The Pulp Hero

by Theodore A. Tinsley

  “X” drove toward the address she had given him in the West Eighties. On the way he passed a newsboy crying an extra. He pulled in at the curb, bought a copy.

  His hands clenched on the paper, his mouth set grimly as he read the screaming headline:

  WOMAN IS LATEST VICTIM OF MURDER MONSTER

  Mabel Boling, Actress, Is Burned to Death in Her Apartment by Mysterious Death Blast

  TWO-ALARM FIRE RESULTS

  At one A.M. this morning, the Murder Monster struck again. This time his victim was a beautiful woman, Mabel Boling.

  It will be recalled that she recently broke with “Duke” Marcy—

  Secret Agent “X” skipped the rest of the account. He ran his eye to the next column where the heading announced that Deputy Commissioner Pringle, on the job despite the death of his son, had issued a call for every detective on vacation to return to active duty until the murder monster was captured or killed.

  It added that the police were seeking “Duke” Marcy for questioning, but that he had disappeared from all his known haunts; a general alarm had been issued for him, and it was expected that he would be apprehended shortly.

  The Agent put the paper down, headed his car back the way he had come. The murder monster had acted swiftly. There must be a keen brain, indeed, behind that clumsy automaton; for it had foreseen that Mabel might be a possible source of information, had taken immediate, ruthless steps to eliminate her. Every avenue of information that might lead to the murder monster had been blocked.

  With bitterness in his heart, the Agent drove to an apartment that he maintained nearby where he kept copious records of the reports of his far-flung operatives. Here he ensconced himself in solitude, and spent the few remaining hours of the night in studying every angle and manifestation of the case.

  He had long ago discovered what few men have learned—that two or three hours of concentrated thought are often worth days of feverish activity.

  He checked through his records of every single one of those twenty-five convicts who had escaped from State Prison, familiarizing himself with the habits and recorded peculiarities of each. He consulted voluminous indexes and cross-indexes, searching down every little detail that came to his attention.

  It was well on in the morning when he laid sway the last record with an air of decisiveness. Purposefully he picked up the newspaper once more and sought for a certain item. He found it, crowded to the second page by the news of Mabel Boling’s death. It announced that the so-called robot killer who had been captured the night before at the bazaar would be arraigned at eleven o’clock in the morning before a judge of the Court of General Sessions.

  The reason for this quick arraignment, it was stated, was because of a writ of habeas corpus which had been secured by the defendant’s attorney.

  And the name of the attorney, which stared up at “X” out of the printed page with a sinister implication, was the name of the man he had talked to at the bazaar—Edward Runkle! Runkle was defending the murder monster’s man—Runkle, the shrewdest criminal lawyer in the city, who boasted that no client of his had ever gone to the chair!

  Automatically, the Agent read the last few lines of the item, which stated that though the defendant had been grilled intensely by the police and the district attorney, he had refused to make any kind of statement—had, in fact, sat there without opening his mouth, just like the robot he had been previously supposed to be!

  The Agent consulted his wrist watch, noted that it was eight-thirty. He left the apartment, drove to a drug store a few blocks away that was just opening for the morning. Here he entered one of the phone booths and dialed a number. It was the number of the Hobart Detective Agency, a new and highly successful inquiry bureau. Its head was a young, red-headed former patrolman; and though he had only been in business for a short time, he employed more than fifty operatives all over the country. Nobody suspected that Hobart, though ostensibly the boss, took his orders from the obscure newspaperman, A. J. Martin. And Hobart himself did not know that A. J. Martin was—Secret Agent “X.”11

  Though it was only eight-thirty, Hobart was on the job, and his voice came cheerfully over the wire.

  When he learned who was on the phone, he said, “Gosh, chief, there’s big doings. Did you see the papers?”

  “I did. And there’s plenty of work for you.”

  “On the murder monster case?”

  “Yes. Here’s what I want you to do. Get hold of half a dozen of your men. Be sure they are well armed. Have them ready for duty in the corridor at the court of General Sessions by ten o’clock, at the opening of court.

  “Don’t use any local operatives who might be known to the police—phone out of town, have six or seven outside operatives fly in; they should be able to get here by ten o’clock. By the time they get here, you will receive by messenger written instructions as to what to do. Carry out those instructions to the letter!”

  “Depend on me, chief.”

  “The orders may sound, peculiar, Jim, but it’s imperative that you follow them implicitly. It may even seem to you that you are acting in a way to frustrate the law—but you must carry the orders through. Do you understand?”

  “I understand perfectly, chief. I ought to know by this time that anything you do is okay. You figuring to take that killer out of court by force? If you say so, I’ll do it.”

  “Not exactly by force, Jim; but I suspect that the ‘Murder Monster,’ as you call him, will make an attempt to rescue him—or kill him. He has so far succeeded in murdering everybody who might be able to betray him. There is no doubt that he will try to do the same in court today. We must stop him!”

  “Okay, chief. By the way—have you seen Leane recently? I’ve been so busy I haven’t had a chance. And I’m worried about her, working in that fast night club of Marcy’s, especially since he’s been tied up by the police with this murder monster. Also, I understand that this Mr. Vardis that you recommended her to has been hanging around her a lot. Is he okay?”

  “Leane will be all right,” the Agent assured him. “She needn’t work at the Diamond Club any longer. And Mr. Vardis won’t see her any more—he’s gone on a long trip. From now on she can work with you, directly under my orders. How’s that?”

  “Swell, chief!”

  CHAPTER X

  THE MONSTER’S MAN

  The Court of General Sessions was a scene of bustling activity that morning. In Part 1, on the first floor, where the captured robot killer was to be arraigned later that morning, two uniformed guards stood at the door. Nobody was admitted unless he had business in the court room. Spectators were barred because of the dangerous character of the killer.

  Inside the court room, though spectators were not admitted, all the seats were filled with attorneys and witnesses in the various cases scheduled on the calendar for the day. The judge had not yet appeared, but Chief Assistant District Attorney Fenton, tall, gaunt, stern, a relentless prosecutor, was already seated at the long table inside the enclosure before the bench. He was going through a sheaf of papers, stopping every few moments to converse with his two clerks who hovered around him.

  He looked up, frowning, as the bald-headed, oily Ed Runkle approached him.

  “Hello, Joe,” Runkle greeted him. “How’s tricks?”

  Fenton grunted an answer. He had nothing but contempt for Runkle’s breed of lawyer, who would accept as a client the most vicious enemy of society, provided a fee accompanied the case. But Runkle’s tremendous political connections made it unwise to antagonize him.

  “I’m busy, Runkle. Is there anything you want?”

  “What time is my client’s case coming up this morning?” the lawyer asked.

  Fenton ran his finger down the calendar to the line which read: “People vs. John Doe—motion on writ of habeas corpus.”

  “It should be reached about eleven, Runkle�
�after the call of the calendar and the sentencing of convicted defendants.”

  “Can’t you move it up a little, Fenton?” Runkle was smiling ingratiatingly now. “I have another case on in Brooklyn, and I’d like to get away early.”

  The D. A. put down his papers, glared up at the little lawyer, and exclaimed impatiently, “Why should I do anything for you? You know damn well that this man is a murderer—he was caught red-handed at the bazaar. Yet you ask for a writ of habeas corpus! You know damn well that you’re only doing it so as to prevent the police from grilling him further. You know he’ll never be discharged.”

  Runkle shrugged. “I’m only doing my duty as an attorney.” He added unctuously, “Every man is entitled to be considered innocent until he is convicted by a jury; and it’s his privilege to be brought before a judge within forty-eight hours.”

  “Sure, sure!” Fenton said bitterly. “You know the law inside and out. Of course it’s your privilege. But did you consider that, in forcing us to bring him here out of the security of the jail, you make it possible for his associates to rescue him? For all we know, they may be planning to attack us here the way they attacked the bazaar last night!”

  “I’m sorry if you feel that way about it,” Runkle said, getting ugly. “If you don’t like the law, why don’t you get yourself elected to the legislature and change it? You don’t care if a man is guilty or innocent—all you want is convictions to build up your record!”

  Fenton sprang to his feet, face purple. “You know that’s a lie, Runkle! For that matter, how about you? You’d use every quirk of the law to get your client out, even if you knew he was as guilty as hell! How about this case? Who hired you? Who paid your fee?” He shook an apoplectic finger under the little lawyer’s nose. “I’m going to put you on the stand and make you tell us who hired you! It’s birds like you that make it so easy for criminals!”

  Everybody in the court was watching with interest now, attracted by the loud words. The scene might perhaps have ended in a fist fight, if the door at the side of the court room had not just then opened. An attendant stepped through, announced in a brittle voice. “His Honor, the Judge. All rise!” Fenton turned away from Runkle, choking down his rage. The little criminal lawyer, unruffled by the other’s burst of irascibility, smiled thinly as he faced the bench, while everybody in the court room stood in deference to the majesty of the law represented here by the black-robed judge who entered behind the attendant and seated himself in the tall chair behind the bench.

  Judge Rothmere was one of the oldest of the justices of the court in point of service. He was also the sternest. Criminals and their lawyers tried to avoid him by every possible means, going to extremes to get their cases postponed to times when he was not presiding; for every criminal knew that if he was convicted in Judge Rothmere’s court, he would be sentenced to the maximum prescribed by law.

  The judge glanced over the court room while the clerk intoned the usual formula for opening the session. His eyes, under the bushy eyebrows, took cognizance of the strained attitudes of Runkle and Fenton.

  Runkle was by far the cooler of the two; he owed his great success as a criminal lawyer to the fact that he never lost his head in the court room. Now, as the judge leaned forward over the bench, he stepped up, speaking in a self-contained, calm manner of injured righteousness.

  “If Your Honor please, the district attorney just finished some very disparaging remarks about me before you entered the court room. I am here to argue a motion on a writ of habeas corpus for one, John Doe, charged with murder in the first degree. The district attorney has scheduled this motion for eleven o’clock, and has absolutely refused my request to have it called earlier. It is highly important that I leave shortly, as I have a pressing engagement, and I appeal to Your Honor not to permit Mr. Fenton to run this court, but to have the defendant, John Doe, brought here now.”

  Judge Rothmere, who, ordinarily made no concessions to defendants’ lawyers, seemed to feel that Runkle deserved special consideration. He turned to Fenton, asked, “What is your objection, Mr. Fenton, to accommodating Mr. Runkle?”

  Fenton spluttered. “If the Court please, I don’t think Runkle is entitled to any consideration. This writ is entirely uncalled for. In the ordinary course of events, the defendant would have been indicted sometime this week and duly brought to trial. Runkle has taken this action merely to get this killer of his out of the hands of the police before he can be made to talk. It’s a shame that any attorney could be got to handle this case, and I intend to question Mr. Runkle as to who retained him!”

  The judge nodded, turned to Runkle. He was listening to both sides impartially.

  Runkle did not lose his patience. He said, “I am perfectly willing to explain how I was retained. Early this morning, about three A. M., I was awakened by the ringing of the telephone beside my bed. A muffled voice told me that if I went down to my front door I would find ten thousand dollars, and that it was the fee paid to me in advance for defending this man. I was warned that if I did not take the case I would regret it. Then my unknown caller hung up.

  “The money was there in front of my door, tied in a neat parcel. I immediately called police headquarters, and the call was traced to a drug store pay station. The bills in the package of ten thousand dollars were checked carefully and found not to correspond to any that were known to have been stolen from the bazaar. Under the circumstances, Your Honor, I felt entirely justified in taking the case, and I at once proceeded to obtain a writ of habeas corpus. It is what any other attorney would do under the circumstances. I co-operated fully with the police, and there should be no fault to find with my actions.”

  Runkle stopped drew a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped his lips. He shook a deep breath and went on. “I once more ask Your Honor to exercise the discretion of the court, and have this defendant produced now instead of at eleven o’clock.”

  Judge Rothmere had listened closely to Runkle’s explanation. Now he addressed Fenton sternly. “I see nothing wrong in Mr. Runkle’s conduct, Mr. District Attorney. The defendant is entitled to the services of counsel, and Mr. Runkle is doing the best he can for his client. I will grant the request of defendant’s attorney.” He raised his voice; “Bailiff! Bring in the defendant, John Doe. Number—” he glanced down at his copy of the calendar—“Number twenty-seven.”

  When the bailiff left to obey the order, the judge bent his imposing, bushy eyebrows and looked at the district attorney. “Perhaps this will be a lesson to you, Mr. Fenton, not to attempt, in the future, to assume the prerogatives of the Court. As a matter of fact, for certain other reasons that have been brought to my attention, I had intended having this defendant brought up earlier, even if Mr. Runkle had not requested it.”

  Fenton gnawed his lower lip, glaring at Runkle, who grinned at him.

  There was a stir in the courtroom as the bailiff and two armed guards led in the robot-like killer who was down on the police blotter as John Doe. No trace of emotion or interest showed on his smooth face. Though he had not shaved, his cheeks were still smooth. No beard had grown there. Only his eyes showed a sign of human intelligence. They darted about the courtroom, glittering with expectancy—as if he sought someone he knew should be there. He walked less stiffly now, for he had been divested of his ingeniously contrived bullet-proof underclothing.

  He was lead up to the bar, and the clerk rose, began to intone the usual questions. “Prisoner, what is your name?”

  The prisoner remained stolid, did not speak. The judge leaned forward a little, inspecting him closely, while Runkle stepped to his side, whispered in his ear so that everybody could hear. “I’m your lawyer. It’s all right. You can answer the questions.”

  Still the prisoner said nothing. He stood there like an automaton, or, perhaps, a man in a trance.

  Finally the bailiff ventured to say, “If it please Your Honor, that’s the way he’s been
since he was arrested. He was grilled all night but he wouldn’t open his mouth. They had to book him as John Doe!”

  “All right,” the judge snapped. “Enter his name as John Doe. We will leave the other questions till later. Perhaps we can make him realize that he’s in real trouble.” He turned to Runkle. “Now, sir, what is the purpose of this motion?”

  Runkle wiped his lips with his handkerchief—it seemed to be a habit with him whenever he talked—and began a long argument to the effect that his client should be discharged because of lack of evidence. He finished by making the formal request, “I move that this defendant be discharged because there is no evidence that a crime has been committed in this jurisdiction.”

  It was a motion that is always made as a matter of routine, but never granted. Judge Rothmere, however, seemed to weigh Runkle’s argument seriously. He turned to Fenton, asked, “Have the defendant’s prints been taken? What is his criminal record?”

  The district attorney answered reluctantly, “There is no record at all for him, judge. His fingerprints do not fall into any category on file.”

  “You see, your honor,” Runkle began, “this defendant hasn’t even got a record. He’s being framed—”

  Fenton laughed scornfully. “Framed! That’s what Runkle claims about every one of his clients, Your Honor. It’s his stock in trade. He’ll soon be telling us about this man’s poor old mother and father in South Bend, Indiana, or someplace!” Fenton gestured eloquently. “Judge, the mere fact that Runkle has been retained here should prove that the defendant has something to worry about. It’s common knowledge in the underworld that Runkle can help a criminal to beat any kind of ‘rap.’ If a defendant can pay Runkle’s fee, he can get away with murder!”