Spies of Destiny

By John Grange, Robert Leslie Bellem and W. T. Ballard

Jim Anthony, Super-Detective, a clone of Doc Savage, published by the Spicy Group of Pulp Magazines, appears in two novels: Spies of Destiny and I.O.U. Murder. Reset text plus all of the original interior artwork.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Oct 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781312569720

Book preview

Copyright Page

Spies of Destiny, Super Detective, October 1941. Copyright 1941 by Trojan Publishing Corporation. Copyright not renewed.

I.O.U. Murder, Super Detective, December 1941. Copyright 1941 by Trojan Publishing Corporation. Copyright not renewed

This is a Pulpville Press book. To see all of our books, visit us on the web at www.FictionHousePress.com.

ISBN 978-1-312-56972-0

SPIES OF DESTINY

A STEADY stream of cabs and limousines, great town cars and gleaming sedans of foreign make swung out of traffic to eddy toward the curb and pause before three overworked doormen in Russian Grand Duke uniforms. The cream of society as well as the elite of the theatrical and picture worlds—to say nothing of cafe society—in toto!—fought their way through the mob of curious and the wild eyed autograph hounds into the equally crowded lobby of the Anthony Theatre.

Senator Ward Colquitt, soon to be the father-in-law of Jim Anthony, that famous young scientist, criminologist and athlete, stood slightly to the left of the entrance to the theatre proper, chatting amiably with a group of friends and acquaintances. The short man whose countenance bore an Oriental cast was the Ambassador from Japan.

Yes, the senator was saying proudly, Mr. Anthony seems to have the ability to achieve something spectacular in almost any line whatsoever. I saw this play, ‘Sergeant Sanders’, in rehearsal, and while I do not care particularly for the horrors of war, he shuddered delicately and meaningly, I must admit Jim Anthony’s initial effort as a producer outdoes ‘What Price Glory’ or ‘Waterloo Bridge’ or any other that I’ve seen. The lighting! The effects! Gentlemen, I assure you, you will think you are in the midst of a hand to hand battle yourself!

The ambassador nodded and hissed politely through his white teeth. Behind him his three attaches followed suit. The ambassador said, I have been given to understand that Miss Doran, the star, is very beautiful as well as a very competent actress?

Senator Colquitt rolled his eyes. He touched the tips of his fingers to his lips in the French fashion and flipped the kiss toward the ornate ceiling, and no other answer was necessary. The crowd in evening dress continued to surge through the entrance doors, to group at the rear of the theatre for a few remaining words in spite of the efforts of the harassed ushers and attendants.

Suddenly the senator stiffened. The Japanese ambassador and his four attendants stiffened, though not quite so obviously. An interested spectator might have noted a quick interchange of glances from brown, almond shaped eyes, but the smiles remained politely in place.

Dr. Lim Lee paused. His beautiful, Oriental wife paused as well. Dr. Lim Lee bowed and smiled, though his eyes, behind his thick lensed glasses, were inscrutable. Then they were gone, following an usher to their box. Dr. Lim Lee was the Ambassador from China.

Senator Colquitt grinned wryly to himself as the Japanese ambassador and his attaches followed an usher to their own seats. Not that the senator had expected blows or recriminations or even raised brows. Modern day diplomacy does not countenance such things. But, reflected the good senator, it is always awkward when representatives of two warring powers meet face to face. He walked to the head of the aisle and surveyed the well filled theatre. And again he stiffened and bit his lip. What sort of folderol was this? What ignoramus of a box-office man had slipped up on this thing?

For Lim Lee and his beautiful wife sat in the front box. The four gentlemen from Japan sat directly behind them, in the second box! A diplomatic and theatrical faux pas if ever there was one. The senator from New York State shook his head indignantly, breasted the tide of incoming spectators and gained the lobby.

A moment later, slightly more disheveled, he glared at the irate policeman, and said, It so happens that I am—!

Again the policeman pushed him—gently but firmly. My friend, it may so happen that you are Jim Farley or even Walter Winchell, but you’ll still have to get to the end of the line! Shoving in! Have you no manners?

Senator Colquitt, retaining what dignity he could muster, retreated from the lobby and into the crowded street. A moment later he turned the corner, headed for the alley and the stage entrance. He’d show that fool of a blustering cop, he’d show that muddle-headed ticket seller who had no more sense than to pull something like that! Wait! Just wait! Jim Anthony would straighten it all out, and quickly, at that! Leave it to Jim, he’d get the job done.

With a wail like a banshee the long white ambulance shot about the corner and down the side street. Senator Colquitt, just preparing to step off the curb and turn into the alley proper, drew back his good right leg in the nick of time. The ambulance, siren still screaming—with more determination than ever—skidded into the alley on two wheels only, and roared away to the stage entrance. Colquitt forgot his senatorial dignity and ran, holding the tails of his evening coat in either hand.

Her name was Lora Gascoyne, and, as a matter of fact, she was not very important to the opening of Sergeant Sanders. She was merely understudy to the star of stars, Pauline Doran, whose dramatization of the French cabaret girl in this night’s play was scheduled to add to her laurels—according to critics who had caught the opening in New Haven.

Yet Lora Gascoyne did prove to be very important to that opening. For, by eight o’clock, Miss Doran had not arrived as yet, and a call boy was dispatched to see if Miss Gascoyne was prepared to take over should an accident have occurred. Afterward the boy said he had not even had time to call when the thing happened. It was his habit to knock, of course, and call simultaneously. He had his knuckles raised to rap on the door when the door opened and Lora Gascoyne emerged. The half shouted words never issued from the callboy’s mouth. He took one look and turned and fled in terror, back the way he had come, down the spiral flight of rather grimy iron steps.

Mr. Anthony! Mr. Anthony! Mr. Anthony! Look! Look!

Jim Anthony; Dolores Colquitt, his fiancee; Tom Gentry, his best friend; and Ed Vibrock, manager of the show; all were in a group near the switchboard doing a bit of collective worrying concerning the nonappearance of Pauline Doran and their inability to get in touch with her. Miss Doran’s apartment hotel assured them that she had left in her own limousine. with her own manager, shortly after seven o’clock!

Now the callboy’s terror-stricken cries brought added worry, for LoraGascoyne followed him closely down those stairs. She was wearing a long, thin kimono, or wrapper which floated out behind her unheeded as she descended. Clackety-clack, clackety-clack, sounded the spool heels of her slippers on those stairs, but the sharp noise was almost wiped out, almost obliterated by the sounds of the terrified and hopeless moans issuing from her red lips. Her eyes rolled with madness, her mouth and chin seemed covered with tiny flakes of cotton, her breasts rose and fell spasmodically.

Then they saw what she carried in her hands, saw her head as she emerged from the black shadows of that stairway in the corner.

Lora GascOyne’s crowning glory had been her hair. It was long and blonde and silken and wavy and the way she wore it created a frame for a masterpiece about her face. Now Lora Gascoyne carried her hair in her hands and down the very center of her head was a broad shaven streak, all of two inches wide! Right toward the frozen group by the switchboard she came, swaying as she hurried, and it was Tom Gentry who caught her as she fell in a faint.

Vibrock, short and fat, with naturally protruding eyes, turned the color of butcher’s paper. My God, he ejaculated, she must be nuts! Why would she do that to herself?

Jim Anthony snapped, Ambulance, Dolores, quickly! He leaned over the understudy, rolled back an eyelid, leaned to sniff her breath. When Tom raised his brows inquiringly, Jim shrugged. Can’t tell, he answered. Acts dopey, like she’s been given a shot in the arm. He ran his fingers over her head, could not find a lump or any indication that she had been struck.

Vibrock took off his hat, flung it to the floor and leaped on it with both feet. It’s not enough, he squealed, that my star leaves home and disappears on opening night, is it? Everything happens to me, everything! Now this one takes a sleigh-ride on me, she dopes herself all up with maybe a shot in the arm or that marry-juna! And what happens? All her hair she cuts off!

Quietly Jim said, Don’t get so excited, Ed. She didn’t do this to herself. Look. He raised the poor girl’s head and indicated the shaved portion. Ed Vibrock peered closer, his eyes bulged more than ever.

Hey, he said weakly, and hey! It’s a red dragon painted on there, Jim! And four—no, five—letters! And when he read them off slowly his voice almost died away toward the end. For besides the red dragon painted on the shaved portion of Lora Gascoyne’s head, there were five red letters, spelling D-E-A-T-H.

CHAPTER II—THE DRAGON AGAIN

COORDINATION of mind and muscle is not an uncommon thing; rather it is simply a neglected thing in modern men and women. No sooner had Dolores returned from phoning for the ambulance than Jim leaped for the stairs. When Tom Gentry would have followed at his heels, Jim snapped, Stay here, Tom. I’ll call you.

Jim was a shrewd psychologist. One thing he was sure—a pretty girl like Lora Gascoyne, with a wealth of hair such as she had possessed, would never cut it off herself! Nor could she paint a red dragon and the word Death on the shaven spot, or streak! As he galloped up those steps, over and over to himself he was repeating a solitary word—Why? Why? Why?

The light in the hallway was dim, but that did not bother him. He knew Lora Gascoyne’s dressing room, and for a moment stooped there in the semi-darkness to examine the dark, composition doorknob. Doctors marveled at Jim Anthony’s ability to see practically as well in the dark as most people see in the daytime, and many people believed this to be an inherited instinct, from his mother, who had been a Comanche Indian princess. Now, had it been possible to watch him there in the dimness of that dusty hall, an observer would have learned that this strange ability was not entirely inherited, but, to a great degree, developed.

He had perfect control over the eye muscles which affected the pupils in his eyes—just as do the Hindu and Yogi hypnotists. By enlarging those pupils, he took advantage of every iota of light, let it reflect into his eye, just as a cat or a jungle animal utilizes all light, when to most humans, there is nothing but pitch darkness.

There were no fingerprints on the doorknob, only the wish-washy lines proving the knob had been wiped with a cloth. Yet there was something—something—? He leaned and sniffed the knob! And from a pocket of the nondescript slacks he wore, he took a clean linen handkerchief, and carefully wiped the knob, meticulously, thoroughly, before putting the handkerchief into another pocket.

The sound of muffled pounding came to him, from farther down the hall, and a woman’s shrill voice saying angrily, What kind of game is this? Let me out of here, darn it!

He strode to the door whence came the knocking and the angry voice. There was no key in the lock. But again his eyes stood him in good stead—he spotted it on the floor, some three feet away. He opened the locked door, not touching the knob, but allowing the woman inside to pull it open after he had clicked the lock loudly.

Why, you listen to me, she began angrily, then, Oh, Mr. Anthony! Excuse me, sir, I didn’t know it was you, of course!

It was Mother Kimes, the wardrobe lady. She was approximately fifty or fifty-five to all appearances, with streaked gray hair and a thin, angular figure which was eternally badly clad in some dust colored garment.

And what happened to Miss Gascoyne, sir? I came up here for this material, she extended what appeared to be a pair of drapes, and heard her moaning a few moments ago, and lo and behold you, the door was locked when I tried to get out of here to see what was hurting the poor dear! Was she—?

Mother Kimes, I want you to go on downstairs quickly and help Miss Colquitt with Lora. She’s a very sick girl! He held up hand. Now, quickly!

The wardrobe woman turned and scuttled toward the stairs like some grey beetle. Very carefully Jim Anthony took the key from the door—smelled it—smiled grimly and dropped it into his pocket. Quickly he crossed the room to the window. The tattered shade was down, but the glass itself was open. He thrust his head out into the darkness. But even Jim could not pick out what he expected to see in the debris-littered areaway below.

In the exact center of Lora Gascoyne’s dressing room Jim Anthony stood with his nostrils flaring like those of a pointer who has spotted game. Every muscle and nerve in his athletic body was tingling like a sensitive wire over which a powerful current is passing. This strange feeling—call it an extra sense if you will—was one of the reasons for his enormous success in thwarting the enemies created by years of successful criminology.

Often his sense of impending danger, that drew his body and brain as taut and ready for action as a strung hunting bow, came to him in the middle of a deep sleep. And he would sit up straight in the center of his bed, his nostrils white and flaring in just this manner, the semblance of a growl in his throat and the hackles on the back of his neck prickling like those of an aroused beast of the forest. Thus did Jim Anthony, the product of two civilizations, revert a hundred thousand years into the past, when his mother’s people roamed the forests and the great mountains knowing that their price for life was eternal vigilance.

Now, there in the center of that dressing room, the feeling came to Jim Anthony again. In the past, he had found it infallible, yet there were several ways in which it might be interpreted. It could mean personal danger to himself, physical danger, the actual presence or the slow, deadly approach of an enemy who was intent on the kill. Or, it might mean that some one of his coterie of friends was threatened similarly—with an actual physical menace and danger.

And, on rare occasions, such as when Jim had pitted his wits and weapons and muscles and scientific knowledge against such master criminals as Rado Ruric, and Ormilin, the ruler of Atom City, it had proven to mean, in so many words: Beware, beware, Jim Anthony! The Monsters of Crime are prowling, and Death stalks the Earth! Beware, Jim Anthony! Gird up your loins, for this is no ordinary battle!

Which now?

He shrugged his wide shoulders and tried to grin off the warning. After all, what could a danger be that started in a