CHAPTER 6
INTO THE VAULT
A cab drew up before 44 Maiden Lane, and a big man in a topcoat and a slouch hat stepped out. The imposing edifice of the New York Federal Reserve Bank rose up beside him, dwarfing his massive figure.
The day was chill and drab, a heavy overcast under which lower clouds scudded. The forecast said there was a chance of snow.
It was not yet 8:30 in the morning, yet the big main door of the bank was opened as the man approached it. As he stepped inside, he removed his hat with red-gloved fingers.
“Captain America? This way, please.” A small, middle-aged man secured the door and then led him into an office area.
Rogers shrugged his way out of the topcoat and slung it over the back of the chair before he sat down. They were in a small but richly paneled office.
“Now, then…” The man behind the desk couldn’t seem to take his eyes off the form-fitting uniform, and the gong-like shield that Rogers had set against his chair.
He took advantage of the awkward pause to do a little sizing up of his own. The door had said only “Vice Director,” but the name on the desk was “John B. Gaughan.” Gaughan seemed taller seated behind his own desk. It was possible he’d had his chair built up. His thin lips pursed nervously, and then he smiled.
“I—I must apologize for staring. I’ve seen you in photographs, of course, but…Tell me, do you find the, ah, costume as effective these years? I mean, before the war, everything was so different.”
Rogers shrugged. “It serves its purpose. Now, as to my purpose in coming here…”
“Umm, yes. What was your purpose?”
“As I told your director, I have reason to suspect that gold is being stolen from a United States depository.”
“What?” Gaughan waved his hands distractedly. “Impossible. Most impossible. Movies like Goldfinger to the contrary, um, sir, our depositories are most adequately guarded. And we have no losses.”
“No reported losses,” Rogers corrected. He turned to his topcoat and felt in the pockets. He pulled out an object and tossed it onto Gaughan’s desk blotter, where it tore a thin rip. It was the chunk of gold. “What do you make of that?”
Gaughan picked it up dubiously. “Of course, I can’t ascertain that it is gold…”
“It is. How about the seal?”
Gaughan set the piece down gingerly and reached for a desk drawer. Then he was studying the seal with a magnifying glass.
He turned the piece over and over, studying each surface. Finally he looked up. His complexion seemed two shades lighter. “I—I must state that this piece gives every evident of being cut from a bar of government-owned gold.”
“How about a bar in private hands?”
“Not with this seal. No, sir.”
“All right then. It was removed from a government bar of gold. Which takes us back to my original statement. Gold is being stolen. Or rather, has been.”
“May I ask how you came by this piece?”
“You may,” Rogers said, unsmiling.
“I—uhh—well, how did you?”
It delighted Rogers to shake the fussy little man loose for a moment from his tidy world. “It was brought to me by a man who died before he could tell me how he’d gotten it.”
“Died?”
“Murdered.”
“Oh, my!”
“Getting back to cases, Mr. Gaughan. Just where do you suppose this man might have got that thing?”
“Well, sir, I’m sure I don’t know. I…”
“Not Fort Knox, I should imagine,” Rogers said, cutting through the man’s vague protestations.
“No, sir. I must admit that it seems more likely that it would be here.”
“I rather thought so.”
“We—we have more gold in our vaults than Fort Knox, anyway,” Gaughan said, almost visibly puffing with pride. “We currently have almost thirteen billion dollars in gold on deposit, as against only a little over ten billion at Fort Knox. We act as a depository for many foreign powers, you see,” he explained, leaning forward at his desk. “They feel safer just keeping it here. Our underground vaults are airtight, and absolutely safe.”
“Uh huh! And somebody just couldn’t resist the challenge.”
“I—well, I—I just can’t imagine…
“Let’s not leave it to your imagination. Let’s check it out. Let’s take a little guided tour.”
“What? I’m sorry, sir, but that’s out. I mean, you may be Captain America, but the security on these vaults is absolute. After all, we don’t even know that beneath that mask…” His words trailed off as Rogers rose ominously.
“I can go over your head, Gaughan,” he said softly. “And I will, if necessary. What were your orders from the director?”
Gaughan wilted under the stare of the awesome figure standing over him. “I—I was to give you every courtesy, sir. But,” he began to pull himself together. “But I must remind you, sir, that this is not the Army. We do not function under rigid orders here. I have discretionary powers.”
Rogers smiled. “If I removed my mask, would you have any better idea of who I am?”
Gaughan wiped away the perspiration on his forehead. He pushed his chair back, and stood. “Come this way,” he said in defeat.
Gaughan was still not trusting; two guards preceded them, and two more followed behind.
“You realize, a minor loss would not be easily discovered, if there was a loss,” Gaughan said, as he led Rogers through the low vaults. They were buried eighty-five feet below street level. “We would require an inventory.”
Rogers smiled, said nothing. His eyes were alert, but he was not looking at the gold ingots, stacked with precision in neat rows. The others would spot any real loss there before he would. Instead, he was scanning the floors and walls, particularly the joints where they met, watching for the slightest irregularity.
Suddenly he stopped, a guard behind stumbling against him.
“I think I’ve found something,” he said quietly.
“Eh? What’s that?” Gaughan asked nervously.
“Dirt,” Rogers said, holding the palm of a hand upward. On the tips of his crimson-gloved fingers was a whitish clay powder.
“Dirt? Come now,” Gaughan said impatiently.
“Dirt that was obviously tracked into here,” Rogers replied. “You.” He gestured at the guard next to him. “Let’s see the soles of your shoes.”
“My shoes are clean, sir,” the guard said, raising one foot and bracing himself against the wall.
“Exactly,” Rogers said. “Gaughan, we’ve got solid evidence.”
“Evidence? What evidence? What are you trying to prove?”
Rogers’ voice took on a patient tone, as if humoring someone not very bright. “This dirt. It was not tracked in here by the guards. It was not tracked in by you, nor by me. It is clay, of a type found in this area of the city, but only underground. Are you starting to get the picture?”
“Good heavens, man! Are you saying that someone—ah—dug his way in? And tracked that dirt in with him?”
Rogers sighed. “Exactly.”
It didn’t take long to find the concealed entrance. A square of concrete in the floor sounded hollow. Close inspection proved the concrete to be newer, fresher; dirt and oil had been worked over it to “age” it to the color of the surrounding concrete floor.
The square sat flush with the floor. “We’re going to need tools to get this open,” Rogers grunted.
“Tools?”
“A pry bar, at the least. We may have to smash it. They may have it secured on the underside.”
“Can—can you be sure that this is what you’re looking for?”
“Sure enough,” Rogers replied without looking up. Gaughan was getting on his nerves.
“Here, sir.” A guard handed him a pry bar and a hammer. “We keep these handy for crating.”
“Fine.” He pushed the pry bar against the crack between concrete slabs, but it was too fine for the thick bar to penetrate. Instead, he turned it like a chisel, and began hammering at it, chipping away the edges of the concrete square next to the one he wanted to pry up.
“Isn’t that the wrong one?” Gaughan inquired.
Rogers didn’t answer. When he had cut away enough of the concrete, he pushed his bar into the newly widened gap and began to pull back on it, applying pressure against the phony slab.
For a moment nothing happened. Then the muscles on Captain America’s arms began to stand out, like thick ropes, and there was a grating sound as the steel bar ground against the concrete.
Then there was a muffled snapping and the phony slab flew upward, rocking Rogers back on his heels.
He rose to his feet, and handed the bar back to the guard who’d supplied it. “I’m afraid that won’t be much good any more,” he said. The bar was badly bent. The guard gave a soft whistle.
The concrete slab had been a trap door and, now that it was lying upside down on the floor, they could see that it had consisted of a plywood board, onto which concrete had been cast. Hanging at a twisted angle from the plywood was a heavy metal bracket, only one slot still holding it. Below, in the opening in the floor, they could see a four-by-four still braced across a shaft, its intended purpose defeated. Rogers gave it a kick and it slid sidewise and fell clattering down the shaft.
The guards had their guns out, and Rogers told them, “Okay, you boys follow me. Gaughan, you’d better get upstairs and pass the word.” He picked up his shield, and started down the ladder. As his eyes reached floor level, he noticed a series of wires, crudely fastened around one side of the hole. A network of alarm wires laid under the floor had been neatly bypassed and clipped.
The shaft dropped twelve feet, where a dim yellow bulb cast its feeble rays upon the foot of a passageway. As Captain America dropped to the ground, his massive shadow moved ominously across the densely packed earthen walls. They were six feet apart, but he couldn’t shake the claustrophobic feeling that they were too close. There was no sign of anyone in the tunnel.
The first guard dropped behind him, gun drawn. “Anybody down here?”
“Not in sight.”
“Mark is staying up above, just to backstop us.”
“Good idea.” He moved out a little further in the tunnel to make room as the second and third guards, gun each in hand, came down the ladder.
“All right,” Rogers said. “You’ll stay behind me, and not fire unless I say to. In these confined spaces, gunshots could be dangerous.”
The tunnel smelled dankly of dampness and earth, mingled with the stale odor of old cigarette smoke. The packed floor was rutted, and Rogers noted in passing that these tracks must have been created by the cart used to haul the stolen gold.
The tunnel extended forty yards of widely spaced yellow lights, and then suddenly opened out into a much larger tunnel. This passageway was ten yards wide, and twenty feet high. Old timbers shored up the roof, and Rogers poked at one with one finger. A piece gouged out, dry and crumbling.
“Odd,” he mused. “This certainly isn’t recent construction.”
They moved more cautiously now, edging along one wall of the tunnel, which was gradually curving to the right.
“Hold it,” Rogers whispered, raising his hand to halt the men behind him. Ahead was the lighted interior of the freight elevator and, off to one side, a more brightly lit passageway.
“Okay, men. This is it. We’ve reached the end of the line. If anyone is hanging around, he’ll be up that side tunnel. I want you to fan out along the sides of this tunnel and keep me covered. I’m going in.”
Holding his shield before him, crouching a little, Captain America ducked, then darted into the side tunnel.
Immediately, heavy gunshots boomed out, the explosions almost concussive in the confined space.
Captain America’s shield carried a white star, painted at its center, and surrounded by a blue field with concentric rings of red, white, and red. The effect was often hypnotic; despite the known effectiveness of the armored shield, his enemies often found themselves firing at it, as if at a target. It was a psychological effect that Rogers had counted on more than once—and it saved him now.
Holding as much of his body as possible behind the shield, he ran down the short tunnel toward his attacker.
He could see the man only in silhouette, his bulky body outlined by the doorway behind him, his gun raised, its muzzle-flashes bright punctuations. The shots were a sharp thunder on Rogers’ ears, their impact clanging heavily against his shield.
The man seemed suddenly to realize that his shots couldn’t stop Captain America’s onward rush, and he jerked backward into the room.
Then Rogers was through the door and, in one swift motion, throwing his shield.
It was like hurling an oversized discus. The shield sliced into the still-retreating heavy-set man, doubling him over to fall, clutching his stomach and retching, only semiconscious.
The guards burst into the room behind him, and Rogers motioned them to spread out along the walls, to approach the other two doors only with great caution.
But it didn’t matter.
No one else was there.
“It looks like you’ve cleaned out the rats’ nest, sir,” one of the guards reported, after climbing back down the long ladder from the cellar above. He’d left his companion stationed there. The third man was standing guard at the elevator.
“Only one man,” Rogers mused. “But that room in there looks like living quarters for half a dozen. Where are the rest?”
“They must operate at night, sir. They couldn’t risk getting into the vaults in daylight. Maybe they left only this man on guard.”
“Perhaps.”
The tall figure of Captain America moved purposefully to the fallen thug. The man was unshaven, and his eyes, when he eventually opened them, were weak and shifty.
He sat against the wall, his legs straight in front of him.
Rogers leaned over him.
“Okay, fella. It’s time for some talking.”
“I don’t know nuthin’,” the man grunted sullenly.
Rogers bent, and fixed his gauntleted fist in the man’s shirt. He rose smoothly to full height, pulling the heavier man with him. He shook the man twice, jerking his head back and forth.
“Let’s not be stubborn.”
“I—I…” The man’s eyes had glazed, and his mouth hung slackly. He was slumped, limp, in Rogers’ grasp.
But he had stolen a covert glimpse at the crude desk at the side of the room.
Rogers let the man fall, sprawling to the dirt floor. With two quick strides, he was at the desk.
There were papers on the desk, most of them covered with. penciled notations and computations. The figures were mostly in feet and yards; calculations apparently used in digging the tunnels.
Also lying on the plywood desk was an olive-drab handset, a lineman’s phone. Rogers’ eyes traced the leads from it to the wall, the ceiling, and the door he knew led upward. He picked the phone up, and held it to his ear.
The line was open. For a long moment he heard nothing. Then he caught it—the swallow rasp of a breath caught and held at the other end of the wire.
He listened, and waited. Suddenly a voice spoke.
“Who is this?”
Rogers chuckled. “Company.”
“Captain America?”
“Speaking. And you?”
“I’m sorry I missed you,” the voice said. “Had I known you were coming, I’d have arranged a reception committee.”
“You did the best you could, under the circumstances,” Rogers said. “Sorry we’ve had to clean you out.”
“Oh, don’t be. Just be sorry we’ll be cleaning you out.” The voice paused for emphasis. “Try this, for openers.”
A giant hand smashed through the wall and drove Captain America into oblivion.
Monday:
Chapter 7
Captain America is Dead!
Please Support Hero Histories
Visit Amazon and Buy...
The long out-of-print first-ever Captain America novel!
No comments:
Post a Comment