Chapter One
Stone walls concealed the grounds behind them. Only the trees and a few tall bushes were visible from the street. The wrought iron gate, the one spot that permitted any visibility into the fortified property, provided sight of a blacktop drive and a guard house but little else. Privacy was the rule at this home, and posted signs, complete with warnings about armed patrols enforcing that rule, clarified anything that the other not so subtle indicators might leave in doubt.
A black car stopped at the gate. The guard on duty saw the green headlights and pushed a button on a control panel just below the window. The iron gate slid to the right on a track. The guard stuck his hand out the window and motioned the car through. He watched the car pass without any direct glance at the occupants. After the car cleared the gate the guard pushed the button that electronically sealed the driveway. He then picked up a phone and punched a button. When the other end connected he said, "The Green Hornet is here."
The Black Beauty, the nickname of the sedan, came to a stop in front of a two-story home. The drive made a semi-circle in front of the house to allow for easy access to the front door. The doors were solid oak, situated in the center of the house. White columns on either side stood guard across the front. In the twilight the lights behind velvet curtains indicated which rooms were occupied.
The car's left rear door opened and the Green Hornet emerged from the back seat. He stood tall, dressed in a green overcoat, fedora, and mask. Even though his face was partially concealed by the mask, he still easily projected an expression that intimidated.
Equally intimidating was Kato Ikano, the chauffeur dressed completely in black, including the mask on his face. He was shorter than the Hornet, and slighter in build, but what he lacked in stature he more than adequately compensated for with his blinding speed in the martial art of gung fu.
Kato joined the Hornet on the path that led to the front door. The Hornet's gloved finger pressed the doorbell. From behind the doors the men heard the chimes ringing the tune from Big Ben in the Tower of London.
A man between Kato's and the Hornet's heights answered the door. No words were exchanged. The man, dressed in a dark brown business suit, stepped back from the opened space to allow the Hornet and Kato to enter. Once inside the foyer, they waited while the man shut the door behind them. He then motioned with his index finger for the masked men to follow. The threesome walked past a staircase to double doors that stretched nearly the entire height of the wall. The man knocked on the door. "Come in," came the call from the other side of the doors, clearly audible in spite of the imposing size of the doors. The man opened the door, standing with his hand on the knob and his back against the door as the Hornet and Kato walked past. After they cleared the door the man walked out, closing the door and turning his body to keep his back against the door as he left.
The room was decorated as a library. Most of three of the walls in the room were lined with bookcases. Furniture consisted mainly of sofas situated in L shapes in the corners near the doors, forming squares on two sides with the bookcases. The wall opposite the door was filled with windows and a patio door that led to a porch outside. Directly in front of the door was an oak desk, behind which stood Harold Morrison. The man was attired in a brown three piece suit, the vest a slightly lighter shade of brown than the jacket and trousers. Morrison's face carried wrinkles and scars from age and experience. His hair showed black losing a battle with gray for dominance.
"Good evening, Hornet," he smiled with an extended hand. "I'm very happy you accepted my invitation." The Hornet shook Morrison's hand as a formality. The leather glove on the Hornet's right hand bothered Morrison, as did the cold expression on the lips. "May I offer you a drink?" Morrison asked robotically, gesturing to a bar sitting below a large mirror on the wall to the Hornet's right.
"I'm here for business, Morrison, not a cocktail party," the Hornet replied curtly. "Why did you ask for me?"
The short, stinging answer and tone slightly surprised Morrison. He gave a quick thought to the connection between the insect and the attitude of the man who concealed his identity by naming himself after that insect. Much like a buzzing hornet, the man annoyed Morrison. "All business, eh?" Morrison said. "I like that." Morrison sank into the chair behind his desk. The two masked men stood in front, silently refusing the gestured offer of seats. "That's exactly why I contacted you. You are all business. I know your reputation, and you're very much like me. I pick my associates very carefully, and I want you to be one of those associates."
"For what?"
"I have a friend who is planning to move his operation here this week. I want to be able to pick and choose the partners for this new venture. And, of course, to keep the cops out of it." Morrison's tone turned suddenly angry. "I don't want to do all the hard work and then have some two-bit hood try to muscle in on the fruits of our labor."
"And how does that involve me?"
Morrison opened the top left drawer in his desk. "I need you to run 'interference', so to speak. I want you to keep anyone from learning about our impending set-up, and keep them from trying to interrupt it."
"And what's in it for me?"
Morrison pulled a bulky manila envelope out of the drawer and laid it on the desk directly in front of the Hornet. "Once we're up and running, your part will be one million dollars for your services." Morrison gestured toward the envelope. "Here's five thousand dollars as a 'thank-you' for listening to my proposition. I want you to think it over, then come back tomorrow evening – shall we say, same time – with your answer."
The Hornet picked the envelope up. "Tomorrow," he said, "same time." He turned and left, Kato right behind him.
Morrison went to the patio door and watched. He saw the Black Beauty pull away from the house. He returned to his desk and pressed an intercom button. "Yes?" came a man's voice over the speaker.
"Did you get what you need?" Morrison asked, looking toward the mirror as if he were talking to his reflection.
"I got everything."
"Can you start tonight?"
"Give me about an hour, and I'll be ready."
A sadistic smile crossed Morrison's face, which reflected back to him from the mirror. "By the end of the week," he announced into the intercom, "the Green Hornet will be either dead or in jail, and we'll be a million dollars richer."
Kato saw the puzzled expression on the Green Hornet's face when he looked in the rear view mirror. Since leaving Morrison's house neither man had said anything. The Hornet held the manila envelope in his hands, glancing at the package occasionally. He had briefly checked the contents to ensure that nothing menacing, such as explosives, was inside. Five stacks of money, neatly bundled together with paper seals, were the only occupants of the envelope.
The third time Kato saw the Hornet's head shake was enough. "What's wrong?" he asked, the Asian accent of his childhood permeating his flawless English.
"Everything's wrong, Kato," the Hornet sighed. "Harold Morrison doesn't need me to 'run interference' for him. He's got plenty of muscle men for that."
"What was that meeting about, then?" Kato asked, balancing his gaze between the road and the mirror.
"That's even more puzzling. Morrison's never paid up front for anything." The Hornet turned a light on in the back seat. He dumped the contents of the envelope into the empty seat next to him. The Hornet picked up one of the packets of money that tumbled out, removed the seal, and thumbed through the one hundred dollar bills. Something caught his eye, so he held the bill that piqued his interest up to the light. After a moment of examination he said, "This bill's counterfeit!"
"Counterfeit?" Kato repeated. "I thought Morrison was a money laundering and political graft man."
"He is, but apparently he's branching out." The Hornet shoved the bills back into the envelope.
"Any chance Morrison might not know it's counterfeit?" Kato asked.
"When it comes to money, Harold Morrison does everything except memorize the serial numbers."
Three stacks of one hundred dollar bills sat on the desk in Britt Reid's townhouse den. The piles were of varying heights, secured together with rubber bands. A microscope also sat on the desk, curiously out of place in the den of a newspaper publisher. The den was populated with the two residents of the house. Britt was a handsome man with dark hair, soft blue eyes, and a solid build. He sat behind the desk while his Asian valet Kato stood nearby. Like Britt, he had handsome facial features. Unlike Britt, who was casually attired, Kato wore a white formal serving jacket and black bow tie.
"Are these the only real ones?" Britt asked, tapping the smallest stack of money.
Kato nodded. "Only five were real."
An alarm sounding in the den abruptly interrupted the discussion. The noise was not a stereotypical buzzer, bell, or siren; rather, more of a synthesized tone. Unless someone knew what the tone was, it would be impossible to label the sound as a warning.
"Scanlon," Britt said. He spun around in his chair to face the built-in bookcases behind his desk and tilted three different tomes out, one at a time, at a 45 degree angle. He then turned to watch the fireplace and mantle rise. Behind the fireplace, a small cage-like elevator descended as the wall rose. A man was inside the device, holding to the sides until the elevator stopped. A step, made of the same silver steel as the elevator, automatically popped out as the device came to a halt. The man inside waited for the step to discharge from beneath the floor of the cage before getting off. Once the man stepped inside the den, Britt returned the books to their upright position. The cage simultaneously ascended as the fireplace wall dropped.
Frank Scanlon was once so astonished by the concealed elevator that permitted him to sneak into Britt Reid's home that he would stand in amazed silence and watch the device engage. He still had a healthy respect for the way Kato had rigged the elevator, and would still occasionally comment on it or any of the other devices the young Korean scientist created. This was not one of those nights, however, for compliments. Frank's face showed concern.
Because Britt was behind the desk, Kato reached Frank first. "Mr. Scanlon," he said, politely offering his hand.
"Good evening, Kato," Frank said. After warmly shaking Kato's hand, Frank turned to Britt. "Good evening." After the two men broke their handshake Frank emitted a nervous chuckle. "'Good evening'," he said sarcastically. "Boy is that a misnomer!"
Frank and Britt were approximately the same height, but Frank's build was slighter than Britt's. He wore glasses, usually for reading. Even at the late hour he was dressed in a dark gray business suit.
"I'll say," Britt agreed. He gestured to the money on his desk near the microscope.
"What's that?" Frank asked.
"Counterfeit money," Britt replied. "Forty five hundred dollars' worth."
Frank's concern shifted to the money. He accepted a bill from Britt. "This is real," Britt said. Frank removed his glasses and stared carefully at the one hundred dollar bill. As Frank inspected the money, Britt pulled a bill from the second pile. "This one," he said, drawing Frank's attention from his study of the first dollar, "is obviously fake."
Frank nodded almost immediately upon examining the second sample. "Yes, I can see," he confirmed. "I think a 5-year-old could do better."
"Agreed. But, look at this." Britt handed Frank a bill from the largest of the three stacks. Frank examined the bill without his glasses, then put his glasses on to examine the money. After a few seconds of inspection he removed the glasses again, then held the money in question in his left hand while holding the genuine bill in his right. Finally he shrugged. "I can't tell," he said in resignation. "It looks real."
"It's not," Britt said. "Look at it under the microscope. You'll see the slightest difference in the paper fiber."
"Where did you get this?"
"Harold Morrison," Britt replied.
"Morrison? The king of money laundering and graft is moving into counterfeiting?"
"Could be," Britt replied. "He said he has an associate moving into town this week. He paid the Green Hornet five thousand to just listen to an offer."
"Forty five hundred of which was in counterfeit hundred dollar bills," Kato added.
"Well," Frank said with a slight smile, "we'll just turn this over to the Secret Service. Counterfeiting is their department."
"What are you going to tell them, Frank? The Green Hornet paid his light bill with one of these phony hundreds?"
The hint of a smile disappeared from Frank's face. "You're right."
"Anyway, Morrison's got something else up his sleeve. He doesn't need the Green Hornet for muscle, so why did he invite him out for a 'meeting'? And, if he's moving a counterfeit ring in from out of town and the feds move in now, the counterfeiters stay out of town – and free. Let's sit on this for a while, Frank. I want to see exactly what he's up to, and why he's involving the Green Hornet."
"Speaking of the Green Hornet," Frank said, a concerned expression on his face and in his voice. "The main reason I came over was so you would hear this from a friend and not page one of the Daily Sentinel tomorrow. About a half an hour ago, a woman living near Branch Park was beaten and stabbed. She told police her attacker was the Green Hornet."
The same eyes that had shot cold steel in Harold Morrison's direction from behind a green mask three hours earlier now stared at the city District Attorney with a pained glare.
Green Hornet Attacks Woman blared across the width of page one of the Daily Sentinel in angry black letters. The article featured several paragraphs detailing the shock and fury the police felt toward the perpetration of the crime. The information about the victim included the good news that she was expected to survive her injuries.
Lenore Case hated the headline. Britt Reid's secretary was "Casey" to everyone. She was a pretty young woman with dark blond hair who normally had a ready smile. The smile was nowhere to be found as she poured over the article. The news was difficult to digest. To compound the ill feeling in Casey's stomach, crime reporter Mike Axford paced back and forth in Casey's office like a caged tiger waiting to be released so he could devour something.
Mike was red headed, but the stereotypical anger only manifested itself when the subject of the city's most notorious criminal arose. Mike had worked for the Sentinel since Britt's father hired him to cover crime. He was older now, and in many ways a relic of the bygone days of newspaper publishing. What Mike lacked in modern know-how he more than compensated for with passion for his job and a desire to see criminals get the justice they deserved.
"Mike," Casey said with a tone of frustration, "would you please sit down? You're creating a breeze every time you walk by."
Mike pointed to the closed door to his left. "Where's Britt?" he scowled.
Probably home, trying to avoid your ranting, Casey thought to herself. The last thing Britt needs right now is you piling on like a football player. She held her thought, however, and shrugged. "He's probably doing a few errands before he comes in. He's a big boy, Mike. He doesn't have to report everything he does to you OR me."
Casey's door opened and Britt Reid walked in. He had the morning edition of the Sentinel under his right arm. Usually he had a smile for his secretary, but not this morning. Casey hardly expected him to be in a cheery mood. "Good morning, Mr. Reid," she said quietly.
"Morning, Miss Case," he said. Their eyes made contact. Casey's were emanating sympathy, while Britt's clearly said he did not want to deal with Mike. He put his hand on the doorknob that separated his private office from his secretary's and turned it without acknowledging Mike's presence. Whether he spoke to Mike would not matter, and Britt knew that. He heaved a sigh before walking into his office. Mike followed without an invitation.
Britt reached his desk, but did not sit down. "Not this early in the morning, Mike," he pleaded.
"You wanna hear something?" Mike said. He put his index finger on the headline of the paper Britt had laid on his desk. "The scuttlebutt around the district station is that the officers are taking up a collection. Whoever gets the Green Hornet gets the money."
"That's nice," Britt mused. "We're resorting to vigilante justice? Mercenary police? That's the last thing we need from our police force."
"But, Boss…"
"Mike," Britt said, taking a deep breath to compose himself. He had spent most of the morning commute to work rehearsing the speech he was about to make. "Let me remind you of something. We still have a judicial system that is governed by a rule that we call 'innocent until proven guilty'. That goes for everyone, including the Green Hornet."
"Why are you sticking up for that creep?" Mike snapped. "Especially after he sinks to a new low, even for him?"
"Because I'm not sure it was the Green Hornet," Britt replied, trying to maintain his composure against Mike's tirade.
"You're not sure? That poor woman he brutalized was sure!"
"This doesn't fit his M.O. With all that sophisticated weaponry you say he has, why would he resort to something as primitive as a knife? And, he's a big stakes money criminal. Where's his financial gain in attacking a woman?"
"But Boss," Mike attempted to interject.
"Mike, you could come in here in a mask and green coat and be accused of being the Green Hornet. That doesn't mean you are, does it?"
Mike paused for a moment to consider his boss's rationale, but his anger continued unabated. He hurried for the door. "If he survives getting caught," he said, "I'll volunteer to throw the switch!" Mike closed the door behind him, surprisingly not slamming it.
Britt sank into his chair. He stared at the headline on page one almost as if staring at it long enough would make the words disappear from the paper. When he finally looked away he saw Casey at her desk, watching through the window that separated their offices. Britt motioned for her with his finger. As if she had been waiting to be summoned into the office she left her desk and entered Britt's office, closing the door behind her. By the time she entered the office Britt's eyes were back on the story his paper had published.
Casey said nothing, but went to where her employer sat. She put her hand on his shoulder, an unusual move on her part. Britt was slightly surprised and looked quickly up at her. She managed a smile of comfort, which Britt found himself struggling to return. "What a horrible thing to be accused of," Casey said quietly. "I can't imagine how you feel about this."
Britt found a smile easier to produce after Casey spoke. "Thanks, Casey," he said equally softly. "You're right, it's rough. Fortunately, Scanlon stopped by last night and warned me this was coming."
"Do you have any idea who it is?" Casey asked.
"Not who, and not why," Britt replied. "And, if this isn't bad enough, Harold Morrison is up to something. What, I don't know."
"Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Thanks, Miss Case, but not right now."
"If you need to talk…" Casey let her smile finish the sentence for her. She left Britt's office and returned to her desk. As she sat down she took another look through the window, trying to soothe the pain she felt for Britt. Mike Axford had verbally crucified the Green Hornet countless times in Britt's presence with no clue that he was talking to the man behind the mask when he made his verbal assaults. Mike's attacks had always rolled off Britt's back effortlessly. This time, however, was different.