The New Adventures of the Man in Purple

By Pro Se Press

From the Creator of Zorro comes a lost hero of the past- Johnston McCulley's The Man in Purple lives again in THE NEW ADVENTURES OF THE MAN IN PURPLE from Pulp Obscura, a Pro Se Productions imprint in conjunction with Altus Press.

The Man in Purple is Richard Staegal, a wealthy man-about-town with a colorful past. Donning a purple mask and suit, Staegal leads a life of outrageous adventure stealing from the rich and ruthless and giving the spoils away to the powerless people who are unable to fight for themselves!

From out of the past comes new tales of the Violet Vigilante! Featuring Exciting new stories of thrilling capers and fast moving adventure from Russ Anderson, Jr., Ashley Mangin, Lee Houston, Jr., and Terry Alexander!

Join the Man in Purple as he takes on new adventures with his nemesis, the intrepid Detective Troman hot on his trail! Bar your windows and lock your doors, but if you're his target, nothing will stand in the way of the Man in Purple in his pursuit of Justice and Adventure!

Pulp Obscura Presents THE NEW ADVENTURES OF THE MAN IN PURPLE!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pro Se Press
• Release date: Jul 28, 2014

Pro Se Press

Based in Batesville, Arkansas, Pro Se Productions has become a leader on the cutting edge of New Pulp Fiction in a very short time.Pulp Fiction, known by many names and identified as being action/adventure, fast paced, hero versus villain, over the top characters and tight, yet extravagant plots, is experiencing a resurgence like never before. And Pro Se Press is a major part of the revival, one of the reasons that New Pulp is growing by leaps and bounds.

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THE NEW ADVENTURES OF THE MAN IN PURPLE

Copyright © 2014 Pro Se Productions

Published by Pro Se Press at Smashwords

A Volume of the Pulp Obscura imprint

The stories in this publication are fictional. All of the characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing of the publisher.

The Men in Purple copyright © 2014 Russ Anderson, Jr.

Captured! copyright © 2014 Lee Houston, Jr.

The Man in Purple Takes a Room copyright © 2014 Ashley Mangin

The Doppelganger copyright © 2014 Terry Alexander

TABLE OF CONTENTS

THE MEN IN PURPLE

By Russ Anderson, Jr.

CAPTURED!

By Lee Houston, Jr.

THE MAN IN PURPLE TAKES A ROOM

By Ashley Mangin

THE DOPPELGANGER

By Terry Alexander

THE PALADINS OF THE PURPLE PROSE

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

THE MEN IN PURPLE

By Russ Anderson, Jr.

Oswald Dewhurst stared up into the black barrel of an automatic pistol and wondered how he had come to this—on his knees in his own office, held at gunpoint. His eyes flicked up, past the gun and the hand holding it, and skated uselessly across the shimmery purple hood drawn tight over the gunman’s face. In truth, the gunman was covered from head to toe in the distinct color—his suit, the long jacket he wore over it, the gloves, and even his shoes. Nothing of the man underneath this outrageous garb was visible except for his eyes through tiny holes in the hood, but it was too dark in the office even to discern their color.

Open the safe, Dewhurst, the gunman said. His voice was low and gravelly and completely unfamiliar. Open it now or you’ll never see the sun rise through that picture window again.

The window the gunman was referring to was the gigantic rectangle of glass that took up most of one wall in Oswald’s sizeable office. It was night now and the city was a sparkling crown far, far below this seat of power. There was a single electric lamp burning on Oswald’s desk and there was a telephone next to it. He knew he’d never reach it in time, much less dial it before the purple gunman shot him.

You’re the one who sent the letter saying you were going to rob me, Oswald said. The one the papers call the Man in Purple.

Indeed, the gunman said. I’m surprised you didn’t contact the police. Detective Troman, in particular, would have loved to receive any information you had on me. Or were you afraid of what the authorities might learn if you invited them into your den of power, Dewhurst? The corners you cut in the maintenance of those slums, the insurance scams.

Dewhurst put his hands up. If it’s money you want, surely we can make some sort of—

I don’t want a payoff, Dewhurst. I want all of it, all of the funds you keep here in case you need to make a quick getaway. The Man in Purple pressed the barrel of the gun against Dewhurst’s forehead. I admire your work ethic, staying so late to suss out new ways to fleece the poor, but now we are alone in this big, empty building. There’s no one to help you, Dewhurst. Now we’re through talking. Open that safe.

Dewhurst slowly got to his feet, his hands held up at shoulder level. He was a thin man, nearing fifty with a prominent nose, high forehead, and oiled steel gray hair. He moved toward a tall bookshelf in the center of one wall and flipped a lever on one side of the shelf. He heard the click as the catch released, then very slowly swung the shelf away from the wall on hidden hinges. Behind it, embedded in the dry wall, was a metal door with a spin dial on the front. Dewhurst looked at the Man in Purple, who twitched the hand holding the gun as if to say, get on with it. So Dewhurst turned to the door and dialed in the combination for the safe.

The Man in Purple drew a long rope out of his coat and wound it casually, keeping the gun pointed always in Dewhurst’s general direction.

What’s that for? Dewhurst demanded. I’m doing what you asked.

Can’t have you running loose while I’m emptying your safe, can I? the Man in Purple asked. It was almost a laugh. Open it.

Dewhurst grabbed the handle, threw his weight to one side and began to slowly drag the heavy safe door open. The Man in Purple took a step forward... and froze.

It was a subtle glimmer from inside the safe—a flash of light off of the black barrel of a tommy-gun—that saved his life. The Man in Purple threw himself to the floor of the office as the three armed men waiting inside the safe opened up. Bullets chewed into the floor and walls all around him as he rolled toward the desk. Amid the deadly hail, he risked coming up to one knee long enough to put a bullet through the lamp, plunging the room into near-darkness.

Where did he go?

I got him! I know I got him!

Get by the door! Don’t let him out of this room!

The sudden darkness had stilled the guns, as the men were apparently afraid they would shoot themselves or their boss. So when the next shot rang out, the sound was enormous in the office. The picture window behind Dewhurst’s desk exploded, showering glass out over the city. One of the gunmen fired reflexively in that direction.

Mr. Dewhurst! Where are you, sir? Say something!

There was a thump behind the desk, and a scramble of movement. The gunmen moved cautiously toward the sounds. Before they could reach the desk, there was a bang as something heavy struck the floor, and then a silhouette leapt through the shattered window and out into space.

Go! one of the gunmen cried, and all three of them rushed to the window, guns out, expecting to see a purple-clad body plummeting toward the street. Instead, they found Oswald Dewhurst, moaning in pain, suspended from the window by a thin purple rope drawn tight around his wrist.

One of the gunmen turned and found the doors to the outer office and the hallway open, dim light spilling through them. Tony! he cried. Get out there! Check the fire escape! The creep got by us!

Even as Tony rushed toward the door, they all knew it was too late. They’d had the Man in Purple dead to rights and he’d managed to slip through their fingers. All they could do now was haul their boss to safety and hope he was still in the mood to pay them.

***

Unbelievable, Dewhurst snarled, leaning back in his chair and trying not to disturb his right arm or the makeshift sling one of his men had fashioned for it. "I handed him to you. I handed him to you! How stupid do you have to be?"

Sean Kupperberg was a professional, so he swallowed his anger and admitted, We weren't ready for that trick with the light, Mr. Dewhurst. That's a fact.

But I don't think you have to worry about him coming back, Tony said from the door. There's blood all down the hall. One of us winged him good.

I didn't pay you to wing him! Dewhurst snarled, slamming his good hand on the desktop. I paid you to kill him!

Sir... Sean began.

The fact that he left here alive means that I will be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life, Dewhurst said, staring daggers at Sean. You are here to establish peace of mind for your employer, and you have done exactly the opposite. Get out of my sight!

We'll find him, sir. We can still kill him for—

How do you intend to do that? Dewhurst demanded. "Are you going to live in that safe until the next time he comes calling? If he comes calling? No one knows anything about this... Man in Purple except that he likes to rob wealthy people in as flamboyant a manner as possible. No, you wouldn't even be able to find him. The only chance you had was when I stood him directly in front of you, and you botched it. What are you doing?"

This question was directed at the third gunman, Finn, who was kneeling at the corner of Dewhurst's desk. Instead of replying, Finn hooked a hand under the desk and, with a grunt lifted it about an inch off the floor and pulled a strip of fabric out from under the leg. He let the desk drop again with a thud. Dewhurst leapt in his seat.

What are you doing? he asked again.

Finn continued to ignore him, showing the fabric—which was now revealed as one of the Man in Purple's gloves—to Sean. Looks like he had the rope looped already. He lifted the desk leg to put the rope around it, and when he dropped it, it snagged his glove. That's the bang we heard.

Sean looked at the glove, then looked at Finn like he'd tried to hand him a dead bird. It's a glove. So what?

Get out, all of you, Dewhurst sighed.

But sir, Sean said, what if he comes back?

Not having you here will be about the same as having you here, won't it? Dewhurst snarled.

Sean's mouth closed and his eyes narrowed. He adjusted the lapels of his jacket and straightened. You heard the man, boys. Let's go.

And I'll be wanting my retainer back, Dewhurst said.

Sean stopped on his way to the door and shared a look with Tony and Finn. Then he looked back at Dewhurst. No, he said simply. No, I don't think that's going to happen, Mr. Dewhurst.

Dewhurst slapped a hand against the desktop. What did you say? Did you just tell me 'no', you two-bit thug? I could buy and sell you, you worthless—

There was a loud click, and Finn, who was still standing by the desk, pressed the muzzle of his cocked .38 against Oswald Dewhurst's temple. The older man froze, his mouth hanging open in mid-rant.

Show some respect, Finn growled.

Sean blinked in surprise but recovered better than Tony, who simply stood there gaping at his friend. Sean put a hand out. That's okay, Finn. No reason anybody else needs to get hurt.

Finn continued to glare at Dewhurst, who was now looking at him through the corner of his eyes, since he didn't dare move his head. After a pause, Finn lowered the gun, uncocked it, and slipped it back into its holster. He also wadded the glove he'd found and tucked it into his jacket pocket.

The three men departed, leaving Oswald Dewhurst shivering in fear, pain, and in the cold of the early spring wind whipping through his shattered window.

***

The Man in Purple darted out of the alley and into the open back door of the black sedan idling on the empty street. As soon as he was in, the door slammed shut and the car roared away from the curb.

I tell ya, Mr. Staegel, the chauffer said, I’d’a felt a lot better about that caper if you’d let me wait a little closer to that guy’s buildin’. You never know when you—

He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw that his passenger was leaning across the back seat, gasping and clutching at his side. The hand on his ribs was bare and covered with blood.

The chauffer slammed on the brakes, threw the sedan into park, and spun around in his seat. Oh geez, boss! What happened? Did you take a bullet?

Keep driving, Broph, the Man in Purple wheezed. Using his free hand, he wrenched the purple mask off, revealing the handsome, if pale, features of Richard Staegel. His dark hair clung wetly to his forehead. You’ll draw attention to us.

We need to get you to a hospital, Broph decided, turning back toward the wheel.

No, Broph. Not unless you can explain how this happened without revealing that I’m also the Man in Purple. He paused to gather his breath. Besides, Dewhurst and his men know I’m hurt, and might think to check the local hospitals for gunshot victims.

Boss...

You know how this works, Broph. Besides, it looks worse than it is. The bullet only grazed me.

Bounced off a rib, more like, Broph grumbled. He dropped