|
|||||||
|
|
|
|||||
|
|
|||||||
|
|||||||
|
|
|
|||||
|
|
|||||||
Showcase
Ghost of the Pastby Harvey kent
Part One
"Good morning, Mr. Travis!" the doorman of the lavish apartment building said cheerfully, holding the door open for the young publisher. "And Happy New Year to you!"
"Thanks, Ralph, and the same to you," Lee Travis said. "Is it technically still a 'new year', though? We are ten days into 1939!"
"Well, I've been out with the flu," Ralph said, "so this is the first chance I've had to wish you a happy. I hope my replacement did a good job in my absence; but not too good, if you take my meaning!"
"I do," Lee chuckled. "And he did fine; but not too fine."
"Glad to hear it," Ralph smiled. "You be having a good day now, Mr. Travis!"
"And you, too, Ralph," Lee said, leaving the building. He walked quickly through the brisk cold, wind whipping his coat-tail like a windsock, heading straight for the sleek black touring car waiting at the curb.
"Herro, bloss," Wing, Lee Travis' chauffeur, said as he climbed into the car.
"Wing, knock off the Vaudeville caricature accent," Lee said, shutting the car door. He relaxed as he felt the artificially-warmed air flow over him. "I mean, it was funny maybe the first twenty times or so."
"Sorry," Wing said, all trace of accent gone. "How's your shoulder today?"
"Much better," Lee said. Lee Travis had wrenched his shoulder three nights earlier, leaping from a warehouse roof and catching a hanging cargo net to break his fall. Not a typical activity for a wealthy young publisher; but then, Lee Travis was also the Crimson Avenger. "It only hurts when I do this." Lee raised his right arm as high as it could go.
"Then don't do that," Wing quipped.
Lee groaned. "One of us has been listening to too much Jack Benny."
"Can't help it, boss, I love the radio," Wing said. "Speaking of which, have you heard those stories about a flying man over in Metropolis?"
"I've heard them," Lee admitted. "What is it they call him? Stupendous Man or something?"
"Something like that," Wing said. "Me, I think it's all a publicity stunt; that, or mass delusions caused by some fantastic radio play. Kind of like the War of the Worlds broadcast."
"Possibly," Lee frowned. He'd of thought Wing would remember the connection the night of October 30 of last year held for him; the night Claudia Barker died, and the Crimson Avenger was born.
Part Two
"Here we are, boss," Wing said, pulling up in front of the Globe Leader building. "The ivory tower itself."
"Thanks, Wing," Lee said. "I won't need you again until five; I'm going to have lunch brought up."
"Good idea, no sense going out in this," Wing said, hearing the bitter winter wind howl around the car windshield. "If you don't need me, there's a China relief rally I want to attend."
Lee was sympathetic. Wing's people had been at war with Japan for nearly two years now. "I won't need you, Wing," he said. "Take the day off."
"Thanks, boss," Wing said. Lee exited the car, and immediately hugged himself against the wind. He walked as quickly as he could into the building; the doorman, seeing him, flung the door wide for him.
"Morning, Mr. Travis!" the doorman called. "Cold enough for you?"
"Cold enough," Lee returned shortly. Shaking off the effects of the brief journey through biting cold wind, Lee made his way to the elevator. He did not need to tell the operator which floor he wanted; he was the publisher, and everyone knew it.
"Morning, Mr. Travis," Lee's secretary, Miss Jackson, said brightly.
"Morning, Miss Jackson," Lee returned, his composure back after his thawing out in the heated air of the newspaper building. "Any messages?"
"Just two," Miss Jackson said. "An invitation to lunch, from your old classmate Wesley Dodds; and a communiqué from Barlowe in California."
"Barlowe?" Lee asked, his forehead wrinkling. "I know I should know the name, but refresh my memory."
Miss Jackson smiled indulgently; it hadn't been so long ago that young Mr. Travis had taken over his grandfather's holdings. "Jackson Barlowe is the manager of Pyramid Film Studios in Hollywood, Mr. Travis."
"Pyramid?" Lee repeated. "They make the Carter of Mars pictures, don't they? The ones with that Olympic swimmer, can't recall his name?"
"They do," Miss Jackson confirmed.
"So why is Barlowe contacting me?" Lee asked.
Miss Jackson suppressed a giggle. "Because you're his boss," she said. "You own Pyramid Studios."
"Really," Lee said, eyebrow rising.
Part Three
Lee went into his office to read the message from Barlowe. It was short and to the point.
MR. TRAVIS UNEXPLAINED ACCIDENTS DELAYING PRODUCTION OF TRIGGER PICTURE DOING ALL I CAN REQUEST HELP BARLOWE
"Barlowe doesn't seem to be one to waste words," Travis thought, frowning. He looked at the telegram again. Trigger picture? What was that? He reached over and touched the button on his intercom.
"Miss Jackson, please bring me the--" Lee stopped in the middle of his request when he saw that the file on Pyramid Studios had already been placed on his desk. There was a long piece of paper sticking out of the file, presumably to mark the section referring to the Trigger picture. "Thank you, Miss Jackson," Lee said, and released the intercom button.
Lee opened the file and read the information on what Jackson Barlowe had called the "Trigger picture". The young publisher found it fascinating. It seemed that, fifteen years earlier, a man named Wayne Trigger had published a book entitled "The Two of Me", chronicling his adventures as a sheriff in an Old West frontier town called Rocky City. According to Trigger's book, his twin brother Walt, the keeper of the town general store, sometimes disguised himself as Wayne and helped his brother out in situations too big for the sheriff to handle alone. This went on for ten years, and nobody ever suspected the truth. Now the book was being made into a movie, with the more dramatic title of "The Trigger Twins". According to Barlowe, the production of this film was plagued with accidents. Far more accidents than was the norm in the production of a film. Barlowe wanted help in dealing with them.
Lee sat back in his desk. He supposed the company had an efficiency expert or someone like that whom they sent in cases like this. Still...perhaps Lee had read one too many John Dickson Carr novels, but if there were this many "unexplained accidents", perhaps there was a human agency behind them.
Lee looked out his office window. It had started to snow again, heavy wet flakes that slapped against the window glass with a sound like cooked oatmeal dropping into a bowl. California...
"Miss Jackson," Lee said into his intercom, "please clear my--"
"Calendar for the next two weeks?" Miss Jackson interrupted. "Already done, Mr. Travis."
Lee grinned in amazement. "Thank you, Miss Jackson."
Part Four
"Here we are, Mr. Travis," the grinning pilot said as the small plane the young millionaire had chartered set down at the small airport outside Los Angeles.
"How can you tell?" Lee asked, peering out the window of the plane. A fierce rain, driven along by gusting winds, swept across the tarmac, like a solid wall of water. Visibility was nil.
The pilot chuckled. "Guess I've just got a flair for it," he said. "Back in the War, my buddies used to call me a regular magician, I flew so well."
"You must be one, to find the airport in this," Lee said. He peered out into the rain, and saw a pair of headlights peering murkily through it, and a vague human shape rushing toward the plane.
"Guess that's the fellow they sent to meet me," Lee said. "Well, thanks for a smooth flight, er, say, I didn't catch your name."
"Just call me Nippy," the pilot said. "Everybody does. So long, sir; enjoy California."
"I hope to," Lee said, opening the cabin door and instantly narrowing his eyes against the blast of rain. An eager-looking young man in a black raincoat, carrying a black umbrella, rushed up to meet Lee.
"Mr. Travis?" he asked, shouting to be heard over the wind. "I'm Forrest, from the studio! Come on, get under my umbrella!"
"Instantly!" Lee shouted back, ducking under the protective silk dome. The two men rushed to the long car that was waiting for them, and piled in the back. Another man drove the vehicle; as soon as Forrest shut the door, it pulled away.
"Well, Mr. Travis," Forrest smiled, folding up the umbrella, "how do you like California so far?"
"Not so good," Lee said, with a smile. "The trip was bad enough, hopping from train to train to plane; if I have to eat at one more Harvey House I'll scream. But this weather! And I took this job myself to get away from the bad weather in New York! I thought it never rained in southern California!"
"It doesn't," Forrest smiled. "Sometimes, we do get eight to ten inches of dew. Forgive me, Mr. Travis, but I was expecting you to be...well..."
"Older?" Lee offered. "I get that a lot." A pause. "So, tell me about the accidents."
Forrest sighed. "As near as anybody can tell, Mr. Travis," he said, "the picture is haunted."
"Haunted?" Lee's eyebrows shot up. "By any ghost in particular, or just whichever one is in town for the season?"
"You're familiar with the story of the so-called Trigger Twins?" Forrest asked. When Lee nodded, he went on. "According to one source, the picture is haunted by the ghost of Walt Trigger."
Lee let out a low whistle. "I suppose this 'source' is a local gossip columnist, or something?"
"Well, no," Forrest said. "It's someone who should know what he's talking about. Walt's brother, Wayne, the other Trigger Twin; the author of the book. He swears his brother's ghost wants the picture killed."
Part Five
Lee studied the man from the studio intensely for a moment. "You're not joking," he said finally.
"I wish I were," Forrest said. "But no. Mr. Trigger is present at the studio for the filming of the movie; technically his title is 'Consultant', but the man is in his eighties, he's not doing any actual work."
"When my aunt was eighty-four, she got the idea that she was a lighthouse," Lee said. "Whenever it rained she tried to climb onto the roof with a flashlight to warn ships."
"Oh, it's not like that," Forrest said. "Mr. Trigger is quite lucid; his mind in sharper than those of some men half his age I could name. You should hear the stories he tells about living in the Old West! He really makes it come alive for you; you'd swear you were right in the middle of an old- fashioned shootout." The studio man paused. "But he's convinced that his brother's ghost is haunting the studio, trying to stop the film."
"Now, his brother was the shopkeeper pretending to be the sheriff?" Lee asked. "Seems to me the living one would be the one who wanted to stop the film. Doesn't look too good, like he couldn't handle the job himself."
"Well, I think someone is trying to stop the film, living or dead," Forrest said. "We've had too many accidents for it to be coincidental."
"I know, I read the file on the train," Lee said. "A spotlight falling and narrowly missing the star; a fire breaking out for no apparent reason; a stuntman breaking his collarbone when a real chair was replaced for a breakaway one."
"That's the most mysterious part of it all," Forrest said. "There's absolutely no way those chairs could have gotten mixed up by accident."
"Why's that?" Lee asked.
"They're different colors," Forrest explained. "The real chairs, for sitting on, are black; the breakaway chairs, for the fight scenes, are dark blue. They show up the same on black and white film. But someone had painted a real chair dark blue, and one of the stuntmen got hit in the chest with it, hard."
"That's no accident!" Lee snapped. "That's deliberate sabotage!"
"So you see why Mr. Barlowe called for help," Forrest said. "He never expected the studio owner to come out himself, though."
"I'm kind of a hands-on boss," Lee smiled. "Ask anyone at the Globe-Leader."
"Excuse me, Mr. Forrest," the driver said through the speaking tube. "We're at Mr. Travis' hotel."
"Thank you, Shrevnitz," Forrest said. "We've got a breakfast meeting scheduled for six tomorrow morning, Mr. Travis. Mr. Barlowe; Kent Bedford, the director; Jack Bagney, the star; Mr. Trigger, of course; and you. Shrevnitz will be here to pick you up at quarter to."
"I'll be ready," Lee promised.
Part Six
The weather was more in keeping with the California image the following day; bright and sunny. The long car pulled up in front of the hotel at precisely five forty-five; the grinning driver was behind the wheel.
"Good morning, Mr. Travis," he said, holding the car door open for the young publisher. "Sleep well?"
"Quite well, thanks...Shrevnitz, was it?" Lee asked. The driver nodded. The trip to the studio was short and quick; in less than fifteen minutes, Lee found himself seated at a large wooden table. Forrest was making introductions all around.
"Mr. Bagney needs no introduction," Lee said, grinning as he shook the actor's hand. "I'm a fan, Mr. Bagney. I thought you were great in Gangster's Song!"
"Call me Jack," the red-headed actor smiled. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Travis. I read your editorial on the European situation last month. Real guts, you've got."
Lee raised an eyebrow. "You get the Globe-Leader out here?"
"I do," Bagney grinned. "I'm a Brooklyn boy, born and raised. Came out here in '30 to make pictures. It's a good life, but I miss the old neighborhood sometimes."
"I know what you mean. Do you remember the drugstore on 85th and Elm?"
"Pops DeCarlo's? Sure. Best egg cream I ever had."
"It's a radio repair shop now."
"You're joking! That's almost sacrilegious."
"That's the movie business for you," Kent Bedford, the director, chuckled. "The studio owner travels three thousand miles to find a neighborhood chum."
"Small world," Bagney said. "Mr. Travis, meet Kent Bedford, the maestro of our little puppet show. He pulls the strings and makes us dance."
"Mr. Bagney has quite the way with words," Bedford said, shaking Lee's hand. "A pleasure, sir."
"It's mine," Lee said, studying the director's face. The man was older, in his mid-sixties probably, with a thatch of snow-white hair. He had thick, bushy eyebrows of coal black. Lee wondered if he dyed them.
"Mr. Travis, I'm Jackson Barlowe," the portly, middle-aged studio manager said, shaking Lee's hand. "I never expected you to come personally in answer to my call for help. I'm sorry to take you away from your pressing business in New York."
"From the nightclubs, you mean?" Lee asked. "If it's my playboy image that worries you, put it out of your mind. That's something dreamed up by my competitors, to tarnish my image. Believe me, I'm all business."
"Say, Travis," Bagney chimed in, "have you ever seen this masked man they're talking about in New York, this 'Scarlet Avenger' or whatever? Now, there'd be a subject for a movie!"
"A Saturday matinee serial, more likely," Bedford sniffed. "And I don't think Kane Richmond has time to do another this year."
"Or Tom Tyler," Bagney added. "Doesn't he do all the ones Richmond doesn't?"
"Isn't someone missing from the meeting, gentlemen?" Lee asked. "I mean, I'd like to get down to business, but I don't want to start without--"
"I'm here," a voice came from the doorway. A voice just slightly quivering with age, but still with unmistakable power behind it. Lee's eyes, and those of everyone else, turned to the door. An elderly man with snowy white hair and a face that seemed just a jumbled mass of wrinkles, but with piercing blue eyes peering out of it, sat in a wheelchair, gently pushed into the room by a white-garbed male attendant.
"I'm here," Wayne Trigger repeated. "So, where's the man who thinks he can stop the ghost of my brother from ruining this movie?"
Part Seven
The meeting was unenlightening. For the benefit of Lee, Barlowe gave a quick rundown of all the mysterious "accidents" that had occurred; which, of course, Forrest had done the night before.
"It's obvious there's a human agency behind these things," Lee said. "Now, do we know of anyone who would have any reason to want this movie stopped?"
"Apart from Jack, you mean?" Bedford asked, very politely.
"What's that supposed to mean?" the red-haired actor demanded, angrily.
"Come, come, Jack," Bedford said, smiling widely. "It's no secret that you didn't want to do this picture. You're doing it out of contractual obligation. You haven't exactly been silent about what you think of the material."
Lee's glance flicked to Trigger, but the elderly man showed no sign of any personal affront.
"All right, so I think it's a dumb movie," Bagney said. "I've made my share of them before! We all have! To imply that I'd try to halt production, doing stupid stunts that could get people hurt or worse--! That's libelous!"
"I implied nothing, Jack," Bedford said, placatingly. "Mr. Travis asked a question, and I answered. That's all."
"Well, while we're on the subject," Bagney sneered, "what about you?"
"Me?" Bedford asked, raising an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
"Maybe you've been a bit less vocal about it than I have," Bagney said, "but it's no secret that you didn't want to do this picture, either! GMG wanted you to direct their new epic, the film version of that best-selling novel about the Civil War! You had to turn them down because you're under contract to do this picture! But if it suddenly folded, you'd become available!"
"Gentlemen, please!" Barlowe said, raising his hands for silence. "We're not going to get anywhere fighting among ourselves! Can't we--"
"Well, well, another country heard from!" Bagney snapped. "And another one who wouldn't mind seeing The Trigger Twins close up shop!"
"Jack has a point, Barlowe," Bedford said. "As long as we're listing the people who could benefit from this movie closing down, let's not forget you."
Barlowe was stunned, too shocked to do more than sputter incoherently.
"And why is that, Mr. Barlowe?" Lee asked, calmly.
When Barlowe didn't answer, Bagney piped up. "Your clever business manager has an affection for playing the ponies. Trouble is, he's no good at it."
"And he's insured the picture for a hundred thousand dollars," Bedford added, "payable if the film ceases production."
"Th-that's standard procedure!" Barlowe stammered. "All the pictures get insured like that; so we can pay the studio personnel if the film halts production! I-it ensures that the hard-working crew members don't get short-changed!"
"Oh, sure," Bagney said. "And if a little of that dough found its way into your pocket, or should I say your bookie's pocket, who'd notice?"
"Gentlemen!" Lee said, slamming his palm down on the tabletop for emphasis. "I see there's no easy answer to my question. Whatever's happening here has you all so nervous, you're pointing fingers at each other. I do intend to investigate every angle, but--"
Suddenly, an explosion sounded from out in the studio. All heads snapped in the direction of the sound. Lee was first to move, sprinting from his chair and out the door. He was halfway down the hallway when he was met head-long by an ashen-faced young production assistant.
"Mr. Barlowe! Mr. Bedford!" the young man cried. Lee grabbed him by the shoulders, spun him around.
"I'm Travis, I own this studio," he snapped. "What happened?"
"Th-the developing room!" the young man said. "An explosion! The developing tank blew up! All the film we shot yesterday is ruined!"
Travis' eyes narrowed coldly.
Part Eight
"It was some kind of chemical that explodes on contact with water," Travis said, examining the ruined developing tank. "Wiped out most of the film that was in the tank at the time."
"That should throw suspicion off us, anyway," Bagney said. "We were all in the conference room when it happened."
"Not at all," Travis said, peering into the upper part of the tank. "Somebody rigged this to explode at a later time."
"What?" Bedford gasped. "How is that possible?"
Travis wiped his finger across the top of the inside of the tank, then drew it out to show the others the sticky residue on his finger. "Somebody glued a chemical packet to the inside of the top of the tank, with a small amount of glue, insufficient to support the weight of the packet indefinitely," he explained. "They knew it would fall when they were far away. It could have been anyone, gentlemen."
Three sets of eyes flicked from one person to the other, but no words were spoken. Wayne Trigger, seated in his wheelchair, remained silent and still.
"Mr. Travis, could I have a word?" Bagney asked, cornering Lee in the hallway after the meeting.
"Certainly, Mr. Bagney," Travis said. "What's on you--"
"Jack," Bagney corrected with a smile.
"Jack," Travis agreed. "What can I do for you?"
"I didn't want to say anything in that room," Bagney said, in a voice barely above a whisper. "But, as long as we were all accusing each other, I figured somebody should say what was on everybody's mind."
"And that is?" Travis asked, interested.
"Trigger," Bagney said simply.
Travis did a double take. "Trigger? The old man? Are you serious?"
"As serious as armed robbery," Bagney swore.
"Why would Wayne Trigger want to sabotage his own movie?" Travis asked.
"For the publicity!" Bagney said emphatically. "His book didn't do so hot, you know? The only reason this movie's getting made is because the guy who owned the studio before you was one of the four people who loved the book!"
"My grandfather," Travis said simply.
"Oh!" Bagney said, embarrassed. "I didn't--that is--oh, you know!" Travis nodded. "Anyway, I figure the old guy wants to stir up interest in his book, get a few more printings out of it and a few more royalty checks, maybe write a sequel. So he came up with this bogus ghost idea!"
"You really believe that?" Travis asked.
"Mr. Travis, the guy is sound as a dollar, or as sound as a dollar used to be. Except where these so-called 'accidents' are concerned; then he starts talking ghosts and vengeance from beyond the grave! Nobody could be that clear-headed about everything else and that koo-koo about just one thing. It's all an act, and brother, I know acting when I see it! I think you should at least look into it."
"Well, thanks, Mr. Ba--Jack," Travis said. "I think I'll do just that." Or rather, the Crimson Avenger will, Lee thought to himself.
Part Nine
Late that night, the elderly Wayne Trigger slept in the luxurious hotel suite the film studio had provided for him while he was in California. It was a fitful sleep, troubled by dreams of the past. His snowy-white head thrashed from side to side on the pillow, his wrinkled brow furrowed with care.
"Wayne Trigger," a sepulchral voice intoned in the room. The old lawman awoke with a start.
"Who's there?" he demanded. He peered into the darkness, his old eyes searching the shadows. He found a pair of human eyes, peering out of the darkness. Eyes atop a column of shadow, hidden beneath a crown of darkness. The cloak and slouch hat of the Crimson Avenger.
"I would speak with you, Wayne Trigger," the Avenger said. "I am the Avenger of justice, and I seek answers regarding the occurrences at Pyramid Studios."
"Wh-who are you?" Trigger stammered, trying to maintain his composure.
"Those who speak of me call me....the Crimson Avenger," the Avenger said in a sibilant whisper.
"The Crimson Avenger?" Trigger repeated, his fear gone. "I've heard of you. Some sort of masked vigilante, taking the law into your own hands. I met a man like that once, a long time ago. Called himself Nighthawk." Trigger's tone spoke of disapproval, of contempt for such vigilantes; but the Crimson Avenger heard a note of grudging respect, as well.
"Let's just say I am not hampered by the law in my quest for justice," the Avenger said. "Now, what can you tell me about the accidents?"
"Accidents! Bah!" Trigger spat. "There are no 'accidents'! It's all the work of my brother!"
"Your late brother, Walt Trigger?"
"You've read my book, I suppose," Trigger said. "Yes, my brother's ghost."
"And why would your brother's restless spirit seek to halt production of this film?"
"Revenge," Wayne said simply. "Revenge for his death. A death that was caused by me!"
Part Ten
The Crimson Avenger did a small double take. "You caused your brother's death?"
"I didn't intentionally kill him," Wayne said. "But I as good as did! Had it not been for me, my brother would have lived, might even be alive today! But he's been dead in his grave these fifty years, while I go on, and on." The grief cracking the old man's voice was enough to move the coldest heart to tears.
"How did it happen?" the Crimson Avenger asked.
Trigger hesitated, then sighed. "I never wrote it in my book. I was too ashamed. You read how my brother impersonated me and helped me out of jams too big for me to handle, right?" The Avenger nodded. "Well, that went on for ten years. We got quite a reputation out there in the Arizona Territory, or rather, I did. I took all the credit, while Walt did at least as much actual fighting as I did, probably more. By 1889 I was the most famous lawman west of the Rockies. Well, it was a toss-up between me and Johnny Thunder, over in Mesa City. Anyway, back in '89, three former crooks that Walt and I had put out of business combined resources to hire a killer to bring me down. We hadn't left 'em with much, but what they had they put together, and hired the best gun they could afford between 'em. A killer name of Gold-Fang Gibson. They called him that on account of this huge gold tooth he had, right in the front of his mouth where everybody could see it. He was one of the most feared guns in the territory. He sent word ahead of him that he'd be in town in three days, and he was callin' me out."
"What happened then?" the Avenger, enthralled, asked.
"Walt tried to talk me out of meetin' him," Trigger said. "Said Gibson'd kill me stone dead for sure. I knew he was right, but I also knew that I couldn't back down from the challenge; I'd be called a coward, and my reputation, and the peace it brought to Rocky City, would be lost. Walt tried to talk me into lettin' him take my place, but my stubborn pride wouldn't let me. I had to meet Gibson myself."
"And did you?"
"No," Trigger said. "The day Gibson arrived, Walt slugged me from behind, left me in the back room of his store, and took my place. He met Gold-Fang Gibson in the center of town, pretendin' to be me."
"And Gibson killed him," the Avenger said.
"Hell no!" Trigger snapped. "That owlhoot was no match for Walt Trigger! They shot it out man to man, and Walt shot the gun clean out of his hand! Disarmed him quickern' a howdy-do!" Trigger shook his head ruefully. "But the crooks that'd hired him, left nothin' to chance. They also hired snipers, to set up in the clock tower and gun my brother--that is, me, they thought-- down, if'n Gold-Fang failed. Which they did. Shot him right through the heart, the skulkin' killers did."
"And you blame yourself for this?" the Crimson Avenger asked.
"Danged right!" Trigger spat. "If I hadn't been so hard-headed, if I'd of let Walt talk me into takin' my place, I'd of been watchin' his back and I'd of got those sneak-killers afore they got him! As it was, I was sleepin' off a lump on the head while my brother died in the dust!"
"What happened then?" the Avenger asked.
"Nothin' much," Trigger said. "The townsfolk cornered the snipers in the clock tower; they told who had hired 'em, and the lot of 'em hung. Ceptin' Gibson; he snuck away in the confusion. I looked for him for a few years; never did find him. Wouldn't of brought Walt back, anyhow."
"And you think your brother's spirit haunts the production of the film?" the Avenger asked. "Why?"
"Because I've seen him, that's why!" Trigger exploded. "He comes to me in the night, starin' at me with those accusin' eyes of his! Never says a word, mind; just stares at me. Waitin' for me to join him on the other side, so he can have his revenge!"
"You've actually seen his ghost?" the Avenger said. "Mr. Trigger, don't you think--"
"LOOK!" Trigger shrieked, pointing with a trembling finger. "It's him!"
The Avenger turned his head, and gasped. There, standing in the middle of the room, was a red- haired young man in a buckskin outfit and sheriff's badge, staring straight ahead with a malevolent expression on his face.
The ghost of Walt Trigger!
Part Eleven
The Crimson Avenger stared at the apparition in shock for a split-second. Then he charged into action, drawing his gun and firing. The elderly Trigger shrieked in surprise and terror; but, with a sound of shattering glass, the ghostly figure faded away.
"W-what did you do?" Trigger stammered. "You can't--I mean, a ghost--you can't possibly--"
"Can't kill a ghost with a bullet?" the Crimson Avenger asked grimly. "No, you can't. But you can shoot out a film projector."
"A what?!?" Trigger demanded, all fear gone from his voice, replaced with cold rage.
The Crimson Avenger strode swiftly across the room, took down the framed painting his bullet had destroyed, revealing the shattered lens of a film projector behind it. "No ghost, Mr. Trigger," he said. "Just a human mind trying to make you think there was a ghost."
"Blazes!" Trigger swore, throwing off the bedcovers. "Get me my guns! Help me find this owlhoot who's profaning my brother's memory in this way! I'll string him up like a deer! I'll--"
"Take it easy, sir," the Avenger said. "I'll find this man. Don't over exert yourself."
"You're not my nursemaid, Avenger!" Trigger spat. "Anyway, I can walk; that wheelchair over there is just for conserving my energy. Just you give me a few minutes--"
"We may not have that," the Avenger said, striding to the window. The projector was operated by a control wire; it couldn't be very long, so the operator had to be close by, probably in the next room. The Avenger hadn't heard anybody in the hallway, so he went to the window. Sure enough, he saw a dark, shadowy form hurrying down the fire escape.
"Hold it!" the Avenger cried, aiming his gun. "Stop right there!"
The dark form hesitated for a moment, then drew his own gun. The Avenger fired first; the dark figure was hurled backward into the guard rail of the fire escape, then slumped down onto the metal steps.
"It's over, Mr. Trigger," the Crimson Avenger said, walking over to the bed. Wayne Trigger now stood beside the bed, a bathrobe hastily pulled over his pajamas. "I got him."
"Let me see," Trigger said, walking shakily to the window. "Let me see the ranny who tried to make me think my brother had come back from the grave to get me! I want to see his body!"
"Right out there on the fire escape," the Avenger said, pointing. Trigger hobbled over to the window to look. "I don't know who it is yet, but that will--"
"Where?" Trigger asked, peering out the window. "I don't see any body!"
"He's right down--" The Avenger looked out the window, and gasped in disbelief.
There was no body on the fire escape! The man was gone!
"Maybe there's a ghost in this thing after all," Trigger said mirthlessly.
Part Twelve
"I still don't know how I let you talk me into this," the Crimson Avenger said in a hushed whisper as he pushed Wayne Trigger's wheelchair down the darkened halls of Pyramid Studios.
"Don't give me any sass, youngster," Trigger hissed back. "I was runnin' down killers an' crooks like this 'n when your grandpa was rollin' hoops! You need my help, an' you know it!"
The Crimson Avenger allowed himself a slight little smile. Perhaps the old man's knowledge of the case and its genesis, as well as his experience, could be useful.
"Hold it!" Trigger hissed, holding up a hand. The Avenger halted. "There's someone in that room," Trigger said, pointing.
The Avenger listened intently, then nodded. He, too, heard someone moving around behind the closed door. He held a finger up to his lips for silence; Trigger nodded, acknowledging the command. Silently, the Avenger crept up to the door, wrapped his fingers around the knob, and suddenly jerked the door open, thrusting his gun into the room.
"YAAAAAH!!" a scream came from inside the room. The Crimson Avenger involuntarily flinched, then relaxed.
"Bedford!" the Avenger snapped. "What are you doing here at this hour?"
"W-who are you?" the terrified director asked. "That mask--that gun! Y-you're the one who's been--"
"Don't be a consarned fool, Bedford!" Trigger snapped. "He's the Crimson Avenger!"
"Mr. Trigger!" Bedford gasped, not having seen the old man before. "The Crimson Avenger? The masked vigilante from New York? What's he--what are you doing here?"
"I'm trying to help Mr. Trigger find the man who's trying to sabotage your movie, and trying to drive Mr. Trigger insane," the Avenger said.
"Insane?" Bedford asked. "What are you talking about?"
"Some ranny's been usin' movie trickery to make me think my brother's ghost has been hauntin' me!" Trigger snapped. "The same sidewinder who's tryin' to wreck the movie, we think."
"Incredible!" Bedford gasped. "But what are you doing here?"
"The most likely place the phantom got the equipment to create the phony ghost, would be here," the Avenger explained. "We thought examining the equipment might offer up a clue as to who has been using it."
"Good idea!" Bedford said. "All the stuff someone would need, is in that room I just came out of. Can I help you?"
"Well, we don't really know what we're looking for," the Avenger said. "We'll know it when we find it. But another pair of eyes couldn't hurt." The Avenger holstered his gun and pushed the wheelchair into the room, as Bedford held the door. The small room was filled with motion picture equipment; the Avenger's eyes scanned the room quickly, taking it all in.
Suddenly, he stiffened, his muscles tense. "Say, Bedford," he said, "you never told us what you're doing h--"
The Avenger heard the click of a door closing. He turned to see the white-haired director grinning maliciously, rows of perfect white teeth glinting in the light of the single bare bulb of the equipment room, a revolver aimed right at the Crimson Avenger's heart.
Part Thirteen
"The newspapers call you a brilliant man, a genius working outside the law," Bedford taunted. "I'll have to see that the stories are amended."
The Crimson Avenger said nothing, standing there with fists clenched, face burning with rage. He had walked into a trap like a rank amateur. Well, he had only been a professional crime- fighter for three months. Now he wondered if he would make it to four.
"You!" Trigger snapped. "You're the one! You've been sabotagin' the movie, an' made that phony ghost! It's been you all along!"
"Guilty as charged, Sheriff," Bedford taunted. "You going to take me in?"
"It was you on the fire escape?" the Avenger asked. When Bedford silently nodded, he went on. "I shot you; I know I did, I saw you go down. How did you survive that shot?"
"One more thing I owe you for, Avenger," Bedford said, reaching into his vest pocket with his free hand. "Your bullet ruined a perfectly good pocket watch. I've had it for a long, long time." The old man withdrew a huge iron watch, the size of a turnip, trailing a long, silver chain. The watch had been ruined by a bullet striking it. The Avenger and Trigger gasped when the end of the chain popped out of Bedford's pocket; dangling from its end was a single gold tooth, shining in the light of the naked bulb.
"You--you--" Trigger stammered, unable to form the words.
Bedford grinned, and tapped his perfect teeth with a fingernail. "False teeth," he explained. "A concession to Father Time. Had them about twelve years, now."
"You're Gold-Fang Gibson!" the Crimson Avenger spat. "The man who was hired to kill Walt Trigger!"
"My only failure," Bedford/Gibson sighed. "When the snipers killed him--I hadn't known about them, believe me, I wouldn't have allowed such unprofessionalism on one of my jobs--I ran like Hell, because I knew the townspeople would be after me. And the real Sheriff Wayne, once I learned the truth. I kept running until I met a traveling theatre troupe in Dodge City. They were short a stagehand, someone to build and set up scenery and suchlike, so they took me on. I stayed with them for a few years, learning the theatre craft. Turned out I had an affinity for it, a natural talent. I changed my name, and became a well-respected stage director. When movies got started, I was in on the ground floor. When Barlowe asked me to direct the Trigger picture, I couldn't think of a way to refuse without throwing suspicion on myself. But I knew that, sooner or later, the old fool would recognize me; unless I kept his mind busy with other things."
"So now what?" Trigger demanded. "You yellow-bellied, dust-eatin', cowardly fool, now what?"
"Now, this," Bedford/Gibson said casually, and pulled the trigger. In the small, enclosed room, the gunshot sounded like a thunderclap. Trigger clutched his chest with his age-gnarled fingers.
"TRIGGER!" the Avenger cried, and made to lunge at the gunman. He halted in mid-stride, Bedford/Gibson's gun aimed right at his head.
Part Fourteen
"I can't thank you enough for meddling in this business, Avenger," the evil director grinned.
"Thank me?" the Avenger demanded, through clenched teeth.
"Oh, yes," the killer explained. "I had no ending prepared for this scene. But now, it practically writes itself. You were the saboteur all along, and you killed the old man. I happened upon the scene of the crime, while working late trying to salvage the ruined film, and I shot you. Perfect ending, no?"
"Why would I want to wreck the movie, and kill the old man?" the Avenger demanded. "What's my motivation?"
"How should I know?" Bedford/Gibson shrugged. "I'll leave it to the police to figure that out. I'm sure they'll come up with something, when they're presented with a handy suspect, and the sabotage stops." The killer drew back the hammer on his revolver. "And now, Mr. Crimson Avenger....good-bye."
"GIBSON!" A sepulchral voice intoned; actually two voices, speaking simultaneously. The gunman whirled around, and shrieked in abject terror.
A ghostly apparition, just like the one in Wayne Trigger's hotel room, confronted the killer. Only it was two ghostly figures, both Trigger Twins, staring at the killer with undisguised malice.
"No!" Bedford/Gibson cried out. "No, stay away! Y-you can't!" In terror, the killer fired his gun at one of the ghostly Trigger Twins. His bullet passed right through the spectral figure, and struck a fire extinguisher hanging on the wall beside the closed door. The cylinder exploded, hurling Bedford/Gibson backwards. The Crimson Avenger was ready; he followed through with a smashing right cross to the killer's jaw, which spun him around on his feet, then dropped him to the floor like a stone.
"Great work, Mr. Trigger!" the Avenger cried out, watching the killer fall. "I guess you found one of his projectors, used his own trick on him! But we'd better get you to the hospital before that...wound..."
The Crimson Avenger turned to stare at Wayne Trigger. He lay motionless in his wheelchair, his head rolled back on his neck, a bright blossom of blood staining his chest. He was not breathing.
The Avenger whirled around again. The ghostly figures of the Trigger Twins still stood there. But now they were not staring with cold malice. They were smiling, slight, satisfied smiles. And then, slowly, they faded away, leaving the Crimson Avenger alone in the equipment room with his unconscious prisoner.
* * * * *
"Welcome back, boss!" Wing said, as Lee Travis got into the back of the limousine at LaGuardia Airport. "How was sunny California?"
"Wing..." Travis began. "I...don't think I want to talk about it."
"Suit yourself, boss," Wing shrugged, as the car pulled away from the airport.
The End
Return to Earth-2 Home Page Return to Earth-2 Times Past Page