The Pulp Hero Page 7

  “Yes, sir.”

  McManus ducked low and sped back into the penthouse like a flitting streak in the sunshine. Lacy lifted his head cautiously above the palisade. He kept his gun out of sight. His voice was calmly persuasive.

  “Listen, Caxton! You’re cornered! You can’t possibly get away alive if you jump in that crazy harness. Listen to me! If you surrender—”

  A bullet ripped the air above his head and he heard Caxton jeer.

  “Why don’tcha come and get me if I’m cornered?”

  “Don’t be foolish, Caxton! I promise you that—”

  The glaring traitor emptied his pistol with blind hate at the pleading face above him. He threw the useless weapon away. Lacy sprang to his feet in time to see the man’s right hand clutch stiffly at his chest and stay there.

  With wide open and bulging eyes Caxton threw himself headlong backward into space.

  In spite of his iron nerve the major shuddered.

  “Good God!” he breathed. He watched.

  Caxton’s plunging body whirled over and over like a twisting dummy. He dwindled with appalling swiftness to a distant dot. Down, down. Suddenly a tiny flick of white flashed from the dot. Far below in the dizzy depths the pilot chute ripped open a huge spinning parasol. Down toward the cluttered street dropped man and parachute.

  “Cold guts!” Lacy shrugged. “The fellow couldn’t have been ten stories high when the thing opened…”

  For some queer reason he thought of him as “the fellow”—not Caxton. His eyes stayed glued on the falling figure and his brain buzzed with the mystery of the man’s inexplicable and treacherous behavior. What was the secret of the Ace’s power? To reach calmly into the heart of the major’s loyal organization and corrupt a steady-going and dependable marine… It was uncanny. It made Lacy’s head reel.

  He saw the jumper land in the center of the street on the tiny car-tracks and lie there for a moment. It must have been a terrific jarring impact in spite of the opened chute. A trolley car stopped short. People were flooding into the street in swarms, a black outpouring like ants—hundreds of them!

  In the very center of the milling crowd the man on the car-track was up on his feet, slashing at the cords of the billowing chute that flapped on the pavement like a shrunken mushroom.

  A small blue-clad ant pushed through the press of people. That would be a cop! The crowd fell back and Lacy could make out the two men shoving back and forth. They seemed to be arguing. Caxton handed the policeman something. The cop was looking it over. His hand stayed on the jumper’s shoulder.

  Suddenly, with a twist and a wrench, Caxton fled. From his perch on the penthouse terrace Lacy could see him edging swiftly through the excited mob like a cork in a millrace. Then he lost sight of him entirely.

  So did the cop, apparently. The cop stopped short and stared up at the cloud scraping the pinnacle of the building. The faces massed about him lifted too, a sudden white foam on the blackish sea of humanity.

  The cop pushed his way across the sidewalk toward the building entrance.

  “Damnation!” thought the major fretfully. “This is going to be rather awkward.”

  The staff officers of Amusement, Inc. were grouped behind him on the terrace. Charlie Weaver, with his spare, nervous little body and his crab-apple face. He looked like an inoffensive insurance broker and wore the congressional medal of honor. Pat Harrigan, grinning coldly, his red hair tumbled like a torch in the wind. Ed Corning, big and lazy and silent. All three of them were tested friends of the major and active participants in the secret war on crime that began on that solemn night when Amusement, Inc. was born.

  They looked astonished and uneasy. Behind them a handful of men with glistening rifles stood stolidly waiting for further orders.

  “Captain Weaver!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Have the men rack their guns and get out of sight. Remove the sentry from guard duty in the entrance foyer. Batten everything down snugly. There’ll probably be a patrolman up here in a moment or two, damn it all.”

  Weaver issued an order and the men vanished at a swift trot.

  Lacy swung around to Corning and Harrigan. In the absence of subordinates his usually crisp voice softened and became human and friendly.

  “Ed, you and Pat will have to work fast too. Poor Sergeant Hogan’s got a .45 slug in him. He’s on the floor in the library. Get him out of sight at once and fix a temporary dressing on the wound. Smuggle him down to the basement garage. Have Dillon drive him to the private hospital on West End Avenue. Tell Dr. Barton I’ll call him later. Same arrangements as usual. No record of admission, no publicity.”

  “Okay, Jack.”

  He turned away but Harrigan lingered a moment. The big Irishman grinned.

  “I saw McManus high-tailing it for the elevator before the guy jumped. If Mac trails him to wherever he’s going, do you think there’s a chance we’ll lock horns with the Ace, Jack?”

  “I shouldn’t be at all surprised, Pat.”

  “God be praised for that,” Harrigan said softly. “I’m plenty tired of chewin’ oats in me stall. You think the Ace is behind all this?”

  Lacy chuckled. A dry, mirthless sound.

  “I shouldn’t be at all surprised, Pat,” he repeated tonelessly. “I intend to find out. I don’t like treachery any more than you do.”

  He smote Pat’s shoulder. His eyes went distant and frosty. “Shove off! Get back from the hospital as soon as you can. War conference in the library as soon as we can get together without interruption.” Harrigan hurried off and the major shrugged and stood watching the turmoil in the distant street. Finally he crossed the terrace, stepped through the French windows and closed them behind him with a calm methodical precision.

  Except for himself the library was empty. The bleeding sergeant was gone.

  Lacy selected an expensive Havana special from an inlaid box, snipped the end with finicky care, applied flame to the weed.

  He was in his leather armchair, one leg crossed comfortably over the other, when Hawkins knocked softly and entered.

  Hawkins was Lacy’s butler, his most prized bit of loot from the late war. He had won Hawkins’ service at cards at one of those wild weekend parties in London that followed the armistice. Hawkins had been with Lacy ever since. He was a heavy featured, soft spoken man with a faint hint of the military under his discreet servant’s bearing. Since the formation of Amusement, Inc., Hawkins had seen many queer things. He had even, on one memorable occasion, pumped bullets side by side with Lacy; but even then his eyebrows never lifted. Always the correct gentleman’s gentleman. That was Hawkins to a “T.”

  He coughed slightly. “Beg pardon, sir.”

  “Yes? What is it?”

  “A gentleman—or rather, a person, sir. A uniformed policeman. Wants to see you immediately. He seems rather upset, if I may say so.”

  “Dear me. A policeman, eh? Send him in.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Hawkins bowed woodenly. If Lacy had said: “Shoot the policeman and shove him down the incinerator shaft,” Hawkins would have bowed just as formally, and obeyed the order.

  The cop came in with a heavy tread and a growling voice. “What the hell’s going on in this joint, anyway?”

  He stopped short as he caught sight of the magnificently furnished library and the fastidious gentleman seated calmly before the crackling fireplace. The cop’s eyes were sullen and angry in a big raw-boned face.

  Tattersall Lacy kept his legs crossed. He feathered the ash from his cigar into a shallow lacquered tray at his elbow. It was a lazy, indolent gesture but the voice that accompanied it crackled like lightning.

  “Take off your hat!”

  Instinctively the cop’s hand flew upward and the hat came off. His face reddened. His big jaw jutted ominously.

  “List
en, wise guy! Don’t pull any cracks like that or you’ll git inta fast trouble. I wanta know just what the hell—”

  “And kindly moderate your language,” Lacy cut in with a musical murmur, “Or you can get out of my house right now. I don’t care very much for either noise or profanity. Is that clear, my friend?”

  The cop hesitated. Anger had made him go off halfcocked, but wise traffic pounders in New York soon learn to watch their step, particularly in penthouse suites furnished like this one was. He had come up in the elevator expecting to find a theatrical agency or an advertising office of some sort with clattering typewriters and a shrewd looking promoter in a check suit. The card in his gloved hand made him expect that.

  Instead he found a somber high-ceilinged foyer and a correct butler in black broadcloth. He saw a wide fireplace, the polished sheen of bookcases, a quiet and restrained wealth in the furnishings. Even to Moriarity’s Third Avenue eyes the careless bric-a-brac, the gold thread tapestries looked authentic. He saw no hint of hard faced sentries or rifles. Little Charlie Weaver had done his work well.

  There was only a small damp patch on the rug to show where the bleeding Sergeant Hogan had fallen. Lacy noticed the spot out of the corner of one eye. He hoped the cop wouldn’t see it.

  He smiled winningly at the patrolman.

  “Let’s not quarrel, Officer. I’m sure you’re honestly attending to your duty. What’s the trouble?”

  “Huh? You mean you don’t know?”

  “Certainly not. What’s wrong?”

  “A man just jumped off your roof in a parachute!”

  Lacy smiled. Shook his head briefly and politely.

  “Not my roof. I’m sorry.”

  “Yes, your roof! How do you get that way? He told me so, himself. The crazy fool damn near killed a dozen people! He said you folks up here had a police permit for a press agent stunt. He beat it while I was arguing.”

  “I’m sorry he got away from you, Officer,” Lacy said mildly. “I don’t know the man. He’s a liar. Do I look like a friend and companion of—er—parachute jumpers? Does this—er—apartment look like a publicity office for a ridiculous press agent stunt?”

  The cop countered with a swift, suspicious question.

  “Is your name John Tattersall Lacy?”

  “Of course.” His eyes narrowed. He hesitated. “What of it?”

  “Do you run a business up here called Amusement, Inc.?”

  “I don’t think I care to answer that,” the field leader for the Emergency Council said slowly.

  “Oh, you don’t!” Moriarity was beginning to get his self assurance back. “Maybe we can walk ye down to headquarters and make ye answer. This is your card, ain’t it?”

  He thrust a square pasteboard at the major and Lacy took it from his and glanced quickly at it. His eyebrows lifted incredulously. The card read as follows:

  AMUSEMENT, INC. THEATRICAL AGENTS

  We Supply Comedians for

  Private Entertainments at Moderate Cost

  JOHN TATTERSALL LACY, IN CHARGE OF PUBLICITY

  CLOUD BUILDING, NEW YORK CITY

  Quite an amusing little card. It even had its own trademark engraved in color in each of the four corners. A tiny blood-red diamond.

  Moriarity was scowling impatiently.

  “Well, what about, it? You got a police permit for that stunt, Mr. Lacy? Because if you ain’t—”

  Tattersall Lacy got up slowly from his chair. There was a queer grimace of wry humor on his lips. This Scarlet Ace was a foeman worthy of his steel! The Ace had planned this whole grotesque adventure from Caxton’s treacherous attempt at murder to this last flip sneer of sardonic humor, with a cunning efficiency. He was forcing Lacy to tip his hand to the newspapers, to explain what could never be explained if the undercover war on crime was to go on without hindrance.

  “As a matter of fact,” Lacy said huskily, “I haven’t a permit for a parachute jump to a city street. I have something far more important and interesting than that. I assure you I haven’t the faintest desire to visit a police station. Nor am I overwhelmed with pleasure at the thought of you shooting off your well intentioned mouth about myself and my—ahem—business.”

  He drew an oblong leather case from an inner pocket and snapped it open by the pressure of his palm.

  The cop read slowly with widened eyes. He noted particularly the seal and the signature. Both seal and signature had been placed on the document in the District of Columbia, as even Moriarity could see. The signature made him gasp. He was obviously worried as he handed the thing back; but his jaw stayed obstinate.

  “That’s Federal, sir. It doesn’t supersede the city police regulations. I’ll have to hand in my own report and—Wait a minute! What’s that stain over there?”

  His wandering eyes had caught, sight of the darkened patch that soaked the rug. He walked over, removed his white glove and touched the spot. The tip of his blunt finger came away crimson.

  “That’s blood,” he gasped. “Somebody’s been bleeding like a pig all over the rug. What kind of a phony story are ye tryin’ to hand me?”

  He jerked out his service gun and his words spat harshly.

  “Who lives here with you? Call that slick butler in. No—don’t move! Yell for him!”

  With one eye on Lacy he reached for the telephone on the tiny carved teakwood pedestal.

  Lacy’s hand closed on the instrument first. He snatched it upward and enunciated a swift number into the transmitter.

  “Stand away from me, please!” he warned the patrolman.

  His eyes were bright whips warning Moriarity to keep his hands off his person. Moriarity stood stiff and alert with his gun leveled at the major. He had heard the swift number that Lacy had called. Was this more hooey—another bluff? He waited motionless.

  Tattersall Lacy’s voice was unflurried and clearly distinct. He paid no attention whatever to the ominous gun in front of his stomach. The calm flow of his talk was interrupted only once. He frowned, jerked irritably, “Of course! Of course!” and continued.

  At the end he laughed faintly and said: “Certainly he’s here, Commissioner. He’s watching me like a hawk, with a big blue gun in his hand. A most alert and damnably efficient patrolman. I’ll put him on.”

  He nodded to the cop. “Take it, please!”

  “Hello?” Moriarity called. “I just now came up here on the run, sir. A guy jumped off the roof in a parachute an’ I—Yes, sir!” His heels clicked together; his big face screwed into wrinkles with the effort to miss no word. “Yes, sir. I—I will, sir… Right… I’ll obey carefully, sir!”

  He hung up with a shaky hand. Lacy sounded mildly curious.

  “Satisfied, Officer?”

  Moriarity’s grin was sheepish. He put the gun away.

  “Phew! I sure hope I haven’t—”

  “You haven’t, if you’ll kindly listen to what I say and obey exactly.”

  “That’s just what I’ve been ordered to do, sir.”

  “Excellent.” The voice snapped briskly. “First, go back to your post and forget what has happened. Turn in no report whatever about the—er—parachute jump. Talk to nobody. I’ll see to it that the newspapers get a convincing yarn on what happened through other channels. I may add, however, for your own private ear, that the man did not jump from my roof. He apparently got through to the terrace below mine from the public hall. In a few moments another uniformed man will relieve you. He’ll tell you where to go and whom to see. Understand?”

  “Right.”

  “The parachute jumper gave you no card,” Lacy continued evenly. “You’ve never heard of an organization called Amusement, Inc. In fact, you’ve never heard of or met a man named Lacy. Do you ever talk in your sleep?”

  “I—I don’t think so.”

  They were both soberly grave; their eyes stea
dy on each other.

  “That’s a help,” Lacy nodded. “The habit of intelligent silence, my friend, may save you from a transfer to the goats away out in Staten Island. Intelligent men are even sometimes promoted to a plainclothes assignment. Do you find my remarks—er—helpful?”

  “I understand you perfectly, sir.”

  “In that case, Officer, I bid you a pleasant good day.”

  The suave Hawkins appeared and escorted a subdued looking patrolman to the elevator. A moment later the butler returned at Lacy’s summons.

  “Did you ring, sir?”

  “Yes. Please send Captain Weaver in here if he’s not otherwise engaged, will you, Hawkins? And as soon as Mr. Harrigan and Mr. Corning return inform them I’m waiting to see them.”

  “Very good, sir.” He bowed and closed the door softly.

  Tattersall Lacy went back to his favorite chair and a fresh cigar.

  “Damnation!” he whispered in a wrathful undertone as he stared at the damp spot in the rug where Hogan had fallen. Hogan had been a platoon sergeant under Lacy in 1918 when the Argonne was a smoke-curtained labyrinth of hell. A splendid soldier, he had never once been scratched in battle. “Damnation!” the major whispered fiercely.

  He smoked his cigar and blew huge fragrant clouds. Gradually the rage left him. A queer little sparkle grew in those grey eyes of his. It was a sparkle that looked like a smile but wasn’t.

  He thought of the traitor Caxton, of McManus who had rushed off to trail him; of Hogan bleeding without publicity in a private sanitarium on West End Avenue.

  And he thought too, of a mocking adversary with a dozen secret hide-outs and a blood red mask to hide his unguessed identity. A man nobody knew. A man who killed his savage hirelings when they failed to murder the selected victim. The Scarlet Ace!

  The odd sparkle that wasn’t a smile lingered in Lacy’s serene eyes.

  Pat Harrigan and Ed Corning returned from the hospital to the Cloud Building without any delay. Dillon drove the innocent looking staff car down the ramp entrance on the Sixth Avenue side and they alighted in the gloomy basement area behind the vast repair shop of the big Grey Goose bus terminal.