The Black Bat’s Dragon Trail by G. Wayman Jones

Book Details

The Black Bat’s Dragon Trail – When American mobsters join up with a secret Chinese Society, ancient artifacts get stolen that would have helped fund the Chinese war effort. The greed shown by men on both sides of this equation force Tony Quinn to rise from his sick-bed and take on this assortment of criminals as the Black Bat. But the most important and dangerous question is – who is the Dragon Master?

The Black Bat’s Dragon Trail (1941)
Tony Quinn Plays the Role of Hooded Avenger to Foil a Murder Master’s Plans! War-Torn China is Victimized by a Grim Fiend of Crime Who Battens on Disaster!
Chapter I – The Dragon Strikes
Chapter II – The Dragon Strikes Again
Chapter III – Monster in the Night
Chapter IV – Dragon Master’s Ultimatum
Chapter V – Butch Becomes a Panhandler
Chapter VI – Dr. Ling’s Daughter
Chapter VII – Butch Meets the Duke
Chapter VIII – Death Plane
Chapter IX – Chinese Laundry
Chapter X – Mystery Explosion
Chapter XI – A Blind Man’s Nurse
Chapter XII – A Raid on Mr. Whiskers
Chapter XIII – Silk Runs Into Trouble
Chapter XIV – Black Bat to the Rescue
Chapter XV – Last Warning
Chapter XVI – Surprise Visit
Chapter XVII – A Call on a Lady
Chapter XVIII – Death of a Rat
Chapter XIX – Death Flight
Chapter XX – Checkmated Again

The Black Bat’s Dragon Trail has 30 illustrations.

G. Wayman Jones was a “house name” for Better Publications. It was used by eight different writers including Norvell W. Page (1904-1961) who wrote The Black Bat’s Dragon Trail. Page is probably best remembered as the chief writer for The Spider series of stories about a vigilante crime fighter with a hideous visage.

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1. GWJones-BlackBatsDragonTrail.epub

Excerpt: The Black Bat’s Dragon Trail

Chapter I

The Dragon Strikes

IT had been raining lightly. Down in Chinatown the wet pavement and cobblestones reflected the lights from a thousand windows and Neon signs. It shimmered upon elderly Chinese, with hands tucked in their sleeves in patriarchial dignity, shuffling along with a younger generation in American clothes. It gleamed upon dozens of others threading their way in and out of the cafes to blend with the restless human tide—opulent folk in search of food and exotic entertainment, panhandlers from the slums in search of handouts, and sharp-eyed, swarthy-faced men with upturned raincoat collars, hat brims pulled low over their eyes.

At the narrow entrance to a dim alley one of the raincoated figures, moving casually as he approached, paused to light a cigarette. It gave him a chance to sweep his gaze up the street in both directions over his cupped hands and to look at the diamond-studded wrist-watch within inches of his eyes. There was a large diamond stickpin in his tie while still another stone glittered on a finger of his left hand.

“Eleven-thirty,” the man muttered under his breath. “The others oughta be showin’ up any time now if they ain’t already here. Yep—here comes one of ’em.”

He turned and stepped swiftly into the alley, melting into night that was Stygian. The second man paused a moment to glance furtively about him, then he, too, disappeared as though whisked from sight by an invisible hand. There came a muffled curse as he stumbled over some refuse underfoot. The anathema was followed by a chuckle from somewhere up ahead.

Within ten minutes several more men appeared in the alley. Presently several husky Chinese also approached and followed on the heels of the Americans. They made their way along the alley that was so narrow there hardly was room for the two big, sleek laundry trucks parked at the back of a ruined building that was windowless above. The white placards of a house wrecking company were pasted on the red bricks.

From the darkness a voice speaking in Cantonese from somewhere beside the trucks directed the Orientals to the front truck. The American mobsters who had gathered got into the second one. As the last man came in, a Chinese driver at the wheel of the rear truck stuck his head out and again whispered directions.

“If you will open the two back doors of the truck, Dragon,” he said to one of the gangsters, “you will find your friends inside.”

The man obeyed. He crawled in, fumbling around for a seat. From the darkness up near the front came a growled complaint.

“I don’t like joinin’ up with a secret Chinese society one damned bit. This is the first time the boss has sent us on a job and not told us what it is. I think he’s nuts, if you ask me.” He sniffed audibly. “Besides I like workin’ with guys of my own kind.”

THE bespectacled Chinese sitting at the wheel of the truck turned in the darkness. He spoke in English that was cultured, and without a trace of accent.

“The Chinese members of the Dragon feel the same way, Flash, except myself,” he said. “But they realize that what we are about to do would be utterly impossible without your specialized talents. I still think it is foolish of Duke to endanger the profitable—ah—laundry business my little establishment has built up during the past two years by joining the Dragon. But like all Americans he’s unable to resist a quick clean-up. A large sum in cash offered by the Dragon Master for a single job tonight fired Duke’s greed. It is indeed regrettable.”

“When are we gonna meet this guy we’re supposed to address as ‘Master’?” the man called “Flash” asked complainingly.

But the bespectacled laundryman at the wheel did not answer. He was too busy. The truck ahead, in which the Chinese rode, had begun to roll toward the opposite end of the alley, and he was quickly following.

Both shiny trucks rolled out into the street, and for three quarters of an hour their drivers worked their way across town by darkened side streets until at last they came to a building sitting alone at the edge of a small city park. Years before, the park and the building had been the private grounds and museum of a multi-millionaire. On his death, it had been willed to the city.

It was dark with the loneliness of midnight around the building, near which the trucks presently stopped. Up ahead one of the Chinese got out and disappeared into the night. Ten minutes later he returned as silently as he had come, getting in beside the driver again.

“Everything is quiet,” he informed in sing-song Chinese. “I saw nobody. There is a light in the watchman’s cubbyhole at the back. Drive straight ahead without lights and pull up near the large door at the back.”

Inside the marble halls of the building an elderly watchman in striped overalls made his rounds, punching his clock at regular stations along the dimly lit corridors. It was about twelve-thirty and time for him to lunch. He punched in the last station, went back among the glassed-in cases to his little room at the back, sat down on a bench in a corner, and opened his dinner pail.

As he ate, a new sound suddenly obtruded itself. The watchman paused, cocking an intent ear to listen. Again it came—a faint clicking from in back. He could not recognize the sound, for he could not guess that it was made as Flash probed the vitals of the locked door with an instrument as delicate and as specialized as those used by a brain surgeon. Already Flash had located the wires of the alarm system and burned them out with a torch.

“The watchman put down his lunch and hurried out into the main building again, padding along with revolver in hand. He slipped through a room whose walls were covered with modern paintings and into the hallway leading to the back. He had almost reached the rear door when a menacing voice came from somewhere behind him.

“Just drop the roscoe, pal, like a good guy.”

The watchman whirled, making one single motion to lift his gun. He never got it up. The big .38 Police Special in the hand of the determined man who had spoken, rose and fell against his skull. The watchman’s muffled cry was cut short, and the man who had attacked him caught him as he slumped.

He shoved the bleeding watchman to two other men who appeared dimly in the shadows.

“Take him back to his place and stay with him,” he ordered gruffly. “If he wakes up whack him over the head again. Flash, get a couple of those Chinese to give you a hand with your cutting outfit. According to one of the guys who shows the rubbernecks around, the vault is downstairs. Come on.”

THE two mobsters each took the watchman by a wrist and began dragging his limp form back along the polished floor. Flash directed two of the husky Chinese to pick up the huge, heavy suitcases containing his acetylene and oxygen tanks. He himself carried the torch and it was no ordinary one. It had cost him exactly two thousand dollars.

Down two dark flights of steps the party moved cautiously and silently. Bringing up the rear were several Chinese carrying ordinary canvas stretchers. Once they stopped and held flashlights while Flash knelt before a door and inserted an instrument into the lock. After a few moments’ expert manipulation it clicked. They went down still another flight into a vault room deep beneath the earth’s surface.

One of the Chinese who made up one half of the queerly assorted group looked dubious at sight of the massive door of the vault with its chilled steel. Flash saw the look, and chuckled, low in his throat.

“Sure, it’s burglar-proof, pal, but don’t worry,” he said, and grinned broadly. “It takes heat to make steel burglar-proof, maybe you know. So all you got to do to cut it is to get something hotter. That’s why this torch cost me two thousand slugs. It was made in Berlin by a screwy little professor. One of them scientific birds.”

“You are quite sure the alarm system has been disconnected?” the Chinese who appeared to be in charge of his coterie asked uncertainly.

“He knows his business, buddy,” growled a burly gangster impatiently. “Hurry up, Flash, and get that toy of yours busy.”

….

“This is it, gentlemen,” he announced. “In these boxes we have a treasure worth approximately ten to eleven million dollars.”

Excerpt From: G. Wayman Jones. “The Black Bat’s Dragon Trail.”