by R. A. Jones
He triggered the odd device and with a chuff of air it quietly sent a heavy bolt flying straight and true. The pointed end of the bolt penetrated several inches into the masonry of the hotel. In the next instant, barbed tines shot outward from the tip, anchoring the bolt solidly.
A slender but incredibly strong rope was attached to the opposite end of the bolt, and the line was long enough to extend all the way back to the rooftop from which it had been launched.
The killers secured their end of the line to the protruding shaft of an air vent. The leader of the assassins grabbed the line with both hands and swung out into open space from the roof. The slender rope easily held his weight, and he began to swiftly cross the gap between the two buildings one hand at a time. Once he was approximately five yards along, a second assassin followed him, then the next and the next.
Had any of the security guards patrolling the grounds outside the hotel thought to look up, they would have easily spotted the dark figures dangling from the line. But as expected, their attention and their eyes were focused around them, not above them.
By the time the sixth and final killer reached the hotel end of the line and dropped on cat feet to the balcony directly below, the first assassin had succeeded in picking the lock on the double doors that opened up on the suite within, the one in which the royal couple slumbered.
Entering the room in a tight bunch, the assassins each pulled from their sashes a wicked dagger. The wavy blades of the knives were fully six inches long, double-edged and razor sharp. Spreading out only slightly, they crept silently toward their intended targets.
“Don’t you know it’s in poor taste to enter a lady’s boudoir without knocking?”
The quiet killers spun in surprise at the sound of the voice coming from behind them. They froze in their tracks, staring in amazement at a most unexpected sight.
A man was standing in the open doorway of the balcony, casually leaning against its frame with his arms folded over his chest. At first glance, his appearance called to mind that of some 17th century swashbuckler.
Dressed in bright colors, his tight breeches were tucked into the top of sleek cavalry boots and held up by a broad belt. His tunic appeared to be made of silk, with puffy, flowing sleeves that buttoned tightly at the wrists, and an open front laced with thong.
The upper half of his face and head was covered by a skullcap type mask that was tied behind and left two flowing tails. If the assassins had been both American and habitués of the cinema, they might have noted its resemblance to the mask worn by Douglas Fairbanks in “The Mark of Zorro”.
Even more puzzling than either his inexplicable presence or his rather garish manner of dress was the fact that he was smiling rakishly as if in anticipation of some great fun.
Each of the killers was trained to move with the speed of a striking viper, but they were caught flat-footed when the interloper straightened and launched himself in an arcing leap toward them.
Executing a faultless somersault in mid-air, he landed feet first in their midst, scattering them like bowling pins.
Quickly rebounding to their feet, they came at him with swift precision. Yet they were not prepared to face an opponent who was even faster.
The masked man caught the wrist of one assassin as he lunged forward with his dagger. Squeezing tightly, he was rewarded by the sound of bone being crushed. To his credit, the killer made no outcry of pain, even when the swashbuckler lifted him off the ground and swung him violently into one of the other killers.
The masked man jerked his upper body back, saw sparks fly as blades thrust at him from opposite directions struck only each other. He pivoted on his right foot and lashed out with a roundhouse left. A jawbone broke beneath the impact of his fist and an assailant dropped as if he had been pole-axed.
Spinning around in the same motion, the swashbuckler’s enhanced vision saw another deadly blade coming toward his chest. His left hand swept up and around, knocking aside the thrust. He then stepped in close to his assailant and brought a right fist down on the man’s hooded head like a hammer.
The next killer tried to employ the method that had worked so well and so smoothly for him on the rooftop guard. With smooth efficiency he looped the wire of the garrote over the masked man’s head and pulled back sharply. He smiled with satisfaction as he felt the wire grow taut after coming in contact with the intended victim’s throat.
The smile faded almost instantly, however. Experienced as he was, he could tell by touch the feel of the wire as it began to slice its way into human flesh. He felt no such sensation now; it was more as if he had looped his wicked wire around a wooden post rather than yielding skin and sinew.
The swashbuckler brought both hands back over his shoulders, grabbing his attacker. Bending forward swiftly, he lifted the assailant off the floor and sent him flying across the room to slam into a wall near the bed of the royal couple.
Down on one knee, the masked man swiveled around. He saw the shadowy form of the sixth assassin, crouched and moving cautiously toward him.
He laughed shortly and launched himself forward. He grabbed the hooded killer by both wrists and began to push him backwards. The assassin was unable to match his strength and was helpless to prevent himself from being slammed into the wall behind him.
The swashbuckler pulled him forward, then shoved him back again. This time, the killer’s head banged against the wall and he dropped limply to the floor.
That’s when the lights came on.
“Don’t move!” an official sounding voice called out.
Half a dozen armed security men came pouring into the room, pistols cocked and aimed directly at the colorful character who now stood perfectly still in the center of the chamber. His open hands were held out to the sides and he was smiling at them.
His head tilted downward and their eyes unconsciously followed. The floor all about him was littered with the stunned bodies of six black-garbed intruders.
Only there weren’t six. With the lights on, the masked man now saw there were only five men on the floor. The sixth killer, the one who had fallen near the bed of the king and queen, was gone.
Seeing the suddenly serious expression cross the masked man’s face, one of the younger security guards feared this meant he intended to resist them. His gun had lowered along with his eyes, but now he snapped it back up and drew a fresh bead on the center of the stranger’s chest.
“S-Stop!”
At this slightly stuttered command, all heads turned to see the king standing beside his bed, cinching the belt on his royal purple dressing gown. The queen stood behind and slightly to one side of him, peering around his shoulder to intently study the masked man.
“Stay back, your highness,” the chief of the guards warned.
“Don’t be silly,” the monarch harrumphed. “If this gentleman … by the way, who is this gentleman?”
“I’d be pleased if you’d call me ‘Man of War’, your majesty,” the man replied, in a voice that was clearly American. The smile had returned to his face and he bowed at the waist, gesturing broadly with both arms.
“A pleasure,” the king replied. “If this gentleman had wished us any harm, I daresay he’d have simply allowed these other ruffians to have their way with us.”
“Maybe that was just part of his plan,” the guard groused.
“I d-doubt it,” Edward sniffed.
“No. Their purpose in being here seems quite clear to me. They’re assassins. They meant to kill us in our sleep, quite possibly as a means to sow distrust between Britain and the Americas … at the very time when we need to be the most steadfast for each other.”
“It occurs to me there’s one sure way to find out what they intended,” Man of War said, gesturing toward the fallen killers.
“Let’s ask them.”
“I intend to do just that,” the head guard said gruffly. “And to question you as well.”
Suddenly, all five men began to twist and jerk convulsively
on the floor, their bodies dancing about as if demon possessed.
Man of War and the head guard both dashed to kneel beside one of the intruders. The masked American snatched off the black hood covering the assassin’s head and grimaced.
The man’s dark features were twisted, his eyes rolled out of sight. He was making choking, gagging sounds, and white foam flecked with blood was bubbling out of his mouth. He bounced off the floor twice more, then went completely limp.
“He’s dead,” the guard hissed. “Poisoned!”
His head snapped to the side; his fellow officers were likewise kneeling beside the other intruders. Each was now plainly dead; each still had foam oozing from his mouth.
Looking back, the guard saw that the masked man was no longer beside him. Rising and turning in a single motion, he again raised his gun, only to lower it just as quickly.
Man of War, arms akimbo, was standing in front of the queen with his back to her, clearly attempting to shield her eyes from the grotesque sight of the bubbling death claiming all her assailants.
“Cover them up, lads,” the guard ordered his men.
“I don’t suppose you’re going to pop a cyanide capsule, are you?” he asked, taking two slow strides toward Man of War.
“And miss all the fun? I wouldn’t dream of it!”
“What kind o’ nasty bugger are you?” the security man demanded. “And more important – what do you know about this plot to kill their majesties?”
“I know many things, friend,” Man of War replied, smiling and winking slyly at the befuddled guard.
Before anyone could react, Man of War spun around and took hold of the hand of the startled queen.
“Always at your service, ma’am,” he purred.
Flashing a winning smile, he brought her hand up and lightly kissed her fingers. Her free hand flew to her throat and her eyes grew wide as she gasped audibly.
Man of War then executed a series of flashing back flips that carried him across the suite and tumbling through the window and out of sight before a single guard could raise a finger to stop him.
“Oh, d-d-dear!” the king stammered.
“What a nice young man,” the queen said breathlessly, staring intently at the hand he had kissed and wiggling her fingers slightly.
“Maybe not so nice, your majesty,” said the head of the security detail. He was now standing near the queen’s nightstand, upon the top of which she had carelessly left several articles of jewelry before retiring.
“Would you mind checking to make sure all your jewelry is still here?”
Her majesty did as he asked, moving to the table and waving a finger about in the air as she counted her jewels; then seemed to count them again.
“If I’m not mistaken,” she said at last, “one of my rings is missing.”
“I’m not surprised,” the guard grunted. “In all the excitement, the Yank must have snatched it.”
“Oh, that doesn’t seem likely,” she quickly replied. “As I said, he was such a nice young man!”
Her husband brought his hand to his mouth to stifle a slight cough, and to hide a slight smile.
“But even if he did,” the queen continued, ignoring her spouse, “he got precious little for his efforts. Oh, the ring was very old, to be sure, but not nearly so valuable as the jewelry that was left behind.”
Her brow knit, and she stared again at the hand the mystery man had kissed.
“And now that I think about it, he himself was wearing a rather interesting ring. It looked to be made of steel.”
At the mention of this, the king stiffened almost imperceptibly. He moved in front of his wife, placing his hands protectively on her arms.
“Well, even if the chap did take it,” he said, leaning forward and kissing his wife softly atop her head, “he’s welcome to it. It’s small reward for a man who q-quite likely saved your life, my dear.”
“Oh, I agree whole-heartedly, darling,” she said, smiling warmly up at him.
The king turned from her to face his slightly baffled guards.
“Prepare another room for us at once,” he commanded, with no hint of a stutter.
“And see that this is removed,” he said, waving dismissively in the direction of the fallen assassins.
“At once, your majesty,” the head guard said. “And I’ll double the guard as well.”
In the quiet inner courtyard of an abandoned apartment complex a quarter of a mile east of the hotel, the masked man called the Clock waited patiently.
He heard what sounded like a whisper on the wind, and Man of War hurtled down to land in a soft crouch before him.
Straightening, the swashbuckler swept off his skullcap mask, revealing the face of Clay Carter.
So much had happened so quickly, he thought, since he had awakened in the ruins of the ancient Roman temple in Spain. Not only was his wound miraculously healed, but he also found himself fueled with more strength and energy than he had ever known before, even while competing in the Olympics.
He’d experienced no difficulty at all completing his journey into the safe confines of France. It was there that he had been approached by the Clock (who somehow knew exactly where he would be, explaining that the secret society to which he belonged had been “keeping an eye” on Carter) and recruited to become a member of the Steel Ring.
Dropping the devil-may-care façade that seemed appropriate for his masked persona, he succinctly reported all that had just transpired, including the escape of one of the assassins, along with the queen’s ring.
“Then I’m afraid our mission was only half successful, Clay,” the Clock declared grimly.
And half a mile in the opposite direction, the lone surviving assassin came to a brief halt atop yet another building.
Reaching into a felt pouch attached to his waist, he pulled out the ring he had purloined. He held it up to let it catch the moonlight, slowly turning it so as to intently study it from every possible angle.
He could discern nothing at all that might be special about it.
But his was not to think overmuch on such things, so he dropped the ring back in his pouch before setting off again.
The assignment of killing the British royal couple had been a failure – but the hooded assassin knew the prime objective had been to secure the ring, and in that they had succeeded admirably.
He was sure none of his fellow assassins remained alive to be questioned, just as he was sure he would have given his own life had he been captured.
But he had not been, and he was returning now with the prize.
His master would be pleased.
CHAPTER XIV
June 15, 1939
The last thing the organizers of the New York World’s Fair wanted to hear was that it was haunted.
The idea for the World’s Fair had originated with a group of retired New York City police officers, who hoped this grand undertaking would help in some measure to lift the city and the country up from the still gloomy depths of the Great Depression that had hectored the world for the past decade.
If it could be said to have one overarching theme, it would be summed up simply in the word “hope”. Proclaiming its slogan as the “Dawn of a New Day”, the fair hoped to lure in visitors with its promise of a glimpse at “the World of Tomorrow”.
The beginning of the fair was set to correspond with the 150th anniversary of George Washington’s first inauguration as President of the United States. It had been unseasonably warm on that Sunday of April 30th, 1939, when the Grand Opening had been held, but that hadn’t stopped a crowd in excess of 200,000 people from being on hand.
President Franklin Roosevelt delivered the opening day address, and his speech had been broadcast over all the various radio networks. More amazingly, actual moving images of the speech had been transmitted using a fledgling technology being called television. The NBC network had used the event to inaugurate what it hoped would become regularly scheduled television broadcasts in New York City
via their W2XBS station.
It was estimated that as many as a thousand people had been able to view the President’s speech over the some 200 television sets in New York.
Other luminaries gave speeches on that opening day, including the eminent scientist Albert Einstein, who spoke of something he called “cosmic rays”.
Among the Fair’s many attractions were great works of art, a copy of the Magna Carta on loan from Lincoln Cathedral in England, a novelty called Smell-O-Vision and a walking, talking, 7-foot-tall robot called Elektro.
Frank Buck, the famous African explorer, had set up “Frank Buck’s Jungleland”, displaying a wide variety of exotic animals such as elephants, orangutans and an 80-foot-tall “monkey mountain”. Especially popular with the kids were his camel rides.
At the IBM Pavilion, visitors saw demonstrations of electric typewriters and an incredible machine called “the electric calculator”.
The Firestone Tire exhibit, oddly enough, was used to display the popular pygmy hippopotamus Billy, who had been a pet of President Calvin Coolidge.
Not surprisingly, it had been the so-called “Amusement Area” that tended to draw the largest and most enthusiastic crowds.
Among its attractions were a roller coaster, the LifeSavers parachute jump and carnival acts that included a troupe of performing midgets.
The Billy Rose Aquacade was housed in an amphitheater that would seat 10,000 spectators at a time. A live orchestra played in synch to cascades of water being pumped through the venue at a rate of 8,000 gallons per minute. Johnny Weissmuller himself, “Tarzan” of the motion pictures, performed in one of the aquatic shows.
Price of admission was eighty cents.
A number of the entertainments offered at the Fair were little more than girlie shows, including the Dream of Venus Building, the Living Picture and the provocative Frozen Alive Girl.
A number of prominent politicians decried and denounced such “low minded entertainment”, and the NYPD Vice Squad had already raided more than one such show.