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FEATURING THE BLACK HOOD!!!
_MAN OF MYSTERY!!_
HOODED DETECTIVE
_VOL. III, No. 2_
_JANUARY, 1942_
A SMASHING BLACK HOOD NOVEL
THE WHISPERING EYE By G. T. Fleming-Roberts 8
Hunted by the police ... framed for robbery and murder by the Eye,
master fiend and vicious ruler of the underworld ... loathed by
Barbara Sutton the girl who loves him ... the BLACK HOOD had to
face the blazing purgatory of this murder master's guns to win back
Barbara's love and clear himself of the framed charges
SIX ACTION PACKED SHORT STORIES
CANDIDATE FOR A COFFIN By T. W. Ford 42
Wilson Lamb cuddled his automatic to play "Mr. Death" and fingered
little Louis Engel for coffin cargo. But when he pulled the
trigger, Whisper the gun-cobra from Chi spilled out of Doom's
deck....
ONE HUNDRED BUCKS PER STIFF By J. Lloyd Conrich 52
Mr. Peck was dead ... the papers said so. Yet Mr. Peck performed
his own autopsy and saved eight men from death.
DEATH IS DEAF By Cliff Campbell 60
Big Sid couldn't understand it, and he was a smart monkey. He had
cased this job himself, personal. Had cooked up the scheme for
pulling it off and had spent a good two weeks laying the
groundwork. Yet here he was locked up in the county jail with the
hot squat waiting to claim him....
THREE GUESSES By David Goodis 65
Detective Frey came in and saw Duggin lying dead, and he figured
he'd go out and do big things. He went out and threw his weight
around. Doing big things? You figure that one out.
THE COP WAS A COWARD By Wilbur S. Peacock 73
Johnny Burke had the making of a fine cop in him ... but there was
something strange about Johnny Burke--something mighty strange.
A DINNER DATE WITH MURDER By Harry Stein 86
They had expected spaghetti with meat sauce for dinner, but were
served instead, hot lead, with a little bit of blood on the
side....
TWO TRUE FACT DETECTIVE SHORTS
THE STRANGE CASE OF WILLIAM LONG By Roy Giles 81
ARTISTIC MURDERS MISFIRE By Mat Rand 90
HOODED DETECTIVE, published every other month by COLUMBIA
PUBLICATIONS, INC. 1 Applelon Street, Holyoke, Mass. Editorial and
executive offices 60 Hudson Street, New York, N. Y. Application for
entry as second class matter pending at the Post Office at Holyoke,
Mass. Yearly subscription 60c, single copy 10c. Printed in the U.
S. A.
THE WHISPERING EYE
A BRAND NEW BLACK HOOD NOVEL
by G. T. FLEMING-ROBERTS
Hunted by the police ... framed for robbery and murder by the EYE,
master fiend and vicious ruler of the underworld ... loathed by
Barbara Sutton, the girl who loves him ... The BLACK HOOD had to
face the blazing purgatory of this murder master's guns to win back
Barbara's love and clear himself of the framed charges.
[Illustration: _Gray jets of live steam erupted from pipes around the
edge of the room which threatened to boil BLACK HOOD alive._]
CHAPTER I
_Rob And Kill_
That night, the sounds that came from the metal stamping plant of
Weedham Industries, Incorporated, might have been prophetic of the
immediate and ugly future, for they were like the rattle of machine
guns. But Joseph, keeper of the south gate, was blissfully ignorant of a
Thompson gun and its deadly chatter, so that he drew no such comparison.
His only worry at the time lay in the dark sky above and the blue-white
stabs of lightning that promised an electrical storm.
[Illustration]
He hated storms. Probably he hated the idea of being murdered, or would
have if it ever occurred to him. But then he didn't know that he was
going to be murdered, and he did know it was going to storm. The thunder
was the tocsin of the storm, but those who came to rob and kill moved
unheralded in swift silence.
The night shift had clocked in over an hour ago, and there should be no
passing through the gate for at least six hours. Joseph tilted his chair
back against the steel fence and kindled his cob pipe. The air was hot
and still so that blobs of pipe smoke clung like earth-bound ghosts
about him. In spite of the impending storm, Joseph was happy. In his
mind was a kindly thought for William "Old Bill" Weedham, principal
owner of Weedham Industries. That was because of the bonus Joseph was
anticipating.
Within the next twenty-four hours, Joseph knew, seventy-five thousand
dollars would be distributed in cash bonuses to the employees of the
metal stamping division. Joseph had mentally spent his tiny fraction of
the money a dozen times or more. He did a lot of dreaming, Joseph did.
But about pleasant things. He had never dreamed of those who rob and
kill.
A low slung maroon roadster came down the street and nosed into the
mouth of the tarvia drive at Joseph's gate. Joseph eased his chair
forward, stood up, approached the car, his faded eyes squinted against
the glare of the floodlights mounted on top of the high fence. The car
looked like the one young Jeff Weedham drove. Jeff Weedham was "Old
Bill" Weedham's son. He took no interest in his father's business or in
anything else unless it was that newspaper business which the elder
Weedham had purchased for him.
Yes, that was Jeff Weedham at the wheel, and beside him were two other
young people--a girl and a redheaded man. Joseph took off his cap and a
grin cracked his weathered face.
"Hi," Jeff Weedham said. He was a narrow-headed man with frail-looking
sloped shoulders and a thin triangle of face. He had an engaging,
careless grin, and light brown eyes that laughed. He had a marked
tendency to stutter.
"Well," Joseph said, highly pleased, "if it ain't Mr. Jeff Weedham!"
Joseph sent a shy glance toward the other occupants of the car. The girl
instantly reminded him of honey and violets. Hers was one of those
clear, golden complexions, and there was a certain unspoiled sweetness
about her mouth. It must have been her eyes that recalled violets.
The man on the girl's right seemed to overlap her possessively which
could have been accounted for by the width of his shoulders. His red
hair bristled in defiance to any comb. His nose looked as though it had
been hit a few times in its owner's lifetime. The greenish suit he wore
was filled to capacity with overly developed muscles. A leather cased
camera was suspended from his bull neck by means of a strap. He had a
flashlight gun in his right hand, and a photographer's tripod was
propped upright between his knees.
"D-d-do you think you could let us in?" Jeff Weedham asked of Joseph.
"_The D-Daily Opinion_ is going to give D-d-dad a plug."
_The Daily Opinion_ was the newspaper which Bill Weedham had bought for
his son, Joseph recalled.
"Why, I guess so," Joseph replied. "But your friends here will have to
sign the register book."
The big redhead had some difficulty getting into the pocket of his suit
coat from which he extracted a card. He swelled importantly as he handed
it across to the gate keeper. The card read, "_The Daily Opinion._ Joe
Strong, News Photographer."
He said, "I guess this will fix everything, huh Jeff?"
"This is Miss Barbara Sutton," Jeff said, indicating the girl beside
him. "I've hired her as a reporter, and Joe Strong is her cameraman. I
just came along to see that they get inside. They're d-d-doing an
article on the various manufacturing plants around New York."
* * * * *
Joseph bowed to Barbara Sutton. "You folks can go right in, just as soon
as you sign the book." He went back to his post and returned with a
ledger. He turned pages with a moistened thumb, took a pencil out of his
pocket, passed both to the passengers of the roadster. Barbara Sutton
and Joe Strong signed.
"Looks like it's kicking up a storm," Joseph said.
The thunder rolled ominous reply to his remark. Then Joseph went to the
gate, opened it, and the roadster rolled up the drive toward the
stamping mill.
Joseph went back to his chair and rekindled his pipe. He smiled at the
memory of Barbara Sutton. He didn't know when he had seen a prettier
girl. There must be an awful lot of young fellows who thought the same
thing.
"And if I was twenty years younger I guess I'd try to give them a lot
of competition!" he said aloud and chuckled.
His chuckle stopped as lightning flare threw the shadow of a man across
the ground at Joseph's feet. He looked up, startled. The man faced
Joseph silently. He was slight, wore a workman's overall suit, and he
had a lunch box under his arm. His face, what could be seen of it
beneath the low drawn hat, was one of starved cheeks, lipless mouth,
pinched nose, and a chin that seemed to dangle.
Joseph at first thought the man was one of the mill hands who had
arrived late for work.
"You don't care what time you show up," Joseph grumped. "You know you're
over an hour late?"
The slight man laughed unpleasantly.
"I ain't late," he said. "I guess I'm just about in time."
Something with the glint of bright steel flashed from the lunch box
under the man's arm. Instantly Joseph's mind connected this with the
seventy-five thousand dollars in small bills that was to come in on the
bank express truck in a few minutes.
_Stick-up!_ Joseph's brain shrieked the alarm. He tried to get out of
his chair, but a knife blade that was like a sliver of light was driven
into Joseph's throat, sliding through flesh and muscle, torturing every
pain nerve in his body, driving relentlessly until the point of it
wedged into the wood back of the gate keeper's chair.
The chair creaked and groaned beneath Josephs' writhings. But the knife
and the thin, dirty fingers of the killer did not permit his body to
alter its position. And then the pain nerves died. Joseph's brain
emptied, fortunately; a man would not want to know that he was tacked to
a chair, bleeding to death.
The killer released Joseph. A little of the spurting blood had got on
his dirty fingers, and he wiped his hands on the seat of his trousers.
Then he removed the keys from the gate keeper's pocket. He went to the
gate, unlocked it, and opened it wide.
There were great overgrown shrubs on either side of the gate just
outside the factory grounds. The killer walked to the bushes at the west
side of the gate, parted the branches with his dirty fingers.
"Delancy," his voice croaked.
The shrubbery shook. The thick torso of a man who squatted like a toad
could be seen partly emerging from the shrubs.
"Okay, Shiv?"
"Okay, Delancy," the killer chuckled. "His own mudder would t'ink he was
asleep in the chair. Don't death make a guy look natural, huh?"
"You get back to the car," the man in the bushes said. "Be ready to pick
us up as soon as we crack the money truck. If you get nervous, think of
the dough. Seventy-five grand!"
"I ain't noivous!" the killer said. "T'ink I never croaked a guy before.
It's a pipe. Dis whole job is a pipe, wit' us havin' a Monitor gun to
open dat armored truck. I'm almost ashamed to be associated wit' such a
pipe of a job."
"Sure it's a pipe," Delancy agreed from amid the bushes. "Only don't get
too cocky on account of there's one guy who could mess things up for us
if he ever hits our trail."
Shiv laughed. "You're worrying about the Black Hood, huh?"
"I'm not worrying," Delancy said crossly. "I'm just being cautious. Each
job we do for the boss gets a little bigger. One of these times we'll
run into Mr. Black Hood."
"And when we do--" the killer drew a line across his throat with his
forefinger. Then he turned and walked away from the bushes.
* * * * *
Delancy's moon face disappeared in the foliage. Only his hard little
eyes glittered in the shadows. Beside him, patiently silent, was Squid
Murphy. Murphy was motionless except for his twitching left eyelid.
Murphy was manning the Colt Monitor rifle, the kind of gun the G-men
used to death-drill the armor plate cars the mobsters sometimes used.
Tonight the weapon was in other hands.
Delancy watched the lean figure of the knifeman ambling leisurely up the
road toward where the get-away car was parked, lights out. Shiv wasn't
nervous. Neither was Murphy, in spite of his twitching eyelid. There was
nothing to be nervous about since they had hooked up with this new
boss--this guy Delancy had never seen; this guy who knew all the
answers. No, there was nothing to worry about as long as that relentless
hunter of criminals known as the Black Hood kept off their tail.
Delancy wasn't nervous even when the blunt gray snout of the bank
express truck turned into the mouth of the drive and slowed up before
the open gate. He just took a firmer grip on his automatic and waited.
The driver of the bank truck yelled at the motionless figure of Joseph.
And when Joseph didn't answer, the driver nudged the guard who rode
beside him.
"What the hell's wrong with their watchman?"
Delancy heard that. His little eyes saw the guard get out of the cab. He
saw that the back door of the armored truck was opening and another
guard was getting out. Delancy thought, _What a break this is!_ And then
he shot the driver in the back.
The guard who had ridden up in front snatched at his shoulder holster as
he turned in the direction of Delancy's fire. On the other side of the
drive, two more of Delancy's boys opened up with automatics, so that by
the time the guard had decided he was facing death, death spoke from
behind him. Two slugs ripped into him. His own gun jumped twice, the
first shot coming dangerously close to Delancy's head, while the second
was an unaimed thing caused by the convulsive jerk of the guard's
trigger finger as he spilled forward on his face.
The man who had got out of the rear of the truck saw a glimpse of the
hell that had spouted from the shrubbery and tried to duck for cover
behind the truck. And beside Delancy, the Monitor gun came to life. It
talked fast in a language that was all its own. It got the retreating
guard twice, the heavy, bone-shattering slugs knocking the man first one
way and then another as he fell crazily to the ground.
There were two guards inside the truck. Their guns roared from the ports
in the armored walls. But the Monitor rifle was a can opener. Crouching
beside Squid Murphy, Delancy felt the heat of its barrel and saw the
black periods that were bullet holes speckling the gray steel sides of
the truck. Now only one of the gun ports in the truck was active.
The barrel of the Monitor swung and the hot steel barrel burned
Delancy's arm. He said, "Hell!" hoarsely and jumped out of the bushes,
automatic in hand. Delancy dropped flat and heard the sound of a bullet
whining by. And then the Monitor's deafening hammer sounded again, and
after that, silence.
Delancy picked himself up, ran, his thick, toadlike body silhouetted by
the truck lights. Gun smoke lay in placidly moving layers of gray before
the light beams. Delancy ducked through the open door of the truck. One
of his own men was already inside, and he tossed a money bag to Delancy.
Delancy caught it with one arm and a belly and passed it back through
the door to Squid Murphy who was standing just outside.
Delancy said, "Cut it, Murphy!" Because Squid Murphy was giggling.
Murphy was kill-crazy, and tonight the Monitor rifle in his hands had
made him feel like a god. His giggling rasped on Delancy's nerves.
Delancy picked up another money bag, and then told his boys they'd have
to get going. He didn't know why he felt as though they ought to get
away in a hurry. Surely no one inside the Weedham plant could have heard
the gun fire above the racket the machines were making. Also, the
neighborhood about the factory was thinly populated.
But something he couldn't put his finger on was spurring Delancy to get
clear of the scene of the crime as soon as possible. Maybe it was the
lightning that flashed with ever increasing frequency. Or maybe it was
the ghastly tableau the body of Joseph, the watchman, made, sitting in
that chair, pinned there like a butterfly by Shiv's knife.
A big gray sedan stood in the middle of the road, the motor idling. Shiv
the knifeman slouched indolently behind the wheel. Murphy and the other
two gunmen were already getting into the rear seat, and Delancy went
cold with the sudden fear that his pals might run out on him. As fast as
his short bowed legs would carry him, he ran to the car and piled in
beside Shiv. The knifeman looked at Delancy and snickered.
"What's the rush, Delancy? You think Black Hood is on your tail?"
Delancy snarled, "Hell, no! But let's get going, huh?"
Now that Shiv had mentioned it, Delancy recognized the fear that plagued
him. It was fear of the Black Hood. The Black Hood wasn't like the cops
at all. He didn't trail a man with screaming sirens and blasting
whistles. He hunted like a panther in the night, alone and silent. And
you never knew just when the shadow of this master manhunter was to
fall across your path.