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  The Night People were an urban myth, weren’t they? A bunch of freaks and other deformed men and women who preferred their own company to that of the people who hated and reviled them. It was said they lived in the sewers beneath New York City, with all the snakes and alligators. People laughed at the idea that such a society could live, undetected, beneath the busiest metropolis in the world.

  But Larry Kent knew different. The Night People existed, all right, and they were friends of his.

  When multi-millionaire Gordon Pierson’s daughter was kidnapped—apparently by the normally peaceful Night People—he hired Larry to find her and bring her home again.

  He dare not fail … because if he did, Pierson promised to mobilize the National Guard and clean out the sewers with guns and flamethrowers.

  The fate of the Night People lay in Larry’s hands.

  LARRY KENT: TERROR BELOW

  #798

  By Don Haring

  First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd

  Copyright © Piccadilly Publishing

  First Digital Edition: May 2019

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: David Whitehead

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd.

  Chapter 1 ... night people ...

  It was Joe who introduced me to the Night People. I met Joe at the Flea Circus on 42nd Street, where he was a freak on display billed as “Jo-Jo, the Dog-faced Boy”. The poor guy has a nightmare face, but there is nothing but gentleness in him. The drug thalidomide had made Joe ugly before birth, but in his hands is a rare magic that creates beauty. His tools are a knife and blocks of wood. His mother had sold him to a showman, but suddenly she wanted him back. I found out almost too late that what she really wanted was the money his wooden statuettes were suddenly fetching in art galleries. In the end Joe went to the Night People, an army of outcasts who come out only at night and spend their days in secret places deep beneath the streets and buildings of New York City.

  Some are freaks, like Joe. Others had their faces destroyed by accident or disease. Some have twisted limbs or are hunchbacks. All fled from the world of normal people to find peace and acceptance among their own kind, some escaping from jeers and revulsion, others from excessive pity. As members of the Night People, each is guaranteed equality.

  The Norseman acts as a contact for the Night People. He’s an awesome man almost seven feet tall. He wears a leather helmet decorated with the horns of a bull, a heavy leather shirt and short trousers of the same material. On his feet are open leather sandals that he wears winter and summer. He has magnificent green eyes that gleam from his slits in his helmet. The glitter of those eyes is misleading; the Norseman is blind.

  His favorite spot is a store front on Sixth Avenue just off 52nd Street. I found him there on a chilly, windy night in late October.

  “Hello there,” I said.

  He cocked his head slightly. “Please speak again,” he said in his rumble of a voice.

  “Hello, Norseman.”

  “Larry Kent. Hello.”

  “You have a great ear for voices,” I said. “It must be a year since the last time we spoke.”

  “Eleven months. In September of last year. Here you are ...”

  He handed me a slip of paper. On it was a short poem. You’re supposed to give him a coin in exchange for his poem. I folded a twenty-dollar bill and presented it into his left hand.

  “It’s a twenty,” I said.

  “You’re very generous, Mr. Kent.”

  “You may be able to help me.”

  “How?”

  “I want to speak to the Night People.”

  He cocked his head again.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “We’re alone.”

  “Why do you want to see them?”

  “I’m working for a man named Gordon Pierson. His daughter Suzanne was kidnapped a week ago.”

  “I heard about it on radio news,” the Norseman said. “Pierson hasn’t been contacted by the kidnappers.”

  “He was contacted,” I said. “Even the police and the F.B.I. don’t know about that part. Someone slipped a piece of paper in his hand on a crowded street. It was a ransom demand. Tied to the piece of paper was a ring Suzanne was wearing the day she was taken. My client was told to leave fifty thousand dollars near a storm drain in Central Park. He did. An hour later the valise containing the money was gone. My client posted a reward of a hundred thousand for information leading to the apprehension of one or more kidnappers. Two days ago a rummy named McDermott said he’d seen four men grab Suzanne in Central Park. They took her down a storm drain. McDermott said they wore dark robes and hoods, the uniform of the Night People.”

  The Norseman shook his head emphatically. “They wouldn’t have anything to do with kidnapping.”

  “I’m sure they wouldn’t. I’m also sure the Night People will be anxious to clear their name. And there’s another angle. Not many people know about the existence of the Night People. The official attitude of the police is that they’re a myth. But sooner or later it’s going to come out about the four robed men ...”

  “How do you know the drunk was telling the truth?” the Norseman asked.

  “A couple of reasons. One, how did he pick that exact spot in Central Park? He had no way of knowing that my client left the money there. It was a stormy night. No-one was around. Two, I went down that storm drain with a flashlight. I found cigarette butts and a handkerchief with Suzanne’s initials on it. My client identified the handkerchief as his daughter’s, and he showed me several more just like it.”

  “How much money did your client give the drunk?”

  “Only fifty dollars. My client told McDermott that he couldn’t pay more until the information led to the arrest of at least one of the kidnappers.”

  “It was probably just blind luck that McDermott picked the spot where the money was left,” the Norseman said. “As for the rest of his story, he dreamed it up.”

  “That doesn’t explain the murder,” I said.

  “What?”

  “McDermott gave my client his address. It’s a room at the end of an alley on the West Side. Last night I went looking for McDermott. I found him in the alley. His throat had been cut.”

  “He must have flashed the fifty dollars. Winos and addicts will kill for a lot less than that.”

  “Robbery wasn’t the motive. I found forty-two dollars in McDermott’s coat pocket.”

  The Norseman was silent. After a long moment he said, “Did McDermott see any of the faces of the kidnappers?”

  “No, but he heard them speak. He said they talked in rapid-fire Spanish, like Cubans or Puerto Ricans. Incidentally, I never met McDermott, at least not while he was alive. My client had left his office to go to lunch. McDermott stopped him on the street and said he had information about the kidnapping but wanted some money first. My client stopped a cab and they went to a bar on Eighth Avenue. After speaking to McDermott, my client came to my office and told me about it. I went to McDermott’s room and waited there for a few hours, but he didn’t appear. That night I went down the storm drain and found the cigarette butts and Suzanne’s handkerchief.”

  “Did you tell Pierson about the Night People?” the Norseman asked.

  “I didn’t have to; he already knows about them. How much have you heard about Gordon Pierson?”

  The Norseman shrugged. “I know that he’s one of the wealthiest men in this country and he’s got his fingers in all sorts of things.”

  “Including one of the best engineering outfits in the world. Last year his firm contracted to dig a tunnel under the city. In their excavations, they blasted into a wide tunnel that doesn’t appear on any of the city maps. The walls were as smooth as glass. It was as though someone had blasted through with flame hot enough to melt the rock ...”

  The Norseman chuckled. “Creatures from outer space?”

  “It’s as good an explanation as any the engineers came up with. Anyhow, the workers found some of the Night People in the tunnel; four women and two children. The six refused to speak. The workers decided to take them to the police and were about to do so when a large group of Night People arrived, some armed with guns. The workers were told to leave quietly and they wouldn’t be harmed. The next day a small army of policemen went down to the tunnel. They found no evidence of the Night People. A full report of the incident went to Gordon Pierson. It confirmed earlier reports from tunnel diggers about strange robed creatures living beneath the city.”

  “Not so good,” the Norseman grunted. “Does your client believe the Night People kidnapped his daughter?”

  “What would you think if you were in his shoes?”

  “Has he told the police?”

  “Not yet. I told him that the Night People are against violence of any kind. He said he’d give me time to talk to them.”

  “How much time?”

  “He refused to be specific.”

  “Then I� �d better get moving on this. Go home. You’ll be contacted.”

  My phone rang less than half an hour after I arrived at my apartment. I picked it up and said my name.

  “Mr. Kent,” said a male voice at the other end, “the Norseman says you wish to speak to us.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you have a car handy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then drive to Rye Beach Amusement Park. Go south along Poplar Avenue and stop your car when you’re at least a hundred yards past the last street light. Get out of your car and wait.”

  “Understood.”

  There was a click as the connection was broken.

  I flicked off the headlights and got out of the Corvette. The amusement park was in darkness. It had closed on Labor Day in September and wouldn’t reopen until the weekend following Easter Sunday. I turned up the lamb’s wool collar of my coat against the chill of the wind, feeling eyes on me. This was my second visit to Rye Beach Amusement Park to see the Night People. The first time had been last winter when I thought a killer was hiding in their ranks. He was, and they delivered him to me after I furnished proof of his guilt. I trusted them.

  “Mr. Kent?” The disembodied voice came out of the darkness.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Come here, please.”

  I walked in the direction of the voice. Moments later I saw the high steel-wire fence that surrounded the amusement park. But I didn’t see the shadow among shadows along the fence until it moved. A clump of weeds seemed to be jammed against the fence despite the high wind. The dark figure stopped and bent. There was a dry, crackling sound and I understood why the clump of weeds defied the wind; it was tied to the fence to conceal the hole that had been dug beneath the fence.

  “Do you know where the midway is?” the robed man asked.

  “Yes. I’ve been here before.”

  “Go along the midway until you come to the Fun House. Wait there.”

  “What if the watchman stops me?”

  “He won’t.” White teeth flashed inside the hood. “He drank too much.”

  I went to the fence and got down on my knee, silently thanking the person who’d been thoughtful enough to place cushioning cloth at the bottom of the hole. I looked back when I was on the other side of the fence. The clump of weeds was in place and the dark shadow had disappeared.

  Suddenly a sliver of moon emerged from behind thick clouds and I was able to see the outlines of buildings. I found the midway and walked towards the Fun House, the largest building in the amusement park. When the park is open a mammoth wax figure stands on a pedestal over the entrance of the Fun House. It’s a fat woman in a tent of a floral dress. The fat lady bends forward and then leans back, her mouth wide open, as raucous female laughter comes out of a concealed speaker behind her. Now there was silence except for the moan of the wind and the fat lady’s pedestal was bare.

  I stood at the ticket window and waited. Suddenly a male voice came through the concealed speaker:

  “Why are you here, Larry Kent?”

  “I told the Norseman. Didn’t he pass it on?”

  “We want to hear it from you, all of it.”

  So I stood there and recited the story, leaving out nothing and ending with, “My client has a lot of influence in this city. And remember this: the police know you exist but don’t do anything about it because you’ve caused no harm. If my client convinces them that you may have kidnapped his daughter, they’ll find every hiding place you have and will arrest every one of you they find.”

  “Do you think we kidnapped Suzanne Pierson?” the amplified voice asked.

  “No. But I think you can help me.”

  “How can we do that?”

  “As I told you, I found Suzanne’s handkerchief in a storm drain under Central Park. The drain leads to the city’s sewer system. You people know more about the sewer system than the city engineers. If Suzanne is being held captive under the city, I’m sure you can find her.”

  Now I was conscious of flitting shadows ... robed figures moving here and there, all around me. The entrance door of the Fun House opened and I turned at the sound. A robed figure stood at the top of a short flight of wooden stairs. He descended the stairs and walked towards me. The moving shadows closed in. The man came to a stop five or six feet from me and threw back his hood. Weak moonlight shone on his scarred face. The man had been horribly burned. His nose consisted of two holes in his face and he had only one eye.

  “My name is Carlos Taveras,” he said.

  “I read about you,” I said. “You were head mechanic for Porsche Motors. About five years ago you were working on a motor on the Flushing Meadow race track. The motor blew up in your face. A week or so later you disappeared from the hospital and haven’t been seen since.”

  He nodded. “I intended to kill myself. I broke into a sporting goods store and stole a handgun and ammunition. Then I went to an old dock on the Hudson River. The tide was going out. I meant to stand on the end of the dock and shoot myself through the head. The tide would then carry me out to sea. But two members of the Night People had followed me. They took away the gun and brought me down to one of their tunnels. There I met many people like myself. It took time, but finally I decided not to kill myself. At first they didn’t believe me and kept me under surveillance. When they were sure I was telling the truth, they left me alone. Two years ago they made me their spokesman. We don’t have a leader. All rules are made by a committee of twelve. One rule is that we don’t enter most parts of the sewer system.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’ve no doubt heard stories about creatures that exist in the sewers.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, they’re not just tales. People buy baby alligators in Florida and Georgia and bring them back to New York City as pets. They soon tire of them and flush them down the toilet. Some alligators die, others enter the sewer system and thrive.”

  “Even in winter?”

  “Some parts of the sewer system are quite warm. They’re kept warm all year round by the water pipes of pump stations and the waste pipes of factories.”

  “How about the area below Central Park?”

  “A warm section, one of the largest in the entire system, is near there. One of my colleagues lost his hand when he was attacked by a giant turtle. Yes, turtles are also flushed into the sewer system. And snakes.”

  “Snakes?”

  “Pythons mainly.”

  “But how can snakes and turtles live down there with alligators? Sooner or later the alligators would get them all.”

  “There are ledges and access tunnels. The snakes can stay above the alligators and the snapping turtles. As for the turtles, they can live in lower temperatures than alligators. Perhaps each species has adapted to the conditions. It’s the will of all creatures to survive.”

  “Have you seen any of these creatures, Carlos?”

  “I became a member of the Night People after those sections of the sewer system were declared taboo. I stay clear of them as do all my friends.” Carlos paused. “Surely you don’t think Suzanne Pierson is being held prisoner in one of the danger areas?”

  “Well, you say one of the warm areas is close to Central Park ... I was about three hundred yards along a sewer tunnel under the park when I found Suzanne’s handkerchief. Come to think of it, I started to perspire just before that. It was getting hot down there. But that wasn’t what kept me from going further; it was the smell. Almost knocked me out.”

  “That’s another danger, Mr. Kent—toxic gas.”

  The moan of the wind grew stronger. Clouds passed under the sliver of moon and extinguished its weak light. Carlos shook his head.

  “I’m afraid that if the kidnappers took the girl into that part of the sewer system, all are dead.”

  A whispered voice carried from the darkness. “Perhaps the Rat Man killed them.”

  “Rat Man?” I echoed.

  “It’s said that a man lives in that part of the sewer system,” Carlos said. “He’s called the Rat Man because his clothes are said to be made of rat skins.”

  “Have any of your people seen him?”

  “Two claimed to have seen him. They were old men. Both died last year.”

  “Tell me what they said.”

 

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