IN ADDITION to nearly sixty full-length novels, Frederick C. Davis (1902–1977) wrote more than a thousand short stories, producing more than a million words a year during the 1930s and 1940s. He created several series characters, including Professor Cyrus Hatch under his own name, Lieutenant Lee Barcello under the Stephen Ransome byline, and twenty pulp thrillers about Operator 5 as Curtis Steele. None of his creations, however, was more popular than the Moon Man—Stephen Thatcher, a policeman by day and a notorious robber by night.
The son of the police chief, Sergeant Thatcher was utterly dedicated to helping those unable to handle the trials of America’s Great Depression, even if it meant breaking the law. In the tradition of Robin Hood, he stole from the wealthy to give to the poor.
To keep his true identity a secret, Thatcher donned the most peculiar disguise in all of pulp fiction—not a mask, but a dome made of highly fragile one-way glass, fitted with a breathing apparatus that filtered air. The glass, known as Argus glass, was manufactured in France and was, at the time, unknown in the United States. As the perpetrator of innumerable crimes, he was the most-hunted criminal in the city, saving lives in equally impressive numbers along the way.
There were thirty-nine adventures about the Moon Man, all published in Ten Detective Aces between May/June 1933 and January 1937.
“Crimson Shackles” was originally published in the March 1934 issue of Ten Detective Aces; it was first collected in Davis’s The Night Nemesis (Bowling Green, Ohio, Purple Prose Press, 1984).
A RED LIGHT FLICKERED on the switchboard in police headquarters. Phone Sergeant Doyle plugged in. Over the wire came a strident voice:
“They’re robbing the place! They’re robbing the museum! Send the police!”
Doyle jerked up straight. “Who’s calling? What museum? Talk fast!”
“The Van Ormond collection. They’re taking it! Men in red masks. They’re—he-elp!”
The cry was prolonged, piercing. Doyle, pressing the earphones close, heard a clattering thump that told of the distant telephone being dropped to the floor. Then there was another scream, far away:
“They’ve got me!”
The line went dead even as Doyle plugged into the socket labeled “Broadcasting Studio.” “Hell’s hinges!” Doyle gasped. As the studio answered he blurted: “Mason! Squad call! The museum in the Van Ormond place is being robbed! Snap it out!”
“On the air!” Mason sang back.
Across the corridor, in a room half filled with filing cabinets, the announcer pushed the phone away. His lips worked fast as he leaned toward the microphone and threw a cam.
“Calling cars Five, Ten, Fifty-one, Seventy-four! Calling Five, Ten, Five-one, Seven-four! Top speed to the Van Ormond place, Glassford and Buckingham Streets. The private museum is being robbed. All other cars stand by for further reports!”
Through the night air the invisible power of the radio antenna lightninged.
Squad call!
The police sedan cruising along the side of City Park was not a squad car, though it was one of the police fleet. Its radio was tuned to the headquarters wave length, and its loud-speaker was rattling.
“Top speed to the Van Ormond place! The museum is being robbed by men wearing red masks.”
Red masks!
The two men in the car jerked startled eyes toward each other. The grim-faced detective at the wheel muttered: “By damn!” One dismayed moment his jaw-muscles bunched hard beneath his leathery skin. Then his foot thrust against the accelerator and he swung the sedan through a sharp U-turn.
Detective Lieutenant Gilbert McEwen, ace sleuth of the plain-clothes division of police headquarters, born hunter of men, sent the police car whizzing up the avenue with all the power eight cylinders could furnish.
“Red masks!” the young man beside McEwen exclaimed. “Sounds like—”
“The Red Six!”
Detective Sergeant Stephen Thatcher, son of the chief of police, realized even more keenly than McEwen the startling import of the frenzied squad call. The Red Six, the most daring criminal combine that had ever operated, were at work again—preying even at that moment on the famed, priceless Van Ormond collection.
Tires whined as McEwen swerved around a corner. At the far end of the block the Van Ormond home stood, an imposing edifice of white stone. The museum wing extended along the street up which McEwen sped the car. As he trod on the brakes he saw other cars lined up at the curb, with men guarding them—masked men.
Black-masked faces turned toward McEwen’s sedan as it creaked to a stop.
Swiftly he ducked out, grabbing at his service gun. Steve Thatcher eased to the sidewalk beside him. Except for the parked cars, the street was empty. None of the radio patrol machines had yet appeared. Seconds would bring them—but even as McEwen ran toward the entrance of the museum, its broad door opened and half a dozen masked men crowded out.
Gun metal flashed in the light of the street lamps. The nozzles of the masked men’s revolvers became black spots pointed at McEwen’s hurrying figure.
“Stay back and you won’t be harmed!” a voice called in sharp warning.
McEwen fired.
The quiet of the street disappeared in the thunder of roaring revolvers. The masked men answered McEwen’s bullet with a fusillade. Slugs clacked against the buildings beyond and caromed screamingly off the sidewalk. Hornets of lead flew as McEwen ducked for the shelter of a doorway and yelled to Steve Thatcher:
“Cover, Steve!”
The blasting bullets separated Thatcher from McEwen in one swift moment. He ducked into the shelter of a car standing by the curb. Another blasting chorus of reports rang out, and again lead whined, forcing McEwen deep into the doorway and Thatcher low behind the car.
The black-masked men were like an advancing army. Separating from the door, alert, ready to fire again should either McEwen or Thatcher dare show themselves, they left a clear space across the sidewalk. Instantly other men appeared, some carrying suitcases, some bearing paintings still in their frames, others carrying glass display racks.
As they scrambled inside the cars at the curb with their priceless booty, still more masked men appeared in the doorway of the museum. And the faces of these men, the last to appear, unlike the others were covered with red. On the foreheads of their masks were Roman numerals: II, III, IV, V, VI.
As the pillagers hurried into the waiting cars, the whine of a siren sounded far away—the shrill warning of one of the squad cars coming like a banshee down the next avenue.
McEwen risked another shot. Bullets swarmed at him and he ducked back, cursing. Steve Thatcher was crouching low in the shadow of the car. He saw masked men advancing toward him, closing him in. He crouched to spring away; but at that instant light flashed down the street, and tires rubbed the pavement as a squad car swung into view.
Instantly there was a shout, and the masked men whirled to attack the car. Bullets rained at it, crashing against the windshield. The men in the seat huddled back before the storm of gunfire. For one instant attention was distracted from Steve Thatcher—and one instant was enough for his quick, sure move.
He was crouched behind a heavy roadster. He twisted the rumble-seat handle and leaped up. Swiftly he slid into the hollow darkness of the rear compartment, and let the seat click back into place.
The blasting guns sounded muffled as Steve Thatcher crouched. He lay on his side, gun directed at the closed rumble lid. He heard heels beating on the pavement. Then the car swayed as some one stepped on the running board, and the starter ground.
Swiftly the car lurched away.
Gil McEwen stood backed in the doorway, grimly gripping his revolver. His coat was ripped in two places where bullets had cut through. His hat was punctured. Breathing hard, he reached out and risked a shot as the cars snarled past him.
Withering fire answered his attack. The hot breath of bullets forced McEwen to drop, gasping. One short moment, and the cars of the museum thieves were streaking away, a black, mechanical herd.
“After ’em!” McEwen yelled at the squad car stopped near the corner.
Motors were roaring. The wail of the siren was growing louder. A second squad car darted into sight as McEwen sprinted toward the first. A third swung from the opposite direction. A fourth was streaking down the avenue toward the intersection. McEwen scrambled through the door of the foremost car as it started up in chase.
The plunderers were already at the farther corner, turning both ways. All the black fleet twisted out of sight as McEwen’s sedan reached the halfway point of the block. Behind him the other squad cars were racing. They picked up speed swiftly as the intersection neared. Then—
McEwen yelled hoarsely: “Look out!”
From a hidden spot beyond the corner, a huge van appeared. It looked as big as a box car as it swung to enter the street. A moving barricade, its length crossed the pavement—and there it stopped. Two men leaped from its seat and sprang away. Before the radio cars could stop, the two men had darted out of sight beyond the corner buildings—and the outlet of the street was blocked.
Brakes screeched as McEwen’s car slowed. He thumped against the windshield, thrown forward. Shouts came from the cars behind as brakes smoked and bumpers clashed. McEwen stumbled out, gun in hand, and ran past the huge hulk of the van.
Far up and down the avenue flanking the park, black cars were racing.
McEwen sprang back. “Get after ’em! Corner ’em! Get around the block! By damn, you’ve got to move fast!”
Gears snarled. Bumpers clanked again. Engines raced as the squad cars backed. McEwen climbed into the van and spent a wrathful moment trying to start its engine, but the ignition had been locked. When he climbed down, the radio cars, jouncing over the curbs in their frantic haste to chase the escaping thieves, were rushing toward the far and unbarricaded corner.
“Yeah,” McEwen said sourly as they swerved out of sight. “ ‘Get after ’em and corner ’em.’ ” He started grimly for the open doorway of the Van Ormond museum. “A swell chance they’ve got. A swell chance!”
Complete darkness enveloped Steve Thatcher. The exhaust of the rushing roadster rumbled in the closed space around him. He was swayed back and forth by the turning of the car as it swung past corners. For long minutes he lay listening, gun in hand, as the roadster sped over smooth pavement.
Then it began to tremble over rougher streets. Steve Thatcher guessed bricks or cobbles. This continued for moments. Thatcher tried to reason where the car was, but it was hopeless. There were more turns, and a continued trembling of the car chassis; and then, abruptly, a swerve and a stop.
The men in the front of the car got out. There were quick, muffled voices, and heels tapping the pavement. The purring of other cars sounded close. Gradually the sounds lessened, then vanished completely. Thatcher waited, listening, through long moments of silence.
He edged forward, and pushed at the padded rumble-seat cover. It held firm. It was latched in place; and there was no handle on the inside. Thatcher had had no opportunity to slip something in the crack to keep the catch from clicking into its socket. He was locked securely in.
He fumbled out a folder of matches and struck a light. Turning on his back, he could see the latch-belt resting in its socket. He thrust at it, and it moved. Striking another light, he brought out a key, and used it to press the bolt back. It was almost free when—
A click sounded. The rumble seat swung up. Over the edge appeared a hand gripping an automatic. The barrel of the gun looked down at Steve Thatcher as he stared.
“Come out!” a voice commanded.
Thatcher dragged himself up quickly. Doing so, he saw another hand and another gun pointing at him from the opposite side. Now two heads appeared, two faces that were masked in black. The same voice commanded curtly:
“Drop your gun and climb out!”
The beam of a flash light sprang into the rumble space, blinding Thatcher. Wry-faced, helpless in the stare of the two guns, he obeyed orders; he dropped his own weapon. He climbed over the side, while the two masked men covered him.
“Enjoy your trip?” one asked tartly.
“You knew I was in there all the time, did you?” Thatcher asked disgustedly.
“Certainly. This way, if you please.”
The firm direction of the guns belied the suave politeness of the suggestion. Thatcher’s arms were taken by curling fingers. He was led across a black sidewalk. Glancing around quickly, he saw a dark, deserted alleyway, flanked by sooted brick walls. A lifetime of living in the city gave Thatcher no clue to his whereabouts. Abruptly he was stopped before a placarded door.
The door was opened, and he was pushed through it. He found himself in a vast, musty room. It was filled with old furniture piled high. A single bulb threw black shadows on the brick walls. With the gun prodding him, Thatcher was led along a lane through the furniture, toward another door.
There the hands left his arms. The guns prodded him again. The voice commanded:
“Go inside.”
Steve Thatcher stepped past the sill. The door was closed behind him. Bright light dazzled him a moment. His returning vision revealed to him a small room contrasting utterly with the larger one he had just left.
This one was hung with tapestries. Old paintings hung on the walls. Statuettes stood on pedestals. Valuable, all of them; Thatcher realized that at a glance. But his gaze left them at once, and centered on a desk in the room, over which soft light was flooding.
Behind that desk a man was sitting. His face was masked with a red domino. On its forehead was the Roman numeral II.
“Good evening,” he said, “Mr. Moon Man!”
Steve Thatcher’s muscles jerked tight. He peered appalled at the smiling face of the man at the desk. Words struggled behind his pressed lips, words of protest that would not form.
“You are, of course, Mr. Thatcher,” the red-masked one went on, “the Moon Man. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Secundus. I am the chief of what was until recently the Red Six, and what is now the Red Five.”
Stephen Thatcher could do no more than stare.
“I was really very gratified to see you lock yourself in the rumble seat of my roadster,” Secundus continued smoothly. “I had been planning to get in touch with you. Now that we are alone, we can talk.”
“Talk—about what?” Thatcher blurted.
“If you recall the late Primus, which you no doubt do,” said the red-masked man, “you scarcely need ask. Sit down, Mr. Thatcher. Sit down.”
Thatcher sank into a luxurious chair because his legs were threatening to give way. He stared dismayed at the man who called himself Secundus as that gentleman, still smiling, poured whisky from a decanter into two glasses and shot seltzer into them. He pushed one highball toward Thatcher and settled back comfortably.
“No doubt this is an unpleasant surprise to you, Mr. Thatcher,” Secundus remarked. “You thought you were free of the Red Six, did you not? You believed that no one save Primus knew you to be the Moon Man. A mistake, Mr. Thatcher. I knew.”
Secundus sipped. Thatcher did not even move to touch his drink. His eyes clung fascinatedly to the red mask.
“By the simple expedient of overhearing you talking with Primus when he called you to our headquarters a month ago, Mr. Thatcher. I learned then that your thumbprint matches perfectly that of the Moon Man which is on file at police headquarters. I learned, Mr. Thatcher, your secret.”
Thatcher could not move.
“Interesting, indeed,” Secundus went on. “Knowing that Detective Sergeant Thatcher, son of the chief of police, is leading a double life. That, on the one hand, he is a respected officer of the law, and on the other the most notorious criminal wanted by police headquarters.
“Interesting indeed. The chief of police bending every effort to capture the Moon Man, not knowing the Moon Man is his own son. Gilbert McEwen striving his utmost to bring the Moon Man to justice, not dreaming that the Moon Man is his closest friend, the young man engaged to marry his only daughter.”
Thatcher asked hoarsely: “Why—why did you have me brought in here? What do you want? If—”
Secundus’ smile returned. “Your crimes, I believe, as the Moon Man, include innumerable robberies—so many that you should be sent to jail for the rest of your life, Mr. Thatcher. I believe, also, there is the matter of several kidnapings and a murder. I suspect that you are innocent of the murder, but you could never prove that now. Could you, Mr. Thatcher?”
“I asked, what do you want?”
“I’m coming to that. The point I am making is that if you were caught, you’d doubtless die in the electric chair. But that, I fancy, is the least horrible consequence your exposure would bring about. Even more terrible would be the tragedy it would bring into the life of your father. And the girl you love, Gil McEwen’s daughter—what would she do if she learned that her fiancé is the Moon Man?”
“God! Don’t—”
“Naturally,” Secundus continued, sipping, “you dread exposure worse than death. Well, then, let us not think of it. I intend to keep your secret, Mr. Thatcher—on the same terms made to you by the late Primus, who introduced you into the organization of the Red Six—now the Red Five.”
“You can’t force me to—”
“Co-operate with us? I think I can, Mr. Thatcher. You must realize that you are inescapably caught. You will again become one of us, you will again follow our orders. You will again act as our special informer on police activities. You will serve us loyally, Mr. Thatcher, as long as we wish you to—unless you desire that your father, and McEwen, and your sweetheart shall learn that you are, in fact, the notorious Moon Man.”
Thatcher said grimly: “You know I didn’t rob for the sake of the money. You know I played the Moon Man and robbed to help—”
“That doesn’t matter, Mr. Thatcher. You are the Moon Man, and that is the whole point. Let’s not argue.”
Thatcher leaned forward tensely. “You’re right,” he said in a sibilant whisper. “To me exposure would be worse than death. I’ll face anything rather than that. I’ll—I’ll even commit murder. Do you understand that? Murder.”
“You’re threatening me, Mr. Thatcher.”
“I won’t allow you to hold that weapon over my head. I won’t allow you—”
“I?” Secundus rose quickly. “I alone, Mr. Thatcher? You are laboring under a delusion. I am not the only one of us who knows your secret. Look!”
Secundus stepped to the side of the room and pulled a cord. A tapestry drew back from the wall. Disclosed behind it was an open, glassless window. Beyond it lay another room like the one in which Thatcher stood. Seated in that room, facing Thatcher now through the opening, were four men.
All of them were masked. All the masks were numbered. On the scarlet foreheads were the consecutive Roman numerals III, IV, V, and VI.
“They, you see,” said Secundus, “have listened to our little conversation. You see how futile protest is, Mr. Thatcher—unless you choose to attempt five murders here and now. That, I suggest, would scarcely be wise.”
Thatcher stared at the red-masked faces beyond as the voice of Secundus lost its suavity and hissed.
“One move of treachery on your part, Thatcher, one suspicious action, and your secret will be disclosed instantly to your father, the chief of police. Remember—always remember—‘We give silence for silence!’ ”
Steve Thatcher’s mind whirled. Echoing in his memory were words once spoken, in grim determination, by Gil McEwen. By McEwen, who had sworn some day to bring the Moon Man to justice:
“Nothing’ll stop me from putting that crook in the electric chair—not even if you were the Moon Man, Steve.”
Slowly Steve Thatcher pushed open the door labeled “Chief of Police” on the second floor of headquarters. He found Gil McEwen pacing the floor wrathfully. He found his father, Chief Peter Thatcher, silver-haired and kindly-faced, seated in his cushioned chair behind the old rolltop desk. Chief Thatcher came erect and Gil McEwen stopped short when Steve Thatcher entered.
“Steve!” McEwen blurted. “Where’ve you been?”
Thatcher answered grimly: “I made a try at following that gang, Gil, but I didn’t get very far.”
“Well, by damn, you’re safe, anyway,” McEwen growled. “ ‘Didn’t get very far’! Neither’ve I. It’s the damnedest thing I ever ran up against!”
“What did they get out of the museum, Gil?” Thatcher asked.
“Everything they could take! All they left were the pieces too big to carry out. Alarms, guards, nothing stopped ’em. They had plenty of nerve!”
Thatcher asked tightly: “No clues?”
“Clues!” McEwen snarled. “Clues, Steve, are sadly lacking. You think a shrewd gang like that would leave any clues about? Not one! Only it’s plain as day that the job was pulled with inside help. It had to be done that way.
“The electric alarms were switched off. The two night watchmen were surprised and tied up. Somebody inside had to throw off the switches, and unbolt the outer door—that’s the way they got in. But who?
“Blake and Eswell are at the place now, grilling hell out of the servants, but they won’t get anywhere. The servants weren’t in on it. Most of ’em were off duty. It was a maid that found out what was going on—she’d been out too, but she came back early, and saw the masked men and the cars outside. She ran in to a phone by another entrance. I’m telling you, none of the servants were working with the gang—it goes higher than that.”
“Gil,” Chief Thatcher said quietly, “you can’t mean that one of the family actually helped the crooks rob their own museum?”
“That’s exactly what I do mean, chief. If it wasn’t the servants who opened the way to the gang, then it’s got to be one of the Van Ormonds. What’s worse, trying to find out which one of ’em did it is hopeless. The crime ring is so powerful and so feared that nobody connected with it dares talk. If there’s any danger of their talking, you know what happens to ’em. The same thing that happened to Amos Colchester a month ago—and he died of lockjaw.
“Tetanus got him. Lord, it was horrible! He received a little brass head as a warning. It’s fear of dying the same frightful way that keeps the members of the crime ring silent. If they don’t keep their mouths shut, tetanus will make ’em!”
McEwen jerked open a drawer of the chief’s desk and lifted an object wrapped in paper. It was the size of an apple, the modeled head of a man done in brass. The face was a grotesque mask, the lips drawn into a sardonic grin, the eyes protruding. McEwen peered at the ghastly image and shuddered.
“Colchester looked like that when he died. Well, he—one of the biggest men of the city—had been drawn into the crime ring, and he died because there was danger of his talking. That’s the way they work, those crooks—they blackmail respectable people into helping them pull off their crimes. The people they hook have position and influence and are able to give them valuable tips. They follow orders because they dread exposure—and death by tetanus.”
Steve Thatcher swallowed hard as he listened.
“How the hell’re we going to break up an organization like that?” McEwen demanded, thrusting the brass image back into the drawer. “An organization that works in complete secret and has such a powerful hold on their tools? By damn, for all we know half the élite of this town are members of the gang. Politicians, bankers, big business men, society women, debs—anybody. Yes, and it’s possible that the crime ring’s got a man right here in this headquarters as a spy!”
Steve Thatcher winced.
Gil McEwen was pacing the floor. “There’s only one thing I’m sure of, Chief. One thing. The master mind behind this gang is the Moon Man.”
Steve Thatcher asked through a dry throat: “How can you be sure of that, Gil?”
“How? The Moon Man ran the show during the robbery of the Embassy Ball last month, didn’t he? I saw him myself, didn’t I, directing the whole thing? Certainly! The Moon Man’s the ringleader.”
“But—” Thatcher’s words came with difficulty—“perhaps the Moon Man is only a tool of the real ringleaders, Gil. Perhaps he’s been forced into helping execute crimes, as others have been. If the real ringleaders found out, somehow, who the Moon Man is, and used that information to force him to work with them under threat of exposure—”
McEwen humphed. “Maybe you’re right, Steve, but I don’t think so. I believe he’s the master mind. Ten times I’ve had him cornered, and each time he’s slipped away. His luck can’t last forever. The day’s coming when I’ll crack down on him—crack down so hard—”
The knob rattled and the door opened. A girl stepped into the room eagerly. She was smartly dressed, young, pretty. She was Sue McEwen, Gil’s only daughter and Steve Thatcher’s fiancée. She stepped to him smiling, and he took her in his arms.
“Steve darling—” She kissed him warmly. “I hoped I’d find you here. I want you to drive me home, and then we’re going to have a good, long talk.”
She greeted her father and Chief Thatcher as Steve Thatcher frowned. He forced a smile and answered: “Sue, dear, there’s nothing I’d like better—”
“Because it’s not very long now until we’ll be married,” she said softly, turning back, “and there are so many things we’ve got to plan. It’s so wonderful, Steve—dreaming it all out and—”
“But I can’t, Sue. I can’t go with you tonight.”
“Steve!” Sue drew back, hurt. “But I won’t let you do anything else tonight. What is there more important? You’re going to drive me home and—”
“Please, Sue,” Steve Thatcher pleaded. “I know I’ve been treating you shamefully, and I’d go with you if it were possible—but it isn’t. Believe me. I—”
He stumbled into silence. The disappointment in Sue’s eyes sent a twinge through him.
“Steve,” she said quietly, coming toward him, “you’re troubled about something. I can see it in your eyes. What is it? Won’t you tell me? Let’s go home together and talk it all over and—”
Tell her!
White-faced, cold, Steve Thatcher stepped past Sue quickly. “Nothing’s wrong,” he mumbled, and she called pleadingly, “Steve!” but he closed the door. He dared not even glance back as he ran down the steps, and hurried out of the entrance of police headquarters.
Agony shone in his eyes as he crossed the street. He hurried into the corner drug store, shouldered into a telephone booth, and hesitated with the receiver in his hands. Looking up, he could see the lighted windows of the chief’s office.
In that room were the three people dearest to him. Sue—his father—Gil McEwen. Three people who must never learn Steve Thatcher’s secret—never.
Thatcher called a number. It was a very private number known only to him and one other. In a moment a voice answered.
“Angel!” Thatcher said quickly.
“Boss!”
The voice was Ned Dargan’s—Dargan, the ex-pug, secret lieutenant of the Moon Man. Side by side they had worked in defiance of the written law, bound by deepest friendship and loyalty. For long months not even Dargan had known that Steve Thatcher was the notorious criminal who robbed and robbed again, cloaked in a robe of black and masked with silver glass. The secret learned, they had become bound even closer by it. And now Steve Thatcher spoke swiftly to the one man in the world he could trust.
“Angel, they’ve trapped me again!”
“Boss! The Red Six? Gosh, I thought you’d broken clear of ’em! Gosh, Boss, you can’t let ’em drive you—”
“Listen fast, Angel. The Red Six is now the Red Five. They’re at work again. I found out tonight that Secundus, who’s taken the place of Primus as chief of the crime ring, knows that I’m the Moon Man. He’s got me cornered—”
“Boss, you can’t let ’em—”
“They’ve got me, Angel. What they’re going to do with me this time I don’t know—but we’ve got to act fast, or they’ll use me as the Moon Man again. McEwen’s gunning for me, thinking that the Moon Man is the leader. Somehow we’ve got to get at the Red Five and stop ’em before—”
“Anything you say, Boss!”
“Bless you, Angel. Listen. You can get over to the Royale Apartments in a few minutes. The headquarters of the Red Five is on the top floor. I want you to watch that place. Trail anybody you see leaving the secret headquarters. If we can find out who the Red Five are, Angel, we’ll hold trump cards. But it’s dangerous—damn’ dangerous.”
“Never mind that, Boss!”
“Watch yourself, Angel.”
“Depend on me, Boss. I’m leaving now.”
Steve Thatcher hung up the receiver. For a moment he sat in the booth, white-faced, filled with anxiety. He remembered the brass image in Chief Thatcher’s desk—the metal face twisted into the horrible risor sardonicus of lockjaw. He recalled the way Amos Colchester had died the month previous—in horrible agony. Ghastly death because he had dared defy the red-masked crooks.
“Angel,” Steve Thatcher moaned, “watch yourself!”
The imposing building of the Royale Apartments stood in the shadow of the city’s tallest skyscraper, the Apex Building. Tonight the street flanking it was deserted except for occasional passers-by. It was almost midnight when a young man went striding past the elaborate door of the apartment house, coat collar turned up and head lowered.
The brim of his hat shadowed his cauliflower ear. The tilt of his chin hid the fact that he had no neck.
Ned Dargan.
Dargan glanced into the lobby as he passed. It was quiet and empty. The grille of one of the elevators was standing open, and the operator was sitting inside it—a huge man with a brutal, apelike face. Trudging on, Dargan glanced up, toward the cornices. On the top floor curtained windows were glowing with soft light.
The headquarters of the Red Five was in use.
Dargan walked the length of the block, crossed the street, and turned. When he reached the lobby of the Apex Building he stepped inside it. He stood in the shadow of a pillar, peering across the street into the foyer of the Royale.
Long, empty minutes passed.
Then Dargan saw the brutelike elevator operator turn, step into the cage, and close the grille. Immediately Dargan darted out of the shadow and across the street. Quietly he stepped into the foyer and walked back to the elevator door.
Only one car was in use at this time of night. The indicator above the bronze panels was moving. Dargan watched it swing farther and farther as the car slid upward in the shaft. At last the needle paused, showing that the cage had stopped at the top floor of the building.
Dargan had learned what he had come to learn. Some one was coming down from the secret headquarters of the Red Five. He slipped out of the foyer quickly, recrossed the street, and ducked again into the shadow of the Apex entrance. Another long minute passed. Dargan could see the floor-indicator of the elevator moving again. Presently the grille opened, and a man stepped out.
He was a stocky man, dressed expensively. He walked out of the foyer and onto the sidewalk. Glancing right and left, he turned, striding briskly away. Dargan watched him alertly until he reached the next corner.
Then Dargan followed. Keeping to the opposite side of the street, eyes fast on the man who had left the headquarters of the Red Five, he quickly swung his short legs. He turned when his man turned, crossed, and eased closer.
So Dargan shadowed his quarry along two dark blocks. Then again the man turned past a corner. Dargan hurried. He reached the corner—and hesitated.
The sidewalk beyond was empty.
Dargan went on, eyes shifting right and left. He saw that there were no doorways along the first half of the block into which his man could have ducked. Two sedans were parked at the curb, but they seemed empty, and Dargan dared not move closer to peer into them. Anxiously he hurried on, to the next corner.
The intersecting street was also empty. Dargan’s quarry had vanished.
Covering his consternation by keeping on the move, Dargan turned back on the opposite side of the street. His shifting eyes found no answer to the disappearance of the man he had been following. Again, at the far corner, he turned back.
So he spent long moments, stealthily searching—and finding no sign of his quarry.
Quickly he went on, seething with disgust. He walked again past the front of the Apex Building, glancing toward the top floor of the Royale. Now the highest windows were dark.
“Nobody else there,” Dargan muttered.
Saying blasphemous things about himself as a shadower, he walked away. The room which he had rented under a false name was not far. He hurried toward it. Head still bent, scowling at his failure, he was not aware that, a block behind him, a man was following.
He was the expensively dressed man whom Dargan had been trailing—and now he was trailing Dargan.
Dargan reached the house in which he lived, climbed the steps, and pushed in without glancing back.
Three minutes later the expensively dressed man entered a cigar store a block away and sidled into a telephone booth. He called a number from memory. A voice answered:
“Oriental Importing Company.”
“Quintus calling.”
“Secundus. You may speak.”
“Leaving headquarters a few minutes ago, I was trailed by some one. I ducked into a parked car, and he lost me. I trailed him to his room. He lives there under the name of Sam Daniels.”
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know. He may be a detective. Possibly he’s one of our number. It does not matter. He has been indiscreet, and he may be dangerous.”
“I recommend action, Quintus.”
“I’ll take action—at once.”
The man who called himself Quintus—V of the Red Five—pronged the receiver. Immediately he called another number from memory. He talked quickly, in low tones that could not possibly carry through the double glass panels of the phone booth. When, a short minute later, he stepped out, his eyes were glittering grimly and his mouth was a thin, cruel line.
Ned Dargan climbed a flight of stairs. He inserted a key in the lock of a front room. He stepped in, clicking the light switch. He was in the act of flinging off his hat when his muscles froze.
A young man was seated in a chair beside the table—Steve Thatcher.
“Boss!”
Thatcher sprang up. “Angel, have you been on the job? What did you learn?”
Dargan made a disgusted noise. “Boss, I’m lousy. I spotted a guy coming out of the Royale, and lost him—lost him, damn it! I didn’t even get a good look at his face.”
“He learned you were following him?”
“I guess so,” Dargan moaned. “I had a swell chance to spot one of the Red Five, and I muffed it. But next time, Boss—next time I’ll hang on!”
Steve Thatcher’s eyes were narrowed and thoughtful. “I hope to God there’ll be a next time, Angel, but—Listen! You’ve got to move out of here. You’ve got to beat it—tonight.”
“What? Why, Boss?”
“Because it’s too dangerous to stay. You may’ve been spotted by the man you tried to follow. If you have been—Lord, Angel, do you realize what that means?”
“If anybody makes a pass at me,” Dargan threatened, doubling one huge fist, “I’ll—”
Steve Thatcher gestured impatiently. “You know what happened to Amos Colchester last month. You know how he died. Tetanus! Once the germs get into you, Angel, you’re lost. Any little scratch on the skin, even so small you wouldn’t notice it—and you’re done for. Nothing that doctors can do will stop the infection once it sets in. God, Angel, I don’t want that to happen to you!”
“Yeah, but—what about you, Boss? You’re in a damn’ sight tighter place than I—”
“Never mind that, Angel. Get your grip packed. Get out of this room tonight—now.”
“Boss, I’m not going to run out on you when—”
“You can take a room under another name in some other part of town, Angel. I tell you you’ve got to do it! If you’ve been spotted, it’s the only way—”
Steve Thatcher broke off as a knock sounded on the door. Ned Dargan turned sharply. His hand slipped toward his hip pocket, where an automatic nestled, as they peered at the panels. Thatcher quickly stepped close.
“Who’s there?”
“Western Union.”
Thatcher hesitated, frowning, then stepped back and gestured Dargan to answer the summons. Dargan, squaring his shoulders, turned the knob. His hand was still on his gun; but when he saw the uniformed boy outside, his fingers unflexed.
“Sure that’s for me?”
“Sam Daniels?”
Dargan peered at the small, square box in the boy’s hand. Quickly he signed, and took the parcel. He closed the door, heard the messenger going down the stairs, and looked up to find Steve Thatcher staring at him widely.
“Careful, Angel!”
Thatcher jerked gloves from his pocket and pulled them on. He took the box from Dargan’s blunt fingers and tore at the string. He ripped off the paper and lifted the cover. An inarticulate gasp broke through his lips as he peered at the thing inside.
It was the modeled brass head of a man, the eyes bulging, the lips drawn into a horrible grin—the grimace that denoted death by tetanus!
Dargan lifted horrified eyes to Steve Thatcher’s face. Thatcher recoiled from the box, and blurted:
“It’s their—warning!”
“Gosh, Boss! They have spotted me!”
Thatcher’s face was deathly white. “Angel, put on gloves—quick!” As Dargan complied with alacrity, Thatcher strode to the window and looked out upon the empty street. Quickly he drew the shade. “Don’t touch anything—not anything you can avoid touching. Don’t even pack now, Angel.”
“Gosh, Boss, I—”
“There might be a pin somewhere in your stuff. A pin dipped in bacilli tetani and placed so that it’ll prick you. That would be enough, Angel. Come on—we’re going.”
Dargan muttered angrily. “Okay, Boss, I’ll beat it. But you can’t come with me. What if somebody saw us leaving together? They’d know then that you’re working with me—and you’d get one of those ugly brass heads yourself!”
“I’m taking that chance. I’m going with you, Angel, because it’s up to me to see that you get out of here safe. Grab that hat, and come on!”
Steve Thatcher stepped to the hallway door and inched it open. Dargan shouldered beside him as he stepped out. The corridor was silent and empty. They went down the steps together, alert, tense.
At the outer door Thatcher paused, listening. He turned his coat collar up, pulled his hat brim down. He twisted the knob, glanced out, and stepped across the sill.
“Grab the first taxi you see, Angel. Better stay at some hotel tonight. Tomorrow find another room. Get yourself all new clothes, and let me know—”
“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!”
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 in 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 him 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.
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?”
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!”
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 squad 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 telephone. 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.
He bumped into some one on the stairs. He saw the face of Sue McEwen. She was peering at him, startled.
“Out of the way!” he gasped. “Up the stairs!”
Thicker fog blanketed him as he forced the girl higher. On the balcony, with Sue recoiling against the far wall, he paused and tossed more bombs. Now the room was full of muttered cursing, coughing, shouts of pain. Dargan, finding his case empty, grimly grabbed a gun from his pocket and retreated to Sue’s side.
“I’ll keep ’em away from you!”
The Moon Man, at the first crash, had begun working his way behind the grille toward the electrically-operated door. As he edged through it, he saw several black-masked men writhing on the floor, disabled. Tears were streaming from the eyes of the others. The Moon Man was edging toward the main entrance, gun leveled against possible attack, when he was startled by a sudden burst of gunfire in the street.
He wheeled, peered out. Police cars were swarming over the pavement outside. Uniformed men were leaping from them, guns out, rushing toward the doors. Flame and lead clashed again as the Moon Man backed away.
The clerk’s quick telephone call had brought results!
The black-masked men outside were retreating before the blasting fire of the squad car cops.
A bedlam of alarmed shouts rang inside the bank as the Moon Man whirled away. He groped through the choking fog, glimpsing red- and black-masked faces. And as he moved he heard a shout from outside:
“Fill that door!”
The voice of Gil McEwen!
Twisting back, the Moon Man saw McEwen leaping for the bank entrance. The black-masked gang had recoiled and the way was open. Those inside were crowding down upon McEwen as he pushed through. The detective drew up short, face-to-face with a red-masked man with leveled gun.
One instant, through the swirling fumes, they glared at each other—McEwen and Quintus.
The automatic in the hand of Quintus snapped out fire as McEwen bellowed and leaped. He dropped to one knee, his gun flashing in the dimmed light. Twice he fired, with deadly speed, with grim accuracy. And two bullets drilled into the chest of Quintus.
The red-masked man crumpled, clawing the air. He sprawled on the floor, gun dropping from his hands. McEwen leaped up again with a bellow of savage satisfaction.
Death to Quintus, murderer of the teller, sender of the brass warning to Ned Dargan.
The Moon Man was on the stairs now. As McEwen leaped farther into the bank, eyes streaming scalding tears, he retreated a few steps. McEwen paused, peering up.
He saw the glistening silver globe that was the Moon Man’s head. He saw the black-robed figure in the fog. A triumphant cry rang from his lips as he leaped forward.
McEwen’s gun crashed.
The Moon Man felt the bullet tug at his robe as he sagged back. He gasped in anguish. Swiftly he fired in return—sent a bullet which he prayed would miss McEwen. Then, leaping black lightning, he bounded to the balcony above, and raced along it.
He saw a door closing, glimpsed Dargan’s strained face an instant. He sprang to it. He pushed through, and whirled.
He backed to the door of the directors’ room, and behind his silver mask his streaming eyes widened upon Sue McEwen.
Dargan had forced her into the room, away from the gas and the bullets. She had retreated against the table. She stood immobile, peering at the black-robed figure with the globular head of silver. Her lips parted with a silent sob; and from the Moon Man’s shell of a mask came a groan.
Footfalls sounded on the balcony outside. Twisting, he shot the latch of the door. Fists crashed against the panels. McEwen’s voice came:
“Open up!”
Dargan gasped: “Gosh, Boss—it’s him! He’s got you cornered!”
The Moon Man tore his hidden eyes from the face of Sue McEwen. He crossed the room swiftly, to the windows on the opposite side. Swiftly he threw one up, and peered down. An alleyway lay below. It was deserted now; but in a few seconds, the Moon Man knew, the squad car men would be swarming into it.
Then the Moon Man saw a telephone pole within reach, a pole that reached as high as the building.
“Climb up, Angel!” he gasped, whirling back. “You can make it! You’ll be safe up there until you can get away without being seen!”
“Boss! I’m not leaving you now! Not when McEwen’s got you cor—”
“Up, Angel! Quick!”
The Moon Man forced Dargan across the room to the window. With savage insistence he obliged Dargan to climb through. Poised on the sill, Dargan peered back.
“Boss! Oh, God, Boss!”
“You did your work well, Angel! The Red Five’ll think it was the clerk’s telephone call that broke up the plan. Quick, Angel—up!”
“Don’t worry about me, Boss! I’ll get away, all right! Good luck, Boss—so-long!”
Dargan reached out, and gripped the pole. Swiftly he climbed, wrapping arms and legs around it. As he rose higher, fists pounded again on the door behind the Moon Man, and McEwen’s voice shouted:
“Break down that door! He’s in there! We’ve got him cornered this time!”
Now Dargan was near the top of the pole. He reached out a leg, steadied himself against the edge of the roof, then pushed over. He disappeared from view quickly.
The Moon Man turned. One quick glance he gave the pale, strained face of Sue McEwen. She was still staring at him, transfixed.
“Sue!”
She gave no answer.
With a moan, the Moon Man reached out the window for the pole. His fingers had not yet touched it when there was a rush of feet across the pavement below. He glimpsed men running into the alleyway—uniformed men—members of the squad car crew.
Swiftly he ducked back.
From below came a hoarse shout: “Cover those windows!”
The Moon Man retreated. Shouts continued to come from below. The door was still shaking with the hammering of McEwen’s fists. Now a shoulder crashed against the panels, and the wood cracked.
Sue McEwen took a quick step toward the Moon Man. She sobbed: “Steve, Steve!” He stood erect—a black-garbed figure with shining silver head—looking down at her.
“Sue!”
Quickly he lifted the mask of Argus glass from his head. His eyes were streaming with tears from the sting of the gas. He had been obliged to place his automatic on the table to remove the mask; and as he lowered it he saw, startled, Sue’s small hand snatch up the gun.
She leveled it.
“Take off the robe!”
“Sue—for God’s sake—”
“Take it off!”
Not understanding, he obeyed. When the robe and gloves were flung onto the table beside the mask, Sue stepped forward again. Her face was grim and drawn as she turned the gun in her hand. Swiftly she swung it—struck out with it—and the hard metal cracked to the side of Steve Thatcher’s head.
He recoiled, stunned. The bruise beside his temple was livid red, but he did not even feel the pain of it. He was peering dazed into Sue’s desperate eyes.
The girl quickly snatched up the robe and gloves and mask. She jerked open the drawer of a filing cabinet which sat in the corner. Quickly she stuffed the regalia into it, dropped the gun in. She slammed it shut; and then, without a glance at Steve Thatcher, she hurried across to the door.
She drew the latch.
Gil McEwen thrust in. He stopped short, gun leveled. His eyes snapped from the white face of his daughter to the haggard features of Steve Thatcher.
“Where is he—the Moon Man?” he demanded. “I saw him come in here!”
“He—he hit Steve with a gun—and climbed out through the window. He went down into the alleyway, Dad!”
McEwen leaped for the window. His voice roared down at the men below:
“Look for the Moon Man! He got down there! Scatter and grab him!”
Whirling back, halfway across the room, Gil McEwen stopped short.
“By damn, if he’s got away again! By damn, we’ve saved the bank from being robbed anyway! We’ve got one man, with a red mask, dead, and a full dozen of the others! We’re cracking into this gang! But the Moon Man—by damn—”
“He got out minutes ago, Dad!” Sue said swiftly. “I couldn’t open the door because Steve was—hurt so badly—”
McEwen strode to the door and stopped again. His eyes glittered back.
“What the hell are you two doing here, anyway?”
“We—we came here—seeing about the house we’re going to live in when we’re married, Dad. This bank holds a mortgage on it, and—we came to talk terms. We were going to surprise you—”
McEwen tore himself away. He went running down the stairs shouting orders to “get the Moon Man!” Sue McEwen turned slowly, and her eyes sought Steve Thatcher’s. He was gazing at her in amazed confusion.
“Steve!”
Sue McEwen went into his arms. He crushed her body close to his. Her cheeks pressed his warmly and her lips, close to his ear, whispered.
“I’ll never tell them, Darling—I’ll never tell!”
“God bless you!” murmured Steve Thatcher. “God bless you, Sue!”
“I can’t let it matter, Steve—not now. I understand. We can’t let it matter.”
From below Gil McEwen’s voice rang gruffly: “Get the Moon Man—get the Moon Man!” And in the room on the balcony the Moon Man clasped close to him the girl he loved.