The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

But “The Scourge” didn’t know anything about it.

Barnaby’s dive carried the now startled Ritter to the floor. He made a vague motion in the general direction of his arm-pit but all it earned him was a stunning blow on the jaw from one of the copper’s massive fists. The “ace” mobster stole a hasty glance at his assailant towering above him... and surrendered.

He was rudely yanked erect, a steel bracelet bit into his right wrist and by it, he was unceremoniously dragged out of the cafe in the wake of the well-burdened Duane. And no one interfered with their going. Ritter balked outside when he saw that the car awaiting him was not an official machine — Ritter had learned that a ride in a regular police car invariably terminated at Police Headquarters where one of the mob’s shysters would be waiting to spring him.

But his obstinacy was short-lived. Barnaby mouthed an expressive oath, then half-threw, half-kicked him into the rear seat where he was at once handcuffed to the unconscious “Scourge.”

The car swung into motion.

Duane drove, eyes glued on the road ahead, mouth tightened. Barnaby sat sidewise on the seat beside him, his left elbow resting on the back seat, his bitter gaze riveted on the pair in the rear. In his right hand, he cradled a long nightstick; it swayed suggestively in his restless grip.

Ritter saw the stick, remembered the car, and stark terror gripped him. Some of the angry color seeped from his avaricious features, leaving them the shade of stale dough.

“Wait a minute, Barnaby,” he jerked. “You can’t do this!”

Barnaby’s mocking laughter hit him like a blow. There was no mirth in the sound, rather a menace...

“But this ain’t official!” protested Ritter.

The doughty veteran sneered. “Sure it’s official, you rat. You got me canned from one police force, but I got on another. You’re arrested, Ritter; you’ll get a trial all legal-like. But you won’t have no crooked lawyers, Ritter.”

The gunman’s eyes protruded. “Another police force?” he gasped. “What city hired you? Where are you takin’ us...?”

“To a city where you belong, Ritter — The City of Hell!”

Duane toured around several blocks, crossing his own trail to make sure they had no tail, then satisfied at last there was no one following, he cut rapidly across the city to the warehouse district. He came to an abandoned loft building, circled it twice, finally to stop in a pool of black shadow. As he stepped out one side of the car, Barnaby went out the opposite side.

“All right, Ritter,” Barnaby growled, opening the rear door. “Pile out.” Duane turned the beam of his flash in the tonneau.

Rieg had regained part of his sense. He sat blinking at the light. Ritter shrank back into the seat, but when Barnaby hit him across the shins with the night-stick, he bounced to the edge of the seat and filed out, dragging the still dazed Rieg with him.

Ritter said: “On the level, Cap, ain’t there some way we can square this beef? I’ll see you get your old job back an’...”

Barnaby stiffened, his thin smile widened into a wolfish grin.

“So you can get me my old job back, eh?” he whispered softly. His voice changed abruptly to a savage growl. “Why you lousy...!”

Smack! It was only an open-handed slap, but it floored the astonished Ritter and he, in turn, pulled “The Scourge” down with him.

It was Duane who prodded them erect. He motioned them to follow the big form of Barnaby, who was striding through the darkness. The reflected light of his flash painted him in eery shadow; he loomed there like some fabled giant.

“I wouldn’t irritate him,” Duane suggested mildly. “He’s in good humor now, but he might get peevish.”

Ritter shuddered and hurried in Barnaby’s wake.

Barnaby’s course led him through long-deserted rooms, down a dusty stairway to a basement. He explored the filth-laden floor for a few minutes until he found a heavy iron plate set flush with the cement. He scuffed dirt away from an iron ring, hooked his fingers through it and lifted the lid, disclosing a black hole that vanished into the bowels of the earth.

He leaned forward and rapped briskly on the rim of the hole with a night-stick. The noise echoed out of the blackness to be followed by a ponderous silence...

Abruptly, as from a great distance, the sound of a tapping came to them; an echo, as it were, of Barnaby’s own raps.

Barnaby prodded Ritter with the club. Duane unlocked the cuffs.

“Get down, muggs,” he ordered; and when he saw them hesitate, added, “get, or I’ll heave you down!”

They went... down a rusty ladder, into the arms of Hallahan and Forsythe.

Barnaby came down last, pulling the iron cover in place after him. When he reached the bottom, he grinned.

“Ritter, meet the new police department; coppers of The City of Hell!”

Duane swung his light so it illuminated the others. “Any luck?” he asked.

“Plenty!” chortled Hallahan. “Come on.”

He led the way down a great brick tube about twelve feet in diameter. The concave floor was slimy and a thin trickle of filthy water crawled along the middle. The wan glow of the flashlights showed dripping walls and on several occasions, huge bats swept squealing at the heads of the grim paraders.