The Martian Falcon (Lovecraft & Fort) Read Online Free Page A

right there and then. The first line told him everything he needed to know.
    ‘Another rejection,’ he whispered, shaking his head and scowling at the signature of the magazine’s editor, Farnsworth Wright. ‘You’re a buffoon, Wright,’ he said. ‘You can’t understand what I’m trying to do, even when I explain it to you.’
    He trudged forlornly up the stairs to the third floor (the elevator didn’t work, of course) and along the corridor, trying to ignore the troglodytic shouts that emanated from several apartments – some of which actually contained troglodytes.
    The door to his own apartment was ajar, the wood around the lock cracked and splintered.
    Oh no , he thought. Oh dear Lord!
    Lovecraft pushed open the door a few inches and peeked into the apartment, grateful for once that it consisted of only one room, the entirety of which he could see from his vantage point. It was empty; whoever had broken in had clearly come and gone. Lovecraft’s books had been yanked from their shelves and scattered across the floor; the threadbare sofa had been overturned, and the closet doors were open. The two spare suits that had hung there were gone, along with his overcoat.
    You took my suits and my coat? Lovecraft thought with a heavy sigh. He looked down at the light summer suit he was wearing. This will be less than serviceable come winter… assuming I’m still here in this rat hole of a city .
    There was a payphone in the lobby downstairs. Lovecraft turned and trudged back along the corridor. Once he had called the police, he would return to the apartment and see what else, if anything, had been stolen.
    He thought again of the ad he had placed in the New York Times and wondered if it would lead to any paid work. Who am I kidding? he asked himself miserably. There was clearly nothing else for it: he would have to consult the paper again, this time to search the situations vacant section.
    Once again, he would have to try to get a regular job.
    *
    It was a little after ten o’clock when Fort got back to his office. His secretary, Penny Malone, stood up from her desk in the outer office as soon as she saw him: the expression on his face told her that something was wrong.
    ‘What is it, Charlie?’ she asked, her frown echoing that of her employer, darkening her normally bright features.
    Fort looked into her cobalt-blue eyes and tried to smile, with limited success. ‘Nothing, sweetheart, nothing.’
    Penny placed her hands on her slim hips, dark red varnish camouflaging her nails against the deep crimson of her dress. Her frown deepened. ‘Charlie…’
    ‘Everything’s fine,’ he lied. ‘I got a new case.’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘What kind of case?’
    ‘A customer wants me to track down a stolen item.’
    Penny regarded him with unblinking eyes for a few seconds. ‘What customer?’
    Fort sighed. ‘Al Capone.’
    Penny gasped. ‘ What?’
    Fort sat on the edge of the desk, his shoulders hunched. ‘And he wants me to track down the Martian Falcon.’
    Penny sat down slowly in her chair. ‘Tell me this is a joke, Charlie,’ she said, very quietly.
    ‘I wish I could, Pen. But it isn’t. Capone’s goons grabbed me this morning…’
    ‘I thought you smelled funny.’
    ‘… and took me to the Algonquin. He’s catching some heat for the heist, but says he wasn’t behind it. He reckons it’s down to Johnny Sanguine, and he wants me to prove it.’
    ‘Oh Jesus . The Diesel-Powered Gangster wants you to go up against the Vampire King of Brooklyn?’
    ‘Talk about a rock and a hard place,’ Fort chuckled mirthlessly.
    Penny shook her head. ‘You said it, hon. So… what are you going to do?’
    Fort ran a twitchy hand through his thick dark hair. ‘Not a whole lot I can do… except take the case. I can’t say no to Capone – I’m very attached to my kneecaps, and I want it to stay that way.’
    ‘And what if you manage to pin the theft on Sanguine? What do you think he’s going to