The Earth-Shaker, page 9
“Why do I always come in just a little too late to have any of the fun?” he inquired aggrievedly. “Anyway, Chief, there’s a steel door in the back. Looks like a bank vault.”
“Very well,” said Zarkon. “Scorchy, Nick — check out the rest of the building. There may be others. Phoenicia, would you be so kind as to go outside and call the police? There is a phone booth on the corner, the one this young fellow used to call headquarters. Ask them to bring a vehicle large enough to accommodate our captives.”
The girl was reluctant to leave the scene, because that steel door in the back sounded promising, but she was so smitten with Zarkon that all resistance ebbed whenever he addressed her — which was as seldom as he could without seeming impolite.
“What about me, Chief?” demanded Ace Harrigan.
“You will stay here and keep an eye on these men, and especially on our Asian friend,” advised Zarkon. Then he turned away to investigate the steel door which the aviator had discovered.
He did not get very far.
As soon as the Mayor had finished with his news conference, he wasted no time in contacting Omega headquarters. Doc Jenkins was holding down the fort, along with Menlo Parker, and the big man took the call.
“I need to know what Prince Zarkon is planning to do about the threat against the Berkeley National Bank and Trust Company,” said Phineas T. Bulver. Doc cleared his throat apologetically.
“Well, Yer Honor,” the huge man said in his slow, careful way, “the Chief ain’t — isn’t — here right now, and I ain’t — haven’t — had a chance t’ speak with him since —”
“Forget the grammar, dagnabit!” the Mayor growled, mopping perspiration from his bald brow. “D’you know what time it is?” With his computer-like memory, Doc Jenkins seldom needed to consult watches or clocks. “Twenty-seven minutes after eleven,” he said automatically.
“Yep! And twelve noon is creepin’ up pretty fast,” snapped the Mayor. “Now, lissen here: I been cooperating with you boys, haven’t I? I let yer boss keep the cops from cordoning off the State Fidelity Trust’s block, and look what happened! In a half an hour, a little more, I’m afraid the same thing’s gonna happen to the Berkeley. Can you say I’m wrong?”
‘Well ...” admitted Doc Jenkins.
“Well — nothing! Either you Omega fellas got a plan or you ain’t,” snarled the Mayor, proving that he could be as ungrammatical as Doc Jenkins when his temper was frayed.
“Tell him we’re coverin’ it,” whispered Menlo Parker in Doc Jenkins’ ear. The skinny little scientist had come into the room just in time to catch the last part of the conversation. Doc gave him a goggle-eyed glance of mute inquiry, to which Menlo only replied with an emphatic gesture.
“We’re, um, we’re coverin’ it, Yer Honor. Don’t worry,” said Doc into the phone.
“You better be,” the Mayor declared in ominous tones before hanging up.
Replacing the phone on its hook, he sat back in his swivel chair and gloomily looked around the room that was his office. There frowned down at him a dozen or more oil portraits of former mayors of Knickerbocker City, from the one-legged Dutchman who had first occupied that position, way back before the Revolutionary War, to his most recent predecessor, now a senator in Washington.
“Well, what are you ginks glarin’ at?” demanded the Mayor irritably. “None o’ you guys ever hadda face a spook like this Earth-Shaker back in yer day!”
None of the portraits deigned to reply.
Doc hung up the phone and turned on the skinny scientist.
“Whaddaya mean ‘tell him we’re coverin’ it’?” he demanded accusingly.
“Because we will be,” Menlo snapped. “You big oaf, don’t you realize everybody has had fun with this caper except us? Even that — female — has had some excitement. So —”
“So?” repeated Doc, beginning to grin as he caught the drift of Menlo’s words.
“So it’s up to us to get to the Berkeley bank and check things out,” said Parker suavely. “We can call the Chief and the boys on the way.”
“We’re s’posed to stick around and watch the phones,” Jenkins reminded him. Menlo flapped his hands irritably.
“Chandra Lal can do that!” he said scathingly. “C’mon — you gonna let me go alone, and have all the fun?”
“I’m with ya,” said the big man happily.
They took one of the cars and drove off in a hurry.
CHAPTER 16 — Return from the Dead
As Zarkon approached the steel door in the rear of the warehouse, working his way carefully through boxes and bales, a ground-glass screen lit up unexpectedly. It was set into the brick wall above the door, and now it glowed with light and swirling hues, which gradually resolved themselves into a clear picture.
It was the visage of a bald, bullet-headed man whose grim, heavy-jawed face was swathed in white bandages like the wrappings of a mummy. Seemingly opaque black goggles covered his eyes, and little of his flesh was visible between the bandages.
Early in his career, however, Prince Zarkon had made an extensive study of the science of physiognomy, and did not have to see a man’s face unmasked in order to recognize him, for the bone structure of the face and skull alone are as distinctive, almost, as fingerprints.
As he recognized the man in the televisor screen, the Man from Tomorrow experienced a distinct shock of disbelief. For the man who glowered down at him from the ground-glass panel he knew to be dead.
It would seem that the other recognized him as well, despite the dim light, the deep shadows, and the black goggles he wore over his eyes.
“So we meet again, Prince Zarkon!” he purred gloatingly, his voice issuing from a small microphone set beneath the televisor screen.
“So it would seem, Lucifer,” replied Zarkon quietly. His features were as inscrutable as those of his adversary masked in bandages. They did not reveal the consternation, the shock, the alarm that seethed in his breast. For the man in the screen was an old and deadly adversary — perhaps the most dangerous criminal alive on earth.
Dr. Zandor Sinestro smiled grimly. The brilliant but deranged scientist had long since declared war against society, deliberately choosing one of the names of the Devil by which to be known by men.
“Doubtless, you believed me dead in the conflagration which destroyed my mountain laboratory,” said Lucifer. “And indeed, as you can see, I suffered extensive, if superficial, burn damage, which I am still recovering from. Soon the skin and tissue grafts will be completed, and I will be able to show my face before the world once more.”
Zarkon said nothing. It seemed all but impossible to him that the fire had not indeed slain Lucifer, but he knew the super-criminal to be a cunning and wily and resourceful scientist, and trusted him to have a few tricks up his sleeve.
Zarkon, of course, had a few tricks of his own. As he began to engage the Earth-Shaker in quiet conversation, he unobtrusively pressed one elbow against his side. Secreted in the lining of his jacket was a small alarm signal attuned to similar instruments lodged in the belt buckles worn by his men.
Zarkon pressed the signal thrice. In Omega code, “three” was the signal to get out in a hurry.
Zarkon did not put it past his arch-enemy to have wired the entire warehouse to explode. He was willing to risk his own life in the struggle against Lucifer, but not the lives of his lieutenants, for whom he felt a deep, warm friendship and admiration that would have surprised them had they known it, since Zarkon generally presented a detached and coldly emotionless face even to those closest to him.
“Your attempts to extort millions from the banking community of Knickerbocker City were foredoomed to failure,” Zarkon said, playing for time and spinning out the conversation to give his friends a chance to get out of the building before Lucifer used his trump card. “It is a pity, Lucifer, that you turned to crime. Your genius is such that it would have earned you the supreme accolades of the scientific world, had you chosen to serve civilization, rather than striving to undermine and destroy it.”
Lucifer sneered. “This scientific community of which you speak consists of a bewildered pack of shortsighted dolts,” he said. “I desire neither their praise nor their honors. And as for this civilization you preach of, it is a herd of ignorant, superstitious cattle, hungry for a man of power to assume the supreme command over their lives.”
“Then, your goal is to create a dictatorship, with yourself, of course, in the highest position of authority?” queried Zarkon.
The other laughed sardonically. “Say, rather, as God-Emperor!” he proclaimed. And then, in his mercurial way, Lucifer changed his tones. “I would that you would join me in my cause, Prince Zarkon,” he said softly. “Together, we could turn this world into a veritable utopia, devoid of crime, poverty, sickness and war. Your own scientific genius coupled to mine —”
“You know that can never be,” said Zarkon gently. “I came here to serve and protect mankind, not to dominate it.”
“Yes, I know ... it is a pity! With you at my side — at my right hand! — we could transform the world within a generation, even a decade. Alas, that I must shoulder the task alone, but so be it. And — farewell!”
From a small, round opening just beneath the microphone, a blinding beam of laser-bright death stabbed directly at the tall figure of the Master of Mysteries ...
Menlo and Doc Jenkins pulled up across the street from the Berkeley National Bank and Trust Company, and parked beneath a shady tree.
“Sure hope you got an ace up yer sleeve, Menlo,” groused Doc Jenkins tiredly. The big man rubbed his red-rimmed eyes and gave a jaw-cracking yawn. None of the Omega men had gotten any sleep the night before, although Phoenicia Mulligan had snatched a catnap on the sofa, and the strain of worry and fatigue was beginning to show.
“Stop gripin’, dang it!” snapped Menlo Parker irritably. He was as weary as his huge comrade, and his temper, usually pretty short, was frayed raw.
“Yeah, but you heard the Mayor,” said Doc Jenkins. “If we flub this one, it’s the last time he’ll keep the cops from cordoning off the street and emptyin’ the nearby buildings ...”
“Mayor Bulver’s a nervous old maid,” commented Menlo Parker. “The bank’s empty, ’cause he got the Governor to declare today a bank holiday, so nobody’s gonna get hurt. And them other buildings aren’t in danger, ’cause you know the Earth-Shaker always strikes directly on target, shakin’ down one building and only one building. So — what’s there to be scared of?”
“Hope yer right,” yawned the big man.
Menlo was engaged in setting up a variety of sensitive instruments.
Doc Jenkins watched him with dull eyes for a moment, then spoke up again. “How d’yuh suppose this Earth-Shaker guy does it, Menlo?” he inquired. “Explosives buried unnerground, or something? There’s a lotta tunnels and subway tracks and sewers an’ stuff under the streets. Easy enough to plant bombs ...”
“Danged if I know,” said the little scientist savagely. “But I stayed up all night goin’ over them seismograph readings we got when the Earth-Shaker brought down the State Fidelity Trust. Th’ Chief and I agree: a natural earthquake, plain as the nose on yer face. Explosives woulda left a whole different set of tracks.”
Jenkins rubbed the offending member thoughtfully, with another huge yawn. “Whaddaya think, Menlo? Is Lucifer this Earth-Shaker guy? Dunno how he could be, since he died in that fire inside Mount Shasta, but ... Ching’s mixed up in this. And Ching usta be his right-hand man.”
“Wouldn’t trust Lucifer not to have more lives than the proverbial cat,” muttered Menlo abstractedly, fiddling with dial settings. “Mebbe Ching’s set himself up in business on his own — now hush up, Doc, this is tricky business here!”
Jenkins subsided. He looked out the car window. The street was deserted, cordon or no cordon, and if anybody was still in the fancy apartment buildings which lined both sides of the street, nobody was showing his face.
The sun was high up in a pale blue sky. Everything was deathly still. It was as if all of Nature was holding its breath, waiting for the sinister Earth-Shaker to strike for the third time.
“Now, that’s funny,” murmured Menlo Parker.
“What is?” inquired Doc sleepily.
Menlo cocked a thumb at the dashboard of the car.
“Look at the clock, dummy!” Jenkins did so, then voiced a grunt of surprise.
“Hey ... it’s five minutes past noon!” he exclaimed.
Menlo Parker nodded slowly. He looked around at the silent, untenanted street. Nothing had happened ... absolutely nothing at all!
“I don’t git this, Menlo,” complained Doc Jenkins bewilderedly. The big man looked injured, an expression he always assumed when confronted by something his brilliantly accurate, computer-like mind could not understand.
“Me neither,” muttered Menlo Parker ungrammatically.
The two men exchanged a mystified glance.
The hands of the clock crept on. It got to be ten after twelve, then a quarter past.
They felt amazement. For this was the first time the mysterious Earth-Shaker had ever failed to strike exactly at the announced time ...
But ... why?
CHAPTER 17 — Menlo Parker, Hero
When their belt-buckle receivers picked up Prince Zarkon’s alarm signal, the Omega men wasted no time in bundling out of the warehouse. Scorchy grumbled at missing whatever fun was about to commence, and Nick Naldini snarled a string of Italian curses, but the crime-fighters knew better than to disobey a direct order in Omega code. And besides, there were Phoenicia Mulligan and little Joey Weston to worry about.
They crossed the street and took refuge behind the Omega car, because it had already occurred to them, as to Zarkon, that the Earth-Shaker might well have planted dynamite to blow up his headquarters, rather than be taken alive. While they were crouched behind the vehicle, Ace helped the newsboy put the borrowed bike in the trunk of the car for safety.
People were long since up and around, and cars zipped past while men in dirty overalls and shabby work clothes slouched along the sidewalks and intersections. If the warehouse blew up now, the Omega men muttered worriedly, a lot of innocent people could be hurt or even killed ...
But nothing happened. Except that the police arrived in droves, answering the call from the corner booth, and so did enough paddy-wagons to haul off the captives.
“We left them poor guys behind, all tied up,” exclaimed Ace Harrigan. “Ching, too!” And they looked at one another a trifle nervously. As far as they were concerned, privately, each of the Omega men figured that a cold-blooded crook like Ching deserved nothing better than to be blown up along with the building, if it came to that. But Zarkon had severe rules against the unnecessary loss of life, and they knew how disappointed he would be in his men if he found out that they had wantonly risked the lives of eight men, criminals or not.
Scorchy Muldoon sneaked a look across the hood of the car. The building stood unchanged as before, seemingly empty and abandoned. If it was going to explode, what was taking it so long?
“Here comes the lieutenant,” muttered Nick Naldini. He got to his feet and ambled out to discuss the situation with the police officer.
“I’ll call the Bomb Squad. And order up some ambulances,” the cop said, heading at a sprint for his patrol car and its radio.
“Better git the Fire Department, too!” yelled the little prizefighter after him.
Fooey Mulligan was getting restive. She was beginning to fume a little. “Are you goons just going to squat here on your heels, when Zarkon’s in danger?” she demanded hotly. They gave her shamefaced looks and sheepish grins. Not one man among them but would have happily risked his life to protect his leader ... but orders were orders.
“Well, Fooey on the lot of you!” the blond girl sniffed. And she trotted across the street and vanished into the warehouse before any of them, or the police officers, could stop her.
“Okay, I’m goin’ in too,” declared Scorchy Muldoon, “If’n only to drag Fooey out by her heels!”
Nick gave a nasty, sniggering laugh. “It’d take two dwarfs the size of you to carry out a big gal like Fooey Mulligan,” he drawled wickedly.
Scorchy flushed until his cheeks burned the same hot shade as his tousled hair. “Why, you vaudeville clown —” he started to huff, then shrugged. “C’mon!”
They crossed the street and entered the building again, followed by the police.
The sizzling bolt of electric fire knocked Zarkon over backwards. He sprawled limply, a dark form against the shadowed floor. From the televisor screen, Lucifer surveyed the limp figure narrowly. Smoke trickled from singed cloth. The sprawled form did not move.
“So passes a worthy adversary,” sighed Lucifer, “and a great champion of civilization! What a pity to destroy such a brilliant intellect ...”
Despite the mock sorrow in his voice, a lurking undertone of gloating satisfaction gave a clue as to his real feelings.
The televisor went dark.
Zarkon rose to his feet and concealed himself behind a crate. There, with a pocket-flashlight, he examined his clothing ruefully.
“A good thing I wore a ‘business suit,’ ” said the Champion of Justice to himself.
And indeed it was! The metallic fibers in the protective lining had harmlessly conducted the electric bolt into the floor, merely singeing the cloth a trifle.
Had the bolt come from a laser, however, Zarkon would have been dead that very moment, or dangerously wounded. But he was unharmed, merely shaken a little.
On swift, light feet he ran toward the front of the building, still half expecting it to be destroyed in an explosion any moment. There he found Phoenicia Mulligan cussing a blue streak as Nick and Scorchy forcibly ejected her onto the street. Cops were swarming over the place, lugging out the workmen who had been gassed while disguising the van. Zarkon surveyed the scene grimly.
