The New Adventures of Lynn Lash

by Andrew Salmon

  The Countess gazed in triumph at what she had wrought and, in that split second, Lash acted. He reached into his pocket and, by the time the Countess had returned her attention to him, Lash held the small metal flask he had retrieved from the pinstriped goon.

  Lash held the flask as the engines raged below him and the wind whipped across his brow. He gazed at the Countess, unblinking.

  He unscrewed the cap.

  Throwing caution to the wind, The Countess stepped out of the viewing chamber, her red hair snapping in the breeze. She aimed her gun at Lash. As she did so, Lash tipped the flask at a severe angle, just a fraction of an inch from emptying its contents.

  “Contained in this flask is my life’s work. I’ve protected it all the way from New York for a contingency such as this. If you shoot me, or if you do not do exactly as I say, I empty the contents into that flaming mess below, and heaven help any of us if that happens.”

  Casey gazed up from where he stood, protectively poised in front of Dr. Lemm. He shouted upward. “He’s not bluffing, Cromwell!”

  The Countess glanced down at Casey, then looked to Lash, and the scientific detective tipped the flask a few degrees more toward the horizontal. She gazed into Lash’s eyes, and to her, the Abyss gazed back.

  Then her face fell; she dropped her weapon, which clattered on the metal walkway, and she thumbed the red switch once more. The enormous engines groaned, but calmed and eventually fell silent. Then she dropped the controller, and it, too, fell 200 hundred feet, dropping into the English Channel far below them.

  She cast her eyes to her feet and glanced back at the viewing chamber. If she could get inside, the two sides would be at an impasse.

  But Casey was too fast for that. He immediately climbed up the steps, kicked the weapon away, and bound The Countess’ arms before she could escape to safety. Lash recapped the flask, tucking it back into his hip pocket. Then he leapt down to the level below and gathered Linda Lemm into his arms, enjoying a long-delayed embrace.

  Chapter Nine

  The Cruise

  “Well, Lash?” Casey asked as they sat on the deck of the ocean liner. They’d agreed to take a leisurely journey back to the United States as celebration for a job well done. Dr. Lemm had pulled a few strings to convince The Prime Minister to call the police commissioner and forgive Casey’s leave of absence. Now he was enjoying a gin and tonic and watching the sun set over the Atlantic.

  “Well, what, Casey?” The scientific detective was using the fading rays of the sunlight to read some newspaper or another. That was Lynn Lash – always learning.

  “Where to start? How about this? You sent Rickey and Red home on the first plane, yet you bought Dr. Linda Lemm a ticket to join us on this steamer.”

  “And?” asked Lash, the epitome of coy.

  “And, Lash, I demand to know your intentions with the lady!”

  The scientific detective did not even raise his eye from the newspaper. “She’ll be conducting a lecture at Columbia about the properties of Mannite. I’ve arranged everything. And, if she chooses, I presume they would be able to find a teaching position for her.”

  “But what about this voyage, Lash? Surely there is romance in the air?”

  He lowered the paper and glared at the policeman. “Is that all you have for me, Casey? I have research to conduct, you know.”

  Casey shook his head. “Well, then? What about Clara and the others?”

  “Phillips and Washington will return to their posts, slightly traumatized but none the worse for wear. The girl, though, will never work with any scientist of note ever again.”

  “She got off easy. She hit me on the head! She should be in jail.” Lash said nothing, so Casey continued. “One final question, then, Lash. Were you really going to blow yourself – and all of us -- up in order to stop the launch of the Countess’ satellite machine?”

  “You saw for yourself that the Countess’ own self destruct mechanism took care of eliminating the danger for good. It destroyed the prototype rocket and the satellite, plus all of the research. And I was pleased that when Red and Ricky saw the conflagration on the upper level, they were smart enough to radio to the navy for backup. I imagine the British government has a laundry list of charges against each and every member of the Countess’ crew, her most of all.”

  Lash closed the paper he was reading and turned to Casey. “I suppose someone will buy that fortress, perhaps turn it into a resort in a time of peace, but for now, well, the Countess can try to save herself. Perhaps the sale can pay for her barrister fees.”

  “You know what I mean, Lash! Up there, on the scaffold, you were willing to take that explosive you’ve been carrying this whole time – endangering us all, by the way – and blow yourself and the Countess to high heaven – not to mention me!”

  And then, Lash did something entirely unexpected. He smiled.

  He pulled the infamous flask from out of his jacket and unscrewed the top. “Oh, you mean this? My greatest experiment?”

  Casey recoiled a bit from the deadly liquid and nodded uneasily. He hoped Lash had steady hands.

  And then Lash’s steady hands brought the flask to his lips and he took a swig.

  Casey leapt from his seat and let out a gasp, flinching, not sure what to expect.

  What he did not anticipate was a deep, throaty laugh from Lash.

  “’Twas a bluff, my friend!” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and proffered the flash to Casey. “This is my greatest invention.” He nodded, gesturing for Casey to drink.

  The liquid passed his lips. It was warm and tasted like…

  “Apple Pie. Truly my finest creation. I’m also working on Red Velvet and Araby Spice. I imagine applications involving ice cream, but who knows? But the Countess had no way of knowing it was merely an artificial flavor and not a deadly explosive.”

  Casey sat back in his deck chair with an overwhelming sense of relief. “It’s quite possible you’re mad, you know that, Lash?”

  The scientific detective cocked his head to the side for a moment, as if considering the question. “Perhaps I am, Casey.” He paused. “Maybe something in more of a mocha?”

  And the two men laughed heartily as the sun set over the North Atlantic.

  END

  THE PROMETHEUS EFFECT

  By Teel James Glenn

  Prologue

  Horror in the Harbor

  There are those that say the Staten Island Ferry is the biggest bargain in New York City. There tourists and visitors can see the whole of the city laid out before them in a panoramic sweep for only a nickel.

  The ferry departs Manhattan from the Staten Island Ferry Whitehall Terminal at the very southern tip of Manhattan to arc across the harbor, turning to glide past the majestic Statue of Liberty and dock at the St. George Ferry Terminal on Richmond Terrace on Staten Island. The trip takes about twenty minutes. Service is provided 24 hours a day, 365 days a year as reliable and on time as a Swiss watch or the Brooklyn Dodgers.

  Considering the thousands and thousands of trips it made, the ferry had a remarkable record of safety, until a warm summer afternoon in 1933 when hell came to New York Harbor in the form of a cloud.

  There were only a few fluffy clouds hanging lazily in the clear blue when the ferry Grant Stockbridge pulled out of the slip at Battery Park headed across the calm waters. There were 800 passengers and 25 crew on board and twenty cars in the lower deck, one of which was a private ambulance.

  In the wheelhouse Captain Jay Roman smoked a pipe while humming softly to himself. He watched the harbor ahead of him with eyes that had traveled the same course for ten years, literally thousands of times, yet he never found it dull. There was the routine, of course, but New York Harbor was always alive with shipping and even occasionally flotsam that crossed the path of the ferry.

  On the passenger decks the locals much ignored the passing spectacle of the panoramic view in favor of reading newspapers and pulp magazines or nodding off for a little afternoon sh
ut eye. The tourists were at the rails, ogling at the splendor of the Big Apple.

  One person who fit into neither group was Professor Arron Alters. He was a grey haired figure in an ill-fitting suit that stood nervously near the stern of the ship on the car deck, looking back toward Manhattan. Pacing with him were two men in tailored suits who kept glancing around at the other passengers. One of them carried a brown leather briefcase, a silvered handcuff bracelet securing it to his left wrist.

  “Professor,” one of the men, a clean-cut man in his twenties, said. “There is nothing to worry about; we have secret service agents on each deck. You are perfectly safe.”

  “Easy for you to say, young man,” the professor said. “The papers your friend has in that case are the result of several colleagues’ sacrifices. It could be the key to making my discovery a viable deterrent weapon for our government.”

  “I understand, Sir,” the man said, “ which is why we were all assigned to you and will stay with you when you return to your laboratory at Sailor Snug Harbor until you finish your work and are ready to move it to Washington.”

  The elder man seemed to sag inside a little bit. “Yes, moving to Washington. I suppose that will be best; but I have become quite a creature of habit; I like my little refuge on the island.” He leaned against the stern railing and looked out. His face lit in a ghost of a smile.

  “It was all so much simpler when my work was theoretical, you know, Agent Hancock? Before your friend Mister Fortier had to carry my secrets in that case chained to his wrist. Then it was like looking at clouds as a child, seeing shapes in them, dragons and such.” He shielded his eyes from the glare of the afternoon sun off the water and glanced up at a full cloud.

  “That one, for instance,” he continued. “So dark and ominous on this clear day; but its shape could be a battleship or perhaps an ancient fortress with its dark protrusions.” He scratched his wrist. It was suddenly itchy. “Yes,” he continued, “it was all so much simpler when the world was still horrified by the Great War and thoughts of another were too terrible to contemplate. Now, it seems the mind of man which thirsts for struggle is reasserting itself.”

  The clean cut Agent Hancock moved to stand beside the scientist. “I agree, Sir, that it would be a better world if cloud gazing only brought on elephants and castles, but you yourself saw a battleship in that one. Men’s minds are not the problem; great minds like yours will always dream and improve the world. It is men’s hearts that are flawed and turn them to evil.” He rubbed his neck in a self-conscious gesture that became more insistent until he placed both hands to rub.

  “Your words are kind, young man,” the professor said. “But my guilt for conceiving this thing I have is only assuaged by knowing our government would never-“ He rubbed his wrist again and now found himself scratching up his forearm. He looked up at the agent with a look of astonishment on his face.

  “What is it, Professor?” Hancock asked. He was now almost clawing at his neck where the skin itched.

  The scientist in answer pointed back toward the car deck of the boat. People were exiting their vehicles and each one of them seemed to be preoccupied with scratching or rubbing some part of their anatomy. Some were frantic in their movements, twisting and writhing with the desperation of a person fighting off a swarm of bees.

  “What is it?” Hancock repeated. He was pulling at his tie now to loosen the knot and opening his shirt to rake his fingernails across his neck and shoulders. His fellow Fed also evidenced discomfort and the two men exchanged puzzled and worried looks.

  The same scene was playing out across the ferry. Everywhere the passengers and crew were squirming and wriggling in discomfort that quickly became pain. Cries of “What is happening,” and “I’m on fire!” The efforts of the victims to find relief grew more extreme as the pain became agony for many. Some tore their clothes off to let air at the site of the annoyance. Some splashed water or soda pop on the spots to address their distress.

  In the wheelhouse Captain Roman’s skin felt as if it had been dipped in boiling oil. He clawed at his uniform tunic and tried to keep his concentration on steering the vessel at the same time. Even his eyes felt rubbed raw as if he had been staring into the sun. After a while, the captain could not see at all, but he knew The Grant Stockbridge was approaching the slip at St. George and he had to reverse engines or the ferry would slam into the piers with deadly force

  The screams of those on the ferry were deafening now. Men, women and children crying in confused horror, tearing at their own flesh in a quest for surcease of their suffering. Some flung themselves over the side of the boat in a desperate attempt to ease the agony and put out the imagined fires they felt. Many drowned from their efforts, exchanging prolonged agony for a short but hideous alternative.

  On the aft car deck Professor Arron Alters tugged at his jacket to rub his skin but his concern was for those around him. He turned to the two Federal men and said, “Someone has done it! They have the Exciter; it’s The Prometheus Effect!”

  The two Secret Service agents writhed on the deck while the scientist forced himself upright, his burning eyes watering, and groped along the railing. “I have to tell someone!” he cried out to no one in particular.

  The professor had not gone five feet before he was presented with a new horror; a figure lumbered toward him through the rows of cars. It was a man swathed from head to foot in gauze bandages and carrying a red fire axe taken from the wall of the ship.

  The shambling figure was doubled over and seemed incapable of walking in a straight line, but he came inexorably at the professor with the axe raised.

  Alters, who could barely see by this time for the burning sensation in his eyes, tried to back away from the mummy-like apparition. His legs failed him and he fell.

  “No!” Agent Hancock cried. The suffering Federal agent forced himself to his hands and knees and tried to crawl to his charge. He pulled his pistol from his shoulder holster but the contact with the metal of the weapon was like grabbing a hot iron and he dropped the gun.

  The shambling figure came on until he stood over the fallen scientist. He raised the axe just as the ferry slammed into the pilings of the St. George landing at flank speed with the force of an explosion and a chorus of horrified screams.

  Few noticed the dark grey lonely cloud as it slowly drifted north away from the scene of horror, blood and chaos and those that didn’t and couldn’t care anymore.

  Chapter One

  Look Who Makes House Calls…

  Lynn Lash was in his private laboratory on the twentieth floor of an exclusive building on Fifth Avenue when his secretary Rickey Dean put through an important phone call from his old newspaperman friend Al Cord. It was not a social call.

  “It’s a big scoop, Lynn,” the deep voiced Cord said. “You have to get down to Battery Park right away; a ferry has crashed!”

  “That’s terrible,” the lanky criminologist said, “but how can I be of use? The fire department, the police and Coast Guard are certainly responding.”

  “And the Secret Service,” the reporter interrupted. “Not to mention the local D.O.I. boys are all scrambling to get there. My pal at the Staten Island Advance is on the scene and says there is something very wrong with this; it’s not a normal nautical crash. Also there was some big wig named Alters on the ferry and-“

  “Professor Arron Alters?” Lash asked. His high tanned forehead wrinkled in concern. He set down the beaker of chemicals he was working on and started to remove his work apron.

  “Yes,” Al Cord said. “I think that was his name. Anyway- the Secret Service boys were attacked in some way, but I don’t have much else.”

  Lash turned off the Bunsen burner and set his beaker aside as he spoke. “I’ll meet you at Battery Park in fifteen minutes, Al. I’ll have Rickey radio ahead to have a speedboat waiting for us. ”

  The laboratory, a converted apartment covering several large rooms, was actually several different laboratories, each devoted
to one of the disciplines the ace criminologist studied. He rolled down the sleeves on his white shirt, then went to a clothes hook on the wall from where he removed a leather double shoulder holster. He checked the two .38 caliber pistols, then donned a dark suit jacket that was so well tailored that neither gun showed.

  Lash went straight to the secret elevator across the laboratory that led to the fifth floor office that most people thought was his real sanctum. The elevator disgorged him into a small sham laboratory that was a mirror-in-miniature of his upstairs lab. Once there Lash flicked a switch that brought a small television to life. The screen showed the outer office where his ever efficient secretary-girl Friday Rickey Dean sat at her desk doing paperwork.

  “All looks normal,” Lash thought. “Good,’ he said aloud. Then he hit an intercom switch. “Hi, Rickey,” Lash said. “Thanks for sending through that rush call from Al. There has been some sort of disaster down at South Ferry. Call Red and tell him to get the car ready to roll, and then see if you can get Captain Collins to loan me a speed boat to get to Staten Island.”

  The criminologist was already darting purposely around his lab and had secured a small suitcase that contained his general investigation kit. “Stay by the radio-phone, I may have you bring something down once I know the nature of things.”

  The lanky scientist was at the door now and he tripped a magnetic lock so that the portal swung open. “Any other calls while I was upstairs?” Lynn asked as he strode across the small outer office to the electric water fountain where he took a long cool drink. He watched the bubbles in the large glass water tank as he bent down almost double because of his height with his mind already going through many possible scenarios that could cause a ferry to crash.