dochermes | Entries tagged with 1942

"I'm Afraid the Bridge Is Out"

12/6/1942

I.

Escorted backstage by the script girl, Kelly O'Connor had seldom felt more confident. Admiring eyes followed her long trim legs beneath the pale green dress which also went so well with the wavy red hair. Keeping to her diet no matter what and walking everywhere had given her a stomach flat as a board and a twenty-three inch waist. Her green eyes caught all the appraisals and she lapped them up with glee. Maybe if journalism hit a dead end, she might go for show biz herself! Of course, her singing voice was so bad it hurt people's feelings...

New Haven's Westgate Playhouse was smaller and more ornate than she had expected, seating one hundred and forty. People milled about quickly, everyone seemingly intent on whatever esoteric stagecraft they were enabling. At the end of one corridor were three wooden doors marked CREW and CAST, with a five pointed gold star on the third. The script girl rapped sharply with her knuckles on the last one and sang out, "Reporter from THE MESSENGER, Mr Kostov."

"Oh, by all means," answered a familiar mellow voice, "Do come in."

The script girl ushered Kelly in and closed the door from the outside. Kelly found herself in a rather small and cluttered room that was overly lit by a rows of brilliant bulbs encircling a mirror over a make-up table. There were three folding chairs, a traveler trunk on one end with an empty plate and fork on top of it and not much room for anything more. The air was rank with cigarette smoke, stale sweat and coffee.

Smiling up at her was one of the most famous faces of that era. A long face, sunken under high cheeks, with a high forehead and brushed back black hair, that face had deep dark eyes that regarded her warmly. Kelly was taken aback. She had screamed at that face more than once in darkened theaters and had seen it caricatured in many cartoons and advertisements. But in person, Nikola Kostov had the air of a kindly old uncle welcoming her home after school.

"Please have a seat, my dear," he said in that famous posh British tone. "I believe you are from the NEW YORK MESSENGER?"

"Yes, Mr Kostov," Kelly replied, arranging herself on a chair so close that she could not cross her legs even at the ankle. "I'm very pleased to meet you. Normally, I'm a crime reporter. I was surprised to be assigned to meet you."

That seemed to amuse him. He scratched a friction match with a thumbnail and lit a Players. "Taking a break from real killers to relax with a mere imposter, I see. Well, this play is entering its third week and doing quite well. I'M AFRAID THE BRIDGE IS OUT is based on a silent film of the same name. The old dark house in a thunderstorm always goes over well, you know."

"Mr Kostov, I looked over a few interviews and honestly they seem to be the same questions each time. How did you get into acting? What's it like working with a director like Lewis Carney? What's your favorite role? I thought maybe we might try something different. What would you like to say that you've never been asked?"

His smile seemed genuine. "Oh, very good. I like that. Miss O'Connor, the war news is of course on everyone's minds these days. The films I make, with their chills and thrills, are a sort of therapy for the world scene, in my opinion. One gets drawn into a suspenseful situation, bites one's nails and sits on the edge of one's seat and then, all is well. The monster is slain, the young lovers are united, the lights go up and we go home relieved of stress and anxiety for the moment."

The conversation rolled along smoothly, more informative than a standard interview, Kelly was jotting down her esoteric form of shorthand that was indecipherable to everyone else, prodding with an occasional comment and question. After a few moments defending English cooking, which he emphasized did not involve boiling everything into mush, Kelly found herself laughing and entirely at ease.

"I think that takes up the half hour you agreed to give," she said, folding up for notebook. "I'm so very glad to have met you, sir. I was expecting, well... a Boogeyman."

He rose to offer a warm dry handshake. "It IS acting, my dear."

Kelly straightened her skirt and adjusted her plain cloche hat. "Oh, and I was supposed to see if I could find your co-star for a few words. Is he about?"

"Dragos? I shouldn't think so. Dragos never shows up before dark. He claims to be working on a novel that will make him a Nobel Prize in Literature."

"Really?" asked Kelly with a grin. "A famous actor who plays a vampire doesn't show up until nightfall?"

A trace of mockery eased into Kostov's own smile. "Quite. Rather droll, isn't it?"

( the rest of the story )

"Spirits of Steel"

9/18-9/21/1942

I.

"I never thought it would come to this," Robert Hawk said from the back seat.

Chen pulled their leased Lincoln four-door sedan off the side road and turned off the engine. He stared at the scene without comment, then just as silently slid out from behind the wheel.

In the late afternoon sunlight, they saw that every window of the little white bungalow had been smashed. The wooden picket fence had been bodily torn out of the ground and scattered over the closely-trimmed lawn. Hanging by one hinge, the front door had the words REMEMBER PEARL HARBOR crudely daubed in red paint. In front of the house was a tin sign which read SOLD - VALLEY REALTY.

Chen Lee-Sun was wearing a standard chaffeur uniform with its button-flap jacket, thin leather gloves and peaked cap. He was young and fit, hopping out of the sedan and swinging around to the other side where his partner had just stood up. Robert Hawk had reached his mid-forties, with a narrow alert face marked by years of stress and tension. At five feet eight, he was not much taller than Chen but wider than the wiry Chinese man. Hawk wore a tailored business suit of fine dark brown material, with a white topcoat over it and a crisp fedora. He raised one hand in reaction at the sight of the vandalized cottage but let it fall again.

"I had heard about the forced relocation, of course," Hawk said. "But somehow, to actually see it..."

"Ahhh," Chen made a disgusted noise which suggested he wanted to spit on the ground. "If you ask me, America has finally learned what China has always known through bitter experience. The Japanese are no good! I hope this country kills as many of them as possible."

Hawk waited a few seconds before responding. "Daijiro is an American citizen, Chen. He was born in Oakland, he grew up here. I've known him for years. I would trust him with my life."

"Come now. I have told you what happened to my family three years ago. The same day that your Pearl Harbor was attacked, the Japs rampaged through Hong Kong. They're a living plague, they leave nothing but death and horror wherever they set foot." He turned to study his partner's face. "But I do not wish for us to argue, boss. Our work is more important than our personal feelings."

"I wouldn't dismiss your grievances," Hawk said. "Or your loss. But finding Daijiro is urgent."

Chen Lee-Sun tilted his cap back on his head. He was a good-looking young man with a square-jawed face and intense dark eyes that had a single fold. "The Sting, the Dragon of Midnight...they have come to mean hope and justice to many who have otherwise lost hope."

"Let's roll then. From what the War Department told me, the nearest relocation camp is in Gloverton, maybe an hour north of here." Hawk shook his head again. "Daijiro never married. At least he has no wife or children to go through this with him."

When they were back in the Lincoln, Chen started it up and swung around on the road to go in the direction from which they had come. "Wish we had the Dragonwing," he said.

"Oh, I was thinking the same thing," Hawk replied. "Flying out here in a rush. Only being able to bring a few of our gimmicks and gadgets hidden in the luggage. I would rather be riding in the Dragonwing with its armor panels and bullet-proof glass and gas nozzles. But we'll have to get by on quick thinking this time."

"Boss, I've been meaning to tell you. I don't think I will be using the ultra-violet goggles any more. They actually reduce my night vision now."

"Really. I've seen the changes that Dragon Pendant is making in you." Hawk dug through a satchel on the seat beside him. "Let's see. Roast beef, ham and Swiss, tuna fish..."

"I'd like the ham and cheese, if you don't mind."

"Sure, here you go. Plenty of mustard," Hawk passed the wax paper-wrapped sandwich up to his partner. "Looks like a bag of maybe a dozen hard-boiled eggs, too. So, Chen, how well can you see in the dark now?"

Finishing a bite before answering, the Dragon of Midnight said, "Almost as good in darkness as in daylight. Colors are washed out. Everything looks grey or white. I'm developing some sort of, I don't know the English word... extra sense to tell when something is next to me."

"Proximity."

"That's it. When I'm wearing the Pendant, I can mov through rooms I've never been in before and not bump into anything." Chen sighed. "I wish I had a wise old Sifu to explain all this. I am learning by experiment."

Finishing his sandwich, Robert Hawk wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and put the satchel back down on the car floor by his feet. "Hah. Well, I wish there were two of those pendants you won from the Brumal. Being able to walk through walls seems like a useful ability for the Sting to possess."

"We turn up here, right? Heading north?" Chen asked.

"Yes. I wrote down directions when Major Kadish phoned, but of course I had to burn them after we both got a look. Only a few of the top Army brass know they have two New York mystery men working for them now. As long as we can keep our double lives secret, we definitely should."

After a few minutes of silence, Chen Lee-Sun asked, "You want the radio on?"

"Eh? Oh, no thanks, Chen." Hawk was leaned back in the deep plush seats, rubbing his chin. "I'm thinking about our assignment. We know the underworld back home. We understand the local mobsters and the occasional lone wolf crook. But out here, we have no connections. I'm worried we may be out of our depth, Chen."

The Dragon scoffed. "I think our record speaks for itself, boss. Right now, any spies or saboteurs in Northern California have just felt a chill run up their spines without knowing why."

( the rest of the story )

"Sea Wolves In Times Square"

10/3/1942

I.

At the unexpected sound of a woman's voice from the back seat, Detective Jim Harkins yelped and dropped his keys by his feet. It was past eleven at night and he had finally stomped out of the precinct house to his Nash after a long brutal day. He twisted around violently. In the sideways light from a store window, he saw the imp face of Kelly O'Connor grinning at him.

"Why am I not surprised to find you hounding me?" he growled.

"Come on, big fella, all I said was 'hi there,'" was her reply.

"Shouldn't all good little girls be tucked in bed at this hour?"

"I happen to be free, white and over twenty-one." She leaned forward so their faces were almost touching. "You know, I think I could get used to your mug. You remind me of our old family basset hound."

"Oh no you don't," Harkins said, drawing his head away. "Out you go. No fast-talking trouble-making redheaded girl reporters allowed."

Not seeming to hear his words, Kelly drawled, "I saw a guy in uniform leave your cop shack. Officer, too..Second Looey I believe. He was with a palooka in a nifty tan suit. Are you boys in blue giving Army Intelligence a hand, what with the war and all that?"

"None of yer beeswax," he said but his tone had definitely softened. "Shouldn't you be assigned to covering flower shows and debutante weddings?"

Kelly laughed with a staccato trill that was funny in itself."You're a riot, Harkins. I go after gruesome murders and Tong wars and Axis sabotagers....saboteurs. Lay the dope on me, what's cooking?"

"Out I said. C'mon, Kelly..."

"Oooh. You called me Kelly. You're tumbling for me, aren't you?" She swung nimbly over and planted herself in the front passenger seat before he could draw a breath.

Now that he saw her more clearly, Harkins weakened even more. Kelly had thick red hair that reached her shoulders, insolent green eyes over an upturned nose and full lips that curved up at the ends. Just the way she was smirking at him made him feel funny. "Seriously, reporter or not, you get out of this car right now, Red."

"Don't be so gruff, buddy. Listen. How's about you giving me a lift? Isn't it a little late for an unescorted lady to walk home? I wouldn't mind a little dancing either, I hear the Blaize Club has a band that swings."

Despite all his intended resolve, Harkins started up the Nash and glanced around before easing out onto 20th Street. Traffic was sparse that night. "I guess taking you home wouldn't hurt. I might feel a twinge if something happened to you because I made you walk. But you go straight home and stop badgering me."

"That's my boy," she said. "Did I tell you we got a new editor on the city desk? I swear, the MESSENGER has a worse turnover than a chorus line. He liked my coverage of the new Tongs in Queens. But I have to stay hot, I need a big scoop to make me stand out from the riff-raff."

Heading uptown, driving slowly because of the lowered speed limit to conserve both gas and tires, Harkins sighed too heavily to be convincing. "We keep throwing you out of police headquarters and you keep sneaking back in. I am not going to tell you anything."

So he thought. But Kelly wheedled him into buying her a coffee and a slice of apple pie at an all-night beanery, and Harkins gulped two cups black himself. During all this, her voice got sweeter and sweeter and she started looking up at him with adoring eyes. He fell for it. Twenty minutes later, he was dropping hints that the recent blackouts had good cause. The captain of a merchant ship going past Ellis Island insisted he had seen a periscope."

"A U-boat? Hot dog, I see headlines with my name under them. I won't have to share a desk with old man Gaddis. What doesn't smell like rum stinks of cigars. And he steals my erasers."

"Whoa. You promised this was all confidential. NOTHING in print, remember."

Kelly was inspecting her plate as if hoping that somehow she had missed a second hunk of pie, then clanked her fork on the counter. "No fair bringing up what I said. Okey dokey, pal, I will sit on it. For now. So what're you doing tomorrow? Gonna dogpaddle out into the river and grab any stray submarines you find?"

"Ahhh, I think the chief is wasting my time but I'm on the graveyard shift tomorrow, 11 pm to 7 am. I'm stuck patrolling Times Square looking for someone. Do me a favor and be in some other part of town. You're a firecracker. I swear you stir up as much trouble as that Green Devil gal."

"Hah! Green Devil my foot," laughed Kelly. "If you ask me, these volunteer crimefighters in their masquerade outfits have all got a few screws loose. I bet the Green Devil isn't even real."

( the rest of the story )

"Does Anyone Remember Captain Amnesia?"

7/12-7/14/1942

I.

"You're one of them reporter dames, aren't ya?" demanded the police detective.

Kelly O'Connor laughed right in his face, showing perfect white teeth in an insolent face. The thick mop of brick-red hair and bright green eyes gave credence to the accuracy of her name. "I wish," she said. "But the Chief won't give me a shot at it. I'm stuck doing rewrites for drunken journalists who regard spelling as an inconvenience. I proofread. I use scissors and paste when ads don't fit. I pick up and deliver manuscipts. Sometimes I even get asked to lunch with the gang in the bullpen and they try to tone down their filthy language, while they pretend not to check out my legs. What's a gal to do, I ask you?"

Faced with this unexpected barrage of complaints, Jim Harkins was torn between annoyance and amusement. He was an imposing young man, not much over six feet but solidly built in his dark blue suit with red necktie and neat fedora planted firmly on his dark hair. His long mournful face wasn't handsome but it had some of the endearing quality of a hound dog. "So why should I let you onto a murder scene, then?"

Folding her arms across a modest bust, Kelly tilted her head and tried to smile more demurely. She herself was wearing a sedate dark green skirt and jacket, with a white silk blouse and a single strand of pearls. 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. "Harkins, right? You just passed the detective exam recently?"

"So?"

"So you know what it's like to try to work your way up to a better job. I could be a great reporter, I KNOW I could be better than the palookas snoozing over their typewriters at the MESSENGER. All I need is a chance and you, big fella, are the one who will give me that chance." As she spoke, Kelly deftly slipped past him through the open door into Markle's office. By the time Harkins grunted a protest, she had already flipped the light switch. He lumbered in and started to speak but paused instinctively as she pointed a slender index finger.

"What is all that godawful junk?" she demanded.

For the publisher of so many pulp magazines, the late Goodson Markle's office wasn't luxurious. The furniture was walnut, the thin carpeting dark brown and the curtains opaque for blackouts. Brass trim on lamps and door edges added contrast. There were a few moderately comfortable chairs around a desk burdened by two neat stacks of papers evidently meant to be IN and OUT, as well as two phones and an intercom. But that wasn't what Kelly was indicating.

An open cabinet displayed eighteen items ranging from wind-up dolls to metal lunch boxes to ashtrays to eight by ten glossy autographed photos. Everything bore the likeness of a man draped in a white cloak and hood with a featureless black oval for a face. A wrought-iron bookend supported a row of scripts for a radio series and there were stacks of pulps on the bottom shelf.

"Aw, that's all Captain Amnesia merchandise," Harkins said, picking up a bronze statuette of the hero.

"Who? I never heard of him."

"That's what you think, sweetie," the policeman said. "You know about him but you forgot you know."

Kelly reached up to press the inside of her wrist against his forehead. "Are you running a fever, big guy?"

"Heh. No, no, that's the joke. See, this Captain Amnesia bird, he fights crime. His gimmick is that everybody forgets about him once he's gone so no one knows who is turning crooks in with the stolen loot on them or who is rescuing kidnap victims. 'He could be here, he could be there... Captainnnnn Amnesia!' Haven't you heard him on the radio?"

"I usually listen to the big bands, that licorice stick sends me." Kelly O'Connor didn't explain that working at the MESSENGER during the day and running around dark alleys as the Green Devil most nights left her very little leisure time. "So. This Captain Whatever is popular?"

"Sure. I heard that Markle was negotiating to sell the rights to Metropolis Pictures for a serial." He gave her a quizzical look. "You know, those serials that run a chapter every Saturday at the moving pictures?"

The redhead made a non-commital sound to acknowledge she had heard him. Her interest was on a stack of cover proofs that showed covers of future pulps. "Seems like Markle covered every topic. WILD WESTERN COMPLETE NOVELS... SOUTH SEA ROMANCE... FUTURE WORLDS... KOLLEGE KITTENS... what's this, GRUESOME TALES? Did you see this cover, big guy?"

Harkins leaned a little closer to the slender girl than was strictly speaking necessary, but she seemed unaware of it. He raised an eyebrow. "Oh, that's one of the horror titles. Torture and murder on every page. I don't care for them, I like a solid historical fiction."

"No, don't you see? Never mind the agitated blonde in her negligee in the background. This shows a man being strangled by someone pulling a wire tight around his neck!"

"Yeah. Yeah, that's the way Markle died...!"

( the rest of the story )