Scanned by Highroller and proofed more or less by Highroller.

Chapter 1

THE BEARDED STRANGER

THE SILVER Rolls Royce came to a stop at the curb by the tall building. The bearded man and the blond boy emerged into the sunshine of the pleasant autumn afternoon. The boy looked up and read the inscription chiseled in the stone of the building: DAILY SENTINEL.

The man and the boy entered the cool lobby, consulted the directory on the wall, and went quickly to an elevator. They came out into a corridor at the end of which was a door marked: BRITT REED, PUBLISHER. The man opened the door, permitted the boy to precede him, then quietly closed the door behind them.

Miss Lenore Case looked up from her typewriter as they came in. As Britt Reid's secretary, she was accustomed to unexpected interruptions. She smiled at her visitors and the blond boy smiled back at the pretty Miss Case, but the bearded man coughed, stuttered, hesitated. Quite evidently he was trying to mask his excitement Or, thought Miss Case, could it be fear that he was trying to mask?

She made her smile more cordial.

"May I help you?" she inquired.

"I—I wish to see Mr. Reid," said the bearded man. He spoke with a slight German accent He was tall, slim, stooped, about forty-five years old. The slender blue-eyed boy was no more than sixteen.

"You wish to see Mr. Reid," Miss Case repeated amiably. "About what?"

"Pardon?" The bearded man was perspiring.

"Mr. Reid is an extremely busy man," Miss Case explained.

"It is—it is urgent," stammered the bearded man. "Very important, please."

It was a part of Miss Lenore Case's job to screen the many people who, for a variety of personal reasons, wished to make demands upon the time and energies of the publisher and editor of the Daily Sentinel. But somehow her sympathies were with this obviously agitated man. She stood up from her desk, revealing a tall, trim figure.

"What name?" she asked.

"Mr. Brandt," replied the bearded man.

Miss Case sighed. She knew what she was letting herself in for. Squaring her shoulders, she crossed the commodious anteroom and opened the glazed-glass door which bore the gold-leaf legend: MR. REID—PRIVATE.

She closed the door and stood leaning against it, observing the handsome Mr. Britt Reid, who was deeply immersed in the writing of an editorial for the morning edition of the Daily Sentinel. He looked up crossly.

"Yes, Miss Case?"

"A gentleman to see you."

"Gentleman? What gentleman?"

"Mr. Brandt," she said innocently.

Britt's eyebrows came together. "Brandt? Do I know a Brandt?"

"I don't think so," murmured Miss Case in her most dulcet tone.

"Do you know a Brandt?"

"Er—I beg your pardon?" said Miss Case sweetly.

"Brandt," growled Britt. "I don't know any Brandt and so I'm asking you—do you know this Brandt?"

"No," she said flatly.

Britt smiled at her, but the smile had a sharp edge.

"Miss Case, I'm working. I specifically told you I was not to be interrupted unless it was something of prime importance."

"That's what he said."

"Said what?"

"Important."

"Who said?"

"Mr. Brandt"

"And who, please, is Mr. Brandt?"

"A stranger."

"Miss Case," Britt groaned, "you know as well as I, if I had to interview every stranger who said it was important, then that's the way I would spend all my time—talking to strangers who say it's important."

But even as he spoke, he saw she was disturbed. He realized she had disobeyed a specific instruction for some instinctive reason that she had considered good and sufficient. His smile turned to a boyish grin, the sharp edge off it. "Okay, okay, don't look so sad. Take him to Mike. I'm sure Mike can handle whatever problem the guy's got."

"Yessir."

"Okay, Miss Case." He returned to his work.

Miss Case went back to the anteroom and addressed Mr. Brandt. "I'm to take you to see our Mr. Axford."

"Axford?"

"He's the best reporter on the paper and the most trusted reporter on the staff. Very close to Mr. Reid. Next in line to Mr. Reid."

"Oh? So? Thank you."

"The boy is welcome to stay here if you wish.

I mean, it's much more comfortable here than it is down in Mr. Axford's office."

"Boy?" said the bearded man absently.

Miss Case gestured toward the blond youngster, who waited quietly.

"Oh, yes, please, thank you," said the bearded man. "I appreciate it very much. He is my son, Konrad."

"A most handsome young man," Miss Case offered.

The boy drew himself up tall and snapped a Teutonic nod of his head.

"Konrad Brandt," he announced politely. "It is my pleasure indeed." His English was excellent although, like his father's speech, it contained a tinge of German accent.

"I'm Lenore Case."

"I am pleased to meet you, Miss Case."

"Do sit down," said Miss Case. "Please make yourself comfortable. There are magazines, newspapers, feel free. I'll be back in two shakes. This way, Mr. Brandt."

She led the bearded man out of the office and down the hall.

"Mr. Axford's office is one flight down," she said. "No sense taking the elevator. Well walk. Stairway's right here."

"Yes, thank you, you are very kind," said the bearded man.

Chapter 2

REAL CRACKPOT

MIKE AXFORD had an office of his own. He was entitled to it. Although not an old man, in terms of years of service he was the oldest employee of the Daily Sentinel. Mike had been a reporter with the Sentinel when its present owner and publisher, Britt Reid, had been a callow youth in college. Mike had worked under the original founder of the paper, Britt's father, the venerable Henry Reid, since deceased. Mike Axford, by virtue of long and loyal service, was a very special cog in the intricate machinery of a newspaper world-known and acclaimed.

Gruff and cynical, red-haired, hearty, Mike Ax-ford, in his mid-fifties, was a vital and active, and a most highly regarded, constituent of the newspaper which was an integral part of his life. Mike had no titles except one. "I'm a newspaperman," he would say with pride. And that was his title.

Now Mike Axford, barking into the telephone, was in deep conversation with District Attorney P.P. Scanlon.

"How'd you make out on that tip I sent along to you on the Green Hornet?" Mike asked.

"Turned out to be a bust," said Scanlon.

"F.P., we have simply got to get to that guy. And soon."

"You bet," said Scanlon.

"That bird's turning out to be the super-criminal of the century."

"You bet," said Scanlon.

"How come you sound so nice and placid about it, Mr. District Attorney?"

"Who's placid?" retorted Scanlon.

"That Green Hornet is a real blot on the escutcheon!"

"You bet," said P.P. Scanlon.

"Brother, we have got to get to him."

"Mike, we've been trying, haven't we?"

"Yeah, yeah," said Mike grumpily, "and we're going to keep on trying."

"You bet," said the District Attorney.

"Okay, F.P. So another lead turns out to be a bust. But we're going to keep right in there pitching, right?"

"You bet," said Scanlon.

"Good-bye for now, F.P."

"Good-bye, Michael."

Mike banged down the receiver and looked up to see Miss Lenore Case standing patiently in front of his desk.

"What bad news do you bring now, my lovely young lass?"

"A visitor."

"Visitor," Mike scoffed. "Proper visitors he sees himself. Crackpots he sends to me." He scowled menacingly.

"A very nice man."

"Bah! If Britt Reid sends him along to me—a crackpot."

Crackpots were normal course of business. In the workaday world of a busy metropolitan newspaper, crackpots came and went every single day, and Mike Axford, wise, worldly, experienced, was an expert in the skillful handling of the inevitable crackpots.

"Okay," he moaned, eyes twinkling, "show him in and 111 get rid of him in short order. What's this one's name?"

"Brandt"

"Okay, let's have your Brandt."

Miss Case showed him in, introduced them, and departed.

"Sit down," Mike said.

The bearded man sat and Mike looked him over. A fine-looking man, brown-haired, gray-eyed. A man with a high forehead and slender, delicate hands. A man of dignity.

Mike sighed. If this guy was a crackpot then he might turn out to be an interesting crackpot, and interesting crackpots sometimes—sometimes! —made interesting newspaper stories.

"All right, Mr. Brandt, what is it that I can do for you?"

Brandt shot his cuff and looked at his wrist-watch.

"I have seven minutes left."

Mike frowned. "You have seven minutes left for what?"

"To be arrested."

"You wish to be arrested?"

"That is correct."

"What crime did you commit?"

"No crime."

"Mr. Brandt, you better give this whole thing to me nice and slow and easy. You wish to be arrested but you haven't committed a crime. Right away that's a little crazy, isn't it? But, also—why do you come here? If you wish to be arrested for not committing a crime, why don't you go directly to the police?"

"Not the police," said the bearded man in his slightly Germanic accent. "I'm referring to the FBI."

"Then why don't you go to the FBI?"

"I could not. They would know. And they would not let me."

Holy moley, a real crackpot.

"Mr. Brandt, I can't say I'm sailing along with you. Actually, I'm away out at sea. Now what's this all about?"

Again the man looked at his wristwatch.

"Please, Mr. Axford. It is urgent. I have come to a newspaper because newspapermen have a reputation for acting speedily. They know how to cut through red tape. Mr. Britt Reid has an international reputation, and the Daily Sentinel is world-known for its courage and great daring. Now I ask you, please, at once, to call the FBI and have them come to this office immediately to arrest me and my son."

"Son?" asked the bewildered Mike.

"He is upstairs in Miss Case's office."

Mike cocked his head. "Now look here, Mr. Brandt. You appear to be a sensible man. There's certainly no wild, lunatic look in your eyes. If you've committed no crime, can you explain to me exactly why the FBI should take you into custody?"

"Custody! Yes. That is exactly the word. I wish them to take us into protective custody. But I beg of you, you must act at once!"

"Mr. Brandt, I'd like to help you, but I simply cannot make a blithering idiot of myself. I can't call the FBI, just like that, to come roaring to the Daily Sentinel on an emergency I know nothing about. I can't demand that they take a man and his son into protective custody just because the man asks me to. Now, if you're willing to give me some reason, some explanation that will make the whole business clear—"

Brandt tapped a fingernail against the face of his watch. "No time, sir. There is very little time left."

"Time! Time for what, my dear man?"

The bearded man clenched and unclenched his hands. He spoke quickly. "Have you ever heard of Dr. Hans Brandt?"

Mike's forehead furrowed.

"Hans Brandt?"

"The physicist."

Mike slammed a beefy hand against the desk. "That Brandt? Of course I've heard of Dr. Hans Brandt. Who hasn't? He's known all over the world. A Communist. Head of the great Brandt Laboratories in East Germany. What's he got to do with any of this? Are you a relative of his?" The delicate hands came together, fingertips touching, making a steeple. "I am Dr. Hans Brandt."

Chapter 3

PANDEMONIUM

MIKE AXFORD sat rigid, staring at his visitor in stark disbelief. Holy moley, he thought, when that Britt wishes a crackpot on me—he sure wishes a crackpot on me!

"Sir," he said soothingly, "let's try that once again."

"Pardon?"

"Pick another name."

"I did not pick a name, I assure you. I gave you my name."

"Mister, that name—sorry. I don't know what your game is, what it is that you're trying to pull on me. But Dr. Hans Brandt you are not. He couldn't be here talking with me. He couldn't possibly be here in the United States. They simply wouldn't let him out of that gigantic prison which is East Germany today."

"I am Dr. Hans Brandt."

Angrily Mike pushed himself up out of his swivel chair and strode across the office to his files. A drawer rasped open and his stubby fingers riffled through the manila folders. Finally he found the one he was seeking, withdrew it, and slammed shut the drawer.

Back at his desk, he opened the manila folder and drew out a large-sized photo. He looked at the photo and then across at the man seated opposite him. His eyes bulged and his jaw grew slack. His visitor was Dr. Hans Brandt.

Mike reversed the photo and read the details.

Dr. Hans Brandt. Physicist. Head of Brandt Laboratories in Dresden, East Germany. A widower, age forty-five. One child, a son Konrad, age sixteen. One other relative, an older brother Kurt Brandt, age fifty, living in Munich, West Germany.

Mike laid the photo on the desk and smiled weakly.

"Dr. Brandt, forgive me."

"Please now, Mr. Axford—the FBI."

"Yessir, at once."

Mike reached for the telephone—and at that moment an explosion rocked the building. More explosions followed.

"Stay where you are, Dr. Brandt."

Mike leaped up and rushed out of the office. The corridor was thick with smoke, acrid, choking. There were screams, confusion, pandemonium. Mike tried to fight his way forward, but the fumes were beginning to overcome him. People in the corridor, running toward the entrance, suddenly fell. Struggling against the overpowering fumes, he went down to one knee. Just before he lost consciousness he saw the man wearing the gas mask, and later he remembered thinking, Thank God, that must be a policeman or a fireman, one of the persons who has come to help.

When he opened his eyes, people were still lying about unconscious. Some of the fumes had cleared, and he found that he was able to breathe without choking. From far off, he heard the wail of police sirens. Still dazed, he came weakly to his feet—and suddenly bethought himself of Dr. Brandt. He tried to hurry, almost fell again. Stumbling, he made his way to his office.

There was no sign of Dr. Hans Brandt.

Chapter 4

TEN PRECIOUS MINUTES

THE POLICE had come and gone, and the firemen, and the ambulances. The demolitions experts from the Police Department had explained to Britt Reid that the explosions had not been caused by demolition explosives but by grenades that contained a form of gas similar to tear gas, a gas that caused a loss of consciousness for a period of about fifteen minutes. They suggested that it was some crank who had thrown the grenades, some psychopath with a grudge against the Daily Sentinel, and that was the report entered on the police blotter. Mike had done a search of the building for Dr. Brandt to no avail.

Now they were seated in Britt Reid's office— Britt, Mike, Miss Case, and the blond young man.

Britt's face was dark with suppressed wrath, his voice gritty as sand against stone. "All right, Mike. Miss Case has given me the first part. She kept the son in the anteroom up here and brought the father down to you. Now let's have it, please."

Rapidly Mike recited the details of his conversation with Dr. Hans Brandt and the events following that conversation.

"We don't need District Attorney P.P. Scanlon or any other criminologist," he added gruffly, "to explain what happened here. The explosions— a form of diversion. The gas—to knock us all out. The purpose—the abduction of Dr. Brandt. The man I saw in the gas mask who, in my elderly innocence, I thought to be some cop coming to save us, was, of course, the abductor. The question before the house now—why? Why all of it?"

Britt shifted his glance to the blond young man. The boy had been sitting quietly, in good control, politely refraining from interjecting any remarks into the discussion among his elders.

"Perhaps Konrad can help us."

"I believe I can, Mr. Reid."

Britt smiled. "Then take it away, young man. All yours."

Blue eyes sparkled intelligently. "I'd have to begin from the beginning, and I'm afraid it must be a rather long story."

"Will it explain what happened here?" Britt asked.

"Yes, sir, I believe it will."

Britt squinted. "I must say you don't seem to be terribly concerned. I mean, your father—"

The boy's grin showed bright white teeth.

"They won't harm him. I know that. He's too valuable to them."

"They?" Britt queried. "Who are they?"

"That is a part of the story," the boy replied. "I know all the details. My father has told me all of it."

"Then by all means, please."

"As you all know by now," Konrad Brandt began, "my father is Dr. Hans Brandt He is the Dr. Hans Brandt, a physicist acclaimed by all scientists as a genius, the founder of the Brandt Laboratories in Dresden. But let me take it from the beginning.

"My father was born in Munich in what is now West Germany. There his parents died and he lived with his older brother, my uncle Kurt. My father went to Dresden—this is while he was young, before the war—to study. My uncle Kurt remained in Munich.

"My fattier developed into a famous scientist, even while young. The war came and he was captured by the Russians. In Russia, as a captured scientist, he worked for the Russians. He was not interested in politics. As long as he had his work, he was happy. After the war he was returned to Dresden, which was Russian territory, East Germany. There he met and married my mother, and I was born. My mother died in an automobile accident when I was thirteen years old. By then my father had already founded the Brandt Laboratories and was a famous man in Dresden, but he was not happy. Scientist or no scientist, the politics that always seemed to be involved had finally begun to eat at his soul.

" 'It is a tyranny,'" my father said. 'Someday we will live and work in freedom. Someday we will be citizens of the United States. It is my dream.'

"A part of the tyranny, for instance, were his guards. Day and night there were always two men near him, supposedly to protect him. For the past two years his guards were two burly men. Their names were Willy Werner and Peter Kriputin.

"Oh, my father did have much free activity, for the Communists believed him to be a dedicated Communist. But Communists do not even trust other Communists, especially a valuable Communist. It is, after all, a police state. And so the two guards, Werner and Kriputin, were always with us.

"Free activity. For instance, my father and I, on occasion, were permitted to visit my uncle Kurt in the city of Munich. Uncle Kurt, for the past few years, was a very sick man, slowly dying of tuberculosis. Of course, the guards always went with us, and my father, although he wished very much to do it, did not know how to break for freedom. He is a scientist, not a political schemer as a lesser man might have been—and always the two guards were with us.

"Six months ago, certain events began to happen. My father had made a new discovery, the harnessing of gravity for motor propulsion. It worked on small models, and he was ready to experiment with full-scale models. He was, in fact, in the process of creating a new type of aircraft to be driven without fuel—but all the while he was dreaming about how the two of us could escape to freedom. And suddenly it was made easy for him.

"Carlos Velasco… you know of Carlos Velasco? He is the Argentinian millionaire, the airplane manufacturer. During this period Velasco had visited in Russia and in East Germany and through his own means had learned about my father's work. Certain agents of Mr. Velasco made contact with my father's guards, Willy Werner and Peter Kriputin. They were told that if they could arrange to deliver Dr. Hans Brandt they would be rich beyond their dreams for the rest of their lives, as would Dr. Brandt. Delivery of my father was to be to the United States, to Carlos Velasco. Although his many factories and plants are located in Buenos Aires, Mr. Velasco and his wife Juana reside here in the United States, quite a short distance from this city, in a suburb called Valley Grove.

"And so now Werner and Kriputin delicately sounded out my father, and my father pretended to go along with them. Here is where you entered in, Mr. Reid.

" 'I am a plotter plotting my own plots,' my father informed me. 'It is the opportunity we have dreamed of. Velasco lives in a suburb of a city where there is a great newspaper, and I have heard of its owner, a man named Britt Reid. I have my own counterplan to that of Velasco. I do not intend to go from slavery to slavery. I do not intend to be a serf of this Velasco. I shall seek asylum for you and me in the United States. I have my plan and this is the opportunity we have waited for so long.'

"And so my father informed Werner and Kriputin that he desired the riches that Velasco could bestow upon all of them, and they waited for their opportunity to make a break. It came three days ago.

"We received notice that my uncle Kurt had died. My father requested permission for the two of us to attend Uncle Kurt's funeral, and the permission was granted with, of course, our guards to accompany us. We were flown to Munich, and there in West Germany Mr. Werner and Mr. Kriputin talked by transcontinental telephone to Carlos Velasco. Velasco, through his connections in West Germany, arranged for false passports to be supplied for the four of us—three as company employees of Mr. Velasco and the fourth for the son of one of these employees. We were hidden in Munich until early today, and then we flew out as commercial passengers to the United States, here to your city.

"At your airport Mrs. Juana Velasco awaited us in her beautiful Rolls Royce. She was to drive on to the Velasco home in Valley Grove where we were to stay the night, and then tomorrow, by

private plane, we would all be taken to Buenos Aires. And there in the car my father began to work his ruse, his counterplan.

"He asked that they please make a stop at the Daily Sentinel. He said he had one friend in America, Mr. Britt Reid, whom he had met in his student days, and met again when Mr. Reid had visited Russia, and again when Mr. Reid had obtained permission to visit in East Germany. He said that Mr. Reid had known his wife, my mother, but that Mr. Reid had never seen me, his son. He said he wished to present his son to Mr. Reid. He said that Mr. Reid and the Daily Sentinel were right here in this city, that it would be a simple matter to make this one stop; that once in Argentina the opportunity might never come again.

"Although Werner and Kriputin were reluctant, Mrs. Juana Velasco seemed inclined to grant my father's wish.

" 'What harm?' she asked. 'Dr. Brandt won't bolt. He is not a captive. He is with us of his own volition.'

"'Not that,' Kriputin answered. 'We are, in effect, fugitives, escaped from Communist Germany. Mr. Reid is a newspaperman. Dr. Brandt's escape is a big story. Reid would publish it. It would jeopardize our position.'

"But my father had an answer to that. He would give Mr. Reid the story, the entire story, on condition that it would be held back two days before being printed in the newspaper. Thus Mr. Reid would have his scoop despite the delay of two days — before any other newspaper in the world would have it — and by then we would all be safe in Buenos Aires.

"Somehow that idea pleased Mrs. Velasco.

" 'Sooner or later,' she said, 'this story has to leak out. There have been defectors before Dr. Brandt, and there shall be other defectors after him. Reid would be a monster to destroy his friend for the sake of a newspaper story — which shall be his exclusive anyway — and Mr. Britt Reid, by all reputation, is not a monster. We have a genius on our hands, gentlemen, a genius who has come over to us quite voluntarily. Why shouldn't we give in to his whim and do all we can to keep him contented?'

" 'I thank you,' my father said humbly.

"And then Mrs. Velasco rather sternly said, Ten minutes. We'll give you ten minutes, Dr. Brandt. I grant the whim of a genius—but ten minutes only. Do you understand? Will this time be sufficient?'

" 'Sufficient,' my father said.

" 'Any longer than ten minutes, Dr. Brandt,' Mrs. Velasco said, 'and we'll simply have to go in and fetch you.'

" 'Ten minutes,' my father said.

"And in those ten minutes my father sought his freedom. He had only ten minutes to place his genius at the disposal of the United States Government. He had only ten minutes to seek asylum for himself and me in the United States. Ten minutes.

"We came up here directly to you, Mr. Reid. My father planned to ask you to call the FBI at once so that we could be taken into protective custody. But, unfortunately, you were too busy to see us. So Miss Case took my father down to Mr. Axford, and all the time the precious minutes were ticking away. As we have heard from Mr.

Axford, it took rather a long time for my father to convince him that he wasn't some sort of eccentric, and the precious minutes kept ticking away —and finally gave out"

Chapter 5

A PLACE FOR KONRAD

SILENCE.

The boy's story was finished.

Britt Reid heaved a deep sigh and stood up.

He motioned to Miss Case and she accompanied him into the anteroom.

"That poor guy depended upon Britt Reid," he said, "and Britt Reid failed him."

"Will the Green Hornet fail him?"

"Miss Case, you bet your money on the Green Hornet."

"I'd bet my life," said Miss Case.

"First things first," said Britt. "Let's take care of the boy."

"If the boss gives me the rest of the day off, I'll take the boy home with me."

"You just talked the boss into it." Britt grinned. "You also talked the boss into giving Mike the rest of the day off."

"Mike?"

"You'll both be the caretakers. Pending."

"Pending what?"

"How the Green Hornet makes out" He touched her arm and they went back into the office. "Son," Britt said to Konrad Brandt, "there's an old Chinese proverb—The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.' You're a worthy son of a genius father." He turned to address Mike. "Mike?"

"Sir?" Mike stood up.

"We're going to stash Konrad away for safekeeping. At Miss Case's place. And you're going along. For the time being, Konrad, you're the ward of Miss Case and Mr. Axford."

"Time being?" asked Mike.

"Until we do the humpty-dumpty—put the boy and his father back together again. Are you hungry, by chance, Konrad?" Britt knew of the appetites of youngsters.

The boy smiled. "A little."

"Feed him," Britt ordered.

"I'll give him a home-cooked meal," Miss Case promised.

"Okay, get going now, you-folks."

"Thank you, sir," the boy said.

"You're a grand kid," Britt said. "When I see your father, I'll remind him to be proud of you."

"Come along now, young fella," Miss Case called.

"Ill see you around," Britt said.

And they were gone.

Britt called on the telephone for a substitute secretary. When she arrived he said, "I'm gone for the day. Any calls, take messages. Mr. Ax-ford's also gone for the day. Anything really important—refer it to Gilligan. Understood?"

"Yessir."

"Thank you."

Britt Reid went out of his office and into an elevator and out into the street. He shivered. It had turned cold. Unpredictable autumn weather. The sun was gone and a bitter wind whipped the streets. He hoped Kato had the good sense to start a fire going in the fireplace. He knew Kato had the good sense. The fire was certainly going.

He crossed the street to his convertible parked in its reserved spot. He got in, started the motor, and took off. He drove swiftly toward his town house. Halfway there he took out his pocket watch.

It was a strange watch, thick, heavy, a complicated mechanism. He clicked the stem. A tiny retractile antenna, some six inches long, crawled out and stood upright at eleven o'clock. He clicked the stem again. The watch emitted a high-intensity, thin, whining, electronic sound.

Chapter 6

MR. SCANLON ANSWERS A CALL

IN HIS OFFICE in the Justice Building, District Attorney P.P. Scanlon, wearing thick glasses, was in the midst of dictating an intricate point of law for a brief to be presented in Criminal Court. Suddenly, in mid-sentence, he stopped. The tiny signal emanating from the minuscule transistor-receiver fixed into the bow of his horn-rimmed glasses was soundless to his secretary.

He removed the glasses, folded them, and at once the signal ceased.

"All right, that'll do, Miss Hewitt."

"Do—do?" spluttered the secretary. "But—but you're right smack in the middle of a sentence."

"Save it. We'll finish later." He stood up. "Got to go."

"Go? Where?" stammered the astonished Miss Hewitt.

"Emergency," was the laconic reply.

"Emergency?" cried Miss Hewitt. "What emergency? I mean, here we are working on a brief, and all of a sudden, right in the middle of a sentence—"

"All of a sudden," he said with a smile, "is part of the definition of emergency. Emergency: a sudden, unexpected occurrence demanding immediate attention."

"But how do you know?" demanded Miss Hewitt.

"What?"

"That there's an emergency."

"A little birdie whispered in my ear."

"Now, really, Mr. Scanlon!"

"Got to go now."

"When will you be back?"

"I don't quite know."

"What do I say to people who call?"

"That you don't quite know when I will be back."

"Now, really, Mr. Scanlon!"

He pointed to her steno-book. "Please get that material into type, and we'll pick it up again when I return."

The District Attorney took his hat and walked out of the office.

"Gosh," breathed Miss Hewitt, "he sure is a strange one. But a strange one!"

District Attorney P.P. Scanlon entered his car, started the motor, and drove in the direction of Britt Reid's town house. His glasses were perched on his nose again. He was a heavy-set, serious man, with gray-flecked brown hair. He drove carefully, maintaining a steady pace, breaking no traffic laws—but thoughts were racing through his head. What now? What was the mad, dedicated young man up to now? What new adventure? What new danger?

What new criminal had he unearthed to be brought to justice in his own unorthodox manner?

Britt Reid arrived home. Home was a handsome town house on a quiet side street. Abutting the Reid home was a vacant house with a FOR SALE sign in the window. This vacant house had been "for sale" for several years without a purchaser because the asking price was preposterous, and it had come to a point where prospective purchasers no longer even inquired of the real estate agent. What these disappointed prospective purchasers did not know was that the vacant house was also owned by Mr. Britt Reid, owner and publisher of the Daily Sentinel, and, despite the sign, Mr. Reid had neither the intention nor the desire to sell the house.

At the town house Britt touched a button on the dash of the convertible and the garage door opened. He drove in, braked, killed the motor. He hopped out lightly, slammed the car door, pushed a wall button, and the garage door silently closed and locked. He entered his house through a side door of the garage, and in the living room he was greeted by his houseboy Kato, a good-looking young American of Oriental extraction.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Reid."

"Afternoon, Kato." Britt shrugged his shoulders and rubbed his palms together. "It's getting a bit brisk out there."

"Weather keeps changing this time of year. I've got a good, blazing fire going in the study."

"You manage to think of everything, don't you, Kato?"

Kato smiled. "I try. Would you like me to make some coffee, Mr. Reid?"

"Yes, thank you, Kato. A large pot. We're going to have company."

"Oh? So?"

"Mr. Scanlon."

Kato's dark eyes gleamed. "Extracurricular activity, Mr. Reid?"

"You just said yourself a real mouthful, Mr. Kato."

Britt followed Kato to the kitchen and there, while Kato brewed coffee, Britt filled him in on the events of the afternoon.

"I don't quite get it, Boss."

"Don't quite get what, Kato?"

"The need for the extracurricular activity. As the boy said, they don't figure to harm Dr.

Brandt. He's too valuable to them."

"Let's try a few ramifications of that theme, shall we, Kato?"

Kato grinned. "You're the boss, Boss."

"To begin with, they now know they have a reluctant man on their hands. They now know Dr. Brandt is not a friend but an enemy, and they'll treat him as an enemy. Second, Dr. Brandt doesn't want to work for Velasco in Argentina; he wants asylum in the United States and wants to work for the United States government, and our Government can use the great genius of Dr. Hans Brandt. And third, the guy came to Britt Reid because he believed in Britt Reid, and Reid, all unknowing, failed him. I think the Green Hornet can rectify that lapse on the part of Britt Reid. What do you think about it, Kato?"

"I think you just said yourself a real mouthful, Mr. Reid."

District Attorney F.P. Scanlon found himself a proper parking place a few blocks away from Britt Reid's town house and properly parked his car. He got out, properly locked the car, and began walking. He came to the town house but went beyond it to the vacant house that stood adjacent. He glanced about furtively. There was no one in sight. He used a key on a door, opened and closed the door, and locked it behind him.

Britt Reid's conversation with his houseboy was interrupted by the sound of soft chimes.

"If you'll excuse me, Kato."

"By all means, Mr. Reid."

Britt hurried to his study where a log fire crackled in the fireplace. He extracted his "pocket watch" from his watch pocket and pressed a small button at one o'clock. Silently the fireplace, including the fire, the grate, the mantel, the andirons—the entire apparatus—slid up to reveal F.P. Scanlon standing in the opening.

Britt's smile glittered pleasantly.

"Good of you to have come, Mr. Scanlon."

The answering smile was sardonic.

"Good of you to have asked me, Mr. Reid."

The District Attorney stepped into the room. Again Britt touched the button at one o'clock, and the fireplace—fire, grate, mantel, andirons—

silently descended into place. He put away the pocket watch.

"Do sit down, Mr. Scanlon."

"Thank you, Mr. Reid."

The District Attorney sat and Britt Reid sat, and Kato appeared with coffee service.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Scanlon."

"Kato. How are you?"

"Very well, thank you, sir."

Kato poured and departed.

They sipped coffee, but then the District Attorney's cup rattled down and his irritation surfaced.

"Britt, is this going to be another Green Hornet caper?"

Britt, mildly: "I'm afraid so."

"Britt, you've got to stop this."

"Why?"

"You've got to stop all this Green Hornet business."

"I understood you the first time. Same question—why?"

"Britt, the entire country believes the Green Hornet to be a master criminal. The police are aroused, the Mayor's aroused, the Governor—"

"So they're aroused. So what?"

"Britt, this fantastic business is bound to crash down all over you. And me."

"It hasn't crashed yet, has it?"

"Which is why I'm pleading with you, while there's still time, to give it up, to abandon the whole thing. Look, I know you mean well; you're fighting crime in your own way. But I say it's a wrong way. It wasn't your father's way, was it? Henry Reid, bless his memory, founded the Sentinel on that very principle—to fight for justice— and he fought valiantly, but he did it cleanly and openly."

"And where did it get him?" Britt stood up, pacing soberly. "Framed by the syndicate for a murder he didn't commit, and he died in a jail cell; died of a broken heart; died while the whole country turned against him, thinking him a murderer; died in despair before he could be cleared of the crime. Sure, in the end he was cleared of the crime—and you did yeoman service to clear him, sir—but to what avail? By then he was dead. To what avail, Mr. Scanlon? Answer me that."

The District Attorney was silent.

"That's when the Green Hornet was born, Mr. Scanlon. When my father died, I promised myself I would fight fire with fire. I would fight them with their own weapons. And we've had a successful operation, haven't we, sir? I've turned them over to you, time and again, with the evidence— and you've come out on top, time and time again, because the Green Hornet laid them in your lap. You're the fighting D.A. You're the most famous and most successful criminal prosecutor in the entire country, thanks to the Green Hornet So what's your beef, Mr. District Attorney?"

This time Scanlon's smile was filled with admiration. "I admit you've done great work. Certainly without you—without the Green Hornet— vicious criminals would still be at large, criminals now safely lodged behind bars. But I'm worried, Britt. Your Green Hornet is in constant peril. The authorities are up in arms—they think him to be the master criminal of this generation. If only you'd let me leak a hint—"

"Oh, no! The smaller the circle, the safer the Hornet. You, me, Miss Case, and Kato—no one else has any idea of the identity of the Green Hornet, and that's the way I want it, no other way. That's the way it has to be."

Scanlon sighed, smiled, blinked, and nodded. He sipped coffee and said wistfully, "There I was in my office dictating a brief to my efficient Miss Hewitts."

Britt chuckled. "And you'll catch up with that brief in short order. Now what I want of you is a telephonic communication right back to Miss Hewitt."

"Hewitt?" demanded Scanlon, brow crinkling.

Britt gestured toward the phone.

"Tell her to dig into your files and dredge up all the information there is on a gent named Carlos Velasco. She gives that information to you, you give it to me—and then back you go and catch up with your brief. Now, that's not asking too much, is it, Mr. Scanlon?"

"You don't need Hewitt, young man."

"Don't I? Whom do I need?"

"Me."

"You?"

"You heard me."

"May I hear more?"

"Velasco," said Scanlon. "Kind of a thorn in my side. I know all about Carlos Velasco."

"Why?"

"Because he's a thorn in my side."

"Why?"

"A criminal type and right here in my jurisdiction. That is why."

"Interesting. Would you expand on that for me, Mr. Scanlon?"

"A pleasure, Mr. Reid."

"Your pleasure's my pleasure, Mr. Scanlon."

"Carlos Velasco," said P.P. Scanlon, "is a shady character whose great wealth covers up his criminal activities. I've been dying to put the heat on the guy, but I've never been able to come up with a whit of definite evidence. Rumors, yes. Hearsay, yes. But never a whit of definite evidence." Scanlon sipped coffee, put down the cup. "Is Carlos Velasco the present subject of the Green Hornet's interest?"

"Affirmative," quoth Britt

"Praise be for small blessings."

A lopsided smile. "Suddenly you approve of the

Green Hornet? It sounds that way."

"Suddenly I approve of the Green Hornet's interest in this particular bird."

"Why?"

"Ruthless, that's why. He does what he wants, that's why. A millionaire many times over, his agents crisscross the lines of law, and his money covers that over for him. All over the world his agents kill, bribe, murder, blackmail—and money pours out to smooth them over. You've got a tiger by the tail there, mister."

"Have I? Let's hear, Mr. Scanlon."

"Carlos Velasco. Base of operations, Buenos Aires, Argentina. But this is a very smart apple. He takes no chances. In Argentina the government isn't always stable. So he runs his business in Argentina, but he lives here in the United States. Residence, Valley Grove. Forty miles from here, but still within my county, my jurisdiction. You've got a house out there yourself, haven't you, Britt? A country house?"

"Yes, but let's continue with Velasco."

The District Attorney leaned back, stretched his legs, and crossed his ankles.

"Carlos Velasco, a scoundrel in the upper brackets. Used to be in munitions. Used to run guns and armaments illegally. Amassed a great fortune, then turned slightly legitimate. Now he's in aircraft. Manufactures bombers and pursuit planes of excellent caliber and sells them to the Communist countries, including Red China. He and his wife. Some wife. A Tartar on her own. A worthy pair."

"Ah, the wife," murmured Britt.

"A young one," said Scanlon.

"How young?"

"Well, the guy himself figures to be pushing sixty, but the wife—you know how it is with women's ages, but I figure her to be no more than thirty-five. A beautiful woman, a gorgeous woman, but just as tough an apple as the husband, maybe tougher. She runs a mansion out there in Valley Grove and runs it well. It's a twenty-room house set on thirty acres of land; they've got their own airstrip and their own private plane. I know you don't go out often to your country house, probably don't know much about neighbors—"

"Neighbors," scoffed Britt. "There are no neigh-bore in Valley Grove. That's great, wide, spread-out country…"

"Never met the Velascos?"

"Never."

"There's another one in the family. Juana— that's the wife—Juana's mother. An old eccentric, lives in an eccentric old house in another suburb, still within our jurisdiction, Riverview. Velasco's mother-in-law. Well, this weird old mother-in-law—"

"Thank you."

"What say, Britt?"

"I said, thank you."

"About the mother-in-law…"

"I'm not interested in mothers-in-law. Anything else on Carlos Velasco and his beautiful Juana?"

"That's about it, except I'm dying for a legal shot at them, definite evidence, an indictment that'll stand up in a court of law."

"How would you like kidnapping?"

"Brother, I'd love it! I'd put those babies where they belong—out of circulation."

"Maybe the Green Hornet will provide that evidence for you, Mr. District Attorney."

"Britt, be careful."

"Thank you for coming, Mr. Scanlon."

"They're clever, wily, resourceful, and highly dangerous."

"Thank you for the warning, and thank you for coming."

"Am I dismissed, Mr. Reid?"

"Of course not, Mr. Scanlon."

But the pocket watch was out, the button pressed, and the fireplace risen.

Chapter 7

BLACK BEAUTY MOVES

SCANLON HAD hardly disappeared—back to his Justice Building, his brief, and his efficient Miss Hewitt—before Britt Reid was on the move. Alerting Kato, he quickly donned the Green Hornet costume—elegant green-black coat, green-black hat, and green-black mask over eyes and nose. And now Kato, trim and dapper in his chauffeur's uniform, joined him.

"We're going to go out to Valley Grove," Britt announced.

Perplexity put a crease between Kato's brows.

"Valley Grove? Your country home?"

"We may go there, too. But first we're going to have a good look at the Velasco estate." He smiled at the frowning inquiry on Kato's face. "I have some information from P.P. Scanlon. We're on our way to check it out. Valley Grove is the destination, and let's get a move on."

They went quickly to the living room and through the side door into the garage. Pocket watch in hand, Britt touched a button at four o'clock, and a panel on the wall slid open revealing a number of electrical switches. Britt pulled the first switch on the right, and a smooth whirring sound echoed through the garage. Clamps emerged from the floor and tightly secured all four wheels of the convertible. A touch to another switch, and the convertible, floor and all, began to revolve; when the revolving was completed, the convertible was out of sight and in its place was a long sleek limousine, the famous Black Beauty, its front grille facing the rear of the garage. A touch to another switch and the clamps holding Black Beauty's wheels loosened and retracted into the floor. Once again Britt pumped the button of the pocket watch at four o'clock, and the wall-panel closed. They were ready.

Kato leaped into the driver's seat, and the Green Hornet made himself comfortable in the passenger compartment in back. Now Kato pressed a button on the dashboard, and the rear wall of the garage whirred upward, making a space for Black Beauty to roll through. As Kato maneuvered the super-powered limousine down a driveway toward an alley behind the house, the wall of the garage came back into place.

Black Beauty, in low gear, proceeded slowly along the narrow alley toward what appeared to be a dead end. The alley terminated at the reverse side of a huge billboard which totally blocked off that end of the alley, tightly sealing it.

The front of the billboard, which actually bisected the alley, the alley continuing beyond it, was an advertisement for a breath mint with a huge picture of a boy and girl, their lips puckered and just touching.

Now the billboard opened, the boy sliding one way, the girl the other, as Black Beauty rolled through and down the alley. Then the billboard closed, the boy and girl united once more in their minty kiss.

Kato directed the car out of the alley and made a turn onto a well-paved street.

"Easy does it," said the Green Hornet into the intercom.

"Yessir, Boss," responded Kato.

"No special speed. We're a gentleman and his chauffeur out for an afternoon drive."

"Yessir, Boss."

"I rather hope no one notices your mask, however."

"I hope, too, Boss."

"I mean, a chauffeur driving his employer on an afternoon outing—does he usually wear a mask?"

"He does not. But in this case the employer is wearing one, also."

"I'm well protected from prying eyes. Custom-built passenger compartment. A lot of leather shading me off."

"Yessir, Boss."

"Well, it won't make any difference when we get to Dr. Brandt. There we'll be on country roads, isolated country roads far from any observers."

"We will get to Dr. Brandt?"

"That's our purpose, Kato."

"Yessir, Boss, only you haven't yet let me in on our pattern of procedure."

"I don't know it myself, Kato. But I'm thinking about it."

"Think, Boss."

"Lock me in, Kato."

"Yessir, Boss."

Kato pushed a button on the dash. Now the passenger in the rear was locked in, from the outside and from the inside.

The passenger in the rear slid open a panel, hidden by sleek black fur, to a rectangular instrument console, long, wide, and deep, in a partition behind the driver's seat, and touched one of the many knobs. The small door of a cabinet above him sprang free, and from the cabinet he took first the Hornet Gun from its bracket and pocketed it, then the Hornet Sting and pocketed that. A touch again to a knob, and the cabinet was closed. He slid shut the instrument console and relaxed in the air-conditioned limousine.

He was ready—for what? His mind was filled with plans — attack, defense — but he sought to restrain himself. It was forty miles to Valley Grove. There was time — time to think, to sort out plans, to pinpoint a method of attack, to evolve a means of defense.

There was time.

Forty miles.

Black Beauty, out on the highway now, purred like a huge cat

The Green Hornet rested the nape of his neck against the luxurious upholstery and tried to nap. He could not. He closed his eyes and tried to relax. He could not. His mind teemed, formulating plans. Time. Easy now. Time. Forty miles. And slowly, the right plan came to him, and he was pleased. And Black Beauty purred along the highways on the first leg of its journey.

The Green Hornet, eyes closed, stirred.

Journey into what?

Journey into where?

Chapter 8

AN UNWELCOME GUEST

KONRAD BRANDT thoroughly enjoyed the luncheon provided by Miss Lenore Case. So did Mike Axford. As Mike put it, "This Casey really goes to bat when it comes to cooking up a meal." The fare was simple but marvelously tasty. She had tossed a green salad—just the tiniest scrape of garlic at the base of the bowl and then golden imported olive oil, salt and pepper, and a splotch of tarragon wine vinegar. Thick steaks from the freezer, with mashed potatoes and peas. And for dessert, mouth-watering cheesecake. They ate in the kitchen of Miss Case's four-room bungalow situated on the outskirts of town.

And now in the comfortable living room, appetites appeased and inner beings temporarily happy, Mike and Miss Case rattled away in light chatter, their purpose to keep the boy's mind of! his troubles. Mike talked about baseball, but Konrad did not know much about it. Next Mike tried football with the same result. The boy brought up soccer, but now Mike was at a disadvantage. Miss Case saved the day by shifting the conversation to music. Konrad was a great fan of American jazz, and they were in the midst of an animated discussion of the Big Beat when the bell rang.

Miss Case hurried to the door, but there, hesitated. A premonition, like an icy gust, shivered through her. Before unlocking the door, she put on the chain-latch; then she opened the door against the chain. What she saw through the wide crack reassured her.

He was tall and broad-shouldered. He was blond and clean-cut with a dimpled, disarming, white-toothed smile. Beyond him, parked at the curb, she saw a city taxicab.

"Yes?" she inquired.

"I am to see the boy," the tall man said.

"Boy?" she countered.

The white-toothed smile grew wider and the dimples deeper.

"Young Mr. Brandt, Konrad Brandt. I have a message for him. It is important. From Mr. Reid."

She hesitated a moment longer.

"Message?"

"From Mr. Britt Reid of the Daily Sentinel. Please, I am to see him. It is important. Most important."

Miss Case unhooked the chain-latch and the tall man entered. Again she had a momentary misgiving but quelled it. Britt was involved in an unusual adventure. Perhaps he was already in trouble. By what right could she refuse to receive his messenger? And the tall, white-toothed man had to be a messenger from Britt; only Britt knew where the boy was.

"This way, please," she said.

The tall man gestured politely for her to lead him. She preceded and he followed silently. She entered the living room, the tall man behind her. Mike rose quickly to his feet as did Konrad, but their expressions baffled her. She whirled about and discovered that the tall man was holding a gun. Attached to the barrel of the gun was a silencer.

Mike Axford was no coward. He lunged at the man with the gun, but a bullet whistled past his ear. That held Mike, tense but daunted.

"I could have killed you," said the tall man politely, "but I do not believe in killing unless it is necessary. If necessary, then yes, by all means. I am an excellent shot. I have won many medals for my marksmanship. That first bullet was intended as a warning. There will not be a second warning. The next bullet will kill. Am I understood?"

"What do you want?" Mike growled. "Who are you?"

"He is Willy Werner," whispered the boy.

"Thank you, Konrad," said Werner, and to Mike, "What's your name?"

"Axford."

"Full name."

"Mike Axford."

"And you, madame?"

"Lenore Case."

"Who owns this house?"

"I do."

"You and who else?"

"I don't understand."

"Your husband?"

"I'm not married."

"Who lives here with you?"

"I live alone."

"Ah, good," said Werner in his even, unexcited, polite voice. "And now, if you please, you will lie down, Mr. Axford, Miss Case, and you, too, Konrad. You will lie down on the floor on your stomachs, toes touching the floor and foreheads touching the floor." An ominous rasp contaminated the polite voice. "Do exactly as I've said! Quickly, please!"

Mike bridled.

Werner leveled the gun.

"Obey! Now!"

"Please do as he says," whispered Konrad.

Werner laughed. It was shrill, high-pitched, and Miss Case shivered. The laugh gave him away. It was not normal laughter. A maniacal laugh. A demon-laugh.

"Konrad is a brilliant young man," laughed Werner, "and you will do well to listen to him. Konrad does not wish to make a murderer of me —unnecessarily. But if you insist…"

"Please do as he says." The boy suited action to word and placed himself prone on the floor. Miss Case followed. And then reluctantly, urged by a final movement of the gun now leveled point-' blank at him, Mike did as he was bade.

"Clasp your hands behind you!"

All three, undignified in helpless posture, obeyed.

Swiftly Werner unhooked cords from the Venetian blinds and securely bound ankles and wrists, first Mike, then Miss Case. He did not touch the boy. Unsheathing a small razor-sharp switchblade knife, he cut strips from the drapes hanging at the windows and tightly gagged the two he had bound. Then he put away the gun and from a pocket took out a thick roll of black friction tape. He cut long lengths from the roll of tape, wound tape about Mike's head, closing off his eyes, and about Mike's knees, and about the fingers of his hands, and repeated the process with Miss Case. He stood back, observing the results of his work, and smiled in satisfaction. An expert, he was proud of his expertise. Mike Axford and Lenore Case were bound, gagged, blindfolded, utterly helpless, utterly immobile. The boy was free.

Werner closed the knife, put it and the roll of tape away, and called to the boy.

"All right. Stand up, Konrad."

The boy came to his feet.

"This way," ordered Werner.

The boy went with him to the vestibule by the entrance door. There Werner talked in German. Although they both spoke English excellently, their exchange now was in the mother tongue.

"Listen to me and listen carefully," said Werner. "You're a bright boy and I'm depending on that. You are to come with me and you are to give me no trouble, no trouble at all. If you do, then that's the end of your father. He will be dead and you will have killed him. That is first and foremost for you to understand. Do you? Have I made myself clear?"

"Yes."

"If you give me any trouble, any trouble at all, they will kill your father. I want that to penetrate, Konrad."

"It has penetrated."

"Good. There is a taxi outside. We will go together. In time you will join your father."

"You are taking me to my father?"

"No."

"Where are you taking me?"

"Not your business. I am taking you, and you will go without trouble. That is paramount. Your father's life depends on it. That must be understood."

"It is understood."

"So. We go now. We go as friends."

Outside, they entered the taxicab. The driver, previously instructed, gunned the cab away from the curb. In the rear his passengers chatted quietly, in German.

"May I ask a question, Mr. Werner?"

"You may ask whatever you like."

"How did you find me?"

Werner chuckled. "We're not exactly fools, you know."

The boy was silent

"Do you think we are fools, Konrad?"

"No."

Werner lit a cigarette. "It was Peter who went in to—er—rescue your father. Then he took him to Mrs. Velasco's car. They went off, but I remained behind."

"Why?"

"Because you were still in there, my boy." Werner puffed on his cigarette. "We could not leave you, just like that, separated from your parent, alone and unprotected among strangers."

Sardonically the boy said, "Of course not."

"I called a taxi and sat in it and waited."

"This taxi?"

"Do not be simple. Certainly not this taxi. I sat in that taxi and waited. When you came out with the lady and the gentleman, we, at a safe distance, simply followed. When you arrived at the little house—it is Miss Case's house, as I now have learned—then I knew where you were and the first step of my job was completed."

"And this is the second step?"

Throaty chuckle. Puff of cigarette smoke.

"No, this is the third step. I do not make steps without instructions. But I had to wait for the instructions because it is a long distance to where they were taking your father. I called on the telephone but they had not yet arrived. That was the second step, to receive instructions. I called, at intervals, and kept on calling, at intervals, and then at last they arrived, and I received my instructions for this, the third step."

The taxi stopped. Werner paid and they got out. They walked a block and hailed another taxi. They rode for a while, then got out, walked, and took another taxi. There were many changes of taxis.

"Why?" asked Konrad.

"To confuse any who would attempt to follow. I repeat, Konrad. We are not fools."

After the last taxi, they walked for a long time, and when finally they stopped Konrad asked, "Now I will join my father?"

"No."

"When?"

"In time," Werner said. "You will join him in good time."

Chapter 9

TARGET : VALLEY GROVE

A SUBURB OF the busy metropolis forty miles to its north, Valley Grove was an entity unto itself; a vast sprawling borough more than fifteen miles square, it was made up of far-flung, insulated, isolated private estates. Valley Grove had no community life because it was not a community in the accepted sense of that word. Neighbor did not know neighbor; each was separated from the other by, literally, miles upon miles. There were not, for instance, any schools in Valley Grove. The children of the owners of the estates went to school in the towns or cities where such occupants had their permanent residences.

Valley Grove was an area composed of private country mansions and private country estates equivalent to what in England are called the "shooting boxes." To Valley Grove came the very rich for rest and relaxation: They hunted on their own grounds, fished in their own streams, golfed on their own private golf courses, rode horseback on their own private bridle paths, and kept to themselves and their own private guests. Britt Reid did not know the Velascos and the Velascos did not know Britt Reid, and neither had had an interest, up to now, in the other. In point of fact, Britt Reid did not know where the Velascos lived.

Now, as Black Beauty purred into the northerly end of Valley Grove, the Green Hornet spoke into the intercom.

"You'll stop off at the Barracks."

"Yes, Boss."

"You'll inquire there about directions for reaching the estate of Carlos Velasco."

"Shall do."

The Barracks were the barracks of the State Troopers, situated on the state highway leading into Valley Grove.

Black Beauty slid to a stop some yards away from the entrance to the Barracks. The Green Hornet remained unseen within the custom-designed leather enclosure of the passenger compartment as the uniformed chauffeur removed his mask, then spryly hopped out of the limousine and entered the Barracks.

The Hornet waited patiently, and in five minutes his chauffeur reappeared, got into the driver's seat, replaced his mask, and Black Beauty made the turn off the state highway onto a dirt road leading into Valley Grove.

Now the click of the intercom came from up front.

"We're on Greenway Road," Kato informed the boss.

"I know where we are," came the grumpy reply. "But where are we going?"

"Velasco. Eleven miles past your house. Straightaway on Greenway Road. The Velasco estate starts where Lorenzo Lane cuts across Greenway Road."

"Lorenzo Lane?"

"All these crazy little roads have names, Boss."

"All right. Fine. Keep your eye peeled on the mileage. Buzz me when we're about four miles from this Lorenzo Lane."

"You bet"

The intercom was clicked off from the rear.

Black Beauty sped along the deserted, bumpy country road, but no bumps were felt within. The powerful springs and shock absorbers of the specially equipped car made the ride as smooth as the glide of a sailboat on a quiet lagoon. In the rear the Green Hornet rested, conserving his energies for the labors to coma He looked out upon and enjoyed the wild and lovely colors of the autumn countryside, the crimson and gold of the foliage racing by on either side of Greenway Road.

And then the intercom came alive.

"Boss."

"Kato?"

"Four miles to Lorenzo Lane."

"Slowdown."

"Yessir, Boss."

And now through the intercom the Green Hornet's voice crackled with suppressed excitement:

"Activate the Scanner Generator!"

Leaning forward, Kato touched a device on the dashboard.

"Activated."

The Green Hornet heard the low, thrumming, machinelike whine. He slid open the panel of the instrument console, turned a knob, and trapdoors in the trunk of Black Beauty flew apart for the Hornet Scanner on its launching pad. Another turn of the knob and the Scanner soared into the sky with the force and impact of an Atlas missile, and now a touch of a button turned on the closed-circuit TV screen. The Green Hornet was provided with a long-shot view of the entire Valley Grove area from the infrared television camera that required neither light nor lights and was sealed into the nose of the Scanner.

Hunched forward, concentrating intensely, using both hands on the knobs of the instrument panel, the Hornet directed the Scanner over the Velasco estate and moved it in slowly. He saw the grounds, the high iron fence surrounding the grounds, the mansion inside, and the roads leading to and from the estate. He projected the zoom lens for close shots in order to discover means of entrance and egress. In front of the estate were high, iron, locked gates; in the rear was a small, iron, locked gate. That would be the target, his means of entrance.

He studied the territory, the mansion itself, contemplating what would be his method of maneuver. Then he sent the Scanner back for a final overall long shot; he noted the airstrip and the modern private jet at rest outside its hangar; and now, restraining a quiver of anticipation, he quickly turned the knobs that brought the Scanner back home within the confines of the trunk of Black Beauty.

"Deactivate," he snapped into the intercom.

"Roger, Boss," came Kato's voice.

The whining ceased.

The trapdoors closed.

"You don't have to worry about your mask

now, Kato. There aren't any peeping toms on these roads." A brief laugh. "In fact, there's nobody on these roads."

"Roger, Boss."

"When you get to Lorenzo Lane, you'll make a left turn. I'll tell you where to stop."

"Shall do."

"Then you'll stay there, motor running, ready to take off."

"Roger," said Kato happily, always happy when on a Green Hornet caper. "How long do I stay?"

"I wish I knew," replied the Hornet, "but I don't know. You'll stay, motor running, unless you get my signal."

"The old pocket watch," chortled Kato.

"Yessir, the old pocket watch. Three winks of the green light on the dashboard, and you go! You take off, vamoose, disappear—and wait in the garage of the country house."

"And if I don't get any blinks on the dashboard?"

"Then you stay put, no matter how long, but ready for instant takeoff. Got it?"

"Got it." Kato's voice was somewhat subdued, disappointed. "Don't you want me to go in with you?"

"I want you to do exactly what I've asked you to do. No more and no less. Is that quite clear?"

"Clear as a church bell on a peaceful Sunday morning," Kato said plaintively.

"Beautifully put," laughed the Green Hornet "Very poetic."

"If that is a compliment," said Kato sadly, "then I thank you for the compliment."

"A compliment."

"I thank you."

In short order, Black Beauty was at Lorenzo Lane. "Left turn here?" inquired Kato.

"Correct And, Kato———"

"Boss?"

"Hit the silencer."

Kato switched a lever on the dashboard, and instantly all sound from the powerful motor was muffled.

"Slowly now, Kato."

Black Beauty glided like a huge black wraith, in utter silence, ghostlike, the Green Hornet, from the rear, directing its movement.

"Good man, Kato. Bear to the right. Yes, that's it. Slowly now. We're approaching the back of the estate. Yes, right here, along the iron fence. This is it Hold it"

Black Beauty came to a halt

"Now swing around, Kato, so you'll be pointing her for getaway."

Silently Black Beauty responded to the S-turn crisscross of power steering, and in a moment the car was parked, in reverse direction, alongside the small iron gate in the rear of the high iron fence.

"Stay put and stay ready."

"Yessir, Boss."

The Green Hornet emerged from the limousine and tested the gate. Of course it was locked. He took out the Hornet Sting and turned the dial to minimum; this would be a simple job. He directed the ray of the Sting toward the lock of the gate which, in moments, disintegrated. He pocketed the Sting, took out the Hornet Gun, pushed through the gate, and headed for the house at a slow trot

The rear door was unlocked. He entered into a hollow silence, moved through rooms until he came to a central room, a vast round hall with a blue-carpeted stairway curving upward.

He padded up the stairs to a wide corridor with many doors. Hearing voices, he stood motionless until he ascertained whence the voices were coming. He moved with caution toward that door and then, Hornet Gun at the ready, flung it open.

Chapter 10

THE HORNET TALKS BUSINESS

HE WAS IN a huge, beautifully furnished drawing room, the floor of which was all burnished white-glistening marble, and he was confronting three persons who had whirled about at the unexpected interruption and now stood rigid in a startled, stock-still tableau.

There were two men and one woman.

One man was tall and erect, slender and distinguished, with wavy gray hair, clear gray eyes, and a gray handlebar moustache, its ends elegantly tipped upward. The second man was shorter, beetle-browed, burly, with shoulders like kegs, and sullen, squinting brown eyes. The woman was tall, dark, svelte, willowy, with shiny black hair and arrogant, fiery black eyes.

There was no sign of a bearded man.

With Hornet Gun leveled, the Green Hornet moved lithely into the room, and a white smile flashed beneath his dark mask. "Permit me to introduce myself," he began in his guttural Green Hornet voice.

"No need," interrupted the woman, the first to recover from the shock of the Hornet's entrance. "We know who you are," she added in a rich contralto.

"The Green Hornet," breathed the tall, elegant man.

"Green Hornet!" rasped the burly one. "Ach, we have heard of you even in my country." He spoke with a strange, rather complicated foreign accent.

"And where would that be?" inquired the Green Hornet.

"Pardon?" said the burly one.

"What country?"

Thick yellow teeth were displayed in a mirthless grin. "Once it was Russia, but for a long time it has been East Germany."

"I'm sure you didn't burst in upon our privacy to inquire about the ethnic origins of our guest," said the woman.

"That is quite correct," said the Hornet gallantly.

"Why are you here?" asked the tall man. "What possible business can you have with us?"

"Once again correct—the correct word—business. I have important business with you—that is, if you are Mr. Carlos Velasco."

"Forgive me." The woman smiled sarcastically. "I have neglected the introductions." She indicated the tall man. "My husband, Mr. Carlos Velasco."

Velasco made a curt bow.

"And I," continued the woman, "I am Juana Velasco." She appeared to be far younger than her husband. He looked about sixty, she no more than thirty. And now she pointed a graceful ringer at the burly man. "He is Peter."

"Just Peter?" inquired the Hornet

"I would prefer to leave it like that Just Peter."

"Suppose that I try for a guess at his surname."

Juana Velasco's laugh tinkled melodiously.

"Is telepathy also among your many and varied accomplishments?"

"Kriputin," shot back the Hornet.

The gasps came as one.

Visibly shaken, pale, but her black eyes burning fiercely, Juana Velasco demanded, "Just what do you want here, sir?"

The Hornet smiled blandly.

"Telepathy, a quite wonderful capacity," he murmured pleasantly. "A part of ESP—extrasensory perception." The Hornet chuckled. "Well, out of the blue, by virtue of this marvelous capacity, this miraculous ESP that has been granted me—simply out of the wild blue yonder another name was wafted to me."

"Another name?" Juana Velasco had herself in hand again.

Sternly now: "Dr. Hans Brandt!"

There was silence, the Green Hornet enjoying the consternation, as face twisted to face and eyes met in bewilderment.

Finally from Juana: "Brandt? Who is Hans Brandt?"

"A man whom you have as a guest, however involuntarily, in your house." A chuckle again. "I prefer that he be a guest in my house."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Green Hornet, but you're terribly mistaken. There is no Hans Brandt in this house. You may look for yourself. You have my permission, and I'm certain also my husband's, to make a full and thorough search of the house —so that you can satisfy yourself that for once the Green Hornet has involved himself in a foolhardy mission."

The Green Hornet executed a courtly bow.

"Madame, I would love to take advantage of your kind offer, but that, I'm afraid, would be foolhardy. Just to turn my back on you"—and he indicated Kriputin—"and this thug here would be foolhardy." He was certain that Kriputin was armed, and that Kriputin was an experienced and worthy adversary, and that only the Hornet Gun, leveled and at the ready, was restraining the chafing Kriputin from violent action.

And now the head of the house, Mr. Carlos Velasco, took over the proceedings.

"What, pray, Mr. Hornet, is your interest in Dr. Hans Brandt?"

"The same interest as yours, Mr. Velasco."

"And what, pray, would be my alleged interest in him?"

"Look—pray!—let's not be naive, Mr. Velasco. You know who I am?"

"A notorious criminal."

The Hornet laughed briefly. "Unlike you, Mr. Velasco, I do not deny my criminal activities. Be that as it may. I want Brandt for the same reasons you want Brandt."

"And what would those reasons be?"

Velasco, as he talked to the Green Hornet, advanced upon him, and the Hornet skillfully evaded. Leg muscles tense, he moved backward, sideways, but always out of physical range of Velasco. He knew that once Velasco lunged at him, once the Hornet Gun was out of position, not covering all three, then Kriputin would whip out a pistol and the Hornet's adventure would be his last adventure, his career cut short by a lethal hail of spewing bullets.

The Hornet's assumptions were right—and wrong. Velasco was moving in upon him and was consciously maneuvering him, but not for the purpose of lunging at the Hornet Gun. Velasco wanted the Hornet on a specific area of the marble floor, and the Hornet, weaving, backing, keeping all three covered, was, finally, in the exact spot Carlos Velasco wanted him. And so now Velasco smilingly leaned back upon a carved mahogany desk.

"I repeat my question, Mr. Hornet. Why would I be interested in Dr. Hans Brandt, and why would you?"

"Perhaps I put it badly, Mr. Velasco. Let us say we want him together—that we can use him together. We share the wealth, as it were. I am a fair man—honor among thieves—and I do not propose to cut you out of your just portion of the profits."

"Are you offering a deal, Mr. Hornet?"

"A deal, Mr. Velasco."

"What sort of deal, Mr. Hornet?"

"A criminal deal between criminals. Share and share alike—you're entitled to it. You put in time and labor. You engineered his 'rescue.' You brought him out from behind the wall into the world of free enterprise. I know of his remarkable experiments with gravitational energy. There is a fortune to be made. Millions. Billions. Enough for both of us—share and share alike."

"I understand why I'm entitled to my share. But why are you entitled to anything?" Velascos hands were behind him along the perimeter of the mahogany desk.

"Mr. Velasco, you've abducted a world-famous scientist in contravention of international law. I know this—and you know I know this—as witness my knowing the name of one of your accomplices, this Peter Kriputin. I have but to leak this information to the authorities, and you would never get to Argentina with your prize catch, and even if you did get there, neither you nor he would be safe. Soviet agents would be after you, East German agents would be after you, and so would the authorities in the United States and Argentina."

"This is blackmail!" roared Velasco, his hands gripping the rim of the desk and his fingers sliding beneath.

"This is business," retorted the Green Hornet. "I offer you silence, the keeping of your secret, in return for a partnership, in return for hah* the profits that develop from Dr. Brandt's genius. And I offer more. I offer facilities right here in the United States. I have connections with great aircraft factories. I tell you, Velasco, we can turn the trick right here in this country and make far more money together than you could possibly make alone."

"I don't work with partners. I work alone."

"Sorry, this is one time you don't work alone." He raised the Hornet Gun. "Now, how do you want it, Velasco? Peace or war? A criminal partnership—or criminals parting? Will you produce the gentleman of our mutual interest, in the best interests of our partnership, or will you force me to forget the partnership and seek and fetch him on my own?"

"Well…" said Velasco in a tone that implied the beginning of surrender. His fingers, behind him, frantically sought the button hidden beneath the edge of the carved mahogany desk. "Well," he said, "you leave me very little choice…"

His finger found the button and squeezed.

On oiled hinges, in utter silence, a marble trapdoor under the Hornet's feet snapped open and shut

The burly Kriputin's eyes boggled in astonishment.

The Green Hornet had vanished.

Chapter 11

THE STEEL TRAP

HE FELL A long way, but even as he fell he went limp. He landed catlike, and at the instant of contact his body went into a tumbler's roll, breaking the force of the fall. He lay still, the wind knocked out of him, gasping for breath, but he was conscious. In moments, shakily, he rose to his feet, flexing his arms, testing. No bones broken, no pains, no restriction of movement: The trick of the tumbler's fall had prevented injury. He drew a deep breath, grinned thankfully. The Hornet Gun was in order; his body, curled about it, had protected it when he landed. He pocketed the Gun and drew out the Hornet Sting, inspecting it. The sturdy instrument was in perfect shape. Putting away the Sting, he looked about, his glance temporarily passing over the bearded man sitting in a crouch on the floor in a corner.

The room was empty of furniture. Nothing. Not even a chair. Bulbs burned high in the ceiling, giving a dull sheen to the blue-black metal. It was a metal room—floor, walls, ceiling. It was a huge square room, perhaps twenty feet high and twenty feet across. There was no window, but the air was cool and fresh. His glance went up and he saw the tiny vents high near the ceiling: ventilation by air-conditioning. He touched a wall, tapped his fingernails against the metal Steel. Blue steel

They were sealed in a steel vault.

Suddenly a round hole slid open in the ceiling, two items dropped through, bouncing on the floor, and the opening disappeared.

The bearded man sat motionless.

From a distance the Hornet viewed the articles now lying peacefully on the steel floor. A trick? Infernal machines? Lethal devices? Gingerly he advanced, and gingerly he examined them. Nothing lethal. One was a plastic canteen containing water, and the other was a plastic box within which, neatly wrapped in waxed paper, were six thickly packed roast beef sandwiches.

The Hornet turned toward the seated man.

"Would you like a bite to eat?" he asked in his deep-throated Hornet voice. "Shall I pour you a drink of water?"

The bearded man made no reply, remaining motionless, as though in shock, seated on his haunches in a corner, his shoulders resting against the angle made by two of the steel walls.

Returning the sandwiches, the Hornet closed the plastic box and screwed back the cover of the plastic canteen. Now, from above, came a click, and through a hidden speaker in the ceiling Velasco's voice resounded metallically:

"Mr. Green Hornet, you wished Dr. Brandt. Now you have him. And I have both of you. You are securely locked in an impregnable steel vault, so do not exhaust yourself trying to escape:

Simply, there is no means of escape. Relax and enjoy yourselves as best you can. You have sufficient food and drink to keep you comfortable until morning—and in the morning we have plans for you."

The bearded man scrambled to his feet.

"My son!" he called up toward the ceiling, his voice tremulously echoing in the vast room. "Where is my son?"

But it was a one-way public-address system. They could not be heard outside their prison of steel

"It would be cruel not to tell you what will happen in the morning," continued Velasco, "and never let it be said that Carlos Velasco has one cruel bone in his body." A gleeful laugh crackled sardonically through the speaker. "In the morning, gentlemen, an ether gas which shall render you unconscious will be pumped into your air-conditioning system. Then the steel-backed trapdoor up here in the marble floor will be unlocked and steel ladders will come down. You will be carried out, placed in my private jet, and you will take off with us. When you awaken you will be in

Buenos Aires. There we shall put Dr. Brandt to good use, and there we shall dispose of the Green Hornet as we see fit. Now, if you will excuse me, we must go off to another wing of the house. We have much to do in preparation for our journey. Buenos dias, gentlemen."

There was a click, and silence.

Grimly smiling, the Green Hornet approached the bearded man, who, step by step, backed off. Finally, he could back no farther. His spine was up against a steel wall.

"Are you afraid of me?" asked the Green Hornet.

No answer.

"You realize I'm in this steel-walled jail because of you," said the Hornet. "Because of my interest in Dr. Hans Brandt."

Still no answer.

"You know who I am?" asked the Hornet.

A slender ringer pointed upward. "I—I heard what was said."

The Hornet studied the man. The beard, well-trimmed, was brown, and he had brown hair. He was a thin, stooped man with fine, delicate hands and wide gray eyes which, now deeply sunk in their sockets, mirrored his anguish but also mirrored a resoluteness, a courage. The poor guy, thought the Hornet. A fine welcome he's had since he set foot in this country.

"Look," said the Hornet, "my business here is to get you out."

"Out of the frying pan into… ?"

The Hornet chuckled. The man had a sense of humor.

"Let's reverse that, Dr. Brandt. Let's say— out of the fire."

"From the custody of one criminal into the custody of another. Is that out of the frying pan, or is it out of the fire—and what difference is there?"

"How do you know I'm a criminal, Dr. Brandt?"

Brandt's lips twisted into a crooked little smile. "You're the Green Hornet, aren't you? The whole world knows who the Green Hornet is and what he represents. But what I don't understand—"

"What?"

Brandt spread his hands. "How a master criminal could permit himself to get into—this. You're just as securely locked in as I am, Mr. Hornet"

"Suppose I can get us out of here. Would you go along? Would you cooperate? Would you—not hamper me?"

A new light, hope, came into the clear gray eyes. "I—I have a young son somewhere out there."

"Son? I know nothing of your son," said the Green Hornet brusquely. "But if he's out there, then, certainly, you're better off out there—than in here. You're an intelligent man, Dr. Brandt. The Green Hornet wants your services. If he can get you back together with your son—if that will please you—then why shouldn't the Green Hornet want to please you? Once we're out of here, I promise to try. One thing, though, I can guarantee." The Hornet's eyes roved about the steel room and returned to the bearded man. "I guarantee 111 provide you with far more comfortable accommodations than you've been provided with thus far. Now if you please, Dr.

Brandt—will you go along with me?"

"But how? There's no possible way out of here?"

"Will you go along with me?"

"Yes."

The Hornet nodded, smiled, and then the Hornet Sting was in his hands. The Hornet's eyes narrowed behind the mask as he walked about judging which of the walls of their prison would be an outer wall. He arrived at a decision. This wall, as best he could figure, was the east wall. He turned the dial of the Sting to maximum, and now he held in his hands the most powerful cutting instrument in the history of the world; no element or combination of elements known to man could withstand the sheer lancing power of the sound beam.

As the distinguished German scientist watched in amazement, the Hornet applied the power of the Sting to the steel wall. It took time. Thirty minutes, each minute seeming to them like an hour of minutes, dragged by before the work was done. The Sting, cutting through eight inches of sheer steel and then four inches of concrete, had carved out an aperture wide enough for a man's body.

The Hornet emerged first, then helped Dr. Brandt to climb through the opening. They stood for a moment flattened against the house while the Hornet got his bearings. The sun was behind them, shadows before them; they were facing east. The Hornet pointed in the general direction where Black Beauty, a far distance away, was parked unseen.

"I've got a car there, Dr. Brandt. There are bushes and hedges and trees blocking it off from prying eyes in the house, but in order for us to get to it, we've got to pass over smooth, unobstructed lawns. That means we've got to run fast—fast right from the start—because, should we be seen, we'd then have a jump on them, a good gap between us and our possible pursuers. Is that clear, sir?"

"Yes."

"Are you in shape?"

"Pardon?"

"Your physical condition."

The bearded man smiled wanly. "I'm in good health, but I make no pretense of being an athlete."

"Ready to give it a try?"

"Yes."

"All right, then, Dr. Brandt. Off we go… Now!"

They burst out from the protective shadow of the Velasco mansion, into the clear. They ran, heads down, elbows churning, knees pumping, at a fairly good speed, but the Hornet had to hold back, else he would have pulled too far ahead of his companion. At that, he's doing all right, thought the Hornet as the rasping sound of Brandt's labored breathing came to him. After all, as he'd said, he was a scientist, not an athlete.

Running, the first burst of speed exhausted, Brandt's pace reduced now, they were about a hundred yards from the house when they heard the shouts.

They had been seen!

"Faster!" urged the Hornet.

Brandt's efforts increased! He was running faster!

"Good man," panted the Hornet.

There was no further sound from behind them, no pounding of running feet, and the Hornet understood. He was dealing with experienced adversaries, ruthless but wise. They knew when to back off, retreat, and commence a different operation. What sense to pursue when the runners in front had so great a lead? The Hornet and Brandt were running toward the rear gate where, surely, the Hornet would have a car. Thus, to run after them would be merely to lose a footrace and, with it, valuable time.

"Faster!" urged the Hornet.

His opponents would be rushing to a car, to come around and cut of! the Hornet's attempt to escape by car.

And just there at the rear gate Dr. Brandt's valiant efforts gave out; he faltered, stumbled, and fell. Kato saw and came out to help, but the Hornet waved him back to the driver's seat. Then he stooped, lifted the breath-sobbing man, and carried him bodily into the car.

Kato touched a button on the dash and all doors were locked; he hit the accelerator and Black Beauty leaped forward, picked up speed, and narrowly avoided a sleek, red, high-hooded foreign car that hurtled out of a side road. While behind them the red car was furiously righting itself, the Hornet said into the intercom, "When you get off Lorenzo Lane, you'll go north on Greenway Road."

Kato flicked a glance at the rearview mirror.

"They're not too far behind us, Boss."

"Well lose them on Greenway."

The Hornet looked back through the rear window. Kriputin was driving; Velasco, beside him, had his right hand out the window and the hand held a large black gun that was spewing bullets.

The Hornet knew that at this distance Black Beauty was assuredly being hit, but he knew also that Black Beauty was absolutely invulnerable to bullets. Its body, its glass, its entire construction, was bulletproof, shatterproof, even dent-proof, and if a bullet happened to strike a tire, no matter. The special rubber of the tires would immediately seal in the pellet; and within the outer sheath of the rubber was a mesh of woven strands of steel that would prevent the penetration of a bullet to the inner tube. And so pursued and pursuer came to Greenway Road, and Kato made the turn, and the Hornet was at the intercom again.

"Kato."

"Boss?"

"Lower the brooms."

"Right"

Kato punched a button on the instrument panel of the dashboard and steel-wired whisk brooms came down behind the rear wheels. Now no tire tracks would show on the dirt road if, later on, Velasco instituted painstaking investigation to follow the spoor of Black Beauty.

"Okay. Switch her to power."

Kato pulled a floor-lever and the gears were shifted to a transmission that had all the force and power of that of a racing car test-piloted over the Indianapolis Speedway.

"Switched."

"Give her the gun, Kato."

Kato pushed on the throttle, and Black Beauty shot away from the red car like an arrow from a bow. Minutes later the Hornet sent up the Scanner for a view. That Velasco was a shrewd old bird. He knew when he was licked. The red car had turned back; it was speeding toward the Velasco mansion. The Scanner back in the trunk, the Hornet said into the intercom, "Switch her back and proceed at normal speed."

"To where, Boss?"

"Cruise northerly."

"Yessir."

Now, finally, the Hornet could turn his attention to Dr. Brandt. The man was in poor condition. He lay sprawled on one side, mouth open, eyes closed, gasping. From a cabinet the Hornet took a small, portable oxygen tank, put the rubber mask over the nose and mouth of the distressed man, and turned a knob on the tank. It took effect immediately. The unaccustomed run had impaired Brandt's breathing; the oxygen quickly restored it to normal. By the time the Hornet had replaced the portable tank in its cabinet, Dr. Hans Brandt was sitting up and taking notice. Very much notice. There was fear in his eyes as he looked at the Green Hornet.

"Where am I?"

"You're in my car, Dr. Brandt"

"I demand to know where you are taking me."

Instead of replying, the Hornet produced the Hornet Gun.

"What is it? What is that?"

"A toy of mine," replied the Hornet.

"A curious object," said the scientist.

"It provides rest and relaxation."

He put the nozzle under Brandt's nose, and the Gun emitted a brief squirt of green vapor. Immediately Brandt was asleep.

"Two birds with one stone," murmured the Hornet, putting away the Gun. "The guy can use the rest, and I can use him out of my way."

Brandt slept peacefully.

The Hornet clicked on the intercom.

"My country house, please, Kato. And step on it."

"Yessir, Boss."

Chapter 12

DR. BRANDT ESCAPES

IN THE GARAGE of the country house Britt Reid, divested of the Green Hornet costume, was completing his instructions to Kato.

"… and so now you know the entire plan of action."

"I hope it works."

"It'll work. And, remember, once he's out— once he's out of the way—you and Black Beauty go straight home."

Kato grinned. "Right, Boss."

"You know the signal?"

"Three blinks on my dash."

Britt made a quick thumb motion toward Black Beauty.

"He's beginning to stir."

Black Beauty's cabinets and panels were locked, as were its rear doors and windows, as was the unbreakable glass partition between driver and passenger. Dr. Hans Brandt, in the passenger compartment, was as securely locked in as he had been in Velasco's steel vault.

"All right. Move, Kato!"

Kato hopped into the driver's seat, and Black Beauty roared out of the garage. Swiftly it made its way south on a road that ran parallel to Greenway—Hathaway Road—for a distance of seven miles; then it turned into Greenway and slowly proceeded north.

Britt Reid, in a sports car from his country house garage, was driving south on Greenway Road, observing the mileage on the odometer. At the appointed distance he took out his pocket watch and three times pressed the button at eight o'clock.

Kato's dashboard gave him three green lights in quick succession. Following instructions, he first touched a button on the dash that released the locks that held the two rear doors. Then, suddenly, under Kato's skillful operations, Black Beauty began to pitch and lurch. Kato pulled the limousine over to a shoulder of the road, turned off the ignition, and climbed out. He lifted the huge hood and stuck his head under it, examining.

Dr. Hans Brandt was afforded opportunity for escape from the Green Hornet's limousine, and he reacted at once to his advantage. He had tried the handles of the doors before, but they had appeared to be locked. Now he tried with more force, and a handle turned. He opened the door and quietly slid out of the car. Kato, head under the hood, deeply involved in motor and mechanism, did not see him. Brandt commenced a slow trot down the side of the road.

When Brandt had vanished around a bend, Kato's head came out from under the hood. Grinning broadly, he put down the hood, took off his mask, went back into the driver's seat, and sat

His instructions were to sit, just like that, for ten minutes, before taking of! for home.

Britt Reid, tooling south in the sports car, saw the bearded man frantically waving. He pulled the car to the side, stopped, and watched as the bearded man ran toward him.

"Sir. Please—please!" The bearded man was gasping.

"What's up, mister? What's the matter?"

"Emergency! I beg of you! Please help me!"

"Emergency?" Britt frowned. "What?"

"Please! Would you be so kind—would you take me into town—the city?"

"City! My dear sir, I'm traveling in the opposite direction."

"Then, please, could you take me to some bus —something—that will take me to the city?"

Britt leaned over and opened the door on the passenger's side.

"Look. Get in. What's this all about? Just take it easy, mister."

The bearded man climbed into the car and closed the door. He drew a deep breath and shivered violently as he exhaled.

"The city," he said in his slight German accent. "Do you know the Daily Sentinel? I am sure you know of the Daily Sentinel"

"Everybody does, I hope." Britt chuckled.

"I wish to go there. I must talk with the editor —Britt Reid."

"That's what you're doing, mister."

"Wha… ?" The bearded man's voice quavered. "Pardon? I do not understand."

"Britt Reid. That's the name you said, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Well, you're talking to Britt Reid."

Gray eyes rounded in circles of astonishment.

"No. You make a jest. You are joking. I—I cannot believe…"

"Believe."

The slender hands were trembling and the sensitive mouth quivered. "I hope. But, no. It is an impossible coincidence."

And now it was Britt's voice that carried a tense undercurrent of excitement. "A beard," he said, "a man with a brown beard. Look, are you

—could you possibly be Brandt—Dr. Hans Brandt?"

"Yes, I am Brandt!"

Britt's head tilted, his eyes slitting. "Were you at the Velasco estate?"

Velasco. The name Velasco. And his own name. This man had uttered his own name and Velasco's name. Dr. Brandt believed.

"You are Britt Reid! At first—a jest, I thought —the American sense of humor. A remarkable happening! I seek you, and here you are. A remarkable coincidence."

"There is no coincidence at all, Dr. Brandt. I was on my way to the Velasco mansion, seeking you." Britt's brows knitted. "Don't tell me they let you go—released you just like that…"

"No. I was rescued."

"Rescued? Then why are you trotting along a lonely road all by yourself waving down a car and pleading emergency?"

"The rescue—not quite—not a rescue—a peculiar rescue. You have heard of the Green Hornet?"

A shrug. "Who hasn't?"

"I was rescued by the Green Hornet."

"The Hornet?"

A long, delicate finger pointed. "His car—up there around the curve. Trouble, some motor trouble. I sneaked out and ran…"

Britt sat upright.

"The Hornet? Up there? On this road?"

"The black limousine—"

"Let's get out of here, Dr. Brandt! Who needs it at this time to mix with him?" Britt swiftly reversed the car's direction and headed north. "Just hold on to everything, Dr. Brandt." The car sent up clouds of dust on the country road. "We'll talk when we get out of the vicinity. I came for you and I've got you, so who wants to meet the Green Hornet?" Britt Reid shuddered. "My! The Hornet! How'd you ever get entangled with him? I mean, what does he have to do with you?"

«I—I don't know."

"Hang on, Dr. Brandt. Let's save the conversation till we hit the highway."

And then on the highway, safe and sound in the steady stream of normal traffic, Britt said,

"My being here was no coincidence, Dr. Brandt. After the explosions in the Sentinel Building— after we realized it was all a kind of smoke screen for the express purpose of extracting you from the premises—"

"But how? You realized—how?"

"Your son's a bright young man. He straightened us out pretty quick."

"Please. My son?"

"Satisfactorily taken care of, I assure you. He's at the home of my secretary, and Mike Axford's with both of them. Velasco's interest is in you, not your boy. Anyway, once the boy gave us the story, and once I made sure he was in good hands and out of danger, then I was on my way to Velasco to see what I could do about you. And then there you were, trotting along the road, big as life." Britt chuckled. "All right. Now, Dr. Brandt."

"Pardon?" murmured Dr. Brandt.

"What's all this business involving the Green Hornet?"

"I—I don't know."

"Oh, now tell me," laughed Britt. "I'm simply dying for your version of it."

"My version?" Brandt frowned. "Is there any other version?"

Britt kept a straight face, "Of course not Figure of speech. Do tell me exactly what happened, Dr. Brandt."

Brandt told of his experiences with the Green Hornet.

"I'll say this," Britt allowed. "You're one of the very few that I've ever heard of who's come out victorious in a tilt with that Hornet" He smiled admiringly at his passenger. "As they say, all's well that ends well. Now I'll get you together with your son, and right there from my secretary's home 111 call the FBI, and you'll get what you came to me for in the first place— asylum here in the United States for you and your son."

A powdery dusk was spread like talc over the autumn sky when they arrived at Lenore Case's bungalow. Britt parked the sports car, and he and Dr. Brandt walked up to the little one-story house and rang the bell.

There was no answer.

Britt frowned and tried the knob. The door was open. He entered, Dr. Brandt following, into dimness.

"Hello!" Britt called. "Hello there! Anybody home?"

From the living room came stifled, muffled sounds. Britt hurried forward, snapped on the lights, and there lay Lenore Case and Mike Ax-ford—bound, gagged, taped, and blindfolded.

Chapter 13

"BY MIDNIGHT TONIGHT. .

WHILE BRITT expertly worked at the bonds, trying not to tear skin or hurt flesh, Brandt went from room to room calling desperately, "Konrad. Konrad!" He returned, pale, crestfallen, and stood, shoulders sagging, watching quietly as Britt untied first Miss Case and then Mike.

They arose shakily.

"Sit. Easy does it," Britt said and went to the kitchen, bringing back a pitcher of ice water. The two were sitting. Britt poured the water into glasses, and Miss Case and Mike drank thirstily. "Where's the boy?" Britt asked.

"Gone. Taken," Miss Case answered.

"No! The Green Hornet" Brandt's groan was anguished.

"Green Hornet!" Mike was on his feet. "What's the Green Hornet got to do with this?"

"Easy," Britt said. "One thing at a time."

"7s he mixed in?"

"Yes."

"Boy, we sure got our hands full, between Velasco and the Hornet!"

"The Hornet had nothing to do with the boy," Miss Case said. "It was Willy Werner."

"How do you know?" demanded Britt.

"The boy introduced us."

"Well, introduced you," said Britt somewhat sarcastically. "A nice social occasion, would you say—before you got tied and taped and blindfolded?"

"No." Miss Case shook her head. "Not really introduced. The boy said his name."

"Werner." Brandt's gray eyes were fixed on Britt. "He is the other one, my other guard from Germany—he and Peter Kriputin."

"Yes, we know," Britt said kindly. "Konrad told us all about it." And back to Miss Case: "What happened?"

Miss Case recited the facts.

"What time was this?" Britt asked.

"Just after luncheon."

"I see. Then the boy was not taken as a consequence of Dr. Brandt's rescue by the Hornet."

"Hornet!" Mike roared. "Please! What's he got to do with all this? And how did he get wind of it?"

"Who knows?"

"But—but what's his connection with Dr. Brandt?"

Britt quickly told the story that had been told to him by Brandt

"So it was the Hornet," said Mike, "who rescued Dr. Brandt, not Britt Reid of the Daily Sentinel."

Britt made a small, gracious bow. "Correct No credit to me. Score one for the Hornet—but also score one for Dr. Brandt. The Hornet got him out of Velasco's place, but he got away from the Hornet."

"But to what avail?" Brandt groaned. "I'd much rather it were I being held by Velasco than my son."

Britt paced about.

"Let's reenact this thing. They didn't take the boy as a consequence of losing Dr. Brandt. Then they must have planned it ahead. Kriputin came in wearing the gas mask and dragged out Dr. Brandt, and they took off in Mrs. Velasco's car. But they must have left Werner behind to keep track of the boy. He followed you to this house, then probably called Velasco for orders. And the orders were to take the boy—take the boy as insurance!"

"Sure." Mike made a fist. "And that Werner put the fear into the kid—threatened him with the father. Either you play ball, Konrad, or we hurt your father. It's the age-old criminal method. When you've got them separated, you can threaten one with the other and thus keep them both cooperative." He raised the gnarled fist. "Brother, would I love to lay hands on that Werner! I owe him!"

And at that moment, the telephone rang.

They stood rooted, startled.

Then Britt motioned to Miss Case and she went to the phone. "Hello?"

"Miss Case?" It was a woman's voice.

"Yes, this is Miss Case."

"Mrs. Velasco here, Juana Velasco."

"Just a moment, Mrs. Velasco." Miss Case said the name loudly and clearly so that the others in the room could hear who was calling. "If you please, Mrs. Velasco, I'm in my living room and I have some people here. Would you hold the wire for a minute so that I can take your call, privately, on the bedroom extension?" Her eyes sought Britt's as she awaited an answer.

"Certainly. Please do that"

Britt nodded and murmured, "Good girl." He put the receiver to his ear while Miss Case hurried to the bedroom. Then he heard the click as she picked up the receiver of the bedroom extension.

"Yes, Mrs. Velasco?"

"All right now, Miss Case?"

"Yes, Mrs. Velasco."

The woman's voice was as cool and smooth as new snow. "Miss Case, I'm railing about Konrad Brandt. The boy is in good hands, well taken care of."

"In your hands, Mrs. Velasco?"

"Yes—in one manner of speaking. No—in another manner of speaking. I mean, he is not here, at my estate. But he is where I want him and where I can get to him. Miss Case, I know I can speak with you freely."

"Why?"

Britt silently approved. Clever Miss Case. He realized that she was drawing out information for his benefit.

"Because," said Mrs. Velasco, "we know from Mr. Werner's report that Konrad has informed you and Mr. Mike Axford and Mr. Britt Reid of all of the facts and circumstances. That is why I can talk with you freely."

"Yes, Mrs. Velasco."

Now the thorn hidden in the rose became apparent. The voice rasped prickly sharp, anger revealed. "Miss Case, have you ever heard of the Green Hornet?"

"Who hasn't, Mrs. Velasco?"

"Miss Case, have you ever seen the Green Hornet?"

A mock gasp. "Of course not."

"Well, I have, and very recently."

"What does that have to do with me, Mrs. Velasco?"

"Just listen to me, young woman, and don't get snippy."

Miss Case controlled herself. "Yes, ma'am. Sorry."

"The Green Hornet invaded my home, intimidated my husband and myself, and abducted Dr. Hans Brandt. Now I have a message for you to give to Mr. Mike Axford and Mr. Britt Reid. Please get it straight, Miss Case. Are you ready?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Juana Velasco spoke slowly and distinctly.

"Tell them that unless Dr. Hans Brandt is returned here to my home before midnight tonight, the boy is dead. At exactly midnight, unless Dr. Brandt is returned to us, Konrad Brandt will be killed."

Miss Case's gasp was very real now. "But— but—" she stuttered.

"Yes?" Juana Velasco was softly purring again.

"How can Mr. Reid or Mr. Axford possibly exercise any influence on the Green Hornet?"

"Miss Case, your employer Mr. Reid is one of the most powerful men in the country, the Daily Sentinel is one of the most influential newspapers in the country, and Mr. Axford is a shrewd, foxy, old-time newspaperman. That combination can easily accomplish this small miracle. They have important connections, even in the underworld. They can get through to this Green Hornet. They can bribe him, threaten him, blackmail him— newspapermen have many means and methods when the project is important enough. In this case it means the life of an innocent boy. Now you just pass along my message, please."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And, Miss Case———"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Tell them also that if any of this is reported to the police or the FBI, then the boy dies—Dr. Brandt or no Dr. Brandt."

"Yes, ma'am. Is there anything else?"

"Just this. My home will be open until midnight. There will be no bells to ring, no buttons to push. The doors will be open, the gates will be open; they have but to deliver Dr. Brandt and their work will be done. That's all, Miss Case. The first burden is yours. If you don't get my message through, then the death of the boy will be on your conscience. After that, it is up to your Mr. Reid and to Mike Axford. That's it. Thank you very much. Good-bye."

The connection was broken.

For a moment, numbly, Miss Case held the receiver in her hand; then, slowly, she replaced it. By the time she returned to the living room, Britt was already relating the gist of the telephone conversation to Mike and Dr. Brandt Their faces paled as they heard Juana Velasco's threat.

Mike said, "She still thinks the Green Hornet's got him."

"That's not our problem now," said Britt.

"We don't have any problem now," Mike retorted stoutly. He pointed to Dr. Brandt "The Hornet doesn't have him. We have. He's foot-loose and free. Now all we have to do is get cops, a lot of cops, raid the Velasco mansion, rescue the boy, and we're all home free."

"I wish it were as simple as that," Britt said quietly.

"Unless you want to complicate it," growled Mike, "it is."

"Afraid not."

"Why not?"

"If the boy were there, they wouldn't risk leaving the doors and gates wide open for a sudden rush of police. These people aren't exactly idiots, Mike. No. They've got him, of course, but they don't have him stashed out there in the mansion."

Britt paced, thinking. How had Mrs. Velasco put it? He is where I want him and where I can get to him…

An idea took hold in his mind. P.P. Scanlon.

Britt faced Dr. Brandt.

"Dr. Brandt, the real problem is yours, and none of us can, or has the right, to advise you."

"Yes, I know what you mean." The bearded man nodded slowly.

Britt sighed. "Whichever way you decide, it's a dreadful decision to make."

"No!" exploded Miss Case.

Unsmiling, Britt looked at her.

"You mean you want him to go back there?' Miss Case was on the verge of tears. "To give himself up to those people? To be buried somewhere in Argentina for the rest of his life? He and that sweet boy? Slaves—stateless, without a country—under the yoke of this Velasco?"

"Miss Case—dear Miss Case, the agony of this decision isn't mine. It's Dr. Brandt's. Right now he can stay away from there. We can call the FBI. He will be taken into protective custody, and he can be assured of a life of freedom and honor as a working scientist in the United States. But the boy! What about the boy? Can we assure Dr. Brandt that somehow we can rescue his son before midnight?"

Miss Case tried to answer, trembled, and burst into tears. Mike brought her a handkerchief and held her in a comforting bear hug until her tears subsided.

"On the other hand," Britt continued, "if he goes back—and goes along with them to Argentina—then, most certainly, the boy's life will be spared. It's only then—when they have Dr. Brandt safely in Buenos Aires—that they'll reunite them, father and son."

Gruffly Mike asked, "How do you know they won't kill the kid anyway?"

"As I said before, they aren't idiots. They want this man to work for them. What sense to kill the boy, once they're assured they have Dr. Brandt? Quite the contrary, they'll want to keep their prize catch happy. No, I'm certain that if Brandt goes along with them to Buenos Aires, he'll be reunited with the boy there."

Brandt was haggard. "And if not?"

"They may carry out their threat, and, of course, they may not."

"Do you think it is possible that you can find my son before midnight?"

"Dr. Brandt, I wish I could give you a positive answer, but you know as well as I—I can't."

The bearded man, head bowed, clenching and unclenching his hands, paced the room—and then stopped.

"There can be only one decision. My son is young, a boy, a life ahead of him. I must give him the right to his life, no matter what happens to my own." He stood up straight, erect, almost proud, a small smile playing along his lips. "Please, I must go back to Velasco."

"No," cried Miss Case.

"Their plans," said Dr. Brandt, "they have told me. They return to Buenos Aires in the morning. Perhaps by then, you good people…"

"We'll do whatever possible, I promise you," said Britt.

"No!" Miss Case ran to the bearded man. She was crying. So was he. She lifted her head and kissed his cheek.

"What else can I do, my dear young woman?"

"I don't know, I don't know." Still using Mike's handkerchief, she moved away from Dr. Brandt and sat sniffling.

"Mike."

"Mr. Reid?" Mike suddenly was unexpectedly respectful

"Take him."

"Yessir."

"Once you're there with him, try to stall, stall just as long as you possibly can."

"Yessir."

"You know how to go?"

"Valley Grove. Ill make it."

"Stop off at the Barracks. The Troopers'll give you directions."

"Right." Mike hesitated. "Britt, what about the Green Hornet?"

"What about the Green Hornet?"

"If he lost Brandt once, he'll be back for an encore, don't you figure:"

"That's not for me to figure, Mike. Let Velasco figure."

Mike shrugged. "Ready, Dr. Brandt? My car's right outside."

Dr. Brandt squared his slender shoulders, again stood straight, erect—a spare, valiant figure— and Miss Case desperately fought back her tears.

"I thank you," said the bearded man simply. "I thank you all, strangers, for your help and all you have tried to do. I thank you, Mr. Axford, for your patience to listen to me, and I thank you, Mr. Reid, for your efforts to come to rescue me." His voice quavered and the slight foreign accent, in emotion, grew thicker. "And I thank you, Miss Case and Mr. Axford, for your kindness to my son. Yes, Mr. Axford, I am ready to go now."

Miss Case sprang to her feet.

"I'm going with you."

"No you're not," said Britt. "You've had enough for one day." He gestured to Mike. "Good-bye, Mike. Good luck, Dr. Brandt."

Mike touched Brandt's elbow.

They went out of the room, and then the outside door slammed.

"Mr. Reid," cried Miss Case, "you've got to do something. Something!"

"Whatever I can."

"The Hornet?"

Britt smiled. "You heard Mike. He figures the Hornet's due for an encore."

"What about me?"

"You'll stay right here."

"I just can't sit here and do nothing!"

"Not nothing," Britt said, placating her. "You're the focus, you're the central agency. If any one of us wants to get in touch, we'll get in touch right here, through you. There has to be a point of focus." He was pleased to see it satisfied her.

"Yes," she said.

"I must go now. Back to work."

"Very well," she said, a rainbow smile in the tear-filled eyes. "He's such a nice man, and the boy's a real doll."

"We'll do what we can."

"We?"

"The Hornet and I."

In the sports car, driving toward the town house, he took out his pocket watch, clicked the stem, waited until the tiny antenna stood out at eleven o'clock, and then clicked the stem again.

Chapter 14

NEWS FROM MR. SCANLON

EARLY EVENING lights winked on and off, like fireflies, in the Justice Building. In the office of the District Attorney, work begun that day was finally ending—dictation on the brief was completed.

"Well, that does it," sighed F.P. Scanlon, looking up from a lawbook, his glasses perched on the end of his nose. "Have I kept you too late?"

"Nothing unusual," scoffed Miss Hewitt. "I'm what is generally known as a loyal and devoted employee."

"That you are, indeed."

"Tell you the truth." She laughed. "I love it. It's exciting. It gives me purpose. What would I do at home? Eat and then sit around with a book or something. You know?"

He smiled upon her in a rather fatherly fashion.

"You are going home, I trust. Not out gallivanting."

"Home," she mourned. "I wish I were going gallivanting. I'm afraid I'm just not the type. Are you?"

"The gallivanting type?"

"No." She blushed. "I mean, going home. Are you?"

"Why do you ask, Miss Hewitt?"

She looked up at him demurely. "I thought, perhaps if you were you would like to drop me off…"

"If I were, I would, but I'm not."

"Not going home, Mr. Scanlon?"

"Staying and working, Miss Hewitt. I've some odds and ends I ought to clean up here in the office."

"You work too hard, Mr. Scanlon." Miss

Hewitt smiled. She looked at him with sympathy and saw him suddenly sit upright and whip the glasses off.

He stood up hurriedly.

"Yes, Miss Hewitt, I'll be very happy to drop you off."

"But—but-"

"Well, come on, Miss Hewitt. If we're going, let's get going."

She looked at him strangely.

"You do work too hard, Mr. Scanlon. Perhaps —perhaps—I mean, a short vacation…"

Scanlon was amused.

"Don't worry about your boss, Miss Hewitt. I admit at times he acts rather peculiarly, but"— he laughed—"let's just say he's a peculiar man. Peculiar. Not crazy." He laughed again. "And I do not need a short vacation, nor a long vacation —no vacation at all. Now let us, if you please, get out of here."

Miss Hewitt's apartment house was on the way to Britt Reid's town house. Scanlon let her out, waved to her, and left her standing near the curb

quizzically watching as the car disappeared from her view.

Britt Reid, in his study, stood with his back to the fireplace, his hands clasped behind him. Then he folded his arms across his chest. Then he clasped his hands behind him again. Then he left the fireplace and paced about impatiently. Finally he returned to the fireplace and stood moodily staring into the fire.

Kato, in houseboy attire, broke the long silence.

"Perhaps a cup of coffee, Boss?"

Britt, startled from his reverie, scowled.

"Where the devil is he, Kato?"

Kato smiled. "The District Attorney does not speed. He does not break the law, not even a traffic law."

Britt was pacing again. "No, it's just that I hope I got through to him. He may have left town. He may be out of the state, out of range of the signal. I made no request of him this afternoon to stay in town. He gave me the information I needed, and I just didn't think I'd need him again today. The thing is—"

A sound came. A welcome sound. The soft sound of chimes.

"Ah," said Kato.

"Ah." Britt Reid smiled and, whipping out the pocket watch, he pressed the button at one o'clock.

The fireplace slid upward, and there stood District Attorney F.P. Scanlon.

"Good evening, Mr. Scanlon."

"Good evening, Mr. Reid."

"Do come in."

"Thank you."

A touch of the button and the fireplace lowered. Pocketing the watch, Britt courteously gestured Scanlon to a seat. The older man sighed and sat heavily.

"A cup of coffee?" Kato inquired. "Perhaps a sandwich, Mr. Scanlon?"

"Thank you very much, Kato. No sandwich, but I'd appreciate a bit of Java. Your coffee's always a delight, Kato." Scanlon grunted. "I wish I could say as much for the extracurricular activities of the master of this household."

Kato smiled and went to the kitchen.

Britt said, "I think you're entitled to a briefing on events so far."

"Am I?" said Scanlon, but with interest

"Things have gotten a bit thick."

"Have they indeed?" muttered the District Attorney.

Swiftly the young publisher advised the prosecutor on current events relating to the Green Hornet, and by the time Kato returned with coffee Scanlon was thoroughly briefed.

"This afternoon," said Britt, "I cut you off when you wanted to tell me about the lady in Riverview—Carlos Velasco's mother-in-law. I was rude, for which I apologize, but I wasn't interested in Carlos Velasco's mother-in-law. Now, on a hunch, I am."

"The boy?"

"Naturally."

The District Attorney sipped coffee. "As I had started to tell you this afternoon, the lady's somewhat of an eccentric—or, she pretends to be an eccentric."

"You know her?"

"I do."

"I mean personally?"

"Yes, I know her personally," said Scanlon. "That is, I've met her in the course of business."

Britt chuckled. "You've had business with this lady?"

"Actually the business was with Velasco—investigation business. As I mentioned this afternoon, that man's been a bone in my throat. I am certain of his criminal activities, but I cannot prove his criminal activities. The mother-in-law, I know by hearsay, is a part of Velasco's syndicate. So she became a part of my investigation. I wrote her at one time, asking her to come down to my office for a chat. She disregarded my letter. So I went to her. I visited with her. That's what I mean—that I know her personally."

"Interesting," murmured Britt.

"Her name is Yolanda Ramos. She's a widow, and Juana Velasco is her only child. Very few people know of any connection between Yolanda Ramos and Carlos Velasco, but she is an integral part of his criminal syndicate."

"How?" asked Britt.

"She is home base. Yolanda Ramos resides here permanently. Carlos and Juana move about, are frequently and for long periods in Buenos Aires, but Yolanda Ramos is the permanent point of contact in the United States."

"What's eccentric about her?"

"She's a beautiful woman but she lives the life of a hermit, a recluse. No friends, no acquaintances—alone. Of course she has a social life with her daughter and son-in-law and their friends, but in Riverview she lives the life of a hermit in a special house she had built."

"What's special about the house?"

Scanlon finished his coffee, put down the cup. "Located in an isolated area, it is a house of three stories, its doors of thick iron with inner slide bolts, its windows protected by iron bars. Nobody can get in there unless they telephone for an appointment, and even then, before they gain admittance, they're inspected through a peephole. A maid—an old and trusted retainer—comes three times a week to clean. No one else. Deliveries are left outside."

Britt was thoughtfully pacing again.

"Truly an eccentric. But didn't you say before that you think she pretends to be?"

"I did, and I do." Scanlon leaned back in his easy chair and comfortably crossed his legs. "This woman has an important position in Velasco's world syndicate. Here in the United States she is the permanent point of contact. Certainly she doesn't want interlopers, people prying into her affairs. So she insulates herself, cuts herself off from the ordinary people by pretending to be some sort of peculiar eccentric."

"And the iron doors, and the slide bolts, and the barred windows?"

"Many valuables, I'm certain, are kept in that house, secret papers and such. And I'm certain that Velasco, for emergencies, keeps enormous sums of money there—in cash."

"Yes, I see," muttered Britt, pacing. Then he stopped in front of Scanlon and smiled down on him. "And how'd you make out in your interview with her?"

"Nothing. A wise, worldly, shrewd lady. I hadn't expected much, and I got even less than I expected. I've still got nothing—no evidence, no proof, no testimony that'll stand up in court —against the Velascos or Yolanda Ramos."

"Maybe the Hornet will pull your chestnuts for you."

The District Attorney's comment was dour.

"The Hornet's done it before—he can do it again."

Britt laughed. "Well, thank you, kind sir."

Scanlon uncrossed his legs and rose from the chair.

Britt said, "What's the address of this house in Riverview?"

Scanlon stated the address, then inquired, "Anything further I can do for you, Mr. Publisher?"

"Yes, Mr. District Attorney."

"What, pray?"

"Are you going home now?"

"I am."

"I'd consider it a great favor if you stayed at home tonight."

"I have every intention of doing so."

"Good. I've a sneaking suspicion you might get an interesting telephone call before this night is over."

The District Attorney wore a wide grin.

"When you have a sneaking suspicion—I won't stir out of the house until I get that telephone call. How do you like that?"

"I like it very much."

The pocket watch was out, the button was pressed, the fireplace ascended.

Chapter 15

THE HORNET STINGS

BLACK BEAUTY purred softly through the cool autumn evening toward Riverview, Kato carefully watching the mileage on the odometer. On a quiet suburban road, three miles from the address Scanlon had given them, he turned on the intercom.

"Three miles. Boss. Activate now?"

"You bet," replied the Hornet.

The Hornet sent the Scanner up for a view. Expertly operating the dials on the instrument panel, he moved the Scanner about until he located the Ramos house. He saw it clearly on the TV screen, including its surrounding area. As Scanlon had said, it was alone, isolated from other houses. It was a forbidding edifice, three stories high, of dark brick, and only one of the barred windows showed lights.

The Hornet projected the zoom lens of the Scanner for a close shot through the window, and the TV screen gave him a picture of a well-furnished room occupied by three people: a handsome, slender, silver-haired woman; a tall, blond, broad-shouldered man—and Konrad Brandt!

And now the tall man, after an imperious gesture from the silver-haired woman, went to the window and pulled together dark drapes so that only a sliver of light came through. But the Green Hornet had seen what he had needed to see. He retracted the Scanner and gave crisp orders to Kato.

Inside the forbidding house with the iron doors and the barred windows, Yolanda Ramos was fretfully addressing herself to Konrad Brandt.

"Have you ever heard of the Green Hornet?"

"Yes," replied the boy.

"Do you, by any chance, know him?"

"Of course not."

"Of course not," Yolanda mimicked sarcastically. "What about your father? Does he know this Green Hornet?"

"To the best of my knowledge and belief, no. But why are you asking these questions?"

The woman studied the boy closely.

"I don't know whether you're lying or telling the truth—but no matter." She had a deep-throated, husky voice. "What does matter is that this Green Hornet broke into my daughter's house and escaped with your father."

The boy blinked. He did not know whether this was good news or bad news. Since he realized, however, that his father wanted no part of Velasco, he decided that it was not altogether bad news.

"What business does this Green Hornet have with my father?"

"I've no idea. Do you?"

"None whatever," said Konrad.

Again she studied his expression, trying to divine whether or not he was telling her the truth, but she could come to no sure conclusion.

"In any case, we have instituted action to effect the return of your father. Whether our action meets with success, we shall know in good time. Meanwhile you had better get accustomed to this house. I've a feeling you'll be here a long while."

"That's not what Mr. Werner said."

"And what did Mr. Werner say?" the woman inquired sharply.

"He said I would rejoin my father."

"I said in time," protested Werner. "All in good time."

"My dear young Konrad." The woman's voice grated now, peevish. "How could we possibly manage to have you rejoin your father when we don't know where your father is? This Green Hornet has him."

"But you said you were arranging to get him back."

"You will remember that I didn't guarantee the success of our attempt."

"But suppose you do get him back?" Konrad persisted.

Yolanda's teeth glittered in a crooked little smile. "I can tell you exactly what will happen then. Tomorrow your father will be flown to Buenos Aires, while you remain right here with us. If your father fits in, if he accepts the work assigned to him, if he shows us he means to work with us, then, once we're convinced he won't try any more of his stupid tricks, you will be flown down to him. But there will be a period of waiting, a time of testing your father's cooperation, and during that period you will be living here with me."

"And if he is not returned?"

"Pardon?"

"If the Green Hornet does not return him? If your attempt fails?"

Now her smile was grim. "In that case you will be dealt with."

"Dealt with?"

"Let us say that we will cross that bridge when we come to it…"

Peter Kriputin, in the red, high-hooded, powerful foreign car, was nearing the city, and on a

quiet road he slowed, pulled to a side, and stopped. A German-made carbine lay on the seat beside him.

He opened the glove compartment, took out a map, unfolded it, clicked on the overhead light, and studied the map. He was not far from his destination—the house in Riverview. Concentrating on the map, he made sure of the route, then returned the map to the glove compartment, and continued on this short last lap of his journey, thinking about Carlos Velasco. A smart man, this Velasco, a brilliant general directing his small army.

"Peter," Velasco had said, "I want you to go to Riverview, to my mother-in-law's house."

"Why?" It had not been an arrogant question but a polite and simple question—a lieutenant inquiring of his general.

"To guard the boy," Velasco had replied.

"But Willy is there."

"I believe it would be better if you were there with him. Understand this, Peter. We have made our move—a rather desperate move. We have enlisted the aid of Mr. Britt Reid and Mr. Mike Ax-ford, but we must also reckon with the clever Green Hornet. I believe that Mr. Reid and Mr. Axford are sufficiently powerful to make some connection with the Green Hornet, but the boy is the pawn. If the Hornet can get to the boy, then we have no lever with which to wrest Dr. Brandt away from the Hornet. At this moment the boy is the most important gambit of our operation."

"But how could this Hornet possibly know where the boy is?"

Velasco had smiled blandly. "How did he know where Dr. Brandt was?"

"I see your point, Mr. Velasco."

"And, Peter, I have a fine piece of equipment for you to take with you. The latest model submachine gun, made, in fact, in West Germany. A marvelous instrument. Lightweight, easily managed with one hand, shoots heavy bullets, and contains a hundred rounds. Don't hesitate to use it if necessary."

"Yes, Mr. Velasco."

"You will go at once now, Peter."

"Yes, Mr. Velasco."

This Carlos Velasco was surely a brilliant general

Black Beauty slid to a stop outside the house in Riverview. It was very dark. The front of the house was dark, the sky was dark, and Black Beauty had its lights off. There was but one shimmer of light, through the almost-closed drapes of the barred window at a side of the house on the ground floor.

Hornet Gun in his pocket, Hornet Sting in his hands, the Green Hornet considered the two possible methods of attack and settled on one. Frontal attack would be through the iron entrance door. The Sting could handle that easily—but what then? There would be the business of going through corridors, doors, rooms, and at any time he could be heard, seen, stopped. No! The surprise attack would be directly through the barred window. Upon entrance he would immediately be within the target area, and the target was the boy: His one object was the rescue of the boy.

"Stay put, Kato."

"Yes, Boss."

"Right there behind the wheel"

"Yes, Boss."

The masked Hornet, his dark costume merging with the darkness about him, glided to the side of the house and silently inspected the window. It started about four feet from the ground, then measured about four feet up to a ledge on top. He peered through the slit between the drapes. The silver-haired woman and the golden-haired boy were seated, talking; the powerful blond man was standing.

He dialed the Sting to minimum, pushed a lever to hush its vibration, and played its rays along the iron bars where they made contact with the structure of the house. Then, very carefully, he dislodged the entire framework of the iron bars, pulled it loose, and laid it silently on the ground. The window was clear.

He pocketed the Sting, stood back, estimated the distance for his leap up to the ledge, jumped, hung by his hands, swinging, gaining momentum, a human pendulum, and then feetfirst crashed through the glass of the window.

Instantly Werner whipped a pistol from his pocket, and at the very moment it fired, Konrad Brandt, hurling himself through the air in a most creditable football tackle, struck Werner's knees with terrific impact. The bullet went wild in one direction, the gun flew in another direction, and Werner sprawled on the floor, the boy under him, all of which gave the Hornet a respite to regain his equilibrium. But before he could fully recover, the lithe Werner, springing to his feet, dashed out of the room, and the Hornet had to make an instantaneous decision.

Werner, unarmed, was fleeing, discretion being the better part of valor. Should the Hornet follow? No! He had no interest in Werner. The boy was his object. He was on his feet now, the Hornet Gun in his right hand.

The woman rose majestically.

"You," she said, unruffled—he had to admire her poise—"you are the Green Hornet."

"That I am, madame, and a thousand pardons." He squirted a whiff of green gas at her and she sank to the floor, asleep.

The boy was upright now, amazed blue eyes goggling.

The Hornet spoke once to Dr. Hans Brandt's son.

"Why did you help me?"

"Because—because you have my father."

A squirt of green gas and the boy sank asleep, and now the Hornet worked furiously, first carrying out the silver-haired woman and depositing her in the rear of the car, then swiftly returning for the boy. Werner had slid the bolts of the iron door, leaving it wide open. And now the boy was in the car and the door was slammed and the Hornet said, "Let's go, Kato."

No answer.

The Hornet looked.

There was nobody in the driver's seat.

Chapter 16

KAT0 LENDS A HAND

KATO HAD SEEN Werner come barreling out.

And Kato had barreled out right after him.

Werner, an experienced assassin, knew that he, unarmed, was helpless against the armed Hornet. And he knew the Hornet was armed. He knew it from all he had heard about the Hornet, and he knew it definitely from Carlos and Juana Velasco. So he ran. Wise in the ways of crime, he knew the first step was to report catastrophe, to inform his superiors. The Hornet had the boy; his superiors, at once, must have that information. If Dr.

Brandt were already delivered, then Velasco would know how to handle the situation. If Brandt were not yet delivered, then Velasco would subtly switch plans, but he had to know of this new development—immediately!—he had to be informed.

And so Willy Werner ran.

And silently in the dark night, Kato ran after him.

Then a phone booth loomed. Panting, Willy Werner plunged into it, pulling shut the folding door—and panting, Kato now knew what the man was after. Communication. Kato knew it was his duty to interrupt whatever communication this man wished to make.

He rapped his knuckles on the glass of the door.

The man gestured, waving him away.

"Got to make a phone call," Kato yelled.

The man waved him away.

Kato kicked open the door.

"Got to make a phone call."

"After me," the man said.

"Before you," said Kato.

Snarling, the man came out of the phone booth.

He was big, powerful, far taller than Kato. Without warning, the man swung a thick-fisted roundhouse right. Deftly, Kato ducked. Instantly wise, Werner knew he was opposed by a skillful adversary; this slender little Oriental in the chauffeur's uniform was no amateur. Carefully now, hate hissing through clenched teeth, Werner circled the man in the chauffeur's uniform. His arms spread in a wrestler's pose, Werner slowly closed in, then lunged. With the grace of a ballet dancer Kato sidestepped, the hammer-edge of his stiff right palm expertly striking the nape of Werner's neck in a magnificent gung-fu swipe. Werner fell like a chopped tree.

Kato sighed, stooped, lifted the huge man across one shoulder in a fireman's carry, and trotted back along the dark streets toward Black Beauty.

The Hornet waited, impatiently. Kato. Where the devil was Kato? Certainly Kato was not one to defect. Werner! Of course the blond man was Werner; young Konrad had meticulously described his father's guards when, initially, he had told his story in Britt Reid's office. The Green Hornet had seen the dark one in Velasco's house—Peter Kriputin. The one here in the house in River-view, as bodyguard to the boy, figured to be Werner—from Konrad's initial description and from the description that both Mike and Miss Case had given. So Kato had spotted the fleeing Werner and had taken out after him. Now what? What to do? Should he leave without Kato? How could he? Perhaps Werner had overpowered Kato. Perhaps Kato was lying somewhere on a dark street, suffering.

The pressure was great. By now Mike must be nearing the Velasco estate, Dr. Hans Brandt with him. Time was closing in. He did have the boy— should he sacrifice both Mike and Dr. Brandt in the interests of Kato? Should he go out and seek Kato while, perhaps, Velasco changed his mind? Suppose Velasco decided to take off for Buenos Aires sometime during the night. Mike would be lost, Hans Brandt would be lost—and here was the Green Hornet, in Riverview, sitting, waiting in a car that was capable of a speed that could easily span the distance to Valley Grove in the necessary time. The Hornet was torn between decisions—but he decided.

He got out of the car to seek Kato, and then there was Kato trotting toward him, the huge blond man slung over his left shoulder.

"Hi, Boss."

"Kato! This was one time when you really had me worried."

Kato, carrying his burden, peeked into the car and grinned.

"This one should make the full company, Boss. Right?"

"He completes the company; yes, Kato."

"I believe a whiff from the Gun would assure us that he continues his restful slumber."

"An excellent suggestion, Kato."

The Hornet supplied the whiff and Kato deposited the inert Werner in the passenger compartment. Then Kato adjusted himself in the driver's seat while the Hornet, in the rear, made his sleeping passengers comfortable.

The intercom came alive.

"You know where we're going, Kato."

"Yes, Boss."

"Velasco's."

"Yes, Boss."

And then, just as the long, sleek limousine commenced its forward motion, it was caught from the rear in the glare of powerful headlights.

Chapter 17

DRASTIC ACTION

BLACK BEAUTY skimmed along the dark streets, the red, high-hooded, foreign car in hot pursuit. Time and again, Kriputin, holding the submachine gun out the window in his left hand, let loose a spray of bullets that bounced like hail of! the black limousine.

The Hornet was worried. Bullets could not harm Black Beauty, but the noise of the bullets could harm his enterprise. They were not yet near the highway, and on the narrow, turning, twisting streets Black Beauty could not use its speed to pull away from and lose the pursuing car. The Hornet realized that sooner or later the racket from the submachine gun would be heard by a police patrol car, and then the fat would certainly be in the fire. By radio communication one police car could call other police cars—and the Green Hornet had no desire to be surrounded by police.

It was time for drastic action.

Opening the instrument console, the Hornet touched a button to activate the rear rocket launchers. Two small doors, just above Black Beauty's exhaust pipes, retracted from the apertures behind which were the batteries of rockets. Next he turned on the closed-circuit TV and twisted a knob until the hairline gunsights glowed on the screen; through the gunsights he could clearly see the pursuing car. Finally the Hornet took hold of the remote control aiming and firing device—but it was not yet time.

"Kato," he said into the intercom.

"Yes, Boss?"

"Turn west."

"But that's not the way to the highway."

"Keep twisting through the streets but bear west. There's a hilly, wooded area in that vicinity where people go hunting in the summer, and there's a road that runs through the hills. That's where we're going."

"I thought we were going to Velasco's."

"Not till we get this bird off our tail."

"Once we get to the highway, I'll be able to lose him fast."

"But before we get to the highway we might pick up an uninvited escort of police cars. This guy keeps popping off his peashooter. Cops have ears."

"Correct," Kato approved. "So go west, young man." Kato grinned. "You're the boss, Boss." Soon enough they were on a flat piece of road, dark wooded hills rising on either side, and behind them the stubbornly pursuing, high-hooded foreign car.

The Hornet studied the gunsight, adjusting the rocket's directional device. He was aiming low and in front of the pursuing car. When he was ready, the distance between the two cars correct, he fired!

The rocket exploded in a crimson and purple blast six feet in front of the red car.

The car screeched, swerved, veered into the ditch at the side of the road, teetered precariously on two wheels, and then turned upside down, its wheels still revolving, its driver thrown clear. He was running and he was no longer holding a gun.

Black Beauty screamed to a halt and the Green Hornet and Kato, each with a flashlight, were now the pursuers.

The running man disappeared into a wooded knoll that was surrounded by flatland grass.

"You take the rear," the Hornet shouted, plunging directly into the thicket. Kato went the other way.

Alone amid dark trees and entangling foliage, the Hornet, by the piercing white light of the flashlight, sought the running man and found no one. Minutes—valuable minutes—went by. Nothing! And so the Hornet came out of the thicket and back to the road, and there was Kato, and once again Kato had saved the day! There he was, smiling in the glow of the Hornet's flashlight, a man over his left shoulder again in the fireman's rescue carry.

"Good old gung-fu," explained Kato.

The Hornet put a palm under the man's chin, lifted the head, and played the beam of the flash on the face.

"Meet Peter Kriputin," he announced.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," said Kato into the night air. "And now, Boss, a touch of green gas should keep the worthy Mr. Kriputin in precisely the condition we most desire him. Don't you think, Boss?"

"I think, I think," laughed the Hornet. He put the nozzle of the Gun at Kriputin's nostrils, administering a dose of peaceful slumber.

Kato carried him to the car.

The Hornet arranged him among the other sleeping occupants.

And now Kato was in the driver's seat, and the Hornet was in the passenger compartment, and Black Beauty was rolling swiftly, and the intercom spoke.

"We finally have the full company aboard, Mr. Kato."

"I have figured that out by myself, Boss."

"Just wanted to be sure you did, Mr. Kato."

"You can be sure, Mr. Boss."

The Hornet laughed, the intercom was silent, and then on the highway it came alive once again.

"Kato."

"Yes, Boss?"

"Switch her to power."

Kato pulled the floor-lever, shifting the transmission to high power.

"Switched," he said.

"Hit the silencer."

"Right."

Kato clicked a lever on the dash, and the powerful purr of Black Beauty dissolved to no sound at all.

"And now this one last maneuver, Kato."

"The lights?"

"Correct. Polarize the headlights."

Kato pushed a button of the instrument panel on the dashboard. At once the blazing headlights dimmed; an interested observer from the outside would be able to make out only a car without lights. Actually, the headlights now put forth a polarized beam. From Kato's viewpoint, through the polarizing filter in the windshield, the highway was brightly illuminated in a greenish glow.

"Polarized."

"Good man. Now let her rip, my boy. We're somewhat in a hurry. Give her the gun."

Ghostlike, wraithlike, silent, unseen, blackness merging with the blackness of the night, Black Beauty cut away the miles, ate up the road, whizzing like a silent, rocket-propelled projectile toward its destination in Valley Grove.

Nonetheless the Green Hornet in the spacious passenger compartment, he alone awake among the slumbering company, chafed impatiently.

Chapter 18

WHAT A STORY!

MIKE AXFORD'S ancient convertible rolled through wide-open gates to the front entrance of the Velasco mansion. Mike pulled the brake, and the vintage car came to a shuddering halt. He turned off the ignition and growled, "Here we go, Dr. Brandt. Here we are."

Together they mounted the front steps and entered a vast and sumptuous vestibule. There Mrs. Juana Velasco, who had heard the wheeze of the ancient automobile and the crunch of its tires on the gravel path leading up to the house, was waiting to greet her two guests.

Mike restrained a whistle. The woman, dressed in a gold-mesh evening gown, was quite young and quite beautiful. She smiled coldly at Dr. Brandt

"Good to have you back, Doctor."

Dr. Brandt clicked his heels and, his arms tight and formal against his sides, bowed stiffly from the waist. Then he gestured toward Mike.

"Mr. Axford. Mr. Mike Axford of the Daily Sentinel—Mrs. Juana Velasco."

"Delighted to meet you," said the lady.

"Charmed," Mike retorted dryly.

"This way, if you please, gentlemen."

She led them to a drawing room where Carlos Velasco, resplendent in purple tuxedo, white lace shirt, and black bow tie, nodded agreeably to the two men.

"Dr. Brandt, a pleasure to welcome you."

Brandt made his bow again.

"Carlos," said Juana, "this gentleman is Mr. Mike Axford of the Daily Sentinel"

"My pleasure," said Velasco.

"My husband, Mr. Carlos Velasco."

"How do you do?" said Mike.

"I am surprised," said Velasco, "that you have come alone."

"Alone?" Mike's forehead furrowed. "I brought you Dr. Brandt, didn't I?"

Velasco laughed, a chortle in his chest. "I mean, I also expected Mr. Britt Reid."

"How about a brass band, too, Mr. Velasco?" growled Mike. "And maybe the keys to the city, as a special favor from the mayor?"

Velasco laughed again, not a happy laugh. "How did you manage it, Mr. Axford?"

"Manage what, Mr. Velasco?"

"To retrieve the distinguished Dr. Brandt from the vile clutches of the Green Hornet?"

"Vile clutches." Mike grunted. "My boss handled that end of the operation."

"Mr. Britt Reid?"

"Mr. Britt Reid."

"Which is what I meant," said Velasco, "when I said I also expected Mr. Reid."

"Just because he got the good doctor out of the vile clutches doesn't mean he has to come here in person to deliver him."

"Of course it doesn't," Velasco acknowledged politely. "How did he manage to do it, Mr. Ax-ford?"

"That's not my business, Mr. Velasco. The point is, he did manage it. He's a powerful guy in his own right, maybe even more powerful than the Green Hornet."

"That'll be the day," scoffed Juana Velasco.

"It is the day," said Mike, indicating Dr. Brandt. "He's here, isn't he?"

"You win, Mr. Axford," laughed Velasco.

And at that moment Mike's hand went into a pocket and came out a fist in which was clenched a shiny, nickel-plated revolver.

Velasco stood rock-still

Juana's mouth opened in a gape.

"I stopped off in my apartment," said Mike, "for this." And he pointed the revolver.

"Why?" gasped Juana.

"Just in case," Mike said mildly, "the Green Hornet decides to come back to pay another visit here."

Velasco's laughter was now sheer relief.

"I wouldn't worry about that, Mr. Axford. The point is, we have the boy, and it is because we do have the boy that your employer, Mr. Reid, was able to convince the Green Hornet that he should turn over Dr. Brandt. The proof of the pudding is in the eating; Dr. Brandt has been returned to us. No. As long as we have the boy, then we have the Green Hornet where we want him— and where we want him is away from us. It turns out that the boy is the essential cog in this entire affair. It is because we have the boy that the Hornet released Dr. Brandt, and as long as we do have the boy, the Green Hornet will not molest us. Don't you agree with that conclusion, Mr. Axford?"

"I'm afraid I do."

"Then please put up the pistol," said Juana Velasco.

"You're frightened of a pistol?"

"Yes, I am, unless I'm the one who's holding it."

Mike smiled grimly and put away the revolver.

"However," said Velasco, "I'm not one to tempt fate. Because of the variety of activity that's befallen us—Dr. Brandt's attempt at a second defection, this time from us, at the Daily

Sentinel; the intrusion of the Green Hornet; the intervention, at our behest, of yourself, Mr. Ax-ford, and your employer—I have effected a change of plans." He looked at his watch. "My pilot is due here in the morning, but we shall not wait for him. We leave for Argentina in fifteen minutes. I myself shall pilot the plane. Don't look so startled, Dr. Brandt. I assure you I'm an excellent pilot."

"What about me?" asked Mike.

Suavely Velasco informed him, "You will go with us, Mr. Axford. You will be our honored guest. Once Dr. Brandt is safely accommodated in Buenos Aires, then you will be returned to the States."

Blackmail, pure and simple. Mike knew it, and he knew that Velasco knew it. What could he do? How could he object? They had the boy! Any wrongful act on his part and these twisted people, so polite, well-dressed, suave, and smiling, could wreak their vengeance upon an innocent kid who had come with his father to a new land in search of political asylum and personal freedom. Furthermore, thought the wily Mike, it would be a story. A great story! Above all, before anything else, he was a newspaperman, and he fairly drooled in anticipation of the remarkable exclusive he would have, a front-page story of international intrigue and international abduction, he himself being a tail-end victim of that abduction.

And then his mind gave him pause. // he were thinking of all of that, then so was Velasco. Would the man release him, once he had him in Argentina, to blast the story to the world? Would the man let him go back to the States to print a firsthand, first-person story of the events? In all likelihood, no, thought Mike, but stay with it, keep it cool, there is nothing else you can do but go along with whatever they have in mind. They do have the boy and therefore you, just like Dr. Brandt, are an unwilling but helpless victim.

"Fifteen minutes," said Velasco.

"Time for a bit of repast." Juana's mock-smile glittered upon Dr. Brandt.

"Not hungry," he muttered.

"Mr. Axford?"

"Famished," said Mike.

Black Beauty turned into Lorenzo Lane, speeding swiftly and silently to the rear gate of the Velasco estate. As the Hornet expected, the gate was wide open, its disintegrated lock unrepaired. Of course. What need for hasty repair? He could imagine how the Velascos figured it. They had the boy and had communicated that fact, and by now they had Dr. Brandt—so they knew the Hornet had cooperated. Once Britt Reid had convinced the Hornet to cooperate, the Hornet could be considered to be out of the picture. Their ruse had worked. The boy was safely hidden in the bleak house, guarded by Mrs. Ramos and by Werner and Kriputin, and the Hornet had relinquished Dr. Hans Brandt, who was now securely in their possession. Their worries were over.

"Stay with it, Kato."

"Right, Boss."

Hornet Gun in hand, the Green Hornet trotted through the dark toward the lighted house.

No one else, only Mike, had eaten. A delicious ham sandwich had been served on a delicate china plate, and steaming coffee had been poured from a silver carafe. Now Mike touched his mouth with a linen napkin, laid the napkin on the table, and stood up.

"Thank you. That was excellent."

"I'm pleased," said Juana, lifting her lips in the smile that was not a smile, merely a display of gleaming white teeth. She herself had prepared the food and served it. Today there were no domestics in the house.

"Mr. Axford," said Velasco.

"Sir?"

"Please give your revolver to my wife, if you please."

"Why?"

"Because, Mr. Axford, as the pilot of the plane I would be uncomfortable knowing I had an armed passenger behind me." Now it was Velascos turn to wreathe his lips in a smile that was not a smile but a show of teeth. "You wouldn't want to fly with a nervous pilot, would you, Mr. Axford?"

The guy had a point. Furthermore, as he had decided before, as long as they had the boy he could not cross them, and therefore the gun was of no earthly use to him. In obvious mockery of Velasco's courteous request, Mike made an elaborate bow, extracted the gun, and handed it to Mrs. Velasco.

"Thank you," she said.

"Welcome," he said.

"And now," said Velasco, "it is time."

Mike's heart began a slow thump. He was about to embark to Buenos Aires in a private jet piloted by an Argentinian millionaire-type criminal. What a story! If only he lived to write it!

"Sorry, but not yet," spoke up Brandt.

Mike's heart thumped faster. Was the scientist going to throw a monkey wrench into the works?

"What is it, Doctor?" demanded Velasco.

"My son."

"He is in good hands."

"Why isn't he going with us?"

"In order that we be assured that you go with us, without further trouble."

"Where is he?"

"A better question, Dr. Brandt, is when will he join you, and that question I will answer. As soon as you are properly at work in Buenos Aires, happy and comfortable, your boy will be flown down to you. We have no interest in keeping your son from you. Quite the contrary. We want you very happy, Dr. Brandt, but, for the time being, we don't want you to try any more of your tricks."

"Where is he?"

"I would be a fool to tell you, wouldn't I? And for that matter, what difference does it make to you where he is? We are holding him pending your arrival and cooperation in Buenos Aires." Velasco looked at his watch. "Come now, gentle-men."

"No," said Brandt stubbornly.

"Dr. Brandt, will you force me to use physical persuasion? I believe you know I'm quite capable of that."

"How do I know he's safe? That he—that he— that you—that's he's alive?"

Velasco glanced at his wife, and Mike had to smile. The huge revolver looked so incongruous in the lovely lady's small white hand.

"Please," Brandt continued and pointed toward the telephone. "If you will let me talk to him—if I know he is safe and being cared for— then I will accept what you say. I will believe what you have told me, and I will go along as you request."

Velasco frowned in thought, then nodded to his wife. She gave him the revolver—it suited him far better, thought Mike—and she went to the telephone. She dialed and Mike watched her. He tried to remember the dial-clicks so he could work out the number she was calling, but she did it too swiftly and he lost count. Then, receiver to ear, she waited. And waited.

Mike watched her. This was his business; he was a reporter. Any change in her expression was his business—and there were changes. Her lower lip was scissored between her teeth, muscles trembled in the corners of her jaw, and a peculiar, vacant expression came into her eyes.

Juana Velasco, receiver held tightly to ear, suppressed panic. The ringing continued at the other end, but no one answered. Trouble there, no question. She hung up finally.

"The wires are down," she said in a tense voice. "The operator says the wires are down—some kind of electrical trouble—and they don't know when they'll be up again." A scorching glance burned across to her husband. "We simply cannot wait."

"There you are, Dr. Brandt, we tried." Velasco shot his cuff and looked at his watch again. "Time now—we must go. We'll put you through to the boy first thing when we arrive at the airport in my country."

But Brandt hung back, and now Velasco leveled the revolver.

"Dr. Brandt, I am out of patience. Unless you come along now, without further delay, I will kill you. I will kill Axford because I cannot leave a witness to my killing of you, and your son will also be killed, and you will be his murderer." Velasco's tone was intense but his voice was calm. "Dr. Brandt, I went to great trouble to free you from East Germany. I kept every part of my bargain. It was you, not I, who broke our bargain; you who tried to work a trick on me at the Daily Sentinel. I have no interest in harming your son.

My only interest is you—not you personally, but your work, your genius, and, truthfully, the enormous profits that can come to me by the work of your genius. Why should I want to harm your boy? It would be stupid of me to harm him, stupid of me not to have him join you, because then you would not do the work I want of you. You're an intelligent man; you must understand that. Your son is being held as hostage—but only hostage until I know you are one of us, a part of my organization in Buenos Aires. I do not appeal to your heart. I know now that your heart is set on political asylum in the United States. But I do appeal to your intelligence. You have opposed me, but you have failed. I now hold the trump card—your son—and I insist that you carry through your end of our bargain. Either you come along peaceably right now, or three murders, including your own, will be on your hands. I am out of patience, Dr. Brandt. This is it. You come or you do not. Yes or no?"

"Yes," said Brandt brokenly.

At that moment, the Green Hornet plunged into the room.

And at that selfsame moment Carlos Velasco pointed the muzzle of the nickel-plated revolver directly at the Green Hornet's heart and pulled the trigger.

Chapter 19

THE GREEN HORNET REPORTS

NOTHING HAPPENED.

There was a click but no explosion.

The Hornet, as a consequence of his rush into the room, was off-balance and could not retaliate, and Velasco, believing the pistol to have misfired, pulled the trigger again, and again and again. Only clicks resulted and only Mike knew why; the gun wasn't loaded.

Holy moley, he thought, we could have had the Hornet, a far greater conquest than the likes of Velasco, but I forgot to load the gun. He slapped the heel of his palm against the flat of his forehead in sheer frustration. He was a professional newspaperman, not a professional gunman, and he had forgotten to load the revolver! Too late! By now the Hornet, recovered in balance, had squirted a stream of green gas at Carlos Velasco, and Velasco was now fast asleep on the marble floor.

A squirt at Juana, and she joined her husband, asleep on the floor.

As the Hornet Gun turned toward him, Mike raised both hands.

"Please! May I say something?"

The Hornet nodded.

"This man"—Mike pointed to the stunned, rigid Brandt—"I know you've been after him, just like this other guy, this Velasco, and I know why you want him, why both of you want him. He can produce money for you—loot. But he wants to work for the Government—your Government—and he can do great things for the country, so why don't you give him a break? I don't care about me, but this guy, Dr. Brandt, he wants to do things for the United States…"

The rest of what he had to say drifted from mumble to silence as he fell, asleep, at Brandt's feet. Then Brandt, persuaded by a jet of the green vapor, gracefully descended upon the body of the pleader of his cause, and they lay, one over the other, in slumber.

The Hornet, drawing a deep breath, gazed down upon the sleeping company, then turned and loped out, returning to his other sleeping company in the car.

Kato helped him to carry, one by one, Mrs. Yolanda Ramos, Konrad Brandt, Willy Werner and Peter Kriputin into the house and lay them, carefully and gently, on the marble floor.

Then Kato started moving them about as though he were adjusting the ivory pieces on a giant chessboard, and when he was done they were lying, one abutting the other, in a fine geometric line.

"I don't get it," said the Hornet.

"In order of size." Kato grinned. "It's the Oriental in me. I have a neat soul. How do they look?"

"Gorgeous," said the Hornet.

"I now suggest a bit more vapor from the Hornet Gun so they'll be nice and pretty—and peacefully sleeping—when the police arrive. I presume that's your object—to deliver this charmingly slumbering group into the toils of the law?"

"You presume correctly, O Kato."

"Permit me."

Kato took the Gun and, bowing first in an Oriental exaggeration, ceremoniously applied the necessary quotient of green vapor.

"Thank you," said the Hornet.

"Not at all," replied Kato, returning the Gun. His employer, after a final glance at the supine sleepers, went to the telephone.

He called P.P. Scanlon, who answered immediately. "Hello?"

The Hornet spoke in his normal voice but low, just a shade above a whisper. "Britt here."

"Hi." A chuckle. "I was rather expecting you would—"

"Listen. You're going to have to move fast. As far as the public is concerned—as far as the world is concerned—this call is from Mike Axford.

Your phone rang and the person said, 'Mike Ax-ford calling.' Understood?"

"Yes, I understand that perfectly well, Britt," Scanlon answered softly.

"Okay. You've been after Velasco for a long time—now you've got him and got him good! Kidnapping—two kidnappings—and you also have his accomplices—his wife, a guy named Willy Werner, and a guy named Peter Kriputin. You also have the accessory after the fact, Mrs. Yolanda Ramos, who criminally harbored one of the kidnapped persons—and the central figures in the whole affair, Dr. Hans Brandt and his son, Konrad. You have them all, P.P."

"I have them?" Scanlon inquired crustily. "If I have them, I'd certainly appreciate knowing just where they are!"

"Laid out and waiting for you in the drawing room of the Velasco mansion in Valley Grove. They're all there, including Mike. He'll fill you in on any of the details that I may have omitted." A short laugh. "There are details that he doesn't know about, but you'll get those from young Brandt and Dr. Brandt. It's my hunch you'll be getting confessions all around. The Velasco couple and Mrs. Ramos figure to be tough, but Werner and Kriputin, illegal aliens, figure to sing the minute you put the pressure on. After that, what with full statements from your star witnesses, Konrad and Hans Brandt, the rest should be strictly mop-up for a man of your talents. All right, Mr. Scanlon?"

"Right. As usual, you have things well taken care of. Anything else for me to know?"

"I suggest you bring with you a sufficient force of police officers."

"Right. I'll do that. I'm on my way now." A brief pause and then somewhat embarrassedly, "Thanks for heroic service, young man." And the phone clicked off.

They waited, without lights, on the dark road by the back gate of the Velasco estate, the Scanner in the air, the Hornet watching the screen. At last, sirens wailing and lights flashing, the police cars roared through the front gates. The Hornet retracted the Scanner and then sighed wearily.

"We're all finished here, Kato. I'm beginning to feel exhausted."

"It's been a busy day, Boss."

"Let's go home now."

Chapter 20

A NICKEL-PLATED MEMENTO

NEXT DAY THE Daily Sentinel was the first newspaper in the entire country to carry the sensational story of international intrigue (later picked up by the wire services).

Britt Reid himself, editor and publisher of the Daily Sentinel, wrote the lead story which rather proudly cast Mike Axford in the role of hero.

Axford, under his own by-line, had a first-person story which modestly reported the events in which he had become involved.

And the front page also carried exclusive inter-views with the world-famous physicist, Dr. Hans Brandt; with his bright and appealing young son, Konrad Brandt; and with the courageous, crusading District Attorney, F. P. Scanlon, Esquire.

The Brandts, father and son, in the protective custody of agents from the FBI, had been flown to Washington to receive that which they had so valiantly struggled for: acceptance and asylum in the country of their choice, freedom to live in, work in, and work for the United States.

Carlos Velasco, Juana Velasco, Yolanda Ramos, Willy Werner, and Peter Kriputin were lodged in the city jail awaiting trial on charges of malicious mischief for the onslaught on the Daily Sentinel and on two charges of kidnapping. Confessions from Werner and Kriputin were already on file, the Grand Jury had already voted its indictment, and, as the District Attorney stated in a brief speech over television:

"After long endeavor and watchful waiting, we have apprehended and will bring to the bar of justice a group of nefarious criminals. The prosecution, I am pleased to state, has an airtight case. As chief prosecutor I cannot, of course, divulge details, and in fairness to all concerned I cannot further elaborate. I have been requested to make a statement to the public, and this is my statement I thank you."

Miss Case, watching the television screen in Britt's office, applauded.

Mike, seated alongside Britt's desk, commented dourly, "Spoken like a true politician."

"Not at all," Miss Case defended him. "A fine little speech, short and to the point."

"But what did he say?" Mike grunted. "Absolutely nothing!"

Britt swung about in his swivel chair behind his desk. "He's not supposed to. He's the D.A. He can't really comment on the case. It's big news right now, the public wanted to hear him, and so our TV boys put him on."

Sadly Mike slapped his knees.

"What gets me is this Green Hornet."

"Gets you what?" asked Miss Case.

"Here's this guy, a master criminal—and all of a sudden he turns to the side of law and order."

"I think you did it." said Britt.

"Me?"

"You made your own little speech to him before he put you to sleep."

"So you told us, Mike," said Miss Case.

"Yeah, I did make a speech," Mike admitted. "A little one."

Britt smiled. "You told him about Brandt wanting to work for our Government. You asked him to give the guy a decent break. You said that Brandt could do great things for the old U.S.A. if he had a chance."

"Yep, I did. So I did."

"Maybe you touched a chord in him."

"Sure," said Miss Case. "Patriotism. Love of country. Even the Green Hornet. Why not? He's only human."

Mike sighed.

"I've been after the guy for years, and there he was, not six feet away from me. And there was Velasco with my gun pointed directly at the Green Hornet. I'd much rather we'd captured the Hornet and then Velasco."

Britt opened a desk drawer and brought out a nickel-plated revolver. "It's yours, Mike," he

said. "I—uh—got it from Scanlon."

"I've been wondering what happened to it," Mike said dolorously. "Gimme."

"No, I'm keeping it."

"Happy to donate it—but why?"

Britt looked at the shiny instrument with evident pleasure. "Because it's a nice, big, fat, beautiful revolver, and I'm saving it as a memento."

"Memento?"

"A memento that says the Green Hornet could have been vanquished—except."

"Except what?"

"Except you forgot to load your gun."

Miss Case laughed. Mike scowled.

"So the Green Hornet's still at large," said Britt, "and maybe the next time he's out on the town we'll catch up with him. In the meantime, we've got a newspaper to run. So let's get back to work, people. Case closed."

He replaced the revolver and quietly shut the drawer. A memento. Had it been loaded, he would have been dead. Fate plays strange and wonderful tricks. He sighed and smiled.

Case closed.