Madam Fatal: December 1941 free porn video

With an assassin targeting President Roosevelt and Prime Minister Winston Churchill, can the most famous cross-dressing crime-fighter of the 1940s save the day? MADAM FATAL: DECEMBER 1941 by BobH (c) 2020 Characters are the property of DC Comics. (Note: This story is a prequel those Madam Fatal stories I've posted to date.) - 1 - "Tell me about Scrappy Nelson and Tubby White, Mr Stanton." "Where would you like me to begin?" I asked, licking my painted lips nervously. "At the beginning, please." "Very well. It all started a few months ago, early in 1941. There had been a worrying uptick in attacks on defense plants by saboteurs working from within. At the beginning of June, I was asked by my friend Miles Benton, owner of Eastern Aviation, if I could hang around the plant in an unofficial capacity and keep an eye on things. The company had just been awarded the biggest contract on the East Coast and he was naturally concerned about saboteurs. While I was in his office, Benton had to terminate the employment of a man named Pierce whose designs weren't up to snuff. Pierce did not take it well, attacking me when I left Benton's office a little later. I fought him off, and he escaped me. He obviously thought - mistakenly - that I has something to do with his firing. The following day, dressed as Madam Fatal..." "The little old lady version?" "Yes, the little old lady version. She still had a few more adventures to go before I retired her." "Sorry, please continue." "As I was saying... The following day, as Madam Fatal and carring a basket of flowers, I pretended to be an old flower-seller and so was able to mingle with the workers and eavesdrop. To my surprise I found that Pierce had returned to the plant, where I saw him talking to another man. They were being very furtive but I was able to eavesdrop. I still remember their conversation. 'Keep your eyes open for a guy named Stanton,' Pierce told him. 'He's looking for spies.' 'He won't suspect a thing,' said the other man. 'So you want to spill things to the boss, huh?' 'Why not?' replied Pierce, 'I'm out now, ain't I? When do we get going?' 'Meet me at Main and Vine tonight.' So, naturally, when they arrive at their meeting Madam Fatal was also there, keeping watch from the shadows of a drugstore doorway. A Studebaker pulled up, there was a short conversation between the driver and the guy from the aviation plant, then Pierce got into the car and was driven off. Unfortunately, there were no cabs to be seen so I comandeered a nearby parked car, whose driver was sitting there, looking dejected." "And this was eighteen year old Robert 'Tubby' White?" "It was. When I stressed on him the importance of following the other vehicle he was only too happy to help. As we drove he told me how he'd tried to join the army earlier that day but had been rejected for being too fat. So in helping me chase spies now he felt he was doing his bit for Uncle Sam. We followed the Studebaker to a derelict house in the country where, to our surprise, Pierce and the driver climbed into a well in the garden. After a suitable interval, Tubby and I followed them. The ladder inside took us to a door at the bottom of the well. This opened into an old mine tunnel, at the end of which we came upon Pierce talking to a bearded man he referred to as 'Baron'. 'So, Pierce,' he said, 'I hope this information you've given us about Eastern Aviation is true, You'll remain here until we have blown it up! Then you will be rewarded handsomely!' And that's when Tubby blurted out his shock at the idea, revealing we were there. Blaming Pierce for leading us there, Baron shot him and a melee ensued between us and his men. The mine was a lot more unstable than anyone realised and we brought the roof down. Only Tubby and I escaped with our lives. All this was in the report I filed with police at the time." "And they passed it along to us here at the FBI. While it was in transit we arrested the spy Pierce had spoken to at the aviation plant. We'd had him under surveillance for some time. His name is Heinrich Clausing and he was part of the Duquesne spy ring. He was arrested on the same day as all the others in that ring." "I had no idea!" I said, genuinely surprised. The trial of the Duquesne spy ring in Federal District Court in Brooklyn had been in the news for months. The spy ring contained thirty three German agents in all - thirty men and three women. Nineteen pleaded guilty with the remaining fourteen being brought before a jury on September 3rd. The trial is still ongoing. "Clausing claims he had no idea that the people he passed Pierce along to were saboteurs, which makes sense. And that worries me." "Why?" "Because Nazi Germany's policy up 'til now had been to commit no overtly aggressive acts against us in the hope of keeping America out of the war. It's why Hitler denounced the German-American Bund and forbade German citizens in the US from joining it. Which also explains the Duquesne ring's activities being limited to intelligence gathering - espionage, not sabotage." "So you think there's another group behind the destruction, one that's acting without official sanction?" "Yes, and your own experience with spies and saboteurs over the past two years suggests the same. Thanks to your most recent exploit we now have a name." "You think von Traeger's running this group?" "I do. Now tell me about Scrappy Nelson." "He was the newsboy I bought my copy of the 'New York Chronicle' from most days. A bright kid, fifteen years old but small for his age, he was an orphan who lived on the streets and got by on the pittance selling newspapers brought in. He'd apparently lived in an orphanage at one time but had run away." "The St Ignatius Home for Orphaned Boys," said Hoover, checking the file in front of him. "Some people just seem to prefer the streets." "I guess. So, one morning back in August I noticed I hadn't seen Scrappy for a while. Davy, the newsboy now hawking papers on his corner, told me he'd been missing for a week. Which is when I spotted Tubby White being manhandled by a couple of goons further down the street. I intervened, blows were exchanged, and they ran off. Tubby explained that they attacked him after he'd overheard them talking about Scrappy and some place called Doom Mansion. Tubby didn't know what that was, but I did." "'Doom'? Really?" "Really. When Owain Dwm emigrated from his native Wales, he anglicised the spelling of his surname. Didn't stop his family becoming very wealthy from coal mining over the next few generations. Doom Mansion is the palatial dwelling Owain had built in upstate New York. I told Tubby to be at Main and Vine in thirty minutes, which is where I met him as Madam Fatal. I drove us to Doom Mansion, which is further up the coast, on a wooded promontory that overlooks the secluded Doom Cove. On arrival we were attacked by a band of thugs who, I later learned, called themselves 'the League of Hunted Men', every last one of them being an escaped convict. Tubby and I were separated in the melee that followed. I got away, and Tubby was captured. Making my way around the side of the mansion, I climbed up to a first floor ledge, where I happened to overhear a very interesting conversation between a lawyer named Sneed and someone he referred to as 'Mr Leech'. It appeared that Adam 'Scrappy' Nelson was the last direct descendant of Owain Dwm and that Leach was his uncle. He had kidnapped Scrappy, intending to claim the Doom estate and fortune for himself. Snead was explaining that if Scrappy hadn't claimed this by midnight then Leach would get the lot. Watching from my vantage point outside the window, I'd seen Scrappy and Tubby creep into the room, so I now burst through that window and informed Snead of Scrappy's presence. Leach called for his thugs, another melee ensued, but this time we beat them back. Mycroft Leach escaped, alas, but Scrappy got to claim his inheritance. There were legal problems with him being so young, so I agreed to act as executor and to provide him with a regular allowance from the estate to live on until such time as he reached twenty one and could then do what he liked with it. In the meantime he and Tubby White had really hit it off, so Tubby said Scrappy could move in with him. Whereupon he announced his intention to join Tubby and me in our fight against crime, not that we were a team." "That didn't work out too well for you, did it?" "No, it didn't. The boys set up 'The Surefire Detective Agency' and, purely by chance, they stumbled across a basket in which stolen defence plans the FBI had been scouring the city for were hidden. The spies came looking for them and, during a rooftop battle, Madam Fatal knocked their leader 'Pop' Hudson off a roof. Unfortunately for me, even as he was falling to his death Hudson managed to whip out his revolver and shoot me. It was bad, very bad." "So I understand. If not for the skill of the surgeons who worked on you, you would've died." "That was in August. I spent the next few months recovering. During that time I did a lot of self-reflection, particularly about my role as Madam Fatal. Once upon a time masquerading as a little old lady had given me the element of surprise since no one expected her to be as athletic and 'two- fisted' as she was, but by now she was well-enough known that that element of surprise had largely gone. She was also something of a hair shirt." "What do you mean?" "When my daughter was kidnapped in 1931 I felt responsible and was dressing down as a kind of penance. But it had been ten years now - a full decade - and I was done with that. I decided that from now on I would present as my true age, and so I designed a new look for Madam Fatal and started making that costume. It was November before I was feeling my old self and fully up and around once more. Just in time for the boys to get in trouble again. Their 'Surefire Detective Agency' was located in a shack erected on a vacant lot. They were in the process of adding a sign that read 'Spies and Sabotage a Specialty' when they were suddenly embroiled in just that. A car came racing down the street pursued by another which forced it off the road. It narrowly missed Scrappy, crashing into a wall near the lot. The pursuers, obviously believing Scrappy had seen something that would let him identify them, dragged him into their own car and sped off. All this was witnessed by a Detective Kevin Duffy and myself as it happened, and we found the driver of the crashed car dying when we reached it." "Hiram Crane," he said, referring to the file on his desk, "an FBI agent and part of the anti-espionage task force." "Yes. Before he died, Agent Crane was able to tell us why he was being pursued and where we'd find those responsible for his death. Leaving Duffy with him, I changed into my Madam Fatal clothes then returned in my car to pick up Tubby. Since I hadn't finished making my new outfit, the old one was getting one last outing. We knew there was no time to waste if we were to save Scrappy. What Agent Crane had discovered was that Nazi spies had taken over a strategically positioned lighthouse and were sending radio messages to U-boats out at sea whenever British ships left New York harbour to join Atlantic convoys." "You proceeded to the lighthouse, untied the keeper, and with his aid succeeded in freeing your friend and apprehending the spies before Detective Duffy got there with the police. Very impressive work." "Thank you." "Now," said Director Hoover, "tell me about the deaths of Scrappy Nelson and Tubby White...." - 2 - I examined my reflection in the cheval mirror critically. My form-fitting trousers looked like leather but weren't. Made from a material of my own creation that allowed complete freedom of movement and 'breathed' sufficiently that sweat build-up wasn't a problem. They were also padded so as to give my male butt the rounded appearance of a womanly derriere. Save for my boots, the rest of my new costume was currently laid out on my bed: a red top, black leather and gloves, a wide weight-lifter style belt (with a number of thin tools such as lockpicks and slim throwing blades sandwiched between its two layers), a bra stuffed with padding, the grey wig I'd always worn as Madam Fatal, and the weighted walking cane that was my weapon of choice. Sitting down at my dressing table I picked up my bright red lipstick and studied my face. My features had always been more feminine than masculine, hence the facial prosthetics I wore as Richard Stanton to give me a more 'manly' profile. Accompanied by my hunching over, those same prosthetics had given me the appearance of an old crone when dressed as Madam Fatal. But not anymore. Now, without the prosthetics and with the aid of make-up she'd be presenting a younger, more glamorous image to the world. The change was not without its potential pitfalls, but I was convinced its time had come. I was raising the lipstick to my lips when my phone rang, so I put it back down and lifted the receiver. "Stanton here," I said. "Stanton? Detective Duffy. You need to get over here to the boys' 'Surefire Agency' immediately," he said. "Something has happened, something terrible." Heart pounding, I quickly applied my facial prosthetics, threw on a shirt and coat, stuffed the rest of my new Madam Fatal outfit into a bag, and headed down to the underground garage where my 1940 Chevy Coupe was parked. It was a five minute drive to the lot where Scrappy and Tubby had their 'Surefire Detective Agency' shack. I drove there expecting the worst. And the worst is what I found. The FDNY were already rolling up their hoses and climbing into their fire truck when I arrived, preparing to leave. Wisps of steam were still rising from the charred remains of the shack, bits of which were scattered over the roped-off lot and out into the road. Two bodies lay on the ground, covered by tarps - one large, one small. I made to go over to them, but a hand on my arm stopped me. "Don't," said Detective Duffy. "They were burned beyond recognition. You don't need to see that, nobody does. And it's obvious from the size and shape of the bodies that it's really them." "What happened here?" I asked, shaken by the scene before me. "It looks like someone planted an explosive incendiary device in the shack and timed it to go off after they got here, which they did at the same time every day." "But why?" I said. "Why kill them? I don't understand." "I know we both thought they were just playing at being detectives, but they still managed to be involved in stopping spies and saboteurs three times in as many months. That wouldn't have gone unnoticed." "Tug the forelock, press the nose. Then where you're gone no one knows," I murmured. "Come again?" said Duffy. "It's a bit of nonsense verse Scrappy used to sing. His mother taught him it when he was a toddler. Now he'll never sing it again." I glanced over at the small crowd that had gathered, and my eyes alighted on a familiar hook-nosed face. "Hey!" I shouted, but the man had already turned away and was running off. He jumped into a car, which immediately sped away. "I'll get him!" said Duffy. "You stay with the bodies until the van from the coroner's office gets here!" So saying he crossed to where his patrol car was parked, with Officer Ryan waiting in the driver's seat, and they took off in hot pursuit. I was close behind them of course - let someone else wait for the van from the coroner's office. The man I had recognised was Karl von Traeger of Hitler's Abwehr. We'd met some months ago and he had been taken into custody. Clearly he'd escaped, and just as clearly he must be responsible for the incendiary device. Which seemed to confirm that Tubby and Scrappy had been killed in retaliation for their part in recent our spy captures, just as Detective Duffy had suggested. I followed both cars north to the new Henry Hudson Bridge, paid the ten cent toll, and crossed over into Spuyten Duyvil. The bridge had been opened five years ago in December 1936 in the face of opposition from residents and other civic groups who argued that it would destroy the virgin forest of Inwood Hill Park and bring increased traffic congestion to the Bronx. They were right on both counts and this had already started to happen, but there were still wooded areas to be found no more than a twenty minute drive from Manhattan. It was into one such area that both cars turned, following a dirt track. I hung back for a minute or two before carefully following them up the track. When I spotted a particularly thick set of bushes that would conceal the Chevy from anyone on the road, I pulled off it and coasted in behind these. Pressing the button that changed the car's plates from those of Richard Stanton to the fake ones used by Madam Fatal, I turned off the engine and stepped out of the vehicle. I peeled off my coat, facial prosthetics, and shirt and reached for the bag containing the rest of my new Madam Fatal outfit. Quickly donning the stuffed bra, the red top, and the wig, I then took out my make-up. There wasn't time for a full job, only powder and that bright red lipstick. On with the gloves and glasses, and I was ready to go. I had perfect 20-20 vision, but special lenses enabled me to see better in the deep shadows beneath the forest canopy. Grabbing my cane I set off, moving between the trees as quietly as I could. Judging by its size the track led to a cabin rather than to a logging camp, and chances were that cabin wasn't too far from the road we'd turned off to get here. This turned out to be a correct assumption on my part. A cabin becoming visible through the trees a few minutes later, the cars I'd been following parked beside it. There was a guard with a handgun pacing up and down in front of the cabin, but it was a simple matter to creep up behind him and knock him out. Dragging him into some bushes I tied him up then returned to peer in through the cabin window. Inside, Ryan and Duffy were gagged and tied to chairs. Facing them were von Traeger and a man wearing a familiar yellow hood - but it couldn't be him. The original Yellow Hood was Philip White, an airplane manufacturer, who I'd unmasked back in March. A worrying number of industrialists and other wealthy Americans had expressed admiration for Hitler in the 1930s, but White's sympathies had extended to passing secrets to the Nazis. After I exposed him he was arrested and had recently been given a prison sentence, so this couldn't be the same man. As I watched, von Traeger gave this new Yellow Hood his Luger. The Hood looked at the other man, squared his shoulders as if steeling himself, and raised the pistol. Before I realised what was happening or could do anything about it, he had placed the end of the barrel against Officer Ryan's head and pulled the trigger. The sound of the gun firing seemed loud even to me, and I watched in horror as Ryan's body jerked in response, throwing him and his chair backwards. Seeing the chair hit the floor shook me out of my shock and I raced around to the door, throwing it open. Surprised by my sudden appearance everyone inside momentarily froze, but I had already hurled my cane and it struck the Yellow Hood square in the face. He yelled out in pain as von Traeger, having retrieved his Luger, raised it and took aim. "Kill her, kill her!" screamed Yellow Hood, holding his face. "The bitch broke my nose!" To my surprise von Traeger smiled, lowered his weapong and took the other man's arm. "Time to go," he said, nodding to me and calmly leading Yellow Hood outside. I didn't know why von Traeger hadn't shot me but, not wanting to give him an excuse to change his mind, I made no attempt to stop them from leaving. Instead, as soon as I heard their car pull away, I untied Detective Duffy who immediately went over to his fallen colleague to confirm that he was dead. Then he turned to face me. "Who *are* you?" he demanded. "It's me, Madam Fatal," I replied. "I decided to ditch the little old lady disguise and start looking my real age. Or did you really think an old lady was capable of handing out the beatings she did?" "Not really, no. The cabin has a phone so I need to call my precinct and get people out here." "While you're doing that I'll give chase. They're probably well clear by now but I have to try. Oh, and you'll find a guy tied up in some bushes nearby." "Fair enough. Will you be dropping by to give a report?" "Day after tomorrow," I promised. I strolled back to where I'd hidden my car, knowing that attempting a pursuit was already pointless but just wanting to get away. Changing back to Richard Stanton, I restored the car's real plates and drove back to the city, lost in thought. Von Trager had had both Duffy and I at his mercy. If he'd wanted us dead we would be, so why weren't we? The only explanation that made sense was that he needed us alive as witnesses to what we'd seen, but try as I might I couldn't figure out why. Two days later, on December 5th, Madam Fatal reported to Duffy's precinct house as promised. When I got there, rather than take my statement I was ushered into an interview room where a familiar figure awaited me. We'd never met, but that toad-like countenance was one of the most famous faces in America. He stood and held out his hand. "Hello, Mr Stanton," he said. "I'm J. Edgar Hoover. Please be seated." He knew who I really was!! How the hell did J. Edgar Hoover know who I was?! "The surgeons who worked on you after you were shot respected client- patient privilege," he said, as if reading my mind, "but I had an agent break in and photograph their records." "Isn't that illegal?" I said. "Yes, but I'm the head of the FBI. Who do you imagine would hold me to account?" "OK, but why are you interested in me?" "I'm interested in all the 'extra-legals' who are springing up. You're few in number so far, countable on the fingers of one hand, but I want to know more about you. You've done good work as Madam Fatal, despite not being a properly deputised officer of the law." He shuffled the folders on his desk, then steepled his fingers. "Tell me about Scrappy Nelson and Tubby White, Mr Stanton." "Where would you like me to begin?" I asked, licking my painted lips nervously. "At the beginning, please." - 3 - "It was a close-run thing at the end, but throughout the Battle of Britain we were producing replacement Spitfires and Hurricanes faster than the Jerries could shoot them down," said Lord Beaverbrook. "A remarkable achievement," said Major Karl Bendetson, who had recently been appointed by the President to take control of an aircraft plant in New Jersey. Since Beaverbrook was Minister of Aircraft Production at the time, he'd been largely responsible for this feat. "And what about you, major?" asked Beaverbrook. "What are you hoping to get out of your audience with FDR?" Bendetson had joined us after speaking briefly with FDR. "I impressed on him the urgency of interning anyone on the west coast with even a drop of Japanese blood," he said. "I explained that in light of the attack on Pearl Harbor they present an obvious threat to our country." I was appalled by this. "What about German-Americans?" I said, acidly. "Aren't they a threat, too?" "That's obviously not the same thing at all, ma'am," he said. Max Beaverbrook was a fascinating man and in other circumstances I'd have happily listened to him talk for hours, but if I stayed here I would end up losing my temper with the major, not least because my own late wife was half-German. I had a job to do, specifically checking out 'female spaces', so instead I decided it was time I circulated. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen," I said, "I need to find the ladies powder room. "Of course, Mrs Vandermeer," said Beaverbrook. "Don't be too long, darling," said my 'husband', giving me a pat on the rump as I departed. "Ah, newlyweds!" said Major Bendetson, chuckling at this. I gritted my teeth behind my smile and said nothing. We might be playing a married couple, but Agent Forrester was being a lot more 'handsy' than I was happy with. He was the sort of moderately handsome jock-type who thinks he's God's gift to women. Much more of that and this woman was going to deck him. As I crossed the room I scanned the faces of those present here at this White House reception, all of whom were wearing either evening dress or military uniforms, wondering if any of them could be the man I was here to stop. A lot of people were famous enough that I recognized them, but most of the younger contingent I didn't. There was a pretty, heavily pregnant redhead who looked to be in her thirties and was being shepherded protectively by her doting husband, several couples who from the way they carried themselves were likely related to the older rich folk present, and some confident young men and women who may have been Hollywood actors and actresses - I hadn't been keeping up with the movies lately. What I wasn't seeing was anything that looked suspicious. Perhaps Hoover was just being unduly paranoid and everyone here was who they appeared to be. Then again, given the circumstances it was better to be too paranoid than not be paraniod enough. I glanced over to where FDR and Churchill were being feted by the good and the great while Eleanor Roosevelt hovered at her husband's shoulder. At the moment they were talking with Lord Halifax, the UK Ambassador. That's a conversation I'd love to listen in on given his history with Churchill. Lord Halifax was one of Neville Chamberlain's appeasers, and after the escape from Dunkirk he pushed hard for a negotiated peace with Germany. Churchill would have none of it. In his stirring words at the time: "Hitler knows that he will have to break us in this island or lose the war. If we can stand up to him, all Europe may be freed and the life of the world may move forward into broad, sunlit uplands. But if we fail, then the whole world, including the United States, including all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a new dark age." It seemed likely Lord Halifax had been given his current position by Churchill to keep him far removed from Parliament. One of the White House staff directed me to the nearest powder room and I made my way there gratefully. Once inside, I put my clutch purse down on the counter in front of one of the mirrors and sighed as I thought back on how I came to be here. My interview with Hoover had been less than three weeks ago but it felt like a lifetime. When I finished my account of what had transpired at the cabin, Hoover had stared at me thoughtfully. "I happened to be in New York for a few days for meetings with Mayor LaGuardia," he said. "When a copy of Detective Duffy's report crossed the desk of our office here I read it and was intrigued. Duffy described an attractive Madam Fatal very different from the old lady we have a file on. I decided I had to meet you, and now that I have I think you might be just what I'm looking for." "Oh?" I said, warily. "Women being quite unsuited to the task, the FBI has no female field agents. This puts us at a disadvantage in certain situations, one we have sometimes been able to get around by having male agents masquerade as women. I have always personally selected these agents and overseen their transformations but, as you will appreciate, the number able to convincingly pass as female is fairly small, and those who can pass as *attractive* women even smaller. So I'm always on the lookout for new talent, particularly when that person is an accomplished hand to hand fighter and two years in Germany as a child has left them fluent in that tongue." "I'm flattered," I said, "but I don't want to join the bureau." "Given the laws you're breaking just being out in public dressed like that I could coerce you into joining, but I won't," said Hoover. "However, I would like to deputise you so that you could help us out on occasion doing what you have been doing - thwarting spies, saboteurs, and the like. In return you would be under my personal protection when it came to your other activities." I'd accepted of course, because Hoover's personal protection was not to be sneezed at. I also had a suspicion that a refusal could have unpleasant consequences. Two days later I'd woken to the news of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor and the realisation that we were finally at war. Things had moved swiftly after that. On December 8th, President Roosevelt made it official when he delivered his 'day of infamy' speech to Congress, while on December 13th Germany and Italy declared war on the US. That same day those members of the Duquesne spy ring on trial in Brooklyn's Federal District Court were all found guilty, with sentencing scheduled for January. Finally, on December 21st, I was contacted by Hoover and told to meet him in Washington DC the following day. I took the train down the next morning, and Hoover had a car waiting at the station for me when I arrived. I was driven directly to FBI headquarters and ushered into his office. "Ah, Stanton!" he said. "Good to see you." "What's this about?" I asked. "Early this morning, after ten stormy days at sea, a British warship and its escort docked in Norfolk, Virginia. On board was Prime Minister Winston Churchill. Churchill, his doctor, and his Minister of Supply, Lord Beaverbrook, are currently on a U.S. Navy plane heading for Washington National Airport, where the President will meet them. When he does, the news of Churchill's presence in the country will then be released to the press and public." "Wow," I said. "Tomorrow they will give a joint press conference, and in the evening there will be a reception at the White House. Which is where you come in. We've now 'sweated' that henchman of von Traeger's you captured, and he eventually gave up what he knew. The man himself is a former member of the Bund, as are most of those von Traeger has been directing in their acts of sabotage. Yes, it is him coordinating them, as we suspected. Now that we're officially at war with Germany he's probably finally doing so with Hitler's blessing. The henchman didn't know who the Yellow Hood is, but he did pick up on the fact that he was a wealthy supporter of the Nazis, hence needing to conceal his identity." "That tracks," I said, thinking of Philip White. "He also told us that he overheard von Traeger and the Yellow Hood talking about a man they called 'X', a master assassin who had recently been smuggled into the US to eliminate 'high-value' targets." "Like FDR and Churchill." "Exactly. We don't know for sure that this 'X' *will* try to kill them, but we daren't take any chances. If that is his intent then the reception is an obvious time to make an attempt. Which is where you come in...." ...and that's how I come to find myself in a ladies powder room in the White House, staring at my reflection. True to his word, Hoover had personally overseen every detail of my 'transformation'. This had taken place after normal office hours, in a room in FBI headquarters in which a vanity table, a number of wigs, shoes, and hanging racks filled with female clothing suitable for every occasion could be found. Hoover had been intrigued when I peeled off my facial prosthetics but, somewhat to my surprise, had accepted that I'd developed the material they're made of for my personal use alone. He and his executive assistant, Helen Gandy, had then created a complete 'look' for me from undergarments out. Quite why that level of detail was needed I didn't know, but I was soon outfitted with a stuffed bra (giving me a somewhat larger bust than I preferred), a corset, garter belt, silk stockings, and heels. A short- sleeved, calf-length, canary-yellow, boat-necked evening dress wasn't what I'd have chosen for myself, but then I wasn't doing the choosing. Then came the make-up. "Please pay close attention to what Miss Gandy does," said Hoover, as she began painting my face. "This is how I expect you to look at the reception. You may be forty one now but you can easily pass for seven or eight years younger so you'll be posing as one half of a couple in their mid-thirties. I'll introduce you to your husband shortly." It was then I noticed the thin sheen of sweat on Hoover's brow and upper lip. My God, this was getting him aroused! I managed not to show my shock, but it was a close run thing. He had assigned Agent Forrester to act as my husband, without informing him that I was a man, and had given us the credentials necessary to get us into the White House. "Carlton and Eloise Vandermeer," I murmured. If nothing else those names certainly made us *sound* like we could be part of America's wealthy elite. Deciding my make-up needed refreshing, I took my cosmetics out of my purse and got to work. - 4 - Up until now I'd had the powder room to myself, but just as I was finishing reapplying my ruby red lipstick *she* walked in - Eleanor Roosevelt. Only six years separated us but unlike me she looked her age, cutting a somewhat matronly figure. "Mrs Roosevelt. A pleasure to meet you," I said, and it was. I was a big admirer. "And you, my dear," she replied, quickly assessing me with her eyes in that way one woman will another. "You're one of the undercover agents Mr Hoover sent along, aren't you?" "I am," I said. "But since I can find no threats in here I'd best return to the reception." As I was leaving so I passed someone entering. It was the heavily pregnant woman I'd seen earlier. Her dutiful husband had stationed himself outside the powder room, awaiting her return. He smiled when he saw me. "It seems like Helen needs to go every five minutes," he said, "which the doc says is on account of the baby pressing on her bladder." "I remember," I said, thinking back to when Lucy was pregnant with out daughter. "Ah, then you know what that feels like!" I didn't, of course, but I smiled and headed back into the reception room, where 'Carlton' was talking with vice-president Henry Wallace. Sighing, I made my way over to them, making sure to keep Wallace between us as a barrier to his wandering hands. They were discussing the situation in the Far East which was pretty grim with the Japanese looking on the verge of taking both Wake Island and Hong Kong. A little later I saw pregnant Helen's husband return without his wife, followed a few seconds later by Mrs Roosevelt. He watched her closely as she made her way across the room to where Churchill and her husband were sitting. Alarm bells went if in my head and I took off across the room. "Gun!" I shouted, pushing startled guests aside. Mrs Roosevelt looked up in surprise... just as I slammed into her. Scrambling away she raised the derringer in her hand, aiming it at FDR, but again I slammed into her, the gun firing off in the air as I did so. I grabbed at her wildly and half her face came off in my hands, as did her blouse and stuffed bra to reveal her chest - a very male looking chest. By now others who'd initially been shocked by this unexpected catfight were either shielding the two leaders or converging on us. A sudden loud explosion from elswhere in the room made all of us momentarily stop in our tracks - all that is except for X, who leapt onto a chair and crashed out through a window, racing off across the south lawn. I turned to see that Forrester had apprehended X's 'husband'. As the man was led away, Forrester showed me a small metal tube he'd taken from him. "This made that loud bang," he said. "Metal tube, spring loaded firing pin attached to a short lanyard, and a special blank round designed to make the loudest noise possible to startle everyone and allow 'X' to escape." "So his capture was always part of the plan," I said. "Which almost certainly means he knows very little that will be of any use." "Probably not, but we'll still 'sweat' him," said Forrester. "Heck of a thing, X disguising himself as Mrs Roosevelt." "Oh my god, Mrs Roosevelt!" I said, grabbing a female staffer and heading for the powder room. We found Eleanor in a cubicle whose door I had to bust open, bound and gagged and clad only in her underwear. When I removed the gag the first thing she said was: "Is my husband all right?" "Yes, he and Mr Churchill both. We stopped the assassin." I beckoned the female staffer over. "Get some clothes for Mrs Roosevelt," I said. "And get a guard put on the door. No one gets in or out until the First Lady is properly attired." On the floor of the cubicle was the red wig 'X' had shed, along with a rubberoid prosthetic 'tummy'. I picked this up and frowned, a sinking feeling in my stomach. It looked and felt like flesh and was very familiar. *Too* familiar. I tore a piece off for later examination. "She..I mean, *he*..had a lot stored behind that," said Eleanor. "As well as padding there was a small gun, a metal tube, and a wig and mask to let him look like me." "But he didn't *quite* move like you, Mrs Roosevelt," I said. "His movements were slightly *off*, which fortunately I noticed and so I was able to intercept him before he could harm your husband or Mr Churchill." "*You* stopped him!" she said, surprised. "Why that's wonderful! You'll be a great role model for American girls all across this great country." "Unfortunately, no," I said. "If news that there had been an assassination attempt got out, one that came uncomfortably close to succeeding, it could undermine public morale. Also, I'll only continue to be effective if I keep a low profile." "Yes, I can quite see that, I suppose. A pity." Quicker than expected, the female staffer returned with clothes for the First Lady. While she was helping her dress, I slipped away. I found Agent Forrester, who filled me on on what had been happening. "X got away," he said. "Also, we found a sedan parked a short distance from the White House with two men known to us in it, both former Bundists." "Any chance you can make them tell you where he went?" "They're both dead. Garotted. We assume by X, though why he'd kill his his getaway driver and an associate we have no idea." - 5 - It was impossible to leave the White House until Churchill and FDR had both thanked me personally - I manfully resisted the urge to say "neither" when the President called me 'young lady' - and I'd spoken on the phone with Hoover, who was sufficiently pleased with my performance that I have hopes it will be a while before he calls on my services again. I spent the night in my hotel room - after ignoring heavy hints from my 'husband' about joining me there - and took an early train to New York the following morning. Once back in my apartment I went straight to my small laboratory to investigate the rubberoid sample I'd taken. First I examined it under a microscope, then I conducted various chemical tests on it. The results were highly disturbing. After a couple of hours I took a break for lunch, then lit my pipe, settling back in my favourite armchair to ponder the events of the past twenty-four hours. X's behaviour puzzled me. His attempt on the lives of FDR and Churchill had been meticulously planned. There was a limit to how much hard and metallic could sensibly be smuggled into the White House inside X's false belly, hence the choice of a two-shot Remington Model 95 Derringer. Shots from this would be as lethal as those from any other firearm, but only if you could get really close to your targets. That's why X had to disguise himself as the First Lady. His escape was meticulously planned too, so why then kill those who were supposed to drive you to safety? The obvious answer was to escape *them*. Did this mean he had been coerced into working for the Nazis? Had they threatened his family, perhaps? But if so, what had changed to make him seek his freedom from them now when he hadn't in the past? No, I was missing part of the puzzle, of that I was sure, but I had no idea what that might be. Then there was that rubberoid sample. As soon as I touched it in the White House I knew what it must be, but I didn't want to believe it. The tests had confirmed my fears: it was the same synthetic material as my facial prosthetics were made from, a material that I invented. The chances of someone stumbling upon the same formula and the same process required to produce it on their own were infinitessimal. Which meant that somehow, at some point, someone had stolen that formula from me. I could think of no one who could have gotten close enough to me to do so, yet somehow X had. Which led to the biggest and most important question of all. Who the hell *was* X? ********* The End. ********* Notes: Created by Arthur Pinajian (who's now regarded as an important American abstract expressionist painter), Madam Fatal appeared in Quality's CRACK COMICS #1 - 22 (May 1940 - March 1942). I decided I needed a prequel tale before I start in on my second, Madam Fatal trilogy. This is that tale and it sets up several things that will be picked up later. Part 1 of this story is essentially a summary of the final four Madam Fatal tales that appeared in CRACK COMICS #19 - 22, the ones featuring Scrappy Nelson and Tubby White. This pair were introduced as 'comic relief' and, based on what happened in other comics of the period, might well have gradually taken over from the title character had the series continued, eventually pushing her out entirely. I've never cared for this type of unfunny 'comic relief' character and so was always going to kill them off. This also seemed like the right time to show the introduction of what Jenny North refers to as Madam Fatal's 'sexy librarian' costume since all my tales feature that incarnation of the character. The otherwise full online set of Madam Fatal's original adventures at comicbookplus is missing the final page of the Yellow Hood story. Pinajian usually had his villains die at the end of their encounters with Madam Fatal but I decided that Philip White had been captured and imprisoned, even if he too apparently dies at the end of the tale as so many of her foes did. Back then, comics were dated three months ahead of when they appeared on newstands. So, given they're also written and drawn another month or two earlier, this means that all the Madam Fatal stories in CRACK COMICS were produced before the US entered the war following the attack on Pearl Harbor. Given the Duquesne trial was going on prior to this, and Churchill visited FDR as soon as possible afterwards, these seemed the obvious things to incorporate into the story. Then there's J. Edgar Hoover, of course. How could I *not* include him in a tale of wartime cross-dressing? Major (later Colonel) Karl Bendetson (later Bendetsen) is regarded as being the architect of Japanese-American internment during WW2.