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COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 2006 by Wildside Press, LLC.
“The Masked Woman” originally appeared in The Washington Post, January 2, 1921.
Selected and edited by John Gregory Betancourt for the Wildside Pulp Classics line. For more information, visit wildsidebooks.com
Published by Wildside Press LLC.
www.wildsidebooks.com
ALSO BY JOHNSTON McCULLEY
Adventures of Thubway Tham
The Avenging Twins
The Black Star
The Blocked Trail
The Demon
The Mark of Zorro
The Scarlet Scourge
Slave of Mystery and Other Tales of Suspense
The Spider’s Den
Tales of Thubway Tham
The Man Who Changed Rooms and Other Criminal Types
The Rangers’ Code
The Spider Strain and Other Tales from the Pulps
Three Mysteries
A White Man’s Chance
Wild Noreen
CHAPTER I
A Sort of Rubicon
There it was again — that faint scraping sound so foreign to the neighborhood; a sound pregnant with possibilities, including mystery unfathomable, violence, tragedy, experience, the lure of the unknown. Prof. James Xenophon Salwick sat up straight in his chair and allowed his imagination to soar. Troubled with insomnia continually, Prof. Salwick knew all the nocturnal sounds of the locality, and this he recognized as utterly new.
He put on his spectacles, made sure that they rested lightly on the sore spot on his nose, and then arose and stretched out his arms. He was not a large man — perhaps five feet six inches tall — and his general appearance indicated brains rather than brawn. But, early in his college days, Prof. Xenophon Salwick had been assured by an elderly lecturer, who looked as if he had both feet in the grave up to the knees, that a brain worker could achieve great heights only but keeping his body in suitable condition — and Prof. Salwick had done just that.
“It is evident,” he told himself, “that some misguided individual has invaded my poor apartment.”
A moment he hesitated, and then he reached out and turned the knob of the door that opened into his living room. The door itself was opened an inch at a time, and cautiously until there was space enough for the professor to slip through. This he did, silently, his senses alert. He continued along the wall until he reached the light switch. And he snapped on the lights.
Brute Wilger whirled from the desk he had been investigating with the aid of an electric torch. He snarled like a rat at bay. He wore no mask, and the professor got an instant look at his face. It was a brutal face; the eyes were small and black and glittering, and set too close together, the ears extended from the head, and the head itself was shaped something like a bullet. Black hair adorned it, but the hair was closely cropped.
“Well,” Brute Wilger snarled.
The professor cleared his throat.
“Will you be kind enough to sit down?”
“Youse’ll be glad to sit down yourself, like a little man, and let me fix youse so I’ll have a chance at a getaway!” Brute Wilger informed him. “And, if youse don’t, I’ll just naturally muss up this place with youse!”
“I assure you that violence is unnecessary,” declared the professor. “I have not the slightest intention of handing you over to the police. I should like to have a conversation with you. I am greatly interested in anthropology.”
Brute Wilger had continued to approach during the professor’s recital. And now he sprang — swiftly, silently, his eyes glittering malevolently and his teeth set. His gnarled hands clutched at the professor’s throat; his weight struck against the man of science.
Brute Wilger realized, when it was too late, that he had made a mistake. Stooped shoulders and spectacles and a knowledge of something more than low life did not indicate physical weakness, the Brute discovered. In some peculiar manner, Prof. James Xenophon Salwick accomplished a neat sidestep. His hands flashed up and grasped Brute Wilger’s wrists, and he gave a quick wrench.
Wilger uttered a cry of pain. As it left his lips, he found himself whirled around neatly and thrown to the floor. The professor did something to one of Brute Wilger’s legs and one of his arms, ending by getting toes and fingers in such a position that he could hold the Brute helpless with one hand. The Brute tried to move once and knew excruciating pain — and did not try again.
“Should you attempt violence again, I shall feel compelled to deal harshly with you,” the professor warned him. “I now am going to let you up and conduct you to my little study. We are going to have a conversation there.”
Brute Wilger got up when the professor allowed it. There was admiration and respect in the Brute’s face. He had a reputation as a gangster and a brutal man, but he knew he was as helpless as a babe in the hands of Prof. Salwick. He sat in the chair the professor indicated and wiped the perspiration from his forehead with the back of one dirty hand.
“Make yourself comfortable,” said Prof. Salwick. “I long have wished to meet a criminal. I have seen many of them in court, of course, and in police stations — but I wanted to see one at work. I have made quite a study of criminology, but I feel that much of my data and incorrect. I shall expect you to speak the truth during our conversation.”
“I don’t quite get this,” said Brute Wilger.
“How long have you expressed your criminal tendencies in actual acts of crime?”
“Meaning how long have I been a crook?”
“I believe that is the accepted term.”
“What is this — the third degree?”
“I have not the slightest connection with the police,” said the professor. “In fact, I abhor them. The police, to my way of thinking, are human beings of deep ignorance. Their methods are neither scientific nor resultant in good.”
“I guess we can agree on that,” said the Brute.
“So you may talk freely to me. It is information I wish. If you give it to me, you shall be rewarded — with money.”
“Well, I’ve been followin’ the game for about ten years,” Brute Wilger said frankly.
“And yet you made an attempt to rob my apartment tonight! I am a college professor, and there is little in my place that would attract a criminal who wished for illegal gain. I have a small fortune, it is true, left me by a relative, but it
