The New Adventures of Foster Fade, The Crime Spectacularist Read online

  THE NEW ADVENTURES OF FOSTER FADE, THE CRIME SPECTACULARIST

  Copyright © 2013 Pro Se Productions

  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.

  Foster Fade the Crime Spectacularist 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.

  “Dead Men’s Guns” & “The Black Rock Conspiracy” copyright © 2013 Adam Lance Garcia

  “The Cider King Murder” copyright © 2013 Derrick Ferguson

  “Voodoo Death” copyright © 2013 Aubrey Stephens

  “The Pied Piper of Harlem” copyright © 2013 David White

  “Grudge Match” copyright © 2013 H. David Blalock

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  DEAD MEN’S GUNS

  by Adam Lance Garcia

  THE CIDER KING MURDER

  by Derrick Ferguson

  VOODOO DEATH

  by Aubrey Stephens

  THE PIED PIPER OF HARLEM

  by David White

  GRUDGE MATCH

  by H. David Blalock

  THE BLACK ROCK CONSPIRACY

  by Adam Lance Garcia

  FOSTER FADE’S BULLPEN

  About the Authors

  DEAD MEN’S GUNS

  by Adam Lance Garcia

  Chapter 1

  THE BARREL OF A GUN

  The murder weapon arrived in the post two days before they found the body. Innocuously addressed to The Crime Spectacularist, 40th Floor, Planet Tower, the weapon had been packed in a box filled with yellowed copies of the Planet, pages dating back long before the first Foster Fade column. A .45 Colt—the sort one associated with the Old West—the murder weapon had only a faint gunfire residue, but was otherwise clean, giving little evidence. The serial number had been filed off and the inside of the barrel drilled out. It wasn’t uncommon for the tabloid to get mail on Fade’s behalf; with such wide circulation Fade had made a number of admirers and critics, but until now, no one had mailed him a gun, let alone one used in a murder.

  The victim, a gangster named Brandon McMillan, was discovered in an alleyway in Red Hook, a single bullet wound to the back of the head, execution style. His body had been unceremoniously buried beneath a pile of trash, and would have remained there had the hot summer sun not done its job to ensure the stench of decay filled a full city block.

  Another gun arrived a week later, a Colt Super .38, its serial number filed off and the barrel drilled out. Wrapped like a birthday present in three year old copies of the Planet, the gun came complete with a typewritten note listing the number “2” as well as the gun’s make and model. The body—another execution style killing later identified as local Mafioso Michael Capitelli—was located a few days later in SoHo, propped up against the wall as if he had been taking a drunken nap.

  Three weeks passed before the third gun arrived, once again packed with yellowed copies of the Planet. A Mauser Model 1934 Pocket Pistol, .32 ACP. The gun, like the previous two, had its serial number filed off and the barrel drilled out. The handle had been worn down smooth from overuse and had a significant amount of gunfire residue. The note inserted was similar to the previous, the number “3,” the gun’s make and model, but this one came complete with a quote from one of the earliest articles on Fade: “Fade swears to hunt crime, in all it’s forms, until the City that Never Sleeps can at last rest easy.”

  And an address.

  Fade rubbed his chin as he gazed at the guns lined up in the center of his desk, unable to ignore the small pit that had formed inside his stomach. Though the third body was yet to be found, all evidence was pointing to a psychopath, the first of Fade’s career. Taking out goons and thugs for the sake of circulation was one thing, but men who were driven to kill by their very nature were another matter entirely.

  “I know you’re not the most popular person in the underworld but, even I think this is a bit much,” said Din Stevens, Fade’s ghostwriter. She was seated on the plush modernist couch on the other side of the office, a curl of platinum blonde hair falling over her eyes. Her lips were coated in a fiery red, off-setting her pale skin.

  “Popularity takes all forms, my dear,” Fade commented. “Sometimes even scary forms.”

  “Here’s to keeping my name out of print,” she said, lighting a cigarette.

  “I hate to break it to you, but it’s not that much of a secret that you’re my ghostwriter.”

  “They know I’m a blonde, so I’m going brunette.”

  Fade smiled wanly. “Not sure that’ll work for you, dearest.”

  “My hair, my rules.” She took a long drag of her cigarette. “When do you think our next body is going to show up?” she asked, smoke pillaring out of her mouth.

  A buzzer sounded from Fade's office door. Sliding aside a small hatch on his desk, Fade peered into the end of an intricate periscope. Looking out into the hall he found Captain Evan Stern standing outside the door. Fade frowned and placed a small box over the guns. “A few minutes ago. You might want to start taking notes,” he said with an off-handed gesture to Din as he walked over to the door. “Our circulation is about to jump another thousand.”

  Din shimmied her platinum eyebrows as she silently reached over to the side table and grabbed her notepad and pen.

  Fade opened the door and Captain Stern walked in. Even though he stood well over five feet tall, Stern seemed minuscule compared to Fade’s near seven feet. He kept his cap low to obscure the wine stain birthmark that covered the left side of his face. A thick walrus mustache hung over his lips; shifting and bristling like a hairy caterpillar.

  “Mr. Fade,” he said, smartly extending his hand.

  “Captain Stern,” Fade said, ignoring Stern’s hand and placing his own in his pockets. His relationship with the police was cool at best. New York’s finest didn’t much care for the idea of a newspaper employing a gadget man to act as gumshoe, and thus treated Fade like a second-class citizen. Fade knew he ought to turn the other cheek and be the bigger man, but then again at his height he already was. “Where was the body found?”

  The officer blanched. “I would be of the mind to ask you how you knew that, but—”

  “But they do call me the Crime Spectacularist,” Fade cut in with a grin.

  “Not even a real word,” the officer grumbled under his breath before saying, “Our victim was another gangster name of Kevin Howard, one of Pete Barry’s boys. Found him slumped beneath a fire escape in Harlem right off—”

  “Right off Eighth and One-Forty-One, no?” Fade finished for him.

  The white of Stern’s face began to match red of his birthmark. “How in the holy hell do you know that, Fade?”

  “Which leads us to why I called you here,” Fade said triumphantly. He spun around and moved behind his desk. He drummed his fingers against the sides of the box. “When we spoke on the phone yesterday I told you there was going to be a third body found. You seemed pretty perturbed by the suggestion and called me some choice words, many of which aren’t repeatabl
e in mixed company, and two of which I don’t think were English. But here you are.”

  “Cut the dramatics and get to the point, Fade,” Din sighed. “Gubb hates it when you go purple.”

  Fade cleared his throat and revealed the three guns with little flourish. “Voilà!”

  Stern pointed to the guns while his mouth worked for a response. “What the hell are those?”

  Fade looked at the weapons with a frown. “Guns. At least that’s what they look like. I can never tell.”

  “A .45 Colt, a Colt Super .38, and a Pocket Pistol, .32 ACP? These calibers match—”

  “Match the ones used in your three murders, yes,” Fade said condescendingly. “Do you have any other major revelations you’d like to throw at us?”

  “Why the hell do you have these?”

  “Well, they were mailed to me. I have strange fans.”

  Stern let out a slow, steaming breath. “Now tell me why I shouldn’t arrest you for withholding evidence?”

  “Besides the fact that I’m too pretty for prison? Because up until the moment you walked through the door I had no real way of knowing for certain that any of these had been used in a murder.” He scratched his cheek. “Though I’m not sure what else you’d use guns for… Hunting deer?”

  “Fade—!”

  Fade slid over the typewritten address that had come packed with the third gun: 214 West 140th Street.

  “It’s almost like I have a third eye for—What the hell are you doing?!” Fade exclaimed as Stern snapped a cold-metal handcuff over Fade’s extended wrist.

  “Withholding evidence is a crime, Mr. Fade,” Stern said in a low growl. “I don’t know how it works with others, but with me that sort of stuff gets you put in jail.”

  “Didn’t we just establish that I’m too pretty for prison?” He looked to Din. “Would you mind interjecting or at the very least say something exonerating?”

  Din shook her head as she wrote furiously in her notepad. “Nope, this is way too good.”

  Fade sighed. He didn’t want to play this card, but… “Captain Stern. Clearly there’s been a misunderstanding; one that I’m sure will make for some really great reading. The mugs are going to love it. Especially Police Commissioner Horton, who I know is a fan. I took a photo with him just six months ago; you can see it framed over my right shoulder there. No, my right, your left. There we go. Anyway, I’m sure the mugs—and Commissioner Horton—are going to love the part where you arrest me, Foster Fade, the Crime Spectacularist, the world famous detective who, through no fault of my own was mailed three possible murder weapons, and upon realizing that these guns were valuable in your investigation, offered my assistance, free of charge. So, please slap the other cuff on me and let’s see how high my readership goes… And how low your career ends up.”

  Stern’s face was something out of Dante. He glanced over to Din who had already burned through five sheets of paper and was moving on to number six. The captain cursed under his breath—something about blackmail being against the law—before he unlocked the handcuff and hooked it back on his belt.

  “Now, where were we…?” Fade said pleasantly as he adjusted his shirtsleeve. “Ah, yes, poor Mr. Kevin Howard.”

  “Don’t think it’s some gangland killing? They tend to do that a lot,” Din commented dryly from the other side of the room, her gaze never leaving her notepad.

  Stern gave Din a tepid look. “Regardless of what you put in print, we’re not that thickheaded.”

  Din snorted despite him.

  “Care for a drink, Captain?” Fade offered as he walked over to his dry bar. “I can usually guess someone’s drink just by looking at them.” He glanced back at the police captain and gave him a crooked grin and a wag of his finger. “You look like a gin man. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  Stern let out a haughty sniff and raised his chin to Fade’s offer. Fade tutted and shrugged, pouring himself a glass of bourbon on the rocks. He didn’t bother offering Din a glass; she was working.

  Fade swirled the glass around, the ice melting in long, twisting waves. He took a sip and rolled the amber liquid over his tongue, savoring the burn. “So where did you finally find the bullet?” he asked without looking at Stern.

  Stern’s mustache bristled in a mix of disbelief and displeasure. “‘Found’ is a big word, Mr. Fade. ‘Found’ means we had to go looking for it. Fact of the matter was it was sitting right in front of us.” His jaw worked as he tried to find the right phrasing. “We dug it out of the victim’s skull,” he said at last.

  “And you brought it with you,” Fade said with a smile. He held out his hand expectantly as he walked over to the police captain. “How nice.”

  Stern glanced down at Fade’s hand while his own unconsciously brushed against his pocket. “What makes you think that, Fade?”

  “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t need my help, Captain,” Fade said with an arched eyebrow. “I don’t need to be a genius to figure that out, thank you.”

  Stern huffed. “Didn’t know you were one.”

  “That’s what it says on my business card, at least,” he said with a nonchalant shrug. “‘Foster Fade: Crime Spectacularist and Genius.” The ‘and’ is an ampersand, but you get point: If it’s in print, it must be true. If it wasn’t, I’d be sued for libel and we wouldn’t want that, now would we?”

  Stern ignored Fade’s quip and gestured towards the three guns lined up on his desk. “Maybe I want to see the little collection you’ve got going.”

  “Maybe, but you didn’t know I had it until now. And you and I both know that won’t help you,” he said, holding out his hand.

  Stern let out an exasperated sigh, fished into his pocket, brought out a roll of gauze and handed it to Fade.

  Fade thanked the officer with a sideways grin and a bow of his head before unraveling the gauze with flourish. He held the bloodstained slug between his forefinger and thumb, and brought it up to the light. “Hm,” he sounded. “A .32 caliber.”

  “Fits your number three pretty perfectly,” Stern said, nodding his chin at the guns lined up Fade’s desk. “And it confirms that your pen pal and our murderer are connected.”

  Fade took a deep breath. “Just because the caliber of the bullet and the gun match doesn’t mean they’re a couple. There are a lot of Mausers in the city, Captain Stern, as I’m sure you’re aware.” He turned the bullet around several times before placing it carefully on the desk. He then slid open his bottom drawer and brought out a .32 caliber Beretta. “Oh, don’t worry, Captain,” he said due to Stern’s expression as he removed a bullet from the magazine. “I have a license for this one somewhere in here, I’m sure. Do me a favor, could you pick those up?” he asked, indicating a stack of books piled high on the floor with a distracted wave.

  Stern’s brow furrowed beneath his cap. “Excuse me?”

  “The books,” Din answered dryly, her pen zooming across the page as she transcribed every single word. “He wants you to pick up the books.”

  Fade put down his Beretta, picked the Mauser up off the table and loaded in the .32 caliber bullet. “Hold them out in front of you in a line like this,” he instructed, holding his arms out to demonstrate. “Parallel to the floor, if you could. Ten should do.” He then glanced at the Mauser then at the stack of books and frowned. “Make that twelve.”

  Stern looked back and forth between Fade and Din before he hesitantly acquiesced, pressing the stack of books against his chest. “What is this for?” he asked, turning to Fade.

  “This,” Fade replied, firing the gun.

  “The hell are you doing, man?!” Stern howled, dropping the books to the floor and drawing his sidearm.

  “Calm down, Captain,” Fade said placidly. He placed the Mauser back on his desk as he knelt down and began leafing through the books one by one, a bullet hole wormed straight through from cover to cover.

  “I could have you arrested for shooting an officer!” Stern shouted, spittle flying.

  “
That’d be true if I’d shot you, but by the looks of it the only victims are dead men.” Fade tossed the books aside one by one. “Twain, Byron, Dickens. Aw…” He held up a copy of The Canterbury Tales, a hole drilled halfway through. He propped open the book to find the bullet standing in the middle of the page. “It ended on The Miller’s Tale. I was looking forward to reading that one again.” Fade pried the bullet free and examined it closely as he got to his feet.

  “Fade, you better tell me what the hell you were trying to do before I sling cuffs on you again and haul you in, the press be damned!”

  “Proving a point. Catch,” he said, tossing the bullet at Stern who caught it clumsily. “Tell me what you see.”

  “A goddamn bullet.”

  “Look harder, Captain,” Fade said impatiently, picking up the bloodstained bullet off the desk. “What’s on the bullet?”

  “A bunch of scratches.”

  Fade looked at Din and smiled. Din rolled her eyes.

  “‘A bunch of scratches,’” Fade repeated sarcastically. “If that’s the way you want to think about them, sure.” He walked over to the other side of the office and pressed his foot against a small pedal. There was a brief sound of gears cranking to life. The wall slid away and a table rolled out with a microscope atop it. He turned on a small light at the base and placed his bullet on the slide. “When a bullet travels through a gun’s chamber it’s etched with very unique lines. Think of them as a gun’s fingerprint, no two are alike.” He beckoned Stern over with a curl of his fingers.

  Stern hesitantly holstered his standard issue .38 and handed Fade the second bullet.

  “Our killer is smart, or at least he thinks he is. Not only is he using a different gun to kill each victim,” Fade continued as he placed the second bullet besides the first so that their bases lay flat against one another, “he’s also scratching out their serial numbers and removing the gun’s fingerprints.”