broke loose, and at one point an entire section of ladder dislodged from the wall, threatening to drop him more than thirty feet to the ground. If I make it up there alive, he thought, clinging to the platform with shaking arms, I’m going to have to find some other way down. There’s no way I can make this descent carrying a child.
At last he reached the highest platform and looked around for the window or door that connected to the fire escape, but all he found was a series of stripped bolts above him on the wall: Someone had cut away the final ladder and platform.
Rex looked down at eighty feet of rickety, broken steel beneath him and swore aloud.
“Who’s there?”
Rex whipped around and flattened himself against the brick. The voice had been a woman’s, and more curious than threatening.
“Sam?” the voice called again, softer this time. “Is that you?”
Rex eased away from the wall and looked up. He could just make out a human silhouette leaning out the window one floor above him. “Hello?” he whispered.
The silhouette reoriented toward the sound of his voice. “Hello,” the woman called. “You’re not Sam. Who are you?”
“I’m… not Sam,” Rex confirmed. “Would you mind keeping your voice down?”
“Oh,” she whispered back. “You don’t want the guards to hear, right?”
“Right.” Rex squinted at the figure. “I don’t suppose you could help me get up to your window? I seem to be stuck down here.”
She sighed. “Aunt Winnie had the fire escape removed years ago. Here, use this.” The silhouette disappeared for a moment, and a thick rope swung over the sill and flopped against the bricks.
Rex had to stretch to reach it, but once his fingers sank into the dense braid, he was able to pull himself up relatively easily. He’d climbed several feet when he realized what he was hanging from. “Is this… hair?”
There was a laugh from above him. “You know, Sam said the same thing. Is it that surprising? Nobody’s bothered to give me a haircut in ten years.”
Rex finished climbing and tumbled awkwardly over the sill. His rescuer was occupied in unwinding her thick braid from the tension crank which had borne the weight of his body. Her hair was the color of wheat, like the lock taped to the notepaper in Malone’s folder, and now that he could see her face there was no doubt that she was—had once been—the little girl in the photograph.
“Did you say ten years?” Rex sputtered.
She nodded, but didn’t look at him. “Probably closer to eleven, now.”
“You’re Teresa Malone.” Rex slumped against the wall. He’d expected to rescue a kidnapped child, and instead found a woman in her twenties. A beautiful woman. “Yes.” Teresa tilted her head curiously, but her eyes were still turned in the direction of the window. “Isn’t that why you’re here? Sam is the only one who ever came up the fire escape. Didn’t he tell you about it?”
“Possibly. Did Sam write these?” Rex opened the document folder to show her the notes that had guided him.
Teresa stretched out a hand and patted it over the pages until she encountered the lock of hair, which she rubbed between her fingers. “Is that mine? Sam asked if he could cut a bit. He said he was going to take it to Daddy.”
Rex’s mouth fell open as he watched her pale blue eyes rove sightlessly across the space between them. “You’re…” He stopped himself just short of blurting it out.
“Blind?” Teresa cocked her head again. “Sam didn’t tell you? Or did someone else send you?”
“Johnny Malone sent me. I’m guessing Sam was the ‘source’ he mentioned.” Rex pushed himself to his feet and glanced around. They were at the end of a hallway, dimly lit by a single bare bulb mobbed with moths. Wallpaper peeled from crumbling plaster on either side. Numbered doors opened off the hall, their paint in various stages of shred. The Tower had once been a fine hotel, but Rex had seen condemned buildings with better decor than it currently exhibited. “We have to get out of here, Miss Malone. Your father—” He paused, unsure how to break the news of her father’s death, then decided it could wait. “We have reason to believe you’re in danger. My name is Rex Regent. I’m with the police. I’m going to get you to safety.”
“Sam said someone would come for me, but I didn’t expect the police.” She frowned. “Are you sure my father sent you?”
“He certainly did.”
“Only… I thought he was, you know, a major criminal. If you’re with the police, why are you working for him?”
Rex hesitated. “He told me you didn’t know about his… line of work.”
Teresa scowled. “I’m blind, but not deaf. Everyone here talks.” Her expression grew thoughtful. “If you’re really a policeman, you must have a badge.” Rex produced the metal emblem, and she traced her fingers over the raised lettering. “You’re an inspector,” she noted with surprise.
“I am. Will you come with me?”
She stood and tied a knot in her braid, shortening it to knee length. “I sure will. I’ve wanted to get out of here for years.”
Rex started to lead the way toward the stairs, but Teresa pulled him back. “No, not that way. The stairs are trapped.” She steered him toward a yawning set of elevator doors at the far end of the hall. “This way.”
“But—”
“Trust me, I know every inch of this building.”
Rex was ready to pull her back from the dangerous opening, but Teresa felt along the wall, then crabbed around the corner without hesitation. Rex leaned around to see her clinging to the shaft’s access ladder.
“This is the only safe way to go between floors,” she whispered. “Aunt Winnie planted bombs in all the stairwells. And be as quiet as you can; the sound carries.”
Rex swung around to the ladder, his arms screaming in protest after the exhausting ordeal of the fire escape, and followed Teresa down several floors, until their path was blocked by the elevator car. As easily as stepping off a streetcar, Teresa swung out through the open doors. When Rex followed, she pulled him into an alcove that had once been a private seating area, but which was now filled with trash and a mouse-chewed chair frame.
“We’re directly above the laboratory,” she whispered. “It’s the old hotel kitchen. There’s a door to the outside there, but it’s only unlocked when Winnie is in the lab. Guards patrol that floor to make sure none of the prisoners escape.”
“Prisoners?” Rex echoed.
“Members of rival gangs, I think. Winnie experiments on them.” Teresa shivered. “I don’t know what she does, exactly, but their screams carry right up the elevator shaft.”
“Charming. Where are they?”
“They’re locked up in the basement. Do we rescue them, too?”
Rex saw the innocent, hopeful look on her face and hated that he couldn’t satisfy it. “Later. I have officers waiting just outside the gates. Once you’re safe, your testimony will give us enough to come back in with a warrant.”
She nodded. “We still need to get down the stairs to get out. But they’re trapped.”
Rex glanced around the corner. “Too bad the elevator doesn’t work.”
“It does; that’s how they bring my meals up. But the controls are inside the car.”
“Which is also down a level.” Rex thought for a moment. “How many guards are there?”
“Not more than three, usually.”
“Do they patrol this floor?”
“Only if there’s a reason to. Why?”
“We need the elevator up here, don’t we?” Rex leaned around the corner to push the call button.
Teresa brightened. “You want me to create a diversion while you take him out?”
Rex raised an eyebrow at her suggestion. “I don’t want to put you in any danger.”
“Oh, I won’t be. They have orders not to touch me.”
They settled into silence while they waited for the elevator car to arrive, but soon Teresa turned toward him. “Say, inspector…”
“You can call me Rex if you like.”
“Rex, I don’t know what you look like.” She extended her hands tentatively toward his face. “May I?”
“Sure.” Rex held still, scarcely remembering to breathe, as her fingertips traced his features.
“Seems like a nice face.” Her fingers lightly brushed the scar. “What happened here? Cut yourself shaving?”
He smiled wryly. “A little souvenir from Aunt Winnie.”
“Ah. You, too?” Her rueful smile matched his.
“What do you mean?”
Teresa waved a hand toward her own face. “My eyes were just fine when I came here, you know. Aunt Winnie—she insists I call her that—she put me in a room, and told me I wasn’t to leave it, or I’d regret it. Well, tell any ten-year-old that, and honestly, what would you expect? I stumbled into one of her traps. The explosion burned my eyes and ruptured both eardrums. My hearing came back, but my sight never did.”
“That’s…” He couldn’t find words to express his horror. “I’m so sorry.”
“I’ve learned to live with it.” She gave a humorless laugh. “Though Winnie said it was my own fault for disobeying.”
Rex gave a low whistle. “Sounds like a real mother of the year.”
“A regular Mama Mussolini.”
“You know about Mussolini?”
“I’m not completely cut off from the outside world.” Teresa laughed, a musical sound. “I have a radio upstairs. I listen to it every day. Not much else to do around here.” Her voice took on an edge of almost childish excitement. “Have you heard that new program, Gang Busters?”
“I have.” Rex didn’t add that the absurd dramatizations were nothing at all like his department’s real-life investigations. He didn’t want to extinguish the enthusiasm lighting her face.
The elevator whirred to life just then, and before Rex could speak, Teresa slipped out of the alcove and was down the hall. Rex flattened himself against the wall.
Soon Rex heard the squeal of the elevator gate, and a red-haired man came into view. The man sighed when he saw Teresa and holstered his pistol. “Tresses, you know she don’t like you comin’ down here.”
“Is that you, Red?” Teresa called innocently.
Red didn’t have the chance to answer, as the butt of Rex’s revolver came down hard at the base of his skull, and he sank to the floor unconscious. Rex cuffed him and crammed the man’s necktie into his mouth.
“That’ll keep him quiet for a few minutes.” Rex glanced up as Teresa approached. “Tresses?”
“It’s a nickname the boys gave me when I was a kid. First it was Tessa, then when my hair got longer…” She swished her braid. “Tresses.”
Rex took her arm. “Well, Tresses, care to join me for an elevator ride?”
“Well I ain’t stayin’ inside, copper,” she rejoined in a perfect radio-gangster accent. Rex laughed, despite the danger of their situation.
The elevator controls were archaic, but Rex was able to operate them well enough to reach the lower floor. “Where to from here?” he asked when he’d guided Teresa out of the car.
Teresa paused and listened, tilting her head. Presently she pointed to the left. “That way. I can hear the machines humming.”
They crept down a corridor and through what had once been a restaurant, now filled with shelves of chemicals, powders, and rolls of fuse. “Don’t sneeze,” he murmured, eying a canister marked nitroglycerin. “This whole place could explode.”
“Oh, it’s rigged to. Aunt Winnie built a time-delay bomb under the floor, in case of a raid. She calls it her ‘police trap.’”
Rex thought of the thirty officers outside the gate, and was suddenly thankful the warrant hadn’t come through.
They passed through another set of doors into what had once been the kitchen. Along one wall, a bank of equipment emitted a steady hum as machines rocked, sifted or mixed chemical components. Work tables housed a collection of beakers and distillation equipment. “This is unquestionably the laboratory,” Rex said. “Which means the exit should be…”
“Straight ahead, through that door,” announced a woman’s voice, alarmingly loud. Rex spun to see Mrs. Thackeray standing in the doorway behind them. She had changed from her evening dress into a white lab coat and jodhpurs. A bandolier of metal canisters was slung across her torso, and a pair of goggles crowned her head.
“Aunt Winnie!” gasped Teresa. Her fingers dug into Rex’s arm.
Rex stared at the erstwhile Mrs. Thackeray in surprise. “Dr. Gothel? My, you’ve changed.”
Gothel smiled. “I change faces like some women change hairstyles, inspector. It’s useful in my line. Otherwise, you might really have had cause to detain me outside.”
“I’ve more than enough to detain you now.” He flashed a charming smile. “Would you mind coming down to the station to answer some questions?”
“I would mind, very much.” She slipped the tinted goggles down over her eyes. “It’s a shame you didn’t sample my little cocktail at the Dark Horse.”
“Cyanide doesn’t really agree with me.”
“Fortunately, it didn’t agree with Johnny Malone, either. The coroner was just arriving when we left.” Gothel shrugged. “Eliminating you at the same time would have been a bonus, but that’s easily done now.”
Teresa had gone rigid at the word coroner. “Daddy is… dead?”
“And long past due. Now I can finally get rid of you, dearie.” Gothel unclipped a canister from her bandolier. “I’m afraid the sudden police interest in this property has just forced me to destroy the last of my test subjects—eliminating the evidence, you see—but I have plenty of time to finish you both off in a suitably unpleasant manner. That search warrant won’t come through before morning, and the incinerator is already hot.
“Smile for the camera, inspector.” She tossed the grenade at his feet.
Rex’s pistol had scarcely cleared the holster before the flash bomb ignited. The blast of heat across his face vanished beneath the pain that lanced through his eyes, searing his vision in unbearable flares of red and white. Rex cried out and threw up his hands to protect himself, but the damage was done. He crumpled to the floor.
Through the ringing in his ears he dimly became aware of voices, then felt strong hands lifting his arms, half-dragging him down a flight of stairs. He knew instinctively that he must resist, but the pain in his head was staggering, and he couldn’t see anything. Just endless fire, burning where his view of the world should have been.
From the cotton wool surrounding him, Gothel was speaking. “Whitey, go find the girl.”
“She won’t get far without someone to guide her,” the man holding Rex’s left arm grumbled, but released his grip.
Just then, a heavy click sounded from overhead, followed by the descending whir of machinery winding down. “Hey!” cried the man on Rex’s right. “Who turned out the lights?”
Gothel swore. “Someone’s switched the power off at the main. Cangey, go fix it. Kill anyone you find.”
“How?” protested the guard. “It’s pitch black in here! I can’t see a thing!”
“It’s just in the next room!” snapped Gothel. “Feel your way there!”
The pressure on Rex’s arms released, and a trail of cursing and falling objects wound through the room. Rex slumped against a wall, still dazed from the explosion. He had to use this opportunity to escape… but how?
A gentle touch grazed his arm, and he felt Teresa’s small hand lock into his. “Follow me,” she whispered in his ear.
“I can’t see,” Rex protested.
“Neither can they. And I don’t need to.”
She towed him along at a rapid pace. He stumbled behind as best he could, certain he would trip and fall with every step. Teresa guided him up the stairs and through a door, and his burned skin stung anew as a wave of cool night air struck his face. “Hurry,” she said. “We need to get as far away from this building as possible.”
“Why?” Behind him, Rex heard the mechanical click and whine of the power being restored. It was followed by outraged shouts, then feet pounding on stairs.
“Just go! Quickly!” Teresa bolted forward, pulling him across the grass.
He heard the explosion an instant before the wave of heat and pressure threw him to the ground. The pursuant sounds of shouting and sirens faded beneath the buzzing in his ears, until he was claimed by blessed silence.
***
Rex squinted against the light that burst painfully across his retinas as the layers of bandage were peeled back. His vision was badly blurred, but as he blinked, he thought he could make out a few figures standing nearby.
“Not bad,” said the day nurse. He recognized her voice; she’d been there when he’d awakened in the hospital. “The burns on your face are nearly healed, and your corneas look much clearer.”
“I think I’ll just crawl back under my rock, thanks,” Rex rasped. He closed his eyes, a faint sting across his eyelids a mild reminder of the searing pain he’d experienced a few days before.
The nurse patted his arm. “You can visit with your friends until the doctor comes to check on you.”
One of the figures settled into a chair beside the bed. “You look like hell, Regent,” declared the strident voice of Captain Axford.
“I feel like hell. How long was I out?”
“Not long, though you’ve been on morphine for a few days, for the pain. But the doc says you’ll make a full recovery.”
Rex hadn’t realized how much he’d feared the worst until relief swept over him. Then he tensed again, remembering. “Teresa—is she all right?”
Axford chuckled. “Ask her yourself.”
“I’m just fine, Rex.” A familiar hand brushed over his, seeking, then grasped his fingers. “It’s funny, isn’t it? I’m so used to being the one who can’t see, I never thought about someone else not being able to see me.”
“I’m glad you’re safe.” Rex squeezed her hand, then turned back to Axford. “My memory’s a blank. How’d you get us out of Martinelli’s place?”
“That was Miss Malone’s doing.” The captain stood. “I’ll let her fill you in; I have to get back to the station. Oh, and Regent—you’re suspended.”
“I’m what?”
“Conducting a search without a warrant. Judge Harper insisted. So I don’t want to see you back at your desk for a full two weeks.” He clapped Rex on the shoulder. “Of course, to simplify things, I’ve scheduled your suspension during your mandatory medical leave. But if the judge should ask, you were properly chastised.” Axford whistled cheerfully as he walked away.
Rex tried to focus his eyes on the other form beside his bed, but soon abandoned the effort. He could feel Teresa’s touch, even if he couldn’t see her properly. “What did he mean, about you getting us out?”
“Well, you had said there were police waiting nearby. I knew they couldn’t enter without probable cause, so after I switched off the power, I triggered Aunt Win—” she caught herself. “Dr. Gothel’s time-delay bomb. A warrant isn’t required in emergency situations, so once the building was on fire, your men came right in and found us.”
Rex shook his head in wonder. “How do you know so much about warrant law?”
Teresa laughed. “I told you, I listen to the radio. G-Men, Police Headquarters, Gang Busters… Besides, I’ve spent my entire life surrounded by criminals who exploit legal loopholes. Do you really think there’s anything about the law I don’t know? I might as well be a gangster myself.” She tossed her long braid over her shoulder and turned in a very credible imitation of James Cagney: “The name’s Tresses Malone, see?”
***
Alena Van Arendonk inhabits a virtual creative pentathalon, shuffling the hats of writer, actor, artist, seamstress, and costume designer. Her hair is long enough that she has received her fair share of Rapunzel jokes, but she insists that in no way influenced her choice of fairy tale.