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It was a balmy Greenwich night for the costumed vigilante that prowled London’s streets.
The leather of his mask was getting to him, but he stayed focus on the investigation at hand.
He had a job to do.
While in the light of the British day, his name was George Cross, but once night fell, those that prowled the streets of England had reason to fear the man known as the Hood.
Shining his flashlight at the empty display case, the silent intruder wondered how the culprit managed to get into the secure National Maritime Museum of Greenwich, England and purloin a set of papers that had only been donated the week before.
The papers seemed unexceptional, just a set of navigational charts that one belonged to a Spanish privateer of the 16th Century.
True, the maps contained information on English, Dutch, and French trade routes, the better to capture and plunder them, but the information was all but useless to anyone.
Only places like a maritime museum, which sometimes used the information in its exhibits to determine the locations of sunken centuries-old ships, would ever find a practical use for it.
Unfortunately, there was a brisk trade in nautical antiquities, of which the navigational charts would be considered a prize. The pages were said to contain personal notes by the Spanish captain as well as notation for route changes depending on the season.
A personal collector somewhere must have paid handsomely for the papers, considering the near perfect theft.
No windows were jimmied. No obvious cracks or cuts to the glass. None of the laser detection equipment or security cameras picked up a damn thing.
The Hood wondered if the charts had actually been in the museum at all, considering how immaculate the entire exhibit, a showcase on Spanish Maritime History, appeared to the untrained eye.
Unfortunately, Cross has promised a friend, Michelle Florence, an assistant curator at the Museum, he would look into the case in his own special way.
Still, the clues seemed none existent, at least within the confines of the museum.
There were alternate ways Cross had to gather facts that would looked down upon by the local constabulary.
As he gave the glass display case a final look, he could hear the sound of beating wings from above.
He looked up to see a bird-shaped man fall through the open window the Hood had used to enter the premises and land in front of the stealthy vigilante.
Despite his unfamiliarity working with other costumed vigilantes, he recognized the hero as the American known as Hawk-something or other. George couldn’t be quite sure but he knew Hawk had to be in the name.
The bird-themed hero gave a quick survey of the empty exhibit before even acknowledging the Hood’s presence.
“The name’s Hawkman. What have you got so far?” he asked abruptly.
“Hood,” the Englishman replied, “and I haven’t found very much to be honest”.
“I wasn’t aware England had its own dark night vigilante.”
“Well, we don’t quite have the trouble you Yanks have, so there’s less of a need. Still, there’s enough of us for the job that’s required. I’m the only one I know that prowls the night, so you’re right on that account.”
“I was in town on business when I learned of the robbery. An associate of mine wanted me to see what I could find.”
“Can’t say there’s much to go on,” the Hood said regrettably. “Whoever stole the charts did a good job of covering their tracks.”
“Just seeing how clean the scene in gives me some idea of the kind of person that pulled this off. It’s similar to other crime scenes I’ve seen before.”
“Not sure why a professional would go to all the trouble. Even for the black market, I don’t see the charts being worth that much; just a memento from an insignificant Spaniard’s career”.
Hawkman seemed a bit taken aback by the comment, but the Hood couldn’t figure out why.
“You’d be surprised what less scrupulous individuals are willing to pay for their own slice of history that they can call their own. All manner of insignificant works pass through several hands for sums they wouldn’t possible be paid for in the legitimate market. It’s feeling of control a person has by locking an artifact away for no one else to see that seems to feed their desire to collect and hoard historical works.”
“Sounds like you’ve dealt with a lot of illegal collectors in your time”, the Hood commented.
“I appreciate history more than most of those who wear a mask. I want to preserve antiquities for the world and let everyone have a chance to experience them firsthand, even if it is behind a thin wall of glass. Even a slight exposure might help people realize and appreciate all that have come before, since the dawn of human history.”
“Um, I guess I can appreciate that. Rather than protect the present, you’re protecting the past.”
“Exactly…to some extent,” Hawkman responded, almost impressed by the observation. “My current home, St. Roch, boasts a thriving community of black market antiquity dealers who often lead me to global historical profiteers. I do my best to track some of them down when I’m not busy with St. Roch or the Justice Society.”
“That would explain your trip across the pond,” the Hood said, bringing up the large distance between Greenwich and St. Roch.
Hawkman only responded by examining the display cabinet a little closer before standing up straight and looking up.
“I’ve seen everything I need to. I have my own suspicions about who pulled this job, someone I’ve dealt with repeatedly.” He then turned to look at the Hood. “Do you have any contacts in town you can shake down for answers?”
“Actually, I can think of a few,” Hood replied not wanting to divulge his sources. “Before you got here, I was planning to check in with them anyway in case they knew anything.”
“I’d appreciate it if you kept me in the loop about this. There’s been a rash of rare map thefts from various museums in the United States. I wouldn’t be surprised if this was the latest in a string of related burglaries.”
“Well, we can meet on the roof of the Museum tomorrow night an hour after closing time. I should have something by then,” the Hood said.
“That sounds reasonable,” Hawkman then looked at the long rope which the Hood at used to scaled down from the roof, before offering his hand. “Need a lift back up? It beats climbing.”
“Never one to turn down a free ride,” Hood replied, letting himself be carried up to the roof.
As he rolled up his rope and closed the open window, George noticed Hawkman fly off without another word.
“Okay, Sherm, what do you have for me?” Hood asked as he ruffled the collar of a dapper-looking man.
“I don’t know who you are or what you want, but I’m an honest guy who doesn’t want trouble.”
“You know exactly who I am, Sherm. Just because I have to remind you every week of our arrangement, doesn’t make you less obligated to answer my questions.”
‘Short-Term Sherm’, or Sherman as his mother named him, was a local information broker for just about any low-end crime going on in England. He had a supply of criminal safe-crackers, smash-and-grab artists and two-bit thugs, and he put them in touch with the employers that had the demand.
Keeping all of his associates’ numbers saved in his phone and often forgetting his employers’ names shortly after putting them in touch with their new hired help made him a confidential employee registry.
Several of the people looking to pull off a big score in England were pleased as punch that their recruiter wouldn’t remember them long enough to give them up in an interrogation.
“This was a pretty big job. A set of papers were stolen from the National Maritime Museum. I know you provided the muscle because no one else has the contacts that you do on this side of the country. Other people are too messy with their jobs, but you chose someone who didn’t leave so much as a hair out of place when they left. Just a quick in-and-out this time. You sure made the right choice, whoever it was.”
“Uh, look, I’m sure if,” Sherm said starting to sweat.
Hood gave him a firm shake to snap him out of his mindset.
“I think I remember something about a few maps. I don’t know if they had anything to do with boats though.”
“What do you know?”
“The buyer wanted a nice clean job. He didn’t want to risk the take being damaged, so he was willing to pay extra. Also, the full security system hadn’t been installed yet, so the job would’ve been nice and smooth.”
Sherm may not have been good with names or general knowledge, but he could be a stickler for the details when it came to hiring a specific individual.
“Who did you hire? I don’t know any locals that could pull off a job like that.”
“I had to go with some out of state talent. I made the choice over a local, because the man was willing to pay extra for solid results.”
“Give me a name,” Hood growled, leaning forward.
“Uh, not sure about the name,” Sherm replied, before holding up his hand in protest to keep from being shaken again. He then pulled out a cell phone. “I should have the name in here. It’s the last number I dialed,” he added before scrolling down his call logs. “Here it is, it’s a Yank by the name of Sands. I don’t know anything else aside from that.”
Hood made sure to memorize the number for future reference. It helped that the number was local.
“That’s good, but you left out the most important fact. Who hired you?”
“Come on, you know I don’t know that,” Sherm said meekly.
“You know something, and something keeps you safe, while nothing gets you a night in Scotland Yard.”
Hesitating, Sherm responded, “I think it was an H and a C, or a C and an H.”
“Sure you don’t want to think a little harder, on that?” Cross threatened, even though he figured what he had to far was better than he originally hoped for.
“Harder? Harder?” a flash of insight filled Sherm’s face, “Carter, it was something Carter, or Carter something. I can’t be sure.”
“That’s good. You did real good tonight, Sherm.”
“Thanks,” the snitch replied, before looking down. “Can you let me go now? I don’t mean that literally of course.”
The Hood then pulled Sherm away from the edge of the roof and put him back down on solid ground.
As Sherman got over his fear of heights, he looked back in the direction of the Hood only to see that he was now gone.
Going over the facts in his apartment, George Cross consulted the information superhighway for details.
“It was a professional job. Whoever this Sands guy is, he knows his stuff. Not even a footprint to go on.”
Cross would have to wait until he had access to a criminal database before he could find the thief. The Hood may have been good at breaking into high-security buildings, but hacking high-security computers was another thing entirely.
“The nautical charts would command a good price on the antiquities black market. Too bad I’m not familiar with it enough to know who the interested buyers are.”
He quickly jotted down a note to call Michelle about that later, in case she knew who was likely to acquire such charts through illegitimate means.
He then remembered a comment by Sherm earlier, and wrote ‘Inside Job?’ on his notepad.
Pulling up the Maritime Museum’s website, he reviewed the list of employees for any with the initials H and C, as well as those with Carter in their name. Unfortunately, while many had either H or C as an initial, none had both. Also, none of the C-names were ‘Carter’.
Cross then noticed an article on the Museum’s webpage reporting the chart donation from just a week earlier.
A large picture showed an African-American man and a dark-haired white man standing next to the Maritime Museum Director as well as the curator for the Charts Wing.
A heading below the picture read: ‘Danny Owens and Carter Hall of the Stonechat Museum in St. Roch, Lousiana officially hand over the Nautical Charts of Don Diego Hidalgo to the National Maritime Museum for the new Spanish Maritime History exhibit’.
“An insider would have known about the security system being incomplete. That means it was probably someone involved with museum or the contribution,” Cross said out loud, reading the second name again.
‘Carter Hall’. ‘Carter H’. The Hood had his first suspect.
The call to Michelle earlier hadn’t helped. She wasn’t sure who would be interested in buying black market nautical charts. All she knew was that it was a lucrative trade that unscrupulous individuals could make a killing in.
Eventually night began to fall and the museum closed up.
The Hood arrived at the roof, prepared to share his new information with his American ally.
As if on cue, the Hawk landed gently on the roof, his wings slowing his descent.
“What do you have?” he stated, getting straight to business.
“A local broker that supplies buyers with muscle turned me on to a suspect for the break-in job. I only have a last name for now, but if you have access to a criminal database, we can narrow down the search.”
“What is it?”
“Sands. My guy says he’s a Yank, like you.”
Hawkman was once more surprised at one of the Hood’s comments. Did he have a problem being referred to as a Yankee?
“I know the guy. He has powers that would be perfect for this sort of thing.”
“I don’t know where he’s staying, but I have a phone number, possibly a landline.”
“I have someone that can track it down,” Hawkman replied. “What’s the number?”
Hood handed his associate a small sheet of paper he’d scribbled the number on earlier after his encounter with Sherm.
Hawkman then pulled out a cellphone and seemed to be texting his associate.
“I’ve got more than that. Sherm also had a name for person who hired Sands.”
Almost giddy in his response (if by giddy, you mean happy at the prospect of beating senseless an illegal antiquity collector), Hawkman responded, “Who?”
“He only gave me an initial and a name, but based on those connected to the museum, there was only one logical suspect.” Hood let the facts sink in for a second. “It looks like an inside job by someone from your current hometown, a museum employee by the name of Carter Hall.”
“Not possible,” Hawkman replied not even considering the possibility. “Hall is a protector of historical artifacts, not a plunderer.”
“Think about it, he didn’t want to draw heat to himself by stealing the charts when they were in his museum, so he waits until they’re donated elsewhere. I even did some checking into the guy’s past. Aside from a brief disappearance during the 90s, he’s supposedly been a collector dating back to at least the 1960s, which means he looks damn good for his age. Also, he’s said to have one of the largest legal collections in the US, so who’s to say he’s not the kind of person to pad it with illegal acquisitions.”
“It’s not Carter. Trust me. He’s the one who asked me to look into this robbery?”
“Trust you? I barely know you. Besides, what better way to divert attention from yourself than to ask your best buddy who happens to be a superhero to look into the break-in. Besides, he would have been one of the few to know the security wasn’t all in place.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. The security wouldn’t be an issue with Sands pulling the job.”
Before the argument could continue, Hawkman’s cell beeped in response. He’d gotten a text message back from his associate.
“I’ve got a local address that Sands uses,” the Hawk replied, examining the text. “Since he just got the charts recently, he might still be there. He has to rest between travel.”
“Why is that? Jet lag?”
“No, it’s a side effect of his powers.” Hawkman showed Hood the address in the text. “Do you know where this is?”
“It’s about a mile from here. I can guide you on my motorcycle.”
Hawkman hesitated before responding, “Okay, but we need to do this quickly. I don’t want to risk Sands getting away if he’s still in town.”
“I won’t waste any time.”
After a short bike ride, with Hawkman following overhead, the Hood arrived at a small dark tenement building and parked his motorcycle in an alleyway. He then climbed the fire escape to the roof, where he met Hawkman.
The two then walked down the stairs to the top floor where Sands’s room was located.
Hood quickly picked the lock and quietly opened the door.
Save a single lamp illuminating the ground and an answering machine in a corner, the room was completely bare, save for the shadows covering the walls and ceiling.
“Looks like we missed your friend. Hard to believe anyone could live here.”
“Believe me, he’s here. I can feel him,” Hawkman said, sure of himself.
Strangely, the walls began to shake. No wait, the Hood thought, It’s the shadows.
“The silence. The serenity. The device may be slowly killing me, but at least I have some measure of piece when I sleep in them,” a disembodied voice stated.
The shadows began to form some kind of shape, something like a giant towering over the two mystery men.
“You shouldn’t walk where angels fear to tread. Winged pests have no allies here, only unseen enemies.”
A large black claw tried to wrap itself around Hawkman, but the Hawk hit it with the large mace in his right hand.
Being ignored by the struggle between Hawkman and his foe, the Hood instinctively pulled a small pistol out of his belt, something he carried for emergencies.
“Let me shine some light on this conflict,” he quipped while firing a small flare into the ceiling.
Was he quipping? He wasn’t the kind to let himself get caught up in the persona of a super-hero. It was fun though.
The fire sprinklers installed in the ceiling also encouraged the maneuver.
Hitting the ceiling with a blinding light, the room was instantly illuminated, as Sands was reduced to his small, man-sized form, followed by Hawkman diving at him.
He gripped the man’s neck with no hint of ever letting go.
“I told you I’d find you after you nearly killed Danny in India. You’re fortunate you’ve stayed out of St. Roch since then.”
The black fabric of the shadow vest seemed to spasm at the harmful light, but Hood couldn’t be sure that it wasn’t just a side effect of the powerful flare.
“You have one chance, Sands. Tell me where the charts are and I’ll only break one of your arms,” Hawkman threatened.
“I don’t have them anymore. I did the job and made the delivery. Go bother my employer.”
Hawkman twisted the Shadow Thief’s left arm behind his back causing a low cracking sound. The Thief howled in pain as a result.
“You’re upsetting me, Sands. You know I’m not good when I’m upset about something.”
“Fat man outside of town, he has a small mansion where he keeps his wares. Said he might have some more work for me if I was interested, which I am since Roderic isn’t holding up his end of the deal.”
“Address.”
One address later, Hawkman knocked Carl Sands out with a single damaging blow from his fist.
Later, the Hood and Hawkman were back up on the roof with an unconscious Sands slung over the Hawk’s shoulder.
“What’s the plan? No sense leaving Sands’s employer free longer than we need to,” the Hood asked.
“We need to neutralize Sands first. I don’t trust him to a normal prison. Personally I’d rather handle him permanently.”
“None of that, my American friend. We have rules of conduct here that end at pummeling weaklings. Besides I think I know just the place.”
Guiding him once more by motorcycle, the Hood arrived at the meta-human facility known as ‘Wormwood Scrubs’. Located in the larger Wormwood Scrubs area of London, the small prison was originally called the Wormwood Holding Facility, after the first super-villain in England dating back to World War I.
The name was eventually expanded to Wormwood Scrubs Meta-Max as more and more meta-human criminals were incarcerated there.
Thankfully, the prison had a special room that was fully illuminated, freeing the two vigilantes from the task of guarding a criminal that could blend seamlessly with the shadows around him.
Satisfied that their criminal charge was dealt with, the duo moved on to the next task at hand.
Flying low enough so that the Hood could hear, Hawkman explained his larger connection to the case of the stolen charts.
“I’ve been on to this collector for a while now. I believe he was connected to the thefts of Dr. Cave Carson’s Underground Surveys from a well-known Geological Institute as well as a copy of the cattle trails once used by the Trail Boss named Matt Savage. His illegal acquisitions appear to be tied to maps of all kinds. I made arrangements with the Stonechat Museum to donate their nautical charts to the National Maritime Museum, knowing the press coverage it would gain thus making it too tempting a target to ignore.”
Before long, the two arrived at a large mansion owner by their target.
Looking over the well-furnished mansion, the Hood wondered what other priceless antiquities might be stored inside.
The two walked up to the large front door, but rather than knock, Hawkman angrily smashed through it with his mace.
“Not one for subtlety,” the Hood commented quietly.
Hawkman stepped inside and began to look around the interior.
“Assyrian tablets, Etruscan urns, Hittite weaponry,” naming a few of the prominent artifacts, “These shouldn’t be hoarded by a greedy collector, they should be shared with the world.”
“Not the world, my friends,” a robust voice called out from the second floor, near the stairs. “Just…The Globe.”
The speaker was a large man that easily dwarfed the Hood and Hawkman combined. If he weren’t a collector of rarer antiquities, the man could easily make a career as a Sumo wrestler.
“I’ll ask you to leave everything where it is. You wouldn’t want to risk going outside your boundaries,” the man taunted, as he walked down the stairs.
“Hammond Carter, renowned international collector. You hired Sands to steal the nautical charts from the National Maritime Museum. I’m thankful I have such a large target to vent my wrath.”
“Not just the charts, I’ve acquired many maps over the last several months. It’s a hobby of mine. The Latitudinal and Longitudinal Lines have a certain symmetry I find fascinating. The routes of old travelers make me feel as if I were on the trail side by side with them.”
“You obsession with your collection is just robbing future generations,” the Hood said, wanting to get in on the conversation before the inevitable fisticuffs broke out.
“No snot-nosed child or self-important adult could appreciate my maps as much as I do. They exist only for my own pleasure, no one else’s.”
“Once you’re imprisoned, I’ll make sure that’s no longer the case,” Hawkman replied.
“I’m impressed my collection warranted the intervention of mysterymen, but I warn you, that you should go no further. ‘Here be Monsters’,” he said with a wicked gleam in his eyes.
The large man leapt at the smaller Hawkman with a speed which didn’t seem possible considering his girth.
Hawkman responded with a burst of flight upward, just out of reach.
The Globe landed on floor with Hawkman hovering above. Hood sprung into action by attacking the prone fatman followed by Hawkman diving down.
In response, Hammond swept the legs of both men with one of his large arms and made his way for the stares.
The Hood followed him up as Hawkman got up and flew to intercept.
They followed the Globe to a large den, where he held a small packet of papers in his hand, the stolen nautical charts.
“As my latest acquisition, if I cannot have it for myself, then no one shall. They’ll be stricken from the map forever,” he threatened, motioning to toss them into a roaring fire.
“Nooooo,” Hawkman yelled as he threw his mace with pinpoint accuracy, probably breaking the man’s arm in the process.
The Globe dropped the charts and howled in pain.
The Hood ran up and laid one well-placed punch in the villain’s jaw, sending him down for the count.
“It looks like this journey is finished,” he quipped, enjoying the puns, though he didn’t know why.
As authorities took Hammond Carter a.k.a. the Globe into custody and began the process of determining what would happen to his collection, the Hood and Hawkman stood on the roof enjoying their success.
The Hood looked over in Hawkman’s direction and noticed the stolen nautical charts in his hands. “Scotland Yard will want that as evidence before they turn them back over to the museum.”
“I know, but…” the Hawk replied, hesitating for a second, “I just wanted to spend a moment browsing through them.”
“Sorry if it’s not my place to ask, but you seemed to have more of a personal connection to the charts when you attacked the Globe. Is there something special about them?”
“No it’s just…long ago these were used by a man and his lady to fight and pillage the enemies of Spain. They sailed the high seas and sought sanctuary among pirate ports, fighting buccaneers and fleeing armadas. They lived and loved and eventually died side by side. I said that these are an important piece of history, but the charts are also a piece of my past. I just try to preserve the elements of my past whenever I can.”
“Sounds like there’s a good story behind that.”
“There is,” Hawkman replied looking up. “Perhaps I’ll tell it to you if we ever meet again.”
Handing the charts off to the Hood to turn over to Scotland Yard, the Hawk flew off into the night sky, satisfied at the job he had done.
The End...
The Wormwood Scrubs prison was first mentioned in the Villains United Infinite Crisis Special.
The Globe a.k.a. Hammond Carter first appeared in Detective Comics #840.
The Hood appeared in Batman: Shadow of the Bat #21-23.
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