The New Adventures of Lynn Lash Read online

  THE NEW ADVENTURES OF LYNN LASH

  A Pro Se Press Publication and a Volume of the Pulp Obscura imprint

  The stories in this publication are fictional. All of the characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing of the publisher.

  Lynn Lash is the creation of Lester Dent. No adaptations in any other media may be produced without the prior written permission of the Heirs of Norma Dent.

  Copyright © 2015 Pro Se Productions

  Lynn Lash created by Lester Dent

  Table of Contents

  THE MURDER MASTER

  By Andrew Salmon

  KILLERS FROM SPACE

  By Chuck Miller

  THE RIVER PIG

  By Jim Beard

  MYSTERY OF THE FLAMING MEN

  By Tim Lasiuta

  NO MAN’S LAND

  By R.P. Steeves

  THE PROMETHEUS EFFECT

  By Teel James Glenn

  About the Authors

  THE MURDER MASTER

  by Andrew Salmon

  CHAPTER ONE

  Slash

  Torrential rain pounded the deserted city streets as the jewelry store owner stepped from his shop. Suddenly the man's head snapped back viciously as he turned from locking up for the day. His body, no longer controlled by conscious thought, managed a half step, then sprawled in the puddle at its feet.

  A dribble of blood oozed out from a hole the diameter of a pencil in the man's forehead.

  Suddenly there was movement from the alley across the street. A hunchbacked man eased out from between two towering skyscrapers. Face concealed by the pulled down brim of a sodden fedora, the man made his way across the street, the hump beneath his black raincoat like a shiny cannonball.

  The figure stood over the dead shopkeeper. A low chuckle burbled from the lips concealed by his turned up collar. The concealed figure bent to remove a canvas bag full of precious stones from the breast pocket of the jeweller. This disappeared into the folds of the man's coat.

  Without so much as a backwards glance, the man made his way around the corner to be lost in the obscuring steel rods of the downpour.

  *****

  Twenty minutes later, the jangle of the telephone gave Rickey Dean a start. Her slim, boyish form jerked at the sound. She scowled at the offending instrument. The bell clanged again.

  When her boss, Lynn Lash, consulting expert for the police department, was secluded within his secret laboratory upstairs, Dean put word out to the force that he was unavailable. The result was a rare period of unprecedented quiet. Quiet during which Miss Dean caught up on her reading.

  The bell rattled a third time. Dean's eyes shot daggers at the telephone. With a sigh, she set aside her Romance rag.

  She picked up the handset. “He ain't here.”

  “Look, Rickey,” a tinny voice squawked into her ear. “It's Casey.”

  “Then you should know better. Goodbye.”

  Detective Captain Sam Casey's voice rose in pitch and a spattering of choice words not normally used when a lady was present colored his speech.

  Dean responded with a few carefully selected words of her own – words that would make a dock hand blush.

  “Talk to me that way, will ya,” she said to finish up her tirade, smiling as she tore into Casey.

  “I need Lash! Now!”

  “All right, all right,” Dean acquiesced. “Only it better be good or the boss will skin us both.”

  Her skinny, childlike fingers glided over the small switchboard on her desk. Circuits were switched and an electronic signal raced up fourteen floors on the private line to Lash's laboratory on the 20th floor of the Manhattan skyscraper.

  In the lab, Lynn Lash, his high forehead corrugated in concentration, manipulated forceps in his nimble, long-fingered hands as he guided a white, chalky tablet through a crimson sludge in a petrie dish. His even white teeth nibbled his upper lip as his grey eyes riveted on the experiment.

  There was a low hiss from the dish. The liquid fizzed a moment before turning clear.

  A minute later, a noncommittal grunt issued from between his thin lips. He lay the forceps aside and roughly pushed his chair away from the work table.

  Lash's long-armed, long-legged, gangling form straightened to its above average height. Irritated at the momentary absence of a problem to solve, he ripped off brown rubber gloves and yanked the cord of the grey smock sheathing his thin, athletic form, revealing a dark, expensively tailored dress suit underneath. Lash moved like a caged animal.

  The buzz of the interoffice line made him whip his head around expectantly. His long, energetic stride carried him to the telephone past glass- and marble-topped tables, wide cabinets stuffed with chemical vials and stands of scientific apparatuses.

  He threw himself into his deeply upholstered desk chair and eagerly snatched up the telephone handset.

  “This had better be important, Rickey.”

  “Danged if I know,” Dean replied. “But I'd rather Casey talked at you rather than me putting up with his lip.”

  There was a crackle over the line.

  “Yeah, it's important!” Casey bellowed, having overheard the exchange. “Someone just knocked the life out of Max Robeson.”

  “The city's biggest fence?” Lynn Lash asked.

  “The same.”

  Lash's tone took on a hint of disappointment. “Sounds like someone did this city a favor. You don't need me for this.”

  “Don't tell me what I need,” Casey countered. “And don't even think of hanging up that phone. There's more. It's not that Robeson is dead, it's how he died.”

  This piqued Lash's curiosity. Lynn Lash worked as a consulting scientific detective to the police force. In that capacity, he only worked on cases of a peculiar nature.

  “Go on.”

  “He was shot.”

  “Hardly out of the ordinary.”

  “Let me finish. No one heard a thing – and the body was found on a narrow avenue.”

  “Silencer,” Lash said, matter-of-factly, his attention wandering.

  “There would still be some noise.”

  Carrying the candlestick phone Lynn Lash strode to the west wall of his laboratory. The wall was glass, floor to ceiling, providing him with a panoramic view of Central Park. At least it would under clear conditions.

  Lash swiped one hand across the cold glass. A clear trail through the condensation on the window showed him the conditions outside. The rain lanced down.

  “No wonder you're without witnesses,” Lash explained. “That's some rain.”

  “I don't need you to tell me it's raining,” Casey bellowed. “I'm at a call box getting soaked through while you hem and haw about getting over here.”

  “Don't be like that, Sam,” Lash chided. “You know how I work.”

  “I know it. But I don't know if you know I know it. Would I call if this wasn't up your alley?”

  Lash had to concede the point. The lure of a mystery was irresistible. “Give me your location.”

  *****

  Lash cradled the receiver and turned from the picture window. Purposeful strides carried him to one of the towering cabinets. His probing hands found two large stout alligator bags. With these in his fists, he exited the laboratory, crossed a study bordered b
y bookshelves to a sumptuously furnished living room, the Oriental rug muffling his determined steps.

  A private elevator was his destination and he set one bag down in order to get at the key in his pocket. The car dropped him down to the sixth floor where he kept his office. One of the walnut-paneled walls slid noiselessly to one side when the car arrived.

  Lash stepped into the room. He waited to ensure that the panel concealing the private lift glided back into place, then headed for the reception area.

  Rickey Dean was waiting, one dainty foot tapping. She was dressed for the street, clutching a furled umbrella.

  “Who invited you along?” Lash wanted to know.

  Dean took one look at Lash's bare head, then snorted derisively.

  “In case you haven't noticed, it's raining cats and dogs.” She joined him as he headed for the door. Shoulder to shoulder she resembled a homeless waif next to Lash as they stepped out of the suite and into a waiting elevator. “And you don't have the brains to think of a hat at least.”

  The operator nodded at Lash and the car started down. “Miss Dean, I didn't know you cared.”

  “You catch your death and I'm out of a job!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Flash

  The rain thudded down with a machine gun rhythm on the roof of a long, sombre black roadster parked near the building entrance.

  Lash moved so quickly to the rear of the vehicle that Dean didn't bother trying to open the umbrella. The two bags fit snugly in the rumble and Lash was behind the wheel in a heartbeat. Dean piled in, the engine roared and the automobile shot away from the curb.

  It was a short drive to Robeson's Park Avenue jewelry store. As Lash pulled the roadster in, he spotted the medium-sized form of Sam Casey in the sparse crowd.

  From a distance, Detective Sam Casey resembled a college senior. It was only as one drew closer that one detected the hard metal in his gray eyes, the fine scars the job had etched into his otherwise youthful appearance and the thickened rims around his small ears. His trim form was currently sheathed in a sodden tan suit, his features partially obscured by a drooping, dripping fedora.

  Lash hopped out and Casey joined him at the rumble. Dean's heels clacked behind the tall investigator as she wrestled to get the umbrella open.

  Lash got the cases out and set them down on the soaked sidewalk. He was all business. “Let's get to it, Sam.”

  Casey eyed the umbrella in Dean’s tiny hands as rain water dripped from his hat brim. “Where were you a half hour ago?”

  “Ah, dry up,” Dean replied. The umbrella unfurled and she used it to keep herself and Lash dry.

  Lynn Lash was oblivious to the rain. He proceeded directly to the covered body of Robeson. Casey followed past a thin group of onlookers craning their necks.

  “We left him as we found him,” Casey explained. “I've got men canvassing the neighbors.”

  Lash grunted, then knelt by the head of the victim. A red stain through the soaked sheet guided his actions. Casey blocked the view of the gawkers as Lash drew the sheet back to expose the face of the corpse.

  Robeson lay on his back, his open, lifeless eyes fixed on the pewter sky. A small circular hole just off-center through his forehead indicated the cause of death.

  Lash bent to examine the wound. Turning quickly to the bag at his side, he removed small forceps, a magnifying glass and a miniature fluorescent tube of his own design, which he often used as a light source when he needed both hands and could not grip a flashlight.

  He probed the wound while the lens brought the red hole closer for his inspection, then used the light to confirm his findings.

  “Strange,” he admitted at last. “No powder burns. The wound is clean. And the tissue trauma does not reflect the passage of a bullet.” He turned the victim's head. “The exit wound looks to be only slightly larger. Let's see the slug.”

  “No can do.”

  Lash stood and looked down at the body.

  “I make Robeson for five six, half an inch either way.” He turned to the wall the body sprawled against.

  Casey shook his head and pointed at the impact point Lash sought on the wall. “We're not idiots, you know.”

  “No offense meant,” Lash said. “Just being thorough.”

  Casey relented. “Don't mind me. I'm soaked through and ready to tear a strip off anybody.”

  Lash probed the chipped mustard yellow brick. “Deep gouge. Too deep.”

  “Yeah. Looks like a high-calibre projectile but then the exit wound would be a lot bigger. And where's the splatter? We didn't find more than a teaspoon of brains and skull.”

  “Whatever killed this man went right through him – fast enough to knock a hole in the brick behind him. You're sure there's no round?”

  “None we could find.”

  The piercing gaze of Lynn Lash darted over the brick chips at the base of the rain slicked wall, the narrow streams of blood and water snaking toward the gutter.

  “A high-velocity round that doesn't leave a typical exit wound and disintegrates on impact. No, strike that last bit. This looks like an invisible round as there are no fragments even – and that's impossible.”

  “I told you this one was screwy,” Casey added as Lash returned the glass and forceps to his bag.

  Lash considered for a moment. “We'll need motive to shed light on this one.”

  “Any one of a hundred guys could have rubbed out Robeson. It would be simpler to look into citizens who didn't have a motive.”

  “We've got to start somewhere,” Lash countered.

  “Yeah, let the boss work, for cripes sake," Dean added. "You hauled us out into this waterfall.”

  Lash examined Robeson's pockets. Handkerchief, wallet, chewing gum, a notepad with figures in ragged columns, comb, reading glasses... these he handed to Casey one by one. Lash fingered Robeson's soggy hat lying nearby.

  There was a business card tucked into the band.

  “Sisu Steam Rooms and Baths,” he read.

  “That's one of them floating palace jobs on the Hudson.”

  “Battery Park,” Lash read on. “Didn't Chaney take it over after pushing that Finnish outfit aside?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Casey replied, searching his memory. “The Koivu mob. Scattered them like buckshot. They vowed revenge. But the Finns have been quiet so far as I know, licking their wounds. Mob unit has them concentrating on real estate grabs. Maybe that's changed.”

  “Why don't we find Chaney and ask him?”

  “He keeps an office at the bathhouse,” Casey explained. “It's one of his few legit operations, makes a good show when he needs to be respectable.”

  While they'd been talking the rain had stopped. Dean furled the umbrella - after shaking the excess water off, which just happened to go in Casey's direction.

  Casey spluttered, “Why you - ”

  “Easy fella,” Lash soothed. “You are riled.”

  “Yeah,” Dean added insult to injury as she lit up a slim cigar. “Lighten up, you'll live longer.”

  Casey's bloodshot eyes shot daggers at Dean, but he spoke to Lash.

  “We'll take my heap,” Casey directed. “You're on the police payroll starting now. It's official business from here on in.”

  “Fair enough.” Lash turned to Dean. “Rickey, you make a note of anything Casey's men turn up here, then type it up back at the office. I'll meet you there later.”

  “Why should you guys have all the fun?”

  “Walking into the lair of one of the biggest crime bosses in this burg is not what I'd call fun,” Lash related. “And we'll need you to sound the charge if we don't walk back out in an hour.”

  Genuine worry crept into Dean's eyes but she concealed it behind a balustrade of bravado. “Ah, go peddle your papers! You live for this stuff!”

  She stormed off toward Lash's auto.

  On the way to Casey's coupe, the gruff policemen asked Lash, “So what do you think this Robeson mug was shot with?”

&nbs
p; “It's only speculation at this point that he was shot at all.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Clash

  Casey sent the coupe roaring away from the crime scene. With the weather clearing, it seemed everyone in the city had hopped into their machines and traffic snarled. He braked hard behind a car stalled at a light and gave the horn a workout. The driver of the offending vehicle took the hint, pumped pedals and the car jutted through just as the light turned red. Casey batted the wheel in frustration.

  “You are bent out of shape,” Lash observed.

  “This job ain't no picnic!”

  The light changed and Casey stood on the gas. The coupe roared through the intersection. Both men lapsed into grim-faced silence as Casey navigated the labyrinthine city streets .

  Battery Park occupied the southernmost tip of Manhattan and consisted of walking paths amongst dense trees. The ferry terminal on the left was one hub of activity as Casey guided the coupe to a stop at the park entrance. The bathhouse, at the opposite end of the park, was the other.

  Here stood the palatial Sisu bathhouse. The sun briefly breached the leaden overcast as Lash and Casey navigated through the idling pedestrians toward the impressive building. Built both on land and sea the massive glass and concrete structure resembled a fabled palace of old. A soaring glazed roof comprised of 100,000 glass panes enclosed the sumptuous sprawl.

  The two men entered and the tang of salt water immediately reached their nostrils. Seven massive pools, more than 500 changing rooms, an ice rink, galleries, greenhouses, restaurants, and a history museum boasting treasures from antiquity made up the cavernous interior.

  Casey flashed his buzzer while stating their intention to see Beckett Chaney and an attendant placed a call. The two men were made to wait and stood to one side to avoid the throngs passing each other in and out of the place.

  “Gentlemen,” a high, thin voice cut across the din. It belonged to a wasp-waisted, ferret-faced man of average height and slim build. His grey suit was worn to sartorial perfection and he carried a cane. This last appeared to be more an affectation than a necessity. His prominent cheek bones, high forehead and keen ice blue eyes bespoke a Scandinavian heritage. The man extended a hand as flat as a shovel blade. “Hamill Koivu, a pleasure.”