The Black Master

CHAPTER I. TERROR GRIPS MANHATTAN

IT was morning on Wall Street. Crowds of people were moving hurriedly along the pavements of that man-made ravine that threads its way through the heart of New York's financial district. Viewed from the buildings above, they appeared as tiny creatures.

Two men turned into the thoroughfare from a side sweet. They jostled their way through a cluster of people who were waiting on the curb, and walked leisurely, side-by-side, down Wall Street.

There was nothing in the appearance of these men to attract attention. They seemed typical of the drab passers-by who are seen constantly in that part of Manhattan.

One man was carrying a briefcase. That, alone, distinguished him from his companion.

Both were oblivious of their surroundings. They paid no attention to the walls of the huge buildings that loomed on either side of them. They came to a spot where construction was underway and they were forced to cross to the other side of the narrow street.

The crowd had thinned for the moment. The men were nearing a corner. They stopped an instant as their path was blocked by a man hurrying in the opposite direction. Then they moved by him in single file, forced to the middle of the sidewalk by two large ashcans that stood against the wall of the building.

The man with the briefcase brushed shoulders with the man who was going the other way.

It was one of those unnoticed passings. A few seconds later, each would have forgotten the existence of the other, had the usual law of the city held true. But this passing was the forerunner of an unusual event.

Before the hurrying man had moved ten feet along the street, a terrific explosion occurred. Where three men had been momentarily grouped, none remained.

All along the block lay persons who were thrown to the sidewalks. Men were staggering, trying to recover from the mighty concussion which had shaken them.

A gaping hole appeared in the front of the building on the right — a hole from which ran a series of irregular cracks. A deluge of debris poured from the building across the way. Helpless persons were buried amid loose stone and mortar.

From the stricken area came a cloud of smokelike dust. Then followed an ominous silence that seemed to last for endless seconds. Out of the silence came the cries of the victims.

Crowds began to gather at the ends of the block. As though by prearrangement, uniformed policemen appeared to take control. They made their way to the spot where the explosion had occurred.

With disregard of danger, they began their work of rescue. While they labored, the clang of bells approached. With the amazing speed that characterizes the working of Manhattan's machinery, rescue squads were rushing to the scene.

Patrols and ambulances arrived with fire trucks. Bodies of both living and dead were carried away.

Groups of police blocked off the district.

Then came reporters. Within thirty minutes after the catastrophe, mighty presses were grinding out the hideous details of the unexpected tragedy. Five men were known to be dead; the number of the injured was a matter of conjecture.

One hour after Lower Manhattan had been rocked by the explosion, eager persons were buying newspapers in Grand Central Station.

Only the meager details of the catastrophe were available; yet it had already become the sole topic of conversation in the great terminal.

A man entered one of the small cigar stores near the main concourse and nodded to the clerk. He was reading a newspaper as he entered. He tucked it under his arm and approached the cigar case.

The clerk came over and methodically removed a box of cigars. The newcomer was one of his hundreds of regular customers. The clerk knew the brand he smoked.

"Big news today," remarked the clerk, indicating the newspaper under the customer's arm.

"Yes," came the reply. "Terrible! They don't know much about it yet."

"The next editions will be out soon," said the clerk. "They'll have a big account then. Those reporters work fast, you know."

The customer drew a wallet from his inside coat pocket. He reached forward to pluck five cigars from the box that lay upon the counter. As his fingers slipped on the outside wrappings, the clerk politely raised the box.

The customer's left hand rested on the counter as he grasped the cigars successfully. There was a slight smile upon his lips. It was the last action he made in life, and the one man who witnessed it did not remain to tell the tale!

The cigar store was rocked by a mighty tremor. The counter and the cases disappeared in a tremendous explosion that sent pieces of wreckage flying in all directions. The crowds that were hurrying through the concourse of the terminal fell in struggling heaps.

Showers of broken glass clattered everywhere. In a trice, the serene regularity of the huge depot had been changed to a scene of chaos! Smoke swept through the concourse! Women screamed in terror!

Utter confusion reigned!

Another catastrophe had terrorized New York! Here, scenes of Wall Street were reenacted, but in a different setting.

Police arrived and were joined by hospital attendants. Railroad employees were prompt in giving aid.

Trains were held; emergency orders were put in force.

The explosion had been confined to a corner of the concourse. The cigar store and two neighboring shops were completely wrecked. Two clerks and three customers were killed in the cigar store.

One man, who had been telephoning from a booth, escaped miraculously and was drawn from the wreckage virtually uninjured. Hundreds of persons had been stunned, and many had suffered minor injuries.

The huge extent of the concourse, with its acres of open space and its high-domed ceiling, had offset the death-dealing power of the explosion.

It became a day of terror in New York.

The newspapers were spreading the details of these catastrophes like wildfire. With the exact reports of the Wall Street explosion came the stop-press news of the bombing in Grand Central Station.

Police were appearing everywhere.

It was exactly half-past twelve when an enterprising newsboy took his stand at the entrance to the downtown side of the Broadway subway at Columbus Circle. He had a stock of the latest editions of the afternoon newspapers. He was selling them with great rapidity.

A well-dressed man stopped and gave the boy a twenty-five cent piece. The gamin fumbled for the change and found it. Some of the coins fell to the sidewalk as the boy turned to another customer and began his repeated cry:

"Big explosions! Read about the big explosions! Hundreds killed in Wall Street—"

The man who had bought the newspaper stopped and picked up the loose coins. He seemed annoyed.

He drew a large watch from his pocket and glanced at the time. He noted that the watch was stopped.

He looked around for a clock by which to set his timepiece. Then, apparently disturbed by his delay, he thrust the watch angrily in his pocket and hurried down the steps.

Two of the automatic turnstiles were open at the right of the entrance to the subway station. A train was just pulling out. The man was too late to make it.

Fuming, he went through the turnstile. Another man followed and bumped against him. The first man swung rather angrily; but the other paid no attention to him.

"What's the hurry?" growled the well-dressed man.

The other turned to look at him. But their argument went no further. The underground tube reverberated with a tremendous explosion that sounded like a mighty cannonade.

The station became a mass of wreckage. Girders were twisted between the tracks. The change booth was demolished and its occupant was killed. There were half a dozen people entering the southbound station; not one remained alive!

On the street above, the newsboy's cry of "Big explosions!" came to a sudden end as the urchin was thrown headlong and his expressive words were drowned by the muffled report that came from below.

People entering the subway staggered back in the face of a vast volume of white smoke that reeked with fumes of sulphur!

From across the street, terror-stricken persons from the northbound subway station emerged from the kiosk, shouting frantically for assistance for those who remained below!

Once again some unseen hand had caused doom and destruction! A third terror had come to New York, and another chain of hideous details was ready for the grinding presses that thrived on death and tragedy.

The pleasant, open circle on the fringe of Central Park became the headquarters for a group of rescue workers, while mounted police arrived to drive back the curious thousands who assembled in spite of the danger which might still exist.

In three hours, terror had gripped Manhattan! Three terrible calamities — each a horrible event in itself — had occurred at intervals of approximately sixty minutes!

What might happen next was something that no one could venture to foretell. Any spot in busy New York might become a mass of wreckage, with victims shrieking their misfortune.

Danger lay everywhere, and emergency squads of police could only wait, hopeful that they might be nearby to lend their aid should another mighty tragedy follow those that had gone before!