Horror Wears Blue

by Lin Carter

  Joey had never before rode in a helicopter, although he had watched them often enough in the movies and on television. He found the novel experience exhilarating in the extreme.

  Also, this was only the second of the adventures of the Omega team that Joey Weston had shared, and that was exciting all by itself!

  Below them, obscured by the cloud-cover, the deep but narrow river glided like a lengthy silver serpent, meandering between hills and across fields. No boat of any kind — not even a rowboat or a racing scull — could be seen on its dimpled, mirrory surface.

  It was all very mysterious, thought Joey Weston, with a delicious spooky shiver.

  Suddenly, Menlo Parker straightened up and gave voice to a disgusted snort.

  “What’s wrong, Menlo?” inquired Doc Jenkins.

  Parker glared malignantly.

  “Dagnabbit, I lost ’em!” he snarled, looking madder than a dozen wet hens. “Musta gone deeper, or, mebbe, the soil hereabouts contains ferrous metal deposits and is blanking out the signal. Hey, pilot, circle for a while, okay?”

  They circled. For more than a while.

  Suddenly, Zarkon’s voice spoke on the radiophone.

  “Menlo, this is the Chief. Why aren’t you following us back to Scotland Yard?” he asked.

  In grumpy tones, Menlo Parker explained what he had done in marking the packing cases, and what he had been trying to do in tracing the signal, and how it had been suddenly cut off. He sounded very disgusted with himself.

  “It’s all right, Menlo; a clever ploy, and nobody’s fault that it didn’t work. Mark the place where you lost the signal on the map, and head back to join us at Scotland Yard,” instructed Zarkon.

  “Okay, dagnabbit all!” groaned Menlo, signing off.

  As the ‘copter flew back to London, Menlo exchanged a long look with Doc Jenkins.

  “Don’t say it!” snarled the little wizard of science. “We tricked them, and they done tricked us, dang it all!”

  Doc looked sympathetic.

  They flew back in silence.

  CHAPTER 11 — The Secret of the Map

  The next morning, bright and early, the Omega men trooped out to a nearby pub for breakfast. The sleazy, side-street hotel in which they had taken rooms had no dining facilities on the premises, as its trade was usually given to “ladies of the evening” and their clients. They ate glumly, busied with their thoughts.

  The unknown mind behind the Blue Men had blocked them at every turn. So far, anyway. But the future looked bleak. Zarkon’s plan to tempt the mystery burglars into a watched raid had backfired miserably. And, at the moment, he had no other plans in mind.

  Moodily pushing his fried eggs around with a fork, Scorchy Muldoon griped: “Dagone it, Chief, these Limeys are gonna have the last laugh on us! We ain’t done nothin’ yet, but run around in circles.”

  “Don’t you worry about it, luv. You’ll think of somethin’ yet,” whispered the cute, redheaded waitress confidently. She had taken quite a shine to the little bantamweight boxer, whose hair was as fiery as her own, and whose ancestry had hailed from her own native Killarney.

  Muldoon brightened visibly. But, then, there were few men who would not have been cheered up by the look of melting admiration in the eyes of the waitress — who was, as Doc Jenkins cheerfully put it, “a real looker.”

  Nick Naldini glanced over to Zarkon, who had finished his meal and who sat frowning with thought, staring into the street.

  “Any more ideas, Chief?” he inquired.

  “I must confess that I am temporarily out of ideas, Nick,” said Zarkon.

  Jenkins looked unhappy. The fact of the matter was, he had no new notions to offer.

  “Please, Mister Prince,” whispered Joey Weston, plucking timidly at the sleeve of Zarkon’s jacket. The visitor from the future glanced idly at the boy.

  “Yes, son?”

  “I — I dunno if it’s worth anything,” began the orphan tentatively.

  “Speak up, kid,” advised Nick Naldini. “We’re all outa ideas: maybe you got one we can use. It’s called ‘grasping at straws,’ I believe ...”

  “Well,” said Joey Weston. “I was looking at the map this mornin’, waiting to use the bathroom, and I noticed ... well...”

  “What did you notice, Joey?” asked Zarkon interestedly.

  The boy shrugged self-deprecatingly.

  “I dunno ... s’funny how so much of this stuff happens south of London, about thirty or forty miles away,” murmured the newsboy.

  Something sparkled in Zarkon’s hooded eyes.

  “That raid the Blue Men pulled a coupla days ago,” he said slowly. “That was forty miles or so south of London.”

  “And the place where the van disappeared, that first time, that was about the same,” remarked Doc Jenkins heavily.

  Zarkon turned to Menlo Parker.

  “Menlo, precisely where did you lose track of the signals from the packing case you bugged?” he asked. Parker blinked owlishly.

  “Thirty-eight miles south of London,” whispered the scientist.

  Zarkon considered. Then he turned and clapped little Joey Weston on the back.

  “Sometimes it takes a boy to do a man’s work,” chuckled Zarkon, with a rare smile.

  Joey looked flustered, but mightily pleased.

  “What d’you think, Chief?” demanded Scorchy Muldoon.

  “I think we can pin down the secret headquarters of the Blue Men to within one or two square miles,” said Zarkon.

  They returned to the little hotel, where Zarkon put through a series of telephone calls. Before long, Scotland Yard was forwarding information from real estate agencies in that part of England, detailing every sale or rental of sizable private houses, preferably rather secluded, within the radius Zarkon had sketched out.

  There had been very few of these. The old country houses were too expensive to keep up, these days: one had become a hospital, another a rest home, while a third had been transmogrified into a hotel. Only one had been sold to private hands, and that was a rambling, rather dilapidated structure locally known as the Old House.

  Interesting enough, and perhaps significantly, the Old House had a private dock on the very same tributary which crossed under the old covered bridge where the second van had been abandoned ... the same narrow but deep river beneath whose surface Menlo Parker had traced signals from the bugged packing case.

  Interesting.

  Scotland Yard had no particular information concerning the purchaser or purchasers of the Old House. The sale had been a cash transaction, so no bank documents or legal papers were involved. The rental agent had described the purchaser as gaunt, bald, stooped, with a predatory beak of a nose.

  “Sounds rather like the Vulture,” remarked Val Petrie, completing his report to Prince Zarkon.

  “I’m afraid I’m not acquainted with the name,” Zarkon admitted. Neither was Doc Jenkins. Petrie laughed apologetically.

  “We get some good ones, once and a while, sir.” He chuckled. “His correct name is Mortimer M. Mortimer, a pioneer in subelectronics. Three or four years ago, he was nominated for the Nobel prize.”

  “And what happened?” inquired Zarkon.

  “Disqualified,” said Val Petrie briefly. “After it was discovered that he had stolen two or three patents from his colleagues. Oh, his modifications on the basic patents were described as being truly brilliant, but ... a stolen patent is, after all, a stolen patent.”

  “What happened to this Mortimer after that?” asked Prince Zarkon.

  “He became quite a figure of fun in the popular press,” said Petrie. “Newspaper caricaturists pictured him as a vulture, picking the bones of lesser scientists.”

  “And —?”

  “He held a press conference some three years ago in which he predicted that the entire civilized world would yet recognize his extraordinary genius — ‘one way or another,’ if I recall his precise words.”

  “Sounds rather ominous,” commente
d Zarkon.

  “Now that I think on it, it certainly does, sir,” admitted Petrie. “At the time, we thought it was nothing more than a matter of what you Yanks call ‘sour grapes.’ ”

  “And then?”

  “He simply dropped out of sight, did the Vulture. He had a sizable income from patents and inventions of his own to keep him in comfort for the rest of his life. I believe we lost track of him on the Continent, Portugal, or somewhere like that. Since then, not a single flap from the Vulture’s wing.”

  “Until quite recently,” remarked Zarkon.

  “You think the Blue Men could be his gang?” asked Petrie.

  “Things do seem to fit together into a pattern,” said Zarkon. “Especially the fact that this Mortimer was a specialist in electronics. Give me some more information on him — whatever you have in your files, will you?”

  “Within the hour,” promised Val Petrie earnestly. “And we’ll be keeping a discreet but thorough surveillance over the Old House, too.”

  The map of that part of England was scrutinized, and from the distances involved it seemed quite obvious that the mysterious Blue Men had some manner of headquarters within a two- or three-mile radius.

  How Zarkon and other Omega men had managed to overlook that fact was a matter of embarrassment. But Zarkon praised little Joey Weston in terms of quiet appreciation, and the lad flushed in delight.

  “Any time I can be of help, you just gotta ask, Mister Prince,” said the boy. The others grinned.

  “Whadda we do now, Chief?” inquired Scorchy Muldoon. Zarkon shrugged.

  “Wait for further information from Val Petrie concerning the background of this man he calls the Vulture,” he said.

  “Then is it okay with you if I take the kid out and buy him an ice cream sundae?” inquired Muldoon. “We’re only goin’ down the street to that pub and we’ll be right back if you need us.”

  Zarkon indicated that Scorchy’s plan was all right with him.

  Scorchy tousled the boy’s red hair affectionately. “Then come on, kid! Good skull-work like you just did oughta be rewarded. Lemme buy you a sundae.”

  “Thanks a lot, Mister Scorchy,” said Joey Weston.

  As they left the room, Joey was saying, thoughtfully: “I wonder if they know how to make ice cream sundaes over here in England ...”

  “Sure they do,” scoffed Scorchy. Then he added: “And, if they don’t, we’re gonna teach ’em how!”

  Chatting with his small companion as they strolled down the street to the small Piccadilly pub where Zarkon and the others took their meals, Scorchy failed to notice a passing van which spotted them and pulled up to park, just as he and the boy entered the establishment.

  Within were two men in business suits that fitted oddly. They conversed in low tones. Then one of them detached a radiophone from its cradle below the dashboard, and spoke quietly into it.

  “This is Number Six,” he said in low tones. “Let me speak to the Vulture. We just happened to spot two of Zarkon’s gang down in Piccadilly. What they’re doing in this part of town is anybody’s guess. Should we grab ’em?”

  He listened intently for the answer.

  CHAPTER 12 — More Mysteries

  While Scorchy Muldoon and his little friend were ambling down the street in Piccadilly, Prince Zarkon received an urgent call from New Scotland Yard.

  It was Val Petrie on the line.

  “If you’re not busy, Your Highness, could you come to the Yard?” inquired Petrie in crisp, excited tones.

  “Certainly; at once,” responded Zarkon. “Anything new on the Old House?”

  Petrie replied in the negative.

  “No, but our experts have now completed their study of the video tapes of the Blue Men’s raid on the Cumberland Towers, and have come up with some surprising minor discoveries that ought to interest you,” said Petrie.

  “I will be right there,” said Zarkon. He hung up and donned his jacket.

  “Ace, would you get the car, please?”

  “Sure, Chief,” answered the handsome aviator cheerfully. “What’s up — where are we going?”

  “Scotland Yard,” replied the Defender of Freedom briefly. “Petrie’s scientists have found out some interesting things from their study of the video tapes.”

  “Want me to come along, Chief?” queried Menlo Parker, looking both curious and interested at once.

  “I think that would be a good idea, Menlo,” said Zarkon.

  With Ace behind the wheel, the borrowed car moved sleekly through the London streets, leaving raucous, honky-tonk Piccadilly Circus behind, heading for the big shiny new office building which now housed the famous criminal investigative organization.

  “Be interesting to see if the Yard boys spotted the same stuff in the tapes that we did, Chief,” remarked Menlo Parker.

  Zarkon nodded thoughtfully.

  “We shall see,” he replied.

  Ace Harrigan pricked up his ears at this brief exchange.

  “What did you and Menlo spot in the video tapes, Chief?” he asked curiously. “I didn’t see a thing in them, myself.”

  Zarkon remained silent as if he had not heard the question.

  “Leave the science stuff to us,” snapped Menlo Parker tartly. “And we’ll leave the driving to you!”

  “Aw, heck!” said Ace Harrigan in tones eloquent of disgust.

  They drove to the Yard and parked in the area reserved for visitors. An officer ushered Zarkon and his two men to a bank of elevators, where a pretty young woman with vivacious brown eyes and a luminous smile took charge of them.

  Ace looked interested. Attractive young women were one of his major interests in life, making a close second to flying planes and the like.

  “Are you a police officer, miss?” he inquired as the young woman punched the elevator button. She flashed the bronzed aviator a smile that could melt a man’s spine at twenty feet.

  “As a matter of fact, I am, sir,” she said demurely. Harrigan’s good looks and trim, athletic figure had not gone unnoticed by her, any more than her looks had been missed by him.

  “Boy, the cops back home could learn a trick or two from these guys at the Yard!” commented Ace in cheerful and admiring tones.

  The two continued their mild flirtation all the way down to the basement of the huge building, where Val Petrie awaited their coming.

  Petrie ushered his three guests into an immaculate laboratory where white-coated men bent over microscopes and other sensitive instruments. The place was really very busy, but in a quiet and orderly fashion.

  “It was very good of Your Highness to come over on such short notice,” commented Val Petrie warmly. “But I knew that you’d be interested in seeing these enlargements.”

  He gestured to a row of illuminated screens set into the wall. Large photographic copies of selected scenes from the hidden video cameras were fastened to the screens.

  Zarkon studied them closely, at times bending forward to study one or another detail through a small but powerful pocket lens he usually carried on his person.

  “Excellent detail,” he murmured after a few moments. “I presume the pictures were computer-enhanced?”

  Petrie grinned admiringly.

  “You don’t miss much, do you?” he chuckled, nodding.

  Zarkon smiled.

  A small gnome in a white jacket came over to them when Val Petrie beckoned.

  “This is one of our experts, Dr. Harding,” he said. “Doc, I’d like you to meet Prince Zarkon and —”

  “Mendel Lowell Parker,” said Harding, beaming. “Good to see you both! Parker, I once attended a seminar at M.I.T. at which you lectured. This was years ago, of course. I still recall with what precision and eloquence you spoke on such an abstruse subject that remarkably few men in the world could have lectured for more than three minutes.”

  Menlo grinned, visibly expanding under these words of heartfelt praise.

  “Dr. Harding, would you explain what your team has
discovered on the tapes?” Zarkon asked. Harding instantly became all business. He led them to a television set on one of the lab tables.

  “If you gentlemen will watch the monitor, I’ll run through the sections of the tapes that intrigued us most,” murmured the white-coated gnome briskly.

  They watched as the scenes previously studied appeared on the set. The action had been slowed down so that details could be observed more easily, and the computer enhancement of the films had given them much more clarity.

  “You will notice with what exaggerated caution the criminals walk as they enter your suite,” said Harding. “Even though the carpet is thick pile, very lush, they seem to step like men trying to walk on slick, wet ice. Interesting!”

  “Also danged odd,” murmured Menlo Parker.

  “Now watch as they make their way through the clouds of poison gas,” Harding directed. “They seem oblivious to the fumes, although obviously the air in the room is thick with the deadly stuff. Curious.”

  “It is that,” agreed Menlo. Zarkon said nothing.

  Harding touched a control dial, selecting another scene.

  “At this point, one of the Blue Men turned directly to face into the camera,” Harding pointed out. “We have magnified the picture as much as possible. Watch closely, now.”

  They watched as the Blue Man turned searching eyes about the room. He did not see the camera concealed above, it appeared. He was looking about the room, expecting to find the recumbent bodies of Zarkon and his aides. A baffled, almost angry expression, was on his features when no bodies were discovered. Then he began to turn away.

  Harding snapped a button, freezing the picture on a single frame.

  “Look closely, now!” the gnome warned. “Do you notice anything about his neck?”

  They studied the picture narrowly. The angle was just right, so that a reflection appeared momentarily on either side of the man’s throat.

  “Looks like two very thin plastic tubes are sticking out of the top of his coat,” mused Menlo Parker.