The Pulp Hero

by Theodore A. Tinsley

  “Look up, Burkey!” he sang out.

  And as the big service station proprietor raised startled eyes, the Black Hood let go of the rafters, took a dive from the pipe straight at the man below. He caught Burkey at the throat and shoulders with his hands. The driving weight of him crushed the big man to the floor, knocked the breath out of him. And for a moment Black Hood just sat there on top of Burkey, holding him in his powerful grasp.

  “How does it feel to be utterly helpless, Burkey?” he said quietly. “You see what I can do with you? I can choke the life out of you this way.” The fingers of his right hand constricted on Burkey’s throat until the man’s eyes crawled a little way out of their sockets. Then he eased his grip a little.

  “Or I could dash your brains out against the floor like this.”

  And Black Hood seized Burkey’s shaggy hair and bounced the filling station operator’s head against the floor a couple of times.

  * * * *

  Burkey said nothing. Black Hood slapped him hard across the side of the face with his gauntlet covered hand. Burkey winced, squirmed a little. Then realizing that he was completely at the Black Hood’s mercy, he lay still.

  “Talk!” Black Hood said. “Who is the Eye?”

  “I don’t know,” Burkey croaked. “I’ve never seen him. I don’t know who he is. You could kill me maybe, but you couldn’t make me talk.”

  “What was that telephone number you just called?” Black Hood persisted.

  Burkey’s eyes rolled. “I can’t tell you. The Eye would kill me if I told.”

  Black Hood laughed harshly. “And what do you think I’m going to do if you don’t talk?”

  Burkey said nothing.

  Black Hood got off the man, stood up. He told Burkey to get to his feet.

  “And you’d better get your fists up, Burkey, because if you don’t I’m liable to knock your head off.”

  Possibly Burkey knew something about boxing. Possibly he had gone a round or two with some second rate slugger some time in his life. But certainly he had never fought with anybody who could equal the Black Hood in speed and fire power. Black Hood’s fists were everywhere at once. His long arms were like rapiers, striking through Burkey’s guard to land time after time in the big man’s face.

  Finally, Burkey crumpled against the wall, one eye closed, the other looking sleepy. Blood was dripping from nose and mouth.

  “Talk!” Black Hood demanded, one closed fist raised like a hammer above the man’s head.

  Burkey simply shook his head feebly and collapsed, unconscious.

  Black Hood made a swift but careful search of the filling station office without revealing anything in the way of incriminating evidence. If Burkey knew the Eye’s telephone number he apparently kept it in his head.

  Black Hood found a short length of chain and a padlock which was used to keep anyone from tampering with one of the oil pumps that topped a steel drum. He returned to the car washing room, scooped the keys out of the unconscious Burkey’s pockets. Then he chained and locked the filling station man to the steel cross member of the wash rack. Then he went into the office, telephoned police headquarters. When the desk sergeant had answered, he said:

  “If you will send men to the Super-Charged Gas station here in your city, you will find the proprietor, a man named Burkey. I suggest that he be questioned in conjunction with the activities of the criminal organizer known as the Eye, and especially in his connection with the killing and robbery at the Weedham Industries plant tonight.”

  “Who is this?” the desk sergeant demanded.

  Black Hood chuckled. “You’ll never find out!” And then he hung up, left the station to vanish into the murk of the rain swept night.

  It must have been at about this time that Joe Strong, that demon photographer on the staff of Jeff Weedham’s paper, The Daily Opinion, made a startling discovery. He was in the dark room at the newspaper office with Barbara Sutton, developing films which he had exposed at the Weedham factory that night.

  He turned from his developing traps to face Barbara. The broad grin on his coarse features was illuminated by the ruby light hanging above their heads.

  “Honey,” Joe said, “I got something that’s going to set little old New York right back on its heels. I’ve got positive proof that will identify the dirty bum who’s behind this crime wave. Positive evidence that will point to the killer of that watchman at the Weedham plant tonight.”

  There was a skeptical gleam in Barbara’s beautiful eyes. Since she had been working on the newspaper with Joe Strong assigned as her pix man, she had heard just such claims from Joe before. He was always turning up a picture that was to be the scoop of the week and which usually developed into a fogged film of no use to anybody.

  She said, “Well, if you have you’d better turn it over to the editor before you bungle the developing some way. Jeff Weedham is going to have to pull something pretty soon to pick up circulation. He’s got to prove to his father that he can run this business. If he fails at this job as he has at every other, I understand Mr. Weedham is going to cut Jeff off from the Weedham fortune.”

  Joe stuck his thumbs in the arm holes of his vest.

  “Jeff’s worries are over, permanently. This is the scoop of the week. We got the guy red handed. Take a look, beautiful.”

  Joe held up the negative strip which he had just developed. He pointed a thick forefinger at the exposure near the end of the strip. Joe didn’t quite understand how he had got the picture unless that flare of lightning had acted as a flashlight bulb and the lens of his camera had been open at the time. But no matter how he had obtained it, there was the picture.

  It showed the unmistakable figure of Black Hood standing over Joseph, the Weedham gate keeper. It showed more than that. It showed Black Hood’s gauntlet covered right hand grasping the knife that was plunged into Joseph’s throat.

  Barbara raised her hand to her mouth to check a startled cry. She stared at the negative and repeatedly shook her head.

  “I don’t believe it,” she whispered. “He wouldn’t do such a thing. It’s a trick, Joe. You’re trying to trick me.”

  “Not me,” Joe said. “Just because you’re in love with Black Hood you’re trying to kid yourself. I always said that guy was a crook. And now there’s proof. He’s the Eye. He’s the brains behind all this robbery and murder that resulted in looted banks and jewelry stores. The camera don’t lie, Babs. And this little picture catches Mr. Hood with the goods on him.”

  Barbara’s indrawn breath sounded like a sob. She turned quickly and ran from the dark room. Was it true? Could it possibly be true? Black Hood had always told her that he was an outlaw, and she had loved him in spite of that because of the many good and brave things he had done to defend people against the criminals of the underworld.

  But if Black Hood was guiltless—this had never occurred to Barbara before—if he was actually guiltless, why had he never let her see his face?

  CHAPTER V

  The Brand Of Light

  But Barbara Sutton had seen the face of the Black Hood. She saw it on the following night when a group of wealthy and influential citizens met at Gracelawn, the West End Avenue estate of William Weedham. Barbara saw Black Hood’s face without knowing it, for in the identity of Kip Burland he had been with her all evening.

  It was a pleasant face, sun-bronzed and well-formed, with waving brown hair and eyes that could be gentle and compassionate. Kip Burland had taken Barbara to dinner, much to the annoyance of Joe Strong, and later in the evening they had picked up Joe and driven in Barbara’s car to the Weedham home.

  Barbara was obviously deeply concerned over the evidence which Joe Strong had accidently turned up. The picture of Black Hood in the apparent act of thrusting a knife into the throat of the Weedham Industries watchman, had been plastered all over the front page of Jeff Weedham’s Daily
Opinion. Other newspapers had taken up the cry, demanding that the Black Hood be taken dead or alive.

  When Barbara mentioned this news story to Kip Burland, Kip scarcely knew what was the wisest course to pursue. If he defended the Black Hood he ran the risk of exciting suspicion. The secret that Kip Burland and the Black Hood were one and the same persons was more precious than ever, now that Black Hood was wanted for murder.

  “There’s just one thing, Babs,” he told the girl as they drove to the Weedham home, “nobody can tell me that Black Hood and this criminal genius known as the Eye are the same. I can’t believe it.”

  “Listen, Burland,” Joe Strong put in angrily, “you’re not sitting there and calling me a liar, either. All these stick-up jobs recently have been planned by the Eye. You’ll agree to that, no doubt. That one last night at the Weedham works was the same sort of a thing—every possible witness murdered. And I not only saw the Black Hood with my own eyes, but I took a picture of him. And then he and I had a little scrap.”

  “How does it happen the Black Hood isn’t right down in Tombs prison now?” Kip Burland asked mildly.

  “Well, er,” Joe stammered, “some of his men pitched in on me from behind. There must have been three of them, anyway.”

  Burland could scarcely repress a laugh.

  “Only three? Why, you’re slipping, aren’t you, Joe?”

  The bickering might have gone on the rest of the evening except that Barbara Sutton told them they were both being very foolish. If Kip didn’t stop his arguing, she wouldn’t vouch for him at this meeting tonight at the Weedham home. She and Joe were to cover the meeting for The Daily Opinion, but she had simply brought Kip along as a friend, trusting that that would be enough to get him in.

  Barbara Sutton’s name was a prominent one in social circles as was that of Joe Strong, so that there was no difficulty gaining admittance into the Weedham home for Kip Burland. In the magnificent reception hall, Kip was introduced to Jeff Weedham. The lanky heir to the Weedham wealth was cordial.

  “D-d-don’t see why you want to sit in on a stuffy meeting like this just for pleasure,” Jeff Weedham said, smiling, “but I can assure you that any friend of Barbara’s is a friend of mine.”

  * * * *

  The tall oak door of the library was opened by William Weedham himself—a plump, white-haired man with black, overhanging eyebrows.

  “Son,” he said to Jeff, “we’re all ready to begin. As the owner of a newspaper which is instrumental in molding public opinion, you ought to welcome this opportunity to serve your community.”

  Jeff Weedham laughed. “Since the Eye or the Black Hood, whatever his name is, swiped my roadster, d-d-don’t you think I’m not interested in laying him by the heels, D-d-dad.”

  William Weedham brought scowling eyes to focus upon Kip Burland.

  “I don’t believe I know this young man,” he said.

  Jeff said, “This is Kip Burland, a friend of mine, D-d-dad. He wants a try-out as a reporter. And I thought I’d let him help cover this business together with Joe and Barbara.”

  And that fixed it up. With a whispered warning to Kip to try and look like a would-be reporter, Jeff Weedham led Burland into the library. The elder Weedham took his place at the head of a long refectory table about which were seated six men. Some of those included in the committee which had been formed to take protective measures against the master criminal known as the Eye, were familiar to Kip Burland. There was short, beefy Sergeant McGinty, a representative from the police who was to serve as coordinator. McGinty, Kip Burland knew well enough, was the most ardent enemy of the Black Hood on the police force.

  Then there was a cocky little man with sandy hair and one glass eye. He was Major Paxton, a retired army man and brother-in-law of William Weedham. Paxton made his home at the Weedham estate and quite naturally had been included in the group.

  The tall, grim man with the long side whiskers was Harold Adler, an executive of the Bankers Express service. Certainly he had a grievance against the Eye after that attack on his guards and armored truck at the Weedham plant on the night before.

  Kip Burland also recognized the handsome, energetic man with the sleek black hair and small, waxed mustache. This was Jack Carlson who operated the Atlas Auto Livery and some sort of a trucking concern. Just exactly why Carlson should have been called into this group, Kip did not know. He knew something of Carlson’s past, perhaps more than even Sergeant McGinty did, and there were some blotches of shadow on Mr. Carlson’s life story.

  William Weedham rapped the meeting to order, remarked briefly that they had come here tonight to see if some definite plan could not be formed to cope with the ever rising danger of a major crime wave, planned and directed by this man who called himself the Eye.

  “We are fortunate,” the elder Weedham said, “in having Mr. Carlson with us tonight. It has been frequently said by the police that if taxi companies and other common carriers would cooperate with the law more closely, there would be much less chance for the criminal to escape. Mr. Carlson has a message for us which I hope will be representative of all members of all taxi and transport systems.”

  “It seems to me,” Major Paxton put in, his small body swelling with importance, “that the crux of the whole matter lies in the fact that these criminals, who are operating under the direction of the Eye, have discovered some fool proof means of escaping from the scene of their crime. Is that correct, Sergeant McGinty?”

  McGinty’s face reddened. “I don’t know whether you’d call it the crux or not, Major, but in any crime if a criminal has some fool proof means of escape, as you put it, there isn’t a whole lot the police can do about it.”

  Somebody snickered. It was obvious that Major Paxton’s remark hadn’t been a particularly bright one.

  “But I’ll say this,” the sergeant went on, “this fellow the Eye, and I prefer to call him the Black Hood, has developed a means of moving criminals beyond our reach to a hell of a high point.” The sergeant coughed and apologized for his bit of profanity. “I mean, he’s got a hole in the police dragnet big enough so you could drive a whole mechanized division of the army through it. If Jack Carlson can throw any light on the matter, I’d like to hear him do it.”

  * * * *

  Jack Carlson stood up, smiled smoothly, and bobbed his head to Sergeant McGinty.

  “I think, gentlemen,” he began, “that you will find few taxi operators in the city of New York who would not gladly assist in halting an escaping criminal if they were given the opportunity. And the same goes for any other common carrier—the railroads, bus service, and airlines. At the same time, common carriers are obliged by law not to discriminate against a prospective passenger just because he may look suspicious: That is, if I am driving a cab and a man rushes out of a bank with what I may interpret as a look of guilt upon his face, I cannot refuse to take him as a fare. Nor can I very well ask for his finger prints and check up to see if he has a criminal record before taking him to his destination.”

  “We know all that, Carlson,” Harold Adler said. “Suppose you tell these men what you told me before the meeting.”

  Carlson frowned, remained dramatically silent for a moment while he twisted his mustache. Kip Burland watched the man closely. If this was acting, Carlson was a remarkable actor. Somehow, he could not trust the man nor the words that came from his mouth.

  Carlson said, “The Eye has not only organized the various mobs of gunmen in this city, but he has accomplished something else. He has established a perfect underground railway for transporting these criminals from one place to another in secret. I know, because the Eye personally asked me to handle that part of his business for him.”

  There was another dramatic pause. Then Sergeant McGinty sprang to his feet.

  “Say, Mr. Carlson, if the Eye approached you personally let’s have it right now. Is the Eye this same guy known
as the Black Hood?”

  Carlson smiled. “It would seem so from the picture which appeared this morning in the Daily Opinion.”

  “Yeah,” Joe Strong put in. “That’s the picture I took.”

  No one was paying any attention to Joe. All eyes were focused upon Jack Carlson.

  “Understand,” Carlson continued, “I did not meet the Eye face to face. He called me on the telephone, spoke to me in a whispering voice. He asked me if I would be interested in a money-making proposition. I played him along, tried to draw him out. He wanted me to employ cars and trucks for the secret transportation of criminals and in exchange I was to get a cut of the money which would be looted by his criminals.”

  “And,” Weedham said, “you believe that some transportation company in this city is actually assisting the Eye in this business?”

  “Undoubtedly,” Carlson said. “I, of course, rejected his offer. I was attempting to figure out a plan by which I might trace this call to the Eye’s hideout, but that’s quite difficult with these dial phones, you know.

  “But that is how the Eye is working his get-aways. He probably has carefully placed stations all over the city where criminals who are fleeing from some crime can get a fast car, or hide in some unsuspicious looking truck to be transported beyond the reach of the law. It would appear to me—”

  Every light in the big room suddenly went out. Smothering blackness dropped like a shroud over those at the refectory table and upon Barbara Sutton, Joe Strong, Kip Burland, and Jeff Weedham who were seated along one wall.

  “D-d-damn!” Jeff Weedham stuttered. “What’s this—the well known blackout?”

  A white beam of light stabbed through the French windows at the end of the room, spotted the wall directly above Jack Carson’s sleek head. In the center of the spot was a crude sign, projected in black lines upon the wall. It was like a child’s drawing of a human eye, round, staring, and at the same time infinitely menacing.