Chapter Two

Kato parked the Black Beauty in the garage, then hid it via the mechanical marvel of the revolving garage floor. The floor turned, hiding the Black Beauty and revealing Britt Reid's convertible. The Green Hornet stood next to him in the garage, holding the sleeping Marsha Blackwell in his arms. "Okay, Kato, get changed, and I'll go put her on the front doorstep." Kato nodded and the two men went two separate ways.

Kato emerged in the home of publisher Britt Reid in his role of valet. He traded his black uniform for a white coat. He stopped in the kitchen to prepare some hot tea and coffee and to wait. By the time the coffee had begun percolating Britt Reid appeared in the doorway, free of his Green Hornet clothing. Instead, he now wore a gray-blue business suit. The two men nodded silently to each other, then Britt went to the front door to retrieve Marsha Blackwell from the doorstep where he, as the Green Hornet, had sat her just moments earlier.

Britt put Marsha, still unconscious from the gas, on the sofa in his living room. He took a seat in a chair near the sofa and watched for signs of her coming to. Kato brought a tray filled with cups, silver tea and coffee pots, and accessories from the kitchen. He sat the tray on the table near the sofa after pausing to look at Marsha's sleeping form.

"Did you get the license number?" Britt asked quietly, reaching for some coffee.

"No," Kato replied.

Britt shook his head in frustration. "I didn't, either. I was more concerned about her."

Kato left to answer the knock at the door. He let Frank Scanlon in, gesturing toward the living room with a nod of his head in that direction. Frank smiled a thank-you and hurried to where Britt sat. His eyes moved from Britt's face when his peripheral vision caught sight of the woman on the sofa. Frank took a long look at Marsha. She was very young, Frank would guess no more than 22. Her shoulder-length brown hair was unkempt from the ordeal she had endured. Otherwise, her casual jeans and blouse showed no evidence of adventure.

"What happened?" Frank whispered.

"I'll let her tell you," Britt replied, "and I'll fill in anything she leaves out."

Marsha began to stir, regaining consciousness. She opened her eyes quickly, expecting to find herself still with the Green Hornet. Instead, she discovered the warm comforts of Britt's home. She also noticed three men staring intently at her, each with an obvious look of concern. Marsha sat up, shaking her head in an attempt to unite her senses. "Where..."

"You're in my home," Britt replied. "I'm Britt Reid. This is Frank Scanlon, the District Attorney, and my valet, Kato." He gestured to each with the mention of their names.

"Britt Reid? The owner of the Daily Sentinel?" Britt confirmed with a nod of his head. "How did I get here?"

"I came home and found you lying on my doorstep. What's your name?"

"Marsha. Marsha Blackwell."

"Miss Blackwell," Britt said, "don't you remember anything?"

"The last thing I remember..." She stopped as her memory replayed the events of two hours earlier. "The Green Hornet!"

"What?" Frank said.

"Ow!" Marsha said. The combination of the excitement of the day and sleep had delayed the onset of the pain caused by her jump over the bridge rail. Now she was fully awake and fully aware of the injury to her ankle. She reached for the offending ankle, rubbing it while grimacing.

"Are you alright?" Frank asked.

"Yes, sir," Marsha replied. "It's a long story."

"I want to hear all of it," Frank assured her.

"Would you like some coffee or tea, Miss?" Kato offered politely.

"No, thank you." Marsha held her head with her hand as if to organize her thoughts. "I was kidnapped at college today," she started. "I was going to get lunch. A car pulled up and a man jumped out with a gun and pushed me in the back."

"Can you describe them?" Frank asked.

"The man with the gun was slim, dark hair, about six feet tall," Marsha recalled. She struggled to picture the driver, but the only thought in her mind was her thrown rock hitting him in the side of the head. "I didn't get a good look at the driver, sorry."

"That's okay," Britt said. "What about the Green Hornet? You mentioned..."

Marsha chuckled at the mention of the name. "You won't believe me, Mr. Reid."

"Try me."

"Well," Marsha said, "these two men were driving west, out of town. I didn't know what they were going to do, so I stuck my finger in my mouth to make myself sick. They pulled over, and I tried to get away. I hit the driver with a rock I'd picked up from the road, but the other one pulled a gun, so I jumped over a guardrail at an overpass to get away. I must've broken my ankle or something when I landed, but I just lay down and played dead.

"I thought I heard the car leave, but then I heard people again. A man picked me up and carried me under the bridge just before that thunderstorm hit. He had a blanket for me, and asked if I was okay. When he carried me out from under the bridge I saw it was the Green Hornet!"

"Go on," Britt said.

"He put me in his car and drove off with me. He said he wasn't going to hurt me, and he would take me somewhere so I could get to a doctor. I must've fallen asleep in his car. Next thing I know, I'm here."

"Why wouldn't we believe that?" Frank asked.

"He was..." Marsha laughed at the word in her mind. "I never thought I'd hear anyone say this about the Green Hornet, let alone myself. He was absolutely gentlemanly."

Britt and Frank exchanged knowing glances with each other. "I don't find it hard to believe," Frank admitted. He raised his eyebrows and added, "Granted, I find it odd that he picked here to drop you."

"At least you are safe," Britt said, "and we will get you medical attention."

The city room of the Daily Sentinel had the normal low buzz reverberating through the large open space. In addition to the chatter, the occasional ring of a typewriter bell, pecking of the typewriter keys, or low growl of the carriage return echoed above the talk. The most common sound, however, was the rustling of newsprint. Reporters poured over their colleagues' work, offering a word of praise for an exceptional article. The familiar chorus of "Morning, Mr. Reid" began filtering through the room as Britt Reid made his way toward the office door that bore his name and title.

Lenore Case sat at her desk inside her office, glancing through the morning edition of the paper. The story on page one held her interest. "Sister of Famed Jockey Escapes Kidnapping Plot" was the main story. Seeing Britt Reid's name on the byline, Casey, as everyone called her, settled into reading intently. Her attention was distracted from the article when she heard the door to her office open.

"Good morning, Mr. Reid," she smiled.

"Good morning, Miss Case," Britt replied, stopping at her desk.

Casey gestured toward the newspaper on her desk. "I see you were busy yesterday," she commented with a wry smile.

"Busy, and frustrated," Britt said, reaching for the knob to the door that led from his secretary's office to his private office. Casey gathered the paper and followed Britt into the office, closing the door behind them.

"Why frustrated?"

Britt sat behind his desk. He peered through the window that showed Casey's empty outer office. "Marsha Blackwell told the Green Hornet a number of things that she left out of her statement to the District Attorney and the police," he said. "She knows – or I should say suspects – that her brother is tied up in something criminal, which was why she was kidnapped in the first place."

"Why did she hold out on the police?" Casey wondered aloud.

"That's the same question Frank and I asked each other last night," Britt replied.

"If Dusty Blackwell is involved in something," Casey said, "might she be quiet to protect him?"

Britt nodded. "Or, herself. At any rate, we need to find out exactly what Dusty Blackwell is involved in, and with whom. If they're willing to kidnap, my guess is the stakes are high. Very high."

"I was just reading your article," Casey said, holding the paper up for Britt to see. "You know who's going to hate this?"

Britt nodded. "Try to head him off at the pass."

Casey smirked. "You'd need a brick wall to stop him, as mad as he's going to be. The Green Hornet getting positive press? I'm sorry, Mr. Reid. If you want me to stop him, I demand hazard pay. In advance."

Britt chuckled at Casey's joke just as the door to her office flung open. Mike Axford charged in, his face as red as his short hair. Mike was the Sentinel's veteran crime beat reporter. He had two passions: his job, which he loved, and the Green Hornet, whom he loathed.

"Duck," Britt smiled to Casey.

"Boss," Mike said as he entered the publisher's office without a knock or an invitation, "how could you?"

"How could I what, Mike?" Britt asked innocently. Casey hid her face behind the newspaper in her hand to conceal her laugh.

"How could you say that in your article?" Mike unfolded the paper and quoted Britt's article on the Marsha Blackwell kidnapping. "Miss Blackwell reported the Green Hornet released her, unharmed, at my home. She described the notorious criminal's treatment of her as 'gentlemanly'." Mike snapped the paper in disgust.

"Mike," Britt said, taking a seat behind his desk, "there's a basic rule all reporters learn their first day in journalism class. That rule is, 'don't misquote'."

"Yeah, but..."

"Listen, Mike," Britt continued, "I don't like the fact that there are murders committed in this city. But what I like and what my obligation is as the publisher of this paper to our readers are two different things. I can't misquote a source, no matter what my personal feelings are about what the person said." Britt extended his right index finger in Mike's direction. "And I'd better never find out that you misquoted someone because you didn't like what they said. Understand?"

Mike was still furious, but he knew that Britt was correct. "Understood. I'm sorry."

Britt nodded an acceptance. "I know you're angry, Mike, but a good reporter doesn't let his personal feelings get in the way of his job."

"It still burns me up," Mike mumbled.

"I'm not too thrilled about it myself, Mike, but I couldn't tell Miss Blackwell to restate her facts until she gave me a quote I liked, could I?"

Mike waved the paper. "Thanks for letting me rant, Boss." He left in a more subdued manner than he had arrived.

"Anytime, Mike," Britt called as the door to his office started to close. After Mike cleared the outer office door, Britt smiled at Casey. "See, that wasn't so bad."

"You shouldn't have given him any ideas," Casey warned. "He'll probably call Marsha Blackwell and ask her to restate her facts."

"Miss Case," Britt said, refocusing his attention on the previous day's events, "would you contact the sports department and ask them to send up every article they've published on Dusty Blackwell?"

"Yes, sir," she said. She left Britt's office and returned to her desk. Through the window Britt saw her pick up the phone and contact the sports desk. He rocked back in his executive chair. Hopefully the printed past would shed some light on what Dusty Blackwell was involved in.

His given name was Joel, but he picked up his nickname long before he became a jockey. The biography the Sentinel ran on Dusty Blackwell after his first year in horse racing, when he won a state record 156 races, reported that he was christened "Dusty" because he was always dirty as a child. The joke was that the Peanuts comic strip character "Pig Pen" was modeled after him. When he became a jockey, the nickname took on a new meaning: his skill in handling horses, knowing just when and how to coax the best out of the animals, caused him to leave others in his dust on the horse track.

Britt poured over the articles from the Sentinel archives, looking for anything that might provide a clue. He skipped going out for lunch, settling for a sandwich ordered from a nearby deli, to continue his research. Nothing out of the ordinary showed up in the voluminous writings from sports.

A two-week-old article lay near the bottom of the pile. Britt rubbed his eyes to remove the strain before reading the editorial from the sports editor. "What's Wrong with Dusty Blackwell?" the headline read. Britt raised his eyebrows as he picked the article up, leaned back in his chair, and read.

For five years, Dusty Blackwell has owned horse racing in Detroit. Betting against him is like betting against sunshine in Florida, snow in Alaska, or pineapples in Hawaii. Since he burst onto the scene, his name has been synonymous with winning. He was the first – and, to date, only – jockey to win every race at Motor City Downs four days in a row. That's 28 races in a row without a loss. And we thought his rookie season of 156 victories was impressive? He was just warming up.

But this year's spring race meet has been a different story. One is almost tempted to walk up to him and say, "Who are you and what have you done with Dusty Blackwell?" Dusty is still winning, yes, but nowhere near the pace at which he did last year. It's not as though he's getting Francis the Talking Mule as a mount. The horses he's ridden have been champions – Kentucky Derby contenders, Horse of the Year nominees, and colts from the best bloodlines that thoroughbred racing has to offer. Until now, Blackwell made every horse he rode seem as majestic and unbeatable as Man O' War. Now he almost appears to be riding Mister Ed. In fact, if he were racing against Wilbur Post, at Blackwell's current pace I'd bet on Wilbur.

Britt put the article down and reached for the phone located to the right of his desk, hidden out of sight on a corner shelf. He dialed Frank Scanlon's number.

"Scanlon," Frank answered.

"Frank," Britt said, "have you come up with anything on Dusty Blackwell?"

"Nothing," Frank replied. "He's an impeccable young man, very active in the community, and well-liked by everyone in horse racing."

"I just found a sports editorial we ran about two weeks ago," Britt said. "It said his winning rate has dropped dramatically this year."

"Do you have any ideas?"

"Yes," Britt said, "but I don't like it."

"Let's hear it," Frank said. "An idea is better than any facts we have right now, which is nothing."

"Frank, what if someone was bribing – or blackmailing – Dusty to throw races?"

"That thought has crossed my mind," Frank admitted, "but who?"

"Good question," Britt said. "Anyone who was betting against Dusty would make a killing at the windows. And, something has scared Marsha Blackwell into not talking. She didn't tell the police anything." Britt paused for a moment, gazing sadly at the editorial. "I'll tell you what, Frank," Britt said, "I think it's time Dusty was confronted about this. The Green Hornet will pay him a visit tonight."