The Invisible Crimes: The Grey Phantom, #1

By Brian K. Lowe

In an America driven to depths of crime by the Great Depression, Capitol City is the most dangerous and most corrupt city in the nation. The mayor, the city council, and the police are all owned by the gangs which dictate life and death to the citizens, who can only lock their doors at night and hope to live until the dawn.

 

Until one night a mysterious figure appears at the scene of the crime, and with twin silenced .45-caliber automatics he makes the criminals pay--in blood. Leaving behind only his calling card, he is known as the Grey Phantom. Hiding his face behind a mask, never seen for more than an instant, the Grey Phantom wreaks vengeance on the underworld and gives hope to those who had lost it.

 

But even as his war against lawlessness advances, the gangs have unveiled a new weapon which allows them to loot and plunder and murder at will in broad daylight with no fear of witnesses. As the list of victims climbs higher and higher, it seems as though the Grey Phantom's crusade is over before it is begun--because how can one man stop a crimewave that no one remembers ever happened?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brian K. Lowe
• Release date: Jan 13, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224540891

Book preview

The Man in the Dark

Amatch fizzed to life , only partly sheltered from the darkness by the cupped hand of the man leaning in the doorway of the warehouse.

Hey! a voice hissed out of the night. Put that thing out! You want somebody should see us?

The match made glowing trails in the air as it was waved dead. "Jeez, ya scared me! I just wanted me a smoke. Whatta ya worried about? We made sure the cops won't come prowlin' around here tonight."

The second man sidled up to the doorway, shivering a little. The shadows were so deep the two men couldn't make out each other's features. Sorry, I'm just nervous. And it ain't the coppers I'm nervous about. He glanced around, muttering.

What was that? the smoker asked. I didn't catch what ya said.

I said I've been hearing rumors. Rumors about jobs being busted up—and not by the police. I heard say there's another gang operating in town, some new bunch—maybe from back East.

I—I ain't heard no rumors.

The new man sniffed. Yeah, you have. We all have. That's why we're out here on lookout, right? If there was nothing to fear from the cops, we'd be inside, in the warm, with the rest of 'em.

The smoker pulled out a cigarette, then looked at his companion and put the cigarette back with an annoyed expression. But his annoyance turned to anxiety when he said:

All right, I have heard somethin'. But we're not s'posed to talk about it. The guys in charge, they're gonna take care of it. We just shut up, look out, and get paid.

Sure, sure they will. And while they're doing that, we're standing here freezing and waiting for the Grey Phantom to pop up out of the dark and put holes in our suits.

The smoker gave a start. The Grey Phantom? Where'd ya hear that?

His buddy leaned in closer. "That's why we're not supposed to talk about it. Because I heard from a guy uptown it's not a gang, not like they've been saying. He told me it's one man. He told me nobody's ever seen his face—but he goes by the name of the Grey Phantom."

Now I really need a smoke. Stop talkin' like that. You're givin' me the creeps. The whites of his eyes shone in the night as his gaze darted about. So who was this joker you talked to who knew so—

The second man let his blackjack dangle from his wrist as he caught his unconscious burden and laid it on the ground. Within seconds, with his victim expertly bound and gagged, he was dragging the limp body away from the doorway.

Who was the man who knew so much about the Grey Phantom? he echoed softly. Oh, I think you'll be able to figure that out when you wake up.

Sliding a soft grey mask over his face, he stepped into the warehouse, careful not to let the door slam. He slipped across the floor like an Indian scout, each step placed so precisely that his soft-soled shoes made no noise even when he stepped on bits of gravel or dirt. He dropped his blackjack into a coat pocket and pulled a heavy automatic from under his arm, attaching a silencer. The automatic's twin nestled beneath his other arm, but tonight was about collecting intelligence, not meting out justice.

At least, not yet.

The men he was seeking were far down an aisle of heavy shelving. They obviously had been given some idea of where to seek what they wanted, no more sentries had been posted, and the only lights were the overheads near where he could hear packing crates being pried open, which made the Grey Phantom's task a little easier. But how assured they must they be that the police would never come, that they had left only one man on the outside!

It was that confidence on the part of the criminal underworld that had led to the birth of the Grey Phantom. It was that confidence he intended to shatter... but not tonight. Tonight the Grey Phantom wanted information, information on what these men were stealing, and who they were stealing it for. Then he would act. Then would the swift fist of justice strike!

Lightly as a spider, the Grey Phantom flickered down the aisle next to the gangsters' workspace and scrambled silently to the top of the shelving, settled himself gently on a crate only a few feet below the ceiling. Now he could eavesdrop on every word they said—but he had to be cautious not to make any noise himself, because if he did, the last sound he would ever hear would be the explosions from a dozen guns...

Infiltrate and Escape

At first he heard only the grunting of men exerting themselves against the crowbars they were using to open the crates. It was noteworthy that they seemed to have no concerns over their efforts being discovered in the morning, another sign that this gang enjoyed the kind of protection against prosecution that had turned Capitol City into a haven for the underworld.

A nail shrieked as it was being pulled.

Oh, for God's sake, Gunny, someone complained. Wake the dead, why don't you?

Sorry, replied Gunny. Damn thing was stuck. I got it now.

Gunny! the Grey Phantom thought. I've heard that name before. Before embarking on his new career, the Grey Phantom had taken pains to learn all he could about the criminal infestation that had overtaken the town. Peter Gunny Shott was one of the first who had come under his microscope. A killer who had fled Chicago after a falling-out with John Dillinger right before Dillinger was killed two years ago, it was said that Shott thought himself better than the crooks he associated with.

Well, be more careful, you dumb ox. We don't wanna break anything.

Dumb ox? Apparently Gunny doesn't scare people as much he thinks he does. But if they're afraid of breakage, they must be looking for something fragile.

Doesn't matter anyway. Gunny's whining voice floated up to the hidden listener. It ain't here. Maybe it's in that one up there.

And a flashlight beam shot up to illuminate the box upon which the Grey Phantom lay! He hugged the crate, but if Gunny moved to get a better angle, he would see a man's shadow outlined against the ceiling!

It'd better not be, said the voice that had called Gunny a dumb ox, because we can't climb up there and pull it down. It's too heavy. Hey, Slats, you think you could open it from up there?

Slats must be Slats Heine, another known thug, called Slats because he was thin as a board. He would be the logical choice to climb up to that narrow space—but it would be even more crowded if he found himself sharing it with the Grey Phantom...

There was no time to wait to see what the gang would do. Once someone got onto the shelving framework, any movement by the Grey Phantom would cause a vibration and give him away. He had to act now, had to escape while he was within spitting distance of a half-dozen guns!

Replacing his automatic in its custom holster, the Grey Phantom slowly eased off of the crate and back down the way he had come, hanging by his fingers from a shelf several feet off the ground. In the next aisle, Slats was complaining that he didn't want to go up there where there ain't much light. What if there's rats up there? Or a spider web?

The others were roundly cursing his cowardice, but Slats was having none of it. Look, the leader said at last. Go around the other side and shine your light up there. If there's anything up there, you'll see it, right? Then you climb up and look and we can get out of here! We don't have all night.

That was his cue; he couldn't wait any longer. Slats would see him in a few seconds, hanging by his hands, a perfect target. And he had no time to run, nowhere to hide.

The Grey Phantom pulled himself up again, kneeling on the top shelf, barely ahead of the groaning Slats, who took his time carrying out his mission. Before he could shine his light upward, the Grey Phantom had unlimbered his silenced automatic and shot out the nearest overhead lamp!

Instantly the mobsters flew into a frenzy, shouting orders and scurrying for cover. The timid Slats forgot his task and rejoined his fellows, leaving the Grey Phantom free to drop to the floor, any noise he made lost in the chaos of the moment.

The gang's leader was restoring order, directing his men to fan out with their flashlights aimed toward the front of the warehouse. But the Grey Phantom wasn't headed for the door; he moved rearward, behind the stacks of shelves toward the far corner away from the crooks. He stopped in the furthest aisle that showed any reflection from the flashlights and forged ahead with caution. He had a penlight of his own, but showing it would be suicide. He must depend on the dim light his enemies were providing to keep him from stumbling over any random piece of equipment carelessly left in his path.

Suddenly, the flashlights started going out, leaving him in near-total darkness. The gangsters had realized their own torches were making targets of them, and they had snapped them off in an attempt to see if he was using one of his own. The first flicker of light would make him a target. But when that didn't work, what would they do?

There was only one answer. Since they weren't worried about giving themselves away, they'd send one of their number to turn on the warehouse lights. The Grey Phantom would be caught like a mouse in a maze. Despite the danger, he had to try to reach a door before the lights went on.

Reversing course, moving more quickly because he knew the way was clear, when he reached the back wall, he closed his useless eye and groped his way into a corner, then blindly followed the wall until he felt a door. Locked! The owners had chained it from the inside to keep the workers from smuggling out goods. And he had lost valuable time. Then the lights went up.

He could see, because he'd kept his eyes closed. If the crooks hadn't thought of that, he had a few seconds in which to act. Swiftly he ran to the next transverse aisle, fired at a distant ceiling lamp, and with a loud pop it was extinguished. In the cavernous warehouse, the sound of his shot was lost.

Over here! someone shouted, and the roar of vengeful men rushing toward the broken light covered the Grey Phantom's trail as they converged on nothing. He stepped out of the warehouse, tipped his hat to the unconscious sentry, and sauntered off into the night, stripping off his mask and tucking it into his vest pocket, where it became an innocent handkerchief. His expression was calm, but his thoughts were stormy.

He had risked his life, and possibly foiled a burglary, but he had learned almost nothing. The only thing he had gained was the knowledge that when the guard he had slugged awoke, the legend of the Grey Phantom would be spread a little further.

Right now, it was his only leverage...

The Girl Reporter

T here's more to being a reporter than being in the right place at the right time!

"That's exactly what being a reporter is all about!"

Which is exactly why you're right where you're supposed to be! Nobody else can get as close to these folks as you can!

Too late Alex Lundberg saw the trap; it was already closing over her head. Damn it! How did he do this to her every damned time?

No! She couldn't go down that road again. She couldn't fall victim to her own emotions. A reporter controlled her emotions, didn't let them become part of the story. She wouldn't let them be the story.

Look, Christopher. Use his last name. That's what a man would do. "If the Wentworths' dog gets loose at the Paddingsmiths' bridal reception, that's news. It's funny. It makes the rich look like chumps. In any other town in the country it'd be a great story. But in Capitol  City—nobody cares. The only thing people here want to read about is crime and what the police and the mayor and the governor are going to do about it. Which is nothing. And that's the story."

Lovell Christopher, editor of the Capitol City Chronicle, sucked on his pipe and emitted a small cloud of fruit-scented smoke. He hated the pipe, and he hated the flavor, but he needed it to disguise his addiction to cheap cigarettes. He pretended he didn't smoke them, his employees pretended they didn't know, and everyone was miserable.

It also made Lovell Christopher miserable to know that Alexandra Lundberg was likely the snappiest writer and the most ambitious reporter the Chronicle had, but he couldn't assign her the stories they both wanted her to cover.

The problem was simple: Christopher was forty-eight years old, his receding hair tending toward grey. He had fought in the War, learned the news business in Philadelphia and St. Louis, and if in the course of it he'd given and taken some lumps, that was the way the game was played. When he'd arrived at the Chronicle, even before the gangs took over the town, Capitol City had already been a no-holds-barred political barroom, no place for sissies.

Alex Lundberg was no sissy, but she was half his age, with a willowy figure that nonetheless advertised her femininity and a face that could sell ad copy. But she'd never been in a fight, let alone a war. And the streets of Capitol City were rapidly coming to resemble a war zone.

I agree with you, he said to her after a few moments to collect his thoughts. "And if you want to ask your uncle what he plans to do when you see him, you are free to do so. And if he gives you a quote, which I doubt, we'll use it. But I can't send you out on the street to... investigate that warehouse break-in last night, for example. I need a reporter who can take care of himself."

You mean you need a man, she accused.

I mean I need a reporter who can take care of himself, Christopher repeated. And I don't need to be the editor who sends the governor's niece out into the middle of gang war. If you got killed, it'd be bad for circulation.

Alex started to say something, choked on it, seized an innocent document on her boss's desk and threw it down, punctuating her exit with a slamming door. Christopher snorted at the closed door, then yanked the pipe out of his mouth and spit into his trash can.

Having trouble with the boss, gorgeous? The reporter seated nearest Christopher's office smiled at Alex's stormy retort. You know, if you got married, you could forget all this and take your frustrations out on your kids. It's the American way.

Alex leaned on his desk and looked deep into his eyes. That's a very attractive offer you're making, Mr. Dennison. A girl would be wise to consider it. Truth to tell, it was not hard to look deeply into Kane Dennison's eyes, nor was it any chore to stare at him for long minutes at a time—or even hours,  she supposed. He was tall, athletic, extremely well-dressed, and mysterious in his way, being rumored to possess more wealth than one could glean from a newspaper salary. She smiled wryly. But a girl would be a fool to marry a reporter.

I could retire... or find another job, he offered lightly. Despite herself she felt a tingle of interest.

Don't do that, she said, standing up to put some distance between them. A man would be an even bigger fool to marry a girl reporter.

She swept away before he could formulate a response. That was all she needed: an office romance to gum up the works even further!

She walked the length of the newsroom until she reached her own tiny desk next to the broom closet. Being the governor's niece cut no ice in the office seating arrangements. She was surprised to see Oliver Jeffcote staring at something on her blotter.

Hello, Oliver. Something interesting in the mail?

He started. Oh, hello, Miss Lundberg. I'm sorry—I just saw this envelope on your desk as I was passing, and...

Alex favored him with a friendly smile. Oliver was the office errand boy, copy boy, and clumsy puppy. He wore ugly cardigans, bow ties, and round glasses that never seemed to help him see. He desperately wanted to be a reporter, but the best he'd been able to do so far was wangle an invitation to help the archivist in