“I don’t know what you mean,” the commissioner growled shortly.
“Just this,” said the major. “I’m inclined to think that we shall have our hands on the man in the top-hat no later than let’s say, tomorrow. That’s my prophecy, gentlemen.”
Again that faint, mirthless chuckle, “Call me up tomorrow before noon. I rather fancy I’ll have information.”
The Iron Major secured the information without much trouble. He found it in the pages of the New York Times on the following morning. Not on the front page. That was taken up with the long and dramatic details of a picturesque police siege that had netted four vicious gunmen.
Lacy found the item he expected in a quarter column story in the corner of an inner page that was mostly Gimbel Brothers.
HARLEM MURDER BAFFLES POLICE
The body of an unidentified man was discovered shortly after dawn this morning by the janitor of the apartment house at 31648 Lenox Avenue. The janitor, Curtis Windermere, colored, found the body wedged behind a pile of ash cans in the service alley. A playing card, the Ace of Diamonds, was found pinned to the victim’s coat and the bullet that killed him had been fired at point-blank range through the card into the heart. The victim was about twenty-five years old, with brown eyes, sandy hair and ruddy complexion. Every mark of identification had been removed from his expensive and well-tailored clothes. Detectives of the West 135th Street Station are inclined to believe—
Lacy smiled sardonically. His smile deepened later when District Attorney Marvin came on the wire.
“How did I guess? I didn’t. I knew. In your excitement over the fellow’s escape you forgot the one essential point. He failed! I’m still alive and breathing. Don’t you see?”
His voice hardened impatiently.
“The man in the top hat failed. He paid for that failure with his life. Apparently alibis or excuses don’t carry much weight with the Scarlet Ace. I flatter myself that I caused ‘the Master’ considerable mental pain when I eluded his carefully planned trap. So he killed his blundering lieutenant. The Scarlet Ace believes in efficiency. Which was just too bad for the suave young man in the top hat. I think we can write finish to this particular adventure.”
He hung up the telephone receiver and made a brief entry in a small leather-bound notebook.
“Another cog ripped from the crime machine,” he said mildly to Charlie Weaver.
His pint-size chief of staff grinned.
“Keep a line blank for the Scarlet Ace,” he suggested harshly.
John Tattersall Lacy laughed. His voice sounded dry.
“Maybe two lines,” said the ex-major of Marines, with a glint of humor in his clear eyes.
They called him the Iron Major. Not a bad name at all if you looked carefully at those smiling grey eyes of his.
SCARLET ACE: CANDIDATE FOR DEATH, by Theodore A. Tinsley
Originally published in All-Detective Magazine, March 1933.
The knocking on the door was softly urgent. An insistent little tattoo of bunched knuckles. Silence followed. Then the sound began again. Rap, rap, rap! There was something restrained and deadly in that furtive signal on the outside of the locked door of Room 708.
Tough Tony Farino had sharp animal-like ears and he was positive that the elevator door hadn’t clanged once in the last twenty minutes. There had been no telephone call from the hotel desk downstairs. Whoever was outside in the dingy corridor had come up to the seventh floor without attracting attention; had gumshoed through the lobby, probably, and climbed the fire-stairs on tiptoe.
The girl, Ethel, glared wordlessly at Tony. Her hard eyes were bright with warning.
Farino frowned reassuringly at her. He rose catlike to his feet. The blue-steel gleam of a stubby automatic projected snout-like from his grimy fist. He took a noiseless step toward the door.
The soft rapping sound began again.
Farino waited. When the knocking ceased he pressed his flat ear cautiously against the inside of the panel. He listened, his eyes gleaming.
He said, throatily, “Who is it? Whaddye want?”
“Okay, Tony! Open up!”
A swift jerk of Tony’s head sent the girl tiptoeing to a rear corner of the room where she crouched behind a battered oak dresser. Farino grinned as he saw her slide a toy-size weapon out of her handbag. The kid was sure a strong-jawed jane; better in a rough and tumble brawl than a lotta soft-bellied mugs who called themselves hard guys. His eyes said to her silently: “Attagirl!”
Farino himself was no slob in any man’s town. He was a paid killer, a hired rod. He had rolled in from Boston that very morning to glom a little pocket-money—an even ten grand.
Ten grand for a rub-out was pretty good dough, even for a sure-thing artist like Tony. His nostrils flared with pleasure as he thought of it in the Pullman speeding from Boston. His first, real break in the Big Town! A swell chance to chisel into fast company. The Scarlet Ace was a name to conjure with in Tony’s business. He’d show the Big Fella that when it came to iced guts Tough Tony’s innards were way below freezing point.
A photograph of the man he had come to kill was in his inside coat pocket. Tony didn’t like his proposed victim’s—name—John Tattersall Lacy. Sounded like manicured fingernails and silk underwear. A cake-eater with a little blond mustache who didn’t know what it was all about. Wotta laugh! A magazine full of soft lead pumped into a soft belly and a swell chance to play big-time ball with the Scarlet Ace.
Thoughts like this had made Tony’s chest swell pleasantly on the old rattler from Boston. But now, in a cheap hotel hideout that no one was supposed to know about; with someone out in the corridor rapping softly for admission. Tough Tony had a swift moment of dismay, a faint pin-prick of fear in the nerve cords of his spine. It vanished in a wave of killer’s conceit. If the mug outside was a nosy dick, it’d be just too bad; he’d yank him inside, burn him and scram down the fire-escape to the back alley with the girlfriend. Farino was a great guy for figuring his out. He had tabbed that alley down below before he had been two minutes in the room.
Farino turned the key suddenly, threw the door open. The snout of his gun was like solid rock.
His jaw dropped with a stupid wonder. There was no face peering at him. Only the visitor’s back was visible. The visitor was staring down the hall toward the silent elevator shaft. Now he turned around.
Farino gasped. Neither of the two men said a word. The killer’s gun hand wavered. He backed up a step. The visitor followed him into the room, closed the door softly, turned the key. A man without a face.
The intruder said, in a muffled and remote voice: “What the hell’s the idea keeping me waiting?”
The silken mask seemed to stifle his utterance, made it sound wooden, almost expressionless. The mask covered his entire face, hung well below his chin. There were two narrow slits for eye-holes. The lower half of the mask rose and fell lightly with the unhurried rhythm of his breathing. The mask was the color of blood—bright red.
“The Scarlet Ace!” Farino growled hoarsely.
“What’s the idea keepin’ me waiting?”
“Jeeze, boss, I never dreamed—I had me orders from Katz where he gimme the photograph in Boston.”
“Shut up! Who told you to come clean? You’re not in Boston now, Tony. Don’t spill your guts till you’re asked. Who’s this moll with you? Some tramp you picked up on the train?”
Farino’s face darkened.
“Listen guy; I don’t take guff like that from nobody. Not even from you. The kid is my business; and if you think you’re gonna—”
The Scarlet Ace slapped the gun viciously to one side with his open palm. His right fist clenched and Farino stepped back hastily.
“Your business?” said the menacing voice. “Since when?”
He walked to the window and, pulled down the shade.
He said to the girl, “You Farino’s woman?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I don’t want you here. Pack up and get the hell out!”
“Oh, yeah?” She sounded scared, uncertain. Her fringed and sticky eyelashes blinked appealingly at Tony.
“Waita-minute!” Farino growled.
“Shut up! Did Katz tell you to bring your floozy along?”
“No, but—”
“That was your own idea, eh? Well, I don’t mind telling you it’s lousy. I brought you here to bump a guy, and you show up with a blond honey-ball. You’re here to get hot with a rod, brother, and nothing else. Slip the girl-friend her return stub to Boston.”
“I didn’t buy no returns,” Farino muttered. “I figgered we’d stick around.”
The Scarlet Ace drew a small roll of bills from his pocket and tossed it on the table.
“Pack your bag,” he told the girl curtly. “Take a cab over to Newark and grab the first tri-motored job that flies to Boston.”
She stood with a hand on one hip, a sneering smile twisting the brilliant carmine of her lips. Her lovely mouth framed an inaudible gutter word.
She turned to Tony. “Tell him. It’s no dice! We’re not fadin’ his bet. Tell this big shot in the false-face to go spit up a rope.”
Farino wet his thick lips. The slits in the silken mask were like blind gashes watching him. The mask fluttered and the hidden voice said, “Well?”
Tony shrugged. He blinked at the money on the table. He muttered to the girl, “Pack up, Baby.”
“What!”
“You heard me. Pack up and scram.”
“Why, you dirty, yeller—”
Rage twisted her painted doll’s face. She squalled a string of oaths, spat out snake-like words at him. He walked over to her, twisted the toy gun out of her hand, clapped a dirty palm over her mouth.
“Don’t be a Dumb Dora,” he said thickly. “Take your runout powder to Boston like a good kid. I’ll send fer yuh in a coupla days. No kiddin’. We gotta use brains, honey. We’re in the Big Town”
“Sure we are,” she spluttered. “Yuh didn’t think we was in Milwaukee, did yuh?”
There were tears in her eyes. She had shot her bolt and the storm was over. She said, sullenly, “That’s a hell of a note!” and the curve of her lovely bosom rose and fell with the slow dregs of anger and disappointment. Pretty as a picture, Farino thought hotly. He swung his big arm about her body and crushed her till she yelped. He kissed the smooth skin below her ear and released her with a little shove.
“Play ball, honey,” he mumbled appealingly.
She nodded after a while and began tossing articles into her small traveling bag. She scooped the roll of bills off the table. The weight of her packed bag made her grimace.
“Am I supposed to lug this thing? How ’bout a bell-hop?”
The masked intruder said briefly, “No.”
She said to him in a spiteful snarl: “I could love you in a big way, Mister!” and swished to the door.
Tough Tony held the door open on a brief crack till the elevator grill clanked and the whir of its descent ceased.
At the curbstone down in the street the girl flashed her best “poor little me” smile and allowed an admiring hackman to stow her bag away. He helped her into the cab with a little squeeze on her arm.
The cab rolled. After a discreet interval a second cab meshed gears and accelerated. The girl went straight to the airport in Newark and bought a ticket. The passenger in the second car saw her go out to the runway and climb with a flash of silken calves to the cabin of a scheduled tri-motored transport.
When the ship was a silver dot over the Bronx the man, who had trailed Tough Tony’s moll grinned with satisfaction. He could report the simple fact that she was gone. That suited the trailer. The guy he worked for liked to hear facts. Just plain facts. And accurate.
CHAPTER II
STALKING SHADOWS
In the locked hotel room marked 708, the Scarlet Ace said tonelessly: “Ten grand’s a pretty good day’s pay, eh, Tony?”
“It’s fair.”
“Think you can earn it?”
Farino chuckled. His laugh sounded like, the drip of oil.
“I’m here, ain’t I?” He added curiously, “Got any new orders? I kinda expected—”
“No. You got the play from Katz, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“All right. Follow it. I just stepped around to cut the moll loose. I like a man who works for me to keep his mind on business.”
Tough Tony laughed again. “What’d yuh do–tab me in from Boston?”
“I hear things,” said the masked man grimly. “Studied the photograph, have you?”
“Sure. Just a pushover. A sap.”
The Scarlet Ace grunted. “Just a pushover. That’s, why I’m paying, you ten grand. I love to spend money.”
Farino thrust out his lower lip belligerently.
“I seen soldier boys, before. One of ’em tried to cleanup Philly, once.”
“This soldier’s different. He don’t go to court with a case. He kills people. Ever hear of a secret outfit called Amusement, Incorporated?”
The gunman shrugged. “No skin offa my nose,” he scowled. “I’m here to collect ten grand by bumpin’ a guy named John Tattersall Lacy.” He repeated the name in mocking falsetto. “What a moniker!” His voice rasped. “I’ll hand him an extra slug jest for that middle name o’ his! When’s the party come off?”
“Tonight, I think. I’ve got to line him up first. He’s a cagy sucker.”
“Tonight will be just lovely,” Farino sneered. “What’ll I do, boss? Take the bus like Katz said?”
“I don’t know yet. If I change the picture I’ll buzz you on the phone in plenty of time. What’d Katz say? Did you memorize my orders?”
Tony chuckled.
“And how. Like takin’ a trip to Coney Island. Me an’ Ethel laughed about it all the way in from Boston. I’m to take a cab down to Madison Square where the Number T’ree buses start. I’m to grab the first Number T’ree bus that pulls out after 9 P. M. and mooch a seat on top. Am I right or am I right?”
“Go ahead. And don’t get so damned funny about it.”
“Okay. At Fiftieth and Fifth there’s a guy standin’ on the corner with a red flower in his buttonhole. If he ain’t there I stay on the bus an’ hole up here again till tomorrer night—”
“He’ll be there,” said the man in the mask. “Shoot. Got the rest straight?”
“Sure. I jest foller the bum down to Forty-ninth an’ halfway through the block; an’ he stops; an’ I say, ‘Got a match, Mac?’ Accordin’ to this mug, Katz, there’s a car waitin’ in Forty-ninth an’ me an’ the boy-friend pile in, an’ he slips cheaters on me so I won’t see where I’m goin’. Screwy in my language.”
“They’re my orders,” said the muffled voice savagely.
“Okay by me. For ten grand I’ll show up in me drawers an’ bark like a dog!”
He laughed shortly and fished for a cigarette. The Scarlet Ace flipped open a platinum enameled case and extended it.
“Try tobacco for a change,” he sneered.
Tough Tony lit a fag from the case and blew a funnel of gray smoke.
“I still don’t get all the big mystery stuff.”
“Use your head, Farino. Do you think I tip my headquarters to every punk I import into New York for a job? Maybe you’ll click tonight and maybe you won’t. If the deal flops you go out of my headquarters the same way you came in—blindfolded. You’re in no position to rat on me. And Tony—”
The voice crawled with menace!
“That’s a break for you; not being able to rat.”
The killer said vaguely: “Sure, sure!” His flat forehead was wrinkled as though in perplexity. H
e clicked his tongue and swallowed. His eyes looked glazed, uncertain. He rocked a little and regarded the ash on his cigarette with owlish gravity.
He whispered in foggy alarm: “Say, listen… What th’…”
His eyelids closed. His body bent suddenly at the waist and pitched forward.
The masked man sprang catlike, without a sound, caught the unconscious killer as he fell and eased him to the floor. He picked up the cigarette from the carpet, pinched out the glow and dropped it into his pocket.
The shade on the window was still drawn. With a muscular heave he flopped Farino on the bed and composed him for untroubled slumber.
For a moment he stood tense, listening. Then he jerked off the scarlet mask. Farino’s mouth was wide open; he looked like a hippo; a hippo with gold bridgework and brown, tobacco-stained molars.
The intruder said softly: “You’re not so tough.”
He searched him carefully; found nothing he wanted; took nothing at all from him. There was a calendar on the wall and he ripped off the topmost sheet and scribbled a message on the blank side:
Sorry to leave you this way. No one ever sees my face and I can’t walk out of this dump with a mask on—hence the drugged cigarette. You’ll be okay in a couple of hours. Keep your mouth shut and obey my orders.
THE SCARLET ACE.
The room-key was still in the lock on the inside. The visitor went out, locked the door on the outside and tossed the key through the open transom. He heard it bounce on the carpet with a dull thud.
The elevator shaft was down the hall, close to a turn in the dim corridor. The stealthy figure passed the empty shaft and descended the fire-stairs silently to the fifth floor. He whipped out a key and let himself into a room.
A spare little man with a crab-apple face laid down a big blue gun on the dresser and grinned.
The little man whispered eagerly: “How did it work?”
“Like a charm, my dear Charles. Like a seven-jewel charm,” said John Tattersall Lacy.
They grinned at each other, did Weaver and Lacy. The two field officers of Amusement, Inc. were alike in the quality and coloring of their eyes—blue ice under moonlight. By all other standards they were different.
The Pulp Hero Page 4