THE NIGHT HAWK by Will Murray 
Published in Double Danger Tales #50

 There was only one roadhouse in Quinn City. The Red Shark actually lay outside the city limits, in that no man's land belonging to no defined town or municipality. Honest citizens did not patronize this low establishment. Only those who operated on the fringes of society came to scheme and converse. 
And in the Red Shark, there was only one topic of conversation. 
"The Night Hawk!" 
"Ahhh, there ain't any such person," said a rowdy beer-soaked voice. 
"Is to," chimed in another. "I saw it." 
"It? Is it a man or machine?" 
Silence hovered among the rafters. Feet shifted nervously in the sawdust-sprinkled floor. The Red Shark had been a lot of things in its time, including a long red tobacco-burning barn. The addition of a bar, picture window and garish roadside sign depicting a blood-colored man-eater rampant against a green sea was sufficient to transform it into a saloon of the seediest type. 
"It's like this," said the first speaker, making his voice conspiratorial. "There's this guy all done up in black leather--" 
Somewhere far from ear shot, a figure encased in what looked to be cracked black leather drew on ebony gloves. His smooth features resembled meat that had been charred dark. 
"...wearing a mask and aviator goggles," he continued in low, urgent tones. "He drives this streamlined tank of a taxi." 
"Taxi cab?" 
"A big hulk of a machine. It says 'Night Hawk Cab Co.' on the doors. Except--" 
"Except what?" 
"There ain't no Night Hawk Cab Company, see? It don't exist." 
"You tell him, Blackie," a gruff voice proclaimed from the other side of the bar. "Tell the out-of-towner." 
The being in black leather extracted a heavy revolver from his hip holster. He inserted the muzzle into a port that resembled an enormous antique keyhole. Triggering the weapon, he fired once. The report was muffled. A slablike door rolled open. He stepped in. 
Back at the Red Shark, Blackie continued his narration. "I saw this taxi with my own eyes. Black and blue as a bruise, it was." 
"Me, too," admitted the proprietor of the Red Shark from his station at the bar. His true name was unknown, but he answered to Buzz. There was a puckered puncture wound in his right cheek that suggested an icepick had been driven into the bone in the past. 
"Keep jawin'. This is getting mighty interesting," said the out-of-towner. He exhaled slowly, adding blue smoke to the thick atmosphere. Under the drop lights, his hair gleamed like patent leather. 
"I chased it one night," Blackie growled. "Understand? I was on its tail but lost it near the river. When I came to where the tracks led me, they disappeared into the water. But the water wasn't disturbed. No bubbles. Not a ripple. Nothin'." 
"That's ain't anything," another boasted, tapping his chest with a thick thumb. "I traded shots with the Night Hawk himself." 
"Go on," prompted the out-of-towner, smoothing a thin mustache of the big-city type. He had given his name as Maurice. He looked like an operator, but so far he was mostly talk. 
"I'd just stuck up the filling station on the turnpike and was lamming with the cops hot on my heels what I came upon this...thing... in the road. Mistook it for a prowl car tryin' for a one-man roadblock. It even shone a lavender spotlight at me. But it wasn't no prowl car. This tall Frankenstein in black leather stepped out, and so did I. I saw that it had no face. Just a mass of black like a burnt shoulder of ham and blank eyes that reflected the light like a hoot owl. 
I shot first. Instead of firing back, he grabbed at his heart. Then he fired." 
"What happened?" asked Maurice, the out-of-towner, his brandy forgotten. 
"He had me dead to rights. So help me God, I could swear I saw the bullets coming straight at my chest." 
Every listener waited tensely, as if the man's survival was still in doubt. 
"Damn bullets passed right through me just as mine passed through him." The speaker finished his beer with one convulsive gulp and shuddered head to toe. "It was a ghost, I tell you," he said thickly. "Nothing else could explain it." 
"I believe in no ghosts," spat Maurice. "Not ones that drive gypsy cabs." 
"It gets more interesting," the story-teller resumed. "I piled back behind the wheel with the cops still caterwaulin' after me. Drove right into that cab. Thought I'd ram it. Instead, I went clean through like it was made of fog. But it looked solid. I remember the front grille coming through my steerin' wheel and into my legs. But I felt nothin'." Another shudder rattled him. He took a fresh pull from his stein, seemingly unaware it was empty. "Still gives me the creeps to think about it." 
Maurice surveyed the dim smoke-laden interior and the unshaven faces looking back. He grinned. "There are no ghosts. Not in this day and age." 
"But there is a Night Hawk," Buzz the proprietor said solemnly as he polished a glass. 
Not far away, the black leather clad being stepped behind the wheel of a low-slung black-and-blue machine. A powerful engine roared into life. Oversized headlights blazed. A long coffin-shaped hood decorated with a striking hawk nose ornament and gleaming supercharger coils surged forward.... 
"If there is a Night Hawk," resumed Maurice stubbornly. "He will cause me no particular grief." 
"What makes you say that, feller?" 
"I'm too smooth for the cops. And I'm always one step ahead of the G-Men. No cabby is going to take the wind out of my sails." 
"Says you." 
Maurice waved a hand in the general direction of Quinn City. "I hear crime is nearly non-existent in your fair city." 
"There's crime," a voice piped up. "Hell, we account for most of it!" 
The rafters of the Red Shark shook with raucous laughter. If there had been a true underworld attached to Quinn City, the Red Shark would be its headquarters. As matters stood, the establishment was frequented by stickup artists, second-story men, cheap grafters, and others of that ilk. Crime in Quinn City was not organized. 
Maurice pushed his empty glass toward Buzz the proprietor and signaled for refill. 
"A toast, gentleman," he proclaimed. "To Maurice Murais, the new king of crime in Quinn City!" 
"Aw, go peddle your papers," a voice jeered. 
Maurice Murais took a slow sip of brandy and murmured, "You will all be singing a different tune once I begin operating in earnest. And I will hold no grudge against any man who elects to become my confederate." 
They all went back to their morose drinking. 
Not twenty minutes later, a throbbing V-8 engine to be heard easing up to the Red Shark's broad front entrance. In the midnight darkness, a hulking midnight silhouette suggested one thing. 
"Cops!" Blackie hissed. 
Everyone tensed. Pistols came out. Some were thrown into corners after hasty wiping of fingerprints. 
"Nobody's up to anything, right?" demanded Buzz. Heads shook. "Nobody pulled any job lately?" Sullen faces turn stony. "OK, I didn't expect you guys to cough that up." 
The dark machine sat idling outside. Minutes ticked past. 
"What do you suppose he wants?" wondered a man. 
"Probably radioing in to headquarters," Blackie suggested thoughtfully. 
Buzz sidled up to the grimy front window. "Hey! That ain't a prowl car!" 
"No?" 
"It says...it says Night Hawk Cab Company on the side." 
"The Night Hawk himself!" a man breathed. "Mother of God." 
Faces crowded to the dingy glass. 
"I see him! He's at the wheel, face like a lump of coal." 
"There's nothing human about that face. Look at the way it bulges around the mouth. I'm sliding out the back way." 
"Me, too." 
Feet scuffled. A spittoon fell over, spilling its ugly contents. 
Maurice said, "I am not scared of any cabby wearing a fright-mask." He started for the front door. "I think I will ask him his business. Perhaps hire him for the evening." 
"Go ahead," muttered Buzz. "Be our guest." 
Abruptly, the lurking machine backed up, front wheels cutting sharply. Going into gear, it started circling toward the roadhouse entrance. 
"What's he doing?" Blackie wondered. 
"Driving up, it looks like." 
Headlights swung around, dusty funnels of light. A lavender spotlight popped awake. The burning lights fixed themselves on each staring face, creating stark shadows that moved and swayed amid the eerie lavender light. 
A voice lifted in startled fear. "Hey! He's charging right at us! He's headed this way!" 
The black taxi abruptly surged forward. Men dived for cover. Pistols came out of waistbands and shoulder holsters. Buzz, the proprietor reached for a shotgun. 
Everyone steeled himself for the carnage of breaking glass and shattering timbers. No such sound came. The engine's throaty roar abruptly cut out. It was as if all sound had been swallowed. 
Then, through the large plate glass, but not shattering it, intruded the long black coffinlike Night Hawk vehicle. 
It entered like a ghost. Soundless, unstoppable, a juggernaut of impervious steel. Ghostly wheels rolled over sawdust, but did not disturb it. Headlights sprayed brilliance, blinding the unwary. 
The uncanny vehicle slid to a silent halt. The driver's door opened. There was no discernable click of locking mechanism. And out from behind the wheel stepped the tall striking leather figure known only as the Night Hawk driver. 
It walked with the steady tread and utter fearlessness of a state trooper approaching a motorist. Smoked-glass goggles looked about robotlike, coming to rest on one fearstruck man. 
The boastful out-of-towner, Maurice Murais, self-styled future king of crime. 
For a long moment, fearful eyes met unyielding glass and held. One man's nerve finally cracked. 
Murais yanked out an Army Colt .45, aiming it at the approaching figure whose thick shapeless features resembled a leathery knot of cooked muscles. 
"Get away! Don't you come near me you, you damn devil!" Murais screeched. 
The Night Hawk kept coming, his gloved hand hovering above the butt of his holstered pistol. He said nothing. He seemed to possess no lips with which to speak. 
"I warned you!" 
Five shots cracked out. They passed through the leather figure, through his vehicle, and shattered the plate glass window in a cascade of shivering shards of glass. 
The Night Hawk stopped dead. His pistol came out. It was a queer oversized revolver, all saw. He lowered it at the cowering hoodlum. 
Seven shots flared out, soundless as if fired from a silenced pistol. Fired at point-blank range, they could not miss. Murais convulsed, recoiled. He cried out, "Oh my God, I'm shot!" Then he collapsed onto the sawdust. 
Taking a black card from a hidden pocket, the Night Hawk flipped it at the cowering gunman's feet. It fell with supernatural slowness, like a feather. As it neared the rough pine floor, it seemed to behave more normally, falling as it should. It made a soft click as it struck. 
Without a word, the leathery apparition turned on its heel and stalked soundlessly back to his waiting vehicle. Claiming it, the driver backed out of the Red Shark, eerie in its utter quietude. 
The patrons of the Red Shark roadhouse stood transfixed. All except its proprietor, Buzz. He stepped out into the night. Elevating his shotgun, he uncorked the contents of one barrel, then another. 
Blasts of buckshot peppered walls and broke more glass. But not a mark appeared on the rear of the departing vehicle. 
A moment later, the engine returned to life. Like a tiger of the night, the taxi roared off, its solitary tail light a red eye of receding rage. 
"I'm taking a fadeout powder!" a man exploded. 
A braver soul barked, "Not me. I want to see where he goes!" 
"Are you nuts? That was a ghost. The only place he could go would be hell itself." 
Still, a few hardy souls were determined to follow. There was a rush for the front door. In a matter seconds, three vehicles were tearing off in hot pursuit. 
It was not hard to pick up the trail of the Night Hawk cab. It departed at a steady clip, yet gave all indication of unconcern about possible pursuit. 
Three sporty sedans followed it into the rural stretch of highway. The rocking taxi took a dirt shortcut, cutting over to a turnpike. 
"Looks like he's heading for---" 
"My God. The old cemetery!" 
The ancient cemetery was blocked by a wrought-iron fence that was padlocked shut. But the Night Hawk taxicab passed through the rusting bars like they were so much black smoke. The sound of its engine ceased just before that operation, but none of the pursuers noticed this interesting fact. 
The trio of sedans screeched to jouncing halts at the impassible gates. Men piled out, guns drawn. 
They watched transfixed, as a black-and-blue taxicab, modern as a DC-2 airplane, streaked through the cemetery--passing through the leaning headstones and charnel monuments as if it was real and they were not. 
"I do not believe it!" a man croaked. 
Near the gate, a pair of iron bars that had been pried apart sufficient to pass a man. As if possessed, all three squeezed through the space, intent upon following the phantom juggernaut that defied all natural law. 
The first man through took aim, getting off a quick shot. The bullet struck a stone angel's wing, cracking it off. The broken wing dropped onto the roof of the fleeing cab. The taxi kept going. The wing landed in its rutted tracks. To all appearance, it had fallen into the moving vehicle, harming it not. 
The ghostly taxi veered sharply, headed for the brooding granite entry of a massive family tomb set into the side of a mossy hill. 
The vehicle seemed intent upon collision. Then, when disaster appeared unavoidable, abruptly, impossibly, the Night Hawk taxi was swallowed by the sealed tomb! 
All three men skidded to a halt. They stared at the big iron door set in the granite tomb. Above it was carved a single word, the name of the political dynasty that had given its name to the city: QUINN. 
No sound came from that mossy tomb. 
A thousand thoughts crowded their brains. This was something new, a thing never before reported upon the earth. A phenomenon unknown in their experience. A devil-ghost of black driving a modern, up-to-date taxi cab. 
"I think," said one thickly, "I've seen about all I can stand." 
"I'm with this guy," muttered a second, crossing himself. 
"Yeah," the third echoed. "I don't believe in spooks, but that demon cabby will do until a real one shows up." 
No one said a word as they reclaimed their sedans and headed back to the wrecked Red Shark. 
There, patrons were removing the coat and shirt off Maurice Murais when they arrived. 
"How many bullet holes in him?" wondered one of the arriving trio. 
Buzz shook his thick head. "None. Not a scratch on him." 
"Then why is he dead?" 
"A heart attack. Look how blue his face is." 
Maurice Murais lay blue as china, his staring eyes glassy in death. His sharp features retained the fear-frozen cast of a man who had looked upon hell and all its minions. 
"My God, that damn ghost cabbie drilled him seven times and there ain't a mark or crease on him. But he's as croaked as if he was riddled with Tommy-gun lead." 
"A demon cabby...." the second man said. 
"Firing ghost bullets from a ghost gun," echoed the third. 
"A revolver that shoots seven slugs with no more noise than this dead guy in makin' when everyone knows you can't silence a revolver. Who ever heard of such a thing?" 
"That's the way I see it, too," muttered Blackie. 
"This ain't the first guy he done it to, either," said the proprietor of the Red Shark roadhouse. "Remember Red Murphy and his boys last year? Thought they could just blow in and run this town to suit them." Buzz looked down upon the dead blue face and wiped perspiration from his fat upper lip. 
"Yeah," muttered Blackie. "And then this bird shows up and talks big, bringing all holy hell down on his head." 
Eyes shifted about the rafters and dark corners as if looking for supernatural eavesdroppers. 
"I think Quinn City is gettin' too hot for our kind," Buzz said at last. "What say, boys?" 
Nobody said anything. Grimly, they lugged the body of Maurice Murais, who thought he could take over Quinn City with impunity, and buried it under the rough pine floorboards. 
The Red Shark burned down that night. No insurance was ever collected. Its seedy patrons were seen no more in the vicinity of Quinn City. Nor were they missed. 
But on certain nights, a black gloved hand would insert a strange seven-chambered revolver into a massive keyhole and fire one muffled shot. A door would yawn open and an unearthly engine would roar hungrily to life. 
And out from the sealed ancestral tomb of the long-dead Quinn family roared an avenging ghost that no one knew, but few dared doubt existed. 
The Night Hawk! 
THE END? 
Copyright 2002 by Will Murray