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the case. Then, stepping slowly behind her, he shoved her into the clearing and hurried back to the trees. In an instant, the police emerged from hiding and rushed towards him, but to no avail. By cunning, or dumb luck, the Talon was running directly towards the hole in their net. But the Black Hand stood ready.
      As the hooded figure passed underneath him, the Black Hand leapt from his perch, landing on the Talon with the force of a sledgehammer. He batted the pistol from the hooded man's hand, and then brought his own guns to bear. 
      "This time, fiend," he hissed behind his mask, "I have my own claws with me. And now, you will tell me what you know."
      Under the hood, the Talon quivered. The black hand of justice was upon him, and he felt its strength close around him!

    5
    T he police found the man beneath the hood a short while later, whimpering and unmasked, tied to a lamppost. The Black Hand had learned what he needed from the man, and left him behind. 
      The man had turned out to be one Charlie Parsons, an out of work dockworker. He was a rough cut, simple man and, though not above breaking the law to suit his own needs, he was no criminal mastermind. The Black Hand had seen early that Parsons was nothing more than a pawn, a dupe. The true source of the evil at hand lay elsewhere.
      Parsons, easily frightened into playing stool pigeon by the masked figure under the dark trees, had confessed that he knew nothing about the kidnappings. He had been hired by a hooded man simply to escort a bound woman into the clearing, retrieve a briefcase, and then return to the hooded man waiting in a sedan on a darkened street nearby. To Parsons this was simply a job, a strange one of course, but if a mysterious man wanted to pay him a month's salary to stand around wearing a hood and waving a gun about it was fine with him.
      Of his employer, Parsons could only say that he had picked him up off the streets near the dock, where he had been looking for work. He had been driving a late model, dark-colored sedan, and had spoken only in whispers. He had never encountered the man until earlier that evening, and in his words had never broken the law in his life. This last the Black Hand doubted, but left that for the courts to determine. He was onto bigger prey.
      Stepping into the shadows a short distance from the park, the mysterious avenger of the night emerged into the light in the guise of Richmond Taylor. Then he made his way across town to his home, and spent a sleepless night in his study, staring quietly into the darkness, contemplating. Morning came quickly, the sunlight streaming in through the shuttered windows, and Taylor reached for the phone.
      He placed a call to police headquarters, and in the Black Hand's raspy voice asked to speak with Joe Martenson.
      "Martenson here," came the reply after a short while.
      "Joseph," Taylor whispered into the receiver, "the Black Hand has use for you."
      "Go ahead," Martenson answered, his voice grave.
      "The man known as the Talon still holds an innocent in his clutches. I would see her released." 
      "Well, you're not alone," Martenson replied. "She's not either, anymore." 
      "Explain yourself."
      "The Talon's got another bird in the hand now. Another millionaire's kid. Peter Matthews." 
      "I see," Taylor answered. "I see." He paused. "Your service is valued, Joseph," he went on. "I shall remember your loyalty."
      With that, Taylor hung up the phone. Now two lives hung in the balance. What was needed now was a visit to the docks. Then nightfall, and action!

    6
    T aylor spent the day up and down the wharf, talking to dock masters and ship captains from one end to the other. He played the bored investor, trying to find sound investments for his family's fortune. Were there any empty warehouses to be had, he asked, any piers on which space might be rented? His family was moving into shipping, he explained, and wanted to gain a