On the mantelpiece, he gave a cheap clock a shove that made it almost face the wall. He disarranged a faded lace table covering, moved a chair about and left the general impression that the room had been searched and the intruder had done his best to rearrange things so there would be no
hint he’d been there.
Then the Black Bat retired to the corner, concealed by the chair. He crouched behind it, looked up in the mirror and nodded with satisfaction. While waiting, he rummaged in his pocket and found the paper on which he’d taken an impression from the set-up type on the printing press. There, in utter darkness, his eyes read big headlines and smaller type beneath. It was a front page of a popular daily tabloid, faked cleverly so that it could be wrapped around a real copy of the paper and disposed of along the streets of the city.
To all appearances the front page carried a letter from the man who now signed his missive in a sarcastic vein. The printed signature read “THE TWENTY MILLION DOLLAR PATRIOT.”
The screaming announcement ran: “PAY THE TWENTY MILLION.”
PAY THE TWENTY MILLION”
“Taxpayers—twenty million dollars represents the cost of a few destroyers of moderate tonnage. Or twenty odd big bombers. What good are these when an instrument I have perfected will blast them from the sky or the ocean in half a minute. Notify your congressman to approve a measure to pay this money. Wait for another sample of what my machine can do.”
The Black Bat heard a key being thrust into the front door lock. He put the paper away and drew a gun. The man who called himself Kurt Miller barged into the room, anger showing on his broad features. He saw the disarranged lace runner first, then the position of the clock.
With a cry of horror, he sprang toward the concealed safe. He moaned when he saw the wooden door ajar. He squatted, and his shoes ground into the wood as he did so, leaving more of those tell-tale marks. Fat fingers began to turn the dial, and the Black Bat’s eyes transferred the reflected combination to his brain.
The safe door swung open to reveal the interior packed with documents and rolled maps. Miller practically collapsed when he saw everything was intact. He quickly closed the door and spun the combination. Then he went to a table, opened the drawer and extracted an ugly looking revolver. Armed with this, he headed for the steps to the second floor.
* * * *
The Black Bat moved into action immediately. He had the safe open before Miller had inspected his first upstairs room. He unfolded one of the maps and gasped. It was a scale drawing of an important bridge, giving in minute detail every approach. Others were similarly well-done documents, invaluable in the hands of a spy.
From calculations on the side of the maps, it was clear they’d been drawn for use in air raid attacks. Other papers were equally sensational in content. And, from addressed letters that had been delivered by hand, he learned that Miller’s right name was Muller. He was certain the man was a spy.
Recalling that the kitchen stove was heated by oil, the Black Bat crept to the rear of the house. Miller still was busy exploring the second floor. If he came down, he’d run into an unpleasant surprise, but the Black Bat hoped he wouldn’t because there was no time to waste now.
There was a can of fuel oil in the kitchen. The Black Bat filled a five-gallon saucepan with it, carried it to the safe and deliberately soaked those valuable documents with the inflammable stuff. Then he struck a match, as silently as possible, dropped it into the safe and saw flames leap up. There was no danger of the fire spreading, but those papers would be destroyed if the fire was allowed to burn three or four minutes.
He stood erect, reached into his pocket and took out a flat metal case. From it he extracted a sticker, cut in the outlines of a bat in full flight. He pasted this on the wall above the safe, stepped to a window and raised it silently.
As he backed away in the darkness, he heard Miller’s first anguished howl and saw him trying to put out the fire. The wail was cut off and turned into a string of Teutonic oaths when Miller saw the Black Bat’s brand on the wall. He ran to the open window, leveled his gun, but spied no target at which to shoot. The Black Bat was quite invisible now.
Very soon afterwards, Butch was driving the coupe around the block for the twentieth time in accordance with standing orders. He felt heartsick because it appeared impossible for anyone to have survived the blaze which had destroyed the abandoned tenement house. Still, Butch was determined to keep driving all night if necessary.
He heard a curt whistle, and a big grin creased his face. Turning in toward the curb, he opened the door. A dark figure came skimming across the pavement and jumped into the car. Butch drove serenely away then.
CHAPTER VI
The Inventor’s Return
It was another meeting in Tony Quinn’s laboratory. He had changed from the Black Bat’s regalia into comfortable tweeds and a smoking jacket. His cane was propped in a corner near the secret door and everything was set for him to assume his pose of a blind man instantly should the occasion require such a move.
Quinn pointed to the crude impression he’d taken of the printing machine type.
“It’s more than obvious that this ‘Twenty Million Dollar Patriot’—as he calls himself—is playing on the fears of citizens. It’s true that the instrument he claims to have perfected is worth the money.
“He gave away recordings first, and now he’s probably got a staff of men out distributing these fake covers, wrapped around real newspapers. They’ll hand out a few and then disappear. The news will spread around quickly, and regular newspaper editions will be compelled to carry the story. It’s a neat way to get publicity that might otherwise be held back.”
“But Tony,” Carol asked, “how in the world does he expect to collect such a sum of money without giving away his identity?”
“I don’t know—can’t even guess,” Quinn replied, “but what worries me far more is his threat to exhibit that lethal machine again. There’s no telling when, where or how he’ll do it, but it will be done in as spectacular a method as possible.”
“This Miller chap you told us about,” Silk broke in. “Maybe he’s involved?”
“Undoubtedly,” Quinn agreed, “but can you feature a German agent trying to sell such an invention to a potential enemy of his own nation? Miller is mixed up in it somehow, but he can’t be the Patriot.
“Miller is probably as anxious to contact this unknown man as we are and make him an offer. That is what we must prevent. It’s as important as running down the Patriot, and our clues are slender. One thing in our favor—the Patriot undoubtedly will dicker with anybody and raise the ante as he sees fit.”
“You said our clues are slender,” Carol spoke up. “Are there any at all, Tony?”
Quinn nodded.
“Yes—Viola King! Her father may have perfected this invention. A man like Joel King wouldn’t take chances and have only one set of plans or formulae. It would be too risky. Therefore I think I’d better see Viola at once, before anybody else gets to her first. Carol, will you drive me there?”
They headed for the city line. Joel King maintained his residence and workshop about six miles outside the city in the suburbs of a smaller town. Quinn once more wore his black clothing and the concealing, big hat. He was worried.
“It’s about that trap set for me in the tenement house,” he said. “Miller owned the place, or so he insisted to the firemen. Yet I can’t feature Miller setting it afire. The trap had been prepared for my entry.”
Carol turned pale.
“You mean that awful instrument of death the Patriot says he has was turned on the building?”
“I’m not sure. There was a terrific explosion that should have blasted the whole place apart, but somehow didn’t. It was meant to burn to the ground, too. Miller would have been far away, preparing an alibi if he set it. Therefore I can reach only one conclusion. You were seen entering or leaving the place.
“The crooks took alarm then, realized you’d probably report to someone and
prepared themselves to exterminate whoever showed up. What makes it so difficult is the fact that you were seen and probably will be recognized again.”
“I won’t be taken off this case, if that’s what you’re hinting at,” Carol said stoutly.
The Black Bat smiled.
“I know better than to ask such a thing. It does mean you’ll have to work carefully though for your own health. The men we combat are ruthless. They must be to kill off a dozen fliers as casually as an acrobat turns a flip-flop and then publicize a statement to the effect that they will show their strength again.”
“I know,” Carol braked the car and slid to the curb. “But I still refuse to be left out of it. Tony—in those days long ago, before the bandages were removed from your eyes—we made a pact. Remember?”
“Yes—every word. You were to work with me, share all the risks and none of the glory. Well, here we are. I’m going to interview Miss Viola King again. Perhaps she might confide more readily in the Black Bat than she did in Tony Quinn, attorney-at-law. Naturally you’ll have to wait here.”
Carol stowed the broad-brimmed hat away as he donned hood and cloak. Then the Black Bat became the night itself as he sped toward the comfortable little bungalow where Viola King lived.
It looked serene and peaceful as he approached, but suddenly the quiet was broken by the sound of a breaking window. The Black Bat raced straight to the back door. It was closed, but not locked.
He flung it wide, and a gun blazed, but the Black Bat’s eyes served him well. He saw a pugnacious looking thug, crouched and guarding the door, in time to leap aside and avoid sudden death. The Black Bat’s gun roared an answer. The thug dropped flat and triggered again, but his target practically was invisible.
Then he saw what seemed to be a gigantic bird in full flight bearing down on him. He gave a howl of anguish and tried to crawl away. A gun muzzle raked the back of his head, and he went limp. Without pausing to examine the man, the Black Bat leaped across his unconscious form. He heard the front door slam shut, and as he sprinted toward it a woman’s muffled scream stopped him cold. It came from one of the rooms down the hall.
* * * *
He was torn between two desires—to save Viola King, for it had been her voice calling for help, or to pursue the gunmen who had invaded her home. He flung the door wide, saw a car come to a squealing halt.
Three men piled into it. Two of them were so bundled up that he couldn’t see their features. The third was a counterpart of the one he’d battered in the kitchen. The Black Bat’s guns leveled and blazed. The car spurted off. He noticed that one of the two men enveloped in a coat was short and slight of build.
Those shots would attract attention even in this sparsely settled section of the town. The Black Bat hurried to answer the cries for help. He burst into a room and saw a man of about thirty-five, tossing and straining at ropes that bound him. Another man lay very quiet in a corner. Blood oozed from a scalp laceration.
The Black Bat looked for the girl, but couldn’t see her. Then a muffled cry came from behind a closed door. He twisted the key in the lock and Viola King rushed out of a small clothes closet. She started toward the young man on the floor, but stopped in her tracks when she saw the grim outlines of the Black Bat. She uttered one more piercing yell and slumped to the floor.
The Black Bat carried her to a davenport and then went to the injured man. He was about forty-five, strong looking and dark featured. His pulse was strong, too. With nothing to worry about there, the Black Bat concentrated his attentions on the younger man. He cut him loose and stepped back quickly as the man crouched and got set to attack.
“Wait!” the Black Bat snapped. “I’m not one of those who harmed you. I’m the Black Bat!”
The young man straightened up, gaping at the weird figure.
“The Black Bat!” he said incredulously. “Yes, of course. I recognize the outfit. Viola—I thought you hurt her.”
“She just fainted. Tell me—quickly now because I can’t stay here long—what happened? Who were those men? Incidentally who are you and that man in the corner?”
“I’m Hank Standish. I’m an independent movie producer and I own several theatres. I’m going to marry Viola some day. That man over there is Jim Halton. He and Viola’s father used to be in business together.
“The men who came? I didn’t even see them. They sneaked in and pounced on us as one of them put out the lights. I’m sure I didn’t recognize any one of them. Did you?”
“Out with it,” the Black Bat snapped. “You’re holding back. You think I may have recognized one of those thugs. Maybe I did, but I want the truth from you.”
Hank Standish looked over at Viola. She was just a blur in the darkness, but she lay very quiet.
“I wouldn’t want Viola to hear this. I’m positive one of the men who came here was her father. They made me stand against the wall, near that broken window with my back toward them, but I knew what they were up to. One of them slid back a small panel and opened the wall safe over there beside the fireplace.
“Only an hour ago, Viola told me there was just one man who could do that—her father. She said the safe might contain his papers. She didn’t even know the combination to that safe herself. I managed to knock a vase through that window, and then you came.”
“Go see how Jim Halton is coming along,” the Black Bat said. His sensitive ears heard a faint roaring sound in the distance—cops coming on a still alarm, without sirens. Hank Standish obeyed and kept talking.
“Halton seems okay. He’s beginning to snap out of it. I think—hey—the cops. I—holy smoke, where are you? This business is getting too fast for me.”
* * * *
The Black Bat silently had slipped away, pausing only to pick up the unconscious form of the crook he’d slugged. Fortunately the town wasn’t big, and police protection none too thick. As the radio car pulled up in front of the house, the Black Bat was running slowly toward the spot where he’d stationed Carol.
He saw the car and breathed a little easier. His prisoner began to squirm and moan. The Black Bat paused long enough to send him back into a sounder slumber. Then he crossed the sidewalk, after making sure there were no late pedestrians about. He opened the car door and groaned.
Carol was gone!
He couldn’t possibly look for her. The fact that the car was here, intact, was indication that she’d left it voluntarily. Perhaps she’d gone to investigate the shooting. He dumped his prisoner inside, climbed behind the wheel and drove away until he came to a dark section of the road where big trees with overhanging branches completely shrouded the car except to anyone who might pass very close to it.
He kept his eyes riveted on the spot where Carol had been parked, hoping against hope that she’d return. When ten full minutes went by, he knew this wouldn’t happen. It was, of course, possible that she had seen the car containing the gunmen roll away, and had followed it.
There had been a couple of cars parked on the street within easy reach if Carol needed one; and she would hardly have hesitated to commandeer a private car if she believed it necessary. Carol didn’t obey orthodox rules any more than did the Black Bat. Naturally she would have left the coupe for the Black Bat to use.
If such were the case, it was probable that she would return to Tony Quinn’s laboratory promptly. He drove in that direction, his prisoner limply lolling against him. The Black Bat had plans for his prisoner.
CHAPTER VII
No Time to Sing
Carol Baldwin remained alert after the Black Bat left her. Sometimes things happened very fast, and if he needed help, she wanted to be ready. Five minutes went by. Then she heard
a single shot. Her blood froze. Had the Black Bat fallen into a trap?
Then she heard the flat cracks of his automatics. More shots answered. There were a few moments of silence followed by another fusillade from the Black Bat’s guns. Then, on the street running parallel with the one on which she was parked, a car mo
tor started up.
Carol already was eyeing a cheap sedan parked about a hundred feet up the road. Now she jumped out of the coupe and raced toward it. Without the slightest hesitation she got in, found the ignition key in the switch and started the motor. She drove to the next cross street, turned the corner and saw a heavy sedan flash by. There was a glint of guns and she knew this must contain the men with whom the Black Bat had exchanged shots.
She picked up the trail easily and held well back so that she wouldn’t arouse suspicion. They headed toward the speedway and kept rolling at a moderate clip until they were close to the city line. Turning off, they followed another highway for about six miles and then cut into a narrow lane.
For the last four or five miles Carol had been aware that a car stuck rather close to her trail also, but she paid little attention to it for traffic was fairly heavy. Certainly those men in the first car could not have warned any others of their kind that they were being followed.
Suddenly the car in the rear spurted. Just as Carol made ready to turn into the lane, the rear car shot in front of her, braked fast and cut off any hope of escape.
Two men jumped out, each holding a gun. Carol’s motor was stalled by the sudden stop. The two men parted and rushed for either side of the car. They yanked open the doors and guns covered Carol.
“Well I’ll be—a dame!”
“What’s the meaning of this?” Carol demanded hotly. “If it’s a holdup, I haven’t any money.”
“Get in with her, Mike,” one man said. “Take her to the clubhouse and be careful. I don’t like the gleam in her eyes. I’ll follow in our own bus.”
Mike, the burlier of the two, climbed into the back seat and shoved the muzzle of his gun against Carol’s
neck.
“Get goin’, lady,” he snapped, “or maybe you’d rather I blasted your head off, huh? Don’t give me any of that line about bein’ innocent either because we been on your tail ever since you started to follow our pal’s, see?”
Carol repressed a shiver, managed to get the car started and followed that winding lane until she topped a rise and looked down upon a golf course. The season was over, but evidently good care was taken of the grounds all year around.
Adventure Tales, Volume 6 Page 27