Excerpted from Jay Waitkus' Crime Chronicles: The Clock by Johnston McCulley. Additional contributions by Jay Waitkus. Based on the character and comic book series created by George Brenner.
PROLOGUE:
New York City Fourth National Bank. Midnight, November 11, 1936.
“HOW’S it going, Rico?” Bruce Polanski asked his colleague.
“It’d go a whole lot better if you’d hold your flashlight steady,” The safecracker bristled. “And stop crowding me!”
“Hey, I was only trying to—”
“Knock it off, you guys!” Jimmy Cogan said sternly. “Rico, stay focused on what you’re doing. Bruce, give him some more light. And back up a little!”
“Oh sure, everything’s always my fault,” Polanski said.
“Enough,” an exasperated Cogan retorted. “Let’s just get this done, okay?”
“I’m close,” Rico interjected. “Give me one more minute...There...That should...just...about...do it. Okay, Jimmy, try the door.”
Cogan stepped forward and pulled with all the strength he could muster. Even unlocked, it was a struggle, but the immense vault finally opened, the strongroom now before them.
“Good work!” Cogan exclaimed. “Boys, welcome to Easy Street.”
“Maybe not as easy as you thought,” a voice from behind them called.
The thieves whirled in surprise, a surge of panic washing over them upon seeing the nightmare now standing directly in their path.
“It’s—it’s him!” Polanski sputtered, his voice trembling. “The Clock!”
Twin Colt .45s, unsheathed from their owners’ gun belt, glimmered in the darkness of the empty bank. Gloved hands held the weapons aloft, the barrels pointed squarely at the criminals. Beneath the dark brown fedora and mysterious black curtain mask that obscured his face, Brian O’Brien smiled as he eyed his prey.
Except for his mask, the rest of the vigilante’s attire was decidedly understated, even refined, consisting of a freshly-pressed white dress shirt complete with a tie, a dark custom-tailored suit, and Amedeo Testoni boots. Refined or not, to the men who stood before him, O’Brien —or more precisely, his alter ego—might as well have been the devil incarnate. As was so often the case, the battle on this night was half-won before it even began, for the fearsome reputation The Clock had acquired among the denizens of society’s underbelly preceded him.
“Okay, look,” Cogan stammered, “Let’s...let’s just talk about—”
“Inside,” O’Brien commanded.
“Wha—what?” asked Cogan, looking more scared by the moment.
“You wanted to get into the vault, didn’t you? So get in.”
“What are you going to—”
“Now!” O’Brien thundered, motioning with the .45s, as if about to fire.
Cogan, Polanski, and Rico acquiesced, the sweat on their brows underscoring their terror...
An hour and an anonymous tip later, NYPD Police Captain David Kane, accompanied by a bevy of uniformed patrol officers, had arrived at the scene. Also present was J.B. Forsyth, the president of the bank, who led the assemblage into the back, where the monstrous vault dominated the room.
To no surprise among the policemen, Kane found a postcard-sized note on its door. He read the message aloud: “The Clock has struck!” the note said. “I believe you’ve been looking for these villains for some time.”
“Who is he referring to?” asked Forsyth. “There’s no one here but us.”
Before Kane could answer, though, he felt the now familiar wisp of pain in his fingertips, as The Clock’s note incinerated in a small, though palpable, flash of fire.
“Dammit, I’m sick of that parlor trick!” Kane groused, as he shook the ashes from his hand.
“I wonder how he does that,” one of the officers mused.
“How the hell should I know?” Kane responded. “What do I look like, a magician?”
“Parlor tricks aside, Captain, the matter of these ‘villains’ he said you’ve been looking for is still before us. Is it possible he might have left them here for you, only for them to escape?”
“No, Mr. Forsyth, I can safely assure you that there’s no chance of that. May I assume you have the combination to the vault?”
“Well, yes, of course, but—”
“Open it.”
Forsyth complied, and an officer pulled the massive door wide open. Inside were three men, bound together in a labyrinth of tensile wire.
“Well, look who’s joined the party!” the delighted police captain exclaimed, as the defeated criminals sat in resigned silence. “If it isn’t the Cogan Gang. Fancy meeting you here!”
“And who may I ask are these—”
“These, Mr. Forsyth, are the thieves who were about to clean out your entire bank. Just as they’ve done to at least three other banks that we’re aware of.”
Cogan and his men were cut loose from the wire, then handcuffed and taken to the local precinct house for booking. By the following afternoon, New York was abuzz with the news of the latest criminal enterprise foiled by the city’s mysterious guardian.
Chapter 1
Long Island, New York. Two years earlier.
IT was not the first time that Brian O’Brien had felt very thankful that his training as a lawyer, a member of society, and in the world at large, had been such that it enabled him successfully to talk about one thing and think of something else entirely different at the same time.
He managed to maintain the conversation with the charming young woman at his side, and while he did so, he considered that there was something taking place in which he was greatly interested, and sensed that there would be something in the nature of a resolution soon.
Brian O’Brien guided his powerful roadster along the scenic highways on the bank of the river, beneath overhanging boughs of trees dressed in their autumn foliage.
Now he allowed the great engine to drive the car at a rate of speed that almost took one’s breath away—and now he throttled it down until the car crept, purring, along the highway, seeming to rest before another burst of speed.
He was driving in that fashion for a purpose. Silvia Rodney, the young woman who sat at his side, believed that it was because O’Brien was nervous, and she smiled happily, for O’Brien’s manner led her to believe that he was about to address her on a subject a young woman always likes to hear discussed by a man she more than admires.
O’Brien’s real purpose, however, was to discover just why he was being followed, and by whom. He had known for the past two hours that he was being pursued by somebody. He was aware that he was being watched closely as he ate lunch with Silvia Rodney at a little inn far up the river, but he had been unable to locate the person who had him under surveillance. And Brian O’Brien had a perfect right to feel a bit nervous about it.
Known to the world at large as the one remaining member of an old and respected family of culture and wealth, the truth of the matter was that Brian O’Brien was a criminal of a sort, a clever member of the band controlled and commanded by Richard “The Golem” Wentworth, a supercrimimal who had been the despair of the police of Europe in days gone by, and who still was active, though not to such a great extent.
Ruined by men who had called themselves his friends, Brian O’Brien had joined The Golem’s band at the supercriminal’s suggestion, and had become a valuable man to the master crook. He maintained his position in society, for there he was of the greatest value to The Golem. He would be of value only as long as he remained free from suspicion. His successful work had antagonized criminals who were fighting The Golem, and O’Brien knew that they would expose him if they ever got the opportunity.
Knowing that he was being followed and watched, Brian O’Brien speculated as to the identity of the person or persons doing it. Were they officers of the law who had grown suspicious of him? Had he made some fatal slip that had put them on the right track? Or were they criminals antagonistic to The Golem and his band?
O’Brien did not betray his nervousness and anxiety to the woman at his side, and nobody could have told from his manner that he was thinking of annoyance or trouble. He indulged in his usual brand of small talk, spoke of things to be seen along the road, chatted of the beauties of the scenery, gave the impression that he was a bit bored by it all—and, in reality, was very much alert.
“Great season, autumn,” O’Brien said now, glancing at Silvia.
“It is, indeed, Brian,” she replied.
“True to all the forms of life,” he went on. “I always did admire a man or woman in the autumn of their existence—mellow with age, rich in experience, wise to the ways of the world. Ironic, isn’t it? A man gets really fit to live about the time he has to die!”
“Brian O’Brien, you are speaking like an old man, and you certainly are not one!”
“Thirty-four, I’m afraid.”
“I am twenty-six myself.”
“I refuse to believe it,” O’Brien declared. “You don’t look a day more than eighteen.”
“Brian O’Brien, you are trying to flatter me!”
“Impossible. There are no proper words in the dictionary—none nearly strong enough. Webster should have met a woman like you—he would have invented a lot more good adjectives.”
“Brian O’Brien, I’ll be angry in a moment!”
“Angry?” O’Brien gasped. “I always had a suspicion that girls liked to hear men say that sort of thing.”
“But I am not a silly girl!” Silvia Rodney declared, pouting a bit—and she turned half away from him and looked at the river sparkling in the bright sunshine.
Brian O’Brien managed to glance at her from the corners of his eyes—and sighed.
Silvia Rodney was the niece of The Golem. When O’Brien first joined the supercriminal’s band, he had made a pretense of paying a great deal of attention to her—it gave him an excuse for visiting so much at the mansion on American Boulevard, where The Golem had his home and headquarters.
This acquaintanceship had developed into love with a speed that was truly amazing. Brian O’Brien, a man of society, hunter of big game, world roamer in days gone by, the man many women had sought for a husband and could not capture, had fallen in love with the sweet, unassuming girl—and had been forced through circumstances to hold his tongue.
For from Silvia Rodney had been kept the knowledge of her uncle’s true character. She had been taught to believe that he was the representative of a certain European power, and that he was working in the interests of humanity.
Brian O’Brien was too honest to speak to her of love without telling her that he was a criminal of a sort—and The Golem had forbidden him doing that. He knew that Silvia Rodney returned his love, and was wondering why he did not ask her to become his wife.
O’Brien had been a ruined man when he had joined The Golem’s band. But because of his excellent work, he had gathered a small fortune again. And The Golem, by way of reward, had also engineered a campaign on the Stock Exchange that had netted O’Brien almost a quarter of a million dollars.
O’Brien was all right financially now, yet he remained true to The Golem, not through fear of what might happen to him if he left the supercriminal’s band, but out of gratitude to The Golem for his help.
There were times when Brian O’Brien wished that he might marry Silvia Rodney and cease his nefarious work. It had not been so very nefarious at that. The Golem and his followers committed thefts, but generally on the side of right. Ill-gotten gains were what they generally took from their victims, and now and then The Golem contracted to obtain and return something that had been procured by improper means from its rightful owner. There were worse criminals than The Golem and his people, but nevertheless, what they did was outside the law.
O’Brien stopped the roadster in a grove beside the highway and helped Silvia Rodney out.
“We’ll walk about one hundred feet through these woods and come to a high place overlooking a bend in the river,” he said. “It’s the most beautiful spot in the entire state, especially at this time of the year.”
O’Brien guided the way through the brush, and finally they emerged on the top of a giant rock at the river’s edge. Silvia gave a little cry of delight at the scene that unfolded before them.
A great river was at their feet, curving into the distance, and the woods on both shores were dressed in red and brown and gold. In the far distance, they could see the city.
They sat down on a fallen log to watch the scene—and Brian O’Brien sighed again.
“Why—why not say it, Brian?” Silvia Rodney whispered to him, after a time.
“Pardon?”
“Must I say it?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Brian O’Brien, there seems to be some deep and dark mystery about you,” she said. “Perhaps it is forward of me to speak in this way, but I flatter myself that I am a modern young woman, not bound by every silly and narrow-minded convention—and I always like to have mysteries solved. Brian O’Brien, you have been in—in love with me for a year!”
“Certainly so,” he casually replied. “What man wouldn’t be?”
“Brian O’Brien, I want you to know that I am speaking seriously. A woman always can tell when a man really is in love with her. And—and I should think—that a big, wise man—could tell when a girl—was really in love with him.”
“I—”
“And you know that I—well, that I am!” she gasped. “And yet you—you never speak of it. I suppose that it must be because I am not good enough for you.”
“No, of course not. You’re a great girl. But I’m a regular rotter.”
“I know better than that—you are nothing of the sort!” she declared. “And I’ll not have you defaming yourself in that way! Perhaps it isn’t at all nice for me to speak in this way, but I must have an explanation, Brian. I—I can’t go on in this way! Is it that you don’t—want me?”
“Silvia—”
Brian O’Brien turned away from her and looked up the broad river. He had faced charging elephants and infuriated tigers, he had been in many a close corner during his work for The Golem, but never in his life before had he faced an ordeal such as this. The woman who sat at his side was more formidable, in her way, than a jungle filled with wild beasts.
“What is it, Brian?” she asked now. “Is it something that you cannot tell me?”
“I—I’m not good enough,” he replied.
“Brian O’Brien, I have been investigating you a bit. Alice Norton has spoken to me about you a hundred times, and she has known you from boyhood. You have been a good, clean man, Brian. You were a bit wild in college, and just after you graduated, but your wildness consisted mostly of globe-trotting and hunting lions, and things like that.”
“I suppose so,” O’Brien sighed.
“There is nothing in your past life that would keep a nice girl from becoming your wife.”
“Yes, clearly I’m a regular paragon. An example to be held up to erring youth, and all that sort of thing!”
“Now you’re trying to make me laugh and change the subject. And I refuse to do anything of the sort, Brian O’Brien! We are going to have an explanation here this afternoon—or I never shall go riding with you again, or talk to you when you visit my uncle.”
“So you’d condemn me?”
“I mean it, Brian!”
O’Brien looked up the river again—and saw nothing. He was feeling very uncomfortable, to say the least. He was remembering his promise to The Golem, but he did not want to lose the sweet companionship of the woman at his side.
Silvia touched him on the arm.
“I think that I understand, Brian. You have wanted to speak to me for some time—I could tell. And you have not, because—well, because of my uncle, I suppose.”
“But what could your uncle have to do with it?” Brian O’Brien asked. “You mean that I’m afraid he wouldn’t give you to me, if I were to ask him?”
“I suppose you think that I am a silly girl who is blind and deaf and dumb,” she said. “My uncle seems to think so, too. Why, Brian, I have known the truth for two years, but never have let my uncle find out. I felt a bit badly about it at first—and then I discovered that my uncle isn’t so very bad after all. He was bad in his youth, but now he and his men and women are working more in the interests of right than anything else. I know that my uncle is The Golem!”
O’Brien looked shocked.
“It’s the blood that flows through his veins,” she went on. “His father was a famous criminal. My own father was associated with my uncle for some time before his death. I am resigned to those facts now, Brian.”
“Silvia, please—”
“And you are not so very bad, you see. What have you done recently? You recovered an idol that had been taken from India. Uncle received money for that, of course, and so did you, yet it was honest in a way to have the idol returned. Then you recovered a famous painting that had been stolen, and so it found its way back to its original owner. You committed burglary to get it, and yet it was honest, in a way. So, you see, things are not so very bad.”
O’Brien did not respond.
“And so, Brian, if that was the reason why you did not speak—”
“But I’m a crook!” he protested. “Can I ask a sweet girl to become my wife when I’m a criminal, when I’m liable to arrest and incarceration at any moment?”
“Brian, if the girl loved you, she would be willing to run that risk.”
“Look, since I’ve been working for your uncle, he’s aided me in building up my shattered fortunes. I could maintain my place in society now and have a wife at my side. And I do want you. But I can’t have you—unless The Golem releases me. If he would do that—”
“I feel sure that he will, Brian. He loves me, you know, and will do anything for my happiness.”
O’Brien thought about it for a moment.
“We’ll ask him,” he said.
“You let me ask him, Brian. Let me tell him everything. I feel sure that it will be all right.”
“You’ll marry me, if The Golem releases me?”
“Of course!” she said. “So we—we’re engaged, now?”
“I suppose so—provisionally.”
He faced her again, and saw her smile and her trembling lips. He took her into his arms quickly, and kissed her.
“Let us hope and pray that The Golem will be merciful!” he said.
They got up and started walking back through the woods toward the roadster. Suddenly, O’Brien remembered! During his conversation with Silvia, he had forgotten about his belief that he was being followed and watched.
Now he was doubly alert as they walked back through the brush. He glanced around the grove as he helped the radiant Silvia into the roadster, but he saw nothing suspicious. He started the car, turned it into the road beside the river, and drove it toward the distant city.
Once more he maintained a conversation, a more animated one this time, but he was busy thinking and planning. He was driving at a good rate of speed when they went around a sharp curve in the road; then he stopped the car suddenly, backed it up, and waited.
Presently another car shot around the curve—a roadster as big and powerful as O’Brien’s. Only one man was in it. His faced flushed as he caught sight of O’Brien and realized that he had been caught. He bent his head and drove on furiously.
“What is it?” Silvia asked.
“I had an idea that man was following us,” he explained, “I’ve been feeling it for a couple of hours. I thought I’d catch him by stopping quickly and letting him drive past.”
“Who was it, Brian?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea, my dear,” O’Brien replied. “But I’ll damn well find out, you may be sure! We can’t be having unknown fellows following us around now, can we?”
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Excerpt from Jay Waitkus' Crime Chronicles™ e-book series. Cover image by NZ Graphics.
