JSA: If Looks Could Kill
By Bruce Wayne
DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters portrayed in this story are copyright by DC Comics, an AOL/Time/Warner company. They are used without permission for entertainment without profit by the author.
An Elseworld's story: Stories, situation or events involving familiar characters in unfamiliar settings.
Chapter 1
"The coppers are on to us, Danny," whispered a hoarse, urgent voice.
Danny Martin glanced sideways at Timmy O'Shea. O'Shea's poker-straight flame-red hair was in disarray, his bright blue eyes pinpoints of agitation.
"You're a good man, Timmy," said Danny with a grin, "but a Nervous Nelly. If the coppers are givin' us the eye, it's all the more reason we have for plantin' our little surprise package and goin' on with our business."
Martin lit a cigarette off the butt of the one that had been burning against his lips a second earlier and tossed the dying stub on the hard tile floor of London's Heathrow Airport.
An old custodian, who looked like the brother of the broom he was pushing, stopped his sweeping and glared at Danny Martin for an instant. Martin let his mouth spread wide in a grin and cocked his tweed cap a little more jauntily over his right eye. He shrugged his shoulders as he stabbed his hands into the pockets of his dark-green corduroy slacks and walked on. "But Danny," protested O'Shea, "if they see us plant this thing --"
Martin's sharp look penetrated his shorter companion. O'Shea was clutching the briefcase containing the six sticks of dynamite against his chest like a mother protecting her child.
"We're almost to the locker banks now, Timmy," said Martin. "We've got guns and likely the pansy-assed coppers don't. We've got the car waitin' for us outside. Tell me now, is it better that the coppers arrest us with a bomb in our possession?"
But Danny Martin glanced over his right shoulder all the same. Fifty yards back down the corridor a man dressed in a worn suit and shiny black shoes studied a copy of the Times newspaper. Martin whispered the word "copper" under his breath and kept walking, half listening to the airport public- address system to try to pick up the security-code phrases that would alert him to the presence of Scotland Yard.
Twenty paces away stood the locker banks he had targeted, adjacent to the baggage-claim area. A lot of people would be around when the dynamite sticks blew.
O'Shea was talking again. "That one with the shiny shoes readin' the paper, Danny, I tell you he's on to us."
"We're almost there, Timmy -- be easy, lad." Danny Martin craned his neck, openly looking over his shoulder. The man with the shiny shoes hadn't followed them, but by the way he stood and held the newspaper, he could be watching them.
Danny Martin stopped beside the lockers. He turned and stared deliberately at the man with the shiny shoes. "A copper -- right you are, Timmy," he said to O'Shea. "Now give me the bag if you don't mind."
The policeman, if he was one, looked across the baggage-claim section toward them.
"He'll see us. They'll find the dynamite," said a worried O'Shea.
"I've a way of fixin' that, Timmy," said Danny as he put the battered leather briefcase inside the locker, closed it and pocketed the key. He slipped his right hand under his coat and withdrew a vintage 1917 Colt .45- caliber handgun. He pointed the gun, stomping his foot to steady himself as he leaned into the shot.
Martin pulled the trigger once, and the boom of the .45 thundered in the box of concrete, steel and glass surrounding him. The inquisitive stare of Shiny Shoes dissolved as his forehead split apart.
A young woman standing nearby started to scream. Martin cooly raised the Colt and, aiming for the neck, shot her in the head.
"The new cartridges you made up shoot a bit high, Timmy," was all he said as he pulled his hat low over his face and started to run.
As Martin rounded a corner past the baggage area he could hear O'Shea's feet pounding the floor beside him. He slowed and then stopped.
"Coppers!" he snarled. Two men in plainclothes, faces he knew as well as his own, were running toward him -- Sir Edward Hall of Scotland Yard and Tompkins of the Home Office. Martin aimed the chunky Colt at Hall and fired two quick shots. Hall threw himself against a pillar, and a pistol appeared in his hand.
"The damn whistles now!" Danny Martin shouted, hearing police whistles blowing from behind. Gunfire from Hall and Tompkins hammered toward him. Timmy O'Shea cried out, and Martin turned. O'Shea's left hand was a bleeding stump and his face contorted in fear and agony.
Martin's only thought was that O'Shea could tell where the bomb was hidden.
"Lad," said Martin softly and he shot his friend twice in the face. As the red-haired man reeled back, Martin snatched up his compatriot's fallen .38- caliber revolver. He fired the pistol twice at the approaching police and started to run toward the Arrivals terminal.
***
Ted Grant looked at his long-time friend, Ted Knight. "Why am I carrying my attache case and my stuff bag when all you've got is a stuff bag? You're bigger and younger than I am. Here!" Grant shoved the attache case at the well-muscled brown-haired man beside him.
"Carry your own damn briefcase!" Knight snapped.
"Hell of a disrepectful way to talk to an old friend," Grant teased.
"You try giving me that briefcase again, you'll see how damn disrepectful I can get!" Knight laughed, shoving the former heavyweight boxing champion of the world a little.
Grant feigned left and slapped the attache case against Knight's exposed midsection. Knight grabbed at it reflexively as Grant let go and stepped away. People were looking at them, some of them had faces he recognized from the transatlantic flight from New York City.
"I'm not going to carry your lousy attache case, Ted! I'm just going to leave it here, so help me!" Knight shouted after him.
As Grant started to turn and say something, he heard his name paged over the public-address system. A disembodied but distinctly feminine voice directed him to go to the nearest courtesy phone. There was a message.
To his far right, Grant spotted one of the phones and started walking toward it. He glanced back at Ted Knight who still held the attache case as though he were going to drop it to the terminal floor. He couldn't read lips, but he could tell what Knight was muttering as he started after him.
Grant picked up the telephone receiver.
An anonymous voice said, "Paging."
"I'm Ted Grant, you have a message for me?"
"One moment please, sir."
Grant looked away. Knight was beside him, saying under his breath, "I'm not carrying your damn briefcase."
"Yeah, but you're so much stronger than I am, and tall, really tall," pleaded Grant.
Bullshit!" exclaimed Knight. "How come I'm always stronger and taller whenever there's something to carry? I'm what --? Two-inches taller than you are?"
The sound of a new connection drew Grant's attention back to the phone. "Hello?" Grant said.
"Hello, Ted? McNider here. Did you and the other Ted have a satisfactory flight?"
"Yeah, just fine," Grant replied with a nod.
"Ted, I know I was to have met both of you for dinner," continued Charles McNider, "but I wondered if I might beg off and promise London's best breakfast instead. Something unexpected has come up here."
"Any problems?" Grant asked.
There was a long pause, follwed by the sound of McNider clearing his throat. "Just the opposite, really. You might recall the German stewardess I mentioned to you some time ago. The one with long hair. It was just before we found out that False-Face had stolen the hundred canisters of VX nerve gas. Her name is Johanna Gruber."
"Yeah, I remember. She was all you could talk about that night over dinner. Even with the gorgeous Diana there."
"Quite. Well, I'd given her my telephone number and she called. We're, ah, having dinner here at my London apartment this evening. The two of you would be perfectly welcome, of course," McNider managed to add. "I'll just have the caterer bring some additional food."
"You and Johanna Gruber, huh? Naw, breakfast will do just fine for Ted and me, if you're out of bed by then," Grant added wryly.
"I really doubt that on a first date," said McNider, but not without a note of hope in his voice. "Thank you for the vote of confidence at any rate. I'll ring you up at your hotel, then come around and collect you and Ted for that breakfast so we can chat."
"Don't do anything I wouldn't do," Grant advised him as the line clicked dead. Grant hung up.
He looked at Ted Knight. "Well dinner's off. Charles says he has a hot date, a German stewardess he met," he explained.
"Sure, he has a hot date, and I'm stuck with you," said Knight as he slammed Grant's attache case toward him.
Grant laughed. "Come on, let's get our luggage and I'll buy you dinner."
"Bribing me won't help," Cautioned Knight.
Grant started toward the baggage-claim area, checking the overhead sign. He'd been hearing something odd for the last moment or so, and now he heard it again.
"Is that a gunshot?" he said aloud.
The sound came again. It was a gunshot. Then another and another.
The sounds were louder each time. At the far end of the corridor, Grant saw a flurry of movement. A scream, shrill and piercing, sounded from there as well.
Grant shoved his attache case at Knight and started to run toward the sounds. There was more gunfire, a faint-sounding police whistle, a shout -- he couldn't make out the words.
"Ted!" Grant glanced once behind him. Ted Knight, holding the attache case, was running after him.
Ahead, Grant saw a man running toward him. The man wore a hat pulled low over his face, a tweed jacket and dark slacks. Profiled for an instant as he turned, the mysterious figure revealed a revolver. "Aww, shit," Grant muttered. The man was less than a hundred yards from him.
Behind the gunman, Grant could see uniformed policemen with their truncheons brandished.
The man reloaded the revolver on the run as Grant charged toward him. The tweed-capped figure saw him, and just as he started to raise the revolver, Grant heard Ted Knight shout, "Hey! Over here! Police!"
Abruptly, the fugitive stopped, his head snapping right. He was buying Knight for a half second, Grant told himself. Ted Grant rushed toward the man, the stuff sack swinging on its strap as he slammed it toward the gunhand.
The revolver breathed fire, and the man holding it wheeled around as Grant let go of the strap. Grant pivoted, and his right leg snapped up and out. The revolver roared again as the bottom of Grant's shoe kicked into the gunhand. The gun flew out of the man's hand and across the corridor as he dropped to his knees.
Ted Grant launched a kick toward the mean, sinister face, but in a defensive move, Danny Martin's hands flashed out. Something glittered as it fell from his left hand, making a metallic sound as it hit the floor. Martin grabbed at Grant's right ankle and pulled.
Grant fell back, his balance gone. He twisted his body as he started going down and caught himself on his outstretched hands. Grant kicked with his left foot against his rival's head. He could feel the pressure release on his ankle, and he rolled on his back.
"This tough nut wasn't about to give up now," Grant thought as he saw the man scramble up and grab for the thing that had fallen from his hand. As he jumped to his feet, Grant saw it. It was a key, a locker key.
The suspect was moving toward a ventilation grate at the foot of the wall to his left.
"The key!" shouted Grant, and he lunged forward. His opponent threw himself against the grate like a cornered animal, and his hands splayed over it. The sound of metal clinking against metal reached Grant's ears as he wrenched the clawing figure free of the wall, jerking him forward, off balance. Grant's right came back and hammered forward, his knuckles exploding as he unleashed a savage uppercut against the man's rock-hard jaw.
His opponent's head snapped back, and his body went limp. Grant let the pathetic-looking shape fall. In the background, he heard a police whistle and the pounding of heavily shod feet.
Ted Knight was on his knees beside the unconscious body of Danny Martin, peering through the grate. A blur of uniforms surrounded them both, and an authoritative voice informed them they were under arrest.
Over the shouts and commands of the uniformed police, the loud murmurings of the crowd, and Ted Knight's vehement protestations, Grant heard someone calling his name.
Sir Edward Hall, deputy superintendent of Scotland Yard, shouldered his way forward and shouted, "Release that man, the one with the blue suit and dark hair."
Ted Knight wailed, "Hey, what about me?"
Grant smiled at his friend. "Do I know you?" he said.
"All right," responded Knight, "I'll carry the damn attache case!"
"Who pays for dinner?" Grant asked as the police started to drag Knight off.
"Okay, okay. I'll pay for dinner, too," Knight pleaded.
Ted Grant grinned, and as Sir Edward Hall came up beside him, he said, "Sir Edward, that tall man over there with the brown hair is my friend. Helped me stop this creep, whoever he is."
"Right." Hall turned away, calling to the uniformed officers, "That man as well. Release him immediately!"
Then Hall turned to Grant. "He had a key," he said.
"A locker key," replied Grant. "He shoved it down that grating before I could stop him."
Hall summoned a uniformed sergeant at the far side of the crowd. "Bailey, remove that grating and search behind it immediately. Martin pushed the locker key through."
"Right, sir!" responded Bailey.
Hall was bending over the motionless body, trying to stir him. "Out. Unconscious. Damn the bloody luck."
"Hit him too hard, I guess," Grant interjected.
"What should one expect if he was hit by the former heavyweight champion of the world?" Hall said as he turned to Grant. The senior officer's voice dropped to a whisper as he informed his old friend, "Sound reason to believe this one and one other man, both IRA, planted an explosive device of some sort in one of the lockers. Our men are already going through the locker bank, but there are hundreds of lockers there. The officer we had observing their movements was shot to death, and this one --" Hall gestured to the unconscious man "-- this bastard shot his own mate, I'm afraid. Killed him instantly."
Grant let out a long breath. "I know I'm just an old boxer, but why don't we help you with those lockers," he said.
"The device could explode at any moment. A bomb disposal team is on the way," Hall said as he broke into a loping run.
Grant called over his shoulder, "Hey, Ted!"
Then Grant started to run as well.
***
The entire baggage-claim area had been cordoned off. Uniformed police, dark- covered members of the London Metropolitan Flying Squad and plainclothes officers were tearing through luggage on the floor before the lockers. A lead man moved from locker to locker and opened each using a set of master keys. The man with him inspected the inside, and if there was a case shouted to one of the plainclothesmen.
"What can we do to help?" Grant asked Hall. "Just open suitcases?"
"But carefully, there's no telling how the bomb might be disguised," replied Hall.
Grant glanced at Ted Knight, wishing he could use his Gravity Rod. Knight had already dropped to his knees and begun sorting through a suitcase of clothing, and not very clean looking, either.
Ted Grant found a space between one of the ragged ranks of overnight bags and dropped into a crouch. Taking a case, he started to open it, slowly. His palms were sweating.
It had been five minutes by the watch on his left wrist when someone shouted, "Hey, we've got it!"
Grant went to get up, the contents of a suitcase scattered in front of him. Half the clothes were women's clothes, expensive-looking things, although a bit large. He started to stuff the things back inside -- slips, bras, a pair of shoes in a plastic bag. There was something odd about them.
He could hear one of the bomb-disposal experts shouting, "Clear the area. This thing's about to blow. There's less than a minute on the timer! Clear the area!"
Grant started to his feet then stopped abruptly. At the bottom of the suitcase was another plastic bag. Inside it was a man's shoe.
He almost felt like a voyeur, exploring someone else's suitcase, especially one belonging to a-- "A woman," he whispered, half aloud.
Hall was shouting something to him, but Grant didn't look up. He took out the man's shoe. It was expensive, Italian.
Hall shouted again, "Ted -- get out of here!"
Grant swallowed hard. He held the man's shoe and the woman's shoe side by side. They were the same length, the same width. He threw them down, and plowed through the suitcase. A man's sweater and a man's turtleneck emerged, a pair of white crew socks, a pair of men's underpants. Finally a pair of faded blue Levi's.
"Ted!" cried Hall.
Grant looked toward the urgent face of the Scotland Yard man. He licked his lips.
"I've got it! The bloody bastards lost this one," the voice of the bomb- disposal expert sounded.
Grant looked down from Hall. He found the suitcase handle and lifted the luggage tag. He read the name out loud. "Johanna Gruber -- Johanna --"
He looked back at Hall. "False-Face," he almost spat out the name. "The infamous European criminal. He's disguised as a woman, and he's with Charles McNider right now."
"My God --" Hall's jaw dropped.
Grant started to run. "Ted," he shouted over his shoulder, "hurry!"
To be continued ...
By Bruce Wayne
DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters portrayed in this story are copyright by DC Comics, an AOL/Time/Warner company. They are used without permission for entertainment without profit by the author.
An Elseworld's story: Stories, situation or events involving familiar characters in unfamiliar settings.
Chapter 1
"The coppers are on to us, Danny," whispered a hoarse, urgent voice.
Danny Martin glanced sideways at Timmy O'Shea. O'Shea's poker-straight flame-red hair was in disarray, his bright blue eyes pinpoints of agitation.
"You're a good man, Timmy," said Danny with a grin, "but a Nervous Nelly. If the coppers are givin' us the eye, it's all the more reason we have for plantin' our little surprise package and goin' on with our business."
Martin lit a cigarette off the butt of the one that had been burning against his lips a second earlier and tossed the dying stub on the hard tile floor of London's Heathrow Airport.
An old custodian, who looked like the brother of the broom he was pushing, stopped his sweeping and glared at Danny Martin for an instant. Martin let his mouth spread wide in a grin and cocked his tweed cap a little more jauntily over his right eye. He shrugged his shoulders as he stabbed his hands into the pockets of his dark-green corduroy slacks and walked on. "But Danny," protested O'Shea, "if they see us plant this thing --"
Martin's sharp look penetrated his shorter companion. O'Shea was clutching the briefcase containing the six sticks of dynamite against his chest like a mother protecting her child.
"We're almost to the locker banks now, Timmy," said Martin. "We've got guns and likely the pansy-assed coppers don't. We've got the car waitin' for us outside. Tell me now, is it better that the coppers arrest us with a bomb in our possession?"
But Danny Martin glanced over his right shoulder all the same. Fifty yards back down the corridor a man dressed in a worn suit and shiny black shoes studied a copy of the Times newspaper. Martin whispered the word "copper" under his breath and kept walking, half listening to the airport public- address system to try to pick up the security-code phrases that would alert him to the presence of Scotland Yard.
Twenty paces away stood the locker banks he had targeted, adjacent to the baggage-claim area. A lot of people would be around when the dynamite sticks blew.
O'Shea was talking again. "That one with the shiny shoes readin' the paper, Danny, I tell you he's on to us."
"We're almost there, Timmy -- be easy, lad." Danny Martin craned his neck, openly looking over his shoulder. The man with the shiny shoes hadn't followed them, but by the way he stood and held the newspaper, he could be watching them.
Danny Martin stopped beside the lockers. He turned and stared deliberately at the man with the shiny shoes. "A copper -- right you are, Timmy," he said to O'Shea. "Now give me the bag if you don't mind."
The policeman, if he was one, looked across the baggage-claim section toward them.
"He'll see us. They'll find the dynamite," said a worried O'Shea.
"I've a way of fixin' that, Timmy," said Danny as he put the battered leather briefcase inside the locker, closed it and pocketed the key. He slipped his right hand under his coat and withdrew a vintage 1917 Colt .45- caliber handgun. He pointed the gun, stomping his foot to steady himself as he leaned into the shot.
Martin pulled the trigger once, and the boom of the .45 thundered in the box of concrete, steel and glass surrounding him. The inquisitive stare of Shiny Shoes dissolved as his forehead split apart.
A young woman standing nearby started to scream. Martin cooly raised the Colt and, aiming for the neck, shot her in the head.
"The new cartridges you made up shoot a bit high, Timmy," was all he said as he pulled his hat low over his face and started to run.
As Martin rounded a corner past the baggage area he could hear O'Shea's feet pounding the floor beside him. He slowed and then stopped.
"Coppers!" he snarled. Two men in plainclothes, faces he knew as well as his own, were running toward him -- Sir Edward Hall of Scotland Yard and Tompkins of the Home Office. Martin aimed the chunky Colt at Hall and fired two quick shots. Hall threw himself against a pillar, and a pistol appeared in his hand.
"The damn whistles now!" Danny Martin shouted, hearing police whistles blowing from behind. Gunfire from Hall and Tompkins hammered toward him. Timmy O'Shea cried out, and Martin turned. O'Shea's left hand was a bleeding stump and his face contorted in fear and agony.
Martin's only thought was that O'Shea could tell where the bomb was hidden.
"Lad," said Martin softly and he shot his friend twice in the face. As the red-haired man reeled back, Martin snatched up his compatriot's fallen .38- caliber revolver. He fired the pistol twice at the approaching police and started to run toward the Arrivals terminal.
***
Ted Grant looked at his long-time friend, Ted Knight. "Why am I carrying my attache case and my stuff bag when all you've got is a stuff bag? You're bigger and younger than I am. Here!" Grant shoved the attache case at the well-muscled brown-haired man beside him.
"Carry your own damn briefcase!" Knight snapped.
"Hell of a disrepectful way to talk to an old friend," Grant teased.
"You try giving me that briefcase again, you'll see how damn disrepectful I can get!" Knight laughed, shoving the former heavyweight boxing champion of the world a little.
Grant feigned left and slapped the attache case against Knight's exposed midsection. Knight grabbed at it reflexively as Grant let go and stepped away. People were looking at them, some of them had faces he recognized from the transatlantic flight from New York City.
"I'm not going to carry your lousy attache case, Ted! I'm just going to leave it here, so help me!" Knight shouted after him.
As Grant started to turn and say something, he heard his name paged over the public-address system. A disembodied but distinctly feminine voice directed him to go to the nearest courtesy phone. There was a message.
To his far right, Grant spotted one of the phones and started walking toward it. He glanced back at Ted Knight who still held the attache case as though he were going to drop it to the terminal floor. He couldn't read lips, but he could tell what Knight was muttering as he started after him.
Grant picked up the telephone receiver.
An anonymous voice said, "Paging."
"I'm Ted Grant, you have a message for me?"
"One moment please, sir."
Grant looked away. Knight was beside him, saying under his breath, "I'm not carrying your damn briefcase."
"Yeah, but you're so much stronger than I am, and tall, really tall," pleaded Grant.
Bullshit!" exclaimed Knight. "How come I'm always stronger and taller whenever there's something to carry? I'm what --? Two-inches taller than you are?"
The sound of a new connection drew Grant's attention back to the phone. "Hello?" Grant said.
"Hello, Ted? McNider here. Did you and the other Ted have a satisfactory flight?"
"Yeah, just fine," Grant replied with a nod.
"Ted, I know I was to have met both of you for dinner," continued Charles McNider, "but I wondered if I might beg off and promise London's best breakfast instead. Something unexpected has come up here."
"Any problems?" Grant asked.
There was a long pause, follwed by the sound of McNider clearing his throat. "Just the opposite, really. You might recall the German stewardess I mentioned to you some time ago. The one with long hair. It was just before we found out that False-Face had stolen the hundred canisters of VX nerve gas. Her name is Johanna Gruber."
"Yeah, I remember. She was all you could talk about that night over dinner. Even with the gorgeous Diana there."
"Quite. Well, I'd given her my telephone number and she called. We're, ah, having dinner here at my London apartment this evening. The two of you would be perfectly welcome, of course," McNider managed to add. "I'll just have the caterer bring some additional food."
"You and Johanna Gruber, huh? Naw, breakfast will do just fine for Ted and me, if you're out of bed by then," Grant added wryly.
"I really doubt that on a first date," said McNider, but not without a note of hope in his voice. "Thank you for the vote of confidence at any rate. I'll ring you up at your hotel, then come around and collect you and Ted for that breakfast so we can chat."
"Don't do anything I wouldn't do," Grant advised him as the line clicked dead. Grant hung up.
He looked at Ted Knight. "Well dinner's off. Charles says he has a hot date, a German stewardess he met," he explained.
"Sure, he has a hot date, and I'm stuck with you," said Knight as he slammed Grant's attache case toward him.
Grant laughed. "Come on, let's get our luggage and I'll buy you dinner."
"Bribing me won't help," Cautioned Knight.
Grant started toward the baggage-claim area, checking the overhead sign. He'd been hearing something odd for the last moment or so, and now he heard it again.
"Is that a gunshot?" he said aloud.
The sound came again. It was a gunshot. Then another and another.
The sounds were louder each time. At the far end of the corridor, Grant saw a flurry of movement. A scream, shrill and piercing, sounded from there as well.
Grant shoved his attache case at Knight and started to run toward the sounds. There was more gunfire, a faint-sounding police whistle, a shout -- he couldn't make out the words.
"Ted!" Grant glanced once behind him. Ted Knight, holding the attache case, was running after him.
Ahead, Grant saw a man running toward him. The man wore a hat pulled low over his face, a tweed jacket and dark slacks. Profiled for an instant as he turned, the mysterious figure revealed a revolver. "Aww, shit," Grant muttered. The man was less than a hundred yards from him.
Behind the gunman, Grant could see uniformed policemen with their truncheons brandished.
The man reloaded the revolver on the run as Grant charged toward him. The tweed-capped figure saw him, and just as he started to raise the revolver, Grant heard Ted Knight shout, "Hey! Over here! Police!"
Abruptly, the fugitive stopped, his head snapping right. He was buying Knight for a half second, Grant told himself. Ted Grant rushed toward the man, the stuff sack swinging on its strap as he slammed it toward the gunhand.
The revolver breathed fire, and the man holding it wheeled around as Grant let go of the strap. Grant pivoted, and his right leg snapped up and out. The revolver roared again as the bottom of Grant's shoe kicked into the gunhand. The gun flew out of the man's hand and across the corridor as he dropped to his knees.
Ted Grant launched a kick toward the mean, sinister face, but in a defensive move, Danny Martin's hands flashed out. Something glittered as it fell from his left hand, making a metallic sound as it hit the floor. Martin grabbed at Grant's right ankle and pulled.
Grant fell back, his balance gone. He twisted his body as he started going down and caught himself on his outstretched hands. Grant kicked with his left foot against his rival's head. He could feel the pressure release on his ankle, and he rolled on his back.
"This tough nut wasn't about to give up now," Grant thought as he saw the man scramble up and grab for the thing that had fallen from his hand. As he jumped to his feet, Grant saw it. It was a key, a locker key.
The suspect was moving toward a ventilation grate at the foot of the wall to his left.
"The key!" shouted Grant, and he lunged forward. His opponent threw himself against the grate like a cornered animal, and his hands splayed over it. The sound of metal clinking against metal reached Grant's ears as he wrenched the clawing figure free of the wall, jerking him forward, off balance. Grant's right came back and hammered forward, his knuckles exploding as he unleashed a savage uppercut against the man's rock-hard jaw.
His opponent's head snapped back, and his body went limp. Grant let the pathetic-looking shape fall. In the background, he heard a police whistle and the pounding of heavily shod feet.
Ted Knight was on his knees beside the unconscious body of Danny Martin, peering through the grate. A blur of uniforms surrounded them both, and an authoritative voice informed them they were under arrest.
Over the shouts and commands of the uniformed police, the loud murmurings of the crowd, and Ted Knight's vehement protestations, Grant heard someone calling his name.
Sir Edward Hall, deputy superintendent of Scotland Yard, shouldered his way forward and shouted, "Release that man, the one with the blue suit and dark hair."
Ted Knight wailed, "Hey, what about me?"
Grant smiled at his friend. "Do I know you?" he said.
"All right," responded Knight, "I'll carry the damn attache case!"
"Who pays for dinner?" Grant asked as the police started to drag Knight off.
"Okay, okay. I'll pay for dinner, too," Knight pleaded.
Ted Grant grinned, and as Sir Edward Hall came up beside him, he said, "Sir Edward, that tall man over there with the brown hair is my friend. Helped me stop this creep, whoever he is."
"Right." Hall turned away, calling to the uniformed officers, "That man as well. Release him immediately!"
Then Hall turned to Grant. "He had a key," he said.
"A locker key," replied Grant. "He shoved it down that grating before I could stop him."
Hall summoned a uniformed sergeant at the far side of the crowd. "Bailey, remove that grating and search behind it immediately. Martin pushed the locker key through."
"Right, sir!" responded Bailey.
Hall was bending over the motionless body, trying to stir him. "Out. Unconscious. Damn the bloody luck."
"Hit him too hard, I guess," Grant interjected.
"What should one expect if he was hit by the former heavyweight champion of the world?" Hall said as he turned to Grant. The senior officer's voice dropped to a whisper as he informed his old friend, "Sound reason to believe this one and one other man, both IRA, planted an explosive device of some sort in one of the lockers. Our men are already going through the locker bank, but there are hundreds of lockers there. The officer we had observing their movements was shot to death, and this one --" Hall gestured to the unconscious man "-- this bastard shot his own mate, I'm afraid. Killed him instantly."
Grant let out a long breath. "I know I'm just an old boxer, but why don't we help you with those lockers," he said.
"The device could explode at any moment. A bomb disposal team is on the way," Hall said as he broke into a loping run.
Grant called over his shoulder, "Hey, Ted!"
Then Grant started to run as well.
***
The entire baggage-claim area had been cordoned off. Uniformed police, dark- covered members of the London Metropolitan Flying Squad and plainclothes officers were tearing through luggage on the floor before the lockers. A lead man moved from locker to locker and opened each using a set of master keys. The man with him inspected the inside, and if there was a case shouted to one of the plainclothesmen.
"What can we do to help?" Grant asked Hall. "Just open suitcases?"
"But carefully, there's no telling how the bomb might be disguised," replied Hall.
Grant glanced at Ted Knight, wishing he could use his Gravity Rod. Knight had already dropped to his knees and begun sorting through a suitcase of clothing, and not very clean looking, either.
Ted Grant found a space between one of the ragged ranks of overnight bags and dropped into a crouch. Taking a case, he started to open it, slowly. His palms were sweating.
It had been five minutes by the watch on his left wrist when someone shouted, "Hey, we've got it!"
Grant went to get up, the contents of a suitcase scattered in front of him. Half the clothes were women's clothes, expensive-looking things, although a bit large. He started to stuff the things back inside -- slips, bras, a pair of shoes in a plastic bag. There was something odd about them.
He could hear one of the bomb-disposal experts shouting, "Clear the area. This thing's about to blow. There's less than a minute on the timer! Clear the area!"
Grant started to his feet then stopped abruptly. At the bottom of the suitcase was another plastic bag. Inside it was a man's shoe.
He almost felt like a voyeur, exploring someone else's suitcase, especially one belonging to a-- "A woman," he whispered, half aloud.
Hall was shouting something to him, but Grant didn't look up. He took out the man's shoe. It was expensive, Italian.
Hall shouted again, "Ted -- get out of here!"
Grant swallowed hard. He held the man's shoe and the woman's shoe side by side. They were the same length, the same width. He threw them down, and plowed through the suitcase. A man's sweater and a man's turtleneck emerged, a pair of white crew socks, a pair of men's underpants. Finally a pair of faded blue Levi's.
"Ted!" cried Hall.
Grant looked toward the urgent face of the Scotland Yard man. He licked his lips.
"I've got it! The bloody bastards lost this one," the voice of the bomb- disposal expert sounded.
Grant looked down from Hall. He found the suitcase handle and lifted the luggage tag. He read the name out loud. "Johanna Gruber -- Johanna --"
He looked back at Hall. "False-Face," he almost spat out the name. "The infamous European criminal. He's disguised as a woman, and he's with Charles McNider right now."
"My God --" Hall's jaw dropped.
Grant started to run. "Ted," he shouted over his shoulder, "hurry!"
To be continued ...