Flanagan arrived at Miss Rich’s apartment building. People milled about. He didn’t

see a policeman yet, but he had no doubt one was on the way. What was his next

move?

He couldn’t stay where he was. Someone would see his getup and call the law on him.

He didn’t want to explain anything.

And there was a chance Westwood’s man had been hurt during all this. Should he

check to make sure?

And he didn’t know if Miss Rich had been taken alive, or left for dead in her

apartment.

He needed to find out in the narrow window he had before the police arrived.

Flanagan got out of his stolen car. He decided that it was best to go in the front door.

He didn’t have a lot of time for sneaking around.

He pushed through the small crowd. He ignored the comments on his costume as he

spotted stairs and elevator side by side. He went up the stairs as fast as he could to the

third floor.

He read the numbers on the doors as he searched for the right place. He paused when

he found a bullet riddled mess at the door he wanted.

“Miss Rich?,” he called out. He held his shield in front of him in case her guard was

still capable of shooting. “Miss Rich!”

He pushed the door out of the way and stepped inside the apartment. He shook his

head at the bullet holes in the walls, and furniture. He spotted blood on the tile

covering the floor and followed it into the kitchen. He paused when he found the

bodyguard lying on the floor.

Flanagan frowned as he knelt beside the man. He spotted blood on the man’s shirt.

He opened it and shook his head at the hole he saw. He might live if he was taken to

the hospital right away.

The police weren’t going to do that. It would take too long for them to mobilize in his

opinion. He had to do something now if he wanted to save the man’s life.

Then he could look for Miss Rich.

He found a hand towel and some tape. He packed the towel in the wound. He checked

the man’s back. He didn’t find an exit wound. He taped the towel in place, wrapping

the tape around the man’s torso as tight as he dared. That caused a cry, but he

couldn’t let that deter him.

He had to move forward.

Flanagan picked the man up and carried him out of the apartment. He took the

elevator down. He couldn’t jostle the bodyguard with a three story walk down steps.

The hole in his side might soak through towel and tape if he encouraged it.

Flanagan had to push the crowd out of his way so he could carry his burden to his

stolen car. He placed the man in the back seat, and got behind the wheel. He aimed

his car for the nearest hospital. Hopefully the doctors would be able to stop the

bleeding and save the guy.

He would have to call Westwood after he had dropped the bodyguard off. He needed

to know where Rydell and Courtland were so he could plan his next move. He had to

get Miss Rich back, and they weren’t going to stop him.

He pulled up into the driveway to the Emergency ward at the hospital. He glanced at

the sign so he knew where he was, but that was for calling Westwood after he had the

victim squared away.

He got out and waved one of the nurses over. He opened the backdoor and reached

in and pulled the bodyguard out of the car. He carried the victim into the building,

watching as one of the women on duty called for a doctor, and a gurney. An orderly

arrived a second later with a rolling bed. A few seconds later, the bodyguard was on

the way to an operating room.

Flanagan almost smiled under his mask. He put the feeling aside. Now he had to get

back to work.

He got back in the car as a nurse demanded his name. He looked at her for a moment.

Then he drove off.

He roamed the streets for minutes until he found a payphone. He had to call

Westwood’s office so he could tell them their man was at the hospital. He couldn’t

go home, and he couldn’t look for clues at Miss Rich’s. He needed information if he

wanted to find her.

He searched the car and found some change. He got out and walked to the phone

booth. He opened the door and dialed the private investigator’s number while he

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watched the street.

He had a distinctive appearance. The police at Miss Rich’s apartment would make the

connection if the hospital informed them about the shot man that had been dropped

off. He imagined a description of his purple suit and shield was being sent to every

radio car in Manhattan with the order to stop him.

He couldn’t afford that.

“Westwood Detective Agency,” said a voice after five rings. “Would you like to leave

a message?”

“Miss Rich has been kidnaped,” said Flanagan. “His man is at St. Luke’s. If he checks

in, tell him that I need to know if he tracked Rydell, or Courtland, home. Got it?”

“Who should I say is calling?,” asked the message taker.

“Tell him it’s Flanagan,” said the financier. “I’ll call back in a few hours to see if he

has checked in.”

“I got it,” said the voice. “As soon as Mr. Westwood calls, I will let him know.”

“Thanks,” said Flanagan. He hung up. Where did he go from here? He couldn’t drive

around in a stolen car all night. He couldn’t go home either.

The office or the factory would be places people would look for him to show his face.

He couldn’t do that while he was trying to figure out how to rescue Miss Rich. He

couldn’t go home until he was sure the cops had hauled away his earlier catch.

He needed to think about his next moves. He needed to get off the street. He needed

to know things. He decided to drive by his place. Maybe the police had already taken

his catch away.

He needed to rest for a minute and think about some way to get Miss Rich back. If he

could do that, he might be able to figure out where they had taken her.

He planned to hurt Rydell if something had happened to his secretary. He didn’t know

how much pain he was going to inflict. He decided to wait until he knew which way

the wind blew.

Then he would see how much the man liked having a broken leg for starters.

He pulled into the alley behind his townhouse. The front of the place had looked

quiet. He hoped that meant the police had come and gone. He used a key stored in his

armor on the back door. He stepped inside. He searched the place. His attackers had

been taken away. One of the policemen who had answered the call had left a card. He

put that in his armor’s pocket before he went to his phone.

He had to call the factory and let them know to keep an eye out for trouble. If he and

Miss Rich had been attacked, the factory might be the next target.

He went to his parlor and sat down in his favorite chair. How did he fix things?

He closed his eyes and thought. Links formed with the assumption that Rydell was

behind Courtland. The places they could safely hold Miss Rich narrowed to places

that Rydell owned in some way.

He discounted businesses and offices. He concentrated on places that he knew Rydell

used for pleasure. He didn’t have time to check them all. Miss Rich might be in

trouble while he thought. He needed a way to narrow it down more.

He decided to call Westwood’s office again. Maybe the detective had checked in and

was still there.

He needed to know if the agency had trailed Rydell and Courtland around.

Maybe the hounds had seen something that would help him.

“Westwood Detective Agency,” said Westwood. He sounded angry on the phone.

“It’s Flanagan,” said Flanagan. “I need to know where Rydell and Courtland went.”

“Courtland is in a hotel in lower midtown,” said Westwood. “Rydell is at his house

on Long Island.”

“Did Rydell stop anywhere on the way out to the Island?,” asked Flanagan. He had

been to Rydell’s mansion. It stood up close to a nice beach with a shape like a white

Monopoly hotel.

“Not that my man saw,” said Westwood. “He’s still out there according to the last

report I got.”

“Which hotel is Courtland in?,” asked Flanagan. “I have to ask him some questions.”

“St. Luke’s said some man in a costume brought my investigator in,” said Westwood.

“I’m sure it looked good,” said Flanagan. “Where is Courtland at?”

“It’s a place called the Aviary,” said Westwood.

“I need you to stay on Rydell,” said Flanagan. “I’m going to talk to Courtland. If

Rydell leaves his house, I need to know where he goes. If he has Miss Rich, I doubt

she will be at a business, or his house. He’ll probably have her somewhere close to

the house in case something goes wrong and he needs her.”

“He has two other properties close to his place on the Island,” said Westwood.

“They’re both rental houses.”

“Where are they?,” asked Flanagan. He memorized the addresses before he hung up.

He had a choice on what to do next. Maybe he should talk to Courtland before trying

to search houses that might have civilians in it.

He went out his back door and vaulted the fence to get to the alley beyond that. He

got behind the wheel of the stolen car and started it. He drove down the alley and out

on the street. He headed for the Aviary.

Flanagan turned over pieces in his mind as he drove south. He didn’t have a lot, but

he liked the challenge of thinking about the inside of the box.

If he was wrong about Courtland, he was going to have a problem with the rest of his

plans. If he was right, there might be something to link the face man to Rydell and the

both of them to Miss Rich.

And he wanted to be right in this above all others.

He parked beside the hotel, grimacing at the flashing sign on the roof of the place. He

got out and went to the fire escape on the side of the building. He used a dumpster to

get to the bottom rung of the ladder. Then he started up.

He climbed up to the second floor window. He let himself in. He crept down the stairs

to the lobby. He watched the desk man. When the employee stepped away from the

desk, he jogged over and looked at the register. He jogged back to the stairs and

hoped Courtland hadn’t switched his room.

He climbed up to the indicated room in the register. He knocked on the door. He put

a finger over the peephole. He didn’t want Courtland to take it in his head to run.

“Who is it?,” Courtland asked.

“Room service,” said Flanagan. “I have some extra towels for you.”

Courtland opened the door. He froze when he saw the purple menace on his doorstep.

He tried to swing the door shut. A fist to the face stopped him from doing that. He

staggered away from the door.

“Let’s talk,” said Flanagan. He stepped inside and shut the door.