"Does Anyone Remember Captain Amnesia?"
"Does Anyone Remember Captain Amnesia?"
7/12-7/14/1942
I.
"You're one of them reporter dames, aren't ya?" demanded the police detective.
Kelly O'Connor laughed right in his face, showing perfect white teeth in an insolent face. The thick mop of brick-red hair and bright green eyes gave credence to the accuracy of her name. "I wish," she said. "But the Chief won't give me a shot at it. I'm stuck doing rewrites for drunken journalists who regard spelling as an inconvenience. I proofread. I use scissors and paste when ads don't fit. I pick up and deliver manuscipts. Sometimes I even get asked to lunch with the gang in the bullpen and they try to tone down their filthy language, while they pretend not to check out my legs. What's a gal to do, I ask you?"
Faced with this unexpected barrage of complaints, Jim Harkins was torn between annoyance and amusement. He was an imposing young man, well over six feet and trim in his dark blue suit with red necktie and neat fedora planted firmly on his dark hair. His long mournful face wasn't handsome but it had some of the endearing quality of a hound dog. "So why should I let you onto a murder scene, then?"
Folding her arms across a modest bust, Kelly tilted her head and tried to smile more demurely. She herself was wearing a sedate dark green skirt and jacket, with a white silk blouse and a single strand of pearls. Her hat was a mere cloche perched precariously on the side of her head. Hanging on a brass chain from her left shoulder was a soft leather handbag. "Harkins, right? You just passed the detective exam recently?"
"So?"
"So you know what it's like to try to work your way up to a better job. I could be a great reporter, I KNOW I could be better than the palookas snoozing over their typewriters at the MESSENGER. All I need is a chance and you, big fella, are the one who will give me that chance." As she spoke, Kelly deftly slipped past him through the open door into Markle's office. By the time Harkins grunted a protest, she had already flipped the light switch. He lumbered in and started to speak but paused instinctively as she pointed a slender index finger.
"What is all that godawful junk?" she demanded.
For the publisher of so many pulp magazines, the late Goodson Markle's office wasn't luxurious. The furniture was walnut, the thin carpeting dark brown and the curtains opaque for blackouts. Brass trim on lamps and door edges added contrast. There were a few moderately comfortable chairs around a desk burdened by two neat stacks of papers evidently meant to be IN and OUT, as well as two phones and an intercom. But that wasn't what Kelly was indicating.
An open cabinet displayed eighteen items ranging from wind-up dolls to metal lunch boxes to ashtrays to eight by ten glossy autographed photos. Everything bore the likeness of a man draped in a white cloak and hood with a featureless black oval for a face. A wrought-iron bookend supported a row of scripts for a radio series and there were stacks of pulps on the bottom shelf.
"Aw, that's all Captain Amnesia merchandise," Harkins said, picking up a bronze statuette of the hero.
"Who? I never heard of him."
"That's what you think, sweetie," the policeman said. "You know about him but you forgot you know."
Kelly reached up to press the inside of her wrist against his forehead. "Are you running a fever, big guy?"
"Heh. No, no, that's the joke. See, this Captain Amnesia bird, he fights crime. His gimmick is that everybody forgets about him once he's gone so no one knows who is turning crooks in with the stolen loot on them or who is rescuing kidnap victims. 'He could be here, he could be there... Captainnnnn Amnesia!' Haven't you heard him on the radio?"
"I usually listen to the big bands, that licorice stick sends me." Kelly O'Connor didn't explain that working at the MESSENGER during the day and running around dark alleys as the Green Devil most nights left her very little leisure time. "So. This Captain Whatever is popular?"
"Sure. I heard that Markle was negotiating to sell the rights to Metropolis Pictures for a serial." He gave her a quizzical look. "You know, those serials that run a chapter every Saturday at the moving pictures?"
The redhead made a non-commital sound to acknowledge she had heard him. Her interest was on a stack of cover proofs that showed covers of future pulps. "Seems like Markle covered every topic. WILD WESTERN COMPLETE NOVELS... SOUTH SEA ROMANCE... FUTURE WORLDS... KOLLEGE KITTENS... what's this, GRUESOME TALES? Did you see this cover, big guy?"
Harkins leaned a little closer to the slender girl than was strictly speaking necessary, but she seemed unaware of it. He raised an eyebrow. "Oh, that's one of the horror titles. Torture and murder on every page. I don't care for them, I like a solid historical fiction."
"No, don't you see? Never mind the agitated blonde in her negligee in the background. This shows a man being strangled by someone pulling a wire tight around his neck!"
"Yeah. Yeah, that's the way Markle died...!"
II.
When Harkins' partner came up from checking out the lobby of the building, Kelly was already back out in the outer reception room and the door to Markle's office was closed. Detective Campbell was a twelve-year veteran, an older man with a receding hairline and an expanding waistline. He shoved his hat back on his head with a thumb when he spotted the young redhead leaning against the secretary's desk. "Who's your girlfriend, Jim?"
"He should be so lucky," Kelly said. "I'm from the MESSENGER."
"Yeah? Well, you're in for disappointment, cause there's nothing new since yesterday. We came back to ask the watchman a few more questions but he's a dud as far as information goes. Saw nothing, heard nothing."
Harkins handed the pulp over to his partner and Campbell agreed the cover was interesting. "Might be coincidence or it might have real meaning. We need to talk to the artist who painted that masterpiece, he might have some clues in his head. We're going to shove off now, carrot top. You coming?"
Standing by the desk, Kelly O'Connor was so distracted that she did not even hear the question. Her handbag was lying on the secretary's desk, opened, with its contents spilled out. Notepad and pen, keys, lipstick, tissues. But a second ago, she had felt the handbag's weight on her shoulder and her left hand had been holding the strap...
"Hey! What are you doing, looking for something in your bag? This isn't the time for it, gorgeous, we're leaving." Campbell moved toward the door to the hallway and looked back at her.
Replacing all the items to her bag, Kelly didn't think anything was missing but she was fretting over the puzzle. How had that happened? She couldn't have dropped the bag by accident, everyone would have turned their heads at the sound. This suddenly gave her the willies big time. "Yeah, sure, I'm ready," she muttered.
"Are you okay?" asked Detective Harkins. "Your face went all white."
"I'm fine. Maybe. I'm not sure." She straightened up and managed a brave smile. "Just turning over a few ideas about the murder. I think I want to talk to you about it later."
"All right. You can reach us at the 20th Street precinct house. We'll be there until seven or so, finishing paperwork." He took Kelly's elbow and steered her out of the room. The three of them trudged down two flights of stairs and through the lobby where the uniformed guard nodded at them from his desk. Outside, the street corner lights were going on as dusk deepened. The dingy building where Markle had his offices stood on Seventh Avenue, not far from Times Square, was a beige spike of stone pointing up into a cloudy sky.
Before he joined his partner in their Olds, Harkins studied Kelly with concern. "You sure you're all right, miss?"
"Yeah, I'm a tough little cookie," she shot back, but then her tone softened. "Thanks for asking, big fella. Maybe I'll see you around."
He smiled before climbing in the car. "I'd like that," he said and was gone.
Left on the sidewalk, Kelly kept thinking about the strange incident where her handbag had seemed to empty itself by itself. That made no sense. She was glad that she kept nothing on her that would tie her to the Green Devil role she played at night. So far, no one suspected her double life but she had to be constantly careful. Turning, she started walking toward the subway station at 42nd Street, stewing over the situation. She should forget about her weird haunted handbag, she should be working on the murder of Goodson Markle. Probably someone in the family would take over the publishing firm or there would be thousands of disappointed fans of Captain Amnesia.
Captain Amnesia.
Kelly stopped in mid-step and her mouth fell open. It couldn't be, it just couldn't be. She started walking briskly, then paused at a newsstand. Behind its counter, an old man with glasses down on his nose looked her up and down but said nothing. Kelly glanced over the display of newspapers with the war news and slick magazines with photos of movie stars to a vertical row of pulps. These had garish painted covers that contrasted with the cheap paper inside. The edges of the pages had not been trimmed and gave the magazines a ragged look. She spotted the title she was looking for, EXCITING MYSTERY TALES and dug in her handbag for a dime.
Moving over to a storefront, she stopped and studied the cover. A busty woman in a nightgown was struggling to escape the grip of what seemed to be an amazingly muscular dwarf who was brandishing a hatchet. Looming up behind them, open hands raised, was a mysterious figure in a white robe with a solid black oval where his face should be. The bright colors and intense detail made the scene even more disturbing than it already was. A box in one corner read, 'New In this Issue - BRIDES OF THE DEADLY DWARF, a thrilling Captain Amnesia novel!'
The interior black and white illustrations weren't quite as lurid as the cover. She saw that the Captain Amnesia story was credited to 'Lance Stockwell,' whoever that really was. After ten minutes, she folded the magazine up and stuck it into her handbag. She couldn't stand the choppy overheated prose. Kelly couldn't concentrate in any case, because that incident in the office was stuck in her thoughts. The only rational explanation was that she had suffered a memory lapse of some kind. Had she dropped her handbag so that its contents spilled out and then forgot about it? No. That didn't make any sense because neither of the two detectives had noticed. It was inexplicable. Moving with the crowd of people getting off work, ignoring the chatter and pushing, Kelly waited on the platform for the uptown train. Maybe she would figure things out better as the Green Devil.
III.
Pulling her little roadster up to the curb in a rundown New Jersey neighborhood, Kelly turned off the engine and sat contemplating sadly how difficult it was going to be continue her crusade. Not only were the tires bald and she couldn't get new ones but her lousy 'A' sticker left her without enough gas to follow leads. A fine vigilante she was going to be, taking taxis everywhere. She wondered how guys like Mark Drum and the Sting did it. The papers were always full of their exploits chasing crooks all over the five boroughs. Feh, they probably had connections with the government...
Five minutes passed with only one car rolling by. There were rows of identical white two-story houses on this street, each with a tiny yard barely enough for a victory garden or lawn chair. Here and there, windows were lit but it was midnight and most folks faced anther working day in the morning. Kelly looked back and checked the number on the house two blocks ahead of her again. Digging around the MESSENGER office had turned up the information was 'Lance Stockwell' was really Jake Perlman, a prolific hack who batted out piles of stories every month for Markle's empire. This was his address.
She hadn't found out much about Perlman. His parents had been Polish Jews who had come to America at the turn of the century. Perlman wasn't married, evidently he did nothing except write and drink, but he had a brother who was a research chemist for the War Department. Apparently, Perlman had created the Captain Amnesia character years ago but only Goodson Markle had given him a steady assignment turning out those adventures.
Satisfied that it was dark enough and quiet enough to get started, Kelly tugged on a dark silk mask that covered her face above the nostrils, then picked up her modified motorcycle helmet from the floor in front of the passenger seat and strapped it on. She had carved and sanded two pieces of wood which were glued to the dark green helmet to resemble devil's horns. The clear visor remained on the back seat. Stepping out onto the sidewalk and silently closing the door, she was a dark figure difficult to spot in the murk. The tight pants and snug short leather jacket were midnight green, while the high boots and cuff-length gloves were black, as was the white-outlined symbol of a trident on the back of her jacket.
This town of Morrissey had been unused swamp land not long ago. When the Lincoln Tunnel had opened to traffic in late 1937, the Jersey marsh across from Manhattan had boomed with new roads and business and buildings. Kelly still wasn't thrilled about driving through a tunnel with tons of water pushing down overhead just aching to drown her, but she was getting used to it. As she glanced around the neighborhood one last time out of caution, two headlights approached from down the street. Nimble as an acrobat, the Green Devil dropped to the ground and squeezed under her roadster to get out of sight.
A big black Buick swerved over to come to a stop the next block up from her, almost directly in front of Perlman's house. Kelly O'Connor slid out from under her car and crept toward the newcomers with infinite caution. In the dim yellow haze of a streetlamp at the next corner, she could make out three heads in that car, two in the front and one in the back. Judging by the outlines of their hats, they were men. She got closer, actually pressing up against the back bumper and trusting she would not be spotted in the gloom.
Clearly enough, a man yelled, "Put that rod away, you dummy! He won't be home for a few minutes at least."
Another voice protested but in tones too low to be understood. It didn't matter. She had heard enough. The Green Devil was squatting behind the Buick, turning over different attack strategies, when she realized the license plate on the rear swung down to expose the gas cap. No one saw the impish grin which lit her face. Kelly scurried back to her roadster and returned with a length of rubber hose and red metal container. She felt like hugging herself with glee.
Ten minutes dragged by and she was done with her sabotage when a blue-topped cab rolled up to drop off a passenger. By this time, Kelly was crouching on the far side of her roadster, watching, feeling a tightness in her chest and a humming in her brain that she had been anticipating. Adrenalin was starting to burn through her veins like liquid fire and she loved it. She saw a dumpy man in a wrinkled tan suit pay the cabbie, holding a flat attache case in one hand. A foul thin black cheroot fumed in his mouth. As the taxi pulled around the corner and went out of sight, three huge men got out of their car and stomped toward Perlman. Even if she hadn't known they were thugs from the badlands, their body language was unmistakable.
The Green Devil sprang headlong at them, furious as a wildcat that had fallen into icy water. She had no illusions about being able to actually slug it out with men a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than she was. Trading punches would be a good way to get killed. Quickness and timing were her strong points. Kelly kicked one man's ankle backwards so that he sprawled heavily on his face. The next one whirled around with an annoyed grunt and launched a perfectly decent right jab at her face. Kelly's open hand swirled in a counter-clockwise arc that redirected the punch so far to one side that the thug stumbled and fell on his buddy.
"You!" growled the third goon. He had a merciless clutch on Perlman's wrist with one hand, and in the other hand was a massive .45 automatic. The Green Devil faced him with her arms half raised, palms out. Before the gun fired with its flash of white light and deep boom, Kelly swatted the air the way she would swat at an annoying horsefly... and, unbelievably, the bullet spun backward to crash into the upper arm of the gangster. He yelped at the unexpected pain, dropping his gun and releasing Perlman to clutch at his wound. This was all the opening Kelly needed. She bodyslammed the confused gunman as hard as she could, knocking him off-balance so he fell right on top of the other two. They had been getting themselves untangled when the wounded man crashed down with all his weight and all three collapsed.
Grabbing Perlman by the arm, Kelly tugged him behind her as she ran toward her roadster. "Get in!" she yelled, yanking the passenger door open as she rolled across the hood to get over on the driver's side. She gunned the motor and peeled out, making one of the gunmen dive wildly for his life as she tore past him.
"Who? What?" babbled Perlman, clutching his attache case. "What happened? How did you...?"
"Get a grip, my friend," she laughed. "All will be made clear. You're dealing with the Green Devil now."
IV.
Before they got two blocks away, headlights blazed behind them. Perlman twisted his head around, "Those men! They're chasing us!"
"They can try," Kelly chuckled. She accelerated sharply, took a corner on two wheels and nearly skidded up onto the sidewalk but kept control. "Hang on, buddy, the party is heating up."
For a few seconds, the headlights drew closer and it seemed the gangsters would overtake them. But then the pursuing car came to a halt. Kelly sped up a bit more, sailing past a stop sign and heading out of town.
"I don't understand what happened," muttered Jake Perlman. His voice was getting steadier as he started to settle down.
"My guess is that they ran out of gas, ha hah!" she said. "I'm only sorry I couldn't have swiped their tires, too!"
"What? Never mind. Look, miss, can you please explain what's going on? Who are you? Who were those men? What happened when that one took a shot at you? Why are we...?"
"Whoa, whoa, this isn't a quiz show." Kelly slowed as they passed through a more active part of town and there was a bigger chance of a cop spotting them whizzing along. "Let's start with lil old me. You've heard of the Green Devil."
"No. Sorry. Should I have?"
"Ouch, that hurt. Well, you HAVE heard of the Monk? The Sceptre? Mark Drum?"
"Yes," Perlman said. He had stopped holding onto the dashboard with both hands as their velocity lessened to a reasonable level. "The papers say they're vigilantes. The police don't seem to be trying to apprehend them very seriously, so I wondered if maybe they deliberately allow these mystery men to wipe out criminals that the courts can't handle."
"Fair enough." She jabbed a thumb at her own chest. "I'm one of the newer heroes. Green Devil! I wanted to talk to you about Goodson Markle's murder."
"Awful, awful," Perlman said, rubbing his face with both hands. His suit had a faint unwashed smell that was overpowered by a haze of whiskey fumes. He also hadn't shaved in a week or so, and the greying bristles did nothing to improve the bad first impression he made. "I've been answering the same dozen questions from the police over and over."
"That's where you are in luck, my friend," Kelly assured him. "I intend to find the killer and then you'll be off the hook. Where the Hell are we anyway?"
The writer peered uncertaintly through the windshield. "Oh, you're going in the right direction, miss. I think I should hide at my brother's house for the moment. Who were those men? They were trying to abduct me. And they SHOT at you!"
"That's one of the pieces of the puzzle, to be sure. Okay, Pulitizer Prize guy, what is there that you haven't told the boys in blue? Anything really baffling or inexplicable?"
"You sound awfully young, miss," Perlman said. "What are you doing in that masquerade costume chasing criminals?"
"It's a hobby," she dismissed the question. "Anything weird or puzzling the night of the murder?"
"Yes. One thing, the police know about it but they don't seem too interested. The watchman was at his desk in the lobby, the front doors were locked and he would have had to buzz any late visitors in. He swears no one entered or left after closing hours. He said he was listening to a radio show when Mr Markle was killed."
"Not much of an alibi."
"Well, he repeated a few of the jokes. It was the Jake Gristle show, and the detectives checked that they were from that broadcast. It seems he had been listening to the show at the time."
Kelly O'Donnell didn't mention she was hopelessly lost. This part of New Jersey was mostly swampland with narrow roads cutting through the marsh and she had never been out this far. "A partner of his could have listened to the show and told him about it. I've seen trickier set-ups."
"Turn at the crossroads. Make a left," Perlman said. "That's my brother's house there."
Slowing in front of a drive driveway that went up an unreasonably steep hill, the Green Devil whistled. "Looks like a classic haunted house to me. Dark, rundown, miles from any neighbors. This might turn into a ghost catching caper instead of a murder mystery."
"Sol got it for next to nothing," Perlman said. "A new highway is scheduled to come through in a few years, but he said he'll be moving on before then."
"One light's showing on the top floor. Let's roust him and we can start to untangle the situation." As she swung the car and headed up the driveway, Kelly asked, "So, your brother Sol... He works for the Army brass?"
"Yes. He was an anesthesiologist but he went into research. The War Department has him working on trying to develop pain-killers without side-effects to help our soldiers."
"Hmm....." Kelly responded. "Interesting."
V.
When they rang the front door, the outside light blazed up to reveal both of them as perfect targets for any gunmen who might have followed them. A second later, the door creaked open as if its hinges had never been oiled. Framed in the light was the stunted form of a dwarf in rags.
"Why am I not surprised?" Kelly said out loud. "Of course."
"Good evening, Hjalmar. I need to see my brother," said Perlman equably. "It's about Markle's death."
"Heh, Markle is dead," chuckled the assistant. "No tears for him. So? Yes, the doctor is working but my orders are to always admit you," said the dwarf in an unexpectedly cultured and urbane voice with a Central European accent. "But your companion...?"
Kelly did not remove her horned helmet. Since she was wearing the bandana mask under it, she didn't see how it would make her appearance any less unsettling. But she gave the man her most winsome smile and said, "I'm helping Mr Perlman here avoid some difficulties with the law."
"I see," Hjalmar replied. Despite his unfortunate spinal deformation and his tattered jacket and pants, not to mention the untidy mat of brown hair that stuck out in various directions, there was something remarkably sharp and intelligent in his eyes. "Yes. I heard about poor Mr Markle, yes. Please come in and follow me."
They were escorted through the foyer and across a reception room filled with furniture covered by white sheets. A distinct mildewy smell filled the air. Up a wide staircase and toward a massive oak door under which a thin sliver of light showed, Kelly and Perlman followed the dwarf with increasing uneasiness. Both of them were beginning to assimilate the events of the past two hours.
They were led into a single high-ceilinged room brilliantly lit and a bit chilly. Two long tables with marble tops stood forming an L, their surfaces covered with an assortment of test tubes in racks, Bunsen burners, long tubing and bubbling retorts and stacks of notebooks. Tacked to the walls were dozens of scraps of paper marked URGENT! and DON'T FORGET - MONDAY! Getting up from a stool beside the counter was a tall gaunt man in a white lab coat. He had a long bony face marked by a bristly mustache and topped with longish white hair. There was no family resemblance between him and Perlman that Kelly could discern.
For an instant, the doctor smiled at seeing his brother but immediately after that his features dropped into a scowl. "The Green Devil?"
"Good to be recognized," Kelly laughed as she took in the room. Her knowledge of chemistry was nil, this place could have been brewing beer for all she knew.
"I read several newspapers every day," Dr Perlman said. "It's my diversion from my work. Yes, the Green Devil. There are reports you are bulletproof, young lady."
"No such luck. Listen, I brought Jake here because he was almost kidnaped at gunpoint two hours ago. I didn't think it would be the smartest move to let him stay at his own house." Kelly leaned over to glance at an open journal but it might as well have been written in Etruscan as far as she was concerned. She was well-read and fluent in French and Spanish, but chemistry was a blank area in her knowledge.
As the pulpster told his brother all the melodrama of that evening, the Green Devil continued to inspect the lab without moving from where she stood. A folding cot stood in one corner and a plate of half-eaten sandwiches and an empty bottle of wine indicated that either the doctor or his assistant slept here regularly. What were those three gas masks hanging on hooks along one wall? They were a different design than any she had ever seen in photos, with a trunk that hung down in front into a square metal box. The thick goggles gave the gas masks a peculiar semblance of gazing back at her. She stepped closer and studied them.
Turning to see Hjalmar watching her, Kelly remarked pleasantly, "You sound educated. A European University?"
"Hah. Yes, yes. Heidelberg. 1936. That was before my... accident.," the dwarf replied.
"Yeah? I'm sorry but I'm just nosy by nature. You're a lab assistant here?"
"How the mighty have fallen," Hjalmar said. "I was in line to be a teacher of organic chemistry. But then, that truck ran me over like a rag and left me this way. The doctor treats me well enough, I suppose...."
"Hjalmar!" snapped Dr Perlman. "Is the front door locked?"
"But of course. Every door, every window, as usual."
"Good. Green Devil, this house is not rented under my family name so we should be safe here." He went to a drawer and came up with a snub-nosed .32 revolver, but he put it back at once. "Your FBI strongly advised me to take steps to protect myself. Foreign governments would like very much to know what I have been working on."
"Poison gas?" asked Kelly, indicating the gas masks with her thumb.
"No! No, no. Poison gas puts your own soldiers at risk. A stray breeze is all it takes." Dr Perlman scowled at the helmeted girl. "But you are not cleared for any classified information, are you?"
"Nah, I just like to stick my nose where it doesn't belong. Hjalmar, you seem to have disliked Goodson Markle."
"That bastard. Yes, I hate him. We met by chance when I brought the doctor to meet his brother for lunch. Markle seemed to find my deformity amusing. He commissioned a series of stories in his dreadful magazines about the 'Deadly Dwarf,' an insane sadist who lived to torture women. He was a hunchback, too. I was deeply offended, and I told Markle so. He laughed out loud at me."
"So you're not exactly broken-hearted over his death?" asked Kelly.
"Not at all. But are you implying that I killed him? How foolish. Don't you think the security guard would remember seeing ME of all people that night?" Hjalmar waved his open hands in disgust. "Honestly!"
The Green Devil had not attached the visor to her motorcycle helmet. The black silk mask covered her eyebrows and hid the upturned nose. Skillfully applied bright red lipstick made her lips appear less full than they actually were. It was her bright green eyes she could not disguise, since she found the thin glass lenses as used in movies to be both uncomfortable and extremely dangerous. "You've got a point, brother," she admitted. "But I also want to ask Jake something. All that merchandise about Captain Amnesia... the radio show, the toys, the stickers and lunch boxes and all that junk. You created Captain Amnesia and you bang out a novel about him every month but do you get a cut of that loot?"
"Not a penny," grumbled the writer. "Not even reprint royalties or overseas rights. Goodson Markle was a miser who clutched every penny like his life depended on it. He said my stories stunk but as long as they sold copies, he'd print them."
"So you had a grudge against him, too?"
"Sure, but... Wait a minute. You're acting like you're a detective. Who are you to be asking us these questions? You're not with the police."
"I'm the Green Devil and there's no explaining me," she replied blithely. "You know, it's been my experience the past few years that all the confusing elements of a murder tend to be related. You haven't forgotten those gorillas who tried to shove you in their car, right? That's not something that happens to writers on a regular basis. Now, what's their connection with Markle's death?"
A faint noise in the doorway made all four of them turn their heads. The three gunmen were entering the room, and one of them was brandishing a Thompson submachine gun.
VI.
"Don't even twitch, none of you," said the leader. "We know all about your magic trick, Miss Devil, but I doubt it'll do much good against this tommygun. It sprays slugs like a firehose. Nice and slow, I want you to raise your hands way up. Reach like you're gonna touch the ceiling."
Everyone complied. Kelly had never tried her strange deflecting ability against a submachine gun and she didn't feel this was the right time to experiment. "Sorry about stealing your gas," she said. "It was too tempting."
"We hadda steal a car, but that only took a minute and we caught sight of you near the Tunnel. Sal is good at following a car with his lights out. So, this is the famous Sol Perlman, genius inventor, huh?"
The Green Devil tilted her head. "Ho ho, the light dawns. You wanted the mad scientist here all along, right? Putting the snatch on Jake Perlman was only a way to locate his brother."
"You're not so dumb, girlie. We were prepared to beat it out of the typewriter jockey, but you saved us the trouble by leading us here."
"Huh. Imagine my chagrin." She wiggled her fingers. "You can see I'm not packing, can I lower my arms? They're getting tired."
"Tell you what," said the leader of the three. "Take off the helmet. I'm thinking maybe we can get a decent price for you. You've caused trouble for some guys in our line of work. Boss Ferarro hates you, so do a couple others. They might pay to have you delivered to them."
"Now I'm reduced to being a Christmas package, it never ends," she grumbled as she unfastened the strap and removed her helmet to hold it in one hand. "At least I hope the bidding is fair."
"I dunno know if this skirt is really brave or stupid or what," said one of the gunmen. He had his left arm in an makeshift sling improvised from what looked like a ripped up shirt, so he was the one who had taken a bullet before. "You might say I'm in a little pain right now, I vote to rip her in half with the chatterbox."
"Hey, doc," said the one with the tommygun. "You got any dope for this sissy? Something to numb his arm so he stops whining?"
Dr Perlman lowered his arms and put his hands into the pockets of his smock. "Actually, I have something rather mild but it should help. Just a minute..."
Somehow Kelly found herself lying face down the floor. What? She blinked and shook her head, then pushed her upper body off the tiles to look around. All three of the thugs were sprawled not far from her with blood all over their heads. Jake Perlman and Hjalmar were also on the floor, but they were visibly breathing.
Looming up over her, arms folded, Dr Perlman leered in a remarkably unwholesome way.
The Green Devil scrambled up to her feet, finding that somehow she was still holding onto her helmet. "Give me a second to get this straight. This is like what happened in Markle's office. When my handbag was somehow open but I couldn't remember it. You did it. You were there. But no one saw you." She pointed at the thugs. "Are they... well, dead?"
"I certainly hope so," the chemist answered. "I hit them as hard as I could with the heaviest thing I could find. A piece of cast iron pipe, as it turned out. So you were the reporter at the publishers building. I thought so! Why you recovered before my brother and Hjalmar is a mystery. I used a bigger dose of the gas, so you should still be unconscious for a few more minutes."
"I guess I'm not cooperative by nature," she said, feeling back to normal. "Dad always said I was part mule. Let me get this straight. You've invented some sort of instant knockout gas? It puts people under for a few minutes but they don't remember the experience? Is that it?"
"Exactly. Trimethlyabromine, I haven't given it a catchy name yet. The lesser dose has some paralyzing effect which usually leaves people standing unless they are off balance. It's too good to waste on the Army. I think I can become much wealthier using it for my own purposes." Dr Perlman glanced over at the corpses with a smile. "Somehow those Neanderthals caught wind of my research. Someone in the Department must have talked too much. They didn't know where I could be found, but they located my poor unlucky brother."
Glancing around the lab, Kelly moved one step to her right and hefted her helmet as she thought as quickly as she ever had. "Wait. What about Markle? I know now why the watchman never saw anyone come in the building, it was the knockout gas. He didn't even know he had been unconscious. But why kill Markle?"
"Ah, that was Hjalmar's doing. He is touchy and not one to forgive an insult. While I was sleeping, he took a few of the gas globes and visited Goodson Markle with murderous intent. I didn't approve of the murder but by the time I found out, it was too late. What would be the point of punishing Hjalmar? I understand his grievance. And he is invaluable in my work."
"I guess that explains everything. Wish I had hidden a wire recorder on me."
"Trimethylabromine doesn't affect me because I took a counteragent earlier. The two chemicals combined make me bilious and a bit nauseous but it's a small price to pay for such a useful weapon." He held up a clear glass ball that fit comfortably in his hand. "I can't imagine why you insisted on getting involved with my business. You must realize I can't let you live after you've learned all this."
Taking another step back as if afraid, the Green Devil said, "And your brother knew about your research. That's what inspired him to come up with that crazy pulp character. You yourself are the actual Captain Amnesia!"
Dr Perlman laughed at that statement, butbhis amusement was abruptly halted as Kelly's helmet struck him right in the face. She had flung it as hard as she possibly could, then sprang over to the wall to snatch one of the gas masks off its hook and tug it on. Pawing at a broken nose, Perlman tried to stop the bleeding with one hand but in doing so he dropped the glass globe onto the counter top where it rolled to a halt without breaking. "Argh, my nose! I'll kill you for this."
"Scarier lunatics than you have tried," the Green Devil replied but her words were too muffled by the gas mask to be intelligible. She took three quick steps across the lab and grabbed Dr Pelham's hair with both hands to smash the back of his head down against the marble counter with a satisfying thud. The chemist slumped down to floor where his three victims metaphorically welcomed him.
Retrieving her helmet, Kelly shakily put it back on after barely remembering to yank off the gas mask first. Her hands were trembling from the adrenalin. She had not been certain that the gas mask would have protected her against Perlman's Tri-whatever but it had been the only idea she could come up with. The glass globe was within reach and she held it up. Inside, a faintly milky vapor swirled. She thought that this gas could have so many uses in medicine but if the Army got hold of it... well, there WAS a war on. Who was she to decide its use?
As she stood there wondering if it would do any good to try to destroy all the notes and journals, two more figures appeared in the doorway. She gave a start before recognizing them. Detectives Harkins and Campbell. Kelly retained enough presence of mind to remember that, although she knew them in her civies, she didn't know them as the Green Devil. The double identity gig could be awful confusing.
"Right on time to clean things up," she said in the huskier, deeper voice she used when in costume. "That's Sol Perlman there, he's alive with a bloody nose. His fingerprints are on the pipe that killed these three cavemen. I think between him and his lab assistant and his brother, you'll get enough confessions to go to trial. I'll read about it in the papers."
"Hold on there," the older Campbell barked. "You're not going anywhere. There's an order out to bring you in for questioning. You've been reported at twenty crime scenes these past two years. You are coming with us."
"This place looks like a slaughterhouse," mumbled Harkins. The younger police detective saw that Jake Perlman and Hjalmar were starting to move. "But those two are alive. So is the doc. Green Devil, you're under arrest."
"Sorry, I have to go to work in the morning." She inhaled deeply and broke the glass ball against the counter. The effect was frightening in how quickly it worked. Harkins and Campbell reeled but remained on their feet. Their heads drooped. Still holding her breath, Kelly O'Connor rushed past them and down the stairs to run out the front door where she absolutely had to take a breath. Whew, she thought. Too bad she couldn't have explained the situation more fully but being exposed and identified would mean the end of the Green Devil... not to mention a likely spell in a woman's penitentiary. If only the cops understood why she did this. That Harkins seemed somewhat reasonable. Maybe she could try to talk him alone sometime.
Out in the cool night air, the Green Devil trudged toward her roadster with a sudden weariness. She would have to show up at the MESSENGER with only one or two hours sleep at the most. She passed the unmarked car that the detectives had parked and she toyed with the idea of some sort of trademark she could leave behind, something to show she had been there. Maybe a card with a pitchfork on it? That should strike terror into the hearts of the underworld. She laughed at her own pretensions and got behind the wheel of her car.
1/22/2019
7/12-7/14/1942
I.
"You're one of them reporter dames, aren't ya?" demanded the police detective.
Kelly O'Connor laughed right in his face, showing perfect white teeth in an insolent face. The thick mop of brick-red hair and bright green eyes gave credence to the accuracy of her name. "I wish," she said. "But the Chief won't give me a shot at it. I'm stuck doing rewrites for drunken journalists who regard spelling as an inconvenience. I proofread. I use scissors and paste when ads don't fit. I pick up and deliver manuscipts. Sometimes I even get asked to lunch with the gang in the bullpen and they try to tone down their filthy language, while they pretend not to check out my legs. What's a gal to do, I ask you?"
Faced with this unexpected barrage of complaints, Jim Harkins was torn between annoyance and amusement. He was an imposing young man, well over six feet and trim in his dark blue suit with red necktie and neat fedora planted firmly on his dark hair. His long mournful face wasn't handsome but it had some of the endearing quality of a hound dog. "So why should I let you onto a murder scene, then?"
Folding her arms across a modest bust, Kelly tilted her head and tried to smile more demurely. She herself was wearing a sedate dark green skirt and jacket, with a white silk blouse and a single strand of pearls. Her hat was a mere cloche perched precariously on the side of her head. Hanging on a brass chain from her left shoulder was a soft leather handbag. "Harkins, right? You just passed the detective exam recently?"
"So?"
"So you know what it's like to try to work your way up to a better job. I could be a great reporter, I KNOW I could be better than the palookas snoozing over their typewriters at the MESSENGER. All I need is a chance and you, big fella, are the one who will give me that chance." As she spoke, Kelly deftly slipped past him through the open door into Markle's office. By the time Harkins grunted a protest, she had already flipped the light switch. He lumbered in and started to speak but paused instinctively as she pointed a slender index finger.
"What is all that godawful junk?" she demanded.
For the publisher of so many pulp magazines, the late Goodson Markle's office wasn't luxurious. The furniture was walnut, the thin carpeting dark brown and the curtains opaque for blackouts. Brass trim on lamps and door edges added contrast. There were a few moderately comfortable chairs around a desk burdened by two neat stacks of papers evidently meant to be IN and OUT, as well as two phones and an intercom. But that wasn't what Kelly was indicating.
An open cabinet displayed eighteen items ranging from wind-up dolls to metal lunch boxes to ashtrays to eight by ten glossy autographed photos. Everything bore the likeness of a man draped in a white cloak and hood with a featureless black oval for a face. A wrought-iron bookend supported a row of scripts for a radio series and there were stacks of pulps on the bottom shelf.
"Aw, that's all Captain Amnesia merchandise," Harkins said, picking up a bronze statuette of the hero.
"Who? I never heard of him."
"That's what you think, sweetie," the policeman said. "You know about him but you forgot you know."
Kelly reached up to press the inside of her wrist against his forehead. "Are you running a fever, big guy?"
"Heh. No, no, that's the joke. See, this Captain Amnesia bird, he fights crime. His gimmick is that everybody forgets about him once he's gone so no one knows who is turning crooks in with the stolen loot on them or who is rescuing kidnap victims. 'He could be here, he could be there... Captainnnnn Amnesia!' Haven't you heard him on the radio?"
"I usually listen to the big bands, that licorice stick sends me." Kelly O'Connor didn't explain that working at the MESSENGER during the day and running around dark alleys as the Green Devil most nights left her very little leisure time. "So. This Captain Whatever is popular?"
"Sure. I heard that Markle was negotiating to sell the rights to Metropolis Pictures for a serial." He gave her a quizzical look. "You know, those serials that run a chapter every Saturday at the moving pictures?"
The redhead made a non-commital sound to acknowledge she had heard him. Her interest was on a stack of cover proofs that showed covers of future pulps. "Seems like Markle covered every topic. WILD WESTERN COMPLETE NOVELS... SOUTH SEA ROMANCE... FUTURE WORLDS... KOLLEGE KITTENS... what's this, GRUESOME TALES? Did you see this cover, big guy?"
Harkins leaned a little closer to the slender girl than was strictly speaking necessary, but she seemed unaware of it. He raised an eyebrow. "Oh, that's one of the horror titles. Torture and murder on every page. I don't care for them, I like a solid historical fiction."
"No, don't you see? Never mind the agitated blonde in her negligee in the background. This shows a man being strangled by someone pulling a wire tight around his neck!"
"Yeah. Yeah, that's the way Markle died...!"
II.
When Harkins' partner came up from checking out the lobby of the building, Kelly was already back out in the outer reception room and the door to Markle's office was closed. Detective Campbell was a twelve-year veteran, an older man with a receding hairline and an expanding waistline. He shoved his hat back on his head with a thumb when he spotted the young redhead leaning against the secretary's desk. "Who's your girlfriend, Jim?"
"He should be so lucky," Kelly said. "I'm from the MESSENGER."
"Yeah? Well, you're in for disappointment, cause there's nothing new since yesterday. We came back to ask the watchman a few more questions but he's a dud as far as information goes. Saw nothing, heard nothing."
Harkins handed the pulp over to his partner and Campbell agreed the cover was interesting. "Might be coincidence or it might have real meaning. We need to talk to the artist who painted that masterpiece, he might have some clues in his head. We're going to shove off now, carrot top. You coming?"
Standing by the desk, Kelly O'Connor was so distracted that she did not even hear the question. Her handbag was lying on the secretary's desk, opened, with its contents spilled out. Notepad and pen, keys, lipstick, tissues. But a second ago, she had felt the handbag's weight on her shoulder and her left hand had been holding the strap...
"Hey! What are you doing, looking for something in your bag? This isn't the time for it, gorgeous, we're leaving." Campbell moved toward the door to the hallway and looked back at her.
Replacing all the items to her bag, Kelly didn't think anything was missing but she was fretting over the puzzle. How had that happened? She couldn't have dropped the bag by accident, everyone would have turned their heads at the sound. This suddenly gave her the willies big time. "Yeah, sure, I'm ready," she muttered.
"Are you okay?" asked Detective Harkins. "Your face went all white."
"I'm fine. Maybe. I'm not sure." She straightened up and managed a brave smile. "Just turning over a few ideas about the murder. I think I want to talk to you about it later."
"All right. You can reach us at the 20th Street precinct house. We'll be there until seven or so, finishing paperwork." He took Kelly's elbow and steered her out of the room. The three of them trudged down two flights of stairs and through the lobby where the uniformed guard nodded at them from his desk. Outside, the street corner lights were going on as dusk deepened. The dingy building where Markle had his offices stood on Seventh Avenue, not far from Times Square, was a beige spike of stone pointing up into a cloudy sky.
Before he joined his partner in their Olds, Harkins studied Kelly with concern. "You sure you're all right, miss?"
"Yeah, I'm a tough little cookie," she shot back, but then her tone softened. "Thanks for asking, big fella. Maybe I'll see you around."
He smiled before climbing in the car. "I'd like that," he said and was gone.
Left on the sidewalk, Kelly kept thinking about the strange incident where her handbag had seemed to empty itself by itself. That made no sense. She was glad that she kept nothing on her that would tie her to the Green Devil role she played at night. So far, no one suspected her double life but she had to be constantly careful. Turning, she started walking toward the subway station at 42nd Street, stewing over the situation. She should forget about her weird haunted handbag, she should be working on the murder of Goodson Markle. Probably someone in the family would take over the publishing firm or there would be thousands of disappointed fans of Captain Amnesia.
Captain Amnesia.
Kelly stopped in mid-step and her mouth fell open. It couldn't be, it just couldn't be. She started walking briskly, then paused at a newsstand. Behind its counter, an old man with glasses down on his nose looked her up and down but said nothing. Kelly glanced over the display of newspapers with the war news and slick magazines with photos of movie stars to a vertical row of pulps. These had garish painted covers that contrasted with the cheap paper inside. The edges of the pages had not been trimmed and gave the magazines a ragged look. She spotted the title she was looking for, EXCITING MYSTERY TALES and dug in her handbag for a dime.
Moving over to a storefront, she stopped and studied the cover. A busty woman in a nightgown was struggling to escape the grip of what seemed to be an amazingly muscular dwarf who was brandishing a hatchet. Looming up behind them, open hands raised, was a mysterious figure in a white robe with a solid black oval where his face should be. The bright colors and intense detail made the scene even more disturbing than it already was. A box in one corner read, 'New In this Issue - BRIDES OF THE DEADLY DWARF, a thrilling Captain Amnesia novel!'
The interior black and white illustrations weren't quite as lurid as the cover. She saw that the Captain Amnesia story was credited to 'Lance Stockwell,' whoever that really was. After ten minutes, she folded the magazine up and stuck it into her handbag. She couldn't stand the choppy overheated prose. Kelly couldn't concentrate in any case, because that incident in the office was stuck in her thoughts. The only rational explanation was that she had suffered a memory lapse of some kind. Had she dropped her handbag so that its contents spilled out and then forgot about it? No. That didn't make any sense because neither of the two detectives had noticed. It was inexplicable. Moving with the crowd of people getting off work, ignoring the chatter and pushing, Kelly waited on the platform for the uptown train. Maybe she would figure things out better as the Green Devil.
III.
Pulling her little roadster up to the curb in a rundown New Jersey neighborhood, Kelly turned off the engine and sat contemplating sadly how difficult it was going to be continue her crusade. Not only were the tires bald and she couldn't get new ones but her lousy 'A' sticker left her without enough gas to follow leads. A fine vigilante she was going to be, taking taxis everywhere. She wondered how guys like Mark Drum and the Sting did it. The papers were always full of their exploits chasing crooks all over the five boroughs. Feh, they probably had connections with the government...
Five minutes passed with only one car rolling by. There were rows of identical white two-story houses on this street, each with a tiny yard barely enough for a victory garden or lawn chair. Here and there, windows were lit but it was midnight and most folks faced anther working day in the morning. Kelly looked back and checked the number on the house two blocks ahead of her again. Digging around the MESSENGER office had turned up the information was 'Lance Stockwell' was really Jake Perlman, a prolific hack who batted out piles of stories every month for Markle's empire. This was his address.
She hadn't found out much about Perlman. His parents had been Polish Jews who had come to America at the turn of the century. Perlman wasn't married, evidently he did nothing except write and drink, but he had a brother who was a research chemist for the War Department. Apparently, Perlman had created the Captain Amnesia character years ago but only Goodson Markle had given him a steady assignment turning out those adventures.
Satisfied that it was dark enough and quiet enough to get started, Kelly tugged on a dark silk mask that covered her face above the nostrils, then picked up her modified motorcycle helmet from the floor in front of the passenger seat and strapped it on. She had carved and sanded two pieces of wood which were glued to the dark green helmet to resemble devil's horns. The clear visor remained on the back seat. Stepping out onto the sidewalk and silently closing the door, she was a dark figure difficult to spot in the murk. The tight pants and snug short leather jacket were midnight green, while the high boots and cuff-length gloves were black, as was the white-outlined symbol of a trident on the back of her jacket.
This town of Morrissey had been unused swamp land not long ago. When the Lincoln Tunnel had opened to traffic in late 1937, the Jersey marsh across from Manhattan had boomed with new roads and business and buildings. Kelly still wasn't thrilled about driving through a tunnel with tons of water pushing down overhead just aching to drown her, but she was getting used to it. As she glanced around the neighborhood one last time out of caution, two headlights approached from down the street. Nimble as an acrobat, the Green Devil dropped to the ground and squeezed under her roadster to get out of sight.
A big black Buick swerved over to come to a stop the next block up from her, almost directly in front of Perlman's house. Kelly O'Connor slid out from under her car and crept toward the newcomers with infinite caution. In the dim yellow haze of a streetlamp at the next corner, she could make out three heads in that car, two in the front and one in the back. Judging by the outlines of their hats, they were men. She got closer, actually pressing up against the back bumper and trusting she would not be spotted in the gloom.
Clearly enough, a man yelled, "Put that rod away, you dummy! He won't be home for a few minutes at least."
Another voice protested but in tones too low to be understood. It didn't matter. She had heard enough. The Green Devil was squatting behind the Buick, turning over different attack strategies, when she realized the license plate on the rear swung down to expose the gas cap. No one saw the impish grin which lit her face. Kelly scurried back to her roadster and returned with a length of rubber hose and red metal container. She felt like hugging herself with glee.
Ten minutes dragged by and she was done with her sabotage when a blue-topped cab rolled up to drop off a passenger. By this time, Kelly was crouching on the far side of her roadster, watching, feeling a tightness in her chest and a humming in her brain that she had been anticipating. Adrenalin was starting to burn through her veins like liquid fire and she loved it. She saw a dumpy man in a wrinkled tan suit pay the cabbie, holding a flat attache case in one hand. A foul thin black cheroot fumed in his mouth. As the taxi pulled around the corner and went out of sight, three huge men got out of their car and stomped toward Perlman. Even if she hadn't known they were thugs from the badlands, their body language was unmistakable.
The Green Devil sprang headlong at them, furious as a wildcat that had fallen into icy water. She had no illusions about being able to actually slug it out with men a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than she was. Trading punches would be a good way to get killed. Quickness and timing were her strong points. Kelly kicked one man's ankle backwards so that he sprawled heavily on his face. The next one whirled around with an annoyed grunt and launched a perfectly decent right jab at her face. Kelly's open hand swirled in a counter-clockwise arc that redirected the punch so far to one side that the thug stumbled and fell on his buddy.
"You!" growled the third goon. He had a merciless clutch on Perlman's wrist with one hand, and in the other hand was a massive .45 automatic. The Green Devil faced him with her arms half raised, palms out. Before the gun fired with its flash of white light and deep boom, Kelly swatted the air the way she would swat at an annoying horsefly... and, unbelievably, the bullet spun backward to crash into the upper arm of the gangster. He yelped at the unexpected pain, dropping his gun and releasing Perlman to clutch at his wound. This was all the opening Kelly needed. She bodyslammed the confused gunman as hard as she could, knocking him off-balance so he fell right on top of the other two. They had been getting themselves untangled when the wounded man crashed down with all his weight and all three collapsed.
Grabbing Perlman by the arm, Kelly tugged him behind her as she ran toward her roadster. "Get in!" she yelled, yanking the passenger door open as she rolled across the hood to get over on the driver's side. She gunned the motor and peeled out, making one of the gunmen dive wildly for his life as she tore past him.
"Who? What?" babbled Perlman, clutching his attache case. "What happened? How did you...?"
"Get a grip, my friend," she laughed. "All will be made clear. You're dealing with the Green Devil now."
IV.
Before they got two blocks away, headlights blazed behind them. Perlman twisted his head around, "Those men! They're chasing us!"
"They can try," Kelly chuckled. She accelerated sharply, took a corner on two wheels and nearly skidded up onto the sidewalk but kept control. "Hang on, buddy, the party is heating up."
For a few seconds, the headlights drew closer and it seemed the gangsters would overtake them. But then the pursuing car came to a halt. Kelly sped up a bit more, sailing past a stop sign and heading out of town.
"I don't understand what happened," muttered Jake Perlman. His voice was getting steadier as he started to settle down.
"My guess is that they ran out of gas, ha hah!" she said. "I'm only sorry I couldn't have swiped their tires, too!"
"What? Never mind. Look, miss, can you please explain what's going on? Who are you? Who were those men? What happened when that one took a shot at you? Why are we...?"
"Whoa, whoa, this isn't a quiz show." Kelly slowed as they passed through a more active part of town and there was a bigger chance of a cop spotting them whizzing along. "Let's start with lil old me. You've heard of the Green Devil."
"No. Sorry. Should I have?"
"Ouch, that hurt. Well, you HAVE heard of the Monk? The Sceptre? Mark Drum?"
"Yes," Perlman said. He had stopped holding onto the dashboard with both hands as their velocity lessened to a reasonable level. "The papers say they're vigilantes. The police don't seem to be trying to apprehend them very seriously, so I wondered if maybe they deliberately allow these mystery men to wipe out criminals that the courts can't handle."
"Fair enough." She jabbed a thumb at her own chest. "I'm one of the newer heroes. Green Devil! I wanted to talk to you about Goodson Markle's murder."
"Awful, awful," Perlman said, rubbing his face with both hands. His suit had a faint unwashed smell that was overpowered by a haze of whiskey fumes. He also hadn't shaved in a week or so, and the greying bristles did nothing to improve the bad first impression he made. "I've been answering the same dozen questions from the police over and over."
"That's where you are in luck, my friend," Kelly assured him. "I intend to find the killer and then you'll be off the hook. Where the Hell are we anyway?"
The writer peered uncertaintly through the windshield. "Oh, you're going in the right direction, miss. I think I should hide at my brother's house for the moment. Who were those men? They were trying to abduct me. And they SHOT at you!"
"That's one of the pieces of the puzzle, to be sure. Okay, Pulitizer Prize guy, what is there that you haven't told the boys in blue? Anything really baffling or inexplicable?"
"You sound awfully young, miss," Perlman said. "What are you doing in that masquerade costume chasing criminals?"
"It's a hobby," she dismissed the question. "Anything weird or puzzling the night of the murder?"
"Yes. One thing, the police know about it but they don't seem too interested. The watchman was at his desk in the lobby, the front doors were locked and he would have had to buzz any late visitors in. He swears no one entered or left after closing hours. He said he was listening to a radio show when Mr Markle was killed."
"Not much of an alibi."
"Well, he repeated a few of the jokes. It was the Jake Gristle show, and the detectives checked that they were from that broadcast. It seems he had been listening to the show at the time."
Kelly O'Donnell didn't mention she was hopelessly lost. This part of New Jersey was mostly swampland with narrow roads cutting through the marsh and she had never been out this far. "A partner of his could have listened to the show and told him about it. I've seen trickier set-ups."
"Turn at the crossroads. Make a left," Perlman said. "That's my brother's house there."
Slowing in front of a drive driveway that went up an unreasonably steep hill, the Green Devil whistled. "Looks like a classic haunted house to me. Dark, rundown, miles from any neighbors. This might turn into a ghost catching caper instead of a murder mystery."
"Sol got it for next to nothing," Perlman said. "A new highway is scheduled to come through in a few years, but he said he'll be moving on before then."
"One light's showing on the top floor. Let's roust him and we can start to untangle the situation." As she swung the car and headed up the driveway, Kelly asked, "So, your brother Sol... He works for the Army brass?"
"Yes. He was an anesthesiologist but he went into research. The War Department has him working on trying to develop pain-killers without side-effects to help our soldiers."
"Hmm....." Kelly responded. "Interesting."
V.
When they rang the front door, the outside light blazed up to reveal both of them as perfect targets for any gunmen who might have followed them. A second later, the door creaked open as if its hinges had never been oiled. Framed in the light was the stunted form of a dwarf in rags.
"Why am I not surprised?" Kelly said out loud. "Of course."
"Good evening, Hjalmar. I need to see my brother," said Perlman equably. "It's about Markle's death."
"Heh, Markle is dead," chuckled the assistant. "No tears for him. So? Yes, the doctor is working but my orders are to always admit you," said the dwarf in an unexpectedly cultured and urbane voice with a Central European accent. "But your companion...?"
Kelly did not remove her horned helmet. Since she was wearing the bandana mask under it, she didn't see how it would make her appearance any less unsettling. But she gave the man her most winsome smile and said, "I'm helping Mr Perlman here avoid some difficulties with the law."
"I see," Hjalmar replied. Despite his unfortunate spinal deformation and his tattered jacket and pants, not to mention the untidy mat of brown hair that stuck out in various directions, there was something remarkably sharp and intelligent in his eyes. "Yes. I heard about poor Mr Markle, yes. Please come in and follow me."
They were escorted through the foyer and across a reception room filled with furniture covered by white sheets. A distinct mildewy smell filled the air. Up a wide staircase and toward a massive oak door under which a thin sliver of light showed, Kelly and Perlman followed the dwarf with increasing uneasiness. Both of them were beginning to assimilate the events of the past two hours.
They were led into a single high-ceilinged room brilliantly lit and a bit chilly. Two long tables with marble tops stood forming an L, their surfaces covered with an assortment of test tubes in racks, Bunsen burners, long tubing and bubbling retorts and stacks of notebooks. Tacked to the walls were dozens of scraps of paper marked URGENT! and DON'T FORGET - MONDAY! Getting up from a stool beside the counter was a tall gaunt man in a white lab coat. He had a long bony face marked by a bristly mustache and topped with longish white hair. There was no family resemblance between him and Perlman that Kelly could discern.
For an instant, the doctor smiled at seeing his brother but immediately after that his features dropped into a scowl. "The Green Devil?"
"Good to be recognized," Kelly laughed as she took in the room. Her knowledge of chemistry was nil, this place could have been brewing beer for all she knew.
"I read several newspapers every day," Dr Perlman said. "It's my diversion from my work. Yes, the Green Devil. There are reports you are bulletproof, young lady."
"No such luck. Listen, I brought Jake here because he was almost kidnaped at gunpoint two hours ago. I didn't think it would be the smartest move to let him stay at his own house." Kelly leaned over to glance at an open journal but it might as well have been written in Etruscan as far as she was concerned. She was well-read and fluent in French and Spanish, but chemistry was a blank area in her knowledge.
As the pulpster told his brother all the melodrama of that evening, the Green Devil continued to inspect the lab without moving from where she stood. A folding cot stood in one corner and a plate of half-eaten sandwiches and an empty bottle of wine indicated that either the doctor or his assistant slept here regularly. What were those three gas masks hanging on hooks along one wall? They were a different design than any she had ever seen in photos, with a trunk that hung down in front into a square metal box. The thick goggles gave the gas masks a peculiar semblance of gazing back at her. She stepped closer and studied them.
Turning to see Hjalmar watching her, Kelly remarked pleasantly, "You sound educated. A European University?"
"Hah. Yes, yes. Heidelberg. 1936. That was before my... accident.," the dwarf replied.
"Yeah? I'm sorry but I'm just nosy by nature. You're a lab assistant here?"
"How the mighty have fallen," Hjalmar said. "I was in line to be a teacher of organic chemistry. But then, that truck ran me over like a rag and left me this way. The doctor treats me well enough, I suppose...."
"Hjalmar!" snapped Dr Perlman. "Is the front door locked?"
"But of course. Every door, every window, as usual."
"Good. Green Devil, this house is not rented under my family name so we should be safe here." He went to a drawer and came up with a snub-nosed .32 revolver, but he put it back at once. "Your FBI strongly advised me to take steps to protect myself. Foreign governments would like very much to know what I have been working on."
"Poison gas?" asked Kelly, indicating the gas masks with her thumb.
"No! No, no. Poison gas puts your own soldiers at risk. A stray breeze is all it takes." Dr Perlman scowled at the helmeted girl. "But you are not cleared for any classified information, are you?"
"Nah, I just like to stick my nose where it doesn't belong. Hjalmar, you seem to have disliked Goodson Markle."
"That bastard. Yes, I hate him. We met by chance when I brought the doctor to meet his brother for lunch. Markle seemed to find my deformity amusing. He commissioned a series of stories in his dreadful magazines about the 'Deadly Dwarf,' an insane sadist who lived to torture women. He was a hunchback, too. I was deeply offended, and I told Markle so. He laughed out loud at me."
"So you're not exactly broken-hearted over his death?" asked Kelly.
"Not at all. But are you implying that I killed him? How foolish. Don't you think the security guard would remember seeing ME of all people that night?" Hjalmar waved his open hands in disgust. "Honestly!"
The Green Devil had not attached the visor to her motorcycle helmet. The black silk mask covered her eyebrows and hid the upturned nose. Skillfully applied bright red lipstick made her lips appear less full than they actually were. It was her bright green eyes she could not disguise, since she found the thin glass lenses as used in movies to be both uncomfortable and extremely dangerous. "You've got a point, brother," she admitted. "But I also want to ask Jake something. All that merchandise about Captain Amnesia... the radio show, the toys, the stickers and lunch boxes and all that junk. You created Captain Amnesia and you bang out a novel about him every month but do you get a cut of that loot?"
"Not a penny," grumbled the writer. "Not even reprint royalties or overseas rights. Goodson Markle was a miser who clutched every penny like his life depended on it. He said my stories stunk but as long as they sold copies, he'd print them."
"So you had a grudge against him, too?"
"Sure, but... Wait a minute. You're acting like you're a detective. Who are you to be asking us these questions? You're not with the police."
"I'm the Green Devil and there's no explaining me," she replied blithely. "You know, it's been my experience the past few years that all the confusing elements of a murder tend to be related. You haven't forgotten those gorillas who tried to shove you in their car, right? That's not something that happens to writers on a regular basis. Now, what's their connection with Markle's death?"
A faint noise in the doorway made all four of them turn their heads. The three gunmen were entering the room, and one of them was brandishing a Thompson submachine gun.
VI.
"Don't even twitch, none of you," said the leader. "We know all about your magic trick, Miss Devil, but I doubt it'll do much good against this tommygun. It sprays slugs like a firehose. Nice and slow, I want you to raise your hands way up. Reach like you're gonna touch the ceiling."
Everyone complied. Kelly had never tried her strange deflecting ability against a submachine gun and she didn't feel this was the right time to experiment. "Sorry about stealing your gas," she said. "It was too tempting."
"We hadda steal a car, but that only took a minute and we caught sight of you near the Tunnel. Sal is good at following a car with his lights out. So, this is the famous Sol Perlman, genius inventor, huh?"
The Green Devil tilted her head. "Ho ho, the light dawns. You wanted the mad scientist here all along, right? Putting the snatch on Jake Perlman was only a way to locate his brother."
"You're not so dumb, girlie. We were prepared to beat it out of the typewriter jockey, but you saved us the trouble by leading us here."
"Huh. Imagine my chagrin." She wiggled her fingers. "You can see I'm not packing, can I lower my arms? They're getting tired."
"Tell you what," said the leader of the three. "Take off the helmet. I'm thinking maybe we can get a decent price for you. You've caused trouble for some guys in our line of work. Boss Ferarro hates you, so do a couple others. They might pay to have you delivered to them."
"Now I'm reduced to being a Christmas package, it never ends," she grumbled as she unfastened the strap and removed her helmet to hold it in one hand. "At least I hope the bidding is fair."
"I dunno know if this skirt is really brave or stupid or what," said one of the gunmen. He had his left arm in an makeshift sling improvised from what looked like a ripped up shirt, so he was the one who had taken a bullet before. "You might say I'm in a little pain right now, I vote to rip her in half with the chatterbox."
"Hey, doc," said the one with the tommygun. "You got any dope for this sissy? Something to numb his arm so he stops whining?"
Dr Perlman lowered his arms and put his hands into the pockets of his smock. "Actually, I have something rather mild but it should help. Just a minute..."
Somehow Kelly found herself lying face down the floor. What? She blinked and shook her head, then pushed her upper body off the tiles to look around. All three of the thugs were sprawled not far from her with blood all over their heads. Jake Perlman and Hjalmar were also on the floor, but they were visibly breathing.
Looming up over her, arms folded, Dr Perlman leered in a remarkably unwholesome way.
The Green Devil scrambled up to her feet, finding that somehow she was still holding onto her helmet. "Give me a second to get this straight. This is like what happened in Markle's office. When my handbag was somehow open but I couldn't remember it. You did it. You were there. But no one saw you." She pointed at the thugs. "Are they... well, dead?"
"I certainly hope so," the chemist answered. "I hit them as hard as I could with the heaviest thing I could find. A piece of cast iron pipe, as it turned out. So you were the reporter at the publishers building. I thought so! Why you recovered before my brother and Hjalmar is a mystery. I used a bigger dose of the gas, so you should still be unconscious for a few more minutes."
"I guess I'm not cooperative by nature," she said, feeling back to normal. "Dad always said I was part mule. Let me get this straight. You've invented some sort of instant knockout gas? It puts people under for a few minutes but they don't remember the experience? Is that it?"
"Exactly. Trimethlyabromine, I haven't given it a catchy name yet. The lesser dose has some paralyzing effect which usually leaves people standing unless they are off balance. It's too good to waste on the Army. I think I can become much wealthier using it for my own purposes." Dr Perlman glanced over at the corpses with a smile. "Somehow those Neanderthals caught wind of my research. Someone in the Department must have talked too much. They didn't know where I could be found, but they located my poor unlucky brother."
Glancing around the lab, Kelly moved one step to her right and hefted her helmet as she thought as quickly as she ever had. "Wait. What about Markle? I know now why the watchman never saw anyone come in the building, it was the knockout gas. He didn't even know he had been unconscious. But why kill Markle?"
"Ah, that was Hjalmar's doing. He is touchy and not one to forgive an insult. While I was sleeping, he took a few of the gas globes and visited Goodson Markle with murderous intent. I didn't approve of the murder but by the time I found out, it was too late. What would be the point of punishing Hjalmar? I understand his grievance. And he is invaluable in my work."
"I guess that explains everything. Wish I had hidden a wire recorder on me."
"Trimethylabromine doesn't affect me because I took a counteragent earlier. The two chemicals combined make me bilious and a bit nauseous but it's a small price to pay for such a useful weapon." He held up a clear glass ball that fit comfortably in his hand. "I can't imagine why you insisted on getting involved with my business. You must realize I can't let you live after you've learned all this."
Taking another step back as if afraid, the Green Devil said, "And your brother knew about your research. That's what inspired him to come up with that crazy pulp character. You yourself are the actual Captain Amnesia!"
Dr Perlman laughed at that statement, butbhis amusement was abruptly halted as Kelly's helmet struck him right in the face. She had flung it as hard as she possibly could, then sprang over to the wall to snatch one of the gas masks off its hook and tug it on. Pawing at a broken nose, Perlman tried to stop the bleeding with one hand but in doing so he dropped the glass globe onto the counter top where it rolled to a halt without breaking. "Argh, my nose! I'll kill you for this."
"Scarier lunatics than you have tried," the Green Devil replied but her words were too muffled by the gas mask to be intelligible. She took three quick steps across the lab and grabbed Dr Pelham's hair with both hands to smash the back of his head down against the marble counter with a satisfying thud. The chemist slumped down to floor where his three victims metaphorically welcomed him.
Retrieving her helmet, Kelly shakily put it back on after barely remembering to yank off the gas mask first. Her hands were trembling from the adrenalin. She had not been certain that the gas mask would have protected her against Perlman's Tri-whatever but it had been the only idea she could come up with. The glass globe was within reach and she held it up. Inside, a faintly milky vapor swirled. She thought that this gas could have so many uses in medicine but if the Army got hold of it... well, there WAS a war on. Who was she to decide its use?
As she stood there wondering if it would do any good to try to destroy all the notes and journals, two more figures appeared in the doorway. She gave a start before recognizing them. Detectives Harkins and Campbell. Kelly retained enough presence of mind to remember that, although she knew them in her civies, she didn't know them as the Green Devil. The double identity gig could be awful confusing.
"Right on time to clean things up," she said in the huskier, deeper voice she used when in costume. "That's Sol Perlman there, he's alive with a bloody nose. His fingerprints are on the pipe that killed these three cavemen. I think between him and his lab assistant and his brother, you'll get enough confessions to go to trial. I'll read about it in the papers."
"Hold on there," the older Campbell barked. "You're not going anywhere. There's an order out to bring you in for questioning. You've been reported at twenty crime scenes these past two years. You are coming with us."
"This place looks like a slaughterhouse," mumbled Harkins. The younger police detective saw that Jake Perlman and Hjalmar were starting to move. "But those two are alive. So is the doc. Green Devil, you're under arrest."
"Sorry, I have to go to work in the morning." She inhaled deeply and broke the glass ball against the counter. The effect was frightening in how quickly it worked. Harkins and Campbell reeled but remained on their feet. Their heads drooped. Still holding her breath, Kelly O'Connor rushed past them and down the stairs to run out the front door where she absolutely had to take a breath. Whew, she thought. Too bad she couldn't have explained the situation more fully but being exposed and identified would mean the end of the Green Devil... not to mention a likely spell in a woman's penitentiary. If only the cops understood why she did this. That Harkins seemed somewhat reasonable. Maybe she could try to talk him alone sometime.
Out in the cool night air, the Green Devil trudged toward her roadster with a sudden weariness. She would have to show up at the MESSENGER with only one or two hours sleep at the most. She passed the unmarked car that the detectives had parked and she toyed with the idea of some sort of trademark she could leave behind, something to show she had been there. Maybe a card with a pitchfork on it? That should strike terror into the hearts of the underworld. She laughed at her own pretensions and got behind the wheel of her car.
1/22/2019