Issue 9: "The Nation of Murder Affair, Part Two"

New York City,
under a blazing August heat

“That dirty bastard!”

A powerful thump followed that pronouncement, as a fist drove into the heavy oaken top of the antique desk. The ugly face glared out at his best friend and partner as rage seized his mind. Charles Luciano had long ago reached a point where he wasn’t to be ignored. Now he was being ignored by a gnat of a man in a the worst way possible, and “Lucky” wasn’t going to have it.

“Calm down, Charles,” Meyer Lansky said, trying to calm his longtime companion down. “We got time. We got all our people in on this; Dutch won’t be able to take a piss without our finding him”

“That ain’t happened so far, has it?” Luciano snapped back as he stood up and ran his hand over his hair. The ugly scars were livid white against the flushed crimson anger as the top gangster in the city, in the country, fumed. “And the hitter, Rue Morgue, how we gonna find him? No one can; no one even knows what he looks like. He’s the real danger!”

“It’s okay, boss. We got that angle covered too.” Lansky smiled easy with that statement.

“Oh?” His friend’s calm response helped to ease Luciano’s own rage. Schultz was just a street thug with a nice suit and limited time left to him, but Rue Morgue scared everyone. To have an angle on the killer made Luciano very interested.

“Yeah. We got an in. You remember Owney Madden? The Killer, over in Hell’s Kitchen?”

“The mick? What about him?”

“He’s close with a cousin who’s close with the Feds. It’s how he keeps getting out from Dewey and the other G-men.” Lansky nodded as he saw the way this mollified Luciano.

“Well, that just means we got more people who can’t find this Morgue guy, but at least it’s something.”

“It’s more than something, Charles.” He slid a San Francisco paper across the desk to his friend and pointed to the picture of a young, blond-haired man in a dapper new suit, flashing a cocky grin to the photographer. Next to him was a bulky-looking, silver-haired federal agent hunched into his coat and trying to look like he wasn’t hating the press, and the two of them stood in the photo beneath a banner headline that screamed, “Saunders and Faraday Bust Major Opium Dealers!”

Luciano looked up at Lansky with a great big smile. “Oh. I see. Well, yeah, that’s a different matter altogether.”

“Especially since Madden assures me that Saunders is already in the city anyway. He’s as good as on the case of a guy like Rue Morgue. It’s covered, Charles.”

Luciano chuckled as he sat back down and looked over the paper again. “Lucky me.”

Both men laughed.



Elsewhere in the city,
hours after the attack

The telephone rang nearly to the minute when Harriet Cooper expected to hear it. Perhaps a little earlier, but then King Faraday was always one to prefer being earlier than later.

“Ms. Cooper,” Faraday said in a low, even tone that already hinted to his annoyance with her.

“Good evening, Agent Faraday,” she replied, unfazed by the sound of his voice. She leaned back in the chair of her hotel room, a pencil doodling odd little pictures on a pad of paper as she reviewed some notes from Speed’s researches. “How are you doing?”

“At two in the morning? I’m tired and grumpy, Miss Cooper. Explain to me what I’m doing up in New York City throwing my weight around the FBI’s local office. Please.” The please was very critical and disparaging, and Harriet couldn’t help but giggle a little, stifled by the back of her slim hand. She then followed that with a yawn before answering.

“Sorry if I woke you up,” she said sincerely. “But Argent found this weird skin sample,” Harriet shuddered and wrinkled her tiny nose up at the memory before continuing, “and it just seemed to me that we could use some of your governmental muscle, especially since it seemed to deal with gangsters. You do still catch gangsters, right?”

The silence was deafening, and Harriet straightened up in her chair and put the pencil down. “Sorry, really, but it’s a rush, and we had to--”

“Who’s Argent?”

“St. Cloud. A friend of Michael’s.”

“Who’s Michael?” Faraday’s frustration was mounting.

“Gallant. A friend of Speed’s, from the sounds of it. He got snatched by Rue Morgue.” Harriet was much more deferential now, as she detected the boundary of his patience, and didn’t want to cross it.

“Who’s...No, never mind. Okay. Does Speed need my help? I’ve got a couple of cases, but nothing pressing, and since it’s gangsters, and the Bureau still does capture gangsters...” Faraday let his voice trail off as he too stifled a yawn.

“Um, I...No, I think they’ve got it covered.” Harriet thought about Argent’s story, how this Rue Morgue seemed to shake off being kicked hard in the chest without a shrug, and how an inch-long peel of his skin was found caught on a piece of window but there was no sign of that bothering him as he escaped with the burly Army Air Corps pilot. Maybe she was being too hasty. “But honestly, I’m not sure. I’m not much of a cavalry charge if things get bad.”

There was another moment of silence as Faraday mulled things over. “I’ll check up on things tomorrow. Good night, Miss Cooper.”

“Good night,” Harriet replied quickly as she heard him hang the phone up on his end. She looked at the handset and sighed heavy. She put it back down and returned to her paper and pencil, continuing to scratch out translations and marks, slowly filling in various notes as she looked at the picture of a wood etching of the Symbol of Seven.



On the city streets,
under the heavy hot moon of August

Speed Saunders and Argent St. Cloud looked tired and battered from their scrabbling through the city trying to find the trail of Rue Morgue. They’d learned precious little after quickly losing the trail of the mysterious hit man, who seemed to be completely uncaring about his own welfare.

The most important information they’d managed to pry out of the reticent barflies and stoolies of the city was that no one but no one knew who Rue Morgue was, and no one but no one wanted to be the first to find out. He unnerved them all, but no one could put a finger on why.

Argent knew why the killer unnerved her though. She’d heard the sound his chest made when she had expertly kicked his chest. He didn’t flinch, even when she had, at the sound. That wasn’t right, and she shivered at the memory.

“You okay? You can’t be cold,” Speed commented as they trudged across the city, back to his apartment, where Harriet stood guard at the phone waiting for information on the strange sample of skin that had been left behind during Rue Morgue’s dramatic exit. Speed started to pull his suit coat off, but Argent stopped him.

Her platinum blonde locks hung limply around her alabaster face, cheeks flushed red with the recent exertion needed to ‘convince’ their last stop of the night to cough up any information to be had. She was dejected and exhausted and she shook her head at his gentlemanly action. “I’m not cold. Just thinking. About that...about him. And that...monster.”

Speed nodded in agreement. He’d not seen it, but didn’t doubt something very odd was at work. Never had he seen such a response from even the most open-mouthed of informant.

They were silent as they returned to their hotel, the heavy orange moon long dropped behind gray canyon walls of the city, and the sky now breaking up into slate and hints of red sun. It would be more hot, more humid, more oppressive.

“I need a shower,” Argent muttered softly as they headed for the elevator, the desk clerk giving the young pair a curious and judgmental stare.

“Yeah, me too.” Speed looked over at Argent, ready to add a quip about favors and washing backs, or going in the direction of pretend embarrassment about a scandalous inference. He just shrugged and said nothing, heat and fatigue and a big dead end in their case stealing his thunder away.

The elevator opened up to their floor and they stepped off to be greeted by Harriet, who smiled excitedly and waved them over as she also ran up to them. “It’s about time you two got back! Have I got news for you!”

The pair stopped and gave her vacant, tired stares, but Harriet ignored them and continued, “We’ve got some information back from the Bureau, and they think they have a lead on where to find Rue Morgue!”



In that actual location,
at that actual moment

Michael Gallant slowly tilted his head up, through the pounding headache and forced his heavy lids open. He pushed himself into consciousness, his blue eyes finally focusing on what was around him.

He was bound to a chair, that he noticed right off. Heavy ropes lashed around his muscular chest, holding him tightly to the back of the chair. His wrists were cuffed tight behind him, stretching his shoulders, and that had been the case for a while, because those broad shoulders ached and stiffened into position. He sighed as he tested the expert knots.

He noticed he was between two tables, each holding a mirror. He found it disconcerting to be staring at himself ad infinitum and turned away from the flanking glass. The dusty, musty basement was cluttered with boxes and broken furniture and tattered dress dummies and more, all coated in layers of grime and webs and the droppings of vermin, and Michael cringed slightly. Still, this situation was far from hopeless. The chair felt like it had give, and if he could reach a mirror and break it...

“You might be able to free yourself,” Rue Morgue said. At first, Michael didn’t see him. Then some of the early morning sun struck the glassy lens of his mask and then the rest of his black-clad body stepped from the muck-like shadows. “Yeah, I know the feeling well. A caged beast, belonging in the wild, ready to gnaw your own limbs off to get back out there. Makes the blood flow, don’t it? Used to make my blood flow, Gallant.”

“Well, I’ll be sure to make your blood flow right quick when I get myself out of this then,” Michael snapped back as he tested his bonds once more.

Rue Morgue ignored the testing he could see as he dragged over his own chair, and brought it so close in front of Gallant. He then fixed each mirror, allowing him to see both profiles. No matter how he turned, the mirrors provided a full view of Gallant’s face. Only then did the bizarre killer sit down in the chair.

“No. No you won’t. Can’t happen. I appreciate the offer, I do, more than you know.” He slid his coat off and put it to the side, and then pivoted to show the tear in his shirt just under his ribcage. The piece of missing flesh, ripped out of his body like the piece of missing material missing from his shirt. “But you’ll know soon. Very soon. I need to borrow your face. So I can do my job, whack Dewey.”

“Borrow my face?” Michael stared at the killer, who was peeling off the sweaty, grubby mask. Michael stared in shock, in horror, unable to believe what he saw in front of him. But he knew too much in his time helping his friend Thomas against organized crime, and before that, helping out other departments go after this breed of robber and burglar who liked shooting it out with the cops. “You’re dead!”

“Yeah. Yeah, I am, actually. Pardon me, I need to spackle my face a bit,” John Dillinger chuckled as he pulled out some paste and started to repair the hole just beneath his right eye. “‘Powder my nose’ as the dames like to say.”

“How?” Michael struggled to keep from vomiting at the sight of the dead man casually filling in the wound in his face.

“I woke up in a lab somewhere down by Montauk, near some lighthouse,” Dillinger explained as he started to examine the mirrors closely, his fingers gingerly touching his face in places, as if testing something. “I heard some pencil-necked geek in a white coat say something about a west formula, but wasn’t about to stick around to hear about no other formulas from other directions. Busted loose and decided to get into a new game, now that I was dead and all. Figured why should I be all alone.”

Michael watched and listened as the deceased bank robber started to push his face around, muscles protesting at first, but slowly giving in, his face acting like putty as he molded it, slowly but surely, into a replica of Gallant’s own.

“Just gotta dye my hair now, and we’ll get this show on the road. Gotta say, pal, thanks for all the help. You feel free to try and bust loose now, and maybe we’ll talk more later. If you’re not off to the joint first.” Rue Morgue stood up and snatched up his mask and then grabbed his coat before heading out of the basement, leaving Michael Gallant struggling to recover from the bizarre, horrific sight.



Meanwhile,
on a small island off the coast of Greece

<“It is late, Herr Kiss,”> said the tall, lean man with the aristocratic features and steely eyes. <“Perhaps it is time to leave this work for the morning. The door will be there in the morning, I am sure.”>

<“Not this close, not when I am this close, Baron von Hammer,”> the gaunt man with the wild eyes replied, his fevered voice shrill and demanding. <“Tell me that you have never known such a determined moment in your life, I dare you!”>

Hans von Hammer gazed around the large, carefully dug square of a pit the two men stood in. A month of work had brought the archaeological expedition to this point, and, with each step closer, the Enemy Ace had grown more stern and melancholy while his companion, architect and archaeologist Edmund Kiss, grew more excited and driven. He looked back now, under the gas-powered lamps that flooded the scene, guttering yellow light illuminating the outer levels of the ancient palace long covered by stone and dirt.

<“You can’t, as I suspected. If you want to watch, don’t let me stop you, but if you don’t mind getting your aristocratic hands dirty, help me with this pry bar!”> Kiss exclaimed as the thick piece of metal slid into the cracks he’d found around the tightly sealed door.

<“I have gotten my hands dirty before, Herr Kiss,”> Hans said as he stepped up and helped put his strength into the endeavor. Slowly, dust and mortar and earth broke away and the door slowly swung open. Stale, cool air swept out around the two men as Kiss peered in, snatching an oil lamp from a nearby stand.

<“Apologies, Herr Baron,”> Edmund said in a softer, reverent voice as he looked into the long-lost room that lay beyond. <“Your exploits are legendary. I let myself get carried away. I should thank you; after all, your sponsorship made this expedition possible.”>

<“Do not mention it,”> the Hammer from Hell replied as he took a step back from the scientist. <“Please,”> he added under his breath.

<“Why did you offer to fund this trip, anyway? You never seemed to give an interest in archeology before. And then to come in person. Don’t trust me with the funds?”> Edmund giggled lightly at the joke as he stepped into the past.

<“I find...my interests expanding as I grow older, Herr Kiss,”> von Hammer replied as he watched his companion enter the stone room. He could see the lantern light wash over the many stone statues within, shadows playing hauntingly across the walls.

Kiss leaned in close to one, then another stone figure, both ornately detailed, in poses of fear and shock. He smiled wider and wider as he pulled a brush out and swept the figures quickly. He peered closer, pulling out a magnifying glass now, and he glanced over at von Hammer.

<“Our masters will be quite pleased, Herr Baron. There can be no doubt we’ve found the hall! These statues...are not statues, and somewhere in here, we’ll find it!”>

Hans von Hammer stepped in after Edmund Kiss now, staring closely at the first terrified figure he came across, peering into the long-frozen eyes. He knew the look of doom all too well. This was something no sculptor, no matter how skilled, could capture.

<“Our masters,”> the baron muttered as he shook his head ever so slightly, eyes downcast. <“This was a real person, Herr Kiss. I agree. Somewhere in here...”>

<“...in here is the head of Medusa! And with it, my acceptance into the Ahnenerbe!” He clapped once, a sound that rattled throughout the bygone audience chamber of King Polydectes. <“You never answered my question. Why? What do you get out of this, Herr Baron?”>

<“One step closer to ‘my masters’.”> He watched Edmund Kiss begin a frenzied search for the gorgon’s head in sullen silence as his words faded slowly in the dusty, dry chamber.



Back in New York City,
later in the morning

Michael Gallant was hurting. He’d broken a mirror, and collected a shard and sliced slowly at his bond, the sawing motion also helping to weaken the wooden chair he was bound too. His shoulders ached, and the slicing was getting more difficult as the glass cut his fingers, and his eyes were shut tight as he tried to focus past the pain and mentally decry all the pulp stories that made this look so easy.

“Hey, pal. Want a hand?” Speed Saunders called out to his friend as he removed a basement window, giving him access to the room.

“Huh? Speed?” Michael looked up as the slim blond man dropped down and headed over. “How did you find me?”

“Turns out that this neighborhood is one of the only ones in the city that has a rare weed in its yards,” Argent explained as she followed, disregarding the dirt and grime and unladylike behavior needed to drop down into the basement after her partner. “That’s what Miss Cooper said she was told by the authorities.”

Speed looked at Michael, who looked back up at the young man with equal suspicion in his eyes. Neither person seemed to really believe the information, but it had been right, and so neither of them said anything aloud either. Instead, Speed pulled out a Tom Mix pocket knife, and sliced off the rest of the already ragged ropes from Gallant.

“That’s not all we got from the G-men,” Speed said as Michael rubbed at his arms, trying to get the blood flowing, stretching his limbs. “Rue Morgue left behind some torn skin when he made off with you, and, according to them, it’s dead. Past dead, dead when it got ripped off. There’s a chemical in it they can’t identify yet, but they’re working on that.”

“Rue Morgue is John Dillinger,” Michael answered as he walked up to the basement door and rattled the locked knob.

“Ain’t he kaput?” Speed asked incredulously.

“Yeah. He is. Dead as a doorknob.” Michael glared at the obstinate barrier, pulled back and charged into it, crying out as his throbbing shoulder crashed through the wood, pulling the door off its hinges and sending it skittering across the hall. His hand rubbed his shoulder and he shook his head. “But he’s out there, and he’s got my face, and he’s going after Tom Dewey. Looking like me.”

“I’m confused,” Argent said as the three of them exited the abandoned tenement, Michael squinting in the mid-morning sun. “A dead bank robber has your face and is going to kill someone? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

“Yeah, it is. Welcome to my world,” Speed replied with a grin. “Come on, we ain’t got much time!” He stepped out into the street and directly in front of a taxi cab. “Get in!”

“City Hall and step on it, mister!” Michael said as he held the door open for Argent. He grinned at his companions, despite the pain and wounds, and added, “Always wanted to say that.” He swung himself into the vehicle after Argent, and the cab sped off down the street, Speed clutching onto the running board on the other side from the older, brawnier blond man.

“Let me see your hand,” Argent ordered, as she pulled a handkerchief from her clutch bag. “Come on now.” She took the large, strong hand, and wiped at the blood tenderly. She rolled her eyes as she heard hisses of pain from the large man, and then wrapped the bandage tightly around the wound. “We’ll have to have that looked at when we’re done with all this excitement. Try not to use it too much until then, right? Rely on your other hand to hit the bounder.”

The vehicle raced along the streets, the cabbie grinning at the request and the talk of the three people he transported. Best city on Earth, no question, he thought to himself as he brought his taxi to a squealing stop at the very steps to the City Hall. “Here ya go, Joe,” he said to them.

“Thanks, pal,” Speed answered as he tossed a five dollar bill into the driver’s side window. “Keep the change.”

“Where can we find this Mr. Dewey, Michael?” Argent asked as she took the marble steps two at a time, slim but athletic legs carrying her quickly and offering a scandalous flash of her legs to anyone wanting to stop and look. Speed wasn’t stopping, but he was looking, while Michael wasn’t looking, but was letting himself have a moment’s smile at the sight of those who did notice the lady at his side.

“Back side of the building, first floor,” he called back to her as Speed handily caught up to the others, his nickname accurate in this instance. “At least, that’s his office. We can hope he’s there, otherwise, this could get pretty dicey.”

At the doors to the grand old building, all three paused and Speed glanced back out to the street. “I think I hear sirens.” A moment later, the sound grew more insistent and he nodded. “Yeah, coming this way I think.”

“We’re too late?” Argent asked.

“No! I refuse to be too late!” Michael Gallant glowered and charged through the door, followed closely by his companion, while Speed stayed at the door and watched two police cars pull up suddenly, four uniformed men stepping out and dashing up toward him.

“You there! Freeze, police!” commanded one of the cops as he moved toward Speed, gun drawn. The young man lifted up his hands as another of the police grabbed his partner’s shoulder and redirected him.

“Nah, it’s okay. That’s that Saunders guy we were told would be here, remember? He’s square!”

“Yeah, that’s me, glad to be square,” Speed chuckled nervously as he put his hands down. “What’s the situation? Is the killer inside?”

“We got a report of shots fired, yeah,” the second cop answered as all five people moved into the building. “We have more units coming, but they’re a few minutes away still. And the men already on duty here in the hall. Who’s the killer?”

“Jo-...um...Rue Morgue...who...well, he doesn’t look like...the guy who you wouldn’t believe it is, and...wow, let’s just say I’ll know him when I see him,” Speed answered as he realized how impossible it was to explain that a reanimated bank robber was inside with a stolen face.

Gunshots echoed throughout the marble and stone halls, and Argent St. Cloud came rolling out of the way as Speed and the police turned a corner. “Down that way, Argent?”

“You could say that,” replied the athletic woman as she pulled herself up quickly. “Dewey’s still alive, I caught sight of him down by the secretarial pool, scrambling behind desks. Michael popped in and drew some attention away, but...”

More gunshots came from further down in the cavernous building, sending everyone dashing after the sounds.

“He went that way!” Michael Gallant cried out as he barreled from out of a different hallway this time, pausing just long enough to see Argent. “We can cut him off if you guys head that way!” he insisted, directing her and the police and Speed.

Without missing a beat, Argent spun on her heel and headed the way Michael had pointed, police starting to follow her lead a few moments later, adjusting to the idea of this new stranger ordering them about. But he had seen the killer, and the woman was listening to him, so they followed in hopes of putting this crisis to an end.

Speed ignored the directions, however, leaping to the side instead and fitting his fingers behind a large portrait of a city founder, as Michael swept out an arm he had stashed behind his body. The tommy gun was brought up and leveled at the running figures, but Speed paid that no mind. Instead, adrenaline-fueled strength tore at the picture and sent it hurtling down on the disguised Rue Morgue, driving the shots wild, cutting off his view of his targets. A hail of bullets scattered and cracked off the hard corridor, winging a couple of the police, as Speed leaped onto the back of the huge portrait.

“Oh no you don’t!” Rue Morgue insisted, animated muscle pressing up against the tremendous weights pressing down on him. His body protested, but dead and strengthened by the strange formula, he flung heavy frame, thick canvas and adventurer away from him, sending them sliding down the hallway. “No way are you keeping me from killing you all!”

Rue Morgue, the former John Dillinger, reanimated by some strange science, was now maddened and beyond reason as he jumped for his gun, until the true Michael, the one that was bleeding through the makeshift bandage Speed noticed the impostor lacked, hurtled out of nowhere. The two Michaels crashed hard into the marble, dried construction putty bursting from the bank robber’s old wound when his cheek cracked on the unyielding surface.

The two burly men rolled and grappled across the floor, splintering the picture frame, each landing tremendous blows against the other. The living Michael finally staggered back, but that gave Speed the opening he needed to grab one of Dillinger’s arms and spin him into the wall. The back of the killer’s head cracked, but he bounced back and smashed his forehead into Speed’s, and the young man fell back, stunned and senseless.

“Kill you all!” Rue Morgue roared, greenish-white flecks of foam appearing now at his thin lips as he stepped forward, balled fists ready to launch a new flurry of attacks. That’s when the fireman’s ax chopped heavily into the monster’s neck, quickly followed by a second chop that dislodged the head, sending it rolling down the hall and letting the body blindly stomp around until it crashed into the opposite wall and fell onto its back.

Argent leaned on the ax, breathing a heavy sigh of relief as she saw the headless body lurch and jerk and slowly come to a halt. “You men and your fisticuffs,” she said with a saucy smile.

“My hero,” Speed replied as he lay on the floor and smiled back up at her.

“I saw her first, Cyril,” Michael interrupted with a cough as he limped over to his companions.



Hell’s Kitchen,
two days later

The apartment was bare of furnishings. Wallpaper was peeling from the walls, brown dirt covered the windows, but that was okay because the windows only faced the cracked brick of the next door tenement. The wood floor was warped and creaked under the lightest steps. The seedy room was completely at odds with the young woman who stood inside of it, in her pretty flower-print dress of tailored silk, coiffed hair that might easily cost a week’s rent for these shabby four rooms, and a look of sweetness and innocence under the auburn bobbed look.

The woman, Harriet Cooper, stared at her cousin, Owney Madden, the Killer, head of Irish gang activity in the desperate streets of New York’s Hell’s Kitchen, as the pair of them stood in what was the kitchen of this filthy little hole.

“So everything’s all squared away?” Owney asked in a rough-hewn voice that matched the burly, boxer’s physique. This was a man who most often settled business with a heavy object in his fists and his ‘partner’s’ blood on his shirt, but he actually gave the slim young woman a kind look.

“As much as possible. I don’t think Speed believes that I got the information on the building from the Feds, but the Commission has their end back under control, and Lucky’s happy with your help,” Harriet reported in a soft voice. “I see you’re skedaddling.”

“Yup. Time to cut loose while I can,” the gangster answered. “Things are too hot here in the city, and it’s only gonna get hotter after this whole mess. Gonna go to this place I know; I think I’ll make me a good livin’ there. I’ll send you a letter when I’ve set up shop.”

“That’d be nice, cuz. But we’re settled. I’m not doing this again. I’m done with this, your world, Lansky’s world. I’ve paid you back, and I’m getting clean,” Harriet insisted.

“You ain’t never clean when you’ve been in this biz, Harry. But I’m done leanin’ on yah, yeah. Thanks a lot. You be careful out there, ‘kay? This kid, this Saunders kid, he gets into some strange crap, so just...we’re family, kid, so be careful, ‘kay?” He put a hand on her shoulder and she smiled and nodded.

“Get out of here.” She patted his hand and then watched as he grabbed a suitcase and bolted out of the front door, leaving her alone in the decrepit apartment, sighing and wondering if he was right, if she could be right, if anything would be right after this.

The End!


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