Black Centipede Confidential

By Chuck Miller

The year is 1932. The place is Zenith, home of the mysterious Black Centipede. The sinister Professor James Moriarty comes calling, and he's brought a few friends with him: John Dillinger, Pretty Boy Floyd, Ma Barker, Bonnie and Clyde, the Bell Witch, the Loch Ness Monster, and the rest of the deadly Order of the Sunless Circle. Moriarty is looking for Jack the Ripper's Analytical Engine, and is prepared to destroy Zenith to find it.

But the Lord of the Vampires has reckoned without the Black Centipede, who rises to the challenge with a few friends of his own: F. Scott Fitzgerald, Amelia Earhart, J. Alfred Prufrock, Resurrection Mary, Doctor Unknown, Gregor Samsa, and the other stalwart members of the Invisible Round Table.

Where is the Analytical Engine? Who is the faceless assassin called Anonymoushka? Why does William Randolph Hearst want to fire Percival Doiley? What the heck is going on with Bloody Mary Jane Gallows? How can the Black Centipede possibly save the day?
The answers to these and many other questions can be found in Black Centipede Confidential, the second volume in Chuck Miller’s Moriatry, Lord of the Vampires trilogy and the wildest ride yet through the streets of Zenith and beyond. From Pro Se Productions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pro Se Press
• Release date: Jan 24, 2015

Chuck Miller

Author Chuck Miller is Owner of Chuck Miller Consulting, Owner and Chief Education Office of Chuck Miller Education Services, President and CEO of Chuck Miller Construction Inc., and Managing Member of Chuck Miller Online Enterprises LLC. Chuck has over 50 years of experience in the construction industry. He understands the special needs of small volume builders and remodelers and works with them to create custom solutions.Chuck has earned nine professional designations from the National Association of Home Builders. He became an instructor for NAHB in 1999 and is a licensed provider of NAHB education programs. Chuck is an Instructor for NAHB courses. NAHB named Chuck the 2016 Sales and Marketing/IRM Educator of the Year.In addition to teaching builders, remodelers, Realtors, and other building industry professionals, Chuck works one-on-one with builders, remodelers and construction related companies to develop a working business plan focused on market research and analysis, product development and pricing strategy, sales and marketing strategy, operations planning, and financial forecasting and budgeting to achieve and maintain the key financial and operating ratios."It is my hope that successfully completing the steps in this book and using the completed plan as the most important tool in your toolbox will guarantee that you are one of the small business in the construction industry that survives and thrives beyond 5 years and increase the five year survival rate for small businesses in the construction industry."-Chuck Miller, PLAN TO PROFIT

Book preview

BLACK CENTIPEDE CONFIDENTIAL

From the Secret Archives of the Black Centipede

as told to Chuck Miller

Book Two of the MORIARTY, LORD OF THE VAMPIRES Trilogy

Published by Pro Se Press

This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters in this publication are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. No part or whole 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.

Black Centipede Confidential

Copyright © 2015 Chuck Miller

All rights reserved.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

PROLOGUE

BOOK ONE: THE SUNLESS CIRCLE

CHAPTER ONE: THE BANK JOB

CHAPTER TWO: AMELIA

INTERLUDE

CHAPTER THREE: MARY JANE?

CHAPTER FOUR: SCOTT AND ZELDA

CHAPTER FIVE: RESURRECTION MARY

CHAPTER SIX: DILLINGER RIDES AGAIN

CHAPTER SEVEN: THE BELLY OF THE BEAST

CHAPTER EIGHT: RUSSIAN ROULETTE

BOOK TWO: THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE

CHAPTER ONE: THE VAULT

CHAPTER TWO: LIFE DURING WARTIME

CHAPTER THREE: THE FROZEN CITY

CHAPTER FOUR: NAME THAT WITCH

CHAPTER FIVE: ???

CHAPTER SIX: THE GAUNTLET

CHAPTER SEVEN: THE HEART OF THE MATTER

CHAPTER EIGHT: YOU HEARD ME RIGHT

CHAPTER NINE: I WISH THAT MAN WOULD GO AWAY

CHAPTER TEN: HIS LAST BOW

EPILOGUE

About the Author

Acknowledgements:

Sherlock Holmes, Professor Moriarty and Dr. John H. Watson were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

J. Alfred Prufrock was created by T.S. Eliot, and appears in the poem The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock (1915), a work in the Public Domain.

Gregor Samsa was created by Franz Kafka, and appears in The Metamorphosis (1915), a work in the Public Domain.

Dr. Herbert West was created by H.P. Lovecraft, and appears in Herbert West, Reanimator, a work in the Public Domain.

PROLOGUE:

FROM THE TIMES OF LONDON

Obituaries

Monday, November 13, 1933

MR. S. HOLMES

News was received in London this morning of the death of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the celebrated consulting detective, at the age of 79. According to his friend and physician, Dr. John H. Watson, Mr. Holmes passed away on Sunday after a protracted illness, at his home on the Sussex Downs.

Mr. Holmes was born in London in 1854 and was educated at Oxford and Cambridge. In 1881 he established a practice in London as the world’s first consulting detective, and soon became known for his brilliant and unorthodox solutions to the most perplexing of crimes. In this capacity, he frequently worked alongside the police. He became famous in the last century through the efforts of the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who collaborated with Mr. Holmes’ friend and partner, the aforementioned Dr. Watson, on a series of biographical books and magazine articles based upon the detective’s more notable cases. Mr. Holmes himself, in addition to numerous monographs on a wide variety of subjects, published his magnum opus, The Whole Art Of Detection, in 1926.

Mr. Holmes retired from active practice in 1903, at the relatively young age of 49, and took up residence on the Sussex Downs. After his retirement, he became an avid beekeeper, authoring a specialized apiculturist handbook under the title Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with Some Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen.

Mr. Holmes was preceded in death by his parents, Siger and Violet Holmes, and his brother, Mr. Mycroft Holmes. Another brother, Sherrinford Holmes, failed to return home from a mountain-climbing expedition to Switzerland in 1865, and is believed to have perished, along with the other members of his party, in an avalanche.

BOOK ONE: THE SUNLESS CIRCLE

And the like of us may never hope

For death to set us free

For the living are always after you

And the dead are after me

From Billy the Kid and Clyde Barrow

by Bonnie Parker

CHAPTER ONE: THE BANK JOB

Zenith First National Bank and Trust

November 17, 1933

Are you sure it’s Dillinger? I asked.

Hell no, replied Detective Lieutenant Stan Bartowski, my friend and unofficial liaison officer with the City of Zenith Police Department. We got fifteen eyewitnesses who swear it’s him, but of course none of them know Dillinger personally. They’ve seen him in the papers and on newsreels.

I was crouched down next to Stanley behind a bulky Ford police cruiser. He and a couple dozen other officers were in the middle of a tense standoff with a gang of armed robbers inside the bank. The street in front of the bank had been barricaded at both ends of the block, and was littered with cop cars. Officers were hunkered down behind them, aiming their weapons at the front doors of the building.

So the identification is shaky, I said.

"It ain’t even that good, Stanley replied. It could be him, I guess. But it don’t really matter. Somebody is robbing that bank, and now they’ve got a bunch of hostages they’re threatening to kill."

"Well, that’s pretty much de rigueur among armed bandits in dire straits," I observed.

I don’t know about that, but they all do it, Stanley said. If it is Dillinger, this could be big.

People see Dillinger everywhere these days, I said dismissively. Either he has found a way around the laws of physics, or people are full of shit.

Either way, it ain’t important at this point, Stanley said grimly. We have a bad hostage situation here, whether it’s Dillinger or Adrian Countenance or Popeye the Sailor Man.

So where does it stand as of this minute? I asked. I had only just arrived on the scene, pinpointed Stanley, and joined him behind his Detroit steel barricade.

Two cops badly wounded, and an unknown number of hostages inside, who are either still alive or not. Five gunmen, one of whom makes people think of Dillinger. They haven’t made any demands yet, just threats.

I nodded. I’d heard about the standoff on the radio a few minutes earlier. They hadn’t had very many details, other than the fact that several witnesses had identified one of the culprits as John Dillinger.

The weird thing is, Stanley said, these mugs carried something in with them when they entered the bank. A big wooden crate. About the same size and shape as a coffin, according to the witnesses.

Huh, I said. That seems ominous, but I can’t really say why. What significance, sinister or otherwise, could a coffin have in the middle of a bank robbery? It’s hardly necessary to bring one along just in case you kill somebody.

I didn’t say it was a coffin, just that it looked like one. He sighed and looked at his watch. They’ve been quiet for more than an hour, now. We don’t wanna rush the place. But we’re gonna have to do something. It’ll be dark soon.

He was right. The sun had already dipped below the city’s skyline. Several members of the Zenith PD were trundling huge, gas-powered spotlights toward the bank, in anticipation of a long siege.

We need to know what’s going on in there, said Stanley.

Maybe I can find out, I said jauntily.

That’s what I’m hoping.

Hoping? I repeated, aghast. "You should be certain, Stanley. We’ll have to have a long talk about the state of your faith in me."

Go justify it, he tossed back.

Your wish is my command.

I melted into the shadows between two buildings. It took me just a moment to find the manhole I was looking for. The city of Zenith had a rather unique layout, large portions of which I had committed to memory. My grandfather had been, among many other less savory things, a great architect and builder. He’d had a hand in designing and constructing half the buildings in the downtown area, and most of the sewer system.

But, as I say, Granddad was one of the most powerful, and easily the most corrupt, of the movers and shakers in Zenith during the Gilded Age and beyond. In those heady days, my ancestor’s political machine made New York’s Tammany Hall look like Hal Roach’s Our Gang.

The bank building had been erected in 1901, and was one of those to which Granddad made sure he would have covert access. Having studied all of his secret blueprints, I knew the location of the hidden ingress. I was supremely confident that I would be inside the bank in a matter of minutes, and out very soon thereafter, having foiled maybe-Dillinger and his gang’s attempted heist. I was already rehearsing my remarks to the press. I had a very clever double entendre I was itching to try out.

Now, at this point, I could caution my readership against overweening self-confidence, and lay down some platitudes about the best-laid plans of centipedes and men. But the fact is, overweening self-confidence is my default state, and ninety-nine times out of a hundred, I get exactly what I bargain for.

Unfortunately, this happened to be a Number One Hundred scenario.

I couldn’t get into the building. I made my way through the sewer to the point where the mouth of Granddad’s old tunnel should have been, only to find that it had collapsed, and pretty recently, by the look of it.

And it hadn’t collapsed on its own—it had been blasted. I frowned behind my mask and kicked at the rubble. Nothing budged. Someone had planned this very thoroughly, and it seemed they had planned it with me in mind.

So, who was it? It was either someone I knew or someone I didn’t. If the former, it was a short list. If the latter, who the hell knew? Neither prospect was comforting.

As I stood there underneath the street, contemplating the ruins, I felt a presence. Or a hint of one, anyhow. I was certain I was down there by myself, so I must have been picking up vibr-ations someone had left behind. Very recently, too. I had the idea they belonged to somebody I knew. They were familiar and alien at the same time, as though whoever had been here had tried to disguise them.

So there was nothing for it but to ascend from the netherworld and look for another way in. There was only one other possible route. If you want to get into a building unnoticed, you have two options: from below or from above. The former was preferable but not possible; the latter posed significant risks, but it was all I had.

I selected a building two doors down from the bank, and indulged in a spot of innocent breaking and entering. The place was a jewelry store, and it took me three minutes to circumvent the alarm system. Once inside, I climbed the stairs to the roof, then made my way across to the bank. Staying very low, I crept toward the front edge of the roof. Removing my hat, I peeked over the side at the uneventful tableau on the street below.

It didn’t stay uneventful for long.

The very moment the sun sank completely below the western horizon, the bank’s front doors erupted, as if on cue. There was a sudden crash, a sound like a huge hand slapping a flat surface. It wasn’t an explosion; I saw no smoke or fire. Broken glass and bits of ceramic and chrome sprayed out over the street, sending several cops diving for cover.

Something had jumped from inside the bank, through the metal and glass, and was now crouched on the sidewalk. From where I stood, the bipedal projectile looked like a thin, stooped old man. The figure stood up straight and raised its arms. It was empty-handed, and appeared to be surrendering.

I heard Stanley yell, Hold your fire!

Two cops rushed the old man, each one grabbing a spindly arm. That should have been the end of it, but... The seemingly elderly, apparently frail figure picked up both of the cops—one in each hand—and flung them back across the street.

They were not lightweights, those cops. One of them, a solid-looking 220-pounder, went right through the windshield of a police car. The other one, hurled a second later, was headed straight for Stan Bartowski. To his credit, Stanley braced himself and tried to catch his brother officer. The irresistible force met the all-too-movable object, and the two of them sprawled across the pavement in a tangle of limbs.

One of the cops fired on the strange old man. The shot connected, but the man did not fall. Instead, he moved forward, wading into the cops massed along the perimeter. There were yells and curses and a shot or two.

I needed to get down there fast. It was a three-story drop. Okay, this was not a problem. I moved to one corner of the roof and backed up a few yards. I unbuttoned my overcoat, held it wide open, took a deep breath, ran to the edge of the roof, and jumped.

Time slowed down. I flattened out to make the most of the air resistance as I dropped. When I was just a few feet from journey’s end, I angled my body enough to grab a little bit of horizontal drag, then I curled up into a ball. I hit the ground that way and tumbled end over end for a few feet, before uncurling and allowing the last of my momentum to lift me to my feet right at the edge of the melee. I already knew this was going to be more than the cops could handle. I jumped into the tangle, and struggled to reach the wizened figure at its center.

There was a lot of yelling and jostling, and three cops became airborne, sailing off in different directions. I caught a glimpse of the old man and lunged forward, gripping him by the throat with both hands. The man tossed a cop off of his back, grabbed me by the wrists, and yanked. My grip was broken instantly, my hands went numb, and it felt as though my right shoulder was being dislocated. Then my feet left the ground, and the next thing I knew, I was sailing across the street toward the front wall of the bank.

I flattened out, twisted, and struck the front of the building at an angle that minimized the impact, bouncing off and landing on the sidewalk. I had just gotten to my feet, having avoided any serious damage, when there was a new development:

A number of other figures were now piling out through the ruined doors. They were yelling and waving guns, complaining about all the broken glass. I counted seven of them. The cops, busy with the mysterious old man, either didn’t see them or couldn’t spare any attention just then. The four bringing up the rear were carrying large sacks. The three in the vanguard each held a hostage in the human shield position.

By this time, I had a gun in each hand, and I leveled them at the hostage-takers. Over here, fellers! I said.

Aw, crap, one of them said as he whirled around and spotted me. It’s that damn Black Centipede. We’re as good as dead!

Naw, said another. He won’t do nothing. We got hostages.

I smiled behind my mask and said, That’s true, up to a point. I could kill two of you very cleanly, but I couldn’t nail the third before he had a chance to shoot his hostage. So he can do that—but, meanwhile, the two dead goons, with their hostages, will have fallen to the ground. Then, I will open up on everyone who is still standing. So, we are all at a disadvantage.

Just stay back and let us go, said one of the goons, or we’ll kill these dames.

I frowned and shook my head, more in sorrow than in anger.

You’re not paying attention to me, I said patiently. I’ve already addressed that. I am more concerned about these young women than the contents of those sacks. Now, I know your philosophy is the opposite of mine. When two such radically opposed ideologies clash, the outcome can be bloody—but it doesn’t necessarily have to be.

I was running my mouth to keep the crooks distracted, because I had concocted a plan to negate the threat without any loss of innocent life—if any of us is truly innocent in this vale of tears. It would have worked, too, if not for a projectile—in the form of an overweight police officer—that struck me in the back at that moment, sending me sprawling onto the pavement.

The bandits took off, leaving their hostages—confused and distraught, but intact—behind. They were halfway down the block by the time I got back to my feet, heading for the mouth of a dark alley that led right through to the next street over. I fired a shot and winged one of them. He just started running faster. I fired again, and the bag he was carrying burst apart. Money went everywhere.

One of the others slowed and looked back over his shoulder, squeezing off a shot at me. He missed. I did not. The shot I fired in return caught him in the side of the head and he went down in a cloud of blood, bone and brains. One of his pals saw what happened and ran back, stooping to scoop up the dead man in his arms. Such touching loyalty! I was drawing a bead on the altruist when I got knocked down yet again by another flying cop.

That was really starting to get on my nerves, and I resolved to put an end to it.

I had been given some food for thought that I was going to have to save to snack on later. I was just about as certain as I could be that the man I’d shot and killed was John Dillinger.

The knot of struggling bodies around the strange old man had been thinned out, and I had no trouble muscling my way to its core. I shoved cops out of my path, to the right and to the left. Sorry, boys—pardon me—for your own good and all that—‘scuse me. Finally, it was just me and the old man. He knew enough by now to be wary, anyhow. He didn’t jump on me. He eyed me with what seemed to be more intellectual curiosity than anything. It must have been the mask. That tends to give people pause.

Who the hell are you? I asked, as we circled one another in the middle of the street. We were in shadow and I couldn’t make out his features.

As I say, he was aware that I was something out of the ordinary, and he was exercising some care—taking my measure, I guess. I backed him all the way to the curb, then up onto the sidewalk in front of the bank.

Hold your men off, Stanley, I said, and get a spotlight on him.

I moved toward the figure on the sidewalk. When the spotlight came on, I found myself looking at a strange and familiar face.

He stood there in the glare of the spotlight. I couldn’t help but notice that he cast no shadow on the wall of the bank building behind him.

I believe I know who you are, I said. And not only who, but what. If I was truly seeing what I thought I was seeing, a tall tale I’d heard months before had just been confirmed.

Bully for you, snarled the man, giving me a baleful glare.

He had an English accent. His pronunciation was subtly archaic, some forty or fifty years behind the times, as near as I could figure.

I hesitated. Why? I am not known for timidity or uncertainty in the face of danger. What was it about this stooped and cadaverously thin old man that gave pause to the mighty Black Centipede?

Well, his canine teeth were a factor. They were approximately two inches long, and curled down over his lower lip, tapering down to wicked-looking points. His eyes seemed luminous, and the pupils were bright red. Little details like that tend to raise caution flags with me.

I backed off a few yards, wondering how best to handle such a situation. Glancing over at the police line, I spotted a cop I knew, and I got an idea.

I did several things, very quickly.

First, I popped the clip out of my gun and let it fall to the street.

Then I yelled, O’Malley! You still carry that rosary?

Yeah, I do, said the reliable Irish Catholic cop, patting a jacket pocket.

I flung the unloaded gun at the old man’s fanged kisser. It was just a distraction, but that was all I wanted.

Toss it here, I said to O’Malley. I’ll explain later. This is important.

Sure thing, Centipede, said O’Malley. He seemed puzzled, but he knew me well enough to comply without delay. He dug it out and lobbed it in my direction. I caught it and smiled behind my mask at the little crucifix hanging from it.

The old man, meanwhile, had ducked the flying firearm, then turned and stooped to pick it up. It took him a few seconds to regain his bearings, by which time I had moved in closer with my prize.

Here, I said, thrusting the rosary in his direction. Chew on this, Professor."

The creature made an alarming noise and recoiled. He raised my gun, pointed it at me, and squeezed the trigger—wasting another second or two of his time, and allowing me to press my new-found advantage and move in closer.

Put that blasted cross away, he rasped, flinging my gun back at me. I caught it with my free hand and stowed it away in my jacket.

I have no real incentive to do that, I pointed out. Your goals and mine are incompatible. What the hell are you doing here, anyhow?

I should think that would be obvious even to an idiot, he said with some asperity. I’m robbing a bank!

Touché, Professor. Let me try again. Why in the hell would a vampire want to rob a bank?

There. I had said the word. It was good to get it out of the way.

I knew vampires really existed, having encountered one during the summer of my nineteenth year. They weren’t common, but they did turn up now and again. I’d heard some things about them—and this one in particular—from Doctor Unknown.

Why does anybody rob a bank, cretin? the vampire