The Nemesis of Evil Page 5

  The Ultimate Man studied the closely written sheets thoughtfully, then selected from one of the many interior pockets wherewith his gray suede jacket was unobtrusively fitted a small, flat mirror of optically polished steel. He held it up so that the first sheets were reflected in the mirror, the writing appearing backward.

  “It is nothing but ordinary shorthand,” he said, “written backward from right to left, so that it only becomes legible when reflected in a mirror. Leonardo da Vinci was the first man to conceal his thoughts in that manner, except, of course, that he didn’t write in shorthand, which was not an invention of the Italian Renaissance.”

  “By golly, you’re right!” marveled Doc Jenkins delightedly. “Pretty darn shrewd idea.” Zarkon handed the big man the notes to transcribe, and in a surprisingly short time Doc Jenkins returned, grinning hugely. The laborious process of deciphering the writing had not appealed to him, so he had simply and swiftly mastered the trick of reading shorthand in reverse.

  The notes proved to be a gold mine of succinct information and clever guesswork, but contained little of any real substance. Toward the end, though, there appeared some remarks that seemed to interest Zarkon. In this section MacAndrews had discussed the occult newsletters that had been so severe in their criticism of the Brotherhood as to cause Lucifer to direct the disguised reporter to seek to squelch further such news items by intimidation of their editors.

  “That seems a promising lead,” Zarkon said thoughtfully. “Scorchy, why don’t you look these people up and see if they have anything concrete to give us? Doc will copy out their addresses for you; you should at least be able to interview the woman in Palma Laguna who edits Borderlands. Report back here when you are finished with her, and we’ll see about the other person later.”

  “Oboyoboyoboy,” grinned Scorchy, rubbing his palms together briskly. “A little action, at last! Translate that gobbledygook for me, Doc, and I’m off!”

  The man with the camera eyes noted down the address of Miss Elvira Higgins and handed the little Irishman the piece of paper. The boxer made a fast exit, but not fast enough to miss the perennial parting crack that Nick Naldini invariably made on such occasions.

  “Take a bus, boy, or a taxi. We got enough to do catching murderers without having to bail you out of the clink for sixty-three traffic violations!”

  Despite the advice of Nick Naldini, the feisty little fighter took the rented car the ex-magician had left parked before Robert Russell Ryan’s estate, the keys obligingly stuck in the ignition. It sorely rankled Scorchy Muldoon that his driving skill was a subject of amusement to his associates, and he deliberately got behind the wheel of a car at every opportunity, obviously on the theory that all a car needs is a strong, stubborn hand at the reins in order to know when it is licked.

  The rented car, however, behaved in precisely the usual sort of erratic manner that cars insisted on adopting whenever the Pride of the Muldoons got behind the wheel. Luckily, at this hour there was hardly any traffic on the suburban streets, and even fewer pedestrians. Thus the little bantamweight managed to reach Palma Laguna without any of the usual mayhem and manslaughter that generally he left in his wake.

  Pulling up in front of the block of garden apartments in which Elvira Higgins resided, he managed to park without mishap. True, he narrowly missed a red-headed matron who had injudiciously chosen that hour to escort her toy poodle around the block for sanitary purposes. The woman squeaked as his fender nearly took the permanent-press crease out of her pink slacks, snatched up her yapping pet in shaking arms, and retired to a safe distance behind the nearest tree.

  Oblivious to this, the little boxer got out, went up the path to the door, and rang the bell. A few moments later his blue eyes widened and his lips made the shape of a silent whistle, for the vision of girlish pulchritude that appeared in the doorway in no wise resembled his expectations.

  From a name like Miss Elvira Higgins, Scorchy Muldoon may perhaps be forgiven for assuming that the owner of that cognomen would be a sixtyish spinster given to wrinkle cream and Geritol. The plumply curvaceous young woman who answered the door, however, bore little semblance to his vision. Her lips were lush and sweetly curved, her eyes cool and green, her red curls deliciously tousled, the bridge of her small, adorable nose sprinkled with the cutest freckles he had seen in years. Ever susceptible to feminine charms, Scorchy was rendered speechless.

  What she held, firmly gripped between two small, capable hands, didn’t help his loquacity much, either.

  It was an old-fashioned six-shooter so big it looked like it could blow him across the street. And it was pointed unwaveringly at his navel.

  Chapter 6 — The Hooded Men

  Scorchy never enjoyed having guns pointed at him, even under the best of circumstances, and this wasn’t one of them. The young lady had a determined glint in her eye that he profoundly disliked. He gulped, swallowed, and essayed a genial, friendly grin.

  “Sure and there’s no need to be after bringin’ up the artillery, miss,” he said weakly. In times of sudden stress his brogue came over him until he sounded like a stage Hibernian.

  “Who are you and what do you want?” snapped Elvira Higgins.

  He told her. Her features reflected a thorough lack of belief. Moving his hands with careful slowness, Scorchy plucked a wallet from the inside breast pocket of his loud plaid jacket and let the girl snatch it from him. The secret pocket sewn into the lining would have fooled the cleverest pickpocket, so he instructed her in how to locate it. She withdrew several folded notes, each addressed “To Whom It May Concern.” The rich, embossed papers crackled as she unfolded them, keeping one suspicious eye warily on the embarrassed; grinning Irishman.

  The text of the several notes was virtually identical; it identified the holder by name and formally requested all private citizens, law-enforcement agencies, and federal employees to render to him any service or accommodation he might require.

  It was not the text but the signatures below it that caused the green eyes of Elvira Higgins to widen. The signatures were from those of the state’s governor, the President of the United States himself, and the Secretary General of the United Nations.

  Together, they formed a more than adequate testimonial to the legitimacy of Aloysius Murphy Muldoon and his mission. The girl blushed a delightful crimson and hastily tucked the enormous six-shooter into her bag.

  “I — I certainly must apologize, Mr. Muldoon, I thought ... well ... you were one of the men in the black car.”

  Scorchy pricked up his ears. “What car is that, miss? And could we be after goin’ inside while we chat? ‘Tis more private-like, you know.”

  She let him in. The ground-floor apartment was neatly if Spartanly decorated. Bookshelves held a small library of reference works on occultism, metaphysics, and unexplained phenomena among which the feisty little bantamweight recognized the works of Charles Fort. There were also bound volumes of the newsletter of which Elvira Higgins was editor and publisher.

  In a few brief, well-chosen words, the girl informed him of her early-evening expedition to the foot of Mount Shasta, her discovery of the miniature camera, and of her suspicions that a long black limousine had trailed her at least partway home. Scorchy’s Killarney-blue eyes sparkled with excitement.

  “A camera, you say? Near where the body was found? Begorra, but that’s the sort of thing we’re lookin’ for!”

  The girl gestured off toward the kitchen. “I have a darkroom,” she said, “because a lot of the photographs I use in Borderlands are my own work. I have the films developing now. I ...” she hesitated, bit her lip, then continued, “I hope I didn’t do anything wrong or break some law in developing the pictures. But I was so curious to see what the film recorded that I just went ahead and did it.”

  “Faith, you’ve nothin’ to worry about on that score,” Scorchy said reassuringly. “Let’s see what you’ve got, if the pictures are ready.”

  She brought them out, still dampish. Scorchy
began looking through them alertly.

  “The filmstrip was so tiny I had to keep blowing them up,” she said. “I hope I didn’t lose any detail. This one of the man’s face seems to be the most important, so I made several copies.”

  She handed them to him. Several pictures were of a number of robed and hooded men whose faces, in whole or in part, were either concealed by their garments or obscured because of the predawn lighting. But the picture of one man’s face was distinct and perfectly clear. It was strong-jawed and thin-lipped, a bald bullet head with fierce eyes and an expression of command. Scorchy felt instinctively that this man was a leader, perhaps the enigmatic “Lucifer” who, according to MacAndrews’ notes, was the boss of the whole occult order. He tucked the sheaf of pictures into his jacket pocket.

  “You say MacAndrews interviewed you here?”

  “The murdered man whose picture was in the morning paper? Yes, but his name wasn’t Mac-Andrews then. Ahriman, he called himself; Brother Ahriman. He represented the Brotherhood, he said, and wanted to persuade me to refrain from publishing any more queries about the order in Borderlands. He was eloquent and persuasive, although I had the feeling he wasn’t really very interested in getting me to lay off. He seemed more interested in hearing any specific complaints I might have heard against his organization. I thought he was quite a nice young man, honest and straightforward, and I’m sorry he’s dead. Did he really represent the Brotherhood? He didn’t seem at all the type who would get mixed up with anything shady or unsavory.”

  Scorchy made a noncommittal grunt by way of reply. If Miss Elvira Higgins had yet to learn MacAndrews had been a crime-busting reporter investigating the Brotherhood from inside, Scorchy did not feel it was up to him to give the secret away.

  “I’m going to take these pictures back to my chief now,” he said. The girl got up from the couch, eyes sparkling.

  “Let me go along! I’ve heard so much about Prince Zarkon that I’d love to meet him. Perhaps he would give me an interview for Borderlands.”

  Scorchy scratched his red head. He thought it very unlikely that the chief would do so as Zarkon generally refused interviews, wishing to keep himself and the activities of the Omega organization out of the newspapers and the public eye as much as possible. On the other hand, Zarkon might want to question the young lady himself, so he agreed. Using the phone in the girl’s apartment, he called Zarkon at Robert Russell Ryan’s estate and informed him of the discovery of MacAndrews’ camera, of the pictures of the bald-headed man, and apprised him of the return of the girl and himself.

  “Very well,” replied Zarkon gravely. “But take every precaution while on the road —”

  “Not you, too, chief!” protested the little Irishman indignantly. “I can drive just swell, it’s these dang cars that just won’t stay on the road.”

  “I was not referring to your driving but to the possibility that you might be followed by the black limousine Miss Higgins describes. Our adversaries may have observed her discovery of the camera, and if indeed the photograph you remarked upon discloses the features of their leader, they may well attempt to intercept you on the highway. Use the Squealer and take the usual precautions.”

  Scorchy agreed and hung up. With Elvira Higgins at his side he left the apartment and got in the car. They took the shortest and most direct route from Palma Laguna to the suburb where Russell had his estate. Once on the highway, the peppery bantamweight kept one eye on the road ahead and one eye on the rear-view mirror. In consequence his driving, never the best even under normal conditions, became excessively erratic. Muldoon was cheerfully oblivious of the fact until he happened to notice how tightly the girl was holding onto her bag and that she seemed to have stopped breathing sometime in the past few minutes.

  “What’s the matter?” he inquired solicitously. “You feelin’ okay?”

  “Oh, I’m just fine,” she said, forcing a brittle laugh. “But the way you just passed between that big moving van and the Greyhound bus reminds me that I forgot to pay this month’s premium on my insurance policy.”

  It may perhaps be fairly said that the little Irishman was just a bit defensive when it came to remarks on his driving skills.

  “Listen, lady,” he began in a loud, blustering tone. Whatever it was that Scorchy Muldoon had it in mind to say at that moment the world will never know, for just then they were driving down a lonely stretch of highway bordered by thick brush broken, here and there, by dirt roads leading off to distant truck farms. From one such side road a long black limousine burst suddenly, nearly creasing Scorchy’s - rear fender. The girl uttered a stifled shriek; Scorchy cursed, wrestling with the wheel. The car slewed about, tires squealing, and came to a sudden jolting halt as it collided with a pole.

  There ensued a deafening silence.

  Scorchy was slumped over the wheel, a purple lump rising on his forehead where he had been slammed against the dashboard. The girl, who had braced herself instinctively against the moment of impact, was shaken and breathless but unharmed.

  The black limousine pulled around in front of them and stopped. Four men got out and approached the rented car. They wore strange scarlet robes with full sleeves; the hoods were pulled up to hide their faces.

  Just then the Greyhound bus and the moving van Scorchy had overhauled a few moments earlier came around the curve. For a quick instant, the girl thought the two big vehicles would stop to help them, thus probably driving the hooded men into retreat. But they both went zooming past as if unaware of the accident. One of the hooded men grinned leeringly and said something to his companion, who laughed. Elvira was conscious of a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  Then she straightened her shoulders and set her small jaw stubbornly. Dipping into her bag, she fished out the enormous six-shooter and stuck it out of the window. It banged loudly. One of the hooded men staggered backward as if kicked by an invisible mule, clutched his shoulder, and sat down on the edge of the highway, suddenly rubber-legged. The other men crouched, cursing, so that the hood of Scorchy’s car shielded them from further gunfire.

  Seizing the opportunity this sudden respite afforded, Elvira reached over and took Scorchy by the arm and shook him violently.

  “Mr. Muldoon! Mr. Muldoon! Are you hurt?”

  Scorchy mumbled something, raised his head, and squinted around woozily. Just then one of the hooded men poked his head up over the hood of the car and snapped off a quick shot with the small, nickel-plated revolver he held clenched in one fist. The bullet glanced off the six-shooter’s barrel, knocking it from Elvira’s grasp. She squeaked, jumped, nursed tingling, numb fingers.

  Then Scorchy came alive. His head ached abominably and he felt shaky in the knees, but awareness of their danger drove all other thoughts from his mind. He then performed a sequence of actions incomprehensible to the girl at his side: From a pocket in his coat he took out a small, flat case of heavy gray metal. From the other pocket he snatched out one of the photographs of the bullet-headed man, which he placed in the case. Palming the case, he opened the car door and rolled out, dodging a shot from one of the hooded men.

  Springing to his feet, he hurled the metal case across the highway into the bushes. This action was hidden from the eyes of the hooded men because, in one lithe, continuous movement, he jumped onto the hood of the car and flung himself onto the men crouched there. He managed to kick the pistol from one man and got up, dragging a second to his feet. One balled fist traveled in a short, sizzling arc, which connected with the long, pointed chin of the man he held. The fellow’s eyes rolled up and he went over backward and hit the asphalt and stayed there, out cold.

  Scorchy seldom enjoyed himself as much as when he was in the middle of a good, furious fist-fight. At such moments — as he would have put it — “he got his Irish up.” He generally burst into song at such times. He did so now, to the astonishment of Elvira Higgins and, quite likely, of the men he was fighting.

  O’Sullivan hit O’Murphy

 
And O’Reilly hit O’Toole,

  O’Gilligan hit O’Culligan

  And he knocked him off his mule!

  A bunch o’ fightin’ son-of-a-guns

  Those sons o’ the Irish sod,

  And divvil a one turned tail an’ run,

  Which certainly wasn’t odd!

  Crooning this tender Hibernian lullaby, Scorchy waded in, fists flying. The two men still on their feet were taller and heavier than he, but as far as Scorchy was concerned, that only made the contest a bit more even.

  He hit the first man four times in the stomach with rat-a-tat blows that flew so fast the eye could hardly follow them. Watching those blurred fists, an observer could easily have understood why an amazed sportswriter had christened the fiery little fighter with the flashing fists “Scorchy.” Those balled fists fairly sizzled, they flew so fast. Then, as the man turned milk-pale and bent over, clutching his middle with both arms, Scorchy left the ground in a spectacular kung fu leap — and lovingly kicked the man full in the jaw! The red-robed crook turned a somersault, ending up in a loose heap of arms and legs against his own vehicle.

  The second man sprang at Scorchy with a snarl. Sweetly giving voice to the second verse of his fighting song, Scorchy stopped him cold in his tracks with a vicious karate chop. The hard, calloused edge of Scorchy’s hand caught the gangster straight across the neck. The man staggered, gagged, turned green, and sat down very suddenly, retiring from any further active participation in the conflict.

  Scorchy had paid little attention to the man Elvira had shot in the shoulder. He had stayed out of things since then, and seemed thoroughly hors de combat. Thus Muldoon was vastly surprised when something collided with the base of his skull. Stars burst before his eyes, their brilliance excruciating. He thought he would close his eyes until the light turned itself off. Then he lay down on the sun-warmed asphalt and took a nap. Behind him, still favoring his wounded shoulder, the fourth hooded man grinned with a smirk of nasty satisfaction, hefting Elvira’s six-shooter in his good hand, waiting to see if Scorchy needed a second encouragement to slumber.