by Guy d'Armen
While her left hand rested in the lever, Josephine raised her right hand towards Grace contemptuously and waved.
“As you contemplate your literal descent into oblivion, I bid you adieu.”
As Josephine pulled the lever, a pistol bullet sliced through the air and cut through the noose. Grace fell safely through the trapdoor. Hitting the ground, she only suffered minor bruises.
The Minions of Midas found themselves confronted by thirty-five Pinkerton detectives armed with rifles. They were led by a bearded man with bronze hair. His left hand held a lantern while his right gripped a smoking Mauser pistol.
“Surrender or die!” commanded the bronze-haired man.
A vicious gun battle erupted. Midas and Josephine pulled their guns out of their holsters. Midas raised his firearm in the bronze-haired man’s direction...
Suddenly, blood exploded over the mask. The bronze-haired man had drilled Midas between the eyes. The slain criminal fell into the empty tray of the golden scale. As another of the bronzes-haired man’s bullets penetrates the heart of the Minion bearing the rifle, a vicious gun battle erupted between the henchmen of Midas and the Pinkerton posse.
Josephine leapt through the trapdoor of the scaffold. Landing on her feet, she stood directly in front of Grace. With the severed noose still tied around her throat, the Gold Queen lifted herself off the ground.
Josephine pointed her gun directly at Grace.
“Don’t move, or I’ll shoot you in the gut!”
The large chamber in which the two woman stood was illuminated only by light streaming from the open trapdoor. Still aiming her pistol at Grace, she walked towards a series of levers on the wall. Her left hand quickly lowered two switches. As the trapdoor shut, electric lights brightened the room,
The Golden Queen smiled mockingly. “Although you clearly would take great delight in killing me, your current circumstances necessitate my preservation.”
“Very perceptive. If the Minions are defeated, I shall use you as a hostage to force the Pinkertons to allow my escape.”
“This structure is made of no ordinary metal. Is it orichalcum from the secret kingdom of Ahaggar in North Africa?”
“How do you know of Ahaggar?”
“An ambitious engineer in my mining corporation heard rumors of that legendary land. Unfortunately, he disappeared in Algeria while seeking to verify the existence of Ahaggar. I imagine that the gold plundered by the Minions of Midas was used to purchase orichalcum.”
“Soldiers wearing chainmail suits made of orichalcum will be impervious to bullets. I shall inaugurate my reign as the new Gold Queen by creating an invulnerable army. My orichalcum legions shall spread my tyranny throughout the continent.”
Grace’s right hand gripped the middle of the rope dangling from her neck. “Can I remove this? It’s tickling my throat.”
“No. Consider it a necklace fit for a Queen.” Tilting her head back, Josephine roared with laughter.
Her gloating caused Josephine to shift her gaze away from her adversary for a handful of seconds. That brief interval was long enough for Grace to strike. She slammed the end of the rope against Josephine’s wrist causing her to drop the gun. Swinging the rope like a baseball bat, Grace struck Josephine’s face. As the blonde staggered, her foot unintentionally kicked the gun. It slid across the room until hitting a wall.
Grace lifted the rope again to strike, but Josephine seized her enemy’s arm with both hands. With all her strength, she swung the brunette into the wall. The stunned Gold Queen dropped to her knees.
Consumed by rage, Josephine reached for the rope still attached to Grace’s neck.
“You dare assault me, the true gold queen! Your temporary status as a hostage is revoked! I am thy executioner!”
Behind the slumped Gold Queen, Josephine yanked the rope. Gasping for breath as the noose tightened, Grace’s right hand rubbed against the pistol on the floor. Grabbing the gun, she lifted it up over her shoulder and fired blindly.
The rope went limp and dropped downward. Turning around, Grace beheld Josephine grimacing in pain. Grasping her left side, the blonde staggered on her feet.
Grace pointed the gun at her wounded nemesis. “Josephine Balsamo, let this be your final epitaph. Tyrants die from their own bullets.”
A second bullet plowed into the blonde’s right side. Josephine toppled backward. The would-be Queen of America sprawled motionlessly on the floor.
The Gold Queen towered triumphantly over her vanquished foe. “I am the sole Gold Queen. All rival claimants to my throne shall suffer my justice.”
Removing the noose, Grace noticed a folded stepladder reclining against a wall of the chamber. Opening the stepladder, she positioned it near the closed trapdoor. The Gold Queen decided that, in good conscience, she could not remain safe in this orichalcum chamber while brave men were risking their lives to liberate her. Josephine’s gun still had three bullets. If the brutal battle between the Minions of Midas and the Pinkertons still raged, she would fight alongside her allies. She pulled the lever that opened the trap door.
“Iverton!” shouted a man’s voice. “The trapdoor’s open!”
Grace breathed a sigh of relief. Iverton was the supervisor of the Pinkertons assigned to protect her.
“Mr. Iverton!” shouted the Gold Queen, “Are you there?”
The face of a dark-haired man looked down through the trapdoor. “Mrs. Gibson! Thank God, you’re safe. All the Minions of Midas lie dead or have surrendered. What about their female leader?”
“She died by my hand. I’m coming up.”
Ascending the stepladder, Grace emerged into the open. She beheld Iverton and the bronze-haired man.
“Mr. Iverton, how did you locate this Long Island cave?’’
“I don’t deserve any credit, Mrs. Gibson. You have this gentleman to thank. He fortuitously was staying at the Palais-Metropole Hotel when the Minions of Midas kidnapped you. Identifying gypsum deposits left behind by the Minions’ shoes, he concluded the gang’s base was in the mine. It was also his marksmanship that prevented your execution.”
“I owe you my life, Sir,” acknowledged the Gold Queen, “but I don’t know your name.”
“You can call me Francis Ardan Sr. As we were advancing through the mine, we heard muffled fragments of the woman’s speech. Did she identify herself as Josephine Balsamo?”
“Yes. Did you know her, Mr. Ardan?”
“I never had the misfortune to meet her in the flesh. I own a small notebook bearing a list of people that I have sworn to destroy. Josephine Balsamo is prominently on that list. I suspect that the true name of Midas is on the list, but my bullet’s impact has made facial identification impossible.”
“Does the name Jack Smith appear on your list?”
“There is a John Smith, Mrs. Gibson, but I have no idea whom he is meant to be. It’s a very common name.”
“When my husband was serving in the Colorado State Senate during the 1880’s, the state was terrorized by a band of desperados known as the Black Gulf Canyon Gang. My husband organized a group of vigilantes to liquidate these murderous outlaws. Although Neil was victorious over the bandits, he was severely criticized for hanging members of the Black Gulf Canyon Gang without a formal trial. The consequential controversy caused Neil to abandon his political career.”
“Didn’t the leader of the Black Gulf Canyon Gang escape retribution?” asked Iverton.
“Yes, he vanished without a trace. His name was Jack Smith. Although the Minions of Midas have been active for the last three years, it was only until they began to persecute my family that they lynched their victims. Furthermore, Midas cited ‘the Black Gulf in the Canyon of Death’ while condemning me to be hanged. I suspect Midas was really Jack Smith.”
“Perhaps removing Midas’s robe and searching the clothes beneath will confirm Mrs. Gibson’s theory,” suggested Iverton.
Viewing the corpse of Midas residing on the scale’s tray, Grace grinned at Ardan. �
��You transformed this scale of greed into a scale of justice. Midas gave his own blood for gold.’
Ardan stripped the golden garment from the slain ringleader’s corpse. “His shirt and pants are made of chainmail. The metal seems to be identical with the platform’s.”
“It’s orichalcum,” divulged Grace. “Before I filled her with lead, Josephine boasted about her plan to equip an army with such suits. This must be an early prototype. Let me prove my hypothesis.” She shot her gun into the corpse’s chest. Reaching down and picked up the bullet, she showed it to Ardan and Iverton.” The bullet didn’t penetrate the chainmail. Its tip is blunted as if it hit an immovable object.” Grace gestured towards the dead Minion who had earlier escorted to the gallows. “Clearly his followers weren’t attired in orichalcum. You were fortunate indeed, Mr. Ardan, to shoot Midas in the head. Otherwise, your bullet would have bounced harmlessly off him.”
“Not true, Mrs. Gibson. A bullet would still hit the chainmail with considerable force. The impact could result in injuries ranging from minor contusions to broken bones. The wearer of such a suit could even be knocked unconscious.”
The Gold Queen’s face turned ashen. “Josephine Balsamo! She may be alive!”
Grace ran to the trapdoor and looked inside the enclosed chamber. The body of Josephine Balsamo was gone. On the floor of the chamber, another trap door was open. “Josephine must have been wearing a suit of orichalcum chainmail under her robe. My bullets only stunned her.”
Followed by Ardan and Iverton. Grace descended the stepladder. Ardan examined the open trap door on the floor.
“There is a narrow tunnel here through which a person can crawl. I’m going to see where it leads.”
“I’m going with you,” asserted Grace.
“It’s too dangerous. I forbid it.”
“Since you are neither my father nor my husband, Mr. Ardan, you have no authority over me.
“Iverton, restrain this woman.”
“I’m sorry, Ardan, but under the terms of the contract that Mrs. Gibson negotiated with the Pinkerton Detective Agency, I must defer to her wishes.”
It took Ardan and the Gold Queen half an hour to navigate through the tunnel. Reaching the end, they passed upward through an exit hole into a stables containing horses. Wheel marks on the ground indicted a carriage had just left.
Josephine Balsamo had again successfully eluded justice.
After leaving the Gold Queen under the protection of the Pinkertons, Ardan traveled to his house in New York City. The bronze-haired adventurer was informed by his wife that Junior was sleeping soundly.
Walking into his study, Ardan looked at a framed photograph on the wall. It had been taken more than a decade ago. The photograph depicted Ardan and his best friend and kinsman, Victor Savage. Ardan recalled Victor’s brutal murder by a master criminal, Culverton Smith.
Unlocking his large safe, Ardan pulled out the notebook that he had discovered last year. Inscribed in Smith’s hand, the front page bore the title “Black Coat Register.” When Ardan had recognized the name of the notorious James Moriarty, he knew that the notebook was a list of Smith’s criminal associates. Smith’s motive in slaying Victor had been to secure an inheritance. Several murder cases in France had revealed the existence of a nefarious organization, the Black Coats, that specialized in assassinating the rightful heirs to family fortunes.
Ardan had crossed out the names of Moriarty and other malefactors who had perished over the years. He now crossed out another name.
“John Smith, you are the first Black Coat leader to die by my hand. Others of your evil brood shall follow. Your Minions of Midas were merely the fruit of a more monstrous tree. Victor Savage and the other victims cry out for justice. I dedicate the lives of myself and my son to the complete eradication of the Black Coats.”
This story previously appeared in Tales of the Shadowmen 6 in a slightly different form. It was revised for this republication to better conform with the chronology of Doc’s family. We jump forward in time and find ourselves at the peak of the Great War, when we meet Doc Ardan, ready to embark, as usual, on a vital mission. Taking place just before Philip José Farmer’s classic Escape from Loki, John’s story aptly demonstrates that, when it comes to menace, men, not cannons, are indeed…
John Peel: The Biggest Guns
The Western Front, March 1918
Francis Ardan Jr. first realized the trouble he was in when a burst of bullets slammed into the fuselage of his Sopwith Camel F.1. He banked to the left instantly to get out of the line of fire, and then scanned the skies for his opponent. He was near the operational ceiling for his plane—20,000 feet—and there weren’t many enemy craft capable of catching him at this height. He was annoyed with himself for thinking he had been safe.
There—from the Sun! The enemy was instantly recognizable. A blood-red Fokker Dr.1 triplane, its twin Spandaus blazing, was screaming toward him. Only one person flew such a craft—Rittmeister Hans Von Hammer. Ardan knew the man’s reputation; a total number of kills was hard to come by, but the ace had certainly shot down more than 50 allied aircraft.
It looked as if he was going to boost the Rittmeister’s score today. He’d been caught badly by surprise, and Von Hammer had the height advantage. Still, Ardan was no novice in a cockpit and, as his friend Biggles had said often enough, “If you can fly a Sopwith Camel, you can fly anything.” The aircraft took considerable skill, and had killed a number of over-confident or unwary trainees, but it repaid attention with amazing abilities. It was better than virtually any aircraft either side had in the air, at least in an even fight.
But this wasn’t even. Ardan was skilled, and he managed to weave out of the next burst of gunfire, but Von Hammer was second only to Richthofen as an ace, and he wasn’t about to allow his prey to escape.
Ardan twisted and rolled the Camel, trying to coax just a little more speed from the Clerget engine powering the craft. The Fokker was almost the match of the Camel in airspeed, but Ardan’s plane had the slight edge in rate of climb. And the Camel had a slightly greater ceiling than the Fokker. If the young man could just push it enough to get above Von Hammer, he’d be safe.
He never got the chance. The enemy pilot was no fool, and he had clearly anticipated Ardan’s reaction. With a sudden twist, the Fokker was aligned once more with the Camel, and the Spandaus chattered out death.
Ardan managed to spin to one side so that the bullets missed the cockpit, but they slammed instead into the Clerget. The engine started spitting smoke, and then fire. One of the fuel lines had clearly been severed, and the fire would be sucked back to the tank in a matter of seconds.
There was only one thing to do. The young adventurer grabbed the plate from the camera strapped to the side of the Camel and quickly slipped it inside his shirt. It was cold against his skin, but it should be relatively safe there. Then he stood up, and kicked himself free from the doomed aircraft. There was a rush of air, and he was thrown clear as the Sopwith lurched and fell. Barely five seconds later, it exploded in a smoky fireball.
Ardan was some 18,000 feet in the air and falling. He glanced around and saw the Fokker. Von Hammer tipped its wings in salute to his enemy, and then turned away to hunt more targets. Ardan was lucky that his opponent had been the Rittmeister, because many German pilots would also riddle the pilot, even if he appeared doomed. Von Hammer went only for the aircraft.
Besides, no one had ever fallen from 20,000 feet and survived, so leaving a man to die was barely a kindness. Many Allied pilots took their revolvers along on missions to shoot themselves in situations like this. A bullet in the brain was just as certain a death—and less drawn-out and terrifying.
One day, Ardan was convinced, parachutes would be packed into planes to enable men to fall safely to the earth. Experiments had shown that descents from balloons were possible using such devices, and even an aircraft or two. The Germans were reported to be experimenting with such devices.
Which was why the yo
ung man had done the same.
Ardan saw that the ground was approaching quite rapidly, despite his initial height. He could certainly pick out a great number of details on the farm below him. Wind resistance had stopped his acceleration, but he was falling quite swiftly. If he hit the ground—or even the pond he could clearly see—at this speed, he’d shatter every bone in his body. The important thing was to slow his descent, and that could only be accomplished by manipulating wind resistance. To do that, he needed to make himself larger.
He shed his flight jacket—a heavy leather garment that kept him warm but added to his mass. The wind chilled him, but briefly. He forced his trained body to ignore the cold, at least for the moment. Then he snapped the releases on his clothing.
His shirt and pants had been carefully constructed to his design by a French seamstress he knew. They were not a single layer of clothing, but several. Once the restraints were released, his shirt and pants blossomed out, like a flower unfolding. The strong cloth caught the wind, and he could feel that he was slowing down. The extra surface area was working! He spread his arms and legs, maximizing his cross-section as he fell, and the air resistance built up.
If only the stitching was strong enough to hold up under this terrible strain… This was his trial run of this new method, and he sincerely hoped it was successful enough to allow him future refinements…
Air ripped at him and his clothing. He glanced at the exposed seams. They appeared to be holding, but for how long? Well, there was nothing he could do now—if the threads failed, he would die—it was that simple. He had to assume that they would hold and give him a chance of surviving. He examined the ground that was drawing ever closer.
The pond was out. He was slowing as he fell, but at this speed, hitting the surface of the water would have pretty much the same effect as hitting a brick wall. It wouldn’t be the wall that broke. What he needed was something compressible. That meant avoiding the farmhouse and the out-buildings, and the ground itself, of course. That left him only one possible target…