The Case of the Accursed Amulet Part Four

THE CASE OF THE ACCURSED AMULET

A Phantom Sleuth Adventure

First published in Apeshit!, 2013

Part Four

Despite the rising water, the Sleuth smiled.  For Byron Twain was an ardent student of escapology, and had studied the secrets of such men as Harry Houdini, John Nevil Maskelyne, and Major Zamora.  Having his limbs lashed to a chair by mere ropes was no challenge to him.  His nimble fingers worked the knots free long before the water had risen to his knees.

The Sleuth ascended the stairs, found himself in a subterranean storeroom.  A rickety wooden staircase rose to the building above.  Crates and barrels were pushed up against one brick-lined wall across the room from a tangle of pipes with a dripping valve-wheel.  The chamber was lit by a single lantern that sat on a crate beside an arched tunnel.

Having heard no creaking complaints from the wooden stair, the Sleuth guessed that the villains had escaped through the shadowy tunnel.  With nary a hesitation, he charged down the dark corridor as quietly as his squishing shoes would allow.  

After twenty yards of bricks reinforced with wooden support beams, the tunnel widened into a vast chamber.  The Sleuth gawked in astonishment at the wide, lantern-lit dock beside the subterranean canal.  Lao Shiang waited on the pier, the monkey at his side, as two of his underlings prepared a small boat for castoff. 

The Sleuth reached for his gun but found it missing.  With a sneer curling his lip he charged across the short distance between him and the Chinese ringleader.  The golden-haired monkey turned at the sound of squishing footsteps and screeched.  The Sleuth brought his fist around and knocked the Dragon’s Claw to the boardwalk as the monkey scurried away, screaming. 

The two Chinese henchmen scrambled to the dock as the Sleuth scooped up the ornate box from Lao Shiang’s hand.  The Sleuth stood, threw a haymaker that knocked one goon into the canal.  He ran back for the tunnel, pursued by the second Chinaman who was spurred on by Lao Shiang’s wrathful command:  “Kill him!  And retrieve the pendant!”

The Sleuth was nearly to the tunnel when arms wrapped about his waist.  The tackle threw him and his attacker off their feet.  The Sleuth rolled onto his back, saw the Chinese thug springing up from the boards and diving at him again.  The masked hero lashed out with both feet, struck the villain in the chest. 

The henchman slammed into the wall beside the tunnel, dislodging a lantern.  The oil splattered as the light clattered on the floorboards, setting fire to the dock, and the Chinaman’s changshan.  The Sleuth and the thug both jumped to their feet, pulled back their fists to continue the fight.  Then the Chinese brute paused, eyes widened.  With a shriek of pain he slapped at the flames on his shoulders in futility.  Screaming, he ran across the dock and jumped into the canal, even as the other thug pulled himself out of the water.

Seizing the opportunity, the Sleuth darted into the tunnel as the fire climbed up the heavy support beams at the mouth.  He ran for the sub-basement beneath the laundry.  Halfway there, a sharp pain erupted on the back of his head.  He recoiled in pain, crashed against the left wall.  He paused for one deep breath, then urged himself to continue.  He looked back to check on his stalker and a fist struck him between his masked eyes.  The Sleuth hit the hard bricks again and fell to the tunnel floor, the box tumbling from his feeble hand.

Groggy, the Sleuth lifted himself up and reached out in a lame attempt to stop the Chinaman from plucking the box from the floor.  The thug then uttered some pithy remark in his native tongue, and dripped his way back to the canal. 

Powered by sheer stubbornness and determination, the Sleuth pulled himself to his feet and stumbled down the tunnel in pursuit.  The pounding in his head was like a dozen drummers, each beating a different tune on his head.  Ahead of him there was a thunderous crash.  He looked up, tried to blink away the stars and saw the flaming support beams had fallen along with a heavy rain of brick and dirt. 

As the cloud of concrete dust dissipated, the Sleuth saw one of Lao Shiang’s dripping henchmen, an iron crowbar in hand.   Behind him, the Dragon’s Claw stood in the boat with the ornate box in his bony grasp.  The Chinese mastermind barked out a curt order and the henchman, scowling at the Sleuth, dropped the crowbar in favor of another lantern.  Without pause, the thug threw the new lantern at the debris, adding fuel to the fire then turned and rushed to the getaway boat.

Lao Shiang raised the box as though offering a toast.  “I should have guessed that hasty deathtrap would be insufficient for the likes of you.”  His underlings scrambled about the boat, preparing for launch.  “But in the end, your escape was for naught.   In a way, I am disappointed, for I expected better.  However, I suppose even the Sleuth must lose once in a while.”  Then he slid the lid off the box and gasped in surprise.

“Looking for this, Lao?”

The Dragon’s Claw looked at the Sleuth, trapped in the tunnel behind the flaming debris, the pendant of Mo Tzu dangling from his fingers.  Growling with lethal wrath, the crime lord looked about the underground dock with beady eyes.  In a loud, clear voice Lao Shiang issued a statement in the language of his homeland.

The Sleuth could only wonder at his words for a fraction of a second.  Then a ball of golden brown fury burst through the flames and landed on his chest.  The impact threw him to the tunnel floor once more, this time with the sinister skull-faced monkey snarling down at him.  The ancient pendant, too, hit the floor and with a pop shattered in two equal halves.  Both the Sleuth and the killer monkey looked with curiosity and saw the folded scrap of paper that had been concealed within.

The monkey recovered first, screeched into the Sleuth’s masked face, then snatched the antique note in its paw.  It jumped up to a supporting timber, the Sleuth scrambling after it.  The monkey leapt up and grabbed one of the beams on the ceiling.  The Sleuth, still dazed, tried to wrap his arms around the furry thief, but failed.

The monkey jumped through the fiery blockage once more, scampered across the dock, and jumped aboard Lao Shiang’s boat as it was paddled toward the nighttime harbor.  The Sleuth watched with disappointed eyes as the Chinese crime lord took the historic note from his pet.

With a gloatful grin, Lao Shiang held up the note for the Sleuth to see, then eagerly unfolded it.  The grin melted from his face and he crumpled the brittle note in one talon-like hand.  Fuming, he glanced hither and yon about the subterranean canal as he thought, until his eyes fell upon the Sleuth, still watching intently from the tunnel.

“For the sake of closure, I shall tell you that I have been thwarted today, though not by you,” said Lao Shiang at last.  “Sometime in the long history of the pendant, some other found its secret before me, and in its place he left…”  The mastermind cast a hateful glance down at the hand with the crumpled paper.  “…a rather surly note.  So, alas, my efforts here have born me no fruit.  However, if you have truly come for the pendant, then I bid you take it and go.”  By now, his unlit boat slipped beyond the light of the lantern-lit dock, vanishing in the darkness of the subterranean canal.  “I bear you no ill will, and apologize for your inconveniences.  It was interesting to finally meet you, O Sleuth!  Who knows?  Perhaps we shall meet again in the future, under better circumstances!  Farewell!”

The Sleuth squinted into the shadowy waterway but could no longer see the escaping boat, nor Lao Shiang’s golden robes.  With a sigh, he frowned down and snatched the two halves of the pendant from the floor.  A cursory examination showed him that the pendant was undamaged.  He deduced it was cleverly designed to be hollow, and was meant to open thus.  With careful fingers he snapped the two halves together, marveled at the trinket for a moment, then slipped it into a pocket.

He frowned once more at the waters beyond the fiery dock, and nodded grimly to himself.  For he expected to cross paths with the Dragon’s Claw again, he was already planning it, and he did not expect the circumstances to be any better.  A gut feeling told him that next time, it would be much worse.

The End

Tune in next time for a NEW adventure!

The Case of the Accursed Amulet Part Three

THE CASE OF THE ACCURSED AMULET

A Phantom Sleuth Adventure

First published in Apeshit!, 2013

Part Three

A few short hours later, Brian Twain was in a private room in Stockport General Hospital where Jane Wayland hovered over him like a mother hen.  The knife had been removed from his back and given to the police, the wound stitched and bandaged.  Brian was then placed in a room for overnight observation, and the nurses came and went in a steady stream under Jane’s careful scrutiny.  Eventually, a man in a white doctor’s coat entered.

“Good afternoon, I’m Dr. Saunders.”

At the sound of the name, Brian looked up with immediate interest.  He didn’t recognize the face with the bulbous nose and sagging jowls, but he knew the voice behind the disguise.

“You’re not the doctor we saw earlier,” Jane remarked.

“No ma’am,” said the man in the white coat as he stepped up to the bed, grabbed the clipboard and began looking through the charts.  “I’m a specialist on nerve damage.  My colleague asked that I make the time to give your condition a quick appraisal.”  He looked up at Jane, smiled.  “Miss, would you mind stepping outside so that I may conduct my examination?  I promise it shall be brief.”

Jane absorbed the worrisome prospect of nerve damage and quickly consented.  The man in the white coat thanked her, held the door open as she left the room.  Then he closed the door, pulled the shade down on its window and turned back to the patient.  “I came as soon as I heard, Brian!  What happened?”

Brian grinned and said, “Hello Byron!”  He lost the grin.  “I’ll tell you what happened:  I was stabbed in the back by a monkey!”

Byron Twain frowned through his disguise.  “A monkey?  You’d better tell me everything.”

Brian wasted no time in relating the adventure thus far.  The account was cold and factual, a detailed history, with no words wasted for the sake of entertainment.  As Brian came to the end of his tale, he reached out to the nightstand by his bed, seized a scrap of paper and held it out to his disguised twin.  “Jane has threatened to watch over me all night long.  You’ll have to pick up the trail and this is the only clue I can offer you.”

The man in the white coat took the paper and frowned at the name and address at the top of the page.  “An empty receipt from the Jade Lotus Laundry?”   He turned it over and recognized Montgomery Fisk’s address, written in neat, penciled letters.

Brian nodded.  “I believe the Chinaman dropped it in Fisk’s gardens during our little tussle.  It could lead you straight to him…”  Then he slumped in his bed.  “…or it could be a dead end.”

Byron stowed the receipt in a pocket of the white coat.  “I’ll look into it.  In the meanwhile, you heal up.” 

* * *

The Jade Lotus was deep in Stockport’s Chinatown, a neighborhood cramped onto the brick-and-stone quays across the harbor from the shipping docks where the Gertrude Burrows made port.  It was a three-story brownstone with crumbling mortar, boards criss-crossed over the windows and doors, and a painted sign for the laundry which bore chipped letters and fading image of an exotic green flower. 

Byron Twain; now clad in the gray hat, coat, and mask of the Sleuth’s costume; skulked through the deep shadows of dusk seeking an entrance to the disused edifice.  At the rear he found a pair of double-doors which covered a basement entrance.  Close inspection revealed that although the boards were crossed over both doors, they were only nailed to one.  To the casual passer-by, it offered the illusion that this entrance was barred like all the other portals of the building.

The Sleuth cast his eyes up and down the back street.  Spying no lookouts, he entered through the sham-blockade and pulled the doors quietly closed behind him to maintain the illusion. 

He descended the creaking stairs into a basement crowded with boilers, furnaces, and water pumps.  The spaces between these dusty, rusting machines were filled with crates and stuffed sacks that were piled up like sandbags against a flood.  Out of the corner of his eye, the Sleuth spied a movement off to his right.  With soft footsteps, he proceeded to investigate. 

A gray skull lunged out from behind a crate, surrounded by a mass of golden-brown fur.  It screeched at him with sudden ferocity, and instinct forced him to step back.  Before he could suppress this basic human urge, strong arms emerged beneath his own arms and reached up to his neck in a submission hold.  Grunting in exertion, he struggled to break free, but failed.  Unable to extricate himself, the Sleuth heard urgent voices behind him babbling in what he assumed was some Chinese dialect.  There was a burst of pain on the crown of his head, and everything went black.

*  *  *

The Sleuth awoke with a throbbing head.  He wanted to rub the pain away and found his wrists tied to the arms of the chair he was sitting in.  His ankles were likewise secured to the chair legs.  A quick look around revealed that his chair was in a cement-lined depression—not unlike a swimming pool—with a drain in the center of the floor and a pair of pipes that stretched up to the ceiling high overhead.  A set of narrow stairs led to an open walkway that surrounded the pit, but there were no other features.

A stern-faced Chinaman stood over him, with appraising eyes and a bottle of smelling salts in hand.  Satisfied with what he saw, the Chinaman corked the salts, folded his arms into the sleeves of his black robes and called up to the walkway above.

Another Chinaman stepped up to the brink and looked down into the pit with hard eyes.  Unlike his fellows, he wore a voluminous yellow robe that was covered with an intricate Oriental design in crimson thread.  He had fat cheeks and a babyish face behind a long black mustache and a tall forehead that stretched up to his bald cranium.

The man in the yellow robe descended the steps and approached the Sleuth as the Chinaman in black bowed and backed away in reverence.  The man in yellow regarded the Sleuth in silent contemplation for a long moment.  Then, at last, he spoke.  “Good evening.”  His voice was nasal, his tone curt.  “When my servants first informed me of a trespasser, the news was not so engaging.  However, once they described you, my interest piqued.”

The Sleuth frowned up at him.  “Who are you?”

“My name is Lao Shiang,” the newcomer replied.  “Sometimes I am called ‘The Dragon’s Claw’.  You may or may not have heard of me.”

“I’m sorry, no,” the Sleuth admitted.

Lao Shiang smiled.  “Fear not, I am not offended.  Indeed, I strive very hard to remain anonymous and unknown in my endeavors.  However, very little occurs amid the local criminal underworld without coming to my attention, hence my interest in you.”

The Sleuth looked up sharply from his bonds.  “What do you mean?”

“I deduce that you are this mysterious Sleuth whom I have heard about,” Lao Shiang hypothesized aloud.  “You have been connected to various crimes—many thwarted, and many that were successful.  Yet you have never been apprehended, and I daresay that few can give a reliable report about you.  You come and go like a phantom.  Yes, I believe you are the Sleuth.  Tell me please, am I correct?”

The Sleuth’s eyes wandered about the dimly lit basin as he considered his answer.  “Yes, I suppose you are.”

Lao Shiang clapped his hands together in triumph.  “I have wondered for some time now whether or not you truly exist!” he laughed.  “The thought has occurred to me that you were merely an invention for the purpose of propaganda.  Either invented by the authorities in a vain effort to dissuade criminal enterprise, or by the criminal element as a red herring to confound police.

“But instead you are real!” the Chinaman marveled.  “If half of what I have heard of you is truth, then you are a most extraordinary person!  It is an honor to meet you at long last!”  He offered a deep, respectful bow.

“Funny way to show it,” the Sleuth replied, tugging at the ropes that held him secured to the chair. 

“I apologize for the necessary precaution,” Lao Shiang stated, his tone devoid of emotion.  “I have heard conflicting reports about your personal disposition.  Although Commissioner Wayland publicly denies your existence, it is rumored that he has a secret file about you, and regards you a great criminal threat.  Contrariwise, other rumors insist that you were instrumental in the downfall of countless criminals.  So, you see, I have yet to determine whether or not I can trust you.  Exactly whose side are you on?”

“I am on the side of justice,” the Sleuth said in a defiant voice.

Lao Shiang sneered.  “An unsatisfactory response, for justice is highly speculative.  Its definition depends greatly on one’s point-of-view.  What purpose has brought you here to the Jade Lotus?”

“I have come to retrieve the pendant of Mo Tzu and return it to Montgomery Fisk, the rightful owner,” the Sleuth declared.

The man in the yellow robe nodded and let loose a heavy sigh.  “That is unfortunate, for it means we are at odds.  I had hoped that you could be persuaded to work in accord with my organization?”  He looked askance at the Sleuth, who offered a wry smile and shook his head.  “A pity.  Under different circumstances I suspect we could have worked together quite well.  Instead I fear I shall have to kill you.”

The Sleuth straightened in his seat.  “Kill me?”

“Of course.”  Lao Shiang raised his arms and indicated the room around them.  “This is a sub-basement beneath the laundry.  This vat you are seated in is meant to hold seawater, pumped in from the harbor.”  He waved one hand to the pipes that ran from the pit to the ceiling.  “It is then meant to be taken up through pipes to the laundry machines on the floors above.  But we will only fill this basin, and you will drown as we abandon these premises permanently.”

The Sleuth shrugged in his restraints.  “Why leave?  Once I’m dead, I won’t be revealing your hide-out to anyone.”

“True,” the Chinaman mused.  “However, from what little I have heard of your exploits, I deduce you have some organization—whether great or small, I cannot tell—at your disposal.  Therefore, I must assume assistance in some form will come to this place in search of you.  Only a fool would risk assuming otherwise.  I am no fool, so we make haste to depart before your agents may come to your aid.”  Lao Shiang turned to the narrow stairs, paused, turned back and advanced on his prisoner.  “But first I must satisfy my curiosity.  If you will indulge me…”

Lao Shiang reached out with one hand, pulled the mask up onto the Sleuth’s forehead.  The Chinaman gawked for a long moment at the sagging jowls and bulbous nose that Byron Twain hid behind to infiltrate his twin’s hospital room.  Lao Shiang grunted thoughtfully and returned the mask to the Sleuth’s eyes.  “Your face is not known to me and not at all as I expected.”

His curiosity sated, Lao Shiang turned on his heel and climbed the stairs.  A subtle wave prompted his servant to follow him.  The Dragon’s Claw issued orders in his native tongue; the servant bowed and retreated beyond the Sleuth’s limited view.  The golden brown monkey scuttled up to Lao Shiang, chortled, held up the ornate box to its master.

“An interesting animal you have there,” the Sleuth remarked.

The villain looked down at the simian, smiled, and took the proffered box.  “Yes, he is a Sichuan golden hair monkey from the Shaanxi province.  He has proven a clever pet, and has learned many useful tricks.”

The squeal of metal on metal filled the air as a rusty valve was forced open after a long rest.  Seawater poured into the pit from some opening behind the Sleuth.  In a matter of minutes, the water covered his shoes.

“I apologize for the mundanity of this death,” the Dragon’s Claw lamented.  “I feel an extraordinary man deserves a more worthy demise.  Alas, I am pressed for time.  Farewell O Sleuth, may you go to whatever Heaven suits you best.”  Then he turned and walked away, followed by his pet.

To Be Concluded...

The Case of the Accursed Amulet Part Two

THE CASE OF THE ACCURSED AMULET

A Phantom Sleuth Adventure

First published in Apeshit!, 2013

Part Two

Late the following morning found the Sleuth, sans mustache or mask, at the wheel of a Ford Sedan.  In the seat beside him sat Jane Wayland, seasoned reporter from the Stockport Globe, twirling her long blond locks around one finger, an anxious gesture that he found endearing. 

“Byron?”  It was not his own name, but his twin brother’s.  Nonetheless, he had long ago learned to answer to it as Brian Twain had been legally dead for years.  “Are you sure you can get me in to see Montgomery Fisk?  He never sees reporters.  Too important for us, I suppose.”

Brian smiled.  “Don’t worry; I’m an important man, too,” he said with playful pomp.  “Monty is an old family friend.  Don’t forget, he used to work for my father before he managed to buy his first steel mill, and made his own fortune.  I’m sure he’ll see us.”

Before long the Sedan pulled onto the Fisk estate through a pair of wrought iron gates.  The massive house stood surrounded by green hills and colorful flower gardens, flanked by shady trees that rustled in a slight breeze that offered no relief from the summer heat.  In a matter of minutes, they were inside the manor speaking with the man, himself, in his study overlooking the gardens.

Montgomery Fisk was a short man in his early sixties.  His gray hair was thinning, but still covered his head.  His eyes were sharp and alert behind thin spectacles that were attached to his jacket lapel by a lanyard.  He offered a warm welcome to his visitors, also believing the Sleuth to be Byron Twain.  Jane was introduced both as a reporter and the police commissioner’s daughter.  Fisk played the proper host, bade them to sit, offered them coffee.  The obligatory small talk was amicable, but cut short as Jane wasted no time getting down to business.

“Mr. Fisk, I hope I’m not being presumptuous, but I’m most anxious to ask you about this mystery package of yours!  From what I’ve heard, what was meant to be a secret arrival in the middle of the night was spoiled.  As soon as the ship docked a thief attempted to steal it.  Shots were fired; they say a man was killed…”

Fisk forced out a good-natured chuckle and held up one hand to stop her.  “The account you’ve heard is greatly exaggerated, which is no surprise to me.”  He sat back in his chair and regarded them over his steepled fingers.  “First of all, it was far from a “secret arrival”.  It was no secret, merely private business.  I understand that there was a robbery attempt, which was thwarted.  Only one shot was fired—at the robber—which may have missed entirely as no body has yet been found.”

Brian sat, feigning only polite interest in the account as Jane scribbled frantic notes on her pad.  Jane looked up sharply.  “But the package itself, what is it?”

“Ah!  Here, let me show you!”  With joyful exuberance, he ducked behind his desk and pulled out the box.  It had been opened, and the crinkled brown paper was folded back over it in an untidy fashion.  He placed the bundle on the desktop, peeled the paper away from a cardboard box.  He opened the shipping box, burrowed his hands deep into the protective padding of dried grasses and pulled out a small wooden box, covered in ornate carvings. 

Brian and Jane leaned forward in their seats and Fisk laid the ornate box before them on the desk.  “A new acquisition for my private collection,” he grinned and slid the lid to one side as though it was on rails.  Within the box was a round ceramic pendant, about the size of a pocket watch, on a frayed twine necklace.  Fisk lifted it from the box with a gentle hand and displayed it proudly to his guests.  On the pendant was a picture:  the sun’s beams fighting through the clouds to shine upon a hilly countryside, all this encircled by a ring of strange foreign letters.  “It is a piece of Asian history!  It is meant to have two brothers.  Together, the Chinese call them the Keys to Wisdom!”

Brian hummed critically.  “An interesting piece, Monty.”

“Yes,” Jane agreed, “But it doesn’t look to me to be a key at all.  What are they all about?”

“Once upon a time, the land now known as China was a collection of small kingdoms, lesser states, and warring tribes.  They each had a different philosophy toward life, collectively known as the Hundred Schools of Thought,” Fisk explained.  “Then the first dynasty was installed, China was unified and the conquerors proceeded to promote their way of thinking, and eradicate all others.  This procedure is known as the Burning of Books and Burying of Scholars.  One such scholar, Mo Tzu, built a secret library to preserve the knowledge and wisdom of his philosophy.  Then, he fashioned these pendants and presented them to his three most faithful followers before his death, promising that together they would guide one to his cache of wisdom.  At least, that’s how the fable goes.  Of course, no such storehouse has ever been found.”

Brian laughed, sat back in his chair.  “A nice bedtime story!  All that’s missing is a curse!”

Fisk lowered the pendant back into its box.  “It’s funny you should say that, Byron.  In fact, there is meant to be a curse!  One of the carriers of Mo Tzu’s keys was captured by the authorities and issued a curse upon the pendants.  Anyone who possessed them, who had no intention of seeking Mo Tzu’s wisdom, would be bedeviled by some sort of evil spirit.  A yellow demon, or some such foolishness!”

An unearthly cry reverberated through the study and a furry humanoid beast dropped onto the desk.  The three jumped back with a start as it screeched at them with a gray skull-like face surrounded by a mane of golden-brown hair.  It stood about two feet tall, with long, thin limbs and a long catlike tail.  With quick, jerky movements it scanned the desktop and seized the ornate box. 

Fisk reached out with one urgent hand.  “Now see here, you little thief!”  The hairy monster hissed at him, bearing a pair of white fangs and Fisk drew back with a cry of alarm.  Before the shock of its arrival could dissipate fully, the beast leapt from the desk, bounded across the marble floor, and jumped onto the sill of an open window.  “The pendant!” Fisk exclaimed. 

As though the industrialist’s cry had broken some enthrallment cast by the creature, Brian leapt for the open window.  Leaning out, he looked in all directions and found the impish simian picking out handholds among the wisteria and vines that covered a nearby trellis.  It soon climbed over the gutter and disappeared.  “Quick!  It’s on the roof!”

“This way!” Fisk barked as he led the charge into the hall, up the wide stairs and out onto a second-floor balcony. 

Jane pointed off to their left where the monkey scampered across the dormers.  “There it is!”

Brian climbed over the railing onto the shingles.  “I’m going after it!”

“Be careful, my boy!  I’ll get the groundskeepers armed with the hunting rifles!” Fisk announced as he rushed back into the manor. 

“Byron!  What can I do to help?” 

He stopped and looked back.  “You’d best stay in the house, Jane, out of harm’s way.”

With a frown and clenched fists, she groaned in exasperation.  Brian rushed over the shingled roof as she stomped her way back into the manor.

Brian traversed the sloping roof as quickly as he dared.  Suddenly there was an inquisitive chattering above him.  He looked up and saw the golden brown monkey watching him from the apex of a dormer.  “There you are!”  He jumped for the furry thief, but it retreated from view with a call not unlike mocking laughter. 

He slipped, caught himself, then walked up beside the dormer, following the monkey.  Brian climbed up to the peak of the second story roof and looked down the far slope where he found his thief sitting beside a pot-shaped ornament on the cornice.  He crawled over the apex and down the incline, picking his way with quiet care.  In moments he crept upon the distracted monkey, reached out one hand.

Brian grabbed it by the scruff of the neck as a thundercrack sounded on the ground below.  In the same heartbeat, the cornice exploded where the monkey had been standing.  Startled, Brian jumped, began to slide toward the edge of the roof.  Instinct made him release the thief and save himself by grasping the nearby ornament.  The monkey bounded across the roof, shrieking.

“Careful there, Tom,” Fisk admonished the gunman, “you nearly got Mr. Twain!”

“Sorry, sir!” replied the servant, as he tried once more to get the monkey in his sights.  

“Byron, are you all right?” Fisk called up.

“Fine, Monty!” Brian said with a reassuring wave.  “Have your men route that beast back to this end of the house!”

“Will do!” the industrialist consented.

Brian climbed to his feet and set off after the monkey.  A gunshot rang out to his right, beyond the peak of the great house.  Then another shot, a screech, and the sound of raining shingles.  The hairy thief appeared on the apex of the roof, and ran along the horizon of the peak as shingles exploded behind it.  Brian ran along the roof, keeping pace with the simian burglar. 

The shingles ahead of the monkey erupted with volcanic force, and the thief jumped with a cry of panic.  Brian made a short leap up the incline and caught the monkey in his arms.  The beast looked up at him with its skull-like face and let loose a spine-chilling shriek.  The thief struggled to escape with enough force to throw Brian off-balance.  Brian stumbled about in an effort to stay upright, but the broken shingles shifted beneath his feet.  Both he and his hairy catch rolled down the incline and fell over the edge amid a shower of debris.

Brian Twain fell one story and landed in the soft loam of a flower bed, azaleas and begonias flattened beneath him.  A quick assessment proved that he suffered no serious damage.  He picked himself up and quickly spied the pendant’s box a few feet away.  He stumbled toward it when Jane’s voice yelled out behind him, “Byron, look out!”

Brian spun about and gawked in wide-eyed shock at an advancing Chinaman with ten inches of sharpened steel raised for the kill.  Jane clung to his back, both arms wrapped about the villain’s neck.  Brian noted that this was not the man from the freighter, though dressed in similar costume.

Brian let fly a roundhouse that connected with the villain’s jaw and followed with a left hook.  While stunned, the long knife was knocked from the murderer’s hand with ease. 

Undaunted, the Chinaman twirled around in a sloppy pirouette.  The momentum swung Jane’s feet out in a wide circle where her hard shoes struck Brian’s head with lethal force.  The Chinaman finished his spin and Jane’s own weight pulled her off of him.  The assassin advanced upon Brian, who clutched his head in agony, and dropped him to the flower bed with a single blow.

As Brian lay groaning in the dirt, the Chinaman stepped over him, bent down, plucked the ornate box from the ground.  “No you don’t!” Brian cried as he seized the brigand’s ankle with one hand.  The Chinaman fell into the loam with a cry of alarm.  With a frown, the Chinaman tried to pull his leg free while rattling off his native gibberish in an urgent tone.

Jane screamed as the skull-faced monkey bounded past her with the long knife in its paws.  The monkey leapt onto Brian’s back and drove the blade through his thin coat and into his flesh.  Brian cried out in anguish, let loose his grip on the thug. 

The Chinaman jumped to his feet and bolted across the gardens to an awaiting sedan with the box in hand.  A sharp command prompted the murderous monkey to follow.  The groundskeepers rounded the corner of the manor, with Fisk leading the charge.  They leveled their rifles and fired as the fiend and his animal companion climbed into his car and sped away.

Brian watched the car race away with hatred in his heart.  Then his eyes fell to a scrap of paper, incongruous in the trampled flower bed.  He reached out, nabbed it, and held it tight in a clenched fist even as Jane demanded an ambulance.

To Be Continued...

The Case of the Accursed Amulet Part One

THE CASE OF THE ACCURSED AMULET

A Phantom Sleuth Adventure

First published in Apeshit!, 2013

Part One

The heavy summer night smothered Stockport like a blanket.  The oppressive heat of afternoon lingered in the close confines of the city and showed no intent of leaving.  Some small relief came in a sea breeze from somewhere out on the ocean, but even this wind seemed reluctant to run through the streets. 

Despite the refreshing sea air, the waterfront still suffered from stifling temperatures.  Nevertheless, a mysterious figure skulked the docks clad in a dark trench coat and wide-brimmed hat.  The coloring of his costume allowed him to blend almost perfectly with the deep shadows, unseen by dockhands, sailors, and other denizens of the nighttime wharfs.

Ignoring these potential distractions, the Sleuth exercised his enviable patience, waiting for the object of his mission.  It arrived at eight minutes past midnight, when the S.S. Gertrude Burrows pulled into port, ending its long trip from Africa.  Through a sweat-soaked mask the Sleuth watched it dock, and knew it was time to learn the validity of his tip-off.

* * *

The Gertrude Burrows was a sturdy freighter, finished only a few short months before the invasion of Poland.  Thanks to the war contracts won by the Burrows Shipping Line, it was chiefly employed to transport precious supplies to the Allied war machine.  As such, the cavernous cargo hold was all but empty on the return voyage, much to the Sleuth's chagrin.  According to his information, something was going to be stolen off this boat tonight.  Alas, he lacked further details.

Undaunted, the Sleuth turned away from the open hatches and traversed the main deck.  He made up his mind to locate the records room, where he expected to find a cargo manifest among the ship's logs.  

The Sleuth made it to the shadows beside the mast-house without being spotted by any of the crew.  He was casing an opportunity to bolt unseen to the bridge castle when his keen ears detected a muffled moan and a soft thump.  The Sleuth peered around the corner of the mast-house and spied a sailor laying prone on the narrow walkway between the two open cargo hatches.

With haste, the Sleuth ran to the victim, dropped to one knee, and pressed two fingers against the man's neck in search of a pulse.  He sighed in relief as he felt the rhythmic throb of pumping blood.  The sailor moaned and stirred.  With a start, the Sleuth reached into his trench coat and pulled out his disguise kit. 

The kit was a shiny silver flip-top box, like an oversized cigarette case.  He flipped the lid open, plucked out a random mustache and pressed it onto his upper lip.  The Sleuth then ripped the mask from his face, and thrust it and the kit back into his coat as the sailor's eyes flickered open.

The Sleuth smiled, reached out to assist the man to his feet.  "There now, you'll be all right in a mo..."

The sailor's fist shot out, caught the Sleuth squarely on the chin, knocked him off his feet.  "So!  Troyin' t'get the jump on me, are ya?"

The Sleuth frowned in astonishment as the sailor jumped up from the deck and balled up his fists for a fight.  He was young, not very tall, but blessed with beefy arms that packed a wallop.  The Sleuth scrabbled to his feet, held one hand out in a calming gesture as he thrust his other hand into one of his pockets.  "Wait!  You don't understand..."

The sailor advanced behind a ready pair of fists.  "Sure then you'd best be makin' me understand, afore I give ya a damn good thrashin'!  Who are you?  What's yer business aboard this here ship?"

The Sleuth drew the badge from his coat pocket and held it out before him.  "Saunders, War Department!" 

The sailor froze in place and stared with wide eyes.  Then he unclenched his fists and fidgeted with embarrassment as he stammered, "Beggin' yer pardon, sir!  Ya must understand, to awake after bein' kayoed like that, an' seein' a stranger on deck..."

"I understand perfectly," the Sleuth replied with a kind smile.  Then the grin vanished, leaving only the usual steely stare.  "What's your name sailor, and what happened here?"

The sailor, still wide-eyed, stood up straight, brought one hand to his temple in salute.  "Deck hand Mike Flaherty!"  He slumped where he stood, frowned away for a moment.  "Sure and the truth is that I'm not rightly certain what happened.  One moment I'm openin' the hatches to the cargo hold, next thing I know I wake up with a bump on me noggin and you hoverin' over me."

The Sleuth placed a hand on Flaherty's shoulder.  "You didn't see who attacked you?"

"No sir."

The Sleuth ran his gaze across the ship's deck, spied nothing amiss.  "Listen carefully, Flaherty.  My people have obtained information that this ship has been targeted for a robbery tonight.  My guess is that the guy who clobbered you is my thief.  So I need a list of the cargo you're carrying so we can identify his target and nab him!"

"That's impossible!" the deck hand replied, rubbing the lump on his head.  "After we drop off our shipment, we always return home empty.  There is no cargo on board."  A thought flashed through his mind and his face turned toward the bridge castle.  "Unless..."

"Unless what?"

"Mr. Wilson, he's the mate, he went ashore and brought back a small package which he kept in his cabin," Flaherty told.

"What was it?" the Sleuth pressed him.

The sailor shrugged.  "I assumed it was some souvenir for his family."

The Sleuth snorted.  "It could be intelligence vital to the war effort!"

"No!" Flaherty gasped.  "Mr. Wilson's no spy!  He can't be!"

The Sleuth narrowed his eyes.  "We'd better make sure of that.  Take me to him."

* * *

The sailor guided the Sleuth through the ship to the officers' quarters.  "This is it, Mr. Saunders."  With a curt thanks, the Sleuth rapped on the door.  A few seconds went by with no response, and he knocked again.  Flaherty shrugged.  "Could be that he's up on the bridge.  Come along, I'll take ya straight there," he said as he started down the corridor, waving for the Sleuth to follow.

The Sleuth took a single step before he heard the thump beyond the door.  "What was that?" he asked as his hand flew to the handle.  He found the portal unlocked, and flung the door wide. 

The mate's cabin was a fifteen-by-ten box with modest furnishings and in the middle of it all two men were caught in a dance of death.  The victim, blond haired and blue eyed, was dressed in a typical naval uniform:  a blue blazer and slacks over a white turtleneck.  In manic desperation, he clawed at his throat.  The garrote was pulled tight by the strong hands of the Chinaman behind him, who looked like something out of a nightmare in his black cap and changshan.  Surprise was in his murderous eyes as they flashed to the open door, and he yanked on his wire with renewed effort.

The Sleuth charged into the cabin, threw one fist into the Chinaman's ribs.  The pain raced through the villain and his grip on the garrote loosened until Wilson pulled free, gasping for precious air. 

"Mr. Wilson!" Flaherty exclaimed from the doorway. 

The Sleuth swung his fist again, but the Chinaman blocked and threw a punch of his own.  The Sleuth crashed onto the bunk, and Flaherty ran in to replace him.  One hit to his gut and another to his jaw sent the deckhand crumbling to the cabin floor.  The Chinaman snatched a small package wrapped in brown paper from the table below the porthole even as Wilson, still massaging his tender throat with one hand, pulled a gun from his dresser drawer.  Almost as though expecting it, the Chinaman grabbed a book from the table and flung it at Wilson as he whipped around.

The book collided with the gun barrel, knocking it aside as it fired.  The wild shot hit the lamp, plunging the cabin into darkness with a short rain of glass.  Undaunted, the Chinaman bolted for the lighted hallway, slamming the door shut behind him.

"He's getting away!" the Sleuth cried as he jumped over Flaherty and rushed for the door.  He burst into the hall, checked both directions and spied the Chinaman's long, braided queue vanish around a corner and charged in pursuit. 

The Sleuth chased the clanging footsteps up a stairwell, the two sailors trailing in his wake.  The Chinaman, package in hand, bolted across the open deck on course for the aft guard rail and the open ocean beyond.  Without pause, the Sleuth ran after him, Flaherty at his heels.  Wilson stepped to the side, raised his pistol and croaked out the fair warning, “Halt or I fire!”

Ignoring the alert, the Chinaman leapt for the rail and the gun in Wilson’s hand barked a vicious thundercrack.  The Chinaman, still clutching the topmost rail, fell over the barrier and dangled above the churning waters below.  Breathless, the Sleuth braced himself against the railing and clutched at the assassin with desperate fingers.  The killer looked up at him, his mouth trembling as though he struggled to speak.  Instead, he released the rail and fell into the water, leaving only the package in the Sleuth’s hands.

The Sleuth frowned down at the watery grave, but the killer’s body never floated to the surface.  There was no smaller craft nearby, no convenient getaway boat in sight.  Wilson and Flaherty joined him at the rail as other sailors arrived, ready for trouble, attracted by the gunshot. 

“I don’t know who you are,” Wilson rasped, “but I thank you for showing up when you did.  A moment later, and I would’ve been done for.”

Flaherty jabbed one thumb toward the Sleuth and said, “This here’s a Mr. Saunders, come down from the war department…”

“That’s right,” the Sleuth interrupted.  “I’ll have to ask you what you’ve got in this package, and who wants it bad enough to kill you for it.”

Wilson didn’t hesitate.  “I don’t know, exactly.  Some sort of antique, jewelry I think.  I was merely bringing it Stateside at the request of Montgomery Fisk.”

The Sleuth’s eyes widened.  “Montgomery Fisk?  The industrialist?”

“The same.  You see, my father was Mr. Fisk’s butler since…before I was born until his death last year.  Mr. Fisk liked children, and doted on those of his servants just as much as his own.  In fact, I believe he offered me every opportunity that he provided for his own son.  So when he asked me to meet up with his man, pick up a package and bring it home, I could hardly refuse.  He said it was some valuable antique and that he needed someone he could trust, I assured him he could rely upon me.”

“Have you any idea who may be after it?” the Sleuth persisted.

“No, not specifically,” Wilson replied.  “But if it’s some valuable artifact, I expect any number of thieves would be interested in it.  I’ve never even opened the package, so all I know is what I was told when I picked it up.  It was implied to be a piece of jewelry, and there was some nonsense about a curse.”

The deck hand snorted and poked his elbow into the Sleuth’s ribs.  “Hardly sounds like war secrets, eh Mr. Saunders?”

The Sleuth regarded the package with disappointment in his eyes.  “No, no it doesn’t.”  A feeling in his gut told him there was more to the mystery, but that he could not dig deeper in his current identity.  Hiding his regret, he held the package out to the first mate.  “Well, I guess this is out of my department.  Here you go, Mr. Wilson, sorry for the questions.”

“Not at all,” the mate replied as he took the box in his hands.

“However, there has been one attempt on your life,” the Sleuth continued, “if you’d like I could make a few calls, get a man assigned to help you guard that until you get it to Fisk.”

Wilson smiled in gratitude.  “That shouldn’t be necessary.  He’s expecting me first thing in the morning.  Besides, I have a whole boatload of trustworthy men to stand guard for me.  All I have to do is ask.”

“Sure and that’s right!” Flaherty exclaimed, punching the air for emphasis.  “In fact, ya don’t even have to ask!  Oy’ll stand watch over ya tonight, Mr. Wilson.  Rest assured that nobody will get past me, now that I know to be lookin’ for ‘em!”  He was not the only volunteer.

To Be Continued...

The Phantom Sleuth

Howdy-do to you Tough-Guys, Agents, and Shamuses! 
...or is that Shamii?  ...I guess it's a shame-I don't know!  HA!

Yeah, I know, it was bad.  You know the worst part is?  I'm not even ashamed of it!  Isn't that terrible?

Anyway, welcome back!  Since the premier Saturday Serial, "The Crystal Cage" has ended, I want to talk about the next story, and what inspired it.

As you must know by now, I am a fan of the old pulp heroes.  The Shadow, the Spider, the Phantom Detective, the Black Bat, the Green Lama...there are so many, and they all have some distinct similarities.  Chiefly, they are all masked mystery men fighting against crime!  Some, like the Shadow and the Green Lama, have seemingly supernatural powers, while most of the others only have pistols and fanatical devotion to their cause.

Many such heroes had their own magazine, some had radio dramas, and some of the most popular ones had movies or movie serials.  The Masked Man of Mystery was a rock-solid trope of the hero pulps, so naturally I HAD to have one of my own!

My hero is the Phantom Sleuth!  This mysterious identity is actually shared by a pair of identical twin brothers:  Byron and Brian Twain.  Their parents were marked for death by the mob, and Byron was caught up in the mob hit while Brian escaped it altogether.  Now, Byron is believed to be dead, and both brothers have vowed to avenge their parents' death by waging a war against crime.

Brian Twain, the sole survivor of the family tragedy, is now a wealthy young socialite and sole heir to the family business empire.  Secretly, the Twain brothers created the identity of the Phantom Sleuth, and began to fight the underworld.  The two brothers take on the identity of the Phantom Sleuth in shifts, likewise the public identity of Brian Twain.

Byron is in love with Jane Wayland, who only knows him as Brian, the living twin.  As a star reporter of a local newspaper and the daughter of the Police Commissioner, she inadvertently supplies the Phantom Sleuth with various tidbits of useful information.  Meanwhile, her father deems the Sleuth to be a danger to the public at large, and strives to bring him in, like a common criminal.

The Phantom Sleuth is a crack shot, a master of disguise, and a skilled escape artist who fights the outlandish villains who threatened the peace and safety of the denizens of this beloved city.  Magicians, Mesmerists, Masterminds and more plague the criminal cases in his files!

You can get the first-ever Phantom Sleuth story, "The Case of the Villainous Vanishing Act", and a slew of other stories--for FREE--in "The Adventure Sampler" when you join the Adventure Society.  You can also read the first installment of newest adventure this Saturday!

Until then, I wish you all...

Good Adventuring!
Timothy A. Sayell