Brand of the Black Bat by G. Wayman Jones

Book Details

Brand of the Black Bat – District Attorney Anthony Quinn is blinded by the mugs of a vicious crime boss and his career is destroyed … until he is given a radical surgery that restores his sight. Posing as a permanently blinded man Quinn secretly becomes The Black Bat – Nemesis of Crime.

Quinn is rapidly surrounded by those he would come to trust most in his life, Silk the conman, Butch the muscle, and Carol who led him to the restoration of his sight. Together these four team up to bring justice wherever it is needed.

Doomed to darkness by a murder monger, the Black Bat makes darkness his weapon—and a Mysterious Avenger is born! The foul, ruthless rule of a Lord of Crime, striking terror to a city, calls for the daring and swift justice of Tony Quinn – The Black Bat.

Chapter I – Visit By Night
Chapter II – Searing Acid
Chapter III – Girl Of Mystery
Chapter IV – The Light Again
Chapter V – Voice On The Wire
Chapter VI – Brand Of The Black Bat
Chapter VII – The Test
Chapter VIII – Bank Robbery
Chapter IX – The Trap
Chapter X – New Recruits
Chapter XI – The Commissioner’s Visitor
Chapter XII – Night Battle
Chapter XIII – The Disappearing Truck
Chapter XIV – Butch Finds Trouble
Chapter XV – The Bat’s Dilemma
Chapter XVI – Three Prisoners
Chapter XVII – The Truck Double
Chapter XVIII – The Bat Takes A Ride
Chapter XIX – Master Of Crime
Chapter XX – The Bat Explains

Brand of the Black Bat has 25 illustrations.

G. Wayman Jones was a “house name” for Better Publications. It was used by eight different writers including Norman A. Daniels (1905-1995) who wrote Brand of the Black Bat. Daniels was a cornerstone of pulp fiction and was the originator of The Black Bat series.

Files:

1. GWJones-BrandOfTheBlackBat.epub

Excerpt: Brand of the Black Bat

Chapter I

Visit By Night

TONY QUINN stirred restlessly in his sleep as a man’s form moved silently across the room. The intruder was in a hurry, but he made not the slightest sound. Moonlight brought him into relief a moment, showing him to be about forty with a high, bald forehead, pointed, narrow nose and a small mouth. While there was nothing sinister or evil looking about him, he did exude one specific quality—that of being slippery.

He touched the sleeping man’s shoulder and shook him slightly. In a flash, Tony Quinn was awake. His brain oriented itself immediately and one hand darted beneath his pillow to come forth with a .38 automatic.

“Wait, sir,” the intruder whispered. “I’m doing you a great favor. Hear me out—please.”

“Go ahead,” Tony Quinn said softly. “Explain what you’re doing in the house of the District Attorney.”

“Are you the D.A.?” the intruder gasped. Then, without waiting for an answer, he went on. “That settles a lot of things. I’m not the only man in this house, sir. There’s another, searching the rooms, and he’s carrying a gun. Oh, I admit I came here to rob, but I don’t relish being made a part of murder, sir.”

“In the closet with you,” Quinn said quickly. “Close the door and make no sound. If you’re telling the truth, you won’t be sorry. If this should be a trick, I’ll riddle that closet door with slugs.”

The intruder seemed to float across the room, so little noise did he make. Quinn lay down again, shoved the gun beneath the covers and slowly released the safety. His mind was fully awake now. He even grinned a little.

Then, through slitted eyes, he saw his bedroom door open. A man’s chunky frame was silhouetted against the moonlight for a second. Lights flashed on. Quinn turned nervously, sat up and blinked. The man who had entered held a gun pointed straight at Quinn’s chest and he was not more than ten feet from the bed.

“Take it easy, D.A.,” the second intruder warned. Quinn studied him. He saw a short, pudgy man with a wide, cruel face and eyes that were narrowed tensely.

“All I want to do is talk,” the man said. “You’re alone in the house so I know I won’t be interrupted. Just don’t make any fast moves because I don’t want to kill you.”

“Now just a moment,” Tony Quinn said calmly. “Who are you and why did Oliver Snate send you here?”

The intruder grinned. “You guessed it. Smart— ain’t you? That’s right—Snate sent me. Never mind who I am. Now listen, today court was adjourned to give you time to produce a surprise witness against Snate. He’s on trial for intimidation and conspiracy. So far he’s way ahead, according to the way we look at it, but you said something about a witness and recordings of Snate’s voice. I came to make a deal.”

“Quinn never moved a muscle. “My life—against the recordings and the name of the witness—so you can murder said witness. Don’t bother to tell me— I know. The answer is—nothing doing.”

THE killer made a wry face. “You’re making it tough, D A. I got my orders—either the recordings and the witness’ name, or I put a slug in you where it’ll do the most good. Think it over—for five minutes. Don’t do anything rash because I’ve got the drop and I’m ready to shoot.”

Tony Quinn glanced at the closet door and wondered if this stealthy intruder who had warned him was no more than an agent of Snate’s also. Mentally he damned himself for being so cocksure. Police Commissioner Warner had wanted to provide a guard, but Quinn had laughed that off. Now he seemed to be in a spot with death as the only exit.

True, with the automatic concealed beneath the bed covers, Quinn had a trump card to play, but he shuddered as he thought of what his predicament might have been if he hadn’t been warned.

His finger tightened against the trigger of his gun. He looked squarely at the killer.

“I want this clearly established in my mind,” he said slowly. “Snate sent you here with orders to get the recordings I mentioned—and also the name of my witness. Unless I produce them, I die. Is that correct?”

“You heard me the first time,” the killer rasped. He was getting a bit jittery. A man in Quinn’s precarious position should be trembling, quaking under the threat of sudden death. Yet Quinn was as cool as though he were addressing a jury on an open and shut case. It wasn’t natural and the killer sensed that Quinn had something up his sleeve.

The killer licked his lips and primed himself for the murder. If he killed Quinn, Snate couldn’t complain. Maybe the witness wouldn’t dare come forward then—and the recordings might be in the house and easily found. The killer’s finger tightened on the trigger.

Quinn saw the gleam in the man’s eyes. He prepared to raise his own gun, still beneath the covers. It all depended upon who could shoot the fastest now. Then Quinn’s heart stopped beating a moment. The gun was caught in the covers—

At that moment, the closet door opened and a shoe came hurtling out, straight for the gunman. He turned his head, swept the gun toward the closet and fired once. Quinn’s automatic came free and the bang of his shot almost merged with that of the killer.

For a second or two, the thug stood perfectly still, gun still pointed at the closet. Then he gave a long sigh, his body sagged, hit the floor and rolled over into a heap. Quinn was out of the bed in a flash. On his way to the closet, he kicked the gun out of the thug’s hand.

The intruder who had warned him was holding onto a hook with one hand while blood streamed down his face. He attempted a grin, but it failed because he was on the verge of unconsciousness. Quinn seized him just as he was about to take a header to the floor. He carried the man to the bed, placed him on it and then secured towels from the bathroom. He hastily wiped the blood from the man’s face and saw that the bullet had inflicted only a scalp wound. Unless there was a concussion, the intruder would be on his feet within ten minutes.

QUINN poured raw brandy down the man’s throat and nodded in satisfaction when the eyelids fluttered. Quinn left him for a moment and examined the gunman. He was quite dead.

“You—you’re all right, sir?” the man on the bed asked. Quinn straightened up from his grim task, walked over to the bed and sat down.

“Thanks to you, I’m quite all right,” he said. “You have a scalp wound that doesn’t look serious. Can you talk now?”

“Yes, sir, I can talk all right, but there isn’t much to say. I—I entered your house with full intentions of robbing you. I—I have a police record and— well—I suppose it’s all up with me now.”

“Quinn poured another pony of brandy and helped the man prop himself up against the pillows. “Not by any means,” he said. “You saved my life. Your act of burglary is wiped out by your act of courage. You practically gave yourself up to warn me and then you deliberately brought down that killer’s bullets on yourself so I’d have a chance to shoot. Tell me more about yourself.”

“My name is Kirby—Norton Kirby. I—I’m known on the records as Silk Kirby. I’m a confidence man. Burglary is out of my line, but I was hungry and desperate. I opened your front door with a master key and got inside just in time to see this other man open a window and crawl in. I knew he wasn’t on the prowl and I figured he intended to murder you, sir. I reached you first—that’s all.”

Excerpt From: G. Wayman Jones. “Brand Of The Black Bat.”