by Lin Carter
The hood, who was watching him carefully and who was holding his revolver on the two captives, uttered a harsh chuckle.
“We ain’t always blue, Paddy. We just get blue when we want to.”
Scorchy flushed at the “Paddy,” but was in no position to start a quarrel about it. Number Six at the wheel glanced over his shoulder.
“Eight, you better watch yer mouth,” he growled warningly. “Don’t tell these ginks nothing. From what I heard of Zarkon’s gang, they ain’t as dumb as they look.”
“Even Small Change, here?” inquired Number Eight with a leering grin.
“Yeah, even him.”
Silence fell aboard the little craft.
They cruised on down the river. The cityscape gave way to rows of modest residences, then to fields and farms. Occasionally a bridge for motor traffic arched over the Thames; sometimes, when the river was narrow enough, there were footbridges for pedestrians.
Scorchy could discern their direction from the sun, but had no way of estimating their speed from his cramped position. He continued straining against the bonds. Slumped next to him, shivering a little under his raincoat when damp breezes touched his bare skin, Joey Weston waited patiently for whatever was going to happen, to happen.
He had enormous faith in the redheaded Irish boxer, had Joey Weston. Almost as much faith as he had in Prince Zarkon, himself. He knew they would be set free at some point during the adventure, so he tried not to worry about how it might end.
Besides, if the Blue Men had planned to kill the two of them, they would have done it long before this ...
They came to an old-fashioned covered bridge. Scorchy got a good look at it and decided that it was probably the same bridge they had seen earlier from the air. It was at this point that the Blue Men had vanished from their van, he guessed. Maybe he was about to find out how the trick had been worked.
As things turned out, he was right.
Once under the bridge, the man at the wheel killed the motor. The boat drifted into the shallows, and the two hoodlums tied its prow to a wooden post on the shore. Then they nudged their prisoners to their feet.
“What’s up, you guys?” inquired Scorchy Muldoon.
“You’ll see soon enough,” said Number Six woodenly.
He and Number Eight assisted the two captives to the side of the boat.
Something had come up out of the water a little ways. It was dark here in the shadow of the covered bridge; Scorchy squinted, trying to identify the thing. Outside of the fact that it was made of metal and was round as a barrel, he could discover nothing else.
“What now?” Scorchy inquired.
For answer, he was picked up and dropped over the side!
CHAPTER 17 — Underwater!
Val Petrie was feeling frustrated. So far, the Blue Men had done what they wished, unhampered at every turn. Petrie knew well enough that their luck was bound to change in favor of the forces of the law — the only question was how soon?
When the news broke that one of the Omega men had been seized off the street in broad daylight — as the cliché has it — the London reporters had a field day. Scotland Yard Impotent! yelled a banner headline on one of the cheaper tabloids. Most of the other newspapers put it even stronger than that, and even went so far as to question the decision to permit Prince Zarkon and his aides to take the case in hand.
One of the papers had the temerity to challenge the efficiency of the Omega team, and even that of its famous leader. The reporters seemed of the opinion that Omega’s reputation was unfounded, perhaps even fabricated by a clever advertising campaign. Each and every paper was perishing to interview Zarkon himself.
But Zarkon was nowhere to be found, and couldn’t be grilled.
Which put Val Petrie on the spot, for he was visible. Even though Petrie refused to grant any interviews, he found coming and going difficult. The reporters were virtually camping out at New Scotland Yard, eager for a glimpse of him.
Sir George Gideon was sympathetic to Val’s uncomfortable predicament, having gone through the same experience many times himself in his earlier days at the Yard. But there was nothing much he could do about the situation.
It was really up to Zarkon to perform some surprising feat and bust the mystery wide open.
Or ... for the Vulture to make some unwise move. Thus far, of course, the master criminal had done everything exactly right. But there was always a chance that he would make some kind of slip.
It’s the sort of fact of life that detectives naturally expect, because, sooner or later, it always happens.
Well, it couldn’t happen too soon for Val Petrie!
The only lead of any substance that he had was that it had been discovered that the Vulture had purchased the Old House down in the country, and that it was presumably the headquarters of the gang. Keen-eyed detectives from Scotland Yard were keeping the place under close surveillance around the clock, but, so far, to no avail.
Outside of the fact that people were living in it, nothing else had been discovered. Groceries were delivered periodically from the nearest village, but as for any signs of suspicious activity about the place, you would have thought it to be an old age home.
Itching for some kind of action, if only to break the excruciating monotony of waiting for something to happen, Petrie would have ordered a raid on the Old House hours ago.
Now that the Blue Men had taken two hostages from the Omega team, such an act was out of the question. If his men were to attempt an assault on the house, doubtless Scorchy Muldoon and little Joey Weston would be the first to suffer.
All kinds of crazy schemes had been revolving through Val Petrie’s alert mind. He thought of interfering with the grocery deliveries, of doping the foodstuffs with knockout powder or something.
He thought of having navy frogmen assault the property by swimming upriver, for the Old House was built beside a small, narrow, but very deep tributary of the Thames.
These and other plans had occurred to him.
None of them was any good, he grimly knew.
There was nothing to do but sit still and wait for further developments.
And Val Petrie hated sitting still.
Eventually, the river patrol boats combing the Thames for miles in both directions discovered the abandoned motorboat, still tethered to a post beneath the covered bridge. It was empty of all occupants by this time, of course.
What was even more mysterious was that there were no footprints in the slick mud of the shore. Had the Blue Men and their prisoners tried to swim the rest of the distance?
No, that was out of the question, because of the aerial surveillance Val Petrie had ordered, guarding all approaches to the Old House. Nor was it likely that the crooks had attempted to swim underwater, burdened down with their prisoners. It was not conceivable ...
Briefly, the notion that the burglarious Blue Men and their two captives had clambered into previously planted diving suits flashed through Val Petrie’s active and fertile imagination. But this was very briefly: the idea was an absurdity.
Well, then, how had they and their captives disappeared in broad daylight?
Petrie cursed under his breath. He could think of no answer to the question, and the fact bothered him.
It was bothering Prince Zarkon and the Omega men, too.
It was not, however, bothering Scorchy Muldoon. For he had discovered the secret to this portion of the Blue Men mystery, at least.
Split seconds after being dropped over the side of the boat, Scorchy was caught by strong arms and lowered down through a steel tube which resembled a drainage pipe, except that it had rungs in the side to afford easy climbing.
He was deposited — and none too gently, either — on the steel floor of a cramped cubicle. Moments later, the same strong arms helped little Joey Weston down the tube, and placed him beside Scorchy.
Dazedly, the feisty little prizefighter stared around at the narrow space. The pinggg of a sonar screen echoed in
the stifling small space. The whoosh of ventilation through air ducts also came to his ears. With an incredulous thrill of amazement, Scorchy realized that the “drainpipe” through which he had been lowered was actually a small conning tower, and that he was within the cramped confines of a miniature submarine.
The notion was dazzling. Scorchy blinked, and muttered an exclamation of surprise. For this explained how the Blue Men had vanished from the covered bridge, after parking their stolen van at the center of the span. They had lifted loose planking, and either dropped or gone down a knotted cord or rope ladder into the barely visible mouth of the conning tower.
At this point, the little tributary of the mighty Thames was narrow, but very deep. The miniature sub had negotiated the riverbed, probably arriving at an underground dock behind the Old House — either that, or a camouflaged shed at the rear of the structure.
This explained the miraculous ease with which the Vulture’s gang had been able to come and go from their country headquarters, without arousing suspicion or being detected by the hidden watchers.
This explained that, while obviously being lived in, the Old House displayed no particular activity.
Moments later, while all of this was slowly seeping into Scorchy’s dazed mind, the two men who had abducted himself and little Joey Weston came climbing down into the small cabin of the sub.
The hatch was closed and dogged tightly, and the small vessel submerged. Guided by the pinggg of the sonar pulse, the little craft sailed up the narrow tributary, keeping close to its muddy and rock-strewn bottom.
This also explained how the bugged packing cases of stolen electronic components had vanished mysteriously, suddenly ceasing to register on Menlo Parker’s detector. Either the heavy steel hull of the miniature sub, or the water above it — or, most probably, a combination of both factors — had effectively blocked the telltale signal.
Scorchy rolled his eyes in helpless admiration. This Vulture gink, he thought somberly to himself, was one clever bird, all right. Too dang clever, by far!
Before very long, the crook in command of the tiny sub gave a terse order and the craft surfaced. The hatch was unsealed and Scorchy and little Joey Weston, still bound hand and foot, were hauled up and out of the conning tower of the craft.
The sub had surfaced in a man-made pool about as large as a fair-sized swimming pool. A concrete ledge ran around the artificial pond; cinder-block walls supported a sheet-metal roof above their heads.
Broken and now empty packing cases were piled in one corner of the structure, probably including the one that Menlo had bugged. Again, the metal roofing probably blocked the telltale. Or maybe it had been discovered and then crushed underfoot so that it could no longer broadcast its secret signal.
While the two members of the Vulture’s gang secured the little sub to pilings, Scorchy looked around, studying the makeshift submarine dock. It seemed to be built onto the rear of the house, as far as he could tell. There were no windows and only one door. Probably, from outside, it seemed to be nothing more than an innocent gardening-shed or a small horse-barn.
The two captives were lugged through the door and into the house itself, proving Scorchy’s guess accurate. The house was big and old and poorly lit, and rather sparsely furnished.
They were taken before another crook who seemed to be the Vulture’s lieutenant. At least, the first two men reported to him and called him “Number Two.”
“You boys take them into Room One,” the lieutenant said briefly. “The boss will want to interrogate them personally.”
Scorchy pasted an expression of cherubic innocence on his features, but beneath the raincoat he was working furiously on his bonds. They were mostly loosened by now, at least the ones which bound his arms behind his back. With a little more effort, they should come loose. This might cost the Irishman a few square inches of skin, but that would be a small price to pay for the chance of jumping on the boss of this gang when they met face-to-face.
Oboyoboyoboy! breathed Scorchy to himself.
After being shoved around all this time, he was spoiling for a fight ... and wouldn’t the Chief be proud of him if he managed to capture the Vulture single-handedly!
“Listen, Number Two, can’t we cut the tape on their feet?” asked Number Six plaintively. “We’re getting tired of carrying these two birds around. Let ’em walk.”
Number Two shrugged, indicating permission.
They cut the tape which bound the feet of Scorchy and the little boy.
Scorchy maintained his innocent expression with an effort.
Everything was working out nicely, he thought to himself.
CHAPTER 18 — The Vulture’s Roost
The room into which Scorchy and the boy were led was small. The windows were boarded up so that not even a chink of daylight showed through the interstices. The furniture consisted of a card table and a couple of cheap folding chairs.
Rather incongruously, given the meager furnishings of the room, a fancy television set perched on a wooden crate.
The Vulture was nowhere to be seen.
Then the second of the crooks turned on the set. The screen lit up, revealed a gaunt, stoop-shouldered man in a cheap black suit like the ones worn by small-town undertakers. He had a huge, hooked nose which made him resemble a predatory carrion bird. And Scorchy’s hopes for a tussle faded swiftly.
“This is the Vulture speaking,” said the man on the screen — obviously, a closed-circuit television system. There was no way of telling whether the Vulture was elsewhere in the Old House or not. He could have been miles away.
But the Vulture was still speaking.
“Mr. Muldoon, young Master Weston, welcome to ‘the Vulture’s Roost,’ ” said the man in black. His thin, bloodless lips parted briefly in a slight grimace that was probably supposed to resemble a smile. Obviously, his pet name for his abode was a private joke with him.
Number Six and the other man gave voice to insincere chuckles at their boss’s bit of humor.
“We shall try to make your stay here as comfortable as possible,” continued the Vulture. “Under the circumstances, that is. Number Six, see if you can find our guests something to wear other than those raincoats.”
“Right, boss.”
“I think we’ll put them in the ‘guest room,’ ” murmured the gangleader. Then the screen darkened and the set was turned off.
The “guest room” was of medium size and windowless. It contained a bare mattress, a sink, a toilet, another cheap card table, and two flimsy folding chairs.
“Not exactly a suite at the Waldorf, is it, kid?” muttered Scorchy to the boy, who grinned briefly.
Their wrists were freed, but too many men stood about with drawn guns for Scorchy to try jumping any of them. His hopes sank within him.
“Hey, Six, looky here,” called the man who was engaged in freeing Scorchy’s wrists. “Shorty, here, nearly worked loose all by himself! Another coupla minutes, and he would have, too.”
“A lot of good it would have done him,” commented Number Six.
More men came in, lugging some clothes. They weren’t exactly from Fifth Avenue, just as the room wasn’t the Waldorf at its best. Baggy jeans and a couple of pullovers and sneakers. Still, it felt good to climb into some duds, after being bare so long, so Scorchy refrained from voicing another gripe.
Actually, the duds fitted him fairly well; Joey Weston wasn’t as lucky. His garments were several sizes too big.
“We didn’t plan on having to outfit any kids here,” grinned one of the thugs at Joey’s woeful expression.
His arms and legs free and his bare hide covered with some clothes restored much of Scorchy’s usual cheer optimism.
“When do we eat?” he inquired cheerfully. “It’s been so long since I stowed away any grub, my gut thinks my throat’s been cut.”
“You’ll chow down soon enough, Shorty. Don’t worry about it.”
The thugs left the room, locking and bolting the door fro
m outside. Scorchy eyed it speculatively. It was built of solid oak, massive and heavy. Not much hope of busting out that way, he realized.
And there were no windows at all.
“Well, kid, here we are,” he said to Joey Weston. “Ain’t scared, are you?”
“Naw, this gang can’t scare me — not when I’m with you, Mister Scorchy,” said the boy stoutly. Scorchy grinned with affection.
“Brave kid, aren’t you? Well, keep yer spirits up. The Chief and the boys’ll be coming to rescue us in no time flat, I figger. After all, they kn —”
He broke off abruptly. Scorchy had been about to mention the fact that Prince Zarkon and Val Petrie knew all about the Vulture’s Roost and that even at this moment the house and grounds were being watched from concealed positions.
Then it occurred to him that maybe the Vulture’s gang had their “guest room” bugged with a hidden microphone. It was a logical thing for them to have done, and easy enough, with all the electronic gear they had been grabbing.
So why give away what was, after all, their ace in the hole?
When their mealtime came, the fare was not exactly the finest example of English cuisine, but it was hot and Scorchy was hungry as a hound dog in wintertime.
It consisted of canned hash and beans, a couple slices of bread for each, and black coffee. This had been dumped on plastic plates, and the coffee was in Styrofoam cups. The tableware was also plastic. Obviously, the Blue Men weren’t taking any chances with their prisoners: metal knives and forks can be used as weapons, and chinaware can be smashed into sharp-edged pointed fragments.
While one man carried in the grub and set it down on the card table, three others stood by the door with drawn guns, having waved Scorchy and Joey Weston to the far corner of the room.
The men in the Vulture’s gang were taking every reasonable precaution to insure that their prisoners remained just that: prisoners. But Scorchy refused to be discouraged. He had gotten out of tighter places than this, after all.