Smashed desks, overturned filing cabinets, strewn plaster, gaping holes in the walls, shining steel fixtures drooping in sad caricature of their former modernistic splendor, greeted the startled Detective Sergeant's eyes, as he swung open the office door to the firm Harvey Brown, Patent Attorney.
A quivering wreck of a man arose from the floor, stridently shrieked, "He can't do this to me! Get him! Arrest him!"
Sergeant Blake surveyed the fellow's torn clothing. mussed hair, and blackened eyes once again speechlessly regarded the carnage in the room. "What in blazes has happened here?" he roared, finding his voice at last, "A cyclone?"
"Cyclone, nothing!" exclaimed he trembling man. "Worse! I've just had a visit from Cerulean."
"Cerulean!" The word burst from Blake's lips with the force of an explosion.
"Yes! He claimed I've stolen my client's inventions. After he wrecked the place, he warned me that if I didn't go out of business, he'd come back and finish the job! I demand..." Brown halted his tirade. The Detective Sergeant was no longer in the room.
The remaining members of the riot squad were taken aback to see their superior officer come hurting out into the hall at full tilt.
"Quick!" shouted Blake. "Seen anyone since I charged into the room?
"No one." volunteered a puzzled officer. "That is, no one except a man in a strange costume who asked what the trouble was, when stepped into the elevator."
A howl of baffled rage left the Sergeant as he sprang to the wall and desperately jabbed the elevator button. "Fools!" he roared. "That was Cerulean."
Concerted cries left the policemen. "Cerulean ... and he's in that elevator! ...What'll
we do?"
Blake seized the hand of one of his men, and shoved it against the button. "Keep that pressed down for a full three minutes, Mooney, — or I'll have your badge — you others, come with me."
Blake dashed toward the nearby stairway, followed by his men. As they clattered down at top speed, he explained "Fortunately, the elevator is automatically operated by the push-buttons on the various floors. As long as Mooney presses the button, Cerulean is trapped. And when the three minutes are up, and he gets off at the bottom floor, we'll be ready for him."
Two minutes later found the policemen arrayed before the first floor entrance to the elevator, guns out, all eyes strained on the indicator which showed that the car was stalled somewhere between the second and the first floor. Triumph blazed in Sergeant Blake's eyes. Visions of a pat on the back from the Commissioner, a promotion in rack, and a boost in salary, dangled tantalizingly in his mind.
"Careful, men!" he warned the officers grouped about him. "We've prayed for this break for months and now that it's come, we don't want to muff it. He was seen going into that elevator... and he's bound to come out of that door any moment!"
"That's what bothers me,"muttered someone. "What'll we do when he does emerge?"
Another man said, "Our guns are useless against him!"
"Nonsense!" retorted Sergeant Blake. "All we've got to do is keep cool, and we've got him."
But his glib comeback didn't satisfy even the Detective Sergeant himself. There were some very wild tales about this fellow who called himself Cerulean. He was said to be a modern Robin Hood... a person who had dedicated his existence to assisting the weak and oppressed. It was whispered that he possessed super-strength, could lift tremendous weights, smash steel with his bare hands, jump over buildings, and that nothing could penetrate his amazingly super-tough skin. But, of course, pondered the Sergeant, these were mere rumors, fantastic fairy tales. Probably Cerulean was just an ordinary person whose better than average strength had been immensely exaggerated Without a doubt!
Nevertheless, the hardboiled cop couldn't prevent an apprehensive shiver from creeping up his spine.
Suddenly, the arrow on the indicator began to move. The three minutes were up. Mooney had released the button, and the elevator was descending. A heartbeat later, the door to the elevator swung open even as the fingers of the police tensed on their gun triggers ...
A hesitant, alarmed voice broke the silence: "My word. Look at all those guns."
Out of the elevator stepped a slim, nervous figure dressed in a blazer, a white-collared shirt, trousers, and a necktie. A brown fedora sat on top of his head . Meek eyes blinked fearfully behind thick-rimmed glasses.
From somewhere behind him, the dumbfounded Detective Sergeant heard a smothered titter. Blake's face reddened. "Where' s Cerulean?" he shouted at the mouse-like young man who stood before him, "What in all that's holy are you doing in that elevator?"
"I was just — er — descending to the lobby, when something apparently went wrong with the mechanism. I'll admit I was terrified for a few moments but ..."
"Answer me!" thundered Blake. "Did you see a man in a strange uniform in that elevator?"
"No one at all ... that is, except myself. I'm afraid there must be some mistake, Sergeant. I'm Craig Crent, reporter on the Daily Record."
"But Cerulean was seen to enter the elevator by one of my men. How do you explain that?"
Craig shrugged. "It's beyond me," he said. "Possibly your man was high-strung, or had an over active imagination."
A loud laugh went up at this. The Detective Sergeant whirled to face his men, his features registering keen disappointment. "I guess that it was just a false alarm, at that. Let's head back for headquarters to turn in a report."
"I say, that's odd," interrupted Crent. "I was just about to go to police headquarters myself in search of a story. Do you mind if I accompany you?"
Later as they sped through the streets with the squad car, Craig learned that people adjoining Brown's office had telephoned for a police car complaining of a terrific rumpus going on in the Patent Attorney's office ... and how Blake had expected Cerulean to emerge from the elevator.
"Very amusing," chuckled Craig. "It'll make a good feature article for the Daily Record."
"Hold on," bellowed Blake in protest. "You can't print that. It would make me look like a sap. — Don't print it and maybe someday I'll return the favor."
The reporter shrugged." Well, if you feel that strongly about it, I'll forget the yarn... temporarily."
The conversation was cut short as they parked before the police station. As they emerged from the car an officer rushed up and exclaimed to Blake, "Have you heard? Biff Dugan has just been captured."
A happy grin quickly chased the glum expression from the Detective Sergeant.'s face. Biff was a long-sought murderer who had been eluding the law for months. "I knew we'd catch up with that rat," Blake chuckled.
Swift strides hurried Blake and Crent into the station. A few moments later the prisoner, an ugly hulking brute who sullenly refused to talk, stood before them.
"Thought you could evade the law, did you? demanded the sergeant. "Well, maybe you know better now."
Craig tugged at Blake's sleeve. "Remember, Sergeant, you offered to do me a favor. I'd like to take you on that up now."
Suspiciously, Blake inquired, "What?"
"Allow me to interview the prisoner in private."
"And what," asked Blake, "is wrong with interviewing him right here in front of me?"
"You can see he's in no mood to talk. Perhaps if I could speak to him alone..."
"Are you loony? It's against regulations. It's..."
Craig smiled tauntingly. "If I can't have this interview, I'll have to write up a certain other story one about a dumb detective who had his men surround that an elevator in the hope..."
"Wait!" cried Blake. "You can have that interview." He added ominously, "But if anything happens to the prisoner you'll be held personally responsible."
Minutes later in an adjoining room, Craig was occupied with the task of prying replies from a glum prisoner when there came a knocking at the room's door.
Crent turn from the prisoner. He opened the door slightly. It was Blake. He demanded, "Is the prisoner still there?"
"Naturally," replied Craig exasperated. "See for yours..." Abruptly Crent's words were choked off in a gasp of astonishment. Alarmed, the sergeant burst into the room. In one glance he saw the reporter's hand pointing towards an open window and no sight of Dugan anywhere.
"He's escaped!" exclaimed Craig.
Sergeant Blake roared with rage, seized the frail reporter and shook him angrily. "You—" he choked. "It's your fault. This makes you an accessory after the fact."
The Detective Sergeant wasn't sure what happened next. One moment he was shaking a fear-struck reporter, next instant he was whirling up in the air as though caught in the grip of a hurricane. He struck the wall, uttered a groan, and lapsed into unconsciousness.
Craig look at the Sergeant's recumbent figure and muttered, "Sorry, but I haven't time to use kid gloves." Quickly, and with amazing rapidity, he stripped off his glasses and outer garments revealing himself clad in a weird close-fitting costume of blue. In this apparel it was apparent he was really possessed with a fine physique of breathtaking symmetry.
One lithe leap brought him to the windowsill. There he paused while his keen telescopic vision surveyed the vicinity. Then, as he sighted the figure of Biff scrambling into a parked car he jumped out into space.
Out — out —sped the fantastic figure ... his mighty muscles launching him across an incredible distance. The car was a full three hundred yards away, but Cerulean smashed down on to the gravel before it just as the car's gears engaged and it leapt ahead.
Within the car, Dugan snarled. This solitary figure which had hurtled down from nowhere... it alone stood between him and escape. He pressed the accelerator down to the limit with the intention of smashing into the body crushing it beneath the car's wheels. The vehicle responded and struck the figure with a crash. But instead of being flown beneath the wheels, Cerulean held his ground and actually kept the roaring machine from moving.
Astounded by this, he threw the clutch into reverse but again he was treated to an exhibition of super-strength. Having seized the front bumper, the cyan sentinel, prevented the automobile from backing up.
Shriek of sheer horror tore from Dugan's throat. Frantically he flung open the door of the car and sprang out only to find himself facing Cerulean's grim figure.
Half mad with fright, he leapt at Cerulean seeking to fight his way past, but it was like punching a stone wall. His fists encountered flesh as hard as metal and his knuckles fractured. Suddenly Biff was possessed with but one desire, to flee, to get away from this indestructible demon of wrath. He whirled and raced off with all his might, screeching at the top of his lungs only to have arms of steel encircle him from behind. There was a pressure at the back of his neck. Then Dugan passed out.
#
Sergeant Blake awoke to find Craig Crent kneeling beside him. He felt his forehead groggily and then suddenly remembered what had happened. He seized the reporter by his shirt. "You're under arrest," he shouted.
"For what?" inquired Crent.
"For aiding Biff Dugan to escape, and ..."
Craig pointed to a figure huddled on the floor nearby. "Before you say anymore look over there."
Blake looked, blinked uncomprehendingly, and exclaimed, "Dugan! But how?"
"All I know," replied Craig, "is a man wearing a strange costume jumped onto the windowsill, tossed Biff in, and leapt away."
The Detective Sergeant sprang erect and let go of Craig. "Do you realize who that must have been? Cerulean."
Craig eyes widened. "Gosh! I guess you're right."
"You know," grudgingly admitted Sergeant Blake, "sometimes I think Cerulean isn't such a bad guy, at that. But," he hastily amended, "don't think that doesn't mean I won't arrest him the moment I get my hands on him."
"Let's hope you get within reaching distance," said Craig.
Detective Sergeant Blake cast a quick suspicious glance at the reporter. For a moment he fancied that he detected a trance of mockery in Crent's voice. But Craig's visage was completely solemn.