by Ron Goulart
Cain paused in the act of lighting a cigarette. “Hough,” he said pleasantly, “that’s the smartest thing I’ve heard you say.”
He went to the jail, found Bill Smuts seated glumly under a shade tree in front. To Cain’s cheery queries, he grunted sourly. Smuts was thoroughly disgusted.
“Look, Bill I want you to do me a favor,” Cain said. “I want you to take Jarvis into your office and fire questions at him for at least thirty minutes. Any questions. I don’t care what you ask, him. All I want to do is look at him. Then I want you to take his clothes from him and give them to me.”
Smuts looked flabbergasted. Muttering under his breath about half-cracked detectives, he went after Jarvis. Cain sat and studied the fellow as Smuts snapped out questions. Finally Smuts took the man back to his cell. Cain heard Jarvis cursing over orders to remove his clothing. When Smuts came back with the clothes, he growled:
“Reckon you know what you’re doing, but it looks cockeyed to me.”
Cain wrapped up the clothing, took it to his room. Locking his door, he removed his own clothes, put on Jarvis’s. Opening his bag he sat before the mirror and went to work. “Lucky Jarvis and me are about the same size,” he chuckled.
He stained his face to gain the darker complexion of Jarvis. The fellow had bushy eyebrows, bulby nose, and a three-inch scar on his left cheek. Cain quickly had the same. Their hair was practically the same color, dark brown. Jarvis wore sideburns and needed a haircut. Cain gave himself sideburns, congratulated himself on putting off a haircut for weeks.
He rose and practiced Jarvis’s mechanical, plodding walk, worked his eyes into the squint Jarvis used when looking at anyone. One detail remained, and Cain didn’t like it. But he put a huge chew of tobacco in his left jaw, hoping it wouldn’t make him ill.
Slipping out the back way he walked rapidly till he reached the Wondrous place. He entered the yard with Jarvis’s slow, plodding gait, chewing his tobacco vigorously. Working up an angry frown, he stomped up the steps, and opened the door. He slammed it with a bang.
Mouthing loud curses at Bill Smuts, he walked up to Jarvis’s room, threw aside Jarvis’s felt hat and got into bed. He held his pistol at his side. Lying on his back he closed his eyes to mere slits. After a reasonable wait he worked up the snore he knew Jarvis was guilty of.
Unseen eyes, he felt, had watched him as he entered the house. He hadn’t been accosted, he reasoned, because a certain person was suspicious lest he was followed. Would his trap work? He thought so and carried out his act patiently.
He had a thirty-minute wait before he saw the door knob softly turn. The door opened and Cain saw a swarthy, slim man with black, curly hair, and eyes that reminded him of a cat. Cain snored on.
“Wake up, Dan,” the man growled. Then, as Cain paid no heed, he walked to the side of the bed. “Dan, wake up,” he said gruffly.
His only answer was a snore. He reached over to shake the pseudo Jarvis. Cain came to life. Grabbing the fellow’s arm, he jerked him down, tried to wrap a stranglehold about his neck. He found he had a tiger by the tail.
Bucking like a wildcat, the fellow pumped his knee to Cain’s stomach, followed it up with a clout to the jaw. Cain gasped. Wrenching free, the fellow leaped from the bed, made for the door.
Cain jumped up, went after him. In the hall, the detective saw him making for the basement stairs.
“Stop or I’ll shoot!” Cain shouted.
The man kept going.
Cain fired, but the fleeing figure darted down the basement stairs, the detective close behind. Once down the steps, the fellow raced for the big furnace. On the side opposite the feeding door he halted.
Cain closed the gap just in time to see a curved door swing open. He jammed the muzzle of his gun in the man’s back.
“Get your hands up or I’ll put a bullet through you!” he said sternly. “It’s all up, Feagan! Walk over there against the wall and put your hands behind you. Don’t try any tricks if you want to stay alive.”
* * * *
Will Smuts was the last person asked by Cain to come to the house. When he reached the open doorway of the reception room, he stopped abruptly, his jaw sagged, his eyes widened.
“Aubrey Sparks!” he gasped bewilderedly. “Where in—I thought you was dead!”
Sparks, a heavy man with thinning hair and large paunch, grinned wanly. “Hello, Bill,” he said. His voice was weak.
Cain pushed a chair over for Smuts. Bill pulled his gaze from Sparks, fastened it on a swarthy man who sat glumly in the far corner.
“Who in the devil is he?” asked Smuts.
“Sit down, Smuts,” Cain invited. For the first time, Bill looked at him. He blinked so oddly it made Jane Andrews laugh. Cain still looked like Jarvis. It took several minutes for comprehension to dawn on Smuts. He sat there speechless and befuddled.
“Bill, you didn’t find Sparks’ body because he wasn’t dead,” Cain began. “Let’s begin with the disappearing act from the trunk. Jarvis pressed a secret button and the rear side of the trunk came open. Behind the smoke screen, Jarvis opened a trap door in the floor and helped Sparks through it. When Sparks reached the basement floor, this fellow”—pointing to Feagan—“poked a gun in his back and forced him into the furnace.”
Cain enjoyed the astonished expressions. “But not to burn him. Oh, no. Half of that big furnace is sealed off. In that half are steps leading down to a secret chamber under the basement. Wondrous didn’t know about the chamber. But Jarvis did. Feagan forced Sparks down there, fastened the curved door behind. No one—myself included—thought to investigate the furnace. When Sparks failed to walk in through the front door, Wondrous was as surprised as anyone. Sparks has been held prisoner down there by Feagan. Simple, isn’t it?”
Smuts swallowed hard, glared at Feagan. “Who is this cuckoo anyway? What was his idea in holding Sparks?”
Cain leisurely lit a cigarette. “Several years ago Wondrous and Jarvis played in a little town in Missouri. Wondrous made a play for Bernice Feagan, wife of Joe Feagan, the man seated over there. He took her away from Feagan. She followed him. But after a year or so, Wondrous tired of her, kicked her out. I found some old letters she had written to Wondrous. She killed herself with a dose of poison. Somehow Feagan won Jarvis over to scheming revenge on Wondrous. I don’t know how. Probably the two were friends to begin with.
“Anyway, Jarvis kept in touch with Feagan. When Jarvis stumbled on the secret of the furnace, he hit on the scheme of kidnaping Sparks, pinning it on Wondrous. Feagan fell in with the plan. They planned to extract fifty thousand dollars from Sparks. When Sparks had paid, Feagan would vanish.
“As Sparks had never laid eyes on Jarvis during his imprisonment, Jarvis could not be implicated, so they figured. Jarvis planned to have Wondrous stumble on Sparks and release him. Who would believe Wondrous’s story? No one.”
Feagan’s gaze was hate-filled as Cain continued, “The secret chamber was constructed by Whit Stacey. There’s the slickest liquor-making outfit down there in nine states. When the scheme was concocted, Feagan stole into town. Jarvis phoned Sparks, told him Wondrous wanted him to volunteer for the trunk trick. Sparks agreed. He says he did it for a lark. All went along smoothly. Feagan guarded Sparks and fed him. The first stumble came when Sparks refused to pay them fifty thousand. In fact, he refused to pay them anything. They hung on, hoping to break him.
“Then Miss Andrews paid a visit to Wondrous. She told him she had hired a detective and asked him to cooperate. Wondrous agreed. When she left, he phoned me to come and see him. Jarvis probably heard the phone conversation, hurried down, and informed Feagan. Feagan became scared. He probably thought Wondrous was wise to the plot. Anyway, he slipped up here and killed Wondrous. Seething with hatred, he wrote the name of his dead wife on Wondrous’s forehead.”
Bill Smuts looked wise. Cain sighed, punched out his cigarette. “I don’t believe Jarvis knew Feagan was going to kill his employer. I don’t think Jarvis would have s
tood for that. I searched this place with a fine comb, but failed to find the secret room I felt sure was here. So I used a little trick to smoke Feagan out”—he looked at Smuts and grinned—“and it worked.”
“I think you did a wonderful job, Mr. Cain,” Jane Andrews said, smiling.
THE RIGHT BETRAYAL, by John L. French
Paul really didn’t know what woke him up. It might have been the cool breeze blowing in from the now opened bedroom window. It might have been the fact that he was suddenly alone in a strange bed, his companion of the evening momentarily absent. It was, however, probably the noise coming from outside.
Now that he was awake, Paul could hear the approaching sirens, coming from all directions at once. They got louder and louder then suddenly stopped just outside the window.
Paul got out of bed and went over to the window. His first thought was to put on the light. He thought better of it when he realized that he wasn’t quite sure where it was. Putting the light on would also frame him when he looked out the window, and he did not remember where he had left his pants.
By now red and blue flashing lights were putting on a show outside. Paul looked out the window and saw police cars, fire trucks and at least one ambulance. Looking past them, he saw the reason for their presence.
A passenger van had apparently misjudged the sharp turn at the north end of the street. The driver had lost control and struck two parked cars. It then ricocheted off them and crashed into a third car, pushing it up on to the curb, through a fence and into the yard across the street. The van followed it and both cars were now on fire.
Trees in the yard caught the flames from the burning vehicles and were alight. These flames in turn spread from the trees to the house. Firefighters were rushing to begin the fight against the several blazes while police tried to rescue the occupants of both the van and the house.
Paul was fascinated by the tragedy being played out across the street. Even here in the city, one did not see something like this everyday. He wanted to share it.
“Michelle, hurry up in there. You’re missing all of the excitement.” No answer. She must really be busy, Paul thought. He had warned her against ordering the fish at that steakhouse. Now she was paying the price. He turned back to the drama outside.
Paul could see that the rescuers were not going to make it. The occupants of the van, seen only as panicked shadows against the light from the fire, had only seconds left before the flames totally engulfed the vehicle. If the noise had awakened them, the people in the house might get out in time, but the steel doors and barred window designed to frustrate all but the most determined of home invaders and burglars also thwarted police efforts to gain entry.
And then a comet streaked down from the night sky. The wind from its passing blew out some the fire. As if that wasn’t enough it stopped in mid-air, turned and landed.
The figure the comet became could best be described as a blur of blue and green. The two vehicles in the yard suddenly came apart. The doors of the van came off and the blur disappeared, reappearing a second later only to streak across the street to where the ambulance was parked. Two people, a mother and child, badly burned but alive, were left in the care of the surprised paramedics.
“Michelle, whatever you’re doing in there, stop right now. It’s her, it’s Turquoise!”
When Paul turned back to the window after calling Michelle the second time, it was all over. The front door was off the house, everyone was safe, and the fires were out. As usual Turquoise was nowhere to be seen.
Paul shut the window and went back to the bed, ready to tell Michelle all that she had missed. Then in the quiet that had replaced all the noise and excitement, he began to put some pieces together. An open window, Michelle’s sudden absence, Turquoise’s just as sudden timely appearance, the lack of any reply from the bathroom. Could it be that he had just spent several extremely pleasant hours with a supergirl?
The loud flush that came from the bathroom put an end to that adolescent fantasy. Paul sighed as he got into bed to wait for the woman who was now not quite as exciting as she had been a few minutes ago.
Michelle came back into the room wearing almost as little as he was.
“You missed all the fun,” Paul said.
“A girl does have to freshen up, doesn’t she?” Michelle said from the doorway. “Besides, I don’t think I missed all the fun. You’re still awake, aren’t you?”
* * * *
Darryl Larkins was the best detective in the city’s homicide squad. His clearance rate was generally over 90%. There were few murders he could not close. In addition, he was frequently asked by his fellow detectives to assist with their cases, and his suggestions usually lead to quick solutions and solid arrests that stood up in court. He was the best cop in the city, and one of the best in the state.
In recognition of his ability, dedication and hard work, Larkins was rewarded by being given the dirtiest job there was.
Every detective knew it was coming, the rumors had been brewing for weeks. The only question was which of them would get it. Then last Monday the Chief of Detectives reassigned all of Larkins’s cases, and ordered him to report to the Colonel’s office for a special detail. After Larkins left, each man silently thanked whatever god he worshiped that he wasn’t the one to have to tackle the riddle of Turquoise.
When Larkins got to Colonel Bishop’s office, the secretary waved him right in. Bishop told Larkins to take a seat and got right to the point.
“Darryl, You are, of course, familiar with our resident hero, Turquoise?”
Larkins responded with a terse “Yes, sir.” Of course he was familiar with her. Everyone in the city was.
“The mayor wants to know who she is. He told Commissioner Crain to put our best detective on the case. The Commissioner told me, and right away I thought of you.” Bishop picked up a file that was on his desk and handed it to Larkins.
The detective briefly looked at the file. It was the standard one kept on a suspect under investigation. This one had the name “Turquoise” printed on the front. Larkins carefully put the file back on the desk, halfway between himself and the colonel.
“With respect, sir, why does the mayor want to know? Turquoise has done nothing but good for the city. She’s asked for nothing in return. She’s never been accused of a crime.” Larkins paused. He wanted to make his concern clear. “She’s entitled to her privacy. What right do we have to investigate her?”
The Colonel had his answer ready. “A fair question, Darryl, one that I asked the Commissioner, and one that he asked the mayor. As I understand it, one day it might become necessary to contact Turquoise, in the event of an emergency she might not be aware of. She may be injured during one of her rescue operations, and we would need to know as much about her as possible in order to provide proper treatment. Then too, she has tremendous power. She may get tired of helping the city and turn against us. We have to be ready.”
One of the reasons Larkins had risen to the top of his profession was an innate sense of when he was being lied to. His internal crap detector had gone off as soon as the colonel started talking. This had to have something to do with the billboards.
“Colonel, I am very sure that the mayor fully understands power and all the ways it can be abused. Just as I am sure that one other reason for him wanting to find Turquoise is to have some hold over her. If it’s just the same to you, sir, I’d rather be tracking down the bad guys, not the good guys.”
Bishop let the insubordination slide. He fully agreed with Larkins. As a commander, however, he could not let his agreement show. Instead, he raised his voice just a little and lowered its tone just a bit.
“It’s not the same to me, Detective. You have been given a job, and you will do it. Once it’s done, you can go back to catching killers.”
Larkins met Bishop’s eyes. Slowly, deliberately, in a manner that made his meaning clear, he asked, “And what if I don’t find out who she is? I’m good, but not even I can solv
e every case.”
Bishop again picked up the file, held it out for Larkins to take. “You’ll solve this one, Detective. I don’t think you want to go back to uniform patrol.”
Larkins had taken it as far as he dared. He had asked as best he could if this investigation was just a show, something to keep the mayor happy. Told that it was for real, Larkins would do the job. It was that or pay the price. He’d pay a price anyway. Turquoise was the city’s hero and it was his job to unmask her. She was to be thrown into a spotlight she did not seek, used by men who cared more for themselves than they did for their city. Than she did for their city. Than they did for anything except power. And he would be the one to hand her over to them.
Larkins almost refused to take the file. He almost asked for a new set of blues and a beat assignment. Then he thought about patrol. He remembered what it was like for the new guy on a squad, working too many nights and weekends. He’d hardly see his family, and the overtime money from weeklong trials and working cases would dry up. He had two daughters, and there was college to think about. He would need that money.
Larkins reached out and took the folder from Bishop. “I’ll need a place to work, sir. Preferably someplace quiet, away from the other detectives.”
“An office has been assigned, Darryl,” Bishop said, handing him a set of keys. “We’ll expect a progress report by next week.”
Once settled in his office, Larkins reviewed what he knew about Turquoise.
She had appeared just over a year ago. A bridge over the interstate had collapsed, trapping dozens of people in their cars. The now familiar blue-green was seen everywhere, moving heavy pieces of road bed as if they were building blocks, and tearing open car doors like paper. Lives were still lost, but not as many as there would have been if she had not been there.
Too many people were saved that day, too many saw her for there to be any doubt. The city, and the world, had its first superhero.