"VULCAN: Futrelle's Dog With a Smile"
Apr. 23rd, 2023 02:01 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"VULCAN: Futrelle's Dog With a Smile
11/22-11/3/1944
I.
Kelly hated this assignment. Going out to Queens to interview some rich coot about a painting he had purchased from a French merchant. She should be covering the Vulcan arson case! Three houses had burned down in six weeks, and the last time, arrivals on the scene had glimpsed a big man in a Roman legionary costume fleeing the scene. Mocking letters to the police and newspapers had been signed 'Vulcan, the Human Flame-Thrower' and had vaguely hinted at some crusade against corruption in high places. There had been injuries but no deaths. So far.
The only good news was that her editor at THE MESSENGER had allowed her to use his car. The cranky old Chief seldom drove anywhere except from his apartment to the office and back, and he had gasoline to spare. His B sticker entitled him to eight gallons a week. This was consolation. Waiting for Cordwaite to show up, she gazed around the huge gallery that was well lit by high windows almost taking the entire west wall. A narrow skylight let in further illumination. She had never learned much appreciation for fine art. Solid comfortable chairs and a side table displaying an assortment of liquor bottles completed the decor. These were pleasant looking oil paintings to her untrained eye but nothing special. Sailing ships in storms, rearing horses, rather chubby women who wore only wispy bits of cloth around their hips, nothing to hold her interest.
At twenty-four, Kelly O'Connor was tall and slender rather than voluptuous. She was wearing her favorite dark green skirt and jacket, with a white silk blouse and a single strand of pearls. The green compliment her flaming red hair and matched her eyes. Her hat was a mere cloche perched precariously on the side of her head. Hanging on a brass chain from her left shoulder was a soft leather handbag. She looked great but took it for granted and wore minimal make-up even when, as now, she had to make a good impression.
Before leaving the office, she had dug through some of the reference books which lined the walls of the day room. It hadn't helped. She didn't recognize any of these paintings and the signatures seemed mere scribbles to her. Kelly took out her notebook and pencil and began to write a description of the gallery in her modified shorthand. But even as she wrote, her thoughts strayed to wondering about this Vulcan firebug.
"Ah, this charming young lady must be Kelly O'Connor!" sang out a high tenor voice. Harvey Cordwaite was the same height as Kelly's five feet seven, but so dumpy and round-bellied that he seemed shorter. He was wearing a flamboyant deep maroon dressing gown over a white shirt and black trousers, with a loosely knotted red polka dot bow tie. A red beret and a cigarette in a long ivory holder added to the colorful first impression. Kelly disliked him on sight.
"That's me," she answered with her most disarming smile. "Humble reporter for New York's newest paper, THE MESSENGER. The door was wide open, so I came in. I didn't see any butler."
"Oh, I keep no servants on the grounds," Cordwaite said. "I'm self-made. I can cook my own meals and drive by myself. I do have a housekeeper and groundsman who come in twice a week but that's all." He added with a bit too much glee, "We're QUITE alone, Kelly."
"Really. Heh. Well, the art world has completely lost its marbles over your purchase of a painting by Jean-Claude Futrelle, let's see, 'Chien Souriant.'"
"In English, 'the Smiling Dog.' Have a good look, my dear." Cordwaite took her arm and gently guided her to where an oil painting three feet to each side hung at eye level.
Kelly made herself show some patience and studied the piece of art. It showed a man and a woman sitting next to each other on a wooden bench under a tree. They were wearing Medieval clothing, the man in hose and a doublet and the woman in a long white gown and a conical hat with a ribbon dangling from its point. They were holding hands and staring into each others' eyes with a warmth that reminded her of a few of her own dates.
But it was the dog that amused her. In the foreground, sitting with its head turned toward the viewer, it looked like a wiry-haired terrier to her. A faint but unmistakable smile lifted the corners of its mouth in a very human expression.
"Oh, that IS clever," she said finally. "Pooch there is glad they're going to smooch."
"The first kiss is always so exciting, don't you think?"
Kelly shifted slightly away and held up her notebook to make it clear she was all business. "I didn't know these high class painters had a sense of humor."
"Futrelle was quite young when he did this," Cordwaite explained. "It's one of his earliest pieces. In fact, until a few years ago it had been thought to have been lost."
"Hmmm. Mr Cordwaite, critics have been losing their minds over this painting, from what I can gather. And there's quite a scandal how cheaply you bought this for. Twenty thousand doesn't sound like chicken feed to me, but I guess something from Futrelle would normally go for three times as much."
"Ah," said the little man, clapping his hands in glee. "That was my stroke of luck. The owner is just starting out as a broker. He was eager to make a sale and didn't have the patience to hold out for more. My good fortune, of course."
Kelly tapped her pencil's eraser end against flawless white teeth. "I can see a Sunday feature page about your collection. How would you feel about a photographer coming out here and doing some shots?"
"Would you be returning as well, my dear?"
Kelly repressed a sigh. She didn't want to lead the millionaire on, but at the same time, getting her name on a full-page Sunday story would mean a juicy bonus. "Of course," she said but stressed, "MR Cordwaite. I'd like you to approve the text before we leave, to make sure I got all the names and descriptions right."
"Fine, fine." He was heading for the side table. "I have some excellent Scotch here, my dear. Twelve years old, from before the war. Perhaps a toast to good old Futrelle and his charming dog?"
"No thanks, I'm just a working girl and I have to get back to the office before five. Thanks for your courtesy. I'll ask my editor to set up a photography session." Kelly tucked her notebook and pencil away and saw how crestfallen the old man was. She added, "Perhaps some other time."
"Ah, such is life." Cordwaite had prepared a generous tumbler for himself. "I'll see you to the door."
"You know, there IS something else," Kelly said. "That house that burned down in the next city over, it belonged to an art dealer named Langston. Do you know him?"
"Oh yes, not a bad fellow at all. Most of his collection was lost, sad to say. Only a few bits of the frames were recovered. Quite irreplaceable."
Kelly let the art lover escort her down a hall to where the front door was still open. On a paved turnaround, a gleaming new Nash stood next to her Chief's old Ford. "It's supposed to have been one of the Vulcan arson jobs. What do you think that's all about?"
"Bah. Some lunatic with a peculiar quirk in his mental make-up," Cordwaite dismissed the thought. "These arsonists love fire for its own sake. I wouldn't look for any deeper meaning."
Turning to shake his hand as warmly as she could, Kelly added, "Still, it wouldn't hurt to be careful, sir. Whoever he is, Vulcan is at large."
Cordwaite laughed and released her hand with a gentle squeeze. "Thank you for your concern. I assure you that I will be sleeping in the gallery tonight like a watchdog."
II.
Jim Harkins met her in front of the MESSENGER building at six. They enjoyed a lengthy chat-filled meal at a modest steak house, then went dancing at the Heron Club with its swing band. Unfortunately, the big police detective had to go on duty at ten. That meant a love tryst at his apartment couldn't be squeezed in but they both knew there would be other times. He dropped her off in front of her boarding house and only got away after they both said they loved each other and they would have sweet dreams a hundred times each.
The elderly couple who owned the house had already retired for the night. Kelly heard the radio playing some comedy show from under Casey's door and she knew the other tenant Jacobson worked nights at the ball bearing factory. She got to her room without seeing anyone, which suited her fine. Her dreamy mood after being with Jim would be sullied by typical grumbling conversations. She stripped down, slid between the flannel sheets and dropped off into a deep slumber within seconds.
Exactly at midnight, Kelly snapped awake again, alert and refreshed. Years of nocturnal prowling had gotten her used to two or three hour naps instead of a full nights sleep. Time for the other half of her crazy mixed up life. By a tiny night light in one corner, she slipped on tan slacks and a white silk blouse, then put on sensible walking shoes and her favorite waist length bolero jacket with its inside pockets. She went through the checklist... a small amount of cash, her Press card and driver's license, keys, tissues, lipstick and brush.
Normal enough. In the trunk of her roadster, the Green Devil suit held some more interesting if unladylike items. Sliding open the window to the alley, she slid through with the easy agility of youth and closed it behind her. The little red convertible was waiting impatiently to get going. But she had already decided to use the Triumph, it was such a gorgeous late summer night that a motorcycle ride was irresistible. Kelly O'Connor started the roadster up and eased out onto the side street. She could hardly keep from laughing out loud at all the adrenalin burning through her veins.
There was nothing legal about Kelly's Triumph. The powerful British motorcycle had been the property of a G2 clerk who had been selling war intelligence to the Russians and then double-crossed them as well. As the Green Devil, she had arrived at the rendezvous too late to intervene. She had witnessed as the hard-faced SMERSH agent shot the double agent in the back of the head, then dropped a card on the man's body that read 'SMIERT SHPION... death to spies' before getting into a long sedan and driving away. Kelly had emerged from the shadows, seen that the spy was obviously dead and had started to skulk away into the night when the dead man's Triumph caught her eye.
So now she drove it when the weather was accommodating and when it seemed appropriate. Twice she had been able to shake pursuit, once by the underworld and once by the NYPD, by speeding recklessly up side streets and across crowded lots where the bigger cars had trouble navigating. She had no registration or insurance for it of course, nor any bill of sale. Its plates came from her collection of salvaged junkyard plates. Kelly had covertly painted its body a deep dark green that matched her outfit.
Soon it would be too cold to ride, which gave her a melancholy twinge. Kelly had been storing the bike, again quite against the law, within a condemned building up near the southern edge of Harlem. She knew that one night she would find it gone but she couldn't think of a better place to hide the Triumph without someone learning about her double life.
She parked her little roadster on a nearby side street and reached into the back seat for her suitcase. Changing inside the snug interior of the car wasn't easy, even foe someone as slim and flexible as she was. In her full Green Devil outfit of riding boots, tough corduroy pants and leather jacket, all so dark a green as to seem black, she was hard to spot at night as she stepped out onto the sidewalk. The black motorcycle helmet with the two short horns she had clued on added to her near-invisibility in the reduced light from widely spaced street lamps. Kelly O'Connor did not have a personality for worrying and seldom dwelled on how many felonies she could be charged with if caught. She had always been the type to dive headlong into water while her friends had tentatively dipped their toes.
An ancient building of chipped, stained red brick stood next to a vacant lot. The windows on the ground floor had been boarded over and the side door had been replaced by more boards nailed together. Kelly tugged one edge up and squeezed through. The Triumph was still there. Grinning under her visor, Kelly lifted the kickstand and pushed it out through the opening. No one was in sight. Starting the powerful engine, the Green Devil swung around to go south along Ninth Avenue. As much suffering and loss as the war had brought to everyone, the lessened traffic made it easier for crime-busting mystery men. And women. It had been more than a month since she had driven the bike or her roadster, walking everywhere to save precious gas for her Green Devil activities.
Bombing along nearly empty streets, Kelly headed toward Queens with spotting only one police cruiser a block to her left. They didn't seem to notice her. One advantage to using her roadster was that she could keep the Green Devil outfit in the trunk and ride around in regular clothes until she got to the scene. If she did get stopped for some reason, being in civies would make getting by much easier.
She was full of blarney anyway but even she would have trouble explaining what she was up to, what with the horned helmet and the trident symbol on the back of her leather jacket. In the past two years, she had been seen at too many unexplained deaths, explosions and gangland shootouts. And even though she had brought down a lot of mobsters, Axis spies, Mad Scientists and outright monsters, she had earned a few decades in the slammer doing so.
III.
It was after one-fifteen according to her wristwatch when she reached the Cordwaite grounds. A chest-high granite wall ran around the estate, no more than a few square acres with the long two-story house sited atop the hill. Shutting off her cycle where she could conceal it behind an elm tree, the Green Devil watched the house for a few minutes. As far as she could see, the only windows illuminated were on the second floor where the gallery was. Well, Cordwaite had said he was going to stay there tonight. Kelly did not want to go near the wrought iron gate she had driven through that afternoon. Over the past two years, she had become much stealthier when appropriate than how her innate blunt attitude would have had her act.
Backstepping out into the street, Kelly sprinted full tilt at the wall, leaped up and rolled across its flat top to drop lightly down into shrubbery on the other side. The wry thought that she had committed enough trespassing as the Green Devil to spend a few years behind bars made her smile behind the visor of her helmet. She wondered if colleagues like the Sceptre or Mark Drum kept a good lawyer on hand, not that she could afford one.
Trotting up the hill, Kelly ducked behind a tree at the crest. In front of the house, next to Cordwaite's car was a massive black sedan that hadn't been there that day. No reason the art lover couldn't have a friend or two there tonight, of course. Maybe even a security guard he had hired. But all her instincts were yelling inside her head that there was big trouble on hand. This was a night for danger and mayhem, as she had hoped.
With her experience, the exterior of the house looked as easy to scale as a staircase. She sprang up onto the outside ledge of a ground floor window, leaping upward to seize the ledge of the second floor window directly above and her and scrambling to get boots on it so she was standing, then vaulting up again to lie face down flat on the slope of the roof.
Kelly thought, maybe I should switch sides and be a cat burglar or jewel thief. Using all this talent for crime-fighting isn't putting any money in my bank account. Oh well. On her stomach, inching toward the wide shaft of light shining up through the skylight, she entertained a brief fantasy of starting a third identity, maybe calling herself Night Cat. With her luck, she'd lose it completely and end up with Green Devil trying to catch Night Cat so Kelly O'Connor could get a front page story!
Edging over, she peeked carefully with one eye down from the side of the skylight just in time to see a big goon holding Cordwaite by the arms from behind while an even bigger thug backhanded the art collector hard across the face.
IV.
Ten feet below her was the couch. Cordwaite was being abused almost within arm's reach of it. Kelly had earlier noticed that the skylight had been built to slid open if cords hanging down the wall were pulled and she reached over to slide it up so she could hear what was going on.
"...Your tough luck, guy. You weren't supposed to be here tonight. It's too late to call Vulcan off, he's not someone who can be told not to start fires. Heh! Nothing he'd like better in life than seeing the world burn."
Sagging from the blows, Cordwaite whimpered. "No, no, listen. Take whatever you want but don't hurt me. I can get you fifty thousand in cash if you let me go."
The mobster holding the old man's upper arms twisted them viciously. "Forget it! You seen our faces. They're gonna find you when they dig through the ashes."
The other man was over by the door, where a half dozen paintings were leaning up against the wall, including the 'Dog With a Smile.' Seeing this confused Kelly immensely, because she could see the painting was still hanging in its original spot. What the Hell? Then she caught on. The ones on the walls were imitations, maybe good enough that their charred debris would fool investigators but the originals were going out the door with the two goons. That was the real purpose behind these baffling Vulcan arsons. It was an art heist. Some collector somewhere wanted the originals enough to go through all this, even if it meant he could never show them to anyone.
"Don't conk 'im TOO hard," said one of the thugs. "If they find a fractured skull..."
"So what? Who cares? The cops'll blame it on Vulcan anyway, remember? All right buddy, say good night."
As Cordwaite released a long piercing scream, Kelly O'Connor slid the skylight open all the way and swung over to drop down. She used the couch as a trampoline to throw herself headlong onto all three men. They went down to the floor in a confused tangle of arms and legs. Only the Green Devil was not taken by complete surprise by the collision and she bounced up onto her feet as if she had rehearsed this acrobatic stunt for weeks.
Speed was vital. Kelly had no illusions about being able to survive a slugfest with two men, both bigger and stronger than she was. The instant she was standing, she planted her feet and swung a looping roundhouse right with her full body behind it, and the impact had a peculiar crunching sound to it. Sewn across the knuckles of each glove was a thin strip of lead she had beaten into shape. That punch was brutal.
The other mobster had rolled over and was up on his knees, clawing a big .45 Colt automatic from inside his waistband and jabbing it out like an accusing finger. Kelly barely had the instant needed to raise her open hands. White flame flashed from the barrel and, in the deafening roar of a gunshot in close quarters, she whirled her arms. The unexplainable ability of the Green Devil worked again. A barely perceptible stinging made her right palm twitch as the bullet ricocheted straight back to smash deep into the mobster's chest. Still kneeling, he blinked in hurt surprise and dropped over to one side with the gun falling from his hand.
Kelly saw Cordwaite gaping at her with his eyes bulging out and his mouth working like a fish that has just been hauled out of the water. "Get out of here!" she yelled. "Run for your life, you blockhead!"
The art dealer stammered. Not only had he been within seconds of being murdered, he now had been rescued by some strange woman in a dark green suit and wearing a motorcycle helmet with devil horns. There was a man at his feet who was dead or dying from a gunshot. It was too much for him to process.
"Oh for the love of Pete!" Kelly groaned, seizing Cordwaite by one arm and tugging him toward the hallway door. "Run. Do an impression of Jesse Owens!" But even as she spoke, she caught movement from the side and whirled to see the man she had punched was struggling to get up. Did he have a gun, too? The Green Devil vaulted over to grab that bronze statuette of Athena. It was exactly the right size and shape to use as a club, so she cracked it over the back of the mobster's head as if she were trying to split a coconut and with comparable effect. The thug sagged back down to the floor without even gasping.
Both killers down, but Kelly dared not even to consider that this was over. They had mentioned Vulcan. Was the firebug on the scene? Where was he? She spun back and saw that Cordwaite was finally out in the hall. With a shocking unexpectedness, the old man burst into a fireball that flooded the gallery with searing heat and orange light. His scream was cut off in a split-second. Now Kelly herself was dazed and stunned.
Stepping past the blazing thing on the hallway floor that had been a living man a second ago was a bizarre figure in the short skirt, molded leather breastplate and white cloak of a Roman legionary. His head was completely concealed by a bronze helmet with only a T-shaped slit through which not even his eyes could be glimpsed.
Cradled in both open palms were flickering pools of white-hot fire. The Human Flame-Thrower.
V.
As Vulcan raised his hands, the haloes of flame around them intensified to blinding levels. The big man boomed with gleeful laughter. Kelly O'Connor reacted without making a conscious decision, wheeling around to leap up onto the back of the couch and then jump straight up. She caught the lower edge of the open skylight and swung her legs up to scramble up onto the roof an instant before yellow flame exploded to fill the gallery with a roar like a waterfall. Fatal heat shot up through the skylight into the night sky. Even though it had missed her, just its proximity was agonizing.
Still not really aware of what was happening, gasping in fear and pain, the Green Devil rolled and dropped straight down off the roof, luckily landing on dense trimmed hedges which broke her fall. The darkness had been swept away by brilliant unstable light from the inferno which had broken out to engulf the entire second story of the building.
Getting up to her feet, Kelly ran full tilt across the lawn. The front gate hung wide open. She dashed through it and swung left to where her Triumph still sat fifty yards away. She couldn't catch her breath. For an unbearable minute, she panted and leaned on the motorcycle before being able to climb on and lift the kickstand. Behind her, the burning building crackled and flickered, giving off the campfire smell she remembered from childhood camping.
Finally, after what seemed like forever, she swung the bike around and sped up the street back the way from which she had come. Pulling over after a few minutes, she unfastened the helmet and yanked it off to breathe easier. She could smell smoke in her hair and clinging inside her nose. Kelly tied the horned helmet down by her right leg where it might not catch the eye of a casual observer. After coughing a few times, she felt better.
Twisting her head around, she could see the glow from Cordwaite's blazing house far up the street. No use trying to fool herself that she was going to go back and try to tackle that Vulcan nut again. She had panicked. There was no other word for it. But at least she was alive to feel bad about it...
Kelly's spirits had never been lower than on that long ride back to reclaim her roadster. It was getting way too light out as dawn approached. She could see drivers in the increasingly frequent cars staring out this redhaired woman on a motorcycle, such a rare sight she might as well have been riding a rhino. Thankfully, she didn't encounter any police cars along the way. The white trident on the back of her leather jacket was well known to NYPD.
Suddenly, the risk of it all was oppressive. Why was she taking such chances? What was wrong with her? If she was pulled over and found with the Green Devil costume, what possible explanation could she come up with? There would go her career in journalism. How many years would she spend in a woman's prison? And, a further crushing thought, how many women would she face in prison that she herself had put there?
It was almost daylight when she made it to the abandoned building near Harlem. She waited for a milk truck and then a taxi to go by before she finally hustled to stow the Triumph away again. Bundling up her leather jacket and wrapping the helmet in it, Kelly found herself limping as she tried to reach the block where she had left her car. She had pulled a muscle doing her acrobatics. By the time she climbed into the roadster, everything hurt. Kelly pulled into the now regular traffic and headed back to her rooming house.
Kelly barely got back into her room without being spotted. She heard old Mrs Gunther bustling about in the kitchen. The smell of coffee being brewed was godlike but she was too exhausted for breakfast. Locking her door, Kelly kicked off her shoes and stretched, feeling the pang of strained muscles. With her last bit of strength, she tucked the smoke-smelling jacket and helmet under her bed and then stetched out fully dressed on top of the covers. In the bare second before she fell asleep, Kelly wondered if she was ever going to put the Green Devil suit again.
4/23/2023
11/22-11/3/1944
I.
Kelly hated this assignment. Going out to Queens to interview some rich coot about a painting he had purchased from a French merchant. She should be covering the Vulcan arson case! Three houses had burned down in six weeks, and the last time, arrivals on the scene had glimpsed a big man in a Roman legionary costume fleeing the scene. Mocking letters to the police and newspapers had been signed 'Vulcan, the Human Flame-Thrower' and had vaguely hinted at some crusade against corruption in high places. There had been injuries but no deaths. So far.
The only good news was that her editor at THE MESSENGER had allowed her to use his car. The cranky old Chief seldom drove anywhere except from his apartment to the office and back, and he had gasoline to spare. His B sticker entitled him to eight gallons a week. This was consolation. Waiting for Cordwaite to show up, she gazed around the huge gallery that was well lit by high windows almost taking the entire west wall. A narrow skylight let in further illumination. She had never learned much appreciation for fine art. Solid comfortable chairs and a side table displaying an assortment of liquor bottles completed the decor. These were pleasant looking oil paintings to her untrained eye but nothing special. Sailing ships in storms, rearing horses, rather chubby women who wore only wispy bits of cloth around their hips, nothing to hold her interest.
At twenty-four, Kelly O'Connor was tall and slender rather than voluptuous. She was wearing her favorite dark green skirt and jacket, with a white silk blouse and a single strand of pearls. The green compliment her flaming red hair and matched her eyes. Her hat was a mere cloche perched precariously on the side of her head. Hanging on a brass chain from her left shoulder was a soft leather handbag. She looked great but took it for granted and wore minimal make-up even when, as now, she had to make a good impression.
Before leaving the office, she had dug through some of the reference books which lined the walls of the day room. It hadn't helped. She didn't recognize any of these paintings and the signatures seemed mere scribbles to her. Kelly took out her notebook and pencil and began to write a description of the gallery in her modified shorthand. But even as she wrote, her thoughts strayed to wondering about this Vulcan firebug.
"Ah, this charming young lady must be Kelly O'Connor!" sang out a high tenor voice. Harvey Cordwaite was the same height as Kelly's five feet seven, but so dumpy and round-bellied that he seemed shorter. He was wearing a flamboyant deep maroon dressing gown over a white shirt and black trousers, with a loosely knotted red polka dot bow tie. A red beret and a cigarette in a long ivory holder added to the colorful first impression. Kelly disliked him on sight.
"That's me," she answered with her most disarming smile. "Humble reporter for New York's newest paper, THE MESSENGER. The door was wide open, so I came in. I didn't see any butler."
"Oh, I keep no servants on the grounds," Cordwaite said. "I'm self-made. I can cook my own meals and drive by myself. I do have a housekeeper and groundsman who come in twice a week but that's all." He added with a bit too much glee, "We're QUITE alone, Kelly."
"Really. Heh. Well, the art world has completely lost its marbles over your purchase of a painting by Jean-Claude Futrelle, let's see, 'Chien Souriant.'"
"In English, 'the Smiling Dog.' Have a good look, my dear." Cordwaite took her arm and gently guided her to where an oil painting three feet to each side hung at eye level.
Kelly made herself show some patience and studied the piece of art. It showed a man and a woman sitting next to each other on a wooden bench under a tree. They were wearing Medieval clothing, the man in hose and a doublet and the woman in a long white gown and a conical hat with a ribbon dangling from its point. They were holding hands and staring into each others' eyes with a warmth that reminded her of a few of her own dates.
But it was the dog that amused her. In the foreground, sitting with its head turned toward the viewer, it looked like a wiry-haired terrier to her. A faint but unmistakable smile lifted the corners of its mouth in a very human expression.
"Oh, that IS clever," she said finally. "Pooch there is glad they're going to smooch."
"The first kiss is always so exciting, don't you think?"
Kelly shifted slightly away and held up her notebook to make it clear she was all business. "I didn't know these high class painters had a sense of humor."
"Futrelle was quite young when he did this," Cordwaite explained. "It's one of his earliest pieces. In fact, until a few years ago it had been thought to have been lost."
"Hmmm. Mr Cordwaite, critics have been losing their minds over this painting, from what I can gather. And there's quite a scandal how cheaply you bought this for. Twenty thousand doesn't sound like chicken feed to me, but I guess something from Futrelle would normally go for three times as much."
"Ah," said the little man, clapping his hands in glee. "That was my stroke of luck. The owner is just starting out as a broker. He was eager to make a sale and didn't have the patience to hold out for more. My good fortune, of course."
Kelly tapped her pencil's eraser end against flawless white teeth. "I can see a Sunday feature page about your collection. How would you feel about a photographer coming out here and doing some shots?"
"Would you be returning as well, my dear?"
Kelly repressed a sigh. She didn't want to lead the millionaire on, but at the same time, getting her name on a full-page Sunday story would mean a juicy bonus. "Of course," she said but stressed, "MR Cordwaite. I'd like you to approve the text before we leave, to make sure I got all the names and descriptions right."
"Fine, fine." He was heading for the side table. "I have some excellent Scotch here, my dear. Twelve years old, from before the war. Perhaps a toast to good old Futrelle and his charming dog?"
"No thanks, I'm just a working girl and I have to get back to the office before five. Thanks for your courtesy. I'll ask my editor to set up a photography session." Kelly tucked her notebook and pencil away and saw how crestfallen the old man was. She added, "Perhaps some other time."
"Ah, such is life." Cordwaite had prepared a generous tumbler for himself. "I'll see you to the door."
"You know, there IS something else," Kelly said. "That house that burned down in the next city over, it belonged to an art dealer named Langston. Do you know him?"
"Oh yes, not a bad fellow at all. Most of his collection was lost, sad to say. Only a few bits of the frames were recovered. Quite irreplaceable."
Kelly let the art lover escort her down a hall to where the front door was still open. On a paved turnaround, a gleaming new Nash stood next to her Chief's old Ford. "It's supposed to have been one of the Vulcan arson jobs. What do you think that's all about?"
"Bah. Some lunatic with a peculiar quirk in his mental make-up," Cordwaite dismissed the thought. "These arsonists love fire for its own sake. I wouldn't look for any deeper meaning."
Turning to shake his hand as warmly as she could, Kelly added, "Still, it wouldn't hurt to be careful, sir. Whoever he is, Vulcan is at large."
Cordwaite laughed and released her hand with a gentle squeeze. "Thank you for your concern. I assure you that I will be sleeping in the gallery tonight like a watchdog."
II.
Jim Harkins met her in front of the MESSENGER building at six. They enjoyed a lengthy chat-filled meal at a modest steak house, then went dancing at the Heron Club with its swing band. Unfortunately, the big police detective had to go on duty at ten. That meant a love tryst at his apartment couldn't be squeezed in but they both knew there would be other times. He dropped her off in front of her boarding house and only got away after they both said they loved each other and they would have sweet dreams a hundred times each.
The elderly couple who owned the house had already retired for the night. Kelly heard the radio playing some comedy show from under Casey's door and she knew the other tenant Jacobson worked nights at the ball bearing factory. She got to her room without seeing anyone, which suited her fine. Her dreamy mood after being with Jim would be sullied by typical grumbling conversations. She stripped down, slid between the flannel sheets and dropped off into a deep slumber within seconds.
Exactly at midnight, Kelly snapped awake again, alert and refreshed. Years of nocturnal prowling had gotten her used to two or three hour naps instead of a full nights sleep. Time for the other half of her crazy mixed up life. By a tiny night light in one corner, she slipped on tan slacks and a white silk blouse, then put on sensible walking shoes and her favorite waist length bolero jacket with its inside pockets. She went through the checklist... a small amount of cash, her Press card and driver's license, keys, tissues, lipstick and brush.
Normal enough. In the trunk of her roadster, the Green Devil suit held some more interesting if unladylike items. Sliding open the window to the alley, she slid through with the easy agility of youth and closed it behind her. The little red convertible was waiting impatiently to get going. But she had already decided to use the Triumph, it was such a gorgeous late summer night that a motorcycle ride was irresistible. Kelly O'Connor started the roadster up and eased out onto the side street. She could hardly keep from laughing out loud at all the adrenalin burning through her veins.
There was nothing legal about Kelly's Triumph. The powerful British motorcycle had been the property of a G2 clerk who had been selling war intelligence to the Russians and then double-crossed them as well. As the Green Devil, she had arrived at the rendezvous too late to intervene. She had witnessed as the hard-faced SMERSH agent shot the double agent in the back of the head, then dropped a card on the man's body that read 'SMIERT SHPION... death to spies' before getting into a long sedan and driving away. Kelly had emerged from the shadows, seen that the spy was obviously dead and had started to skulk away into the night when the dead man's Triumph caught her eye.
So now she drove it when the weather was accommodating and when it seemed appropriate. Twice she had been able to shake pursuit, once by the underworld and once by the NYPD, by speeding recklessly up side streets and across crowded lots where the bigger cars had trouble navigating. She had no registration or insurance for it of course, nor any bill of sale. Its plates came from her collection of salvaged junkyard plates. Kelly had covertly painted its body a deep dark green that matched her outfit.
Soon it would be too cold to ride, which gave her a melancholy twinge. Kelly had been storing the bike, again quite against the law, within a condemned building up near the southern edge of Harlem. She knew that one night she would find it gone but she couldn't think of a better place to hide the Triumph without someone learning about her double life.
She parked her little roadster on a nearby side street and reached into the back seat for her suitcase. Changing inside the snug interior of the car wasn't easy, even foe someone as slim and flexible as she was. In her full Green Devil outfit of riding boots, tough corduroy pants and leather jacket, all so dark a green as to seem black, she was hard to spot at night as she stepped out onto the sidewalk. The black motorcycle helmet with the two short horns she had clued on added to her near-invisibility in the reduced light from widely spaced street lamps. Kelly O'Connor did not have a personality for worrying and seldom dwelled on how many felonies she could be charged with if caught. She had always been the type to dive headlong into water while her friends had tentatively dipped their toes.
An ancient building of chipped, stained red brick stood next to a vacant lot. The windows on the ground floor had been boarded over and the side door had been replaced by more boards nailed together. Kelly tugged one edge up and squeezed through. The Triumph was still there. Grinning under her visor, Kelly lifted the kickstand and pushed it out through the opening. No one was in sight. Starting the powerful engine, the Green Devil swung around to go south along Ninth Avenue. As much suffering and loss as the war had brought to everyone, the lessened traffic made it easier for crime-busting mystery men. And women. It had been more than a month since she had driven the bike or her roadster, walking everywhere to save precious gas for her Green Devil activities.
Bombing along nearly empty streets, Kelly headed toward Queens with spotting only one police cruiser a block to her left. They didn't seem to notice her. One advantage to using her roadster was that she could keep the Green Devil outfit in the trunk and ride around in regular clothes until she got to the scene. If she did get stopped for some reason, being in civies would make getting by much easier.
She was full of blarney anyway but even she would have trouble explaining what she was up to, what with the horned helmet and the trident symbol on the back of her leather jacket. In the past two years, she had been seen at too many unexplained deaths, explosions and gangland shootouts. And even though she had brought down a lot of mobsters, Axis spies, Mad Scientists and outright monsters, she had earned a few decades in the slammer doing so.
III.
It was after one-fifteen according to her wristwatch when she reached the Cordwaite grounds. A chest-high granite wall ran around the estate, no more than a few square acres with the long two-story house sited atop the hill. Shutting off her cycle where she could conceal it behind an elm tree, the Green Devil watched the house for a few minutes. As far as she could see, the only windows illuminated were on the second floor where the gallery was. Well, Cordwaite had said he was going to stay there tonight. Kelly did not want to go near the wrought iron gate she had driven through that afternoon. Over the past two years, she had become much stealthier when appropriate than how her innate blunt attitude would have had her act.
Backstepping out into the street, Kelly sprinted full tilt at the wall, leaped up and rolled across its flat top to drop lightly down into shrubbery on the other side. The wry thought that she had committed enough trespassing as the Green Devil to spend a few years behind bars made her smile behind the visor of her helmet. She wondered if colleagues like the Sceptre or Mark Drum kept a good lawyer on hand, not that she could afford one.
Trotting up the hill, Kelly ducked behind a tree at the crest. In front of the house, next to Cordwaite's car was a massive black sedan that hadn't been there that day. No reason the art lover couldn't have a friend or two there tonight, of course. Maybe even a security guard he had hired. But all her instincts were yelling inside her head that there was big trouble on hand. This was a night for danger and mayhem, as she had hoped.
With her experience, the exterior of the house looked as easy to scale as a staircase. She sprang up onto the outside ledge of a ground floor window, leaping upward to seize the ledge of the second floor window directly above and her and scrambling to get boots on it so she was standing, then vaulting up again to lie face down flat on the slope of the roof.
Kelly thought, maybe I should switch sides and be a cat burglar or jewel thief. Using all this talent for crime-fighting isn't putting any money in my bank account. Oh well. On her stomach, inching toward the wide shaft of light shining up through the skylight, she entertained a brief fantasy of starting a third identity, maybe calling herself Night Cat. With her luck, she'd lose it completely and end up with Green Devil trying to catch Night Cat so Kelly O'Connor could get a front page story!
Edging over, she peeked carefully with one eye down from the side of the skylight just in time to see a big goon holding Cordwaite by the arms from behind while an even bigger thug backhanded the art collector hard across the face.
IV.
Ten feet below her was the couch. Cordwaite was being abused almost within arm's reach of it. Kelly had earlier noticed that the skylight had been built to slid open if cords hanging down the wall were pulled and she reached over to slide it up so she could hear what was going on.
"...Your tough luck, guy. You weren't supposed to be here tonight. It's too late to call Vulcan off, he's not someone who can be told not to start fires. Heh! Nothing he'd like better in life than seeing the world burn."
Sagging from the blows, Cordwaite whimpered. "No, no, listen. Take whatever you want but don't hurt me. I can get you fifty thousand in cash if you let me go."
The mobster holding the old man's upper arms twisted them viciously. "Forget it! You seen our faces. They're gonna find you when they dig through the ashes."
The other man was over by the door, where a half dozen paintings were leaning up against the wall, including the 'Dog With a Smile.' Seeing this confused Kelly immensely, because she could see the painting was still hanging in its original spot. What the Hell? Then she caught on. The ones on the walls were imitations, maybe good enough that their charred debris would fool investigators but the originals were going out the door with the two goons. That was the real purpose behind these baffling Vulcan arsons. It was an art heist. Some collector somewhere wanted the originals enough to go through all this, even if it meant he could never show them to anyone.
"Don't conk 'im TOO hard," said one of the thugs. "If they find a fractured skull..."
"So what? Who cares? The cops'll blame it on Vulcan anyway, remember? All right buddy, say good night."
As Cordwaite released a long piercing scream, Kelly O'Connor slid the skylight open all the way and swung over to drop down. She used the couch as a trampoline to throw herself headlong onto all three men. They went down to the floor in a confused tangle of arms and legs. Only the Green Devil was not taken by complete surprise by the collision and she bounced up onto her feet as if she had rehearsed this acrobatic stunt for weeks.
Speed was vital. Kelly had no illusions about being able to survive a slugfest with two men, both bigger and stronger than she was. The instant she was standing, she planted her feet and swung a looping roundhouse right with her full body behind it, and the impact had a peculiar crunching sound to it. Sewn across the knuckles of each glove was a thin strip of lead she had beaten into shape. That punch was brutal.
The other mobster had rolled over and was up on his knees, clawing a big .45 Colt automatic from inside his waistband and jabbing it out like an accusing finger. Kelly barely had the instant needed to raise her open hands. White flame flashed from the barrel and, in the deafening roar of a gunshot in close quarters, she whirled her arms. The unexplainable ability of the Green Devil worked again. A barely perceptible stinging made her right palm twitch as the bullet ricocheted straight back to smash deep into the mobster's chest. Still kneeling, he blinked in hurt surprise and dropped over to one side with the gun falling from his hand.
Kelly saw Cordwaite gaping at her with his eyes bulging out and his mouth working like a fish that has just been hauled out of the water. "Get out of here!" she yelled. "Run for your life, you blockhead!"
The art dealer stammered. Not only had he been within seconds of being murdered, he now had been rescued by some strange woman in a dark green suit and wearing a motorcycle helmet with devil horns. There was a man at his feet who was dead or dying from a gunshot. It was too much for him to process.
"Oh for the love of Pete!" Kelly groaned, seizing Cordwaite by one arm and tugging him toward the hallway door. "Run. Do an impression of Jesse Owens!" But even as she spoke, she caught movement from the side and whirled to see the man she had punched was struggling to get up. Did he have a gun, too? The Green Devil vaulted over to grab that bronze statuette of Athena. It was exactly the right size and shape to use as a club, so she cracked it over the back of the mobster's head as if she were trying to split a coconut and with comparable effect. The thug sagged back down to the floor without even gasping.
Both killers down, but Kelly dared not even to consider that this was over. They had mentioned Vulcan. Was the firebug on the scene? Where was he? She spun back and saw that Cordwaite was finally out in the hall. With a shocking unexpectedness, the old man burst into a fireball that flooded the gallery with searing heat and orange light. His scream was cut off in a split-second. Now Kelly herself was dazed and stunned.
Stepping past the blazing thing on the hallway floor that had been a living man a second ago was a bizarre figure in the short skirt, molded leather breastplate and white cloak of a Roman legionary. His head was completely concealed by a bronze helmet with only a T-shaped slit through which not even his eyes could be glimpsed.
Cradled in both open palms were flickering pools of white-hot fire. The Human Flame-Thrower.
V.
As Vulcan raised his hands, the haloes of flame around them intensified to blinding levels. The big man boomed with gleeful laughter. Kelly O'Connor reacted without making a conscious decision, wheeling around to leap up onto the back of the couch and then jump straight up. She caught the lower edge of the open skylight and swung her legs up to scramble up onto the roof an instant before yellow flame exploded to fill the gallery with a roar like a waterfall. Fatal heat shot up through the skylight into the night sky. Even though it had missed her, just its proximity was agonizing.
Still not really aware of what was happening, gasping in fear and pain, the Green Devil rolled and dropped straight down off the roof, luckily landing on dense trimmed hedges which broke her fall. The darkness had been swept away by brilliant unstable light from the inferno which had broken out to engulf the entire second story of the building.
Getting up to her feet, Kelly ran full tilt across the lawn. The front gate hung wide open. She dashed through it and swung left to where her Triumph still sat fifty yards away. She couldn't catch her breath. For an unbearable minute, she panted and leaned on the motorcycle before being able to climb on and lift the kickstand. Behind her, the burning building crackled and flickered, giving off the campfire smell she remembered from childhood camping.
Finally, after what seemed like forever, she swung the bike around and sped up the street back the way from which she had come. Pulling over after a few minutes, she unfastened the helmet and yanked it off to breathe easier. She could smell smoke in her hair and clinging inside her nose. Kelly tied the horned helmet down by her right leg where it might not catch the eye of a casual observer. After coughing a few times, she felt better.
Twisting her head around, she could see the glow from Cordwaite's blazing house far up the street. No use trying to fool herself that she was going to go back and try to tackle that Vulcan nut again. She had panicked. There was no other word for it. But at least she was alive to feel bad about it...
Kelly's spirits had never been lower than on that long ride back to reclaim her roadster. It was getting way too light out as dawn approached. She could see drivers in the increasingly frequent cars staring out this redhaired woman on a motorcycle, such a rare sight she might as well have been riding a rhino. Thankfully, she didn't encounter any police cars along the way. The white trident on the back of her leather jacket was well known to NYPD.
Suddenly, the risk of it all was oppressive. Why was she taking such chances? What was wrong with her? If she was pulled over and found with the Green Devil costume, what possible explanation could she come up with? There would go her career in journalism. How many years would she spend in a woman's prison? And, a further crushing thought, how many women would she face in prison that she herself had put there?
It was almost daylight when she made it to the abandoned building near Harlem. She waited for a milk truck and then a taxi to go by before she finally hustled to stow the Triumph away again. Bundling up her leather jacket and wrapping the helmet in it, Kelly found herself limping as she tried to reach the block where she had left her car. She had pulled a muscle doing her acrobatics. By the time she climbed into the roadster, everything hurt. Kelly pulled into the now regular traffic and headed back to her rooming house.
Kelly barely got back into her room without being spotted. She heard old Mrs Gunther bustling about in the kitchen. The smell of coffee being brewed was godlike but she was too exhausted for breakfast. Locking her door, Kelly kicked off her shoes and stretched, feeling the pang of strained muscles. With her last bit of strength, she tucked the smoke-smelling jacket and helmet under her bed and then stetched out fully dressed on top of the covers. In the bare second before she fell asleep, Kelly wondered if she was ever going to put the Green Devil suit again.
4/23/2023
