A Tom Miller, Hollywood Newshawk Adventure

I aimed my bucket with all horses blazing towards UBC radio at the corner of Sunset and Vine. Didn’t let off the gas until I slammed to a stop. The skid was heard two blocks away. No worries about the cops, though. Because Lt. Hap Underwood, my portly compadre at the L.A.P.D, burned to a stop right behind me.

“Breck call you, too?” I queried.

“Of course,” Underwood chuckled. He squeezed his extra-wide frame out of his police-issue coupe. “This is a police matter, too, you know.”

We breezed in through the double glass doors. Tossed a quick wave to the cute little blonde jane behind the desk. Under other circumstances, I wouldn’t have minded waiting. But this wasn’t other circumstances. No need for protocol.

The horn-rimmed station manager, Herman Breck, was already waiting for us. Puzzled expression and all.

“So, what’s this unbelievable scoop?” I asked him.

He sucked in a quick breath. Then exhaled: “I’ve got the ‘monkey wrench’ back in my office. Wants to go on the radio and tell his side of the story.”

Underwood and I both did a double-take on that one.

“When did he get here?” I asked.

Underwood, being the silent type, was more than willing to let me take the lead. He knew I would anyway.

“’Bout an hour ago. Seems he hitched his way down from Fort Lewis, up in Washington.”

#

FIRST thing I learned in the newspaper game was you never know which way a story’s gonna go. Sometimes, you think you’ve got it all figured out. Then it takes a wild turn from out of nowhere. And sometimes that wild turn goes bust. And you’re right back where you started.

My fellow newshounds and I had all been chasing the latest Carmine Calvero story for weeks on end. As you know, Calvero was world famous for his “Lucky Hobo” character back in the silent days. Of course, he’d long put away the grease-paint and baggy pants. But that didn’t stop him from enjoying his remaining star power. One of his latest conquests was a fiery, red-haired dish named Joanne Benton. They had some laughs. Then he sent her packing, just like all the others. Only this one showed up on his doorstep some months later. Mad as hell, and with a bundle of joy. Not to mention a lawyer.

The “monkey wrench” came in the form of a telegram from a Chaplain up in Washington State. Sent to a judge in Beverly Hills: “Soldier here admits intimacy with Joanne Benton. Believes he is the father.”

Needless to say, this bit of news hit like a thunder storm at a Sunday picnic. Lawyers on both sides went scrambling. One side hoped it was true. The other hoped it wasn’t. I’m sure Calvero got at least one night’s good sleep from it. With company, no doubt.

#

BRECK spilled the whole scenario on the way down the hall: “Kid’s name is Fred Steinman. Fresh-faced private in Uncle Sam’s Army. Says he was stationed for a while down here last year. Picked her up in his jeep one night and took her up into the Hollywood hills. The view sent her swooning so hard, she jumped right into his loving arms.”

Underwood popped the question we were both asking: “So, you think this kid’s legit?”

“Talks a good game to me,” Breck shrugged. “But what do I know?”

“Sounds fishy to me,” I offered. “If he’s for real, why go on the radio? Why not just go straight to see the gal?”

Hap nodded in agreement. “So, what’re you thinking?”

“I say we put him to the test.”

“How so?” Breck asked.

“He wants to talk to the press. But he’ll clam when he sees Hap’s badge. So, we tell him Hap’s the Benton quail’s brother. Then we see what shakes out.”

Hap shook his head in disagreement. “I’m no good with this play-acting stuff.”

“Alright then,” I said. “You be me and I’ll be the brother. Just let me ask all the questions.”

We all nodded in agreement. Breck took us back to his office where the kid was stewing.

My glims lit up like search lights on Hollywood Blvd. when he stood up to greet us. His shadow could cover Mt. Rushmore. He had me by nearly a foot. And I’m a full two yards in my bare feet.

“When do I go on the radio?” Fred asked. He clutched his green army cap in frustration. “When can I see Joanne?”

“In time,” Breck told him calmly. “But first I want you to meet some people. This is Tom… Benton, Joanne’s brother.”

I stuck out my mitt. His paw swallowed mine like a vise. I suddenly got worried about the ruse we were playing. Or what he’d do when he found out the truth.

“And,” Breck continued and pointed out Hap. This is uh… Tom Miller, with the L.A. Chronicle.”

Breck wasn’t too good himself with play-acting either. Of course, a few seconds deciding on names wouldn’t have hurt.

Fred gave us both a curious grin. “Both named Tom, huh?”

Not wanting to blow the ruse right out of the gate, I jumped in. Went right to brass tacks.

“Why do you want to marry my sister?” I asked.

“Because I love her,” the hulking lug swooned. “I didn’t know she was — you know, in the family way ‘till I read about it in the papers. Honest, I didn’t! I just felt terrible. I’m not the kind of fellah who’d run out on a gal like that! I want to do right by her. Take care of her. I love her more than any woman in the world.”

“So, what’s your plan?” I asked him.

“I’m gonna ask her to marry me. With your permission, of course.” He fumbled in his pocket. Pulled out a small ring with a tiny speck for a stone. “I’ll be out of the service, soon. I’ve already arranged with my sister in Jersey for us to stay with her ‘till we can get a place of our own.”

If nothing else, the kid was sincere. If it was an act, it was an awful good one. And he was in just the right town for it.

Hap gave me a heartfelt look. “How about it, Tom?”

“Okay,” I told him. “You can meet her for dinner on one condition: Don’t go on the radio.”

The buck private’s face lit up. He jumped to his pins. Shook my duke like a dirty rug. “Sure thing, Mr. Benton! You have my word!”

Hap and Breck saved their questions until we’d left the office. Well out of earshot.

“How do you plan get this kid together with Joanne Benton?” they both asked. “She’s in the funny farm!”

“Simple. We hire a ringer.”

#

I HOPPED back in my jalopy. Took the five minute drive over to Central Casting in the Mayer Bldg. at Hollywood and Western. I’d been there enough that I no longer had to show my credentials. Betty Marsden was the smart-looking blonde jane who usually worked the counter. Her smile lit up the room when I walked in. I always wondered what she was doing behind it.

“Hey, Winchell,” she asked. “What’re you up to this time?” She knew every time I ankled my way into her portal, it would get interesting.

“Need a gal that can pass for Joanne Benton. There’s two sawbucks in it for her if she plays along.”

Betty dipped her cheaters and raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t worry, Doll. It’s strictly on the level. Just a night out for dinner, that’s all.”

She knew better than to ask any more questions. “You’re in luck. I’ve got just the girl.”

She went through the filing cabinet. Whisked through a drawer of glossies. Seconds later, she plopped one in front of my puss. “Her name’s Louise Gribble. Ever since the Benton story broke, people are always saying how much Louise looks like her.”

She was right. The gal bore a striking resemblance. Since I was gambling that Fred had only seen the real Joanne in newsprint, she’d do perfectly. Either way, it would still prove my point.

“Tell her to meet me at the Formosa, Five Forty-Five, sharp.”

#

YOUNG Miss Gribble must have been hungry for work. Or just plain hungry, because she was early. I was glad, because it gave us a few minutes to prepare. I tabbed her as soon as her long stems step off the Red Car. The gaze upwards only improved. Her fiery red hair framed a face that looked even better in color. There was just one problem. Two, actually.

Everyone knows Calvero was drawn to Joanne Benton’s ample proportions. But this wren was built like an ironing board.

I rushed over and scooped her up by the arm. “Louise Gribble?” Before she could answer I whisked her in through the front canopy. “I’m Tom Miller with the L.A. Chronicle. Look, Sweetheart, you’re perfect, but we’ve got to make an adjustment.”

“Sure you’re a reporter? Or a producer?” She shot back with a smile that made my knees give.

She was as sharp as she looked. I liked that. Her dark skirt and auburn tresses were a perfect match for the Formosa’s red-and-black décor. The walls are topped with signed photos of every famous mug in Tinsel Town. Her face could have fit with any one of them.

I breezed her over to the hostess stand. Luckily, the lovely brunette quail was eager to assist. “Listen, Sweetheart, I need a box of tissues, pronto.” I dropped a few bills to show I was in a hurry.

Another glance at Louise and I decided to up the order. “Make it two.”

The hostess cutie got my message. She replaced my bills with two boxes in seconds flat. I pushed them into Louise’s dainty mitts.

“No offense, Sweetheart. But we need to fill you out a little. Meet me in the dining car when you’re ready.”

She got the gist and smiled back. “Of course. I’ll just be in the powder room.”

I tabbed Jim Perry, staff photog, ready and waiting. If Fred turned out to be the real deal, he’d be on the front page of the morning edition. If not, we didn’t know what he’d do when he found out we were wise to him. Hap was armed, just in case. That’s why we’d come there early. Just so there wouldn’t be any innocent bystanders.

“Right this way, Sir,” the hostess cutie chirped as she led me past the bar towards the “dining car” in the back — a retired trolley from the Red Car line. The rest of the joint was built around it.

Miss Gribble returned a few minutes later. She looked like a different girl and completely natural. They certainly got my attention. And I knew better. Just in time, too. Because seconds later, Hap and Breck strolled in with our young quarry.

“Joanne!” he called out as soon as he lamped her. He reached out for a hug, but she ducked behind my back. His size took her by surprise, too.

“Hello, Joanne darling,” he pined, “it’s so good to see you again.”

“Hello, Fred,” she replied nervously. “It’s lovely to see you again, too.” Her radiant smile calmed him down. He took her hand and went to kiss it. Then chickened out — out of shyness.

That led to a few long seconds of awkward silence. So, I jumped in to break the ice. “What do you say we get a picture of you two lovebirds together?” But what I really wanted was for Fred to get a really good look at “Joanne.”

The “happy family” posed while photog Perry snapped a few plates. Fred was still none the wiser. Which was all I needed to see. I gave Hap the nod and tapped Fred on the shoulder.

“Fred, let’s go outside a minute. I need to ask you something. Man to man.”

Fred gave me a big, goofy grin: “Sure.”

“Breck, you mind staying with Joanne?” I asked. I could tell from the goofy grin on his own face that he didn’t.

We ankled it back out the front portico. I peered back to make sure Hap was right behind me.

Soon as we got outside, I put it to him. “What do you want to lie for, Fred?” I asked. “You’ve never seen this doll before in your life.”

He just shrugged with a red-faced grin: “Wh-why would I lie?”

“That’s what we want to know,” I barked.

Hap brushed back his coat. Revealed his badge. “This is serious business, kid,” he said. “Could land you in a lot of hot water.”

Fred dug in his heels like a bull about to charge.

“What are you trying to pull on me here?” he asked.

He barreled straight past us, back inside. That got us even more scared. Hap reached for his roscoe. We rushed back in, hell bent for leather.

When we got to the dining car, poor Breck was the only thing between Fred and Louise. I don’t know who was more frightened — him or the girl.

Photog Perry was dutifully grabbing shots. Ready to capture the moment of Breck getting pummeled.

“You know it’s true, don’t you honey? Tell ‘em! Tell ‘em how we loved each other that night in the hills!”

He reached for her with his big paws. But she jerked loose. Ducked behind Hap and his iron equalizer.

“Get away from me, you big goof! I’m not Joanne Benton and I never was in the hills with you!”

Fred just stood there. Dumb expression on his map. He’d been had, but good.

“What are you trying to do? Mix me up?” he shouted back. He was starting to get flustered.

“Ix-nay, Fred,” I told him. “Get yourself together. You’ve been putting on a good act. But the show’s over.”

Fred boiled up like a volcano. Hap had his bean-shooter cranked and ready.

Fred popped his lid. Bolted straight out the front door. We followed after. Just in time to see him haul it on foot down Santa Monica Blvd. We’d hoped that was the last we’d ever see of one Private Fred Steinman.

I gave our “Joanne,” the now less vivacious (but still quite lovely) Louise Gribble, an extra ten-spot when I escorted her back to the Red Car.

“Thanks, Doll, and sorry about all the drama.”

“I think next time I’ll just stick to work in front of the camera,” she told me. I couldn’t blame her.

#

THREE days passed, and there was no sign of Private Fred. I figured he must have found his way back to Washington State. Given up on his dreams of rescuing red-headed damsels. I figured wrong.

I came into the office early one morning. Plopped down at my desk to fuss over another angle on the Calvero story. That’s when I heard a familiar voice at the doorway: “I need to talk to a reporter. I got a real scoop for you. On the Joanne Benton story.”

I peered up from my typewriter to see young Fred. He was towering over the desk of stone-gazed Janet Gronchi, our no-nonsense Gal Friday. I always said she’d be a real cutie if she’d let down her hair and perked up her disposition.

Fred had regrouped. Now he was angling for the papers. “I need to talk to someone right away! I tell you, it’s important!” He barked. Big mistake.

That was enough to get the attention of our seen-it-all City Editor Hal Jenkins, sitting in his office. He glanced up from his desk; peered out the large windows. Took in the sight of the big palooka looming over our tiny damsel. Now, Jenkins could have jumped in. But he knew it wasn’t necessary.

Gronchi rose up out of her chair. Grabbed her quarter-inch thick wooden ruler. Stared Fred down through her horn-rimmed cheaters. No easy feat, as he was more than twice her height. But there’s not a man nor beast alive that can out-intimidate Gronchi.

She stuck her ruler right in his face. “You’ll talk to someone when I tell you to. And not a minute sooner! You got that?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Fred backed off. Tail between his legs.

“Now sit down!”

“It’s okay, Gronchi,” I piped up. “I’ll jaw with him.”

Soon as Fred’s optics locked on mine, I could see the light bulb blink on over his head. That’s when he finally realized that I wasn’t “Joanne’s” brother. That he’d been had. Completely. The volcano was about to blow.

Of course, it might have been smarter to let Fred tangle with Gronchi. But I was wise enough to ask for back-up.

“Better call Hap, Gronchi! Tell him the Private’s back!” I shouted.

I don’t know who was faster: Gronchi spinning the phone dial; or Fred flying across desks towards me. Papers and typewriters flew in all directions.

I shoved my desk forward. Caught him in the shins. Just enough to slow him down. But not by much.

Jenkins shouted from his office: “What the hell?”

Fred’s giant fists came at me like two anvils shot out of a cannon. My plan was simple: keep away from those dukes! I usually rely on my own bulk in fights. But not this time. I was the one who had to be quicker.

Fred swung his left, then his right! Came up empty both times. The desk had done its job. He was big and sloppy. Just as I suspected.

I ducked on the third, but wasn’t so lucky. Hit my chin like a freight train! Sent me reeling into the wall! Never had a wallop like that before. Wasn’t sure what was spinning faster: me or the room!

Caught a quick glimpse of Gronchi shouting into the squawker. But Fred was back for seconds. Despite my dizziness, I managed to avoid the return of the Steinman Express. Fred hit the wall instead. I swear it shook the building!

Needed to clear my head. And something to even the odds. Jenkins was already on it. Kept a Louiseville Slugger in his office for just such an occasion.

Fred came at me again. I lunged to avoid his next swing. Jenkins threw me the bat. Shouted for Gronchi to find photog Perry.

I didn’t waste any time. Had to make it good! Went for the kneecap with everything I had. Managed to get a wince. But it wasn’t enough!

Next I aimed high. Big mistake! Fred was quicker than I thought. Caught the bat in his right hand! Caught my chin again with his left! Thought it would shatter! Sent me sprawling back towards Gronchi’s desk.

Left me seeing double. Tried to stagger to my feet.

Fred had the upper hand. And the bat! Hap couldn’t get there soon enough.

I looked around. Stab him with a pencil? Hit him with a stapler? The bat was my best weapon. Now he had it! And he was about to use it. On me!

Fred raised up the bat. Was just about to bring it crushing down on my skull!

That’s when the cavalry showed up.

“Hey!” Gronchi shouted. “Didn’t I tell you to sit down?”

My optics widened. So, did Fred’s.

Mr. Jenkins wasn’t the least surprised.

Gronchi marched up to Fred. Stuck her ruler right up in his kisser.

“You put that bat down right now, Mister!”

Fred’s button went blank. Color ran right out.

“Y-yes, Ma’am,” he stuttered. Dropped the bat just like he was ordered.

“Now you help clean this mess up, and I mean NOW!”

That was all the opening I needed. I balled up my dukes. Let him have it with every ounce of juice I had left! Right in the smeller! The little crack told me I’d hit pay dirt.

Yeah, it was a sucker punch. But I owed him one for tossing me around the room like a rag doll.

“Who is this clown?” Gronchi asked. Fred’s sniffer oozed like a faucet with a really bad leak.

“Just a guy who tried to sell a bad story one too many times,” I shot back.

#

HAP showed up not too long after with a couple of harness bulls. Plus an Army Lieutenant and a pair of MPs. Just in time to see Gronchi riding herd over Private Fred with tissues stuffed up each nostril.

She tapped her ruler impatiently as every desk, every typewriter, and every paper was put back in its place.

Jenkins was already back in his office. He knew better than to get in the way.

“You boys can sit right over there and wait,” Gronchi piped. She pointed to a row of chairs with her ruler. “You can have him when I’m done. And not a minute sooner.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” the Lieutenant replied.

Perry snapped another photograph.

CHARLIE “Cherry Nose” Caifano had been cooped up for the past three days in the hotel room where he lived in the lower South Side of Terminal City. It had been that long since he’d received The Spectre’s mark – a note card inscribed only with an “X.” He would never have admitted to anyone that he was scared, and certainly not even to himself. He was a hired gun for Vito “Spats” Gennaro, after all, boss of the South Side mob. He’d plugged many a guy that had it coming to him. So many, he’d nearly lost count. In fact, just the week before he’d taken down Frankie Maritote. Walked up and plugged him with a shotgun right outside his house, just after dark. Only it hadn’t gone off as planned. Just as Cherry Nose had squeezed the trigger, Frankie’s four-​year-​old little girl opened the door. It was a darn shame. But these things happen, Cherry Nose told himself over and over.

Frankie had it coming. No one else was supposed to have been home. It was an accident. So why should Cherry Nose even worry? He didn’t have anything to be afraid of.

But the fact was, Cherry Nose hadn’t gone out since getting that card. He’d heard plenty of stories about The Black Spectre. Stories about how he may not have even been human. Stories that couldn’t possibly have been true.

But Cherry Nose was hungry, and he was really itching for a drink. Even though the sun was already going down, Jack Smithy’s bar was only two blocks away. Cherry Nose shook off his nerves, reminded himself that he, too, was someone you didn’t want to meet in a dark alley, and grabbed his coat and .38 before he bolted out the door.

He’d only made it a half a block from the hotel before he heard footsteps behind him on the cold, snowy pavement. He stopped short and looked back. There were plenty of people on the sidewalk behind him, but none that seemed to have been following. He made it only a few more yards before stopping again, certain that someone was right on his heels. But there wasn’t. Not that he could see, anyway.

Cherry Nose shrugged and chuckled to himself. His mind was getting the best of him. Just what The Spectre wanted, he told himself. It was crazy, he thought. He really needed that drink.

Cherry Nose set his sights on the bar ahead, charged directly toward it, and tried not to let his thoughts get the best of him anymore. He was completely oblivious to the alley as he passed it. He could almost taste the whisky in his mouth when something unseen grabbed him from out of nowhere and hurled him like a rag doll down the dark brick passageway. He was barely able to come to his senses when he saw the tall, shadowy figure loom above him. The gleaming skull on The Spectre’s mask was all that was visible of his black-​cloaked form.

The stories were true, thought Cherry Nose. The Devil had surely come for his soul. There would be no escape.

But that didn’t prevent him from trying.

Cherry Nose scurried to his feet and ran full bore down the dark alley. He never stopped to look back as he navigated the tight turns, banged his shoulder on one corner and scraped his knee on another.

Finally, he reached a dead end. It was there he would either have to give up the ghost or make his stand. He chose the latter.

Cherry Nose reached into his shoulder holster and was relieved to find his .38 was still there. In all the commotion, he was sure that he had dropped it.

He stared back down the long alley. All he could do was look and wait for the demon to come. His breathing was hard and labored. And it wasn’t from running. He could feel his heart beat loudly inside his chest.

A shadow loomed over him. From above.

Cherry Nose only had a second to realize his mistake. He quickly swung around with his gun and fired upwards, the flash from his pistol belching out into the darkness above.

But it was no use.

His volley was answered by two .45s screeching back like angry dragons. The bullets ripped through Cherry Nose’s chest and neck and knocked him down to the snow-​covered stones beneath his feet.

His wide-​open eyes stared straight up to the heavens open as his warm, crimson blood dyed the cold, lily-​white snow that surrounded him like an angelic cloud.

He remained just like that until the Police found him a short while later, except for the worn card that was tucked in his lapel pocket.

A card marked with an “X.”

RECLUSIVE millionaire Brent Gregor sat in his wheelchair at the breakfast table and once again pondered the invitation that he held in his hand. As one of the wealthier residents of Lakeview Heights, he received a regular stream of invitations to the events hosted by the “blue blood set,” and had only in the past year begun to attend any of them.

But this particular invitation was of a very different sort. It was from the office of Mayor Eugene Barker: an invitation to the double execution of housewife Ruth Johnson and corset salesman Judd Gormon, who had conspired in (and blamed each other for) the murder of Ruth’s husband, Albert, the previous year.* Vicky Rose, reporter for the Daily Crusader, and The Black Spectre had aided in their capture and, after a sensational trial, both were sentenced to die in the electric chair. The state needed witnesses for each execution. The higher on the social ladder, the better.

The thought of it nagged him. As The Black Spectre, he’d already taken his share of lives in the name of justice. Just two nights earlier he’d killed the vicious gangland executioner “Cherry Nose” Caifano. But this was different. Or was it? It was a question he couldn’t answer. And that was what nagged him.

“Shall I tell the Mayor you will attend, Sir?” asked Bernard Worthington, his older, gentlemanly valet and confidante.

“I’m just not sure, Bernard,” Brent responded, lost in thought.

“Not sure how you feel about the execution, or not sure you want to attend?” Worthington asked.

“Both,” Brent replied.

“YOU have to let me go!” reporter Vicky Rose demanded as she plopped herself down on top of City Editor Frank Matson’s desk and thrust her face directly into his.

She might have been more intimidating had it not been for her lovely auburn hair and soft features. Frank just leaned back in his chair and shook his head. He liked it when she got mad. It made her a better reporter.

“No can do, Red,” he answered matter-​of-​factly. “An execution is no place for a woman. Besides, I thought you were against capital punishment?”

“Well, I am,” Vicky retorted, “but I helped solve this thing! I have to see this story through.”

“Even if I said yes,” Frank explained, “Mayor Barker’d never allow it. You can bet on that.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he’d realized where he’d made his mistake.

“So,” Vicky asked as she hopped back off the desk with that knowing tone in her voice, “if Mayor Barker says it’s on the up-​and-​up, then I can go, right?”

Frank didn’t even have time to answer before she whisked herself out of his office and the fast clacks of her heels echoed down the tiled hallway. There was no doubt about it. Come hell or high water, she was going.

He hoped it wasn’t the former.

“MISS ROSE to see you, Sir,” Bernard Worthington intoned as he led an anxious Vicky into the large study of the Gregor Mansion where Brent sat behind the great mahogany desk in his wheelchair. As usual, his eyes lit up at the sight of her.

He could tell immediately that this meeting was different. Normally, Vicky’s eyes wandered about her lush surroundings anytime she came to the mansion, having never gotten used to the overwhelming opulence. But this time, her eyes were locked on him.

“Brent, I need your help,” she quickly blurted out as she sat down. “I want to go to the execution, but Frank won’t let me unless I get an okay from the Mayor. What do you say?”

“By ‘the execution,’ you mean Ruth Johnson and Judd Gormon?” Brent asked to clarify.

“Yes, yes, of course!” Vicky trampled on his words as she answered. “What other execution is there?”

“But I thought you were against capital punishment?” Brent asked, rather puzzled.

“I am,” Vicky shot right back, letting her irritation with Frank get the best of her.

Then she stopped for just a moment to get her emotions in check. “Like I told Frank, this is my story and I have to see it to the end.”

Brent eased back in his wheelchair and clutched his chin. Vicky waited breathlessly for a moment before asking in a soft, pleading voice, “Will you call the Mayor for me, please?”

So, Brent thought, his decision had been made for him. If Vicky were going to attend the double execution, he would have to be there for her. He knew she certainly would not see it as such, but it would be that way just the same.

“Let me think it over,” Brent finally answered.

He could see the fire build within her eyes and could already hear the counter arguments coming from her lips about how it wasn’t right to keep her from doing her job just because of her sex. He also knew that were he to tell her the truth about his decision that she would have probably leaped across his desk and kissed him. And as much as he wished for that day to come, he knew full well that this was certainly not the appropriate circumstance.

She would find out soon enough. After she’d gotten back to her office. And his decision was delivered to her in a message.

“Are you just telling me that, or are you really going to think it over?” Her suspicion was even more evident in her tone.

He leaned forward and looked her straight in the eye, just to make sure she didn’t doubt him. “Yes, I’m going to think it over.”

There was nothing left for Vicky to do except thank him graciously and hope for the best. She shook his hand gently and Brent savored her touch as Worthington returned and showed her out.

Brent took a deep breath and tried not to think of the circumstances under which he would see her again.

VICKY’S arrival at the prison death house was greeted with surprise and disbelief. Her chief rival newshounds, Charlie Hecht and Ben Gelbart of the Terminal City Standard, both shook their heads at the too-​familiar sound of her heels against the tile floor, followed by her triumphant smile as she sauntered through the door.

“Hello, Boys,” Vicky cooed to the tall, handsome and bespectacled Hecht. She always thought he looked more like a playwright than a newspaper reporter, but aside from her stories on The Black Spectre, it was usually a neck-​and-​neck race to see who got the headlines first. Somehow, when it came to The Spectre, there was never any contest.

Gelbart, the older and shorter of the two, took a long drag off of what was probably his twentieth cigarette of the day and asked, “So, who did you hustle to get in here?” The spin he put on the word “hustle” left no doubt as to what he meant.

“I didn’t ‘hustle’ anybody,” Vicky shot back. “There was no way anybody was keeping me off this story.”

This got Gelbart’s dander up, but Hecht stepped between them before it got any worse, only to lob another volley of his own. “Look, Doll, you don’t want to see this. You just don’t have the stomach for it. Trust me.”

“Don’t worry,” Vicky retorted as she pushed her way past him, “I’m man enough for it.”

Several hours passed as both Ruth Johnson and Judd Gormon were given their last meals, said their good-​byes, and were prayed over by the Chaplain. Soon, the time had crept well past midnight. The final hour was nigh.

WORTHINGTON pushed Brent’s wheelchair down the snowy walk and up to the small, red brick death house, where three Prison Guards leapt to his assistance and carried his chair up the stairs and inside. As soon as the two of them entered, Brent was immediately greeted by Mayor Barker who quickly dispatched an assistant to get them both coffee.

“Mr. Gregor, thank you for coming to do your civic duty on such a somber occasion. I thank you, and the city thanks you,” Mayor Barker intoned, sounding more like he was making a speech than a greeting.

Brent accepted his chubby and hearty handshake and the appreciation, as real as it may or may not have been. He remembered that Barker had taken office at the same time he had become The Black Spectre, following the murder of former Mayor Nibley. Barker was a consummate politician, and firmly within the grip and pocket of Mob Boss Vito “Spats” Gennaro. But Brent smiled anyway.

After the necessary pleasantries, Barker trundled off to shake a few more hands and Brent found himself in the sights of his own personal nemesis, Julius Kennelly II, who was already well intoxicated. Julius stumbled over to nudge him hello and spill a few drops on scotch on Brent’s shoulder. Julius paid no mind as Worthington dutifully cleaned it up with a handkerchief.

“Let’s hope we don’t see another ghost tonight, eh Brent?” Julius chuckled, referring to their neighborhood’s long-​standing childhood Halloween ritual of staring into the old, haunted Patterson house. Brent had only done it once and had actually seen a ghost, or something like it. This was the same night that he and his parents were shot.

Julius either didn’t remember or didn’t care.

“Let’s hope not,” was all that Brent could answer in return as he hoped that Julius would move back to the bar. Then Julius raised his glass and did just that.

Brent looked around for Vicky. Certainly she was there, and most likely with the Press. He would see her soon enough, but how he wished it were under different circumstances.

FRANK arrived at the Press Room with Thomas Delmont, whom he introduced to Hecht and Gelbart as another reporter “just in case,” nodding towards Vicky as he said it. Vicky would have taken great offense had she not known the truth. Delmont was actually a photographer and strapped to his leg was a small German-​built camera with a long tube than ran up his pants leg to a squeeze bulb in his pocket. Frank’s plan was for Delmont to snap a photo of Ruth in the chair just as she got the juice and then plaster it on the front page the very next morning.

“So, we all set?” Vicky asked Frank when they got a moment alone.

“Yeah,” Frank answered, anxiously. “Just help me make sure Tom gets on the front row, okay?”

FINALLY, the time came.

Worthington wheeled Brent into the rear of the death chamber along with the Mayor, Warden Kellman, and a dozen other prominent citizens that Brent knew personally or by reputation. Julius stumbled in at the tail end, determined to finish his drink before witnessing the event.

Vicky, Frank, and the other reporters filed in moments after them. Vicky and Brent both acknowledged each other with a simple nod. Hecht and Gelbart both noticed and nodded to each other.

It was a small, bare red-​brick room with an obvious focal point – the utilitarian chair made of hard wood and adorned with leather straps and wired with electric cables. On the right-​hand side, set off so that they didn’t have a direct view of the execution, were three rows of short “church pews.” On the right-​hand wall was a small window through which Brent could see a man only from the eyes up. This must be the Executioner, he thought. Next to the window was a plain, wooden door. Above it was posted a small sign that read “Silence.”

Vicky took a seat on the front row of the pews, then cringed and fanned her face as she moved to the back instead,  and offered her place to “fellow reporter” Tom Delmont. This struck Brent as a bit odd. He knew something was up. Delmont took the front row seat and crossed his legs with his ankle hoisted over his knee.

Worthington dutifully locked the wheels on Brent’s chair and asked if there were anything else he needed.

“Don’t worry,” Julius interrupted as he leaned over two others to answer Worthington, “I’ll keep him company.”

“No, I’ll be fine,” Brent replied quietly, then touched Worthington’s comforting hand as his friend and valet took leave.

Vicky noticed that Charlie Hecht did not look well. He had broken out into a cold sweat and tugged at his collar. When the Doctor, who’s job it was to confirm that the prisoners were, in fact, dead, entered the chamber, Hecht bolted for the door and nearly knocked the poor man down in his efforts to escape. Everyone closed their eyes and lowered their heads as Hecht vomited in the outside hallway.

The sound of it all did not do much for Julius, but he managed to hold it in. A personal triumph that clearly satisfied him.

Finally, the door behind through which they’d all come was closed (without Hecht’s return). Ruth was led into the chamber through the “Silence” door by two Prison Guards. Behind her was the Chaplain, his worn Bible clutched firmly in his hands. Her hands and feet were shackled.

Brent was surprised to see that her head was unshaven, until she was turned towards the chair and he saw that they had only shaved the back of her head, just enough for the electrodes. She was calm but had clearly spent much of the night crying. This was the first time that Brent had seen her in person. Even in her drab gray prison dress, Brent could see the faint sparks of beauty that had once attracted her husband, Albert, and bewitched her accomplice, Judd Gormon.

Ruth struggled lightly against the guards as they put her into the chair and strapped her down. Brent continually glanced between Ruth, Vicky, and Delmont, who at this point had shifted in his seat and put one hand in his pocket.

With Ruth secured, the Guard stepped back and the Chaplain said his final prayer. It was at that moment that Brent realized he had the power to stop the execution. Using the powers granted to him by the Spirit Force, he could stay the hand of the executioner and keep the electricity from being turned on. It was a weighty decision to be sure, but he quickly found himself right back asking the same questions he had asked himself only days before. Was this murder or was this justice? Was he just as guilty as Ruth? Or was that different?

He suddenly found himself plagued with these and other questions. Were he to save Ruth, what would happen then? Would they then execute her on another day? Would he have to douse the lights and whisk her away as The Black Spectre? And if so, what would he do after that? Where would he take her? What would happen when the lights came on and everyone saw that he was gone as well? Would he give away his identity? Would he truly set her free? She needed to pay for her crimes, but how? Could he have her locked up somewhere else?

His mind raced as he pondered these questions over and over. As much as he wanted to stop the executioner’s hand from pulling the switch, it was the unknown answers that kept him from acting immediately.

Brent looked over to Vicky, hoping to find some resolution. She sat silently and anxiously waited for the final moment to come. He knew that if he saved Ruth, that certainly she would approve. But did he really want to save Ruth to win Vicky’s heart? He knew that wasn’t the reason, but at the moment he wasn’t completely sure it wasn’t.

He wanted her to look back at him, to give him some sort of nod, a glance, or any kind of brief acknowledgement. She had no idea what he was thinking. She couldn’t. Looking to her was useless. He needed to make the decision on his own. Or not. To not act would be to decide.

He needed a moment to think. He needed control of the situation, not burdened with panic, forced to wonder what he should do and how many seconds he had left to decide.

He quickly scanned the room. Through the small window, he could still glimpse the Executioner. That was where the switch was. He closed his eyes and focused his thoughts upon it. He saw it there, felt it in his mind, and clutched it in his own mental grasp.

The Warden gave the nod, but when the Executioner threw the switch, it wouldn’t budge. Brent held it firm, free to truly consider his actions. Or so he thought.

He was still distracted. Warden Kellman nodded again, then stepped through the door himself to see what was the matter. The witnesses all grew restless and wondered just what was amiss.

Julius let out a very vocal, “What the hell?”

Vicky, Frank, and the other reporters whispered back and forth to each other. Tom Delmont shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Ruth tried to look around through her thick leather blindfold.

Brent had to shut everything out. He held a woman’s very life in his grip. Did he let her live or die? To give her hope at this moment seemed needlessly cruel. But he had to make up his mind.

Should he give her the same consideration she gave her own husband when she, Judd, or both of them, smashed Albert’s skull in with a sock full of quarters and then strangled what little life remained in him with a piece of piano wire?

Then another thought struck him.

Ruth’s life was only in his hands because he deemed it so. Were it not for his powers, he would have been seated there just the same as any other witness. Ruth Johnson put herself where she was. She gave no such consideration to her husband.

She murdered him.

Then she tried to blame it on others to collect the insurance money from the multiple policies that she had taken out on him. She had tried unsuccessfully to murder him three times before.

It was just too much to consider.

Brent released his grip on the switch. The executioner shoved it down with unexpected force. Ruth’s entire form tensed up as the electricity suddenly surged through her body. The lights overhead flickered on and off. Tom Delmont squeezed something in his pocket.

The executioner let the electricity flow for what seemed like an eternity. There was an audible sigh of relieved tension in the room when he finally turned it off. The smell of singed flesh filled the room.

Again, Julius was the most vocal to acknowledge it.

Brent opened his eyes to the gruesome sight before him. Ruth was dead. The Doctor stepped forward to confirm it, though it was obvious to all.

Brent looked down at Vicky. She sat silently, not saying a word. He wanted to comfort her, but knew he could not. He wished that Frank would, but Frank sat just as still.

The room remained quiet as the Doctor and two Guards loosened Ruth’s body from the chair. They laid her out on a stretcher, then quickly covered her with a sheet and carried her out. Then another Prisoner was led in to clean up afterwards.

As soon as the chair was ready, Judd was led into the death chamber and immediately reacted to the still-​lingering scent. His head was shaven and he put up much more of a struggle as he was strapped in.

Brent didn’t struggle this time, however. He was too emotionally exhausted. Besides, he’d already made his decision. He looked away and found himself glancing over at Julius. He’d passed out. Well, Brent thought to himself, perhaps Julius had the right idea after all.

Moments later, Judd Gormon was dead, too. Then, just as before, the Guards put him on a stretcher and carried him out, too. Finally, it was all over.

Brent kept his eyes on Vicky as everyone got up to file out into the hallway. She stood quietly behind Frank and Tom Delmont, whose leg appeared to have gone to sleep.

Gelbart leaned over to Vicky and smugly asked, “So, you still think this is any place for a woman?”

Vicky snapped back at him, “The hell with you! The hell with all of you!” and stormed out of the building.

“Guess that answers that,” Gelbart chuckled.

Frank would have decked him except that he was too anxious to get Delmont back to the office.

Brent watched as they quickly followed Vicky out.

Worthington stepped back into the room and reached down to unlock Brent’s wheelchair, then looked at him with surprise.

“Sir, how did your wheels become unlocked?” he asked.

“Please, just take me home, Worthington,” Brent replied quietly. Worthington nodded in obedience.

THE NEXT morning, Brent opened the morning issue of Daily Crusader to find a photo of Ruth, strapped into the electric chair, locked in the throes of death. It was a gruesome sight, and sure to sell thousands of papers.

So, he thought to himself, that’s what that fellow was hiding. Should have known.

It wasn’t much longer in the day before the phone rang and Worthington announced that Vicky was on the line.

“I didn’t get a chance to thank you,” she told him, though it sounded more like an apology. Then she went on to actually apologize for the doubt she displayed when she had come to see him, and especially for her outburst at the execution.

“No need to apologize,” Brent assured her. “I’ll always be there, whenever you need me.”

She was silent for a moment, then thanked him again before adding, “I should have known that.”

They had planned to go out together that night.  It was a business function and, as one of the most prominent attorneys in all of Terminal City, her husband, Cecil Davenport IV (heir to the Davenport fortune) always made an excellent impression with his young, beautiful wife dutifully at his side.  As such, their social calendar was always full – either going out on the town or hosting grand, lavish parties at home.  But she had come down with a headache just before they were to leave and had “with deep regrets” opted to stay home and retire early.  It had simply been an exhausting day.

Julia went into the sitting room with hopes of finishing the current novel that simply everyone was reading.  She would love to brag to her friends at lunch the next day that she had already completed it.  She curled up in her large Queen Anne chair and opened the tome to her bookmark. There was more left than she remembered.

She had been reading for some time when a man walked into the room

and began to peruse the shelves.  She thought it was Johnson, their manservant, and looked up with surprise to see that it wasn’t.  Nor was he a servant at all.  Julia dropped her book with a start and let out a small gasp.

He, in turn, wheeled around with a start himself.

Julia saw that he carried a large leather bag with handles that seemed rather full with several of their belongings.

He was a thief.

She stared straight at him with fear-​filled eyes.  A million thoughts raced through her head.  She glanced quickly towards the door and wondered if she could escape.  She wanted to call for her husband, but he wasn’t there.  She wanted to call for the servants.  She worried mostly for the baby.

He stopped her with a smile and an apology.

“Please, Mrs. Davenport, I’m so sorry.  I didn’t mean to frighten you.  I didn’t realize that you would be home.  My apologies.”

It was at that moment that she realized he had moved between her and the door.

“You have such a lovely home,” he continued.  “I just can’t help but admire it.  Please, don’t mind me.  I won’t be much longer.”

He went over to the other Queen Anne chair and sat down across from her.  She remained still in her chair, her eyes still locked on his.  He was very friendly, but she was too afraid to return his kindness.

“May I ask what you’re reading?” he inquired then reached down to pick her book up off the floor.  “Ah,” he reacted with a smile as he glanced at the spine, “Farewell, Lolly Shaffer.  Of course, everyone is reading it these days.  It’s quite the page-​turner.”

He cheerily handed the book back to her, careful to keep it open to where it had fallen.

“Hope you didn’t lose your place,” he said apologetically.  “Again, my deepest regrets for startling you.”

She stared back at him with fear and confusion then cautiously took the book back.

“Well,” he said courteously as he stood up and retrieved his bag.  “Don’t mean to take up any more of your time.  Do have a good evening and enjoy your book.  Without me rattling on and in your way, you just may finish it tonight.”

TRUE to her usual form, beautiful, auburn-​haired reporter Vicky Rose was on reclusive millionaire Brent Gregor’s doorstep early the next morning.  She was hot on the story, as was every other reporter in the city worth his salt.  But Vicky had an inside source that the other’s didn’t, a strong bond with someone who actually resided in Lakeview Heights, and she was determined to use it to her best advantage.

Bernard Worthington, Brent Gregor’s faithful manservant, led her into the warm, bright sunroom

where his employer was enjoying breakfast and reading the mail.  The room’s large windows and its position on the back side of the house always allowed for copious amounts of morning sunlight.  Vicky had only been in this room a few times before, and quickly let her eyes dart about to take in the details once again.  She could easily imagine herself having breakfast here every morning.

Brent sat in his wheelchair and pondered an invitation to a party from Julius Kennelly II.  The only thing that puzzled him more than why Julius would ever invite him was for what reason he would ever want to go.  But this was Lakeview Heights, after all, and appearances were far more important than childhood grudges.

“So, what can you tell me about the Davenport burglary last night? What’s the scoop up here on Nob Hill?” Vicky asked before even sitting down across from him.  Brent’s attention was lost in her eyes.

It didn’t matter.  She didn’t wait for him to answer.

“This is the ninth house now.  I mean, Lakeview Heights of all places! Who would have thought this neighborhood wasn’t safe? Nothing like this has happened since…”

Vicky stopped short on the thought.  She was letting her excitement get the best of her.  Brent’s grim expression was just the brick wall she needed.  She certainly didn’t want to remind him of the attack on his family fifteen years earlier.

“Well, in a long time,” she concluded quietly before changing gears.  “And for Mrs. Davenport to meet him like that.  Well, the story just couldn’t get any better.  Any chance you could get me in for an interview?”

Vicky gave him a sweet, coy smile.  It had the desired effect.

“I wish I could,” Brent offered, “but Cecil is rather protective.  He’s barely let the police talk to Julia.  She and the baby are already on a train to Florida.”

Vicky crossed her arms in frustration.  “You’re supposed to be my inside man here.  My connection,” she begged.

“Really, Vicky,” he explained. “If there was something I could do, I would.  But I promise, if anything else comes up, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Well, now that he’s shown his face, I suppose it’s only a matter of time before The Black Spectre gets him,” Vicky sighed.  “I just hope I’m there when it happens.”

“The Black Spectre?” Brent asked, puzzled.  “Doesn’t he only help the poor?”

“Usually,” Vicky replied, “but whoever The Spectre is, I know he’s a man of means.  So surely he won’t tolerate a thief in his own back yard.”

AFTER Vicky had left, Worthington wheeled Brent into the study where the young heir spread a map of Lakeview Heights across his father’s old mahogany desk.  He added a new “X” for the Davenport house and dated the entry.  The marked homes were scattered about in random fashion – some close together, others far apart.  There was just nothing that came to his mind, or Worthington’s, that could lead them to an answer.

“Look at this, Bernard,” said Brent, pointing to one cluster of three estates.  The outer two were crossed and dated, but not the center one.  “The Smiths and the Norsworthys have both been hit, but not the Goulds, who do so much dealing off-​the-​books that they’re bound to have a bundle of cash lying around, and they’re right between the two.  Instead, he moved on to the Davenports.  I just can’t figure it.”

“Certainly odd that,” Worthington agreed.

“There must be some pattern here, Bernard, but I’m afraid I just don’t see it.  What do they all have in common?” Brent pondered.

“Perhaps, Sir, you need some more information,” Worthington offered.

SPIDER MARKOWICZ was awakened sharply by the unearthly rumbling of his tattered and stained bed.  He grabbed the mattress with his small, bony fingers, thinking that the entire building was shaking.  He looked up with groggy eyes.  A dark figure loomed over him, silhouetted by the scant rays of the afternoon sun that crept through his window.  Spider let out a shriek.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, rubbing his head from the pains of a still-​lingering hangover.  “I thought you didn’t come out in the daytime.”

“Same as always,” The Black Spectre replied.  “I need answers.”

Spider stared up at the black mask adorned with the gleaming white skull

shadowed by the wide-​brimmed black hat and framed by the long, blood-​red scarf that hung to one side.  The sight of it still unnerved him.

“I want to know who’s behind the break-​ins at Lakeview Heights,” The Spectre grumbled emphatically.

“Who paid you off?” Spider asked with a nervous chuckle.  “You don’t usually work that end of town.”

Spider’s bed shook with a furious rumble that threatened to empty his stomach in every direction.

“Just tell me!” The Spectre demanded.

“Okay, okay,” the small man pleaded, holding his weakened stomach.  “Please, just don’t do that again.”

Spider took a deep breath and waited a moment to make sure that everything stayed down for the moment.

“I don’t know who it is, I swear.  But word on the street is it’s someone from out of town.  Spats and Whitey sure want to know, too, so they can get a piece of the action.  They don’t like nobody muscling in, you know?”

“Good job, Spider.  I knew I could count on you,” The Spectre replied, then vanished in an instant.

And with that, Spider raced to the hallway bathroom and surrendered to the inevitable.

WORTHINGTON checked in on Brent to find him once again pouring over the map in his study.

“I take it we’re not going out this evening, Sir?” Worthington asked.

Brent’s lack of response confirmed his suspicion.

“Would certainly make things easier if the Thief struck my house,” Brent mused.

“Yes,” Worthington agreed, “though I suppose the iron fences and armed guards make it a far less attractive prospect.”

Brent sat straight up in his wheelchair as a sudden thought struck him.

“That’s it,” he stated emphatically.  “You just found the answer, Bernard.”

“The answer, Sir?” Worthington asked.

“Yes, instead of looking at the houses that have been hit, I should have been looking at the ones that haven’t.  What do we all have in common?”

Worthington pondered the question.  Certainly theirs was the only house that was guarded like a fortress.  Then the answer hit his just as clearly as it had Brent.

“Of course, Sir.  We don’t have parties.”

VICKY pushed Brent’s wheelchair through the foyer and into the living room of the sprawling Kennelly mansion.  She tried her best to look comfortable, but she couldn’t help but stare at the Victorian opulence that surrounded her.  As despicable as she knew Julius Kennelly II to be, she thought she could learn to tolerate him in order to live in such a house.

“I’m not sure I belong here,” she whispered to Brent.  Even in her best dress, it was clear that her appearance didn’t measure up against the women around her.

“Don’t worry,” he reassured her.  “You’re the most beautiful woman in the room.  None of these men will care what you’re wearing.”

Vicky’s eyes lit up with surprise.  That was the first time Mr. Gregor had offered her such a compliment.  She was glad that her boyfriend, Denny, hadn’t been there to hear it.  Of course, Denny hadn’t been to keen on her evening out with Brent Gregor in the first place, working or not.

Brent, too, was surprised by his own forwardness.  He quickly changed the subject.

“Besides,” he continued,” You’re here for a story, aren’t you? Just do what you do best.”

Vicky straightened up and scanned the room again, this time looking at the faces of her fellow guests.  There were many she recognized, and just as many she didn’t.  If the Thief was there, she would have a hard time picking him out.

“Do you think he’ll even show his face again, now that he’s been seen?” she asked.

“I certainly hope so,” Brent answered.  “Since the Davenports won’t be here, I suspect he might.”

“Oh, my God!”  A booming, alcohol-​slurred voice echoed across the room.  “Brent Gregor!”

Julius Kennelly II stumbled, laughing with every step, towards Brent’s wheelchair.

“How in the hell did you get in here? Someone carry you up the steps?”  The room was mostly quiet save for Julius’ laughter.  He was always the funniest man in the room.  To himself, anyway.

Brent did his best to smile and offered a handshake.

“Hello, Julius.”

“I wouldn’t have invited you if I thought you’d actually come!”  Julius chuckled in response.  He looked up until his drunken gaze locked on Vicky.

“Who’s the dish, Brent? How’d you ever get a date with her, huh?  She like sitting down?”  Julius smirked at his own wit then twisted his expression in thought.  “You look familiar, Doll.”

Vicky smiled at him graciously.  “Victoria Rose,” she introduced herself.  “Daily Crusader.  Nice to see you again, Mr. Kennelly.”

“Right, right….”  Julius smiled with suspicion as his foggy memory suddenly achieved a degree of clarity.  Particularly about the circumstances under which he’d met her before.

“What are you up to, Brent?”

“Not a thing,” Brent smiled back.  “Just being neighborly, that’s all.”

“Well,” Julius slurred, “you two have a good time.  And if you want to have a better time,” he said to Vicky, you come find me, okay?”  Julius gave her a quick wink, then stumbled off towards his disapproving wife.

Just then, Vicky felt a familiar chill.  There was another “intruder” at the party as well, she was sure of it.  She quickly glanced around, though she would have been more surprised had she actually seen him.  But he was there, no doubt.  The Black Spectre was definitely there.

“Everything all right?”  Brent asked.

“Just fine,” Vicky reassured him.  “Just thought I recognized someone.”

BRENT and Vicky spent the next several hours moving from room to room, mingling, making small talk, yet all the while observing.  Occasionally they split up then met back together to compare notes.  Brent worried about the length of time they remained at the party.  For someone who was well known for rarely attending social gatherings, he didn’t want to arouse suspicion by staying longer than he would have otherwise.

But one of the guests had caught his attention.  After they rejoined in Julius’ sprawling library filled with a vast array of clearly unread leather-​bound volumes (and with only a handful of other guests), Brent offered up his suspicions as he directed her attention to his quarry.

“You see that tall fellow over there?”  he asked.  “The tall blond man with the friendly expression?”

“Yes,” she answered, “he’s been here most of the night.  Seems a bit of a wallflower.  He’s probably the only man here who hasn’t whistled at me.”

“Exactly.”  Brent told her.  “Watch his hands.”

Vicky watched the Blond Man peruse the many shelves, though he seemed far more interested in the various artifacts on display rather than the books themselves.  Then she noticed him casually raise a cupped hand and appear to quickly jot something down.

“He’s making notes!” she whispered quietly.

“I’m willing to bet my family fortune that this house is where our neighborhood burglar strikes next.  If you want to catch him, I suggest camping out here the next time the Kennellys are out for the evening.”

The return of a familiar chill told her that she would not be alone.

VICKY had never broken into a mansion before, but there was always a first time for everything.  She was just glad that the Kennelly estate wasn’t nearly as protected as the Gregor Mansion.  She was certain she’d never steal her way into a place so thoroughly protected as that.  Not without using her feminine wiles, of course.

Finding the service road that led to the back of the estate, she drove around to the service gate.  No doubt where liquor deliveries were a regular occurrence.  After parking quietly behind the servant’s garage, she took a quick look around and made for the rear gate.

It was high and made of black-​painted wrought iron.  Certainly scalable, but none too easy.  Particularly for her.  She was certain that The Black Spectre would be there, too, and was ready for him to show at any moment.  Preferably, before she attempted to climb the fence.

After taking another look at the bars, she wondered if perhaps she could just squeeze through.  They were widely spaced and she was thin.  If she could get her head through, she thought she might be able to squeeze all the way.  It was worth a try.  Or so she thought.

She put her head up against the bars to test her theory.  It was close, but the last thing she wanted to do was get stuck.  She pressed a little closer.  A rather tight fit.  Tough decision.  But nothing was going to get in her way of getting this story.

She pressed her head more firmly between the bars.  It was much tighter than she thought.  If she pushed a little harder, she might make it through or be stuck there for days on end.  Not an attractive prospect.

“Mind if I help?”  asked The Black Spectre.

She jerked her head free with a start and scraped the side of her face.

“Oh! You startled me!” she gasped, feeling rather embarrassed.  Now she really wished he’d arrived sooner.

“Here,” he said, and offered a red kerchief to wipe away the trickle of blood that ran down her delicate face.

“Thank you,” she smiled and held the kerchief to the side of her face.  It was silk, just as she suspected.  More proof that he was a man of means.  “I could really use some assistance.  If you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” he said, then moved closer to her.

She looked straight up into the dark caverns for eyes that adorned his mask.  She reacted with another start and her heart skipped a beat when he took her firmly by the small of her waist.

Before she could even make a sound of protest, she felt the strange numbing sensation she’d felt when he’d lifted her before.  She quickly grabbed his shoulders as she felt her feet slip from the ground.  They rose gently into the air and she felt the two of them glide like a feather on the wind as they drifted over the fence.  They hovered in the air momentarily before descending softly down to the earth on the other side.

Vicky caught her breath then collected her thoughts before noticing the locked gate just a few feet from them.

“You could have just unlocked the gate, you know?”  she said smartly.

“Yes,” he answered, “but this was more fun.”

Her slight smile showed that she agreed.

VICKY nestled quietly in one of the Kennelly’s large, comfortable den chairs and waited patiently.  Even with the lights off and having been spent a reasonable amount of time there during the party, the room didn’t fail to impress her.  It was a high-​ceilinged room well furnished with Victorian furniture, high windows adorned with heavy curtains, and small tables and shelves containing many artifacts from Julius’ frequent travels.  There were plates, cups, bowls and figurines from lands near and far, such as Mexico, Peru, Japan, India, and Egypt.  On the mahogany lamp table next to her, there was a miniature globe with the continents stamped from gold leafing.  On another shelf behind The Spectre, there was a collection of scrimshaw: images of ships carved into whale’s teeth and items carved from them, such as walking sticks and pie crimpers.

If The Black Spectre hadn’t been there, she certainly would have explored most of the house and possibly even tried on some of Mrs. Kennelly’s fur coats.  Spectre or no, that still wasn’t out of the question.

The silent figure of The Black Spectre sat across from her and just stared straight back.  Or, at least, that’s what she thought.  With his mask on, it was impossible to tell just what had his attention.  Curiosity and reporter’s instincts got the best of her. If she was going to spend all this time alone with him (and not explore the house), she’d better well make the most of it.

“So, who are you really?”  she asked playfully.

“The Black Spectre,” he answered, matter-​of-​factly and offered nothing more.

“Well, I know a few things about you,” she teased.

“Oh?”  he asked, curious.

“Definitely,” she answered.  “First of all, there’s the whole ‘X’ thing.  I’ve thought about this one a lot.  Could be that Three-​Finger Ned Vogel killed someone close to you, so you took his mark to get back at him.”

She was right on target with that one, but The Spectre stayed silent and stoic so as not to betray himself.  Vicky watched carefully for a reaction, but there was none.

“Or,” she continued, “you could just be a copycat.”

Brent shifted ever so slightly to purposely display a sense of discomfort.  Vicky displayed a sly smile.  She was sure that she was getting somewhere.

“I also know that you’re very well off.  Your bulletproof car and the fact that you have a driver gave that away.  Not to mention the silk handkerchief.  You probably even live in this neighborhood.”

“Oh?”  he asked.

“Well, I didn’t hear you drive over here, for one,” she offered.

“Have you ever heard me walk?”  he asked.

“No,” she answered reluctantly.

“Then who’s to say I can’t do the same with a car?” he asked.

“Okay,” she admitted with a furrowed brow.  “You got me on that one.  But since you are rich, it only makes sense that you live here.”

“Okay then,” he challenged as he sat forward, “who do you think I am?”

Vicky sat up, enticed by the game.  It was something to which she’d given a great deal of thought.  She’d never had enough information to come to a firm conclusion, but by questioning The Spectre directly, she thought he might offer some clue that could reveal his true identity.

“Well,” she reasoned, “clearly you’re a reasonably young man, so that narrows it down somewhat.  “So let’s see, you could be Julius Kennelly for starters.  The drunken, womanizing, cheating, chauvinist, absolutely loathsome, criminal bore would be an excellent cover….”  She threw out as many negative adjectives as she could and studied his reaction.

There was none.

“Okay,” she continued, “Who else have we got?  There’s Cecil Davenport IV, Walter Reardon Smith, Johnson Norsworthy, William Wentworth….”

The Spectre was glad that she couldn’t see him smile beneath his mask.  He hadn’t seen Billy Wentworth in years, but thoughts of Billy always led to thoughts of Abbie.  And that most definitely would have betrayed his identity.

Vicky studied him again, waiting for something, anything to show that she was on the right track.

But there was nothing.

“Well,” she continued, an air of frustration coloring her voice, “the only person who even acts like he could be you is Brent Gregor, but that’s not even a possibility.”

Once again, he was glad that she couldn’t see him smile beneath his mask.

She was about to continue when The Spectre held up his hand and stopped to listen intently.  That was when she heard the footsteps, too.

Someone else was in the house.

In one silent, graceful move, The Spectre floated quickly from his chair and, taking her into his cloak, pulled the two of them back into a dark corner.  She felt the same numbness as when he had lifted her before, but much more so felt the warmth and security of being held in his arms.  Not knowing what to expect next, it was exactly where she wanted to be.

They waited and watched the doorway ahead of them.  Soon they saw the dark silhouette of a tall man carrying a large, handled bag.  As he stepped into the light from a window, his features became visible.

It was the man from the party.

In his other hand was a piece of paper.  As he strolled into the room, he went directly to a set of shelves in the corner.  He seemed to know exactly where he was going.  He set his large bag down on a nearby chair and quickly plucked a neatly folded bundle of kerchiefs from it.  He casually draped them across his arm as a waiter would a wine towel then, with careful precision, wrapped each dish and placed it in the bag.

After he had removed all of the foreign dishware, he consulted the paper, retrieved a pencil from behind his ear and checked them off his list.  From there he went straight to the gold-​leaf globe and carefully bagged it as well.

As he was about to move to the scrimshaw, he was startled to see the frightening figure of The Black Spectre looming before him.

“Oh, heavens!” he gasped, touched his heart and leaped back.  “You gave me such a start!” With a quick glance around, he assessed his situation.  “Looks like I’ve been caught, haven’t I?”

Vicky stepped out from behind The Spectre.  If she didn’t get any closer to discerning his identity, this certainly made up for it.  She would have quite a good story for City Editor Frank Matson in the morning.

“Well, hello there!” the Thief said with a smile when he saw her.  Now this is a most welcome surprise.  Quite pleased to make your acquaintance.”

MRS. DENNIS MCKAY, a pretty young schoolteacher expecting her first child, was quite startled when she heard a loud knock on the door of the tiny, sparse Crawfordsville apartment that she shared with her husband.  Particularly when a gruff voice on the other side shouted “Police!” and requested her to open it.

She rushed to the door and did so, where she was equally startled to see the large, grizzled figure of Detective Shayne, accompanied by two of his uniformed officers, as well as Bill Hammond, the Crawfordsville Sheriff.  She worried immediately for her husband, from whom she hadn’t heard since he went out of town two days earlier.

Det. Shayne removed his hat and offered a quick apology upon seeing her condition.  “Pardon me, Ma’am.”

“Sorry to bother you, Evelyn,” Sheriff Hammond offered as he stepped forward, “but these officers came out here from Terminal City and they need to ask you a few questions.  It’s about Dennis, I’m afraid.  But don’t worry, he’s just fine.”

Mrs. McKay’s face went flush anyway and she motioned politely for them to come in.  She was relieved to know that her husband was safe, but knew that he must be in some terrible trouble for the Terminal City police to drive the nearly three hours to get there.

Detective Shayne was polite but still straight to the point as he asked her a round of questions, mostly about her husband’s activities when he was out of town (which, of course, she knew nothing about) and whether or not he had a storage unit of any kind.  She affirmed that he did and led them to a large closet in the spare bedroom that he kept secured with two padlocks.  She’d always wondered what was in that closet that had to be locked so tightly, but her husband would never say.  Now, she wondered if perhaps she didn’t want to know.

Detective Shayne had one of his officers retrieve the fire axe from the outside hallway, then asked her to stand back and proceeded to chop his way into the cabinet.  After breaking the locked handles off of the doors, they pulled them apart to reveal what was inside.  There, stacked quite neatly on the shelves was a small fortune in jewels and other very expensive treasures from her husband’s many forays into thievery.  Mrs. McKay clutched her heart in shock.  Sheriff Hammond caught her when her legs gave way and directed her to a chair.

She’d had no idea.

Detective Shayne stepped in for a closer look.  That was all the evidence that they needed.  But what grabbed his attention even more was the large “X” drawn on the inside of the left cabinet door.

The last place he wanted to go was home, However. His wife, Ruth, would be there waiting, though certainly not glad to see him. She had been an innocent, pretty young girl when they were married nearly twenty years Earlier. But the truth was that they had little in common and really didn’t much enjoy each other’s company.

Not that they ever did.

It was only a few Block’s walk to their apartment on the South Side of Terminal City. Albert took his time, enjoyed the night air, then stopped off at O’Doule’s Bar for a hearty drink. He’d only intended to stay for a short while, but the quiet solitude of the bar at that Late hour was too enticing. It was nearly two in the morning before the barkeep finally nudged him from his stool and made him face the uninviting prospect of completing his walk home. It was a warm June night And he found himself wishing that he had a hammock and a back yard (with trees) in which to string it.

After he stumbled up the long staircase inside their brownstone building and stopped more than once to Catch his breath and exhale a healthy belch, Albert finally opened the door and walked into the dim, modestly furnished apartment. It was comfortable enough and, other than the back yard, was all that he cared to have. He listened for a moment, then quietly called out for Ruth. There was no answer. Good, he thought, she’s already gone to bed. He wouldn’t have to answer for his late arrival.

Not until morning, anyway.

He stopped halfway to the bedroom to admire the portrait of his beautiful Jessalyn that hung over the fireplace. Even in the dim lamplight of the room, her youthful, innocent beauty shone like a beacon in the night. How he missed her. Ruth had asked him many times to take the portrait down, and had even done so herself on several occasions, but Albert had always insisted that that portrait remain. It was the one thing in his house on which he stood completely firm.

He walked on to the bedroom and slowly nudged the door so as not to wake Ruth. The last thing he wanted was to spoil the continued peacefulness. As he slowly creaked the door open, a dim shaft of light from the room behind him, broken only by his own shadow, fell across the bed.

It was empty and unmade.

“Ruth?” he asked again quietly. There was no answer. This was most puzzling. Not at all what he expected.

“Ruth?” he asked once more, just a bit louder. In that moment, his puzzlement shifted to worry.

As he stepped further through the doorway, he noticed her clothing on the floor. Then his mind raced in a different direction. He looked at the closet. He’d had suspicions about Ruth before, but he’d always dismissed them. Not his Ruth. Of course they had long been unhappy, but he was convinced that she was too much of a lady to do such a thing.

He only managed to take one step towards the closet before he was bashed in the back of the head with something heavy. Albert crumbled to the creaky wooden floor and watched his blood spill around his hands before the second blow made it impossible for him to react in any fashion. He lay as limp as a rag doll with only enough feeling to sense a string of wire loop around his neck from behind. The only sensation he felt in those last few moments was gasping for air as he choked to death.

AUBURN-​HAIRED reporter Vicky Rose arrived at the Johnson’s apartment only minutes after the police did. Her editor, Frank Matson, had greased enough palms in City Hall to get the first scoop on major stories and, better still, quick access to crime scenes. On this very early morning, it had paid off royally.

She’d dashed out of her apartment right after Frank’s call, putting on her make-​up as she drove. As determined as she was to equal any man on the job, she was just as determined to never to let them forget she was a woman.

Vicky managed a good back-​row seat as the large, grizzled Detective Shayne consoled and questioned the victim’s wife. Mrs. Ruth Johnson was a bundle of tears as she attempted to describe the horrible situation. Vicky noticed that despite her growing years and waistline, Mrs. Johnson still maintained most of her youthful beauty.

This fact hadn’t escaped the police officers that surrounded her, either.

Nor did the fact that she was practically naked in her tattered corset (a rather fancy one at that).

“Please, Mrs. Johnson,” Detective Shayne pleaded, “just take your time and tell me what happened.”

“I came home late,” she sobbed, “Albert was working late, so I went out with the girls, you see? Anyway, I got home and saw that he still hadn’t come home. So, I went into the bedroom to get dressed for bed.”

Ruth broke down for another moment, then gathered her composure. Vicky dutifully jotted down every word as Ruth continued. “I heard someone come in the back door, through the kitchen. I just thought it was Albert, but couldn’t imagine why he would come in that way. I walked into the Kitchen to check and as soon as I went through the door, this dark, muscular hand covered my mouth. I tried to Scream, but he had me good. They drug me straight off to the spare bedroom, and that’s where they tied me up.”

She rubbed at the rope marks on her wrists as she choked up on the words.

“Did you say it was two men?” Det. Shayne asked.

She nodded, yes, unable to speak.

Vicky’s pencil hung in suspense over her pad.

“You said they were dark-​skinned. Were they negroes?” Det. Shayne asked further.

No, Ruth shook her head, then managed to get out, “They looked Italian. Well-​dressed.”

This didn’t surprise anyone in the room. Least of all Vicky, who perhaps knew more than anyone there about the Mob’s reach in Terminal City.

Ruth tried to continue, “That’s when they… they held me down and they…” She just couldn’t get the words out. She broke down again.

“It’s okay, Mrs. Johnson,” Det. Shayne consoled her. “You don’t have to go into that.”

Ruth Pleaded with them, “They took my jewelry! All of it. Even my wedding ring!” Then she fell into an inconsolable flood of tears.

Det. Shayne waited quietly as she sobbed some more, then finally managed to interject, “Why don’t you put something on and we’ll go down to the station.”

Ruth Johnson nodded in agreement, then proceeded to get dressed right then and there, with Det. Shayne and four Policemen still in the room. During her entire encounter with the police, she never asked for any privacy. For a modest housewife, she didn’t seem to have much shame. This struck Vicky as being rather peculiar.

As Det. Shayne and the police officers hustled Ruth out the front door, Vicky grabbed the opportunity to get a look at the other half of the Crime scene. Albert still lay on the bedroom floor where he’d been bludgeoned and strangled just a few hours Earlier, lying in a dark pool of his own blood. His skin was ash-​grey and his wide-​open eyes bulged at the sockets. It was a gruesome sight, but she’d seen worse and immediately snapped a few pictures, even though she knew Frank would never print Them.

VICKY mulled the experience over in her mind as she and her studious boyfriend Denny, who worked in the newspaper’s archives, sat in the Carousel Ice Cream Parlor later that evening, long after the afternoon edition had hit the streets. Denny could tell she was distracted by the way she pensively sipped at her usual double-​chocolate malt and just let the chocolate taste settle in her mouth. Before he could ask what had distracted her, she gave out the answer with a question of her own.

“Do I always assume the worst in people?” she asked. “Or do I just always see them at their worst?”

Denny only answered with a puzzled expression. Before he could ask for clarification, she provided it.

“I just wonder sometimes if this job is getting to me. Take this Ruth Johnson story today. Here this poor woman was tied up and who knows what else, then her husband is murdered right in the next Room, and she’s left there all night until the landlady found her this morning. And all I can think about is if she’s not behind it in some way.”

“How on earth could you think that?” Denny asked.

Vicky rolled her soft Eyes. “This is going to sound loony, but the whole time she talked to the police, she was…” Vicky stumbled for the appropriate word. “Well, she wasn’t wearing much. I know she was distraught, but if it had been me, I still would have put something on.”

Vicky’s gaze immediately shifted from puzzlement to determination. Denny knew that look well. Before he could even react, she grabbed him by the hand and tugged him straight off the barstool.

“Come on,” she told him, “I’ve got to have another look at that crime scene.”

DENNY pleaded with her on the entire Drive over to the Johnson’s apartment building, but he knew it was futile. Vicky was determined and, as irregular as it may have been, she was going back for another look.

He barely managed to keep up with her as she charged up the three flights of stairs to the Johnson’s apartment. When he breathlessly reached the top, she was already Outside the Johnson’s door, waiting for him, and motioned for him to be quiet. He just nodded, too out of breath to speak, as he stepped up to the door next to her.

Vicky reached quietly for the doorknob, then stopped short as a sudden thought struck her. She looked up at Denny, her eyes wide.

“We may not be alone,” she told him.

“What?” Denny asked, then immediately got his answer as the door swung open – they were both pulled quickly inside and it closed straight behind Them.

Denny tried to blurt something out, but the black-​gloved hand that covered his mouth prevented him from making a sound. He was unable to move as well. His entire body was held firm by much more than the dark, enveloping shadow of a figure that stood behind him. He almost felt numb from the sensation.

Suddenly thinking of Vicky, Denny looked up to see her standing in front of him, her arms Crossed, her expression even more so.

“Let him go,” she commanded their unseen attacker. “Sorry, Denny, I was just about to warn you.”

“Only if he promises not to scream,” The Black Spectre replied as he released his grip, both physical and mental.

Denny jerked away and quickly swung his gangly form around to get his very first look at The Black Spectre. He also tried to catch his breath without being noticed. Up until that moment, Denny hadn’t really believed that The Spectre was real, despite Vicky’s many encounters with him in the past. He just had to see for himself to be convinced.

The Spectre was exactly as Vicky had described him – the flowing black cloak, the wide-​brimmed hat, the black mask that bore the glowing image of a skull with dark recesses for eyes. And for some strange reason, Denny suddenly felt that he’d encountered The Spectre before.

“So, what are you doing here?” Vicky shot back as Denny straightened up in an unsuccessful attempt to look formidable.

“You have to ask?” The Black Spectre replied as he moved around her like smoke in a soft breeze. As always, he was thankful for the mask that hid the joy in his eyes upon seeing her, especially under such circumstances. What gave him more satisfaction than the task of solving the crime at hand was the knowledge that she, too, would return to the scene to investigate further. She’d barely mentioned the undressed state of Mrs. Johnson in her article, but the doubt of Ruth’s innocence was clear in her few, well-​chosen words. Their minds clearly thought alike and he treasured the time he had with her.

A similar thought had occurred to Vicky, as well, Only she didn’t find it nearly as comforting. I do assume the worst, she mused to herself. Just like The Black Spectre.

“Come here,” The Spectre continued, “I want to show you something.” He reached out a gloved hand for hers, but she took Denny’s instead.

“This is Denny, my boyfriend,” she said emphatically.

“I know,” The Spectre replied.

The Spectre led them into to the bedroom. Denny paused for a quick look at the portrait of the lovely young girl that hung over the fireplace. Something about that photo looked very familiar to him. A quick tug from Vicky propelled him to follow. He stopped short with a gasp as soon as he saw the blood-​stained chalk outline on the dark wooden floor.

“I really don’t think we should be here,” Denny stuttered.

“I don’t leave footprints,” The Spectre assured him as he floated gracefully over to the bed. With a wave of his hand, the corner of the Mattress lifted just enough to reveal a small bundle tied in a handkerchief.

“What’s that?” Vicky asked, though her suspicions already told her the answer.

“Ruth Johnson’s missing jewels,” The Spectre replied. “I wonder how Albert was set up for insurance.”

“She murdered him?” Denny exclaimed, much too loud.

Vicky quickly shushed him to be quiet and Denny just as quickly apologized.

“But she was found tied up in the other room,” Vicky countered. “She must have had help.”

“Exactly,” The Spectre agreed as he moved silently over to the wardrobe and with another slight gesture, opened it up to reveal Ruth’s lingerie and several new, expensive corsets.

“I really don’t think we should be in there,” Denny stammered emphatically.

Vicky stepped forward for a closer look. “Lot of expensive corsets for a middle-​class housewife. Wonder where she got these?”

“That, I believe, is the question,” The Spectre replied as he produced a business card just like a magician reveals a playing card for his audience. “Judd Gormon, Corset Salesman.”

Vicky quickly took the card from him and found a handwritten phone number and the name of a hotel scrawled at the bottom.

“I think this part is for me,” she told him.

“There’s just one thing that still puzzles me,” The Spectre stated as he moved back through the doorway and into the living room. Vicky and Denny quickly followed close behind. He stopped in front of the portrait that had moments earlier caught Denny’s attention.

“Who is this girl?” The Spectre asked. “Why put her photo in a place of such prominence? The only picture of Ruth is in that small frame over on the lamp table.”

“I don’t know,” Vicky replied. “The police were wondering about that, too.”

“Jessalyn Guilfoyle!” Denny blurted out. Both Vicky and The Spectre quickly turned around in surprise. Denny scratched the back of his head as he struggled to pull the thoughts out.

“It was, gosh… had to be fifteen years ago almost,” Denny added. “They were engaged, then she got sick and poor thing died before they were married.”

Vicky smiled at Denny, very impressed. He smiled back.

“Ran across that one back when we were looking for that Thomas Gregor story,” Denny explained. “That name just kind of sticks with you.”

That was when she and Denny first met. Vicky’s smile grew just a bit wider. His did, too.

The Black Spectre was glad that his mask hid the pain that was surely visible on his face at that moment.

Vicky pondered another thought. “Wait a minute, the police found a monogrammed pin on the floor, with the initials ‘J.G.’; Judd Gormon or Jessalyn Guilfoyle?”

“I’d say it’s time we found out,” chimed Denny, as his confidence got the better of him.

“Poor Ruth,” Vicky shook her head, looking back at the portrait as they left. “No wonder she killed him.”

JUDD GORMON quickly packed his suitcase and practically jumped out of his skin when there was a light knock at the door of his hotel room. He’d been waiting all day for a call and had become completely unnerved by that time. He quickly rushed to the door and leaned against it. He wondered if he should even answer, but the knock had been too soft to be the police.

He quickly bent down to the floor and looked through the thin gap between the door and the threshold. He could just make out a slender pair of women’s high-​heeled shoes.

Certainly not the police.

“Yes?” he asked nervously, hoping to hear Ruth’s voice on the other side. But it wasn’t Ruth.

“Mr. Gormon,” a lovely female voice answered, “I’m so sorry to bother you at this late hour, but I was really hoping to catch you before you left town again.”

“Excuse me?” Judd asked and swallowed hard.

“This is Judd Gormon, the corset salesman, isn’t it?” the friendly young woman asked.

“Why yes, yes it is,” Judd answered as he collected his nerves, unlocked the door, and opened it just far enough to peer out. Through the crack he could see the shining, smiling face of a lovely auburn-​haired young woman. What he couldn’t see was the lanky young man that watched from the far end of the hall.

“Oh, thank you!” she exclaimed. “I was afraid I had gotten the wrong room. Forgive me for being rude to barge in like this. I’m Mrs. Vicky Morris. Would it be possible for me to come in and see your selection?”

“Why, yes, please do,” Judd answered, relieved, and opened the door wider. He could have sworn he felt a light breeze as she walked smartly into his hotel room, as if something had brushed past him. He wasted no time in locking the door behind her.

As Judd got a better look at Vicky, he was surprised he didn’t recognize her as a prospect. As a traveling salesman, he gave out so many cards it was hard to keep track, but thought surely he would have remembered her.

As always, Vicky immediately took in the details of her quarry. He was a large strapping man, with sinewy hands that seemed to defy his profession. He was certainly strong enough to kill a man like Albert Johnson. And a woman like her all too easily. As soon as Vicky looked away from studying his form, she spied the open suitcase on the bed.

“Well, my heavens, it looks like I’ve come just in time,” she remarked.

“Yes, you just managed to catch me,” Judd confirmed as he went over to a large travel case in which he kept his sales models. Vicky fanned her face with embarrassment.

“Mercy!” Vicky exclaimed. “I never thought I’d see the day when I was alone with a man in a strange hotel room looking at ladies’ undergarments.”

“Please,” Judd reassured her with a calm voice as his gaze traveled the length of her slender waist, “don’t be embarrassed. Though I can’t imagine why you would need a corset.”

“I wanted to get something special for my husband, you understand,” she lied convincingly. “It’s our anniversary this week.”

As Judd’s gaze made its way down her legs, Vicky noted two small holes in the center of his tie. Just the size of a monogrammed pin. She then gave a quick glance through the bathroom doorway. She couldn’t see The Spectre, but she knew he was there.

The Black Spectre listened to their conversation as he searched the bathroom. He carefully scanned the edges of the sink and tub. Sure enough, there were traces of blood along the edge of the sink basin. Then he checked the garbage pail where he found a bus ticket that was stamped at 3:12 a.m. the previous night, just a short time after Albert Johnson was murdered.

Vicky gave another glance through the bathroom doorway as Judd showed her the last of his corsets. It wasn’t quite quick enough, however, because Judd noticed and paranoia quickly got the best of him.

“What’s going on here?” he asked. “Why do you keep looking in there?”

Vicky smiled back at him reassuringly, “No reason. Like I said before, I’m just a little nervous about being in a strange hotel room with a man I’ve just met. It’s not proper, you know.”

Judd grunted in acknowledgement as he casually moved towards his suitcase. His eyes were locked on hers, and hers on him. She knew The Spectre would protect her, but she didn’t know about Judd. He’d clubbed and strangled his lover’s husband just a few hours earlier. Most likely, he’d be willing to do most anything to escape the chair.

Vicky’s instincts were correct. As soon as Judd reached his suitcase, he quickly reached inside and grabbed a small pistol from under his shirts. Vicky let out a loud shriek that was immediately followed by Denny calling her name from out in the hall. Vicky knew right then and there that her life was in the hands of two men: Judd Gormon and The Black Spectre.

Judd aimed his pistol straight at Vicky and shouted to the door as Denny tried unsuccessfully to break it down. “Stop it right now, or the dame gets it!”

“Okay! Okay!” Denny shouted from outside and immediately ceased his attempts to enter.

Vicky watched nervously as Judd snapped his suitcase shut and never took his eyes off her. If The Spectre were going to act, she thought, this would be a good time.

“Who are you people?” Judd asked. “Where’s Ruth? Tell me!” he demanded, shaking his gun for emphasis.

“The police have her,” Vicky answered nervously. “We found the jewels under the mattress. We’re with the Daily Crusader. The police are on their way here, right now.”

“Well, they aren’t here yet, are they?” Judd asked as he moved quickly to the door, his eyes still locked on her.

“You, out in the hall!” He shouted to Denny again, “get down on the floor with your hands on your head if you want her to live.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” came a voice behind him.

“Who’s that?” Judd asked, whisking around to face the bathroom door. “I knew someone was in there!”

The Black Spectre stood before him, one of his gleaming .45s drawn and aimed straight at Judd.

Judd shook his head in confusion, not believing what he was seeing. “I never thought you were real!” he stammered.

It’s about time, Vicky thought, as she frantically looked for a place to duck. Behind the bed was the best that she could do. She finally let herself breathe just a small sigh of relief at the sight of him. And then just one more when she heard the sound of sirens approach in the distance.

“So, the dame wasn’t lying, was she?” Judd chuckled as he raised the gun to his own head. The Spectre thrust out his empty hand just as Judd pulled the trigger. Judd suddenly felt his arm move up involuntarily and the shot fired into the ceiling. The blast echoed through the room with Vicky’s accompanying scream.

It was only a brief moment before Judd felt himself being knocked face-​first to the floor by an unseen force, his arms and hands held down by invisible weights. Then something equally unseen struck him across the back of the head. He had one last thought just before he blacked out: he was glad that he wasn’t being choked.

“SO, you found him just like this?” Det. Shayne asked as he stood with Vicky and Denny and examined the scene before him. Judd Gormon was sprawled out on the floor in much the same fashion as Albert Johnson had been, only he was unconscious and with a pistol in his hand.

As Det. Shayne looked over Judd, his officers searched the hotel room. In Judd’s suitcase, they found a bundle of love letters from Ruth. Love letters that spelled out their sordid plans and waxed rhapsodic about how much better their lives would be once Albert was out of the picture and they had collected his insurance.

“So,” Det. Shayne asked, “how’d you manage to put this all together?”

Vicky gave him a knowing smile as she took Denny’s arm and headed for the door.

“Sorry, Detective,” she told him, “you’ll just have to read all about it in tomorrow morning’s edition.”

Moments later, as Det. Shayne stood at the window and watched Vicky and Denny get in their car on the street below, another of his men found an important clue that had fallen under the bed.

“Sir, I found something else,” the officer told him as he handed it to the formidable Detective. It was a Judd Gormon’s card, with the name of the hotel and a phone number hand-​written at the bottom. Det. Shayne then flipped it over to find something else on the reverse.

It was an “X.”

Julius got up from the couch and stood, as he did each night before leaving, and gazed out of the large glass window. From his viewpoint high atop the Kennelly Building in Downtown Terminal City, he could see the whole metropolis stretched out before him. And each time he peered out, more of that city belonged to him. It was a very good feeling. Almost as good as seeing his own finely-​chiseled features reflected in the glass, perfectly superimposed over the landscape. To Julius, it looked just like a scene from a movie. One in which he was the author, producer, director, and star.

Julius snuffed out his barely smoked cigar and gave a call to his very personal secretary. He smiled as she knocked on the door, admired her long legs as she rushed in with his long overcoat, and gave her a firm pat on her shapely posterior for a job well done.

Before the words “Good night, Dorothy,” escape his lips, she was already on his phone calling down for his car. It, of course, would be there waiting for him before his private elevator reached the ground floor. Life was good for Julius Kennelly.

“Good night, Mr. Kennelly” rang like a chorus as he walked brusquely through the vast lobby that looked like it had been carved from marble by Rome’s greatest artisans. The Doorman echoed the final greeting as he held the door open for Julius to pass through.

While his car was there waiting as expected, something unexpected was there waiting for him, as well. Three large men in dark overcoats quickly surrounded him. From first glance, Julius quickly assumed that they worked for the Southside mob kingpin (and Julius’ sometime partner, out of necessity, of course), “Vito Spats” Gennaro. It was a very safe assumption. The leader of the three pulled his coat open to reveal a Tommy gun safely tucked inside.

“Mr. Kennelly, we been waiting for you,” the man spoke. “We’d like the pleasure of your company, if you don’t mind. What’dya say we go for a little ride?” He nodded towards their own car, which was parked in the center lane and blocked Julius’ limousine from leaving.

Julius well knew that with times being as tough as they were and Prohibition having been over for several years, the underworld had to find new and different ways to earn a living. Kidnapping was one of those ways. They didn’t seem a bit bothered by the number of witnesses who watched from the sidewalk and the lobby windows.

Julius gave an agreeable nod and did just as he was instructed. He got in their car and was quickly driven away. The Doorman, Julius’ Chauffer, and the other spectators watched with mouths agape until the long, dark car disappeared around the corner. The Doorman then immediately abandoned his post to call the police.

* * *

NEARLY a week later, auburn-​haired Daily Crusader Reporter Vicky Rose sat in editor Frank Matson’s office commiserating over their mutual frustration. Four days had passed since the Kennelly kidnapping, and there hadn’t been the first bit of news since. Vicky had tapped nearly all of her sources and hounded Detective Shayne nearly day and night, but no one was talking.

“John Brown it, Red, there’s got to be something by now,” Frank griped as he toyed with his ever-​present loosened tie.

“They’re all singing the same song, Frank,” she reminded him. “There’s been no ransom, no demands, no nothing.” She was just as frustrated as he was, if not more.

But what was even more puzzling was the lack of news from the other side, as well. “What I really don’t get is that Black Spectre character. I thought he would have flushed Kennelly out by now, but he’s been quieter than the Cops.”

Frank shook his head. “Think maybe he’s involved in this thing, too?”

“Who can say?” Vicky shrugged. While Vicky’d had her share of encounters with The Black Spectre, she still wasn’t sure just what side of the law he was on.

“Something’s behind all this, for sure,” Frank mused. Just can’t figure out how it all plays together. ”

Vicky flopped back in her chair and mulled over the scant details in her mind. “The only thing I’ve got is the timing. Kennelly’s got that subpoena that just came through from Kansas City. Just his luck that he was nabbed before it got here. You think he rigged this whole thing just to lay low?” she asked.

“Worth looking into,” Frank replied. “Tell you what, instead of shaking down the D.A.’s office, why don’t you tackle this thing from another angle?”

“How so?” Vicky asked.

“Tap into the Blue blood gossip line up there in Lakeview Heights. Those housewives and their maids up there could write a whole set of encyclopedias with all they know,” Frank instructed.

“Now, how’m I supposed to do that?” Vicky asked as she crossed her arms. “I don’t exactly travel in the ‘ladies-​who-​lunch’ circle.”

“Oh, yes, you do,” Frank reminded her.

* * *

VICKY didn’t need any further clarification. She already knew what he meant, even before the wink in his eye confirmed it. Despite the glacier pace at which this story was moving, she well-​knew that Frank expected her to jump right on it. She gave a quick call down to her boyfriend, Denny, in the paper’s archives, affectionately known as “the morgue,” to let him know she’d be late for their standing dinner date. She couldn’t tell if Denny was more disappointed about that or where she was going. Probably both. As much as she tried to reassure him, it never seemed to do much good. Denny had a jealous streak when it came to all matters regarding the wheelchair-​bound millionaire recluse Brent Gregor. He tried to play it down, but she could see it plain as day, and no matter how much she reassured him, he wasn’t about to let it go anytime soon.

Vicky drove straight over to the Gregor Mansion and was greeted warmly and gentlemanly, as always, by Bernard Worthington, Brent Gregor’s valet. Vicky did her usual once-​over of the mansion’s grand foyer, which always gave her a shiver. She could easily get very used to such a home.

Worthington ushered her straight into the library where Brent sat behind the desk in his wheelchair, reading, appropriately enough, the newspaper. Vicky’s smile quickly disappeared when she noticed it was the Standard.

“What’s wrong with the Crusader?” she asked.

“Not a thing,” Brent answered as his striking features gave way to a brief smile. “I like to read all the papers, actually. Of course, I always read the Crusader first.” He qave the paper a quick lift to reveal a rumpled copy of her stock-​and-​trade underneath.

“So, what exciting story are we chasing today?” Brent asked cheerfully. “And how can I help?”

“The Kennelly Kidnapping,” Vicky answered. She liked the way that sang off her lips. It had made for the perfect headline the week prior.

Brent’s smile faded from view, though Vicky barely noticed as she launched into her “take,” before finally pausing long enough to ask Brent his opinion.

“So, you think it’s the real deal, or did he rig the whole scenario?”

“I certainly wouldn’t put it past him,” Brent replied. “I’ve known Julius since we were kids, and believe me, there’s no level to which he won’t stoop. I’m afraid I haven’t heard anything like that, but I’d have to say it certainly sounds plausible.”

Quite plausible indeed. Brent had many bad memories involving Julius Kennelly, from being bullied on that fateful Halloween night so many years ago when his parents were shot, to having to endure Julius’ endless torments as he went to visit his mother in the Asylum.

“There’s the little crippled boy, going to visit his crazy mother again!” Young Julius’ words still echoed in the back of his mind just at the mention of Julius’ name.

“But you know what really has me puzzled?” Vicky continued. “Is why we haven’t heard anything from The Black Spectre. When little Annie Brookman was kidnapped, and even that Seamus O’Daughtry, he was right on the case and had them returned in no time. But this time, nothing.”

Careful not to let his conscience betray his own thoughts, Brent offered, “Perhaps this Spectre person only helps the poor and downtrodden. He’s always struck me as sort of a Robin Hood character.”

“Not hardly,” Vicky smirked, then shot back, “then why did he help Seamus O’Daughtry? Or help any of the others who weren’t exactly ‘downtrodden’?”

“Then tell me,” Brent asked, easing back in his chair, enticed at the thought of what he was about to hear. “Why do you think he’s been silent?”

Vicky twirled on her heel, then plopped down with both hands on his desk, looking him straight in the eye. Brent couldn’t help but notice yet again just how beautiful she was. Especially her eyes.

“I think he’s got something against Julius Kennelly. Who knows? Maybe if I find out what that is, I might find out who The Spectre is, too, huh? This could turn out to be quite a story after all.”

Vicky’s words rang over and over in his head long after she had left. She was right, of course. It was his own history with Julius that had kept him still. As soon as he heard the news, he just assumed that Julius was likely behind his own kidnapping. And even if he hadn’t been, all he had to do was pay the ransom and that would be the end of it. One criminal paying another.

As he wheeled himself around the desk, Vicky’s words rang over and over in his conscience. As much as he agreed with her, it was hard for him to feel for a man who had taunted him so much when they were children. Try as he might, he could never shake the echoes of Julius pressuring him to peer into the haunted Patterson mansion that terrible Halloween night, or his taunts in the years that followed as Worthington pushed his wheelchair to the car for one of his many visits to his mother in the Asylum. Worthington had always reminded him to be stoic and take the high road. But after becoming an adult and his own man, he found adhering to his butler’s advice a difficult thing to do.

“What do you think, Bernard?” Brent finally asked his manservant and most-​trusted advisor. “Is Vicky right?”

Worthington answered simply, “Were it someone else, what would you have done?”

* * *

SPIDER MARKOWICZ scooped up the shot glass from the bar in his small, bony fingers and tipped it right back. He’d only had enough money for one drink and as much as he wanted to savor it, he couldn’t help the urge to just swallow it right down. He needed the alcohol in his system, and it needed him.

Of course, the pleasure it brought him immediately faded when he saw the white “X” that had been marked on the bottom of the glass. He immediately felt a shiver, and it wasn’t from the bourbon. Quickly, he twirled around in his chair and scanned the seedy bar that engulfed him. He thought he’d be safe in there. But he knew, deep down, that he’d never be safe from The Black Spectre.

His little mind raced, wondering where to go. The bathroom? The alley, maybe? He could try to get away, but he knew it was futile. The Spectre would find him. That was the whole point. If he couldn’t hide from The Spectre, the best he could do was go where no one else could see him, either. The only thing worse than talking to The Spectre would be if certain people knew that he had.

Spider dropped a few bits on the bar and dashed out into the cold night. There was a backstreet just a few blocks away that led to a near maze of twisting alleyways and dead ends, that was ideal for such meetings. It was the perfect place to stay out of sight. And it had served his purposes many times before.

No sooner did he reach its dark recesses than he ran straight into the dark-​cloaked figure he was expecting. As always, The Spectre appeared from out of nowhere. Just like a ghost. Of course, that was the idea.

“What’dya want from me this time?” groused Spider. “You’re gonna get me killed one of these days.” Spider clutched his arm that had been broken at their first meeting.

“Where’s Julius Kennelly?” The Spectre asked, wasting no time.

Spider broke out into a fit of laughter. “What took you so long? I mean, everybody knows the guy’s no good, but come on! What’s the hold up?”

“Just tell me what you know,” The Spectre demanded.

“Word is, they got him down at the Dells,” Spider offered, still chuckling. “If you hurry, you might be able to catch up with that gal reporter from the Chronicle. Even she beat you to this one.”

* * *

WORRIED more for Vicky’s safety than anything else, The Spectre rushed back to where Worthington waited in the car just a short distance away, hidden from sight. As he jumped in, he ordered Worthington to speed quickly out of the city to the notorious roadhouse known as “the Dells.” Of course, The Spectre pondered as he found his doubts once more get hold of him. It was the ideal place for Julius to hide, with drink, gambling, and girls aplenty.

But what if Vicky had been right? What if Vito Spats really had been behind this? It was certainly just like the vile gangster to let the Kennelly family sweat it out for a while so that they would be more than willing to pay handsomely when the ransom came. Perhaps he’d let his own history with Julius cloud his thinking. Perhaps he’d made a terrible lapse in judgment.

When they reached the Dells, Worthington parked a good distance away, careful to stay hidden as always. The Spectre moved quickly through the shadows towards the lights and raucous sounds that seeped from the old, clapboard building. Again, he was most worried for Vicky, and hoped that he would find her before anyone else did.

The roadhouse, which sat well-​outside the city limits, was two-​story building with a tin roof and painted windows to keep prying eyes from gazing inside. Visitors who made it past the two or more men who manned the front door found themselves in a dimly-​lit saloon with a long oak bar, tables for drinking and gambling, and girls aplenty to keep the booze flowing and the customers happy. The jazz music filled the room was the only thing that spilled out into the night.

For a certain price, the happiest of those customers could retire upstairs with the bar girl of his choice to one of many second-​floor rooms that sat along a long, bare hallway, dimly lit by a single light fixture.

The Spectre surveyed the entrance from deep in the nearby shadows and found three of Vito Spat’s goons standing guard. They were well-​armed with pistols in their shoulder holsters, which they didn’t even try to hide. Just as he was about to move on to the rear of the building, the front door burst open and another of Gennaro’s men called for the three outside. The Spectre reached for his two .45s that he kept under his cloak, but he wouldn’t need them just yet. The three goons rushed back inside.

Something was amiss.

One solitary thought entered the Spectre’s mind.

“Vicky.”

Silently, The Spectre rushed to the back of the old building and scanned the premises. No guards in the back. There were several windows on the second story, all of which were dark. Fearing for Vicky, he quickly leaped to the second floor like a sudden gust of wind and through the one open window. Hands on his pistols, he was ready for whatever he would face there.

The dark figure of a woman turned sharply to face him, only to find one of his .45s aimed directly at her head. She gasped a short breath, not knowing if she should be more afraid of the armed, cloaked figure before her or the footsteps that rapidly approached in the hallway outside. In the pitch dark of the room, The Spectre could see the hint of her auburn hair and caught the familiar smell of her perfume.

It was Vicky. She, of course, had known who he was immediately.

They could hear Gennaro’s men approaching, knocking in one door after another as they worked their way down the hall in their searching for her. In a flash of movement, The Spectre reholstered his pistols and flug his hat into the chair. He grabbed Vicky in his arms and swung her onto the bed. He lay over her, holding her tight, protecting her, trapping her.

Somehow, she felt safe.

“Don’t say a word,” was all he said.

She only managed to give a quick nod before Gennaro’s men crashed into the room and spied the two figures entwined in a deep embrace.

“Hey!” The Spectre shouted.

The goons retreated quickly, closed the door, and moved on to the next room.

“Don’t move,” he told her.

The Spectre held her for a moment longer as he listened to the sounds outside and waited for their door to close all the way. Of course, he wished that this moment could have lasted much longer. Holding her, even for that moment, even though she didn’t know his true identity, felt like she belonged in his grasp.

She stared straight at his mask, wishing she could see the features underneath. The thought immediately struck her that she could just reach up and pull it away. She silently moved her hand as he watched the door, ready to grab the skull-​adorned mask that covered his features. One thought quickly entered her mind as she was about to touch the cloth – would she even know him?

The Spectre grabbed her hand and stared her dead in the eye.

“I told you not to move,” he admonished before leaping off the bed and retrieving his hat. In one swift, silent move, he backed against the door, his guns at the ready.

Vicky sat up on the bed like a dissatisfied mistress.  “So, where have you been?” she asked.

“I think the better question is how I get you out of here alive,” The Spectre shot back, putting his ear to the door to listen. Outside, they heard the goons make a sudden retreat and barrel back down the hall. He couldn’t be sure if any of them had stayed behind.

He moved back to the window and peered down. It was still clear, but most likely not for very long. They would have to move quickly.

The Spectre holstered one pistol and quickly grabbed Vicky around her shapely waist. Again, he couldn’t ignore the thought of how comfortably she fit there. It was a fleeting thought, however, because she just as quickly pushed him away.

“What about Kennelly?” she asked in a demanding whisper. “He’s right at the end of the hall.”

His conscience forced him to think once again.

“Is he a prisoner, or just hiding out?” The Spectre asked as matter-​of-​factly as he could.

“I don’t know,” Vicky responded. “I got a glimpse of him before I had to duck in here. “But don’t you want to find out for yourself? Isn’t that why you’re here?”

“Mostly,” The Spectre answered without further explanation. His quick glance at her eliminated the need for one.

He moved silently back to the door and, using the powers of the Spirit Force, inched it open just slightly, enough for him to peer into the hall. As he suspected, one of Gennaro’s goons stood guard outside the door at the far end. With another wave of his hand, the lightbulb in the hallway flickered out. The goon immediately took notice and walked over to check it. Before he knew what was happening, The Spectre was on him like the Angel of Death and left him unconscious on the floor of the darkened hallway.

The Spectre motioned for Vicky to follow as he glided silently to the end of the hall. Vicky looked curiously as he stood outside Julius’ door, listening, his pistols at the ready. Then she quickly joined him as instructed. Just as before, he grabbed her by the hand and pulled her into the safety of his cloak.

“Stay with me,” he instructed. She only had a second to nod before he went into action, carrying her with him.

There were several loud screams from the room when the lights suddenly went out and the door whisked open. Only a few caught a glimpse of the dark figure that moved swiftly inside and immediately retreated to the darkest corner. Gunshots rang out and the one goon left to keep watch over Julius Kennelly was lying dead on the floor.

When the door slammed shut and the lights came back on, Vicky found herself huddled beneath The Spectre, covering her ears. She still felt a strange sensation from being carried by his ghostly powers, her feet having never touched the floor. The Spectre had his guns aimed at a very surprised Julius Kennelly crouched on the bed. He was mostly undressed, with a five-​day shadow, and the company of three equally undressed young women who obviously worked at the Dells. The room was littered with empty beer bottles, snuffed cigar stubs, and a card game that had been interrupted by a more enticing activity.

“Thank goodness, you saved me!” Julius quickly blurted out, his bloodshot eyes searching for the right words to lie his way out of the situation.

“Just as I thought,” The Spectre answered, grabbing Vicky up again and moving for the window. They would only have but a minute before there was more gunfire.

Vicky dug her heels into the floor, urging him to stop.

“You’re not going to leave him here, are you?” she asked. “If you really want to punish him, the worst thing you can do is rescue him.”

Knowing she had a point and lacking the time to debate it, The Spectre gritted his teeth and grabbed Julius by the neck. The Spectre had heard the approaching footsteps outside the door. Vito’s goons had returned and it was time to deal with them instead.

Using his powers, The Spectre doused the lights again and forced Vicky, Julius, and the girls to the floor when the door flew open. The goons immediately opened fire into the room, with no concern for who may be caught in their gun sights. The women all screamed as a hail of gunfire ripped over their heads. Just as swiftly it was silent again, with the three goons lying dead in the doorway next to their revolvers. The Spectre was the only one left standing, his two .45s smoking from the dark corner.

There would be more coming in just moments. It was time to leave.

With a wave of The Spectre’s hand, the window went up and the black curtains parted. He grabbed Vicky and Julius again and sailed for the window. They both felt the strange sensation through their bodies as they floated effortlessly to the ground. A long, dark car was there waiting, its door already opened for them.

They only had a second to get inside before the door slammed shut and the car was riddled with gunfire from two more goons racing around the building with tommyguns. The bullets ricocheted off the glass and metal alike as the car sped out of the parking lot and disappeared into the night.

* * *

ONCE they were safely away and Vicky finally had a chance to catch her breath, she glanced around to examine her surroundings. The back of the car was cavernous, with two seats facing each other. Vicky and Julius sat with their backs to the driver, while The Spectre sat across from them shrouded in deep shadow. Vicky peered over her shoulder to get a look at the driver, hoping this would offer a clue as to The Spectre’s identity. Unfortunately, they were separated by a dark glass panel that obstructed her view. Only one thing was certain: The Spectre was a man of means.

“So, this is how you get around,” she said.

The Spectre’s mask did more than hide his identity as they made the long ride back to the city. It also hid his disgust at Julius Kennelly, who sat straight across from him, completely at his mercy.

“Thank you… uh, Sir. Lucky you came when you did. I don’t know how much longer they were going to keep me alive,” Julius continued his ruse. He was almost convincing.

This was the chance for which he had long waited. He had Julius firmly in his grasp. He could take revenge for all those years of torment and no one would be the wiser. But now, for the first time, he understood Worthington’s words. And Vicky’s too, for that matter. He would take the high road and drop Julius off at the police station.

“Lucky you,” The Spectre answered.

He had planned to take Vicky home last, but when they arrived at the station, she opted to get out as well. “Got a story to write,” she explained. “But thanks anyway.”

As Vicky climbed out of the long, armored, black car, she made as many mental notes as she could, though the license plate was blank. As it pulled slowly away, she secretly left a mark of lipstick along the rear fender. Perhaps one day she would see this car again. Perhaps the mark would still be there. Or at least a trace of it.

The next morning, when Vicky awoke in her apartment, she remembered that her car was still at the Dells. She would have to take a cab to work and arrange with Frank to have it picked up. But as she left the building, she was surprised to find her vehicle safely parked outside.

And on the fender an “X” was written.

In lipstick.

Feeling the alcohol work its way into his system, he glanced again out the window to the Orpheum Theater just down the street.  The doors would open soon to let the rich and influential step out among the masses for just a moment, then get in their expensive cars and ride back to their posh mansions in exclusive Lakeview Heights.

And Oscar Travers would be waiting.

Inside the Orpheum, the audience applauded as the curtains fell across the stage.  The sounds echoed through the small, but ornately-​crafted theater.  Brent Gregor clapped, too, from his wheelchair in Box Five.  As much as he enjoyed the show, a musical farce about love and mistaken-​identity, it only served to remind him that he was very much alone.  Of course, he had his faithful valet, Bernard Worthington, at his side – the only other living person who knew him as The Black Spectre.  But Brent longed for companionship of another kind, and those thoughts always led in the same direction. Vicky.

As the fates would have it, Victoria Rose, the headstrong, auburn-​haired reporter for the Daily Crusader, actually sat far above him in the uppermost balcony.  With her was her boyfriend and co-​worker at the Crusader, Denny Morris, who toiled daily in the newspaper’s archives.

They were celebrating the anniversary of their first date together and Denny had wanted to do something special.  He’d saved for many months and managed to pull a few strings to take her to the opening of a new show.  Though he wished he could have done a lot better than the “nosebleed section,” he was just glad to have a special night with her without having to encounter his chief rival for Vicky’s attention (aside from the newspaper) – Brent Gregor. Vicky was an angel, his angel.  And on this night, dressed in her beautiful soft-​blue gown, she looked just like one.

As they got up to leave, Denny’s eyes quickly scanned the crowd below.  He was surprised by the number of famous faces: Mayor Eugene Barker, wealthy industrialist Julius Kennelly, prominent attorney Cecil Davenport IV, and others.  The curtains shielding the box seats kept him from seeing the one face he secretly hoped would not be there.

After much of the audience had left the theater, Worthington pushed Brent Gregor down to the lobby in his wheelchair.  Brent stared deeply at the gold-​set fire-​red opal that adorned his finger.  It was this ring that gave him the power of the Spirit Force – and the ability to walk as long as he used those powers to fight for justice in an unjust world as The Black Spectre.  It was this ring that both brought him closer to Vicky and kept them separate.  In order to tell her the truth about his feelings, he would have to tell her so much more.  Perhaps he would, in time, but that day was a long way off.

As Worthington wheeled him into the lobby, he spotted Denny and Vicky emerging from the staircase across the hall.  Brent’s face lit up at the sight of her, just as Denny’s dimmed at the sight of him.

“Brent!” Vicky called out.  “Look, there’s Brent!” she chirped happily as she tugged Denny by the hand and rushed over to greet him.  Denny smiled politely.  It was a common expression for him.

As the lobby bustled with men in tuxedos and women in fancy gowns, all chattering happily about their wonderful evening, no one paid any mind when Oscar Travers pushed his way quietly into the lushly decorated room.  Travers silently scanned the crowd, searching for one person in particular.  He couldn’t help but notice Brent Gregor, the only one in a wheelchair, talking to a beautiful redhead.  Only a man with that kind of money could get a woman to forget he was crippled, Travers thought.

Then his eyes landed on the man he’d come to see:  Cecil Davenport IV, the wealthy attorney and heir to the Davenport fortune.  Davenport had everything – handsome good looks, his beautiful wife, Julia, dutifully at his side like a trophy to be admired, and a modicum of fame and fortune.  But there was one thing Davenport had wanted that he couldn’t produce – an heir of his own.  No, that he had taken from someone else.  Taken from Oscar Travers.

Travers pushed his way quickly through the crowd and grabbed Davenport by the collar in a vice-​like grip.  Before the stunned aristocrat even had time to react, Travers’ iron fist connected with Davenport’s glass jaw with the speed of a locomotive.  The rich man’s head jerked back from the fierce blow and he spat a mouthful of blood across his beautiful young wife’s gleaming white gown.

The crushing blow knocked Davenport straight to the floor.  The young Mrs. Davenport screamed at the sight.  In that split second, her concern was not only that her husband was loosing blood, but that she found it on her dress.

He was about to spill more.

With the speed of a man possessed, Travers quickly scooped Davenport off the floor and assailed him repeatedly in the face and gut.  Davenport was so dazed by the onslaught that he could only cough up more blood.  He was completely unable to come to his senses, much less retaliate.

The crowd quickly parted in shock and horror.  Men shouted and women screamed.  It was a brutal sight.  Vicky looked up at the melee with widened-​eyes.  Brent quickly assessed the situation to see if he should act.  Denny just stood back in shock.

Travers hauled back to pummel Davenport to the floor once more, but an unseen force stayed his clenched fist.  His arm felt strangely numb.  In the instant of his fury, Travers thought it was someone behind him.  He didn’t have time to realize he was standing alone.  Brent gripped the handles of his wheelchair as he focused his concentration, thankful he could use the power of the Spirit Force without being noticed.

Travers could only shout in frustration, “You stole our baby!  We already paid!  That baby was ours!”

Two burly Ushers stormed quickly through the horrified crowd and grabbed Travers by the arms to hold him back.  Travers was momentarily stunned to find that there had previously been no one behind him.  He then struggled against their solid grasps and shouted, “You stole our baby!”

They quickly drug him out of the lobby and into the alley.  Denny only had a moment to look up at Vicky to see her follow right behind.  Her reporter’s instinct had kicked in as usual and she had no choice but to follow the story.  Literally.

Brent gave Denny an understanding nod, seeing him standing there alone, their special evening brought to a tragic and unexpected end.  Denny watched as Worthington wheeled Brent outside.  He then looked over at the men who helped Davenport to his feet as he coughed more blood into his handkerchief.  The women attended to Mrs. Davenport, as she cried in terrified confusion.

Worthington helped Brent into their dark, luxurious car, then settled himself into the driver’s seat.  “What do you suppose that was all about, Sir?”

Brent stared thoughtfully out the window, pondering Travers’ words as Worthington put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb.  He had his suspicions.

“I’ve heard rumors of a baby-​selling racket.  More like a baby auction,” Brent told him.  “Supposedly, there’s a doctor in town who helps ‘unfortunate’ girls, then sells the baby to the highest bidder.  I’m guessing that man was outbid by a wealthier buyer.”

“My heavens!” was Worthington’s response.  He could not believe the words.  “Every time I think that mankind has sunk to his lowest depths, he seeks to prove me wrong.”

Brent added that he’d looked into this before, but had only come up empty-​handed.  “Whoever this doctor is, he does a very good job of covering his tracks.  But at least now there’s a trail.  And with more than one path.”

The Black Spectre, of course, wasted no time in following that trail.  Cecil Davenport may have been well-​guarded at the hospital to which he was taken, but that didn’t keep him from having visitors.  Most especially, one visitor in particular.

Despite the doses of morphine and expert attention at Terminal City’s finest medical facility, Davenport did not rest well that night.  Nestled in his hospital bed, his face was heavily bandaged around his crown and his nearly-​broken jaw.  Davenport was jostled awake by something uneasy and unexpected.  He struggled to open his eyes.  Through the drug-​induced clouds of his mind, he saw Death standing over him.

Or something that looked very much like it.

Davenport let out a very loud gasp as his heart stopped momentarily.  A dark-​gloved hand quickly covered his mouth.  Without time to think, Davenport’s hand shot out for the small hand-​bell he used to call the nurse.  He shook it violently, but it made no sound.

He looked back at the dark figure before him.  Surely he was dead.

“Tell me,” said The Black Spectre in his deep, scratchy voice, “who is the doctor that sold you the baby?”

Davenport stumbled on his words as he attempted to speak.  “I – I don’t know.”

The Black Spectre leaned directly over Davenport’s face, so that all he could see was the gleaming white skull of his mask.  “Don’t lie to me!” demanded The Spectre.  “Do you really want to spend eternity in Hell?”

Davenport blinked through tear-​filled eyes and answered, “No, Sir!  Please!  I swear!  I don’t know.  But I know the name of the hospital.  It’s Hollyvale Country Hospital.  That’s where they take all the unfortunates.”

Just at that moment, the door flung quickly open.  Davenport turned to look.  There, bathed in the light of the hallway, was a pale-​blue angel.  Now that he had told the truth, he had purged his soul from the darkness of Death.  She was there to save him.  Or so he believed when he saw her.

Her reaction, however, was not so angelic.  “What are you doing here?” she demanded of the dark-​cloaked figure.

“The same as you, I imagine,” answered The Spectre.

With a wave of his hand, the lights in the hallway went out behind her.  “Come with me,” was all he said as he whisked her out the door.

Davenport could only look up in confusion.  “Angel, come back!” he called out.

Though he only touched the fingers of her hand, Vicky felt herself being pulled down the dark hallway until they quickly came to a stop.  He moved around her in a sudden, fluid motion, then loomed over her, face to face.  She wasn’t so easily intimidated.

“Meet me at the Hollyvale Country Hospital,” was all he said, then disappeared into the shadows.  She blinked a few times, wondering if her eyes had played tricks on her.  She’d seen him do that many times before, but never up close.  She shook her head, completely unable to make sense of it.  But there was no time to ponder such puzzlements now.  Despite her disdain for The Spectre, she had the information she’d come to retrieve and, to her way of thinking, she wasn’t about to let this phantom character rattle her into letting go of it.  Even if he was the one who gave it to her.

Moments later, The Black Spectre ducked unseen into a long, black car tucked safely some distance away in the darkness of the night.  Worthington looked into the rear-​view mirror to see the smiling face of Brent Gregor staring back at him.

“I trust you were successful, Sir?” Worthington asked.

“Certainly,” said Brent, giving him their next location, then added, “we’re meeting Vicky there.”

Worthington looked back at him curiously as they drove off.

* * *

SEVERAL long miles later, well outside of the city, The Black Spectre swooped in on the small country hospital.  It was a quaint little place, like a rather long home that had been extended in both directions.  Certainly the kind of place where unfortunate girls would feel as welcome as they could during their extended stay.

As he expected, The Spectre found Vicky at a back door, hunched down, working the lock in frustration with a hairpin.  “Allow me,” he said, startling her.  With another wave of his hand, the door unlocked and swung open.  “You knew I was coming.”

Vicky could only respond with an aggravated grunt as she brushed quickly past him to get inside first.

“Stay quiet,” she said, barreling into the hallway and having to suddenly stop short by the sound of her clacking heels on the slick, tile floor.  She let out another aggravated grunt as she stopped to take off her shoes.  The Spectre moved silently past her and she was forced to follow.

As they reached the office, The Spectre opened the locked door and led her to the filing cabinet.

“Can I at least do this part?” she asked in frustration.  “This is what I do.”

The Spectre stepped politely back, pointing her to the files.  She thrust her shoes into his gloved-​hands as if he needed to do something useful.  She went to the first drawer and gave it a quick tug.  Of course, it was locked.

“Try it again,” he said, without moving a muscle.

As much as she hated to, and without even glancing in his direction, she gently pulled on the drawer again.  It came right open.

Still refusing to look at him, she went straight to work.  Like a highly-​trained specialist, she whizzed quickly and quietly through the file drawers, pausing every moment or so to hold a folder up to the dim shafts of light that bore across the dark room from the street lights outside.

“I still don’t know if you’re a criminal or a savior,” she said, finally looking up and staring him down.

“I’m no criminal,” he replied matter-​of-​factly.

She only made a sound of disbelief before going back to the files.

After another few moments, she let out a slight sound of satisfaction. “Here. Girl’s name is Susan Harris.  Checked out two days ago. There’s some numbers and initials written at the bottom – I’m guessing they sold the baby to Davenport for $100 dollars. Travers had only paid fifty. Looks like she hasn’t given birth yet.”

“Who’s the doctor?” The Spectre asked.

She looked up at him as if to ask if he really thought she’d reveal such a vital piece of information.  As much as she wanted to withhold it, there was no way she could have kept it from him.  And if that wasn’t enough to really irk her, it was a name she didn’t recognize.

“Dr. Zachary Wellman,” she confessed.  “You know him?” she asked, both hoping that he did and irritated that he might.

In fact, The Spectre knew Dr. Wellman rather well indeed.  He lived in Lakeview Heights, a few blocks from the Gregor Mansion.  His home backed up against the long-​empty Patterson house, which Brent and every other child that grew up in Lakeview Heights knew to be haunted.  And if that wasn’t enough, Dr. Wellman had attended to Brent and his mother that fateful Halloween night so many years ago.

Again, The Spectre told Vicky to meet him there.

* * *

AFTER the several-​mile drive back into the city and on to Lakeview Heights, Worthington let The Spectre out near Dr. Wellman’s house before taking the car on to the mansion.  Vicky wasn’t far behind, though, and quickly rushed in through the open front door to find him waiting.

“Doesn’t seem to be anyone home,” he told her.

“Have you looked upstairs?” she asked, not waiting for him to answer.  She barreled quickly up the grand, circular staircase.  Since this was only the second home in Lakeview Heights (the first being Brent Gregor’s, of course) she’d been in, her mind was momentarily distracted by the thought of how much she’d have liked to see this home with the lights on.

They rushed into the study to find it dark and empty like the rest of the house.  As Vicky glanced over the papers on the desk and found the drawers locked, she could have sworn that she saw a flash of light in the house directly behind them.

“Isn’t that the old Patterson House?” she asked.  “The one that’s supposed to be haunted?”

“Yes,” answered The Spectre, knowing full well that it was.  For on the same fateful Halloween that had changed his life, he’d had his first brush with the otherworld.  Like all the kids in Lakeview Heights, he’d peered in through the front door while completing the neighborhood children’s rite of passage, and something – something ghostly, something frightening, something not from this world – had called out to him.

Vicky’s voice shook him from those terrible memories.  “If you were going to hide someone and you wanted to make sure she was never found, where would you hide her? A haunted house maybe?”

Before he could answer and even think to hesitate, Vicky was down the stairs and out the back door.  The Spectre caught up with her as she charged across the yard, finally stopping at the back porch to look up at the ornate, eerie edifice that had frightened so many and left scars on more than a few.

She turned quickly back to look at him, waiting impatiently for him to unlock the door.  For once, he actually hesitated.

“Oh, my goodness,” she exclaimed, “don’t tell me you’re afraid of this place?” Of course, he couldn’t answer.  And he especially couldn’t confess to the terror that his childhood memories of that night evoked.  He knew there was no backing down.  At least they weren’t going in the front door.

With a quick wave, the back door opened with a long and resounding creak.

“Great,” she said, “just like a horror movie.  Let’s just hope Bela Lugosi isn’t waiting inside.”

In a quick glide up to the porch, he stepped in front of the door and blocked her path.  “Please, allow me,” he said, now leading the way.

“About time,” she answered.  “Thought you’d feel right at home here.” She shook her head, puzzled, thinking to herself that maybe he was human after all.

The Spectre led her quietly in.  Even with his ghost-​like movements, he couldn’t avoid the quiet creaks as he made his way across the floor of the empty room into which they’d entered.  Vicky did much worse, only this time she wasn’t about to take off her shoes.

As they went into the main hallway that led to the stairs, The Spectre found the unsettling prospect of staring out the front door himself, taking on the vantage point of whatever it was that had looked out at him.  He wondered if he would encounter that visage again now that he was deep within the house.  An eerie chill ran down his spine.

As if on cue, they heard a muffled scream from upstairs.  Vicky grabbed his arm and practically pulled herself under his cloak as she let out a gasp that left her breathless.  As anxious as he was at that moment, having her in his arms and the need to protect her supplanted the childhood fears that still lived within him.

“Think it’s a ghost?” she asked.

Before he could answer, they heard it again.  This time, he was reassured.

“Come on,” he replied, his voice strong and commanding once again.  He led her up the stairs, keeping her tight under his cape.  It felt good to move together as one.  But as much as he treasured this moment, he knew he would have to let her go when they reached the top.

At the end of the long black hall, they could barely see a thin bit of light creep under the last doorway.  Then they heard another scream.  This time, Vicky was sure, too.  It was no apparition.

The Spectre backed her to the wall, finally releasing her from the safety of his grasp.  “Stay here,” he whispered.  She nodded silently.

He floated over to the door and commanded it to open silently, and just barely at that.

“Push!” shouted Doctor Wellman as the poor young Susan Harris lay back on a bed with the doctor and an older nurse, waiting at her feet.  The Spectre immediately recognized her, too, as Mrs. Wellman. He’d heard rumors that the Wellman’s were having financial troubles.  Had it really come to this? Had he known, he could have easily helped.

Susan bit down on a rolled up rag as she screamed and gave it her all as Wellman had commanded.

The Spectre watched wide-​eyed as Susan gave birth at that moment to a healthy baby girl and the room was filled with the cries of both mother and daughter.  Susan flopped back on the old, rumpled mattress in exhaustion as Mrs. Wellman dabbed her forehead with a wet cloth.

Handing the baby off to his wife, the doctor soon realized that they weren’t alone.  Surprisingly, he didn’t seem startled.  Perhaps he’d experienced ghosts in that house before.  Mrs. Wellman, however, had the complete opposite reaction.  She shreiked even louder than Susan had; though, to be fair, she didn’t have anything to bite on.

“It’s okay, Muriel,” Wellman reassured his wife.  “Attend to the baby.”

Wellman turned back to The Spectre.  “How did you find me?” he asked as Mrs. Wellman nervously bundled up the newborn. She was afraid to take her eyes off the dark visage as she placed the infant in a make-​shift cradle.

The Spectre well knew the voice that came from the old man before him.  He knew its kind, reassuring tones.  It was weaker and softer now, but it was still that same voice that he had known so long ago.  He could only regret this moment.

“Just followed the clues, that’s all,” answered Vicky as she marched through the doorway and went straight up to Wellman.  Her voice wasn’t so kind.  After all, she hadn’t known the doctor before and could only judge him by what she saw then.

It was a near deadly distraction for both of them.  While The Spectre was lost in memories of both this place and the old doctor that stood slumped and exhausted before them, Mrs. Wellman quietly took a syringe from a nearby table.  She moved silently behind Vicky.

Then, in a motion surprisingly fast for an aging woman, one born of desperation more than strength, Mrs. Wellman went to plunge it straight into Vicky’s neck.

This was not the kindly woman that Brent had known as a child.

The needle had nearly pierced Vicky’s flesh when a black-​gloved hand stopped her.  Only the hand hadn’t even touched her own.  Instead, it was several feet away, outstretched with fingers extended, tense and shaking from exertion.

Vicky screamed with a start as Mrs. Wellman struggled against the unseen, numbing force that had stopped her.  Another equally powerful and invisible force pulled Vicky quickly away, then sent the syringe flying from Mrs. Wellman’s hand to smash against the wall.  In that same instant, Vicky found herself once again in his arms.  This time, staring him face-​to-​face, she thought for a fleeting moment of wrapping herself completely in his cape.

“Well,” she finally said, struggling for the words.  “I guess you are a savior after all.”

As much as he wanted that moment to last for an eternity, and seeing in her eyes that Vicky was considering the same, The Spectre reluctantly let her go.  He secured the Wellmans, tying their hands with dark cord, then led Vicky back out into the hall.

“The police will be here soon,” he told her. And with that, he was gone.  Just like before.  Perhaps he wasn’t a man after all.  Vicky rushed over to the bed to look down on Susan Harris.  Despite all that had happened, she was smiling at the sight of her healthy baby girl next to her.

“Will they still take my baby?” Susan asked weakly.

“No, not now,” Vicky reassured her.  “Don’t worry.  You get to keep her now.”

“Oh,” said Susan, “looking away.  “But what about the money?”

* * *

A SHORT while later, the wealthy residents of the neighborhood poured from their front doors as flashing police lights filled the usually tranquil streets.  There was many a shriek and murmur from both children and adults alike when the black and white cars pulled up outside the old Patterson House.  Vicky rushed out to meet the grizzled and burly Detective Shayne as he moved cautiously towards the front door.  Then there was an audible sigh of relief when they all realized that she wasn’t a ghost, though one man in the crowd did notice that she looked like an angel.

That man was Denny.  He rushed over and clutched her by the hand, pulled her to him and, he presumed, to safety.  In that instant, she realized that just then she didn’t feel quite as safe as she had before, upstairs in the house that was haunted and wrapped in the cloak of a man she didn’t know.

“Thank goodness, you’re okay,” Denny exclaimed.  “What happened in this old place anyway?”

“It’s the baby-​selling racket,” Vicky shouted, both to Denny and Detective Shayne.  “An old doctor and his wife, a young girl and her baby.  They’re right inside, upstairs.”

“You don’t say!” shouted Detective Shayne with a start before charging up the steps and directly inside.  The crowd gasped again at the sight of someone actually going into that old, frightening edifice.

“Talk to you tomorrow, Detective,” called Vicky, as she heard him clomping up the creaky old stairs.  Then she turned back to Denny and added, “Come on, let’s get out of here.  I need to get back to the office.”

Despite his desires to the contrary, Denny dutifully agreed.

When Detective Shayne reached the upstairs room, he found the Wellmans, Susan Harris, and the baby just as Vicky said.  But one additional detail immediately caught his attention – two strips of tape stretched across the window formed the shadow of a large “X” across the room.  Shayne could only nod knowingly.  This was the work of The Spectre, no doubt.

* * *

AS VICKY drove out of Lakeview Heights, she passed the Gregor Mansion.  There, in the upstairs window of his bedroom, was the familiar silhouette of Brent Gregor, ever-​watching.

But this particular Halloween, as Brent stood on the downtown rooftop in the cold night air, things were different. For nearly six months earlier, in exchange for the ability to walk again, he had taken on a new guise – that of The Black Spectre. In exchange for the simple joy of once again standing on his own two feet, of feeling like a whole man, of feeling stronger than ever before, he was forced to stalk the night and bring justice to those who have none. It was a price he had been well prepared to pay.

As he gazed down on the cold, bitter streets of Terminal City, his mind drifted elsewhere. He couldn’t help but wonder if this particular Halloween would be any different from the last fifteen. For as strong as he was physically, it was those terrible memories of that fateful night so long ago that still haunted him deep inside.

Bernard Worthington, Brent Gregor’s dignified and faithful valet, sat in the long black car and tightened his thick wool coat around his neck in an attempt to escape the growing chill. It would take some more time to get used to nights like these. He wondered how Master Gregor withstood the evening temperatures as he prowled the rooftops above. He wondered even more if this nightly vigil would continue once winter had fully set in.

Worthington was startled when he heard a small tap on the glass of his car window. His thoughts raced for a lie that he hadn’t been prepared to tell that would explain his presence. He’d been certain that he’d parked the car well enough into the dark alley so as not to be seen.

He let out a quick sigh of relief as the dark figure with the gleaming skull mask peered inside. Mere seconds later, The Black Spectre climbed into the back seat and closed the door behind him. Worthington wondered if the cold had been too much for him as well, but he wasn’t about to suggest it.

“You’re back earlier than I expected, Sir,” was all that he could muster without being impolite.

“I just can’t stop thinking about it,” Brent Gregor answered as he pulled off the hat and mask. “Please, take me home.”

“Of course, Sir,” Worthington answered as he started the motor and put the dark-​curtained automobile gear.

Brent said nothing more on the long drive back to Lakeview Heights. Worthington checked on him via the mirror periodically. The troubled expression on his face said more than could ever have been spoken with words. As Brent Gregor’s trusted servant and the only “family” he had left, he’d hoped the young man would have found more than physical strength with his newfound abilities. Perhaps it would take more time, he thought.

As they entered the upscale neighborhood, Brent finally spoke up again. “Take me by the Patterson House, please.”

Worthington glanced back at him again, puzzled. “Are you sure, Sir?”

“Yes,” Brent answered with reassurance. “I’ll be fine. But don’t park too close. Keep the car hidden.”

Worthington did as instructed and steered the car the extra few blocks to the Patterson House, a large, old manor with an ornate porch that sat well off the street. The children of Lakeview Heights knew this house well, and it had been a ritual for as long as anyone could remember for all “Trick-​or-​Treaters” to visit it each Halloween. One by one they would each step up on the porch and stare into the smudged window on the front door to see if they could spot a ghost. Brent wondered if the children still did this. He quickly got his answer.

As soon as they came into view of the house, he could see them lined up. And there in the middle of the group was the tallest child and ringleader, Julius Kennelly. Only this was Julius III, the son of his own youthful nemesis. Some things never change, he thought, as the memories of his own terrible initiation rushed straight back to him.

* * *

JULIUS KENNELLY II, then all of fourteen, looked at them, eye to eye, one at a time. Pointing at each one with his pirate sword, he asked, “So, who’s brave enough to go up there and look?”

Young Brent, barely ten at the time, immediately knew that he wasn’t. He stepped quickly back behind the others so as not to be noticed. He hoped deep in his heart that someone else would decline, too, so that he would not be the only one.

Julius was the first to look, of course, showing himself to be the bravest. One by one the other children followed and peered into the dark windows of the front door. Brent assumed that none of them saw anything, because they all turned away, giggling nervously. Still, that wasn’t enough to give him courage enough to do it himself.

His heart sank as the other two young children, Billy Wentworth and his little sister Abigail, perhaps more afraid of Julius than whatever ghost lurked inside that old house, stepped up on the porch and looked in as well.

At last, it was down to just young Brent. He hoped that no one had noticed that he was the only one who had yet to look.

But they did.

“Well?” Julius asked him and tapped his sword in his hand. “You gonna do it or not?”

Brent wanted nothing more than to race down the street, back to where Worthington waited for him by the car. He stared wide-​eyed back at Julius. His pulse pounded. His lip quivered. The other kids stared at him, too, waiting. If he chickened out, he’d never hear the end of it.

“Come on, you little baby!” shouted Julius. “Get up there!”

Brent stood frozen in fear. He wanted to move. He wanted to do something. But he did not want to go up on that porch.

He looked around for sympathy.

There was none.

“Come on, let’s leave the little baby by himself,” laughed Julius. “He needs to go home to his Mommy.”

Julius started off, leading the other kids away.

“Wait!” called Brent.

Julius turned back around. This was Brent’s final chance.

He looked up at the porch. He did everything he could to steel his courage and started down the walk. He gripped the tiny handles of his toy pistols. He knew they wouldn’t do any good, but it still made him feel better. He could barely feel his feet touch the cold sidewalk before he found himself take the first step of the creaking old porch.

Before him, inescapable, was the large front door. The bottom half was solid wood, but the top half was split into two large windows of equal size. There would be no quick peek. He would have to look deep inside.

Brent finally reached the door itself. There was just enough light from the gas street lamps to see into the front hallway. The inside was dark and littered with shadows. It still frightened him, but not so much as he had expected. He’d done it.

Brent felt a quick sense of relief and was just about to turn away when something caught his eye. It was glowing and just appeared out of the darkness.

Without thinking, he turned back to get a better look.

It was a face. A woman’s face. She was in pain. He could have sworn she called out to him. “Help me!”

With ghostly hands, she clawed for the doorway.

Brent screamed at the top of his lungs and raced off the porch. He barreled straight through the gaggle of children, knocking some of them down in his wake.

He could hear Julius’ laughter as he raced down the street as fast as his small legs could carry him. He didn’t know if he’d truly seen a ghost or if it had only been his imagination. But he knew he wouldn’t feel safe until he was home.

Brent rounded the corner and felt a huge sigh of relief when he saw Worthington standing next to the long, black family car. He ran straight into the large Englishman’s arms with such force that it nearly winded the middle-​aged man. Worthington looked down at his young charge, whose eyes were full of tears and whose body shook uncontrollably.

“Why, Master Gregor,” Worthington asked. “Whatever is the matter?”

Brent just shivered and held him tightly.

* * *

BRENT could still feel the clutch of Worthington’s grasp as he stood hidden in the shadows that overlooked the old house. He smiled for a moment at the memory of Abbie when they’d been so small. He had disliked her so much then. How things changed.

Looking back at the ritual that was repeating itself before him, he felt for the smaller ones that were bullied by young Julius III and thought that perhaps the apple could be swept away from the tree.

As the younger Julius stepped first up onto the porch, as his father had done so many times before, Brent focused his gaze on the door and outstretched his hand.

As soon as young Julius reached the door, it swung ferociously open. Something unseen and with a strange tingle grabbed him by the waist and pulled him inside the dark portal. The children stood silent with mouths open wide as the door slammed shut and Julius III found himself on the inside, pounding on the glass, trying to get out.

The children screamed and scattered in every direction.

None were left to witness the door swing back open and young Julius came fast behind them into the night.

Brent chuckled to himself, then wondered with a sense of guilt if he had used the son to gain revenge on the father. But perhaps the next Halloween, young Julius and the other kids that came after him would think twice before bullying the smaller ones into looking inside.

At least that’s what he told himself as he instructed Worthington to take him home.

As they turned away from the Patterson House and drove the few blocks back to the Gregor Mansion, there were other, more painful memories that gripped the back of his mind. No matter how hard he tried to fight it, he was continually plagued by the images of what had happened later that same night, so long ago. When he walked back into the dark, empty foyer and looked up at the tall, winding staircase, it all came back to him. As if he were reliving it all over again.

* * *

NANNY MIRIAM rushed quickly in to lead young Brent up the grand marble staircase that led to the second floor. Brent’s young mother, Sarah, rushed up to her son’s room, kissing his forehead and holding him tightly until he had fully calmed down and was ready for his bath. Brent’s mother was as beautiful as she was melodic, her auburn hair let down for the night and cascading across her shoulders.

After Miriam had gotten him ready for bed, Brent hoped that his father would be home soon. Though he was safely at home and recovered from his ordeal, he wouldn’t feel truly comforted until his father was there with him.

* * *

BRENT followed his memories up the grand staircase and down the hall to his old room. He hadn’t been in there in years, but it was immediately obvious that Worthington and the other servants had kept it clean and maintained, as they had the rest of the house. As he peered at his small bed, he thought it looked just the same as he remembered. It seemed like only yesterday since he’d stayed in that room last. He wanted it to feel so much longer.

* * *

YOUNG BRENT sat up in bed the moment he heard his father coming up the long, winding staircase and then down the hall. He knew his father’s footsteps – quick and deliberate. Thomas Gregor was not a man who wasted time getting to where he was going. He was young and handsome, a man of courage and action. Everything a young son could dream his father to be.

Though it was very late, Brent had resisted falling asleep before his father returned from work at the Court House. Brent’s eyes lit up when Thomas opened the door. He was tired, but smiling, happy to finally be home with his family.

“Did you win your case to-​day, Father?” asked Brent.

“What are you still doing up?” Thomas asked, trying unsuccessfully to sound disappointed. His relief to be home, in the comfortable arms of his family, was too great for him to sound truly stern at this hour.

“He just couldn’t get to sleep before you got home,” Sarah Gregor’s soft, soothing voice chimed in behind his father. “He had a bit of a fright to-​night.”

Thomas brushed her tresses aside and gave her a soft kiss before going to Brent’s bedside.

“Did you go with those kids to look at that old house?”

Brent looked down, answering, “Yes, Father.”

Thomas shook his head, but he more than understood the power of peer pressure. “It was that Julius Kennelly, wasn’t it?” his father asked.

Brent hung his head again. “Yes, Father.”

“Listen, Son,” Thomas told him. “Being brave doesn’t mean doing a dare just because some older child like Julius puts you up to it. Being brave is standing up for yourself. Not letting others push you around. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Father,” Brent answered.

“Well, I hope it didn’t frighten you too much.”

“I saw something there, Father,” Brent told him.

“Oh?” Thomas asked. Sarah perked up as well. She hadn’t heard this part of the story.

“It was a face. A ghost. She cried out,” Brent told him.

“Are you sure it wasn’t just your imagination?” Thomas asked, unconvinced.

“I don’t think so. It looked real.” Whether it was real or not, Brent was certainly convinced.

“I assure you, Son, there’s no such thing as ghosts. Now you need to go to sleep.” Thomas kissed his young son on the forehead then tucked him beneath the wool covers. “You can tell me more about it to-​morrow. I love you, Son.”

“I love you, too, Father.” Brent smiled. This is for what he’d been waiting. Now he could sleep soundly, comfortable and secure. Father was home.

As Thomas stood at the door, he held Sarah and looked proudly at his only child. Brent’s young voice called out to him again.

“Father, are there any ghosts in our house? I hear noises at night.”

Thomas and Sarah smiled, then Thomas answered reassuringly, “I don’t think so, but it’s an old house, and if there are any ghosts, then they would all be family and they would be here to look over you, just the same as we all do.”

Brent wished his parents good night then closed his eyes as his father pulled the door closed. “Not all the way, Father.”

“Of course not,” Thomas replied. He stopped so that a narrow bar of light from the hall stretched safely across the floor to Brent’s bed on the opposite wall.

“I love you, Brent. Good-​night.”

* * *

AS HE stood at the doorway for one last moment, it suddenly dawned on him that this was how the room must have looked to his father. Now finally able to stand again, he’d never seen the room from that vantage point before. It was like a glimpse into the past, into another body. A chance to see a brief part of his own past, but through his father’s eyes.

Brent turned around to find Worthington standing dutifully behind him. “Are you certain you’re all right, Sir?”

“Yes, Bernard,” he answered, though with not as much reassurance as before. “Just thinking.”

Brent handed Worthington the hat and mask, then removed his cloak and gloves. “Please, put these away if you don’t mind. I’ll be in my study.”

“Of course, Sir,” Worthington answered.

* * *

SADLY, what Thomas and Sarah Gregor had not known was that there had been a ghost out that night. A frightening one. While they were upstairs tucking in Brent, they didn’t suspect the ghost that was making his way through the darkness across the mansion grounds. Neither they, nor their servants – who had all retired for the night – heard the breaking of glass in a distant, downstairs room as the ghost made his way inside. They didn’t sense the lumbering footsteps as the ghost wandered through the endless hallways to where a light shone down from the staircase.

They had no idea he was there at all until they came downstairs and surprised them in the hallway. Sarah barely managed a scream before a large hand with only three fingers covered her mouth. The other pointed a gun to her head.

Thomas had no time to react, even if there were anything he could have done, before the husky voice barked out to him in broken English, “In there – if you wants her to live!”

“Three-​Finger Ned” Vogel shoved Sarah forward, pointing them both towards Thomas’ study. Moving into the dimly lit room filled with bookcases that stretched to the ceiling, Thomas was finally able to get a look at their attacker and assess the situation. Vogel towered over him and held his wife’s very life in his iron grip. He was a huge man with bulldog-​like features, dressed in a dark coat that seemed to barely contain his bulky form. There was nothing Thomas could do at the moment except comply and pray for her safety.

“Open the safe.” Three-​Finger Ned’s instructions were quick and guttural. Thomas took one look in his wife’s frightened eyes and wasted no time in doing exactly as Ned ordered. He pushed aside the framed portrait that covered the safe and spun the dial as fast as he could. In seconds, the vault was open. He looked back at Ned, hoping to be rewarded for his obedience.

“Empty it,” was the only response.

Thomas looked frantically on the desk. He grabbed an empty portfolio from beside a sword-​shaped letter opener and scooped the papers and money inside with one quick motion. He turned back to Ned again, pleading with his eyes for his wife’s safe release. If only he’d had a weapon or some means to fight back. If anything were to happen to her or Brent, he thought, he would never forgive himself. Thank goodness Brent was upstairs asleep. Hopefully, he would stay safe.

BUT Brent hadn’t been asleep. He had nearly drifted off when he’d been jolted awake by his mother’s stifled scream. He’d already faced one terror that night, but that one was nothing compared to what had happened downstairs. Whether the previous ghost had been real or imaginary, he had no idea. But this one had most definitely been real.

As Brent stood at the top of the stairs and stared down at the dark hallway below, all he could think about were those terrible sounds coming back to haunt him. Worse yet was the still-​stinging feeling of how helpless he’d felt. He’d wanted to save his parents, and yet knew that there was little he could have done. He was only a child at the time and completely powerless. The memory of it all sickened him.

* * *

WORRIED and frightened of what could be happening below, young Brent crept to the top of the stairs just in time to see Ned force his parents into the study. Though he only caught a glimpse, it was certainly long enough to see the gun in Ned’s hand.

They needed help. And there was no one there but him.

Brent ran quietly back to his parent’s bedroom and pushed open the large door. It creaked just a bit – enough to make him stop and wait. But no additional sounds followed. As best he could tell, he was still safe.

He rushed to the phone. He didn’t know how to call the police, but he knew well enough to ask for the Operator when he picked it up.

“Operator? Operator?” he whispered quietly, his small voice full of panic.

There was no answer. The phone line was dead.

His young heart raced, terrified and barely able to think. Worthington and the other servants were all downstairs in the far wing. There was no way to reach them. If anything was to be done, Brent would have to act alone.

Brent rushed back to the top of the stairs. He could hear the shouts of Ned and his father, broken only by his mother’s cries.

As Brent gripped the marble balusters of the banister, quivering from the sounds below, the words that his father had spoken just a short while ago suddenly came back to him. “Being brave is standing up for yourself. Not letting others push you around.”

The man had a gun. That’s why Brent’s father couldn’t fight back. But Brent had something his father didn’t. He had surprise. He had to be brave. He had to do something to help. If he could knock away the man’s gun, his father could fight.

Swallowing hard and mustering far more courage than he’d done to step on that porch, Brent crept quietly down the stairs.

Careful not to be seen, he slid silently to the suit of armor that stood sentry in the hallway and quietly plucked the sword away from its mount. It was much heavier than he expected and he almost dropped it.

Quickly, he moved to the open door of his father’s study and peered inside. Just a few steps away, Ned stood there clutching his mother while his father bundled papers and valuables into a portfolio. Once again, fear overtook him. He was ready to drop the sword and run. But his father’s words rang ceaselessly in his head. “Being brave is standing up for yourself.”

* * *

THE adult Brent walked slowly back down the stairs towards the study below. With each footstep his legs grew numb and plodding. He could hear each foot drop against the marble surface, but could no longer feel the sensation as they touched each step. His nightly duties long over, the Spirit Force was leaving him, forcing him to rest. He needed to make it downstairs to the study where his wheelchair waited. No matter his fantastic abilities, he could never truly escape it.

When he finally reached the dark-​paneled room, he stared up at the tall ceiling and high bookshelves. How huge that room had looked when he was small. It still looked huge to him in his adult years. Feeling his balance give way, he reached for the wall to keep from falling. He shifted his weight towards his father’s large mahogany desk that sat there unmovable like a stone crypt. It was a just image, Brent thought, since his father had died upon it.

He took another lurch forward and reached for the desk, hoping to catch himself and work his way around. But his strength had gone completely and he collapsed to the floor. He was helpless again.

* * *

WITH no more time to think, young Brent made one bold move. Raising the heavy blade above his head, he charged in as fast as he could. He swung the sword down onto Ned’s outstretched arm with the pistol. But the blade was old and was dull and it only managed to knock Ned’s hand down, the pistol still firmly in his grip. Ned shouted more in surprise than pain.

Sarah Gregor dropped to the floor as Ned whipped around to face his assailant. Ned had already pulled the trigger before Brent’s young face registered in his mind. Both Thomas and Sarah’s cries were immediately drowned out by the sound of the gun blast. Brent didn’t even realize what was happening until the bullet ripped into his side and knocked him to the floor, stunned and bleeding.

In the only moment available to him, Thomas Gregor grabbed the letter opener from the desk and lunged at Ned’s throat with all his might. But Ned was a formidable opponent and his deadly instincts were sharp and well-​trained.

The second shot hit Thomas clean in the chest. He fell almost in mid-​air, slumping down face first on the desk.

Instinct took over again as Ned pointed the gun once more at Sarah as she screamed and clambered for her husband. Without even thinking, he fired the gun a third time. The bullet threw her backwards as it grazed across her head. She crumpled to the floor in a hysteric bundle of tears, blood running down her beautiful, delicate face. Ned stared at her coldly, his large finger still on the trigger, taking in the realization of what he’d just done. He’d never killed a woman before.

Or a child, for that matter.

He hesitated, then lowered his pistol just a bit. Instinct told him that the threat was over. This had not gone at all as planned and there would be hell to pay.

He scooped up the portfolio from the floor then leaned over Thomas Gregor’s lifeless body. “This is what you get for sticking your nose where it don’t belong.”

Ned turned back to the door. Brent was lying there in a pool of blood, grasping his side. His face was turning pale. Approaching footsteps echoed down the distant hall. Maybe the kid would live, he thought. But if Ned didn’t move soon, there would be still more killing to be done.

Ned returned to the prostrate corpse of Thomas Gregor. Young Brent watched in delirious confusion as Ned dipped a thick, stubby finger into his father’s blood and drew an “X” on the back of his shirt. Then Ned grumbled in his husky voice, “You been marked.”

Ned rushed past Brent lying nearly unconscious on the floor and back down the hallway. He made his way back out the way he had come in. As he crawled out the window, he could hear the screams of the Servants as they discovered the bloodbath he’d left behind.

* * *

WORTHINGTON rushed into the study to find Brent still on the floor as he struggled to pick himself up.

“Sir!” Worthington exclaimed and rushed to Brent’s side.

Though no tears streamed down Brent’s face, Worthington could see them in his Master’s eyes and knew that the pain was not from falling. Not completely.

Worthington lifted Brent up beneath the arms to get him in a sitting position. Though he was not a young man anymore, it was something he’d practiced many times over in the past several years. And each time he was glad that he still had the strength to do it.

Seeing that Brent was physically well, Worthington grabbed the wheelchair and steered it over behind his employer. He lifted Brent again then pulled him up gently into the cushioned seat.

“Are you all right, Sir?” Worthington asked again, dutifully. He tried not to think of what would have happened had he not been there.

“I’m okay,” Brent answered quietly. “I think I’d like to just sit in here alone for a while.”

“Yes, Sir,” said Worthington, then backed towards the open door. “If you need anything…”

“Of course,” Brent replied, then gave a bit of a smile. “And Bernard, thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you here. It’s just great to have family nearby on nights like this.”

“Always here to be of service,” Worthington reassured, then closed the door behind him.

When he reached adulthood, Gregor spent much of his vast fortune searching the world in vain for a cure. His far-​reaching efforts led him to an old gypsy woman who offered a fantastical proposition: by joining with a mysterious entity known as the Spirit Force, Gregor could summon it when needed to not only walk again, but to harness phantom-​like abilities: superhuman strength and agility, the power to hide unseen in the shadows, move objects with his mind, and easily pass through locked doors. In return, he vowed to stand for the righteous, to fight evil, and bring justice to those who have none.

Now…like a ghost, he moves through the shadows of the night, bringing evil-​doers to justice! When criminals and lawbreakers are marked with his signature “X,” they know there is no escape from… The Black Spectre!

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Here’s a description:

Confined to a wheelchair since childhood when an intruder’s bullets also took his parents, Brent Gregor grew into a bitter recluse who’s only wish was to walk again. Years later, a mysterious gypsy woman offered him a cure, and ghost-like powers, with one condition: he must use his newfound abilities to bring justice to those who have none — as The Black Spectre.

That Fateful Halloween
On his first Halloween as The Black Spectre, Brent Gregor relives the terrible night when his life was changed forever.

The 100 Dollar Baby
The Black Spectre reluctantly teams up with beautiful, auburn-haired reporter Vicky Rose to uncover a black market baby operation.

Conscience for Ransom
When his most-hated childhood nemesis is kidnapped, Brent struggles with whether or not he should get involved.

The Undressed Widow
The Black Spectre teams with Vicky on a murder case after she suspects the the victim’s seemingly-innocent wife.

The Gentleman Thief
Brent is confounded by a mysterious, but friendly, thief who preys on his own exclusive neighborhood of Lakeview Heights.

Invitation to Death
Vicky asks Brent to pull some strings so that she can attend the execution of two people that she and The Black Spectre helped to capture.

We combine old-world adventure with new technology — stories and ebooks designed to take you back to the era of adventure and mystery. But it was also an era that dared to look ahead to new and exciting things beyond the horizon.

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