# 217
The All-Star Legion of America in "The Secret Emperor, Part Seven"
By Mikel Midnight (suggested by a plot from Dashiell Hammett)

Norman Westberg walks through the Washington streets, breathing in the crisp morning air. He smiles to himself, thinking this is perfect morning weather: just a little cold to wake one up and justify the formality of the work jacket, without being so cold as to make one shiver. Still, the morning cup of hot coffee his office girl would have waiting for him, would have an extra fillip of pleasure.

As he comes to within a block of his office, he passes by a vagrant, seated on the sidewalk. His hair is dyed a hideous shade of red, and between his legs is an upturned baseball cap, with what appears to be a half-dollar in small change scattered within it.

A small tzedakah, he thinks to himself, reaching inside his trouser pocket and pulling out a pair of quarters. "Here you go, my friend," he says, as he drops the coins into the cap.

He resumes his walk, peripheral vision barely seeing the shadow which comes from behind him before a baseball bat strikes him on the back of the skull.

Norman Westberg awakens to a dizzying pain in his skull. He tries to move, only to find himself bound to a chair. Someone presses a cup to his lips, and he sips the tepid water as his eyes adjust to their surroundings.

He wrinkles his nose as he sees he is in a basement, illuminated only by a series of small windows at streetside. Assembled before him are an odd collection of men. Three are unshaven, with garishly dyed hair, and haunted expressions on their faces. One is immaculately clean shaven and, unlike the others, apparently unemotionally scarred, though a wool cap is pulled over his head, covering the tops of his ears. The fifth is a boy, barely into his teens, wearing an oversize sweater which he has pulled up over the lower half of his face to conceal his features.

His eyes focus on the largest of the men, and his eyes widen in shock as he recognises the now haggard features. "My god ... you're Captain Tootsie ... "

"You're Norman Westberg," the man says, "Leonidas Doucas' personal assistant. You're going to tell us how to take him down."

"I'm not telling you anything," Westberg says.

Captain Tootsie nods, "I thought as much." He turns his head, "Royal?"

The man walks over to a pile of rags, and takes out a tattered sheet, which he begins to tear into strips. He rolls one into a ball, knots a second one around it, and walks towards Westberg bearing the makeshift gag. Westberg's eyes widen, realising they fully intend to torture him. "Don't ... "

'U.S.' Royal pauses, hands still twisting the sheet into a cord.

Westberg looks down. "Archives are in a fortified house, suburbs of Washington."

"How do we get in?"

Westberg chews his lower lip, and looks up again to see the implacable faces before him. He sighs. "You need a special key ... it's in my jacket pocket ... can't be copied."

'U.S.' Royal raises an eyebrow. "Can't be copied?" He reaches into Westberg's pocket and removes a small case, which he opens to reveal a translucent bauble. He carefully removes it, holding it up the light. "A glass key?"

Westberg nods. "It was designed by Dr. Narsty. I don't really know how it works, but apparently when you insert it into the keyhole and turn, light shines through it, or something, and opens the door and turns off the burglar alarm ... "

Volto raises an eyebrow. "An optical scanner ... fascinating. I didn't realise you Terrans had advanced to that level of technology."

Captain Tootsie says, "Thanks for your cooperation. We're going to go take a look. Mortimer here," he pats the disguised Thom McAn on the shoulder, "is going to keep an eye on you in our absence. If everything is as you say, you won't get hurt." He pauses. "Though you might want to consider another line of work."

R.C. glances out the window. "Captain, we gotta clear out ... Doucas' men are looking for us, you know that."

Westberg turns his head. The young man's expression is paranoid, almost crazed. There is a brief discussion amongst the other Legionnaires, and they file out, eyes alert on their exit.

'Mortimer' jumps down off the crate he is sitting on, and walks over to Westberg. "So," he says, "you know any games?"

Later, a nondescript automobile pulls up to the luxurious house, constructed in the recently fashionable Spanish style. The quartet steps out, and gather at the front gate. An armed guard looks up from the newspaper he is reading in his booth, and raises an eyebrow. "Can I help you guys?" he asks warily, taking in their disheveled appearance.

'U.S.' Royal says, "Yeah ... by taking a nap." He punctuates his final words by slamming the man against the back wall of the booth, knocking him out. Leaning down, he hoists him over his shoulder. "We'll have to tie him up inside, I guess."

Captain Tootsie shrugs, "What's one more?" and the team proceeds to the front door.

Volto removes the glass key carefully from its case, and inserts it into the front door, turning it to the left. There is an electronic hum, followed by a barely audible beep, and the door clicks open. "Presuming Westberg told us the truth," he says, "we have access."

They proceed into the house, which appears empty. "Tie him up," Captain Tootsie says of the guard as 'U.S.' Royal dumps him on the floor by the door. "We're going to search for the archive room, but everyone keep on their toes."

Captain Tootsie tries door after door, and eventually finds his way into what appears to be a reading room. He walks around the library, and thinks to himself for a moment. Finally he scans the titles of the various books. He pulls out a few, skims through them, and returns them to the shelf. His fingers trail across The Gent from Frisco, by Samuel Dashiell and Mary Jane Hammett, and when he withdraws it from the shelf he hears the creak of gears, and a section of the ceiling-level rotates out as hidden door opens. He grins to himself, and passes through the doorway, switching on the light to reveal a small, neatly arranged room, full of metal filing cabinets.

The files are arranged alphabetically, and he quickly moves through the room and sorts through them, pulling out files marked Rushton, Jarboe, Haldorn, or Dolliard.

As he kneels down to rifle through the drawer including Dolliard's name, he comes across a file marked 'Elfinstone.' He recalls the governor who'd resigned his position after a series of scandals, and narrows eyes as he flips through it. "Hootin' zoots," he says to himself, "Doucas was behind that as well?" He reads on, fascinated, and his peripheral vision barely catches a flash of white movement behind him.

He moves more by instinct than deliberation, and throws up an arm to deflect a kick. He attempts to sweep his arm out to catch his opponent and throw them off balance, but they prove too quick and back away. He leaps to his feet just as the room lights are switched off.

While his eyes adjust to the darkness, he remains still, listening for movement, when suddenly a wire cord wraps around his throat. His hands reach up and claw at his neck helplessly, and he kicks backwards, hearing a grunt as his foot connects with flesh. The bind around his throat relaxes enough for him to whirl around and strike out at his opponent with his right fist, and then he finally backs up towards the light switch, illuminating the room and his mysterious foe.

The young woman, beautiful as an Egyptian princess, is clad in a gleaming white pantsuit. She wipes away a trail of blood from her lip. "I didn't know you liked it rough, Thomas."

"Tamar? What are you doing here?"

"I live here," she snorts. "You, however, don't. Given your current reputation as a sneak thief, along with that of the rest of your team, I'm not surprised to see you here, continuing your persecution of my father."

His deep-set copper eyes widen, and he finds himself still capable of astonishment. After a moment, he simply shakes his head. "I'm going to gather the All-Star Legion and head out. We have the information we need."

She grins, "It's not that simple, I'm afraid. You turned out tougher than the rest of them. They're currently being watched over by the guard whom my father rescued after you assaulted him."

He sighs. "It's to be quid pro quo then, is that what you're asking for?"

"I think it's time for you and my father to air your grievances."

He prepares to follow her out of the room. "Lead on, then."

She guides him to a study, where in a large red chair he sees a man whose ball-round face suggests an Egyptian drawing.

"Good-afternoon, Captain."

TO BE CONCLUDED ...