The Black Master

CHAPTER II. THE MAN WHO FEARED DEATH

OF all the mad frenzy that gripped New York on that momentous day, none could equal the wild excitement in the office of the Evening Classic.

In the realm of tabloid newspapers, the Classic led all others in sensationalism. Its reporters were familiar with all quarters of the underworld. Its photographers stopped at nothing to obtain pictures.

The Classic claimed an inside knowledge of all that went on in New York!

From the moment that news of the first explosion reached the Classic office, the managing editor gave orders that resembled those of a general whose army is going into battle.

The editorial offices of the tabloid were located in an old, squalid building that was on the verge of condemnation. The reporters' room was cramped for space. The city editor sat in a corner before a broken-down desk and gave out assignments to reporters as rapidly as they entered the office.

The clicking of typewriters and the loud telephone conversations caused a continual hubbub.

The Grand Central explosion added to the excitement of the Classic office. Photographers were dispatched to the new scene of tragedy. Reporters wrote wild rumors linking the two explosions.

Acting on a hunch, one story predicted more bombings. The Columbus Circle explosion fulfilled the prediction.

Basing its claims on vague inside information gained by its reporters, the Classic predicted a fourth catastrophe, setting it at half-past one in the afternoon, an hour after the third explosion.

When two o'clock arrived and no news of a fresh calamity came to the Classic office, another sensational feature was launched by the tabloid.

This was an offer of five thousand dollars reward for information that would lead to the discovery of the fiends who had started the wave of terror.

Special editions of the Classic were rushed from the presses.

Shortly after three o'clock, a tall, thin man came into the editorial office of the Classic and elbowed his way between the typewriter desks.

"Hello, Grimes," said the city editor. "What have you got?"

The tall man shrugged his shoulders.

"Is the old man in?" asked Grimes.

"Yes;" replied the city editor.

"Guess I'd better see him," returned Grimes.

He went to the corner door marked "Hardan Raynor, Managing Editor," opened it, and entered.

A short, dark-visaged man was sitting in front of a mahogany desk. His surroundings seemed a marked contrast to the dilapidated furnishings of the reporters' room.

The man, himself, was a contrast. There was no excitement in his bearing. He was carefully reading the latest edition of the Classic and he did not look up for several minutes.

Finally he surveyed Grimes with a Napoleonic stare.

Harlan Raynor, managing editor of the Classic, was the directing brain of the most sensational tabloid newspaper in the world.

It was his offer of five thousand dollars that had brought Grimes to see him. Raynor knew it, for Grimes was one of the Classic's star reporters, a man whose value increased with the importance of whatever matter might be at stake.

"I think we'll have something for you, chief," said Grimes quietly. "I've been working with Tewkson. He's been out all day, trying to locate a bird named Vervick.

"Tewkson has inside dope that Vervick knows something about bombs. He thinks the five thousand dollars is going to work it! I've come in to keep contact with Tewkson."

Raynor nodded approvingly.

"This may fetch it, chief," said Grimes, picking up a late copy of the Classic. "I've got to hand it to you! Five grand for information — and no questions asked! Complete confidence!

"That's the gag, all right! This stuff of rewards for arrest and conviction are all baloney. You've got the right idea! Keep it between ourselves; don't squeal on the guy that spills the dope! Every rat in the underworld will have his tongue hanging out when he sees that offer!"

"That's only part of it, Grimes," said Raynor tersely. "I have planned further than you think. There may be several implicated in these explosions. Perhaps one of the guilty men may come to see us. Such things have happened before!"

"That's right!" agreed Grimes admiringly. "And I'll tell you, chief, that Tewkson will pull it if this bloke he's after really knows something about it!"

There was a knock at the door. A porter entered carrying a bundle of tied-up newspapers.

"Put them in the corner," said the managing editor. Whenever a big story broke, Harlan Raynor kept two hundred copies of every edition. They were brought up to his office regularly.

He handed a newspaper to Grimes and phoned instructions that any call for the star reporter should be relayed to the managing editor's office.

Ten minutes passed before the telephone rang. Raynor answered it, then turned over the instrument to Grimes.

"Tewkson," he said.

Grimes spoke in short, disconnected sentences. Finally he said:

"All right, boy, I'll meet you at the corner. I'll handle him from there on. Let me talk to him a moment."

There was a pause; then Grimes continued:

"This is Mr. Grimes of the Classic. You have heard of me? Good! Yes, I'm with Mr. Raynor, the managing editor.

"He means just what he said in the newspaper. His promise is good. You'll come with Tewkson? All right!"

He hung up the phone and turned to the managing editor, who was quietly marking lines in the newspaper that laid before him.

"Tewkson has found Vervick," said Grimes. "He's bringing him here right away. I'll meet them outside."

"Get him in here as soon as possible," ordered Raynor. He pointed across the room. "In the side door."

"Okay, chief!"

Fifteen minutes later, a taxicab stopped around the corner from the Classic office. Grimes stepped from the side of the building, to greet the two men who came from the cab.

One was Tewkson, young, but hard-faced, with a mass of red hair upon his hatless head. The other, Grimes knew, was Vervick.

The man looked like a Russian. His face was tense and showed intelligence. But despite an appearance of physical strength, the man seemed nervous and apprehensive.

"Hello, Vervick," said Grimes, in a low voice. "I'm Mr. Grimes. Don't worry! We're with you!"

The man nodded. Then he spoke in a thick voce.

"It is not you," he said, "that makes me afraid! It is someone else! The one who — I cannot tell you now! Take me where I may be safe!"

He glanced up and down the street. The cab was pulling away. No one was in sight in this side alley.

Vervick seemed a bit reassured. Grimes slapped him lightly on the back.

"We're going to see Mr. Raynor," he said. "Come right along. We'll take care of you!"

He led the way to a side entrance. They went into the building and climbed a flight of silent, dingy stairs.

They came to a locked door. Grimes knocked softly. The door opened.

Vervick blinked as they entered the office of Harlan Raynor. He seemed surprised at his surroundings.

He pulled his hat from his head and twisted it between his hands.

He did not advance after the door closed behind him. Then his eyes were fascinated by the steady gaze of the man who sat at the mahogany desk.

"What do you have to say?" asked Raynor quietly.

"I am afraid — I am afraid! I am afraid to die, and if I speak — I will die!"

"You will be safe if you speak!" returned Raynor. "We will see to that! Whom do you fear?"

"I cannot say his name! I am afraid! He strikes — and he kills!"

"He cannot strike you here!"

"He can strike anywhere! He is everywhere! I am afraid! I cannot speak!"

The man closed his lips firmly. He bowed his head and gave every sign that he intended to remain mute.

"Five thousand dollars," said Raynor quietly. "Five thousand dollars — and complete protection. Understand?"

Vervick nodded, but remained silent.

"Listen, chief," broke in Tewkson, "this man may not know everything, but he knows a lot! He told me some of it — but he's kept off the important details. He's got the story we want!"

Raynor nodded. He rose from his, chair and walked over to Vervick. Vervick looked up at him and seemed to gain confidence.

"This is the safest place in New York," said Raynor. "If you are afraid of someone, we can help you. We cannot help you unless we know your story.

"There is a car waiting below. The minute you are through talking, you will be whisked away and only I will know where you are. I have helped men like you before. I can help you now. But you must tell me everything — now!"

He walked back to the desk.

"I believe you, Mr. Raynor," said Vervick thickly. "I am going to talk to you!"

"Good," said Raynor, with a nod. He glanced quickly at Grimes. The reporter pulled a pad of paper from his pocket.

"We'll be in time for the next edition," he mumbled to Tewkson, and the red-haired reporter grinned.

"Forty minutes from now, this story will be on the street!"

"You've got to hand it to the old man," whispered Tewkson. Then he became silent and tense. Vervick was speaking.

"I have made bombs," said the Russian, in a low voice. "I do not know why I have made them. I mean, I did not know what they were for — until today.

"I have my address here—" He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a paper. "This is the place. But all my bombs were taken away last night — by the man who had made me make them."

"Who is he?" Raynor's voice was softly commanding.

"I do not know his name. He is black — all black — I mean, he is dressed in the clothes which are black, and he has talked to me only in a dark room.

"He has told me to do what he wants done — and I have called him 'The Master.' That is the name he has told me to use with him. You understand?"

"Why did you do what he told you?"

"Because I have made bombs before — I did not know why then — but there was trouble, and I would have been taken to prison if the police had known.

"It was then that The Master came to me. He gave me money. He told me all was well — but all was not well. Today—"

He stopped. His face bore signs of dread.

"Go on!" ordered Raynor.

"I am afraid!" objected Vervick. "I have talked too much now! I am afraid to die — I am afraid!"

"Come here. You will not die!"

Vervick approached the desk slowly. He looked about the room. He stared at Grimes and Tewkson. He stared suspiciously at the opposite side of the room, where the stacks of newspapers lay.

"You will not die!" Raynor repeated.

Vervick shuddered, then suddenly regained his composure. He came closer to the desk.

"I said that I did not know the name of the — of the man I call The Master! But I did not speak true! I have found out who is The Master!

"I am afraid to speak that name! But I shall give it to you — because you have promised to keep me from death!"

His fingers trembled as he reached for a piece of paper. He picked up a pencil and scrawled a name, and thrust the paper toward Raynor.

An amazing change came over the face of the editor.

"Grimes!" he exclaimed. "Look at this! Get busy right away! Look! If this is true—"

Grimes stared at the name as if he could not believe his eyes.

Raynor turned to Vervick.

"Are you sure?" he demanded.

"I am sure!" replied the Russian. "It is true — but I am afraid! What I know cannot help me. He is The Master! I am afraid."

Raynor wheeled.

"Get this man away safely!" he said to Grimes and Tewkson. "He'll talk to you now! You know where to take him! Leave this to me! I'm going to lift the lid!"

Vervick held out his hands pleadingly as the managing editor rose from his chair and moved to the side of the desk.

"I am afraid to die!" he said, in a trembling voice. "I fear death!"

Raynor placed his hands upon the man's shoulders. Curbing his impatience, he spoke in his usual reassuring tone.

"You are safe—" He pressed Vervick gently away from the desk toward the corner of the room, that he might have a clear path to the door that opened in the reporters' room. "Do not worry. Nothing can harm you here, because we—"

The sentence was never completed. As Vervick stepped back from the desk, the entire room rose and spread in all directions.

The roar of a terrific explosion burst forth. The whole wall of the Classic building crumbled — the side of the timeworn structure collapsed with a mighty crash.

The four men who stood in that doomed room were blown to atoms. The wreckage that remained poured forth into the street amid a volume of thick smoke. The blast shook the entire building.

The name that Harlan Raynor had learned would never reach the public! Harlan Raynor was dead, with his two star reporters; and with them perished Vervick, the man who feared death!