The Yellow Ghost 2

BRITISH COMICS

THE YELLOW GHOST

Last episode taken from Adventure No. 1094 - November 20th 1943.

The Invisible Spy’s last vanishing trick!

THE VANISHING LEGS

It was the dark hour immediately before dawn, and the streets of San Francisco were usually deserted, but in one of the best parts of the city a speeding taxi cab careered down the centre of the thoroughfare, and another had just started from outside a hotel. “Catch up with the other one and keep right behind it,” shouted Commander Blyth, to the astonished driver of this second car.

“If you see either of the doors open, stop at once. The passengers in there may try to jump out. Hurry! I’m connected with the police.” Thus encouraged, the man started off at a terrific pace, Blyth clinging to the side. He did not pretend to waste time getting in. Commander Blyth belonged to the British Naval Intelligence service, and because of his intimate knowledge of the Japs, their language and their customs, he had been lent to help the American G-men in their war against spies on the Californian coast. It was when disguised as a Jap that he had attended several meetings of the enemy agents, and had first heard of the Yellow Ghost, a man who could come and go invisibly. The Yellow Ghost had been to the Commander’s hotel to try to get back some notes about the United States latest submarine, but had failed in this, and had narrowly avoided Blyth’s clutches. The Commander believed him to be in the taxi ahead, but it was hard to be certain with such a tricky foe. The driver of the leading taxi did not know he had a fare. He was in such a panic that his one thought was to get away from the place where there was talk of invisible spies. He did not care where he went as long as he covered a great deal of distance. One behind the other, they roared through the centre of the city, and one or two night traffic men joined in on their motor cycles. “Can you head that taxi into a narrow street and stop it?” Blyth shouted to them. “I’m working with Captain O’Brien on a spy case.” Away went the motor cyclists, sounding their sirens and crowding the leading taxi in at a corner so closely that it nearly collided with a post. The driver, already shaky, tried to get out on to the crown of the road once more, but overdid the turn, and scraped the curve on the other side. There was a tremendous skid, the taxi rammed a wall, and came to a sudden halt. Broken glass tinkled everywhere. Blyth’s man jammed on his brakes and came to a rest not ten yards away. As Commander Blyth jumped down he saw the door on the near side of the wrecked taxi open, and a pair of legs got out. The Yellow Ghost had caught one edge of his cloak in a lift at the hotel, and in consequence his legs from the knees down were visible. It looked as though a pair of detached legs went sprinting down the side road at high speed. The traffic cops were so astounded that they forgot to follow. Not so Commander Blyth. Wishing he had a gun with which to shoot, he started in pursuit. The Jap was in perfect training, and ran well. Commander Blyth could not catch him up, but he held his own. He forced himself on, for he feared he was nearing the last chapter of his clash with the Yellow Ghost. He already knew the man was planning to get out of the country and make contact with a Jap seaplane somewhere off the coast. There was not a soul ahead. One of the motor cyclist police at last surged forward and overtook Blyth. “What in heck is it?” he demanded. “Yellow—Ghost—invisible!” panted Blyth. “Take me on the back and overtake those legs. We’ve got to get him.”

The next moment he was on the pillion and racing towards the running legs. The Jap faltered as he looked round, but only those legs were visible. He must have seen what was coming, and he knew he could not outdistance the motor cycle. Instead, he swerved on to the pavement, and the half legs dangled for a moment in the air some feet above the level of the ground. As the motor cycle screeched to a standstill, Commander Blyth realised the fugitive had leapt to grasp the crossbar of a sign hanging outside a shop. The British officer was only a few yards behind, but as he grabbed for the dangling legs, they were lifted up beyond his reach. The Jap had heaved himself on to the crossbar and was now standing to reach a window sill. He was a trained acrobat. “Shoot him!” bawled Blyth. “Bring him down from there. You can see where he is by his legs. Shoot!” The motor cyclist cop raised his revolver, but there was a mighty shattering of glass as the window went in. The yellow Ghost had dived into the room. They saw his legs kick in the air for one moment where they vanished. It was a grocer’s shop, and the family must have lived above their business premises, for there came shouts of alarm and screams from the house. The invisible intruder had wakened them hours before their usual time. “He’ll try to get to the back into another road,” puffed Blyth. “Is there a quick way through?” The policeman knew the neighbourhood, and pointed to a narrow passage between two of the buildings. Once more Commander Blyth forced himself to run, and he found that he had arrived at the rear of the row of shops in which the grocer’s was situated. The grey light of dawn was just beginning to glimmer in the sky. A shadow caught his eye. He heard an empty box dislodged, and glimpsed the two ghostly legs emerged from a gateway. The Yellow Ghost had done as expected. He had cut through in the hope of shaking off his pursuers. Blyth’s instinct was to dash straight for him, but he checked himself in time, flattening to the fence where it was darkest. The Jap was evidently looking this way and that to see if he was being followed. Like Blyth, he had had enough of running, and when the legs turned to the left, they went at walking pace. Commander Blyth signalled to the motor cyclist cop to keep back. He wanted to handle this in his own way. Swiftly but silently he followed the invisible spy, guided by those half-legs in the dawn gloom. Salt air blew in his face as they neared a corner, and he realised they had been heading towards the bay all this time. There was water ahead, and boats. It was a part of the harbour where many craft were kept. Too late he realised it would be a mistake to let the Yellow Ghost get amongst these. He started to run, but was heard. The legs did likewise, and flitted round the corner on to a shingly beach. Five minutes earlier it would have been too dark to have seen anything, but now Blyth made out those same legs descending on to a rakish-looking launch which lay alongside. Some deep-water fishermen were preparing to go out to their fishing grounds. Their short ladder had given the Jap his chance. He was now down on their deck, and the legs suddenly vanished. Commander Blyth guessed what had happened. Knowing there was a torn portion of his cloak which betrayed his whereabouts, the Yellow Ghost had sat down in such a way that the rest of the cloak completely draped the exposed portion. He was now as invisible as he had ever been, but accommodation was very limited aboard the launch. There was only a fish well, a cockpit, and the covered deck. Blyth started to run, and as he did so the high power motor roared. The fishermen were starting for their morning trip, little knowing they had an extra passenger aboard. “Hi, hi, stop! Come back!” roared Blyth. “Hullo, there! Stop!” The noise of the motor drowned all else. The fishermen did not even look behind them. They did not know they were being hailed.

TRACKED BY AIR

Commander Blyth turned with a groan of disgust to find the same traffic cop beside him. “Is there another launch we can grab to overhaul that one?” he asked. “The Jap’s aboard there. I saw him for a few seconds. If we overhaul the craft there’s no place he can hide, and if he jumped over the side he will become visible.”

The policeman glanced up and down the waterfront, then shouted the enquiry to an old fellow who was repairing a sail. “No, that’s the Maga, the fastest craft around here,” replied the old-timer. “You’ll find nothin’ to overhaul her. That’s Jem Rivers’ boat.” “Where does he go for his fishing?” shouted Blyth. “Round off Point Reyes!” yelled back the other, with a vague wave to the north. “He always goes there.” “Will he touch land before he gets there?” questioned the British officer. The man shook his head, and Blyth turned to the policeman. “Maybe I can get the loan of a seaplane from the naval base to chase out there. Even if the launch get there first, he’ll still be aboard. There’s no way he can get off, except by swimming. Where’s the nearest phone?” The sun was rising and throwing the departing launch into relief as it sped towards the exit from the bay. The policeman directed Blyth to a phone, and before long he had located Captain O’Brien, with whom he had been collaborating. The G-man had been searching the house of the Chinese merchant where they had recently so nearly cornered the Yellow Ghost. He was delighted to hear there was still a chance of preventing the spy leaving the country. Tired as he was, he declared he was coming on the chase as well, and told Blyth to meet him over at the slipway from which the naval planes operated in that locality. He would be able to arrange for the use of one of these. Yawning, but refreshed by the sunlight, Commander Blyth covered the six miles to the seaplane base on the back of the same policeman’s motor cycle. He found O’Brien already there, talking with two pilots who were to take them up in an amphibian which was already warming up its two motors. Before long they were in the small cabin, and were coasting over the sheltered waters of the bay for their take-off. By this time the fishing launch had gone right out of sight, and was doubtless nearing Point Reyes. In the aircraft it would be a matter of minutes only to overhaul it. Blyth and O’Brien had decided what they were going to do when they came up with it. Over and over again the Yellow Ghost had slipped through their net. This time they would try new methods. There seemed no way of retreat for the desperate man they were hunting. Success would be assured if they were cautious and careful. When the spy had boarded the Maga, he had not even been armed. So the seaplane skimmed the St Rafael side of the bay and cut across the wide promontory that divided it from the Pacific. There were scores of craft to be seen down there, of all sizes, and around Point Reyes a large number were congregated, both with lines and nets in action. It was evidently a favourite spot for fishing. The seaplane came low over the sea, which was somewhat choppy.

Commander Blyth kept his eyes open, and suddenly pointed. “There she goes! She’s faster than all the others. See her cutting along, and leaving a white wake?” The airmen nodded, but they did not at once swoop in that direction. They knew the Yellow Ghost would be watching the aircraft, and did not want him to know immediately that he was being pursued from aloft. Thanks to her speed, the launch had almost reached the outskirts of the fishing grounds. She began to slow, and three men could be seen unrolling nets. They were as yet unaware that anything was unusual about their vessel. They still did not know they had a passenger aboard. Circling wide, the plane went far out to sea, then returned. The pilot had cleverly come round to face the wind. With a suddenness which drew shouts from the fishermen, the aircraft swished down and alighted on the water not ten yards distant. Hardly had it come to rest when there were two splashes. Commander Blyth and Captain O’Brien had dived into the water minus their shoes and were swimming swiftly for the Maga. At the same time one of the airmen bellowed across to Jem Rivers. “Stop your motors, Rivers! You’ve got a spy aboard.” The craft was moving only at trolling speed. In a moment or so the two swimmers would have grasped the gunwale, but suddenly the motor roared its loudest, and the Maga shot away as though fired from a gun. A yell came from the man who had been standing near the controls, and as the others turned he was seen to go backwards over the side from a terrific blow. The Yellow Ghost had acted immediately he had seen a trap was closing in on him. He had not waited for the officers to get aboard. The launch was now speeding straight for the nearby shore. Jem Rivers, a sturdy Californian, grasped the gunwale to steady himself, then jumped forward to take over the apparently abandoned controls. He did not know invisible hands were operating them. The first thing he knew was when a spanner seemed to leap from the small locker near the wheel and hurtled through the air to catch him squarely in the face. He reeled backwards with a cry, and rolled to the bottom of the cockpit. “You others stay where you are, or you’re dead men!” came a harsh voice from the control platform. The remaining two fishermen gulped and turned pale under their tan. They could not understand what was happening. They had never heard of the Yellow Ghost, for the facts about the invisible spy had never been made public. To them it must have seemed there was a ghost aboard. The Maga approached the shelving beach, behind which rose cliffs of limestone. It looked as though the Jap meant to beach her at speed. The two swimmers did not try to overtake the rapidly speeding launch. They turned back towards the seaplane, and scrambled on to the floats. The machine taxied over and the fisherman was hauled to safety, spluttering incoherently, still demanding what had happened to him.

There was no time for explanations, Commander Blyth pointed to the shore, and the pilot opened his throttle until the plane was taxi-ing along at more than fifty miles an hour. Those who clung to her were smothered and drenched by spray. The launch struck the beach with so much force that her bows were driven high on the sand. The glass windscreen forward was shattered into a hundred pieces, and the remaining fishermen were hurled from their feet. The seaplane was not more than thirty yards distant, and as Commander Blyth leapt into the shallows he saw pebbles and sand fly in all directions about four feet from the bows of the motor craft. Someone had landed forcibly. The Yellow Ghost had jumped for it, and was now running up the beach. Not far away some steep steps had been cut in the cliff. Blyth guessed the Jap would make for these.

ESCAPE OR DEATH?

The legs appeared two or three steps up the flight leading to the top of the cliff. There was no longer any doubt as to the runaway’s intentions. Commander Blyth gained the foot of the steps and went up with the speed of a chamois.

It was strange what strength one could summon in time of dire necessity. He was nearly halfway to the top, when not very far above him a small boulder rose from beside the steps and for a moment hovered over his head. He threw himself flat on the steps just in time. The chunk of limestone crashed past his head and went bounding down the slope. The Yellow Ghost was responsible for that. It was his strong hands which had hurled the boulder. He was getting desperate. Blyth scrambled up a moment later, and saw loose stones kicked outwards by hurrying feet. He was gaining on the man. Only a few steps separated them. He tried to raise the extra spurt that would enable him to seize those elusive legs. Then, so suddenly that he had no time to check his pace, a foot flashed up and caught him on the chest, hurling him backwards down the slope. The cunning Yellow Ghost had suddenly stopped and turned, waiting his chance to lash out as the British officer approached. Bump-bump-bump! Blyth went down nearly a dozen steps, vainly trying to claw a hold, before he was stopped by a sudden grip which prevented him rolling over a sheer drop where the steps turned. Captain O’Brien had been that much behind. It was his strength which checked that roll of death. He heaved and set the breathless, battered Briton on his feet. “What happened?” he demanded. “He kicked me!” growled Blyth, wondering if any of his bones were broken. “This means he’s got away. He’s over the top of the cliffs by this time. Come on!” In spite of his bruises he renewed the attack on the cliff. This time he could not see stones rolling under the Jap’s feet. There was no doubt the Yellow Ghost had reached the top. Was he waiting for them there, or had he raced on to seek escape? Breathless, perspiring, the two pursuers gained the topmost step and stared about them. It was open country, with scant grass growing between patches of yellow rock, with here and there a clump of stunted bushes. This stretched for miles, all the way to a settlement of new bungalows. They strained their ears, but heard nothing except the shouts of the airmen on the beach below who wanted to know what was happening. They had thrown out an anchor which held the seaplane some twenty yards from the shore, and wanted to know if they should come up and join the hunt. “Not much sense in that, when we can’t see him,” called back O’Brien. “Better stop where you are.” He and his companion stood tensely for the next five minutes. It was maddening to know that somewhere ahead of them the man they sought was probably sitting or standing in the open. Possibly he was laughing at them. In all that wide expanse they could get no clue to his whereabouts. It would have been foolish to have blundered blindly forward. It was just as well to stand until he made a moved. Minutes ticked away, and they recovered their breath. The G-man suddenly growled—“What’s that?” He turned about and stared, but Blyth heard nothing.

They were both getting rather jumpy, but a few moments later they heard a loose stone rolling down the steps. They both rushed to the top to peer over. The stone was about the size of an egg, and went bouncing towards the bottom. “Did we dislodge it on the way up, or—or is he down there again?” whispered O’Brien, and Blyth was thinking the same thing. “Hi, down there! Close in to the bottom of the steps and make sure nobody gets on to the beach.” The airmen ran to do this, and no more stones were dislodged, though occasionally Blyth fancied he saw a shadowy pair of legs appearing and disappearing. It was easy to imagine things in such a situation. For fully five minutes they divided their attention between the steps and the open space behind them. The two airmen waited tensely, revolvers in hand. They were the only ones who were armed. All at once a miniature avalanche began to slide down the face of the cliff about a dozen feet to the right of the steps. Earth, stones, and dust went cascading to the beach, and in the midst of this Commander Blyth saw a pair of legs from the knee downwards. “There he is! He’s jumped from the steps to the slope to avoid you chaps. There he goes! Shoot him!” he bellowed, and went down the steps at reckless pace. The Yellow Ghost must have tiptoed past them and gained the steps when they had been staring the other way. But for the loose stone they would never have known he had doubled back. Now he was on the beach, running for the water. The two airmen were firing as they went in pursuit, but a pair of running legs made a very poor target. Their bullets were hitting up the sand in all directions. There was a splash as the Yellow Ghost waded in. As soon as the water lifted his cloak, it was possible to see more of him, though the head and upper part of his body remained invisible. He was trying to reach the seaplane. Until then they had not guessed this was his intention. The two airmen were the nearest, and strained every nerve to prevent him getting aboard before them, but he had got a good start, and they were still close to the beach when a draggled, dimly seen figure hauled itself on to one of the floats. There was a splash as the small anchor was let go. The seaplane came round with the wind and began to drift towards the southern side of the cove. It was rocking and swaying as though someone was climbing over it. The seaplane was now taxi-ing fast. The invisible pilot had come round into the wind. The disconsolate Americans and their British colleague glowered from the beach. They were helpless. Before their eyes the man who had formed the most serious threat to the safety of the Californian coast was making his getaway. The tail flaps came up, and the nose of the aircraft rose. It rose steeply, far too steeply. One of the pilots gave a warning shout, and the next moment the machine had stalled, coming backwards upon its tail. For once in his life the Yellow Ghost had made a mistake. He had tried to climb at too acute an angle before the motors were at full revolutions. There was a terrific impact, a great shower of glistening water was thrown high, and the craft turned on its back. The motors choked to silence. The cockpit was under water. Blyth was the first to dive into the sea, but the others were not far behind. They reached the wreck a few minutes later, and surrounded it. There was no sign of the pilot. They groped about, dived to reach the cockpit, scrambled around on the shingle bottom some three fathoms down, but without result. Several craft passing at the time had seen the accident and had headed swiftly for the scene. When the crews were told what had happened, they joined in the search, scouring the sea in all directions.

The beaches were watched all round the cove. Neither that day, nor in the days that followed, when the wreck was dragged ashore, was the Yellow Ghost discovered. Once again he had done a disappearing trick, but Blyth and O’Brien doubted whether it had been a voluntary one. The chances were he had cracked his head at the moment of impact, and as he had not been strapped in his seat had been hurled into the water. Maybe he had sunk, still wearing his amazing cloak, and had been carried out to sea. Maybe a shark had located and eaten the body. Almost anything could have happened to it. There was just the remotest chance that the cunning Jap had escaped and swum away, but as the four had been on the scene immediately after the crash, this seemed unlikely. Weeks passed, and although Commander Blyth and the G-men were disappointed they had not secured the secret of invisibility for the Allies, they began to feel relief at knowing the unseen spy was no longer operating on the coast. New tasks claimed their attention. There were other agents to be rounded up. The affair of the Yellow Ghost was allowed to recede into the background. Commander Blyth and Captain O’Brien could only congratulate themselves upon having prevented the master spy from having got away with some of the country’s most important secrets.

The Yellow Ghost 14 episodes appeared in Adventure issues 1081 - 1094 (1943)

Vic Whittle 2007