The Earth-Shaker, page 8
“All’s clear,” he announced.
They went back to the big doors and checked them out. Scorchy pointed to the windows on the front of the warehouse, which were boarded up, apparently so as to frustrate anyone who might be trying to look in from the street.
“Door’s bolted from inside,” he said. “Let’s try one of the windows.
“Okay, but hurry up. Gas doesn’t last forever, you know,” Nick growled.
They kicked one of the boarded windows in and entered the huge, all-but-empty room. Before them, the van, half-repainted, sat. Ringed about it were the sprawled bodies of several men, obviously felled by the anesthetic vapors from the gas gun.
“Bull’s-eye!” chortled Scorchy Muldoon.
Nick Naldini gave a nasty grin.
The gas which the Injector had discharged into the warehouse was odorless and invisible, a concoction made by one of the formulas secret to Omega. The vapor was heavier than air and tended to settle toward the ground, which explained why it had knocked out the workmen.
They approached the half-repainted van with drawn guns, which they knew were not needed. But the Omega men did not just charge in with sheer bravado, taking chances. When and if they entered the stronghold of the enemy, it was with a good chance of survival. Like right now.
The anesthetic gas dissipated quickly, and the effects of the gas upon the human body were relatively quickly recovered from, but one thing about the gas the Injector had filled the warehouse with, it was heavier than air and only filled the huge room to about the height of twenty feet.
The Omega men found themselves staring into the barrel of a revolver.
The gun was held by their old friend Ching, who stood upon a rickety wooden balcony which circled the room at about twenty-five feet from the floor.
Beside him, with a white, frightened face, was the little newsboy, Joey Weston.
Ching smiled silkily.
“Stand where you are and raise your hands above your heads,” he ordered. “Pleasse,” he added in his hissing voice.
Scorchy Muldoon and Nick Naldini exchanged a glance. They were not wearing one of the bulletproof “business suits” available in their lockers. It had not occurred to them that they should don the protective garments. Now they rather wished they had, although, actually, the revolver Ching held was pointed at their heads, rather than their torsos.
“Lay down your guns,” advised Ching.
They did so.
Ching looked them over. From the fact that they were not wearing anything resembling gas masks, he presumed that the vapor they had injected into the warehouse had become harmless or had dissipated, but he knew better than to presume much of anything where Zarkon’s lieutenants were concerned. He nudged the newsboy beside him.
“You will precede me down the stairs,” he ordered. And Joey Weston was not about to disagree with someone who held a gun. The lad went carefully down the wooden steps, followed by Ching.
He reached the cement floor, half expecting to pass out, but as Ching had gathered, the gas had become harmless. Ching prodded him across the floor until he and his captor stood before the two Omega men. Joey eyed the two of them shamefacedly.
“I’m real sorry, Mr. Muldoon,” said the lad humbly.
The redhead grinned. “ ’Tis nothin’, me b’y,” he said heartily. “I’d a done th’ same in yer shoes, prob’ly.”
The newsboy smiled faintly.
Ching eyed his two captives narrowly. He, of course, knew them both on sight, having faced them before. And he believed them to be very dangerous. For the Omega men had other weapons than mere guns, and could not be given anything less than total attention.
He was sweating slightly, was Ching. For he faced two dangerous adversaries, and he knew it.
And he was alone.
“Turn about with your backs to me, please, and lie facedown spread-eagled upon the floor,” he said softly, and the two had nothing else to do but comply with his wishes.
“Me brand new suit — on that oily floor, begad!” swore Muldoon, protestingly.
The pistol nudged forward, so Scorchy subsided, grumbling.
They got down on the floor, and Ching gingerly approached, the white-faced newsboy at his side.
He bent to search them for weapons.
They looked at one another disgustedly. To have been captured at all was bad enough, but — without firing a shot?
And now the gang had three hostages.
CHAPTER 14 — From the Shadows
As soon as Prince Zarkon left Savage’s headquarters and descended to the street level, where Ace Harrigan was waiting with the car, he learned of Joey Weston’s phone call. He also learned that Scorchy Muldoon and Nick Naldini had gone to investigate the warehouse where the mystery van was parked.
The Man from Tomorrow was naturally interested in the substance of Joey the newsboy’s call. And it was even more natural that he was somewhat disgruntled by the fact that Scorchy and Nick had gone off to check it out. Ace sympathized with him.
“If I know those two goons, they’ll get into a fracas first thing,” volunteered the young aviator. Zarkon silently agreed. Neither the. Irishman nor the stage magician were known for their timidity, and next to feuding with each other, the two loved best to jump into the middle of a free-for-all with the forces of evil.
Ace drove to the other side of town while Zarkon watched the Mayor’s news conference on the portable televisor installed in the car.
Reaching the block, they circled it and spotted the Omega car parked where Muldoon and Naldini had left it.
“Looks like I was right,” chuckled Ace Harrigan. “And I’ll bet you dollars to peanuts, that’s the kid’s bike.”
Zarkon nodded. “Pull up on the next street and we shall investigate,” he directed. Ace pulled the limousine into a vacant parking space and the two men got out.
Zarkon and Harrigan entered the mouth of an alley and found a fire escape, which they climbed to the roof of the building nearest the warehouse. It was not Zarkon’s intention to attempt to repeat his earlier entry into the abandoned house at Farmwell and Mountainair, where he had gotten in from the upper storey in order to rescue Scorchy from the thugs. Instead, he removed from an inner pocket of his jacket a pair of powerful binoculars, with which he scrutinized the interior of the warehouse, or as much of its interior as could be seen through the grimy windows.
“The van is still there,” he remarked to Ace Harrigan. “At least, I assume it’s the same van. The windows are so dirty that I cannot ascertain its color, but it seems in all other respects to match the descriptions of the vehicle.”
Ace nodded. “How do we get in?” he asked, practical-minded as always.
Zarkon considered: Occupying the pier that jutted out into the river, the warehouse was too distant from their rooftop aerie to try an entry from above. And it seemed foolhardy to risk charging the entrance, since they had no way of knowing how many crooks might be within the building, or how heavily they might be armed. “I’ll try getting in the front,” said Zarkon, “while you circle around the back and see if you can find an open window.”
They descended the iron rungs of the fire-escape ladder and returned to the car, where Ace removed a suitcase from the trunk. In the back seat, both men donned one of Omega’s special ‘business suits” — seemingly innocuous jackets and trousers whose linings were specially reinforced with light-weight metallic fiber and foam-plastic padding in order to render them virtually bulletproof.
They separated, Ace going around the back of the pier, searching for an open window like the one by which little Joey Weston had made his entry, while Zarkon approached from the front.
The door was locked from within, but Zarkon unlimbered a small device like a pocket-flashlight. The compact instrument projected a dazzling beam of coherent light wherewith he cut through the lock as easily as a laser beam would have.
Both men disappeared inside the building.
Yet another person was intrigued by the newsboy’s phone call. This individual was Miss Phoenicia Mulligan. The blond heiress had only enjoyed a tantalizing morsel of excitement since this caper began, when she had been driving with Scorchy Muldoon at the time the crooks had rammed their car into the ditch in order to carry off the little prizefighter. And, frankly, she itched for a bit more fun.
The girl had yearned to accompany Muldoon and Naldini on their quest, but knew better than to speak up, knowing they would not permit her to venture into danger. Privately, Fooey Mulligan deplored this chivalrous, protective attitude, which implied that young women such as herself were unable to take care of themselves — which (in her case, at least) was certainly untrue.
So she waited around until after the two had departed, then quietly left headquarters muttering something about having a breakfast date with one of her old school chums. She hailed a cab and went to where Joey Weston had said the van had entered a warehouse.
Phoenicia Mulligan was not as well equipped for trouble as were the Omega men, with their “business suits” and pocket rayguns. But the adventure-loving girl had stowed away a small, wicked, ivory-handled revolver in her purse and regularly carried a bowie knife strapped to one pantyhose-clad inner thigh. She also had a practical working knowledge of judo and karate, and figured she was more than capable of taking on a couple of thugs, if it came to that.
And she rather hoped it would come to that.
By this time, the morning rush hour was well in progress, and her cab took its time weaving through the early traffic. Fortunately, the riverfront area where the warehouse was situated was slumping into decay, and few businesses thrived in that section of Knickerbocker City, so as soon as they came to the streets which ran beside the river, traffic died to a sluggish trickle and the cab made better time. But, all the while, Fooey was chafing impatiently in the rear seat.
“Hurry up, darn it,” the girl muttered under her breath, “or all the fun will be over by the time I get there!”
The cab pulled up at the curb about a block and a half from the warehouse, Phoenicia Mulligan shoved a ten dollar bill into the hack driver’s hand and didn’t bother waiting for her change. She jumped out and slammed the door behind her.
“Nutty broad!” said the cab driver to himself, affectionately. “Tips me eight bucks for a two-buck fare ... and where the heck is a good-looker like her goin’ in this crummy neighborhood, I wonder?”
But he didn’t stay around to find out.
Fooey scouted out the warehouse and found the front window which had been boarded up before Scorchy Muldoon kicked it in. The girl looked dubiously at the broken window, with its jagged shards of glass and splintered boarding, then glanced ruefully down at her expensive new dress, a flimsy morning frock purchased from a classy Park Avenue boutique.
“Well, what the hell!” the girl breathed, and determinedly clambered over the low sill.
“Oh, fooey!” she exclaimed, as a sharp splinter caught and ruined her hose. But she gamely continued on her way in the dingy building.
And immediately found herself facing a dramatic confrontation.
Ching faced the two Omega men, his gun leveled unwaveringly at their faces. The Oriental knew better than to aim the pistol at the torso or abdomen of the two, well aware from past experience how often Zarkon’s lieutenants wore bulletproof suits.
“I said get down on the floor on your faces,” he hissed at the duo. Scorchy glanced at Nick. Both had a number of small gadgets secreted away in their apparel which would help them out of tight situations like this, but they were afraid that, if they were to unlimber any of these, Ching might panic, start shooting wildly, and perhaps hit the boy, who stood white-faced at his side.
Scorchy, in particular, yearned to try one of his tricks. The heels of his shoes were loaded with flash-powder gimmicked to ignite in an eye-dazzling flare if he clicked his feet together in a certain fashion. Scorchy had employed this trick on more than one occasion, and it was one of his favorite devices. Indeed, he was so fond of it that he kept overloading the hollow heel to such an extent that Nick often joked Scorchy could blow off a foot if he wasn’t careful.
But Ching was watching him alertly, ready for the slightest sign of just such a ploy.
“Oh, dang it all,” groaned the pint-sized prizefighter, “my new suit, too!” But he got down on the floor beside Naldini, who was similarly annoyed. Nick was wearing a fancy, three-piece suit of dark blue cloth, with gray spats, watch chain and fob, and his getup was also not the sort of suit he wished to ruin by spread-eagling himself on the oil-stained floor. But the expression on Ching’s alert, cold-eyed face was dangerous, and the little, soft-spoken Chinese was a cunning and deadly adversary who was certainly not one to shrink from killing a foe in cold blood.
Ching had immobilized the two Omega men cleverly. With their faces to the floor, they could not easily tell his position, and with their arms spread out he presumed it was safe for him to fish through their pockets and disarm them of any weapons they might be carrying. Actually, he had no intention of wasting time trying to search his captives: He planned to knock both men unconscious, then wait for the knockout gas to wear off and his men to rouse themselves from their slumbers, before doing anything else.
Ching made one mistake. And it was to prove a costly one.
All of his concentration was fixed on the two Omega men, and he forgot about the little boy at his side. But the plucky lad had been waiting for just such an opportunity to present itself.
And kicked the Oriental in the leg!
Joey was wearing his sneakers, and the footwear was flexible and didn’t pack much of a punch. But the boy was smart enough to have already thought of this, so when he lashed out with one foot he aimed it so that he kicked Ching in the back of the knee.
With a startled squawk, the little man went sprawling and Joey jumped on the hand that still clenched the gun and tried to wrest it from Ching’s grip. The lithe Chinaman flung the boy from him and swerved the gun into firing position. But he was too late.
“Hold it right there, you slant-eyed sonovagun!” yelled Fooey Mulligan from the shadows.
CHAPTER 15 — Joey Thinks Quick
When the little newsboy kicked Ching, Scorchy Muldoon was able to catch sight of the act, because his head was turned to one side and he could see the Oriental out of the corner of his eye. The Irishman scrambled to his feet, as did Nick Naldini.
“Fooey, your arrival was in the proverbial nick of time!” drawled Nick, looking down annoyed at his soiled clothing. He ambled over to remove Ching’s pistol and to frisk the little man for any concealed weapons.
Scorchy beamed a cheerful grin in Phoenicia’s direction, but reserved his attention for the boy, who stood grinning. The redhead slung one arm around the lad’s shoulders and gave him a comradely hug.
“That wuz quick thinkin’, kid,” he said warmly. “You ain’t hurt or nothin’, are ya?”
Joey Weston shook his head. “Nossir,” he said gamely. “The lug never laid a finger on me.”
By this time, the workmen were beginning to recover from the effects of the gas gun and were sitting up and staring about them in bewildered fashion, shaking their groggy heads and trying to clear their wits. Scorchy and Nick wasted no time in checking them out for weapons. Then they began tying them up with a coil of rope found in one of the packing cases.
Scorchy tossed the handcuffs he generally carried in the inner pockets of his coat, and the newsboy caught them neatly.
“You git the honor of puttin’ the cuffs on Ching,” grinned the Irishman, and the boy delightedly snapped the cuffs on the Asian, who regarded him inscrutably, his expression bland and noncommittal. But there was cold murder in his slitted eyes.
“Looks like you boys been going down manholes!” quipped the blond heiress with a glance at their garments, which had absorbed considerable grime and oil from the dirty floor.
Nick gave her a frosty glance which didn’t quite come off. “If you had arrived on the scene two minutes earlier ...,” he began, but gave it up with a rueful shrug. Actually, her appearance had been timely, and he knew it.
“So this is the famous van!” remarked Fooey, looking it over. “Guess they were busy repainting it when you mugs jumped them.”
“That’s why I hadda get in here, Mr. Muldoon,” declared Joey Weston guiltily, “even though I promised you I’d stay outa trouble. I peeked in one of the windows and saw them disguising it —”
“Aw, don’t worry about it,” said Scorchy. “Ivverthin’ worked out fer th’ best —”
“Yeah, and my sawed-off colleague here is famous for rushing into trouble himself,” remarked Naldini.
Zarkon’s arrival on the scene at that moment probably nipped in the bud the loud quarrel which would inevitably have resulted from the vaudevillian’s quip. The Nemesis of Evil took in the scene with a rapid but all-encompassing glance.
“Good work,” he said quietly. Words of praise came seldom from his lips, and were rarely fulsome. But both men, and the young woman, swelled visibly. As for Joey, he was staring at the Man of Mystery with hero worship in his shining eyes.
“Gollywhoppers!” breathed the boy to himself. Spying him, Zarkon smiled and came over to the lad.
“We appreciate your assistance in this affair, young man,” he said. “Your courage and quick thinking have performed a fine service to your fellow citizens and to Knickerbocker City itself.”
Joey said nothing, but the expression on his face was more eloquent than words.
Zarkon turned to Ching. “You will spare yourself much difficulty if you cooperate,” he said.
Ching hissed some phrase in an oriental language unfamiliar to any of his auditors, save for Zarkon himself.
Just then, Ace Harrigan appeared from the rear of the big room. He surveyed the scene disgustedly.
