Mysterical-E

He Said, She Says

OATERS
By Darryle Purcell

PART THREE OF A THREE-PART SERIES

(Crime reporter Sean “Curly” Woods left the Los Angeles Examiner to become a public relations writer for Mascot Pictures during the filming of Mystery Mountain, a Ken Maynard western serial, with the hope of earning a living without having to deal with crooked politicians and unethical editors. Within a very short time period, Woods and Maynard, along with western star Hoot Gibson and Mascot driver Nick Danby have encounters with a sniper, gangsters, a mysterious and deadly flying wing and a mad scientist working with an army of Confederate and Nazi soldiers. Woods and the western movie heroes join G-man Jim Webber to continue their efforts to destroy the enemy’s base in the San Fernando Valley as well as to uncover the identity of the violent seditionist leader known as the Viper.)

CHAPTER 9. THE VIPER’S SHADOW

“Why, he doesn’t seem like such a bad guy after all,” Maynard said.

“Charlie Luciano has killed more people than Busby Berkeley has directed in dance scenes,” Webber said. “Any entertainers he has helped owe him their lives, literally. Once he puts you on the top, you better not throw your weight around with him or you will have an accident. It’s always an accident.

“People tend to have heart attacks and fall on knives,” he said. “Others will beat themselves to death. It’s amazing how many times the coroner will designate suicide when it is clinically impossible. Did any of you read the Examiner this morning?”

We hadn’t.

“Rising-star crooner Russ Columbo is dead,” he said.

I was shocked. Columbo was a real recording talent who was on top of the world. He had done some film work but was about to take that industry by storm, as well.

“There had been some talk that Columbo had been approached by mob elements in the past and had rejected that route,” Webber said. “He had made it to the top the hard way, without any knee-breakers clearing the road for him. We had heard that recently he was offered a deal for film stardom that had some alleged shady interests connected to it. He turned it down.”

“So was he murdered?”

“No. According to the coroner, he was just the unlucky victim of a simple, every-day accident,” he said. “The news report claims Columbo was visiting a friend who was toying with an antique Civil War pistol. Apparently, the gun still had powder and a ball in it, after close to 70 years, and no one had noticed. The gun accidentally went off and killed Columbo. Just like slipping in the bathtub.”

“Yeh, and I’m going into ballet dancing,” Maynard said.

We went back to the ranch and took Webber with us. Gorn had been anticipating our return, as an overflowing ashtray confirmed. He was pleased with Luciano’s word of respite from mob influence. Filming of Mystery Mountain would continue in the morning with all cast and crew scheduled for many hours of hard work.

Webber got on the phone and began setting into motion his organization’s activities in the area. After a short planning session, we all hit the hay.

The ranch came alive with activity at sunrise.

“Ken, Webber is going to need a good 50 horses and saddles ready for his G-men,” I said. “Can we get that many to the ranch?”

“You bet,” he said “I’ll get Mo on it right away. He may have to draft every movie horse in the Valley, but we can do it.”

The feds had already started to arrive. There were at least five station wagons and another five or six sedans parked by the barn. Most of the G-men were wearing Levis, work shirts, western hats and handguns. Some brought bolt-action rifles and a few had submachine guns.

“I’ve sent some very good reconnaissance men forward to scout the area,” Webber said. “The terrain is too rough out there for a lot of vehicles. So it looks like we’re going to do this cavalry-style.”

In spite of the federal activity, filming on Mystery Mountain continued. Maynard was doing an amazing job of cranking out his scenes in single takes. Toosie was beyond herself with death-defying stunts that will thrill youthful matinee audiences. And Red Eye was nowhere to be found.

“I’ve got some special equipment coming in this afternoon, Curly. You’ll be very interested in seeing what the future may bring,” Webber said to me as we watched the activity from the porch.

I wasn’t quite sure what he meant, but was looking forward to enlightenment.
Shuffles came running through the screen door.

“Curly! You’re wanted on the phone. It’s Thelma Todd!” he said.

“Good morning, Miss Todd,” I said into the phone.

“Hi, Curly,” She said. “A certain friend of mine wished me to give you some information. He asked me to tell you that some of his employees are guarding at least a dozen crates at Los Angeles Harbor. Those crates contain parts for constructing several experimental fighter planes from Germany. They are supposed to be picked up this afternoon by agents of Aerial Innovations Company. He said that Big Jim might want to get some men out there to take charge and meet the agents of that company.”

I wrote down all she said on a tablet so as not to miss anything that I might need to communicate to the feds.

“My friend also said there is a laundering operation that is bundling funds for Friends of The New Germany, specific Klan lodges, and candidates for a variety of political offices,” she said. “Sovereign Donors of America is their front name, although most of the money is coming from abroad. He said that if Big Jim wants to send one of his agents to my café, Thelma Todd’s Roadside Rest on Pacific Coast Highway, there will be a list of fund recipients waiting.”

“Thanks for everything, Thelma,” I said. “You’re a good actress and a nice person. Please be careful. It’s a dangerous world and some people can be nice one moment and trouble the next.”

“That’s sweet of you, Curly,” she said. “But I can handle danger. Sometimes I fly a little too close to the flame, but I have always been able to pull away when things start getting hot. That’s why they call me Hot Toddy,” she laughed and hung up.

Luciano actually came through for us. I guess he really meant what he said about America and freedom.

I handed my report to Webber who jumped into action. He called his office and got one agent on his way to Thelma’s café and several headed to the port.

“We will have the planes and those sent to retrieve them soon and we’ll be able to pull the information on who is in charge of Aerial Innovations,” he said. “Once we know that, those people will be picked up and interrogated. When we get the list of Sovereign Donors of America recipients and officials, we’ll put a clamp on those funds and start that roundup. Things are coming to a head, Curly. By the way, how did you get your nickname?”

Even in the midst of excitement, life takes its little dips.

Nick was running errands for the feds. Most of the film workers were shooting in the field. Mo had personally taken charge of receiving the horses Webber needed. Several trucks and horse trailers had already dropped off their equine passengers.
Shuffles was going to drive out to one of the line shacks to deliver a breakaway porch rail for a fight scene and asked if I wanted to tag along. Everything seemed to be going along swimmingly, so I said, “Sure.”

I strapped on the Luger I confiscated and helped Shuffles load the rail, which was incredibly light, into the back of the truck, along with several canisters of water.
As we started toward the shack, he seemed to be in a talkative mood.

“I’ve never seen so much action around the ranch,” he said. “The filming has bumped into high gear and we might wrap up Mystery Mountain by next week. And the G-men are all over the place. Do you think the Nazi Klansmen know they are about to be hit?”

“After all the earlier scrambles we went through,” I said, “I’ll bet they are on the alert for just about anything. They might think they are bulletproof because our aerial assault was certainly not official. Perhaps they believe they are only up against a few individuals…. like us.”

We talked about the evil of the Klan and how our enemies abroad are attempting to use those kinds of groups to get a foothold in America. We agreed that we might be headed toward another World War no matter what we do, but we couldn’t allow them to attack us from inside our own country.

We also talked about movie making, the good and the bad.

“Your character name is Shuffles and people call you that,” I said. “Does that bother you? Wouldn’t you rather be called Arthur or Art?”

“I grew up being called Arty by my folks,” he said. “But the movie world is different. It isn’t real. The character I play isn’t real. It’s what some folks expect to see in a movie. I know my character is a fool. But so is the Little Tramp; so are Laurel and Hardy; so is every western movie sidekick.

“In movies that have low budgets and not much going for them, fools step in to buffer the scenes and, perhaps, give the audience a laugh. Sure, there’s more variety for white fool characters to portray than for a colored fool. But as I told you, I get paid more for sputtering stupid lines than some folks get for doing hard labor.”

“But your name…” I said.

“In this movie world, I’m Shuffles. Everyone knows me as stuttering, eye-rolling Shuffles. So I don’t mind if people call me that. It sort of reminds the film people that I’m here and ready to work. It’s like an advertisement.

“When I go home to visit, my friends and family still know me as Arty,” he said.

He had a pretty healthy attitude about life and work. A lot of top stars could learn from Shuffles, and perhaps lengthen their careers and improve their lives.

I was enjoying the scenery as we drove toward the line shack. The sky was bright blue and moisture glistened on the oak tree leaves. I was thinking of how beautiful a full-color western would be that was filmed on such a day when I noticed what looked like a black, pointed carpet move into the treeline.

“What the hell is that?” I said pointing toward the area of my sighting.

Shuffles pulled off the road and parked. We both got out and walked toward the area.

“What did you see?” he asked.

“I’m not sure. It looked like a shadow.”

I went to the area where I saw the figure, pushed some of the brush aside and scanned the ground. There were boot prints in the soft dirt.

“They seem to be heading in this direction,” I said.

“There’s an old mine entrance up that way a bit,” Shuffles said. “We’ve used it for many scenes in movies and serials. It goes quite a way into the hill and it’s big enough to ride a couple of horses into, but not big enough inside to shoot cave interiors. We shoot the inside scenes at the studio.”

We hiked through the brush and slightly upward toward the mine. As I got closer, I pulled my Luger.

“Stay out here,” I told Shuffles. “I’m going in for a look around. If you hear any shooting, run for the truck and get help.”

I moved through the brush to keep under cover while coming up on the mine entrance from the side. I entered along the wall and was blind for a short time until my eyes became adjusted to the dark. As my vision cleared, there was enough reflected light from the entrance to see the large entry funnel down to a cave just big enough for men to enter single file. I could taste the dampness as I ventured farther into the hole.

There were periodic openings in the tunnel that would have been enough room for a picnic table in each. I struck a match and started past the second opening when everything went very, very dark.

Someone had stepped out from behind dark rocks and punched me on the side of the face. I fell forward and struggled to my knees only to see the shape of a boot coming at me. I don’t remember it hitting me.

I’m not sure how long I was out, but it couldn’t have been too long. When I regained consciousness, I was being dragged through the dark tunnel. Someone with a lot of strength had a good hold on my feet as my arms and head brought up the rear, painfully. I cushioned my dark journey as much as possible while feigning unconsciousness.

When my feet dropped to the ground, I realized I had arrived at whatever destination my persecutor found appropriate. The rock-lined room became fairly bright as he put a match to a lantern. The area was not more than 15 by 20 feet with a good nine feet of headroom. The lantern sat on a table surrounded by three wooden chairs. Cases of what looked to be explosives were stacked to one side of the room. And standing in the middle was a large shadow.

“You may get up and take a chair if you like,” the dark form said while pointing my Luger at me.

I sat down, put my elbow on the table and rubbed my neck.

“Nice gown,” I said.

The man was wearing a dark black Klan robe and head-cover.

“This modest attire allows me the freedom of attending meetings at the new Bund complex,” he said as he also pulled up a chair. “It seems that your accidental sighting of me has led you to discover my special passageway. This old mine links up with a natural limestone tunnel that goes all the way to our military caverns in the box canyon. Sadly, now that your friends are seriously considering an assault on our little village, I must seal off my route. You’ll enjoy the process.”

That didn’t sound good.

“I’ve been keeping track of you and your friends’ actions,” the man said. “And now that I know the camp will be attacked, I must report that information to Commandant Viper. That’s my job.”

“Have you reported to Kuhn and your buddies in gray?” I asked.

“No. I deal with the Viper. It’s up to him to give orders to that fool Kuhn and his gang of useful idiots.”

“So you’ve been watching them and us and reporting back to this commandant, grand wizard, whatever, on everybody,” I said.

“Viper,” he said.

“So how are you planning to phone your boss from here?”

He stood and walked over to the boxes of explosives. To the side was a metal container. He flipped a latch and one side of the container opened to show what looked to be a very extensive control panel topped with a filmless projector. He pulled a heavy cable out of the side of the panel and hauled it over to another box. When he opened it I saw the world’s largest truck battery, I think. He connected the cable.

The room filled with a humming sound and then the wall across from me began to glow. Slowly an image began to appear. It was the Viper in all his Klansman glory. Somehow this black-robed cave dweller had projected a television picture on the wall.

The Viper spoke.

“Hello, Raven. What have you to report?”

“The assault is eminent, Commandant Viper,” the black-robed man said into a microphone. “As planned, I will close off my secret entrance and lose my robe. I will be more valuable on the other side. I don’t know how Kuhn and company will fair, but they are going to be up against the full force of the G-men.”

“They may be in trouble,” the televised image said. “Our training facilities in Buffalo, Salem and Nashville were hit this morning. Not many of our soldiers escaped. Our imported fighter planes were also confiscated. We need to get as many people out of harm’s way as soon as possible so we can regroup and continue our political and social movement.”

“I’ll leave that to you. I have the explosives ready to blow this mine,” quote the Raven. “And I will give my friend here a close-up view of the destruction.”

“That’s nice of you,” the Viper said. “I’m sure Mr. Woods will enjoy that. How are you, Curly?”

I guess our images were being televised to heir Viper as well.

“Too bad you had to change jobs. Who would have thought that being a poverty-row flack would be a more dangerous life than that of a daily newspaper crime reporter? You just can’t catch a break, boy.”

Once again, that voice had a familiar ring to it. I just couldn’t place it.

“Fire in the hole,” the Viper calmly said as the screen went black.

The Raven, watching me like a hawk, placed his microphone on the table and then started backing toward the explosives again. He didn’t see my foot reach out to step on the bottom hem of his robe. He lost his balance just enough that I could sweep the microphone off the table and slam it into his gun hand. He fired, missing me by inches.

I leaped to my feet and punched at where his face should be. I heard a pretty good cracking sound as I believe I broke his jaw. He staggered backward and fell against the projector, knocking the power cable loose. As that end hit the ground, the large battery sent sparks off the cable and onto some wood shavings near the stacked boxes of ammunition. They burst into flame.

I yelled at the Raven. He struggled to come to his senses. I reached out to grab him and try to pull him away, but that just ripped his hood off revealing…

“Blackie! Get up!” I yelled.

I couldn’t believe it. Blackie was the Raven. I also couldn’t believe I had just broken the talented stuntman’s jaw with one punch. I’m better at this than I thought.

I saw the cases of explosives catch fire and I knew I only had seconds. Blackie struggled to one knee and then saw the fire. His eyes got big and he knew he was toast.

I grabbed my Luger and ran. It’s as if my senses had shut down as I could hear and feel nothing. In my mind, I was running so fast I don’t remember my feet touching the ground. It was black dark with a faint light in the distance. The light at the end of the tunnel was truly my goal. That light got larger and closer. And then it vanished as the light of the sun shined from behind me. The light seemed to get bigger and whiter before it engulfed me and I heard the roar of the explosion.

The pressure propelled me like a bullet through a gun barrel. I must have almost made it to the entrance before I went airborne and was blasted into the sunlight surrounded by a black powder cloud. I don’t remember hitting the ground.

I opened my eyes to see a big-jawed grinning idiot in a white cowboy hat.

“I ain’t never seen a man fly before,” Maynard said as he stood looking down at me. “Would you do that again, Curly, so I can try to figure out how you did it?”

“The old mine is all caved in, Mr. Maynard,” Shuffles said. “Is Mr. Woods all right?”

“That depends on your definition of ‘all right,’” Maynard said. “He’s gettin’ up, so I suppose he’s all right. Curly! How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Put that finger down,” I said noting that Maynard had a mean sense of humor.

“When you didn’t come back, I took off and got Mr. Maynard,” Shuffles said. “I thought you might need some help.”

“Anybody who can fly as well as Curly surely doesn’t need help,” Maynard said.

“Blackie’s dead,” I said.

“That can’t be. We were just working together on a scene no more than two hours ago,” Maynard said. “We were talking about the G-men and what they might be doing and how we want to be part of whatever the action is.”

I explained that Blackie was working both sides of the fence. I then gave them a quick rundown on what took place in the mine.

“We need to get back to the ranch and let Webber know what is happening,” I said. “He may have to move up the assault as the Viper is surely warning the enemy compound that their time is short.”

Shuffles and I rode back in the truck with Maynard and Tarzan taking a short cut through the rough.

CHAPTER 10. CAVALRY ASSAULT

When we got back, Webber’s men were saddled and ready for whatever came next. The barn areas were like wasp nests of activity. Shuffles put the truck away and Maynard and I reported to Webber.

He wasn’t surprised about Blackie.

“I knew there had to be at least another infiltrator in our troop,” he said. “Your Viper image is right about the other raids. We are rounding up these seditionists by the truckload. You will also be surprised by some of the recipients of the Sovereign Donors of America – especially a certain ambulance chaser you don’t really care for.”

There is a God.

“Anyway, we have to get started on taking out this anti-American compound now,” he exclaimed. “Obviously the Viper has warned them that we are coming. So our assault should be an interesting one. Come with me.”

We stepped outside and all of the G-men jumped to attention.

“Make sure you have your pistols and plenty of ammunition,” Webber yelled. “Be prepared to ride in 20 minutes. We are about to kick some fascist ass!”

We went back into the house and Webber gave me a couple of extra magazines for my Luger. Maynard got plenty of ammo for his two six-guns.

“You boys can tag along, but I don’t want you in the first wave of the attack,” Webber told us. “My troops are hand picked from specially trained forces in our U.S. Army. You just hang back and watch and learn.

“And, Curly,” he said. “Keep your eyes open for that view of the future of warfare.”

I went to the barn and saddled up Henry. By the time I rode back to the front of the house, Maynard, Tarzan and the special G-man force were mounted and ready to go.

“Let’s ride!” Webber yelled.

The troops moved into a two-man formation and started toward our destination with Maynard and me riding drag.

As we rode past Marty’s family ranch, I noticed the young man run out of the house even more excited than the last time.

Maynard waved and yelled to the boy, “Stay close to your house, Marty. There could be some lead flyin’ soon.”

“I will, Ken,” the youth said. “Good luck.”

When we got about a mile from the entrance to the box canyon, the troopers formed into one line, side by side. They then spread out to become almost a horseshoe shape covering a lot of area.

I thought this had to be a moment in history – an American cavalry charge against a regiment of Confederate soldiers in the San Fernando Valley in 1934. Who could have predicted that?

“Forward on line,” Weber ordered. Then he turned to us. “No one is going to come out of that box canyon.”

“But the boys in gray know we are coming,” Maynard said, “and they probably have all their heavy weapons, as well as their rifles and pistols, facing that entryway to ambush us.”

“That’s what I’m hoping,” Webber said with a grin. “This is where we teach them it isn’t 1864.

“Halt!” he yelled.

The horsemen stopped in their tracks.

“Now, gentlemen. If my watch is accurate, you should see something very interesting in about a minute.”

The G-men were ready to charge. And I’m sure the Viper’s troops were ready to mow them down at the box canyon entry point. Maynard and I were tense but ready for anything. A blanket of silence covered the land. No owl, hawk or coyote sounds were made. Nature was preparing for this war as well.

Then I heard something new – a chopping sound as if a giant chef were mincing an onion to put in a Valley-sized stew. Maynard and I scanned the hillside for a clue as to the source of the incoming sound effect.

The G-men remained stoic as Maynard and I stared in amazement at the formation of flying machines coming over the hills. Six autogyros flying in unison came over the hillside and down into the box canyon. They had airplane-like mono-wings tipping up on the ends and elongated rear tails. They flew like a formation of fighter planes and then they stopped in midair.

The chopping sound came from large, overhead propellers that gave the machines the ability of vertical flight, like a freewheeling elevator. I had never seen anything like them.

The front two autogyros peeled off for a diving assault on the troops stationed along the canyon entry. A small bubble with an adjustable machine gun was visible on the front, bottom of the crafts. Both guns raked the surprised gray-clad troops, shredding the ground around them. Smaller-caliber machine guns blasted from the ends of the wings. The area exploded with screams and shots that were overborne by the sound of the flying machine guns.

I looked closer at the remaining four aircraft. I noticed three dark figures on each side of the planes. Maynard and I rode to higher ground to see the action as those four autogyros dropped down near the cavern entrance. Then I realized the dark figures were human. Six ropes dropped from each hovering plane and men then slid down those ropes to the ground. As they hit the former landing path in front of the cavern entrance, they quickly moved to cover and began firing into the opening in the hillside.

At that point I turned back to see Webber raise his right arm and yell, “Charge!”
Custer would have been proud. The G-men spurred their horses and with the sound of a brigade of banshees, they rode into the canyon firing their pistols on the tattered and confused enemy.

Maynard and I joined as the last G-man rode into the valley of gunsmoke. Shocked and confused confederates were running for their lives as mounted G-men charged after them. Bullets were flying everywhere as the rebs fired wildly, unable to aim as they ran. Some were wise enough to throw down their weapons and surrender. Others were shot down by the trained feds as they tried to escape.

Two Confederates ran up into the brush, evading the troopers. As if rounding up strays, Maynard pulled Tarzan into their direction while grabbing his saddle rope. The troops were scrambling up an incline when a perfect-sized loop flew over them and was yanked tight by the talented rodeo and screen cowboy. Both of the men tumbled backward down the slope, tied by Maynard’s skill with a lasso.

A third reb came running in my direction. He saw me and started firing his handgun. I heard the whistle of one bullet near my left ear. Henry jumped forward and I rode directly at the shooter. His pistol must have clicked empty as he turned and ran in the other direction, not quite as fast as Henry. I jumped from my horse, knocking the man to the ground. We rolled a couple of times and I popped him on the side of the head with my fist. We both regained our balance and he swung a hard right cross. I stepped back just enough for him to miss and nailed him in the gut with my right followed by a left to just behind his ear. He stumbled back, tripping over a downed branch. The reb seemed to lose all fight as he looked up at me from the ground while gasping for breath.

I got him to his feet to join Maynard’s two prisoners and we rode into the canyon with all three following closely behind Tarzan, fit to be tied, literally.

The gunfire dimmed to an occasional shot and then silence.

Webber coordinated the roundup of the surviving Confederates who had surrendered. The G-men staged an area to put the prisoners, where they were searched and placed on their knees; their hands tied behind them with leather straps. Another area was designated to triage the wounded, our guys first. We had only seven wounded G-men and no casualties. The Confederates were not so lucky.

I counted 35 wounded enemy troops and there had to be a good 75 killed. Bodies were stacked close to the triage center for security purposes.

Maynard and I rode with Webber through the mock city and training course. Some of the enemy had made it that far from the entrance before they were taken out by the sky troopers who had dropped from the autogyros.

We dismounted and entered the cavern, keeping our handguns ready. A few gray-clad bodies were still taking up space where they dropped. I saw one of them move slightly.

“That one isn’t dead yet,” I yelled.

Maynard put his boot on the enemy soldier’s back and placed his pistol to his head.

“Move again and you die,” he said.

I quickly searched the man and removed a knife from his belt. His rifle had landed far enough away from him that he couldn’t reach it if he tried. We flipped him over and he had an entry wound in his chest. It foamed red and white as a mixture of air and blood bubbled out.

“Are there any more of your soldiers in this cave?” I asked him.

He couldn’t speak. He moved his hand slowly to point toward the tunnel that goes further into the rock. His hand went still. His eyes seemed to focus on mine and then they looked deeper at something beyond. In the metamorphosis of living human to corpse it seemed, maybe only in my mind, that his face turned gray.
Silently, Maynard and I stepped away from the newly departed. We joined Webber and two of his black-uniformed sky troopers, our weapons in our hands, to go deeper into the cave of death.

We walked along until we came to the wooden door that had led to Dr. Wolf’s torture lab. Webber sent the two special force troops to recon that tunnel while the three of us continued toward the auditorium chamber.

The theater was empty. Chairs were set up in anticipation of the Viper’s next command presentation. The television equipment was of special interest to Webber.

“We can use this,” he said. “It’s German, obviously. I’m told that in Germany, low-cost television receiver units are being built that can be put in people’s homes. That government is within a year of broadcasting entertainment, sports events and propaganda via television signals directly into middle-class homes. It’s quite a technological achievement.”

“Your hovering aircraft are a bit of an achievement as well, Jim,” I said.

“That’s what I meant when I said a glimpse into the future,” he said. “What you have just witnessed was what I call an air assault. We can hit ground troops quickly from where they least expect it. They fly like airplanes and stop, hover and land on a dime. Our troops can jump out from a low level or come down by ropes.

“And, in this case, we were able to use current and past wartime technology to defeat our enemy.”

“Yea. A cavalry charge from one side and a Buck Rogers space attack from the other,” Maynard said. “Those rebs didn’t know which way to run.”

“When this is all done, I can write my own ticket to any major newspaper in the country with this exclusive,” I said, counting my chickens…

“That’s not going to happen this time,” Webber said. “The only news the federal government is going to release is about a few special training missions we have held. No one is going to know about any German-Klansmen, coalition, seditionist organizations, Death Wing fighter planes or autogyro air assaults. National security and all that, you know.”

I was devastated, sort of. No two-bit average editor would have believed the story anyway.

“So where do we go from here?” I asked.

“My boys will finish up here,” Webber said. “In two weeks this canyon will be returned to its natural look. No one will even be able to guess there were human-made amenities in the area.”

“What about the Viper? Do we know who or where he is?”

Webber pulled a cigar out of his pocket and lit it with a match.

“I’ll make a bet he is in the Los Angeles area,” he said. “This television equipment is designed to pick up a broadcast from less than 50 miles. And unless there is booster equipment established on one of these hilltops, I’d say Mr. Viper is probably broadcasting from somewhere within that radius. That means one of the slimy SOBs on the list we received from Thelma Todd probably has an office we should personally visit.”

The autogyros loaded up equipment to haul away while the G-men commandeered the Klan’s Ford Model Bs to haul prisoners. Other trucks and ambulances were arriving as we prepared to leave. Webber made sure everything was on schedule and then he, Maynard and I gathered our mounts and rode back to the Mascot base camp.

“I have my guess as to within whose office we will find the television broadcast equipment,” Webber said.

CHAPTER 11. THE VIPER’S LAIR

We arrived at the ranch just in time for supper. Actors, stuntmen and crew were lining up by the front porch. A small group of G-men Webber had left to hold down the fort joined the dining group. Bud, Shuffles and Toosie were slopping the trays as they moved through the line.

“Great timing,” Maynard said. “I’m starved.”

We grabbed trays and waited our turn. My eyes were on that brazen Toosie while canned peas, canned peaches and creamed, chipped beef on toast were ladled onto my tray. She seemed especially happy to see me, I mean, us.

Some folks found room to eat at either one of the two picnic tables next to the house. Others sat along the wooden porch with their trays in their laps. A few went inside.

Webber joined his men to update them on the situation and, I believe, give them instructions for the next move. When he finished, he went inside to make a few calls.

When everybody had been served, Toosie filled her tray and came over to sit beside me.

“I heard a few of the comments in line,” she said. “That had to be quite an exciting adventure.”

“It was,” I said. “But nothing really happened. National security, you know.”

“We’re just about complete with Mystery Mountain shooting,” she said. “Second units are filming a few last-minute fights, stunts and chase scenes, but Ken is almost done with his part of the picture.”

That’s great, I thought. Now I could write a couple of fluff features on how great the serial is and how amazing Maynard is in the part.

“Maybe I could do an interview with a spectacular stuntwoman as an article to release to the movie mags,” I said.

Toosie smiled, “That can be arranged.”

As things were warming up, Webber threw ice water on my thoughts.

“You and I are meeting an armed contingent of government agents at the downtown office of one sleazy attorney,” he said.

“Marsh?” I said with my fingers and toes crossed.

“Yep, the anti-American seditionist crowd’s favorite mouthpiece.”

As I stood up to leave, Toosie and I touched hands. I then realized I needed to think about Nazis, Dr. Wolf, bat creatures, baseball or anything other than her. Otherwise I might embarrass the horses.

Maynard stayed at the ranch to grin through a couple of final close-ups and overdub some lines where the sound hadn’t turned out well.

I joined Webber and three of his G-men in one of the Ford Model B station wagons on our trip into town. We pulled up about a block west of the Pantages Theatre where Steven Marsh’s law firm is located on the third floor of a recently built office building.

“Attorney Marsh has just been removed from the ballot,” Webber said. “If he tells us everything he knows about the enemy, he will still lose his license to practice law and will do time. If he doesn’t tell us what we need to know, we will put him somewhere he will never be able to leave.”

Although it doesn’t always seem that way, justice does exist.

We entered the lobby of the office building, which seemed to be littered with Marsh for Congress posters, signs and leaflets. There was also a poster depicting folk-singer Jasper Kalm strumming his guitar from a moving freight car. I had a feeling his career had just peaked before it began.

Several G-men were waiting for us. We used the stairs to the third floor offices of the ambulance-chasing firm. That reception area also looked like campaign headquarters for the Nazi candidate. Webber walked up to the front desk girl and asked which office was Marsh’s.

“That’s Mr. Marsh’s office,” she pointed, “but he is not in at the moment. May I help you?”

Webber flashed his badge and we all went through the door.

“Hey!” the girl said. “You can’t…”

“Bill,” Webber said to an agent. “Go back and settle her down while we search the office. Let her know why we are here and find out if she knows where her soon-to-be ex-boss is at the moment.”

The office seemed clean and lacking of evidence.

“Hey, Bill,” Webber yelled through the door. “Get the little lady’s help with finding all of Marsh’s files. I want the contents of all desks, file cabinets and trash cans in the offices brought to headquarters.

“It looks like Marsh knew it was time to take it on the lam,” he said.

“I feel sorry for the lamb,” I said.

I was admiring marsh’s oak law bookcase. It was an excellent example of cabinet making. As I looked at the bottom shelf, I noticed scrapes on the hardwood floor.

“Jim, I think this bookcase may be more than it seems,” I said.

We all tried to move the woodwork. We pulled the law books individually and twisted everything that could possibly be a lever. Then I noticed the cast-iron bookend in the shape of a coiled snake – a viper.

I lifted the bookend and the whole bookcase quietly slid open exposing a concealed room. We walked in to see television broadcasting equipment and a dark backdrop where the Viper stands to deliver his televised orders.

We had the equipment; now we needed to find Marsh.

Agents were scouring all of the firm’s offices as we left.

“Well, it’s been fun, Curly,” Webber said. “But now I go back to tracking these saboteurs and you need to get back to your PR work. We’ll drop you off wherever you like.”

I wasn’t too happy that we weren’t able to nab Marsh. I wanted to get in his face see him cuffed and I wanted proof that he was the Viper. Webber told me his agents had come up snake eyes on searching the attorney’s home in Malibu. But sooner or later, he will surface and G-men will be there.

Webber dropped me off at the studio house where I cleaned up and called the ranch. Maynard was still there.

“How’d the final scenes go?” I asked.

“Quick and easy,” he answered. “How were yours?”

I gave him a rundown on our trip to the attorney’s office.

“That’s too bad,” he said. “Does that mean the Viper may get clean away?”

“Maybe,” I said. “How about you and Toosie coming into town tonight? I’ll buy the beer and perhaps we can put our heads together and come up with a plan.”

“That sounds swell to me,” Maynard said. “And I’ll bet Toosie is up for a bit of nightlife as well.”

While I waited for them to drop by for our night on the town, I got out the typewriter and started work on a positive news article on the filming of Mystery Mountain. In other words, I was engaging in complete fiction.

A little more than an hour later I heard a knock at the door. I was looking forward to the evening, so I flicked off the light expecting to leave immediately with my two friends. I opened the door and looked into darkness. I squinted and leaned forward and that’s when the sap struck the back of my neck.

I fell to the porch and struggled to understand what was happening to me. Then a boot hit my ribs and another the side of my head.

That put me out of reality and into a place that seemed less painful. I remember being in the Lincoln, Douglas debates. I was Lincoln and Flip the Frog was portraying Douglas. Whatever I said, the audience didn’t care for. But whatever Flip said brought the audience to its feet to cheer.

Toosie was there too, except she looked like a blond Betty Boop. She stepped up on the stage and called for a brief intermission where she read a radio commercial for Carter’s Little Liver Pills. She looked at me, handed me a pill and said, “Take this and fight!”

My eyes opened and I was sitting in a chair in a dark room. I tried to get up but I couldn’t move. My hands were tied to the chair behind me and my legs were tied together and also roped to the chair.

The voice came from behind me with a soft menacing tone.

“I understand you are looking for an attorney,” the Viper said with his most malevolent voice. “Well, seek and you will find.”

My vision adjusted to the darkness and I was looking directly into the face of the slimy Steven Marsh. He was leaning back in a chair at a business desk in front of me – except there was something wrong. His eyes were wide, his mouth was open and there was a bullet hole in his forehead.

“Such a shame,” the Viper said as he walked around from behind me to stand next to Marsh’s corpse. He was wearing his white-hooded Klansman robe and holding a revolver. “It’s very hard to find a good attorney when you need one. Of course the term ‘good attorney’ is a bit of a stretch. I relished how Marsh would literally salivate whenever I handed him his 30 pieces of silver. He always seemed to enjoy adding up his time on the clock and, now, it looks as if his time has run out and he has been paid in full.

“I’m aware you were under the impression that the late Mr. Marsh was Commandant Viper,” he said. “You should have thought a little more about it. Lawyers are bought. They fight long and hard to keep filth from having to pay for their crimes, just as long as fees are paid. A cabinetmaker builds a bookcase and sells it. An attorney holds up his ethics, his beliefs if he has any, and his sense of right and wrong and says, ‘Buy me! I’m cheap!’ Those are the products lawyers sell, like whores. Can a whore be a leader? Certainly not. The same with an attorney.”

My senses seemed to be returning to me while the Viper, enamored of his own voice, droned on like a radio preacher.

“But Marsh had his uses,” he said. “I bought him; I owned him. And now, as far as anyone else is concerned, you killed him – with this gun. You’ll be cheered as an American hero by the federal government – for killing the Viper. This robe will be next to him along with a signed letter you made him write admitting he was the leader of our movement. The plan is perfect.”

Yea, perfect. But what’s the catch? I thought. Obviously the Viper had listened to too many radio villains who had to explain themselves to their victims.

“Oh, did I mention the fact that when they find Mr. Marsh they will find your body as well? You will have been killed by one of the Viper’s soldiers who will just happen to escape before the authorities arrive. Isn’t that clever?”

While the madman rambled, I tried to discern where we were. From the night view out the window behind the crazy Klansman I could tell I was on at least the second floor of an older home. If I could just break loose, I might live through dropping two floors to a lawn – if the home had a lawn.

Fear flowed through my veins as his eyes widened and his voice began to shake.

“I could have completed my plan,” he said as he aimed the pistol at my forehead, “if it weren’t for you and that tinhorn movie cowboy.”

“Tinhorn!” I heard Maynard yell behind me.

The Viper looked up over my head as gunfire blasted past my ears. I kicked out and dropped with the chair onto my side. I felt the wood break on the chair’s backrest and that set me to kicking more, twisting and trying to get out of the path of bullets. I broke free from the backrest and that loosened the ropes on my hands enough that I was able to release myself and pull my carcass behind a sofa. There I untied my feet and glanced out to see what was happening.

Maynard, who was still firing from outside the door, had hit the Viper in the shoulder knocking him down behind Marsh’s desk where he was firing back. I looked around for a weapon of any kind. I grabbed a piece of the wooden chair I had just destroyed.

While Maynard kept the robed maniac busy trading bullets, I crawled toward the other side of the desk. There I could see past Marsh to the Viper’s firing stance. I raised the chunk of wood and moved forward bringing it down hard on the Viper’s unwounded shoulder. His gun dropped to the floor and I jumped on top of him.

He struggled a bit but one shoulder had a bullet hole through it and the other was out of socket where my thumb delivered a painful message to him to hold still. By this time, I had discovered the Viper’s identity.

CHAPTER 12. REAL WESTERN VALUES

“Holy horse manure,” Maynard exclaimed as he discovered the attorney’s corpse. “Marsh is dead. Then who is the Viper?”

“Come closer, Ken,” I said. “Take a whiff of Commandant Viper’s essence.”

“Oh, no! It can’t be!”

The unmistakable smell of reefer wafted thick, betraying the identity of the Viper.

I yanked off his Klansman hood revealing Jack Brown, better known as Red Eye.

*

Webber and his boys began the cleanup process. And although Red Eye certainly had more ability to communicate than I had ever suspected, the only sounds out of him as the G-men packed him up for transport to who knows where were, “What the flippin’ ding dang? Whassat?” and like that. But I’m sure they will get more out of him given time.

“How in the world did you find where he had taken me?” I asked Maynard.

“Simple,” he said. “Toosie and I were just about to the studio house when we saw a man dragging a body to his car. It was dark and we couldn’t tell who it was but decided the best thing we could do was to follow.

“I was driving the Duesenberg, so I had to hang back quite a ways; but we stayed with him. When he pulled into this old two-story house, I turned and took Toosie back to a payphone we passed earlier. I told her to call Big Jim and let him know where to show up.”

“By the time Jim’s boys picked me up and arrived here, you and Ken had everything under control,” Toosie said.

“Yea,” Maynard said. “I was hopin’ the galoot would have lectured you long enough for help to get here, but I couldn’t let him shoot you. And, he called me a tinhorn!”

“Whatever set you in motion,” I said, “thanks for jumping in there. And thank you, Toosie.”

She winked, in her too-cute fashion.

“Good work, boys,” Webber said. “We’ll take good care of Commandant Viper. I guarantee, a little time drying out under a hot light will bring any information we do not have out of him.

“Red Eye was running the show. Apparently he was an old, fascist ideologue who used everyone around him. He probably started out as a Klansman. His lame sidekick persona gave him a back-stage pass to your movie ranch operations. In fact, I’ll bet he is the one who scouted the box canyon and found it ideal for his saboteurs’ compound.”

“And his collaboration with the mob was only to use their efforts to further his,” Toosie said. “No one took him seriously because of his marijuana-smoking, loser image. I mean, I thought he couldn’t put five words together that made sense.”

“Well, I wouldn’t call that garbage he spewed as the Viper making sense,” Maynard said.

Somehow, Red Eye, Jack Brown, or whatever his real name is, must have been able to hook up with foreign agents who funded his operation, I thought. It certainly cost a pretty penny for all that military equipment, not to mention the purchase of a big-time attorney. “A lot of money must have been funneled to his efforts. Now it’s up to the G-men to shut off the spigot.”

Toosie, Maynard and I decided we should go ahead with our plans for a little celebrating at the Trocadero to blow off some steam. We called Gibson to see if he wanted to join us and hear about the arrest of the Viper. We arrived at the club at about the same time but, once again, I believed the Hooter must have already stopped off for a few drinks.

We were joined by a throng of upcoming Hollywood talent and a few stars who had seen their brightest nights and were on their ways to a darker future. Maynard showed us all why he would never really be a singing cowboy, but we applauded anyway. In true patriotic American fashion, we all laughed, sang, and exercised our freedom to drink a tad too much. Within a short time, the nightclub’s allegedly famous frozen banana daiquiri had been renamed the “Hooter.”

By the time Toosie and I left the Trocadero that night, Thelma Todd was arguing with Luciano about the future of her restaurant, Hoot Gibson was doing rope tricks and lassoing strangers, and Ken Maynard was holding Tyrone over his head and threatening to throw him through a window.

The Mystery Mountain serial was completed and the American way of life was still safe for trick-riding cowboys, western movies, stuntwomen and studio flacks. Justice prevailed and life was good.

In the next couple of weeks I learned that Max Gorn and Ken Maynard had become good friends. Unfortunately, neither of them did well with Nat Levine. Mystery Mountain was their last work with Mascot. Levine replaced Maynard with an unknown hillbilly singer named Autry for his next thrill-packed serial, The Phantom Empire.

Hoot Gibson and Ken Maynard found work with other studios and continued to be great matinee cowboy heroes. Bud and Shuffles stayed with Mascot and kept the ranch up beautifully. Wrangler Mo left the movie business and was hired by the federal government, thanks to Big Jim Webber. You never know when the G-men may want to make another cavalry charge.

Nick Danby accepted a lucrative offer from the Trocadero to drive inebriated customers home. He has a way with drunks with big egos. I’m sure he also does well with tips.

Renaldo Sharp couldn’t stay out of the spotlight long. Last I heard he had recreated his image and got a part in a George Raft flicker as a gangster. I hope he does well.

As for Toosie, she and I have become pretty close friends. There is no such thing as being too cute, I always say. And anyone who said she was an amazing stuntwoman, was understating that fact. She can do things you couldn’t believe.

Fade to black