Signals of Treason Part 2

Night falls over Manhattan like a velvet curtain drawn across a dimmed stage! The mighty CBS Radio Building stands against the dim glow of wartime lamps – tall, silent, and brimming with secrets that stir in the dark!

But look sharp! A lone figure slips from the shadowed alley – a flash of crimson against the night!

It’s MISS MASQUE, ladies and gentlemen!

Gone is Diana Adams, society darling. In her place stands the masked mystery woman who has criminals quaking from coast to coast!

Her scarlet gown flashes in the dim light, her red gloves crimson as coals against the dark, and behind the domino mask, her eyes burn with purpose.

“Sound effects department… second floor,” she whispers. “Let’s see what game you’re playing.”

The hidden pouch sewn into her gown’s hip-drape presses lightly at her side — her compact camera and pencil torch waiting like old allies.

Up she goes, listeners – scaling the iron fire escape with all the nimble grace of a panther in heels! Hand over hand! Step by step! Two stories above the pavement, she finds her prize: a studio window left slightly ajar by a weary janitor.

“Bless wartime fatigue,” she murmurs, easing the sash upward.

She slips through the window into a dim back corridor that runs behind the studios. The building hums quietly around her — distant generators, the faint buzz of equipment on standby.

Keeping to the shadows, she moves past storage closets, spare props, and the stencilled doors of half-darkened rooms until the one she wants looms ahead:

STUDIO B.

Miss Masque presses her ear to the door, hears nothing, and slips inside.

Studio B slumbers in the faint green glow of its standby lamps — silent microphones, empty script stands, and the ghostly shapes of sound-effects contraptions rising in the half-light.

She moves carefully across the floor, every step measured, heading straight for the sound-effects tables.

The firearms case catches her eye – FIREARMS – EFFECTS stenciled in fading yellow letters.

She’s reaching for it when —

FOOTSTEPS in the corridor!

The door begins to open!

Miss Masque slips behind a tall equipment cabinet with the fluid speed of a stage magician!

Two men enter, silhouetted by hallway light. Sound-effects technicians – one the train-whistle operator from rehearsal, the other his assistant. But their voices now are low, tense – all business.

“…Reed left hours ago,” one whispers.

“Ja. And the reporter?” The assistant’s tone sharpens. “Bowman? Still nosing around?”

“Not anymore.” A thin smile in the darkness. “Fed him a line about broken equipment and a disgruntled crewman. He’ll spend the night running in circles.”

Miss Masque’s eyes narrow behind her mask.

The second man crosses the room, shielding a small desk lamp as he flicks it on. A narrow beam of yellow spills across the effects table.

His profile catches the light.

She remembers the man who sounded that train whistle a heartbeat too early.

His face had been calm then.

Now, in the dim lamplight, that calm looks like calculation.

He kneels before the firearms case and opens it with reverent care.

Miss Masque’s pulse quickens!

The assistant shifts his weight. “And Reed himself? He’s been... watchful. Asking too many questions.”

“All the more reason this ends tomorrow.” The first man’s voice drops to a hiss. “We finish the transmissions. We silence him. Same stroke.”

From behind her hiding place, she watches him lift the studio’s revolver from its velvet-lined compartment – the trusty blank-firing prop that’s appeared in countless broadcasts! He examines it briefly in the lamplight, then slides it into a leather satchel at his feet.

From his coat, the second man produces another revolver — a perfect twin in outline.

The light is too faint for details, but something about the way he handles it freezes her breath.

“Our superiors already have every message they need,” he continues, voice barely above a murmur. “Tomorrow’s broadcast – the final sequence of transmissions, the last coordinates embedded throughout the show.. And then the bridge scene. Reed’s death, broadcast live to the entire nation.”

He rotates the chamber with practiced precision – click, click, click – counting under his breath.

“Two birds. One stone.”

He withdraws a small cardboard box from his pocket – empty now, listeners! But the lamplight reveals a single groove in the padding where a bullet once rested before being loaded into that deadly chamber!

“Five blanks. One live round.”

“Cylinder?”

“Chamber four.”

“The mark?”

“Same as rehearsal. Reed steps to center microphone for the bridge confrontation. Hits that mark every time.” A pause, cold and certain. “Fourth shot takes him cleanly.”

The second man places the substitute revolver carefully into the case – a viper replacing a harmless garden snake!

The first man permits himself the ghost of a smile.

“The last transmissions sent. The American hero… removed.”

They slip toward the door, the leather satchel containing the original revolver clutched in one man’s hand.

The lock clicks. Their footsteps fade. Silence reclaims the studio like a held breath finally released.

Miss Masque waits. One heartbeat. Two. Three.

Then she steps from behind the cabinet – calm, poised, and burning with righteous fury!

She opens the firearms case with careful precision.

There it rests – the substitute revolver!

She takes her pencil-thin pocket torch – a narrow beam, carefully shielded – and examines the weapon up close.

Now she sees what the lamplight had hidden:

The grip’s finish is a shade darker! The cylinder shows fresh file marks! Where a serial number should gleam, there’s only smooth, unmarked steel!

She raises her compact camera – ingenious little invention! – and captures the evidence!

CLICK — the substitute gun in its velvet nest!

CLICK — the filed frame where the serial number should be!

CLICK — the empty cardboard box they’d tossed aside after loading the live round.

Each photograph is a weapon in her arsenal, dear listeners!

She tucks the empty bullet box into her hidden pouch – physical proof that live ammunition had been in this room tonight.

She reaches for the substitute revolver, fingers hovering over the grip.

Then she stops.

The original gun is gone – in that leather satchel, soon to be disposed of. She has no blank-firing replacement to swap in its place. And if she removes this weapon, they’ll know instantly that someone has discovered their plot. They’ll scatter like roaches in lamplight, vanishing into the night with their larger operation intact.

No. The gun stays exactly where it is.

Let them think their plan is working perfectly – right up until the moment she proves otherwise.

She closes the case exactly as found and steps back.

The Reich! Nazi agents operating in the heart of American broadcasting! An assassination plot to silence one of our nation’s most trusted voices! Coded transmissions already sent to Germany! But what intelligence? And how many broadcasts have they corrupted with their secret messages?

She slips back through the studio, shadows folding around her like silent curtains.

At the window, Miss Masque pauses – silhouetted against the dim glow of wartime Manhattan, a crimson figure framed by the city’s enforced dim-out.

“Tomorrow night,” she murmurs, steel beneath velvet, “chamber four won’t claim the man you think it will. And when you run, I’ll be waiting.”

She slips out the window, descending the fire escape with cold iron biting through her gloves until her heels land lightly on the sidewalk below.

Nazi agents have set their plan in motion! But they’ve made one fatal mistake, friends of the airwaves! They didn’t count on Miss Masque – and she never misses her cue!

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This story is written by Adam Wieland (2025), using the Public Domain character Miss Masque, originally published by Nedor Comics (Standard/Better Publications) in 1946.

Artwork generated by the author using ChatGPT’s DALL·E image model (OpenAI).