by Otto Penzler
“The electric alarms were switched off. The two night watchmen were surprised and tied up. Somebody inside had to throw off the switches, and unbolt the outer door—that’s the way they got in. But who?
“Blake and Eswell are at the place now, grilling hell out of the servants, but they won’t get anywhere. The servants weren’t in on it. Most of ’em were off duty. It was a maid that found out what was going on—she’d been out too, but she came back early, and saw the masked men and the cars outside. She ran in to a phone by another entrance. I’m telling you, none of the servants were working with the gang—it goes higher than that.”
“Gil,” Chief Thatcher said quietly, “you can’t mean that one of the family actually helped the crooks rob their own museum?”
“That’s exactly what I do mean, chief. If it wasn’t the servants who opened the way to the gang, then it’s got to be one of the Van Ormonds. What’s worse, trying to find out which one of ’em did it is hopeless. The crime ring is so powerful and so feared that nobody connected with it dares talk. If there’s any danger of their talking, you know what happens to ’em. The same thing that happened to Amos Colchester a month ago—and he died of lockjaw.
“Tetanus got him. Lord, it was horrible! He received a little brass head as a warning. It’s fear of dying the same frightful way that keeps the members of the crime ring silent. If they don’t keep their mouths shut, tetanus will make ’em!”
—
McEwen jerked open a drawer of the chief’s desk and lifted an object wrapped in paper. It was the size of an apple, the modeled head of a man done in brass. The face was a grotesque mask, the lips drawn into a sardonic grin, the eyes protruding. McEwen peered at the ghastly image and shuddered.
“Colchester looked like that when he died. Well, he—one of the biggest men of the city—had been drawn into the crime ring, and he died because there was danger of his talking. That’s the way they work, those crooks—they blackmail respectable people into helping them pull off their crimes. The people they hook have position and influence and are able to give them valuable tips. They follow orders because they dread exposure—and death by tetanus.”
Steve Thatcher swallowed hard as he listened.
“How the hell’re we going to break up an organization like that?” McEwen demanded, thrusting the brass image back into the drawer. “An organization that works in complete secret and has such a powerful hold on their tools? By damn, for all we know half the élite of this town are members of the gang. Politicians, bankers, big business men, society women, debs—anybody. Yes, and it’s possible that the crime ring’s got a man right here in this headquarters as a spy!”
Steve Thatcher winced.
Gil McEwen was pacing the floor. “There’s only one thing I’m sure of, Chief. One thing. The master mind behind this gang is the Moon Man.”
Steve Thatcher asked through a dry throat: “How can you be sure of that, Gil?”
“How? The Moon Man ran the show during the robbery of the Embassy Ball last month, didn’t he? I saw him myself, didn’t I, directing the whole thing? Certainly! The Moon Man’s the ringleader.”
“But—” Thatcher’s words came with difficulty—“perhaps the Moon Man is only a tool of the real ringleaders, Gil. Perhaps he’s been forced into helping execute crimes, as others have been. If the real ringleaders found out, somehow, who the Moon Man is, and used that information to force him to work with them under threat of exposure—”
McEwen humphed. “Maybe you’re right, Steve, but I don’t think so. I believe he’s the master mind. Ten times I’ve had him cornered, and each time he’s slipped away. His luck can’t last forever. The day’s coming when I’ll crack down on him—crack down so hard—”
The knob rattled and the door opened. A girl stepped into the room eagerly. She was smartly dressed, young, pretty. She was Sue McEwen, Gil’s only daughter and Steve Thatcher’s fiancée. She stepped to him smiling, and he took her in his arms.
“Steve darling—” She kissed him warmly. “I hoped I’d find you here. I want you to drive me home, and then we’re going to have a good, long talk.”
She greeted her father and Chief Thatcher as Steve Thatcher frowned. He forced a smile and answered: “Sue, dear, there’s nothing I’d like better—”
“Because it’s not very long now until we’ll be married,” she said softly, turning back, “and there are so many things we’ve got to plan. It’s so wonderful, Steve—dreaming it all out and—”
“But I can’t, Sue. I can’t go with you tonight.”
“Steve!” Sue drew back, hurt. “But I won’t let you do anything else tonight. What is there more important? You’re going to drive me home and—”
“Please, Sue,” Steve Thatcher pleaded. “I know I’ve been treating you shamefully, and I’d go with you if it were possible—but it isn’t. Believe me. I—”
He stumbled into silence. The disappointment in Sue’s eyes sent a twinge through him.
“Steve,” she said quietly, coming toward him, “you’re troubled about something. I can see it in your eyes. What is it? Won’t you tell me? Let’s go home together and talk it all over and—”
Tell her!
White-faced, cold, Steve Thatcher stepped past Sue quickly. “Nothing’s wrong,” he mumbled, and she called pleadingly, “Steve!” but he closed the door. He dared not even glance back as he ran down the steps, and hurried out of the entrance of police headquarters.
—
Agony shone in his eyes as he crossed the street. He hurried into the corner drug store, shouldered into a telephone booth, and hesitated with the receiver in his hands. Looking up, he could see the lighted windows of the chief’s office.
In that room were the three people dearest to him. Sue—his father—Gil McEwen. Three people who must never learn Steve Thatcher’s secret—never.
Thatcher called a number. It was a very private number known only to him and one other. In a moment a voice answered.
“Angel!” Thatcher said quickly.
“Boss!”
The voice was Ned Dargan’s—Dargan, the ex-pug, secret lieutenant of the Moon Man. Side by side they had worked in defiance of the written law, bound by deepest friendship and loyalty. For long months not even Dargan had known that Steve Thatcher was the notorious criminal who robbed and robbed again, cloaked in a robe of black and masked with silver glass. The secret learned, they had become bound even closer by it. And now Steve Thatcher spoke swiftly to the one man in the world he could trust.
“Angel, they’ve trapped me again!”
“Boss! The Red Six? Gosh, I thought you’d broken clear of ’em! Gosh, Boss, you can’t let ’em drive you—”
“Listen fast, Angel. The Red Six is now the Red Five. They’re at work again. I found out tonight that Secundus, who’s taken the place of Primus as chief of the crime ring, knows that I’m the Moon Man. He’s got me cornered—”
“Boss, you can’t let ’em—”
“They’ve got me, Angel. What they’re going to do with me this time I don’t know—but we’ve got to act fast, or they’ll use me as the Moon Man again. McEwen’s gunning for me, thinking that the Moon Man is the leader. Somehow we’ve got to get at the Red Five and stop ’em before—”
“Anything you say, Boss!”
“Bless you, Angel. Listen. You can get over to the Royale Apartments in a few minutes. The headquarters of the Red Five is on the top floor. I want you to watch that place. Trail anybody you see leaving the secret headquarters. If we can find out who the Red Five are, Angel, we’ll hold trump cards. But it’s dangerous—damn’ dangerous.”
“Never mind that, Boss!”
“Watch yourself, Angel.”
“Depend on me, Boss. I’m leaving now.”
Steve Thatcher hung up the receiver. For a moment he sat in the booth, white-faced, filled with anxiety. He remembered the brass image in Chief Thatcher’s desk—the metal face twisted into the horrible risor sardonicus of
lockjaw. He recalled the way Amos Colchester had died the month previous—in horrible agony. Ghastly death because he had dared defy the red-masked crooks.
“Angel,” Steve Thatcher moaned, “watch yourself!”
Chapter III
The Brass Horror
The imposing building of the Royale Apartments stood in the shadow of the city’s tallest skyscraper, the Apex Building. Tonight the street flanking it was deserted except for occasional passers-by. It was almost midnight when a young man went striding past the elaborate door of the apartment house, coat collar turned up and head lowered.
The brim of his hat shadowed his cauliflower ear. The tilt of his chin hid the fact that he had no neck.
Ned Dargan.
Dargan glanced into the lobby as he passed. It was quiet and empty. The grille of one of the elevators was standing open, and the operator was sitting inside it—a huge man with a brutal, apelike face. Trudging on, Dargan glanced up, toward the cornices. On the top floor curtained windows were glowing with soft light.
The headquarters of the Red Five was in use.
Dargan walked the length of the block, crossed the street, and turned. When he reached the lobby of the Apex Building he stepped inside it. He stood in the shadow of a pillar, peering across the street into the foyer of the Royale.
Long, empty minutes passed.
Then Dargan saw the brutelike elevator operator turn, step into the cage, and close the grille. Immediately Dargan darted out of the shadow and across the street. Quietly he stepped into the foyer and walked back to the elevator door.
Only one car was in use at this time of night. The indicator above the bronze panels was moving. Dargan watched it swing farther and farther as the car slid upward in the shaft. At last the needle paused, showing that the cage had stopped at the top floor of the building.
Dargan had learned what he had come to learn. Some one was coming down from the secret headquarters of the Red Five. He slipped out of the foyer quickly, recrossed the street, and ducked again into the shadow of the Apex entrance. Another long minute passed. Dargan could see the floor-indicator of the elevator moving again. Presently the grille opened, and a man stepped out.
He was a stocky man, dressed expensively. He walked out of the foyer and onto the sidewalk. Glancing right and left, he turned, striding briskly away. Dargan watched him alertly until he reached the next corner.
Then Dargan followed. Keeping to the opposite side of the street, eyes fast on the man who had left the headquarters of the Red Five, he quickly swung his short legs. He turned when his man turned, crossed, and eased closer.
So Dargan shadowed his quarry along two dark blocks. Then again the man turned past a corner. Dargan hurried. He reached the corner—and hesitated.
The sidewalk beyond was empty.
Dargan went on, eyes shifting right and left. He saw that there were no doorways along the first half of the block into which his man could have ducked. Two sedans were parked at the curb, but they seemed empty, and Dargan dared not move closer to peer into them. Anxiously he hurried on, to the next corner.
The intersecting street was also empty. Dargan’s quarry had vanished.
—
Covering his consternation by keeping on the move, Dargan turned back on the opposite side of the street. His shifting eyes found no answer to the disappearance of the man he had been following. Again, at the far corner, he turned back.
So he spent long moments, stealthily searching—and finding no sign of his quarry.
Quickly he went on, seething with disgust. He walked again past the front of the Apex Building, glancing toward the top floor of the Royale. Now the highest windows were dark.
“Nobody else there,” Dargan muttered.
Saying blasphemous things about himself as a shadower, he walked away. The room which he had rented under a false name was not far. He hurried toward it. Head still bent, scowling at his failure, he was not aware that, a block behind him, a man was following.
He was the expensively dressed man whom Dargan had been trailing—and now he was trailing Dargan.
Dargan reached the house in which he lived, climbed the steps, and pushed in without glancing back.
Three minutes later the expensively dressed man entered a cigar store a block away and sidled into a telephone booth. He called a number from memory. A voice answered:
“Oriental Importing Company.”
“Quintus calling.”
“Secundus. You may speak.”
“Leaving headquarters a few minutes ago, I was trailed by some one. I ducked into a parked car, and he lost me. I trailed him to his room. He lives there under the name of Sam Daniels.”
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know. He may be a detective. Possibly he’s one of our number. It does not matter. He has been indiscreet, and he may be dangerous.”
“I recommend action, Quintus.”
“I’ll take action—at once.”
The man who called himself Quintus—V of the Red Five—pronged the receiver. Immediately he called another number from memory. He talked quickly, in low tones that could not possibly carry through the double glass panels of the phone booth. When, a short minute later, he stepped out, his eyes were glittering grimly and his mouth was a thin, cruel line.
—
Ned Dargan climbed a flight of stairs. He inserted a key in the lock of a front room. He stepped in, clicking the light switch. He was in the act of flinging off his hat when his muscles froze.
A young man was seated in a chair beside the table—Steve Thatcher.
“Boss!”
Thatcher sprang up. “Angel, have you been on the job? What did you learn?”
Dargan made a disgusted noise. “Boss, I’m lousy. I spotted a guy coming out of the Royale, and lost him—lost him, damn it! I didn’t even get a good look at his face.”
“He learned you were following him?”
“I guess so,” Dargan moaned. “I had a swell chance to spot one of the Red Five, and I muffed it. But next time, Boss—next time I’ll hang on!”
Steve Thatcher’s eyes were narrowed and thoughtful. “I hope to God there’ll be a next time, Angel, but—Listen! You’ve got to move out of here. You’ve got to beat it—tonight.”
“What? Why, Boss?”
“Because it’s too dangerous to stay. You may’ve been spotted by the man you tried to follow. If you have been—Lord, Angel, do you realize what that means?”
“If anybody makes a pass at me,” Dargan threatened, doubling one huge fist, “I’ll—”
Steve Thatcher gestured impatiently. “You know what happened to Amos Colchester last month. You know how he died. Tetanus! Once the germs get into you, Angel, you’re lost. Any little scratch on the skin, even so small you wouldn’t notice it—and you’re done for. Nothing that doctors can do will stop the infection once it sets in. God, Angel, I don’t want that to happen to you!”
“Yeah, but—what about you, Boss? You’re in a damn’ sight tighter place than I—”
“Never mind that, Angel. Get your grip packed. Get out of this room tonight—now.”
“Boss, I’m not going to run out on you when—”
“You can take a room under another name in some other part of town, Angel. I tell you you’ve got to do it! If you’ve been spotted, it’s the only way—”
Steve Thatcher broke off as a knock sounded on the door. Ned Dargan turned sharply. His hand slipped toward his hip pocket, where an automatic nestled, as they peered at the panels. Thatcher quickly stepped close.
“Who’s there?”
“Western Union.”
Thatcher hesitated, frowning, then stepped back and gestured Dargan to answer the summons. Dargan, squaring his shoulders, turned the knob. His hand was still on his gun; but when he saw the uniformed boy outside, his fingers unflexed.
“Sure that’s for me?”
“Sam Daniels?”
Dargan peered at the small, square box in the boy�
��s hand. Quickly he signed, and took the parcel. He closed the door, heard the messenger going down the stairs, and looked up to find Steve Thatcher staring at him widely.
“Careful, Angel!”
Thatcher jerked gloves from his pocket and pulled them on. He took the box from Dargan’s blunt fingers and tore at the string. He ripped off the paper and lifted the cover. An inarticulate gasp broke through his lips as he peered at the thing inside.
It was the modeled brass head of a man, the eyes bulging, the lips drawn into a horrible grin—the grimace that denoted death by tetanus!
—
Dargan lifted horrified eyes to Steve Thatcher’s face. Thatcher recoiled from the box, and blurted:
“It’s their—warning!”
“Gosh, Boss! They have spotted me!”
Thatcher’s face was deathly white. “Angel, put on gloves—quick!” As Dargan complied with alacrity, Thatcher strode to the window and looked out upon the empty street. Quickly he drew the shade. “Don’t touch anything—not anything you can avoid touching. Don’t even pack now, Angel.”
“Gosh, Boss, I—”
“There might be a pin somewhere in your stuff. A pin dipped in bacilli tetani and placed so that it’ll prick you. That would be enough, Angel. Come on—we’re going.”
Dargan muttered angrily. “Okay, Boss, I’ll beat it. But you can’t come with me. What if somebody saw us leaving together? They’d know then that you’re working with me—and you’d get one of those ugly brass heads yourself!”
“I’m taking that chance. I’m going with you, Angel, because it’s up to me to see that you get out of here safe. Grab that hat, and come on!”
Steve Thatcher stepped to the hallway door and inched it open. Dargan shouldered beside him as he stepped out. The corridor was silent and empty. They went down the steps together, alert, tense.
At the outer door Thatcher paused, listening. He turned his coat collar up, pulled his hat brim down. He twisted the knob, glanced out, and stepped across the sill.
“Grab the first taxi you see, Angel. Better stay at some hotel tonight. Tomorrow find another room. Get yourself all new clothes, and let me know—”