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  Fantastic Adventures

  Part 1

  February, 1942

  Volume 4, Number 2

  Part 2

  March, 1942

  Volume 4, Number 3

  Custom eBook created by

  Jerry eBooks

  June 2016

  “I SAID, gimme a paper,” repeated Arnett Huston patiently, but loudly this second time, because maybe the old guy was hard of hearing.

  “Eh?” asked the old newsdealer, casting him a vague glance, then returning his gaze to the other side of the busy street.

  “I said . . .” began Huston again, beginning to get a little irritated, “. . . do you wanta sell those papers or don’t . . .” His voice trailed off as he too looked across the wide, sunlit street to the opposite sidewalk. There was a man there, and he was acting strangely. He was standing before the huge bronze doors that were cemented into the wall of the Merchant’s City Bank looking up at them as though he were looking for a street number.

  Huston knew those doors. Big, must have weighed a ton apiece, and they were quite one of the seven wonders of the city. Max Welson, president of the Merchant’s City Bank, had cemented them there, right in the solid wall of the bank, as part of his collection of old stuff from all over the world. People looked at them. They were pretty startling. Nice carving; some experts said it was real art—worth maybe two million bucks, to an artist. Anyway, they stopped people, and that was what Welson wanted. That’s why he stuck them in the wall of his bank. It was good business. And where else would he keep them anyway?

  Used to be on a famous old church, or something. Lot of superstition attached to them. Funny doors to be on a church, with those words “Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here” carved into them. Maybe it was some kind of heathen church.

  Sure, Huston knew those doors. He’d seen them hundreds of times while beating the district for news for his sheet.

  Reporting was a hell of a job in this town. But what the devil was the use of digging up news? With the old ducks like this guy selling papers, it was like pulling teeth even to buy one, after there was news in them.

  But that guy across the street—

  Huston’s rapid thoughts piled up suddenly in a dead end alley. A big sedan pulled slowly around the corner, passed the bank and the guy trying to get in the phony bronze doors. A rapid, startling, echoing barrage of submachine gun shots filled the canyon of the street. The guy who was trying to get into the old church doors slumped down, body jerking with a dozen slugs pounding into him. He fell against the door, reached up fumblingly with one bloody hand for the big, carved door knocker, then slid down. He didn’t move any more.

  The sedan picked up speed, roared down the block. Then a taxi spurted out of an alley. There was a hell of a crash, and the sedan and the taxi piled up. Everybody started running. Huston ran a few steps, looked, saw the traffic cop running over, gun in hand. That end of it was going to be routine. Those guys wouldn’t get away. It was this dead guy. He’d have a look-see at him, before anybody messed up—

  Huston turned to cross the street. Nobody seemed to have noticed the guy get killed, except the old newsstand dealer, who was standing with a funny scared look in his eyes, still looking at the bronze doors. Everybody else was looking toward the wrecked cars. Huston stopped dead in his tracks. The sun was shining bright and hot on the sidewalk before the old doors, and the blood looked like bits of red flannel torn up and tossed around. But there wasn’t any body there.

  THERE wasn’t any dead man with a dozen tommy-gun slugs in him.

  There was just those red blood stains, leading right up to the door and ending.

  And that door was embedded in solid cement.

  Huston’s eyes popped out of his head, almost. He looked wildly around. There just had to be a body! Nobody walked away with that load of lead in him! And nobody was around to carry him away—if anybody was that foolish.

  He gripped the old newsdealer’s arm.

  “Buddy,” he said hoarsely. “That guy was shot. Where’d he go . . .?”

  The old man looked plenty scared. His mouth opened, but he didn’t say anything. Nothing but:

  “I don’t know,” wildly, “I didn’t see . . .”

  Huston dropped his hand from the old guy’s arm.

  “Uncle,” he said accusingly. “You was looking right at the guy all the time. You musta seen where he went.”

  “No!” the old man nearly shrieked. He was white with fear. More fear than a man ought to show just from seeing a guy bumped off. “There’s nothing but solid concrete behind those doors . . .”

  “Solid concrete . . .” Huston swallowed. “You don’t mean he went thr . . .” His lips tightened. After a long look at the newsdealer he snorted, turned on his heel, and walked toward the crowd surrounding the wrecked cars.

  “Crazy old coot,” he muttered. “Crazy as a bedbug! Solid concrete . . .” He swallowed again.

  “I didn’t see nothing either,” he said defensively. “Nobody got killed. It was a bunch of backfires from the car. I need a drink.”

  He swiveled suddenly, entered a tavern door beside the sidewalk.

  “To hell with covering a lousy smash-up,” he mumbled. “Only a taxi anyway. The guy deserves it. All taxis deserve it. Streaking out of an alley that way . . .”

  CHAPTER II

  No Body—But a Killing!

  “MCCLINTOCK,” warned the sergeant dangerously, “you’d better lay off that crazy spiel, or lay off the booze. It must be booze, because I don’t think you are nuts enough to keep on yapping about a killing that didn’t happen, or—” he added suspiciously, “what kind of cigarettes you smoking lately?”

  The traffic cop flushed, swallowed.

  “Maybe I’m going nuts, Sarge. Maybe I need a vacation. But what about them bloodstains?”

  The sergeant leaned back, exasperated.

  “For your information, Mac, I’m sick and tired of hearing about them! Max Welson has been yapping in the Mayor’s ear, and consequently people have been yapping in mine, about vandals slinging paint over his phony doors in the side of the bank. Red paint, McClintock! And poor grade, too. The handy man had no trouble washing it off right after it was thrown there. If you make one more crack about blood, you’ll get that vacation, and without pay. Now get the hell out of here!” Sergeant Gorrity’s voice ended on a rising, almost hysterical note. “Cripes, what a job! I wish I was back on the beat! Dumb cops . . .”

  Arnett Huston fell in beside McClintock as the traffic officer walked out of the door into the street.

  “It was blood, Mac,” he said. “Three of us saw that killing; you, me, and the old guy that sells newspapers on the corner. We ain’t all nuts. Maybe there ain’t a body, but there was a killing. And by God, I’m gonna find a body!”

  McClintock frowned, his face took on a stubborn look.

  “My wife just had a baby. The sarge says I didn’t see anybody killed; because nobody was killed. I guess I didn’t see any killing. Anyway, I can’t afford to think I saw one. So I’m going back and blow my whistle and snarl up traffic.”

  Huston grinned.

  “That leaves just me. The old guy says he didn’t see anything either. So, I guess I’ll have to go it alone. Right now I’m going up to the hospital and see those mugs who were in the sedan. After all, there was a tommy-gun in the car.”

  McClintock nodded.

  “Only thing that saved my face. I booked ’em for carrying weapons without a license. But if I was you, I’d stay out
of it. Those guys were members of Shorty Pearson’s mob.”

  “Thanks for the solicitude, Mac, but I got a hunch on this thing—and I’m going to nose around a bit.”

  He left the troubled traffic officer as they reached the lot where his car was parked. His hand fumbled for his keys in his pocket, came out with several dull, heavy objects. He looked down at the tommy-gun slugs reflectively, then dumped them back in his pocket.

  “Three hunks of lead that ain’t pipe dreams!” he said emphatically. Maybe there ain’t a body now, but there was one. These things went through one before they plastered against that door that don’t open. And I saw a guy get killed, even if Mac and the old guy won’t admit they did.”

  He climbed into his car.

  “WHY’D you kill him?” Huston asked the heavily bandaged figure on the hospital bed.

  “Because he . . . hey, are you crazy?” demanded the man in the bed. “Nobody ain’t been killed. Why don’t you talk to my mouthpiece? I ain’t got nothing to say about the . . . about the accident. Who’re you? Who let you in here, anyway?”

  “Oh,” nodded Huston sagely, “he’s been here already, eh?”

  “He? Who?”

  “Your ‘mouthpiece’,” said Huston. “Too bad I missed him.”

  The bandaged figure struggled up to a sitting position, then groaned and fell back again.

  “Damn that taxi!” the gangster groaned. “And damn you too, mister. And get outa here while you’re still healthy. You’re too damn snoopy.”

  He reached for the call-bell at the head of his bed.

  Huston grinned and turned away. “Thanks, pal,” he tossed back over his shoulder. “I don’t know what kind of guardian angels the Pearson mob has working for ’em, but they sure are handy to have around—snatching dead bodies into thin air. . . if they stay there! I think I’ll go ring doorbells now. See you later.”

  He bumped into a nurse.

  “Pardon me,” he said.

  “Young man,” she said frigidly, “this is not visiting hours. You will have to leave, unless you have a pass . . .”

  “No ma’am,” said Huston cheerfully. “I haven’t. And now, if I can get into another door as easy as I did this one, everything will be rosy.”

  “You’ll have to leave the hospital,” began the nurse hastily.

  Huston grinned at her.

  “Take it easy, sister,” he said. “No more doors here. This other door is in a bank. Everybody says it never opens, but I’m not so sure now . . .”

  ARNETT HUSTON got down on his knees at the base of the great bronze doors, put his nose close to the sidewalk, and peered intently at the bottom of the door. Gooseflesh rose on the back of his neck, even though the sun was hot on him.

  People passing by snickered in amusement.

  “Lose something, buddy?” asked one.

  “I wish I had,” said Huston hoarsely, glaring up at the speaker.

  Carefully, face pale, Huston took out his penknife, and dug a clean white envelope out of his pocket. Then he carefully scraped at the tiny crack under the base of the door. There was a dark stain, a single drop of something that looked like red paint, half on the sidewalk, half under the door. Huston could barely get the tiny blade under the door. No chance of that drop of . . . of paint . . . splashing there. Would have been some of it on the side of the door if it had. Unless the door was open when . . . whatever it was . . . dripped there.

  Huston could feel the cold sweat breaking out on his forehead.

  But in spite of the nameless terror that was creeping up his spine, he remained awkwardly on his knees, carefully scratching up every last bit of that stain he could get out of the crack with his knife. He put it in the envelope, sealed it, wrapped the envelope into a small wad, and placed it with infinite care in his inside coat pocket.

  The man who was standing there opened his eyes wide, so that the white of his eyeballs showed all around. Abruptly he walked on. He looked back several times, then walked faster.

  “Yeah,” whispered Huston at his departing back. “Maybe I am crazy. Maybe I am. I must be. That envelope in my pocket must be empty. There ain’t anything in it. There can’t be . . .”

  He got stiffly to his feet and walked into the bank’s front door. “. . . unless that door can be opened!” he finished.

  HE FOUND Mr. Max Welson very easily. In fact, Mr. Welson was just then on his way out of the bank, a grim look on his face.

  “Mr. Welson?” asked Huston. “Just one moment, please,” said Welson in an irritated tone. “I have to see about some nut outside crawling around on his hands and knees. This vandalism must stop! Probably planting a bomb . .

  “Wait a minute,” said Huston. “I’m the guy . . .”

  Max Welson gaped at him.

  “You? What . . .”

  “I’m from the paper. Wanta write a story about that door.”

  “You mean a feature article, with publicity?”

  “Sure. Pictures of the door, of you—history of the door.”

  “Come into my office!”

  “No,” said Huston. “I’d rather have you show me the door, inside and out.”

  “There is no inside,” said Welson. “The panels are solidly cemented into the bank wall itself, and the inside is completely sealed. They can’t be opened.”

  “No?” asked Huston uneasily, licking a tongue over unusually dry lips.

  “Dynamite wouldn’t get them open,” said the bank president imperturbably. “They are very valuable. Picked them up in . . .”

  “Never mind that part,” said Huston. “Show me everything, inside and out.”

  “There is no inside,” repeated Welson a trifle angrily.

  “I know. Just show me where the inside would be, if there was an inside.” Welson snorted, led the way across the polished marble floor. When he reached a blank wall, he pounded on it with his fist. It was like pounding on Gibraltar, insofar as any hollow sound was concerned.

  “Here, sir,” announced Welson definitely, “is where the inside would be, if there were an inside!”

  Huston advanced, ran exploratory hands over the smooth marble surface.

  He pounded experimentally at several points, but was rewarded only by the smack of flesh on solid substance.

  He got down on his knees and, nose close to the floor, looked for a crack. There was none.

  “My dear sir,” began the bank president in growing annoyance, “have you come to me to write an article about my doors, or are you looking for termites!”

  Huston got to his feet, his face pale.

  “Nice job of installation,” he croaked. “Very nice. Solid as the gold vaults themselves . . .”

  Welson beamed.

  “Yes, isn’t it?” he agreed. “I personally supervised the job. And now, if you will, I’ll take you outside and explain the door itself to you. All those carvings on the panels have a definite meaning. For instance, each panel depicts a different sin. Beginning at the top we have anger, and . . .”

  Huston followed the bank president out into the street and stood staring at the door while the man talked on. But he wasn’t listening. He was looking at the spot where a droplet of . . . of something . . . had dripped yesterday noon, when the door had been open for a brief moment; where a dead man had crossed a threshold to an inside that wasn’t!

  CHAPTER III

  Huston Meets a Girl

  “HOW many papers you got left?” asked Arnett Huston.

  The old newsdealer fumbled under his arm, counting.

  “Nine,” he said. “Only nine. I’ll be sold out in an hour.”

  “Here’s four bits,” said Huston, tossing the old man a fifty-cent piece. “I’ll take ’em all. And keep the change.

  Now, how about you and me joining up for beans and coffee over to Joe’s? I’m kinda hungry. Wanta talk to you, too.”

  The old man looked nervous.

  “I don’t know,” he began hesitantly.

  “It’s on me,” sai
d Huston, clapping him on the back. “Let’s go.”

  He grabbed the old fellow by the arm and steered him around the corner to Joe’s Eats. In a moment they were seated. Huston gave the order, and then looked at the old man.

  “What’s your name, Uncle?” he began affably.

  “Folks call me Petey. But my name’s really . . . really Peter Jimpson.”

  “Yeah? Okay, Petey. That’s good enough for me. Mine’s Huston. Arnett Huston. I work for the daily blabbermouth here. I’m a reporter.”

  “Oh,” Petey looked interested. “Then you aren’t a police officer?”

  “Cop? Me? What gave you that idea?”

  “The kil . . . accident yesterday. The way you asked questions. And the investigating you’ve been doing today. It looked very much as though you were a detective.”

  “Wrong about the detective, Petey,” said Huston, “but right about the killing. No use denying it any more, Petey. You know, and I know, that a guy was pumped full of lead yesterday noon. Now, all I wanta find out, is where the body went. And don’t be afraid I’ll think you’re nuts. I think I’m the one who’s nuts, and I only want a confirming opinion.

  “You talk like a pretty smart man, Petey. Like you had an education. Now let’s keep on being smart and stick to the truth. If a guy was killed, we oughta find out who did it, where he is, and bring the killers to justice.

  They’re up in the hospital now, and we can lay our hands on them. But when they get out, and there still ain’t a body, they go scot free. That ain’t right, is it, Petey?”

  “No, Mr. Huston, it isn’t,” said Jimpson. “But I’m an old man. I think perhaps age is beginning to affect my eyesight, and maybe my brain. I have . . . hallucinations at times. I . . .”

  “Hallucinations?”

  “That door’s embedded in solid concrete,” said Jimpson abruptly. “So they must be hallucinations!”

  “Why don’t you say it?” asked Huston in exasperation. “The guy that got killed went, or was taken, into that door that don’t open!”

  Jimpson stared at him steadily from beneath bushy eyebrows, and in his eyes was a gleam that seemed less old than the rest of him.