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Clues Detective Stories, January 1943, with "Vengeance on the Avenger"
The minutes of the hour ticked rapidly away—
only one hour to save friends from death and an
innocent man from being framed on a murder charge!
DICK BENSON emerged from the gloomy train platform into the comparative brightness of the Deerchester station. Before he had taken half a dozen steps along with the rest of the thronging passengers, he heard his name being paged by a Western Union messenger girl.
"Mr. Benson!" the girl was calling in a high-pitched voice. "Telegram for Mr. Richard Benson!"
She was standing just outside the platform where the passengers from the New York train were emerging.
Benson's eyes narrowed. He did not at once respond. Instead, he glanced swiftly around the station. He noted that two men were standing a little way from the platform gate, near one of the soft drink stands, and that though they held glasses of orange juice in their hands, they were not drinking, but were eying the incoming passengers like hawks poised for the kill.
Benson's face remained expressionless. He moved around in such a way that he could see those two men and approached the messenger girl.
"I'm Benson," he said.
The girl smiled and gave him a yellow envelope. It was addressed to: "Mr. Richard Benson, arriving Deerchester, six eighteen from New York."
"Sign here, please," said the girl.
He signed for the telegram, gave the girl a tip, and waited for her to go away. Then he opened the envelope.
The telegram said:
SUGGEST YOU TAKE NEXT TRAIN BACK. THE AVENGER MAY BE A BIG SHOT IN NEW YORK BUT HE'S A BAD INSURANCE RISK IN DEERCHESTER. JUNIUS JONES
Benson folded the telegram carefully and put it in his pocket. Then he headed across the broad expanse of the station toward the telephone booths. He entered one of the booths, inserted a nickel and spun the dial half a dozen times at random as if he were calling a number. He did this with his right hand, holding the telephone receiver against his ear by resting it on his shoulder. In this way he kept his left hand free. With this hand he dipped into his coat pocket and produced a small automatic pistol and snicked off the safety catch. He had left the door of the booth open so that the light did not go on. Therefore the barrel of the gun did not glint as he held it close against his stomach, pointing outward.
He turned his head slightly and saw the two men who had been watching him. They had left the orange juice counter and were now close to the phone booth. The nearest one was holding something wrapped in a handkerchief in his right hand, while the other was standing behind him in such a way as to shield his companion's actions from anyone who might be passing.
The fellow with the handkerchief-wrapped object moved up so that he was squarely in front of the open booth door. His face was grim and murderous as he thrust the object forward into the booth against Benson's side.
"Take it now, Avenger!" he grated. "Regards from Junius Jones—"
His voice was punctuated by the spiteful bark of Benson's automatic. The little gun kicked ever so slightly as Benson pulled the trigger, and a slug smashed into the killer's chest, just above the heart.
At the same time Benson's right arm came down in a sweeping swing that knocked the handkerchief-wrapped gun aside. That was unnecessary, however, for the other's gun did not even explode by reflex action. The man was dead on his feet. His eyes snapped wide open like those of a china sleeping-doll when one sits it up. He swung slowly around against the adjoining booth and then slid down to the floor.
Deftly, Benson flipped the automatic out of the booth and it went slithering along the tiles. Almost in the same motion he kicked the door of the phone booth shut.
The single shot, though not very loud, had attracted plenty of attention from the passing crowd. Heads swung around and people stopped abruptly at sight of the dead man and the sliding gun. The dead man's companion, his face contorted with surprise and mystification, turned to run.
Benson yanked open the door of the phone booth.
"Get that man!" he shouted, pointing at the fleeing man's back.
A cry of anger went up from the crowd and half a dozen men threw themselves upon the fugitive, carrying him down to the floor. A railroad guard came running up from one direction and a uniformed patrolman from the other. They lit into the crowd and collared the captive, dragging him to his feet.
"He shot the man!" someone exclaimed indignantly, pointing to the slumped body against the phone booth. "Killed him in cold blood!"
"And then he threw the gun away and started to run!" another added.
"Hah!" said the uniformed cop, shaking the captive like a rat. "London Louis." He glanced across at the body of the dead man and his lips curled in contempt. "And that's Benny Slocum, the guy you've been palling around with. Why, you rat!"
"No, no!" shrieked London Louis. "I didn't do it! I swear I didn't kill him. The Avenger killed him. I tell you it was The Avenger! He's in there—"
London Louis' eyes widened as his finger pointed toward the empty telephone booth, out of which Benson had slipped in the confusion.
The cop laughed unsympathetically. "The Avenger, eh? A likely story. What would The Avenger be doing in Deerchester? He's in New York—"
"I tell you it was The Avenger—"
"Tell it to the Judge!" Deftly the cop snapped handcuffs on him. "This time, you rat, you'll fry. You can't squirm out of this murder!"
OUTSIDE the railroad station, Dick Benson was moving serenely through the crowded street without looking back even once. To look at him no one would have thought that he was The Avenger—for whose body on a slab in the morgue the overlords of the underworld would have paid a fabulous reward. For he was the one instrument of justice which they feared more than the law. It was he who meted out unofficial punishment to those criminals who considered themselves above the law. He was bound neither by the entangling strands of red tape nor by the intricate trickery of clever lawyers.
Whenever The Avenger appeared, the overlords of the criminal underworld got the jitters. That was why this desperate attack had been made upon him tonight.
But as he made his way up Broad Street from the railroad station, he was not as serene and composed as he outwardly appeared. The attack at the station meant much more than a mere attempt upon his life. Two days ago, Nellie Gray and Algy Smith had come here to Deerchester upon a mission that had seemed of minor importance.
But since then there had been no single word from them. It seemed that they had been swallowed up by the maw of the great unknown.
Petite, demure, golden-haired Nellie Gray, and big, powerful Smitty were the right and left hands of The Avenger. Himself a veteran crime-fighter, he had taught them much of what he knew. They were capable, clever, shrewd campaigners and dangerous fighters. It could be no ordinary antagonist who had brought about their disappearance.
In the organization known as Justice, Inc., of which The Avenger was the head, there was a standing rule that all members operating in the field must report in by telephone, telegraph, cable, radio, or any other means at their command at regular intervals. Failure to make such regular report could mean only one of two things—death or capture.
It was for this reason that Benson had boarded the first train for Deerchester—only to find that the enemy had anticipated his arrival and arranged a lethal reception that had missed its goal by a small margin.
The name signed to that decoy telegram meant a good deal to Benson. Ten years ago he had held this Junius Jones at the point of a gun with his finger grimly ready to pull the trigger. That man, known as Junius Jones, had groveled for his miserable life and though his life was forfeit. Benson had spared it. He had let the man go, knowing full well that Junius Jones would never forget that moment of abject pleading—and would someday return to wipe off the score.
Here then was the day of reckoning that Junius Jones must have planned for with careful diligence and cunning.
Two blocks from the railroad station, Broad Street was intersected by Main Street. Benson turned west and stopped before a small store which was only dimly illuminated from within, with no lights in the windows. The lettering on the plate-glass window said:
DOBERMANN — ANTIQUES
In the window was an old, high-backed Empire chair. Flanking the chair on either side were two small easels, upon which were displayed twin miniature, gilt-framed oil paintings, also of the Empire period.
But it was not at these that Benson glanced. His eyes were fixed upon the one incongruous thing in the window display—a modern book, which stood open upon the seat of the chair. There were rubber bands around the first and second portions of the book, in such a way that it remained open at page 276, which was facing outward. The name of the book, which Benson discerned by peering around at the opposite page, was Main Street.
It was strange indeed that the proprietor of Dobermann's Antique Store should have chosen to embellish his display of antique period furniture with a copy of a book written and published in the twentieth century. But if anyone's curiosity had been aroused to the point of making inquiries he would have found it impossible to do so for the store was closed.
But The Avenger, it seemed, had no desire to make any inquiries at all. In fact, he hardly stopped in front of the window display for long enough to make his interest noticeable. Yet when he moved on there was a certain grim purpose in his aspect that had not been there before. And if he had been on guard before he was doubly so now.
He was not taken by surprise, therefore, when the car pulled up alongside the curb, pacing him as he walked swiftly up Main Street. He stopped abruptly in midstride and swung around, facing the car. His right hand was in his coat pocket gripping something bulky there, and his eyes were twin pinpoints of fire as they lanced into the interior of that car.
The driver was apparently paying no attention to Benson for his hands were on the wheel and he was staring straight ahead as he tooled the car forward at a snail's pace. Within the automobile the face of a man was discernible, leaning forward at the window. The window was closed almost up to the top, leaving only a crack open.
The moment Benson spotted that white face in the window he became taut, his features hardening into stern and uncompromising lines. He stood facing the car, regardless of the occasional passersby in the street. With his hand still gripping the gun in his pocket he stepped closer to the car. The face inside became clearer: the pinched nose; the lips, almost too red to belong to a man, twisted in a smile, the small, quick, malicious eyes which were filled with a glittering light of hatred; and the bald and gleaming head which shone like a polished stone in the gloomy light of the dimmed-out street.
"We meet again, Avenger!" said the man. "We meet again after ten years. Do you remember the last time we met?"
"Yes," said Benson. "I remember it very well, Junius Jones. I had a gun on you that time. And now, too."
Junius Jones laughed softly. "Ah, yes. I see that thing in your pocket. But this time I shan't beg for my life. This time I'm sitting in a bulletproof car, behind bulletproof glass. This time you're the one who'll do the begging!"
"For my life?" The Avenger asked scornfully.
"Perhaps not. But for the lives of your friends. Will you beg for their lives, Avenger? I can kill them any time I want to. How would you like that, Avenger? Think of that big ox, Smitty. And the beautiful girl, Nellie Gray. Would you like to see them alive and breathing again? Then beg!"
"You lie!" said Benson.
The face of the other became twisted with rage. "I hold them prisoner, I tell you! I can kill them in five minutes!"
"Prove it!"
"If I prove it what'll you pay for their lives?"
"Any price you name."
"Even your own life?" Junius Jones' eyes were glittering as he asked that question with indecent eagerness. "Will you give up even your life for theirs?"
"Even that," The Avenger said evenly.
"AH!" The other's breath was exhaled in a long deep sigh.
"I would like that. I would like to see you put your own gun in
your mouth and pull the trigger!"
"Show me your proof," said Benson. "Prove to me that Nellie Gray and Smitty are in your hands."
"You shall have the proof in an hour, Avenger!"
Benson smiled grimly. A load seemed suddenly to have been removed from his mind. "In an hour? Then you're bluffing, Jones! You haven't got them yet. You're going to try to get them!"
"What of it? You're helpless. You don't know where to go first, or where to look for them. You've had no word from them for two days. You haven't spoken to anyone since you got here. You haven't the slightest clue to work on and you don't dare to go to the police!"
The Avenger's eyes flickered. "Nevertheless, I've had a message from them."
"You're mad. It can't be. I've played my hand too carefully. For ten years I've planned this; planned and studied every move. It's like a game that I've played a thousand times. I know it by heart. I knew you'd come to Deerchester if Toby Dobermann got in trouble. So I framed him for a murder and I even fixed it up in New York, so you'd have to send your friends instead of coming yourself."
"Ah!" said Benson. "I see!"
"And when your friends came," Jones hurried on, "I fixed it so they'd find a clue to the real murderer. I led them on a chase into the trap I'd prepared for them. Right now, Mr. Avenger, your friends are barricaded in a certain place, with my men on the outside. They've got their murderer. All they have to do is bring him out of there and turn him over to the police, and they'll clear Toby Dobermann. But," his pinched features became satanically sardonic "but they'll never get out of that place alive!"
Benson suddenly smiled. "Thanks, Jones. You've taken a load off my mind. Now I know there's a fighting chance for Nellie and Smitty!"
"Never believe it, Avenger! My men can storm that place and kill them at will. I was only waiting for you to come. It's you I want, Avenger. I've planned well, believe me. Those two who tried for you at the railroad station just now were merely the first shock troops. In a way I'm glad they failed. I'd much rather see you die by your own hand!"
"I'm sure it would be a pleasure to you," said Benson.
"In an hour!" Jones barked through the window. "In an hour I'll send you proof that I can kill your friends at will. Where will you be?"
"At Toby Dobermann's," said Benson.
Jones smiled craftily. "You don't know where Toby Dobermann is hiding out. You'll never find him, I know. I've had him watched ever since he escaped. The police are searching everywhere for him. When I'm ready, I'll have him killed, too. But you—you'll never find him. Your friends had no chance to communicate with you. They couldn't have told you where he went."
The Avenger smiled. He said nothing.
Junius Jones smiled, too—a vicious little smile, framed by those red, almost womanish lips of his.
"In an hour, Avenger," he murmured. "I give you an hour to find out you're beaten. When you give up, phone me. You'll find my name in the phone book. I'll have the proof you want. And I'll ask for your life!"
He spoke a word to his driver and the car moved away.
BENSON made no attempt to follow it or to fire through
the window at that vindictive face. No slug could have pierced
the protection of that bulletproof glass.
As soon as the car was gone he resumed his course down Main Street. In the next block he came abreast of No. 276.
No. 276 Main Street—the address indicated by the page number and title of the book displayed in Dobermann's window, was an unpretentious brownstone house with a high stoop. A modest sign in the door announced:
FURNISHED ROOMS
Benson made no attempt to ascertain whether he was being followed. He stopped before the house for just a moment, then ascended the steps of the high stoop and rang the bell.
After a moment the door was opened by a dark-haired girl of about twenty-two. Her face was drawn and tense, and there was a pallor in her cheeks, which spoke of sleepless nights and long vigils.
"Yes?" she said.
"You're Sally Dobermann? Toby's wife?"
Suddenly she seemed to congeal within herself. "I... you must be mistaken—" she started to close the door. Benson made no attempt to stop her physically. He only said, "I'm Benson."
Her eyes widened. "The... The Avenger?"
"Yes."
She looked at him with doubt and suspicion struggling perceptibly in her eyes. "Prove it!"
Benson smiled. "Nellie Gray and Smitty were here two days ago. Before they left they told you I might come if anything happened to them. They told you to set up the book in the window display at the store—knowing that I'd go there first, and if it was closed that I'd look for some message."
"And you found the message!"
"It was very easy. I'm surprised that Junius Jones didn't spot it."
There was still a bit of doubt in her eyes. "How... how do I know he didn't spot it? How do I know you're not one of his... his killers?"
"Ask me anything you like. But do it quickly. Time is short."
"All right. If you're really The Avenger you must have known Toby's father."
"Yes. I knew him."
"His name?"
"Jan Dobermann. He was a South African. I met him in Johannesburg many years before the war. He was a curio dealer. There was a bandit out there in those days who went by the name of Junius Jones. Jan Dobermann and I tracked him down and fought it out with his gang and captured Jones. The mistake we made was in sparing his life."
Sally Dobermann nodded. "All you say is true. But you haven't told me anything that Junius Jones doesn't know as well. I must be sure—absolutely sure—that you're The Avenger."
"When Jan Dobermann died," Benson said slowly, "I promised him on his deathbed that I'd always be ready to help his son, Toby, in trouble. Jan had two watches which he had brought with him from South Africa. They were twin watches, eighteen-carat gold, and no larger than a dime. He gave me one of them and the other to Toby. Here's mine."
From his fob pocket he produced a little glistening golden watch so small that there was no room for the numbers to be inscribed on the face. They were indicated merely by dots.
The moment she saw that watch all doubt and suspicion vanished from Sally's face.
"Come in, please," she said. "And thank God it's you. I... I couldn't have stood it much longer!"
BENSON entered and Sally quickly closed the door. They were in a narrow hallway with a sitting room opening off to the left and a staircase up ahead.
"This is my aunt's home," Sally Dobermann explained breathlessly. "My aunt converted it to a rooming house this Fall when the airplane factory went on a twenty-four-hour schedule and hired a lot of new night men. The tenants are on the late shift and they won't be home till after midnight. For two days we've been hiding Toby in the hall bedroom on the top floor, but the police are sure to think of this place sooner or later. Junius Jones knows about it. His men keep a constant watch."
She shuddered. "It... it's dreadful, seeing those men always outside and knowing that they could give us away to the police any time they want!"
"You needn't worry about that for another hour," Benson told her quietly. "I've talked to Jones. He's given me an ultimatum. It expires in a hour."
"How can you do anything in a hour? Your young lady with the golden hair has disappeared, and so has that big tall man who came with her. Junius Jones holds the whip hand. He's playing with Toby and me like a cat with a pair of helpless mice. An hour is so short—"
"Then let's not waste a minute of it," Benson said.
"I'm sorry!" she exclaimed contritely and led the way up the stairs. At the top floor she stopped before the door of the hall bedroom at the front. Very gently she turned a key in the lock and pushed the door open.
The room within was in darkness except for a feeble little seven-watt blackout light which was plugged into a wall outlet in the baseboard, close to the floor. It afforded just enough illumination to discern the figure of Toby Dobermann, lying on a mattress on the floor. His face was gaunt and unshaven, and stricken with the pallor of one who is close to death. He lay on his back with a thin blanket covering him from the hips down. There was a bandage swathed tightly across his chest and another around his right shoulder. Both of them were saturated with blood. The wounded man turned his head at the sound of the opening door. He looked at them out of deep-sunk, bloodshot eyes. He saw his wife and croaked, "Sally—"
Then his glance jerked to Benson. A spasmodic twinge contorted his features. He drew his left hand out from under the blanket. It was gripping a square-cut, short-barreled automatic pistol. He pointed it at Benson.
"Stand still!" he ordered hoarsely. "Who are you?"
"It's all night, Toby!" Sally exclaimed swiftly. "It—it's The Avenger!"
"Ah!" said Toby Dobermann. His whole body seemed to relax, as if a terrific tension had been removed. He let his hand drop to the floor and laid the automatic on the mattress.
Benson came and knelt beside him. He inspected the two bandages.
"Sally had to fix them," Toby Dobermann said, speaking with difficulty. "We didn't dare to call a doctor. I broke two ribs jumping from the courthouse window, and a bullet caught me in the shoulder just as I was turning the corner. But I managed to get away..."
"They accused him of murdering one of his wealthy customers," Sally broke in hurriedly. "A Mr. Pelton. The police saw a light in the back of the store one evening and tried the door and found it open. Mr. Pelton's body was in the office at the rear. He'd been shot at close range and it turned out that the gun that killed him belonged to Toby. At the preliminary hearing, two men testified that Toby and Mr. Pelton had had a violent quarrel that evening. Both those men lied, of course. They're in the pay of Junius Jones."
BENSON nodded impatiently. "I know the facts. You were
arraigned the next morning. You had wired me for help and I had
sent Nellie Gray and Smitty, but when they got here you had
already made your escape. They contacted Sally and got some kind
of clue and went to follow it up."
"It was a trap," Toby Dobermann gasped. "Someone tipped them off where to find the murderer. They went out on that tip and that's the last we heard of them!"
Sally knelt beside Dick Benson and bent over to arrange her husband's bandages, speaking quickly as she worked over them. "Miss Gray was clever, though. She told me that you were out of New York on some other matter, and she couldn't reach you because your headquarters in New York, Justice, Inc., wasn't manned by anyone. She couldn't get in touch with you to tell you where Toby was hiding out, and she didn't dare to leave a message anywhere, so she arranged to leave that book in the store window. She said you'd understand."
Benson got to his feet and stood over the wounded man. His thoughts were winging swiftly to that unknown spot where Nellie Gray and Smitty were probably fighting for their lives at this very moment. He had made a promise to this wounded man's father to help him; but he also owed a duty to Nellie and Algy Smith. He must find out where they had gone, where this trap was, into which they had walked in search of a murderer, Never had any member of Justice, Inc. needed the help of the others without receiving it. And this one time -when their lives were in the balance—he must not fail them. He had less than an hour now; minutes of precious time in which he must trace their steps, follow the course they had taken and reach their side. But, also, he must consider Toby Dobermann, who lay here, wounded and helpless, at the mercy of Junius Jones.
Something of the cruel problem which faced him must have been communicated to Toby and his wife, for they watched him in silence, as if awaiting his decision. Toby reached up a hand and said impulsively, "Go after your friends, Avenger. Leave me here. The chances are that I'll be all right. Junius Jones has left me alone so far."
Benson smiled bitterly. "He left you alone, only because he hoped I'd come looking for you. You were bait, by which he hoped to snare me. Now that I've come he has nothing more to gain by leaving you free. He may be notifying the police right now—"
Sally uttered a cry of despair. "We can't let Toby be arrested. The police are being goaded on by the newspapers to obtain a conviction. The district attorney is ambitious and ruthless. They'll give Toby the third degree in spite of his wounds. Junius Jones has tremendous power in the city, and he'll exert all his influence to see to it that they force a confession out of Toby—or else kill him in the process. Please—you can't let them take Toby in!"
Benson looked down at the wounded man. "Can you walk?"
"Yes—with a little help. I'd have to lean on someone."
Benson turned to Sally. "Is there a way out of this house—besides the front door?"
She nodded swiftly. "There's a basement exit in the rear. And I have a car in the back street. I... I had thought of getting Toby out that way, but Junius Jones has a man watching in the backyard—"
"All right," said Benson, making a swift decision. "We'll have to chance it!"
Between them they helped Toby to his feet. Sally got a topcoat and wrapped it around him. Then they helped him out of the room and down the stairs.
Toby's face was drained of all color and he was grimly biting his lip by the time they reached the main floor.
The cellar door was at the back of the stairs, and they worked their way down, slowly and laboriously. There was no light down here and they felt their way toward the back door. Benson put his face close to the grimy glass and peered out into the night. He caught the glow of a cigarette and discerned the figure of a man standing in the yard, half a dozen feet from the door.
He heard the rasping breathing of Toby Dobermann at his side, and the swiftly caught breath of Sally as she realized that if this man gave the alarm the watchers out in front would come hurrying to his assistance.
"IT... it can't be done!" she gasped. "We need time. Toby
can't run. If you shoot that man the others will come and the
fight will bring the police—"
"Wait here!" Benson whispered. He inched the door open and squeezed out into the yard.
The man on watch stiffened and his hand darted to his shoulder bolster. It emerged, gripping a gun.
"Stand still—"
That was all the man got a chance to say, for Benson stepped in swiftly, swinging downward with his left hand. He seized the man's gun wrist, twisting sideways as he did so. His fingers clamped like iron on the man's wrist while with his right hand he gripped the gun barrel and bent it upward and back with his thumb under the fellow's trigger finger so that he couldn't pull the trigger.
Benson thrust powerfully against the upraised barrel, still retaining his grip upon the other's wrist with his left hand. In this way the man's own gun became a fulcrum upon which his wrist broke under Benson's inexorable pressure.
The snapping of the bone made a crunching, brittle sound, and the man uttered a little moan and slumped down in a faint.
Swiftly, Benson caught him and dragged him into the cellar. He laid him on the floor and picked up his gun. He straightened up to see Toby Dobermann and his wife watching him with wide and fascinated eyes.
"God!" said Toby Dobermann. "I never saw anything as neat as that! I... I'm beginning to hope again. With you helping me—"
Benson thrust the gun into Toby's left hand. "Let's get started—"
He was interrupted by the sudden harsh jangling of the doorbell at the front of the house. It was followed almost immediately by a loud, authoritative shout: "Open up in there! In the name of the law!"
"The police!" gasped Sally. "Jones sent them. We haven't a chance. There's nobody home now. The police will break the door in—"
"Get going!" Benson ordered harshly. "I'll hold them!"
"But—"
"There's no time to argue. If you get Toby out of here, get in the car and drive over to Broad Street and park at one of the park-o-meters. Let Toby lie down in the bottom and cover him with a robe. The police will never think of looking for him on Broad Street. Wait there till you hear from me. If I don't come by midnight start out and try to drive out of the state!"
"No, no!" Sally exclaimed. "We can't let you do it—"
But he didn't wait to hear her protests. He was already racing up the cellar stairs, taking them three at a time. As he reached the top he heard a fervent, "God bless you, Avenger!" And then he was running down the hall toward the front door just as the authoritative voice out there shouted, "All right, boys, we'll break the door down!"
"Just a minute!" Benson shouted. "'Here I come!"
He reached the door and undid the lock. Then he yanked the door open with his left hand, at the same time slipping his right hand into his coat pocket.
A UNIFORMED policeman and a plainclothes detective shouldered their way into the hall. Behind them, Benson caught a glimpse of the thin, malicious face of Junius Jones. But Jones refrained from entering.
Benson barred the way of the two police officers. "What do you want here?" he demanded.
The plainclothes detective exhibited a badge in the palm of his hand. "Sergeant Fletcher, Headquarters Squad," he rasped. "We're searching this house. We have reason to believe that Toby Dobermann, wanted for murder, is hiding in here. Get out of our way."
He tried to elbow his way past, but Benson effectually barred his progress. "Do you mind showing me your search warrant, sergeant?" he asked mildly.
"Search warrant!" Fletcher exploded. "We don't need any search warrant. We're looking for a murderer—a fugitive from justice. There's no search warrant needed in such a case—"
"A warrant is unnecessary," Benson interrupted suavely, "only in the event that a police officer has substantial information, furnished by a reliable authority, which convinces him that a fugitive from justice is in hiding, and may escape before a search warrant can be issued."
Sergeant Fletcher's eyes narrowed. "Just who are you?" he demanded. "Are you a lawyer?"
Benson smiled. "Not exactly."
"You seem to know a lot about the law."
That was all the man got a chance to say, for Benson stepped in swiftly, swinging downward with his left hand.
"Enough to insist upon your observance of it."
"All right," said Fletcher. "If you want to be technical, I can be technical, too. It so happens that I have substantial information which convinces me that Toby Dobermann is hiding in this house and—"
"Did Junius Jones give you that information?"
"Yes."
"Then I'm sorry, but it doesn't come from a reliable source. In case you don't know it, Junius Jones has a record that stretches all the way back to the Transvaal, Johannesburg and Cape Town."
"You're crazy!" said Fletcher. "Jones is the biggest insurance broker in Deerchester. He couldn't have gotten a license if he had a criminal record."
"His fingerprints aren't on record," Benson said calmly, "because his gang raided the Cape Town Bureau of Criminal Investigation ten years ago and destroyed the records."
Junius Jones thrust himself forward, his face livid with anger. "It's a lie! A damned lie! Go ahead, sergeant. Don't let this man stop you. He's only trying to bluff—"
Fletcher nodded. He motioned to the uniformed patrolman who drew the revolver from the holster at his side. Then he said to Benson, "Whoever you are, mister, I now order you to stand aside. Otherwise, I'll arrest you for interfering with the police in the course of making an arrest!"
Swiftly, Benson calculated that about five minutes had elapsed since he had left Toby and Sally at the cellar door. He hoped that they had made it to the car by this time.
"All right, sergeant," he said, shrugging resignedly. "If you put it that way, I yield. But in the name of the owner of this house, I reserve the right to bring an action against you personally, and the city of Deerchester, for illegal entry. I warn you that if you step into this house and search it, and then fail to find Toby Dobermann here, you will have to face a court action for fifty thousand dollars!"
He stepped aside and bowed. "Enter, sergeant—at your own risk!"
Fletcher looked at him in puzzled fashion. He was manifestly impressed by the threat of the heavy lawsuit. There had been many instances in which over-zealous police officers had violated the constitutional rights of private citizens and had thereafter been compelled to pay large sums of money in damages, in addition to losing their jobs.
BUT it was Junius Jones who solved the problem for
him.
"Go ahead, Fletcher," he urged. "I'll guarantee to pay any judgment they get against you. And besides, I give you my personal word that Toby Dobermann is in this house—"
"If he hasn't gotten away through the back door by this time!" the uniformed policeman growled.
Junius Jones smiled twistedly. "I assure you he couldn't have gotten away through the back. The minute I heard that Dobermann was hiding here I put one of my own boys on guard at the rear, as well as a couple to cover the front. Dobermann hasn't left this house!"
"That's all I want to know!" Fletcher barked. He barged past Benson, shouting over his shoulder, "All right, boys! Let's go!"
Two more uniformed policemen shouldered in, following Fletcher, and leaving the first patrolman on guard at the front door with his revolver naked in his hand.
Benson watched them spread out over the ground floor and a curious smile tugged at his lips. He turned around and found that Junius Jones had not waited. He was gone.
Benson saw that the uniformed patrolman was watching him with a frown.
"Well, officer," he said suavely, "now that everything is settled I think I'll be running along, too—"
"Nix!" growled the policeman, raising the revolver slightly. "You stick right here, mister. I'm thinking the sergeant will have plenty to say to you when he's through!"
Benson shrugged. He put a hand into his breast pocket. The cop stiffened and thrust the revolver forward so that the muzzle was only a few inches from Benson's side. But The Avenger brought his hand out, containing nothing more dangerous than a sterling silver cigarette case.
The cop grunted and lowered the revolver a bit. Benson smiled at his discomfiture and offered him a cigarette, holding the case high up in front of the officer.
"No, thanks!" the other growled.
Benson shrugged again and selected a cigarette for himself. He snapped the case shut and reversed it. There was an ingenious lighter built into the base, and Benson lit the cigarette, inhaling deeply. He heard Fletcher and his men moving around on the floor, banging closet doors and tramping from room to room. Then they came out into the hall.
"You, MacAleer," Fletcher ordered one of the men, "take the cellar. Keep your gun handy." He turned to the other. "You come upstairs with me, Adams!"
He headed up the stairs with Adams in tow while MacAleer's heavy tread sounded, descending the cellar stairs.
Benson tensed, waiting for MacAleer to discover the body of the guard with the broken wrist.
From the upper landing Sergeant Fletcher looked down and spoke to the patrolman at the door. "Hold that guy down there, Parsons. Don't let him leave. We'll take him down to the station house with us. There's a little unfinished business I got to take up with him—sort of teach him a few fine points about the law!"
He was interrupted by an excited yell from the cellar. "Hey! There's a guy down here!" MacAleer shouted.
PARSONS tensed, swinging his eyes away from Benson for an
instant. It was the precise split second for which The Avenger
had been waiting and for which he was set. Almost as if his
reflexes had been connected to MacAleer's voice by an electric
circuit, his right fist shot upward in a short, terrific blow to
Parsons' jaw.
The smack, as bone thudded against bone, was like the cracking of a huge pane of glass. Parsons rose up from his heels as if he were standing on tiptoe and craning his neck to see something. Then he teetered slowly forward. He bent first at the knees, then at the waist, and tumbled slowly down to the floor like a double-jointed acrobat about to do a somersault. Only he never completed the somersault, for he remained where he fell, on his face, without moving.
Benson rubbed his knuckles. He heard MacAleer still shouting down below, and Fletcher's pounding feet from up above as he hurried to answer the call.
But Benson didn't wait. He stepped lithely over Parsons, opened the front door and made his exit.
A small crowd had gathered in the street and they stared at him as he came down the stoop. They took him for one of the detectives and made way for him. He heard a yell of fury from within, and knew that Fletcher had reached the ground floor and discovered his escape. He strode through the crowd to the police squad car that was parked at the curb and stepped into it. A single swift glance showed him the ignition key still the wheel and he put his foot on the accelerator. The motor had been left running. He had expected this, for it is a practice of police everywhere never to turn off their engines so that they can make a quick start whenever necessary.
He shifted into first, gave her gas, and pulled away fast. He threw one last glance back at the house and saw the crowd dispersing wildly in every direction as Sergeant Fletcher came racing a deep purple, and yelling at the top of his lungs.
Benson was about to duck his head low for the volley he knew would come in a moment, but he saw Fletcher reach the next-to-the-last step of the stoop and trip in his furious haste. The last glimpse Benson had was of the sergeant sprawling at full length on the sidewalk and his revolver slithering out into the gutter.
BENSON made a right turn at the corner, then another right turn at the very next corner. This brought him heading back toward Broad Street. He drove two more blocks, pulled in to the curb and abandoned the police car. He walked swiftly over to Broad Street, his thoughts grim and bleak. True, he had succeeded in getting Toby Dobermann out of danger temporarily. But the most urgent task remained yet to be done: he must trace the steps of Nellie Gray and Smitty, and find the place where they were fighting for their lives.
They must surely be counting on him, he knew. Never in the past had he failed them. If they went down to their death in battle they would be convinced that he must be dead—otherwise he would have gotten to them somehow.
So closely did those three work together that they could almost read each other's thoughts. In any given situation, each of them could predict accurately what the others would do. And Benson was certain that neither Nellie nor Smitty would have gone off on the trail of the murderer without leaving him some mark along the road they had taken. When he had seen the copy of Main Street in Dobermann's window he had recognized it at once as the kind of trail marking that the members of Justice, Inc. liked to leave. He had thought it would lead him to Nellie and Algy. But he knew now that it led only to a dead end, for neither Toby Dobermann, nor his wife, could give him the information he needed.
He was troubled—badly troubled—by the gnawing thought that he had overlooked something along the line; some other trail marking which they had left for him somewhere.
He turned into Broad Street and immediately spotted the car in which Toby Dobermann had escaped from the rooming house. It was parked in one of the park-o-meter spaces, and Sally was sitting at the wheel, her face buried in a newspaper. But she was peeking out of the corner of her eye and she saw Benson. She moved over to the window as he came abreast of the car.
"This is a wonderful place to hide!" she said. "The police cars keep passing us time and again, but they never even give us a second glance!"
She nodded toward the rear of the car where a bundle under a robe stirred impatiently. "It's tough on Toby, though. I'm afraid his wounds will open again. We have to get him some medical attention before—"
"Listen to me," Benson cut in harshly. "I'm going to ask you a question and I want you to think hard when you answer, because the lives of my two dearest friends may depend upon it."
Sally looked up at him, wide-eyed. "I'm sorry, Mr. Benson. I... I'd forgotten about them. I... I'll do my very best."'
"When Miss Gray arranged that display in the window, were you with her?"
"Why, yes."
"Was it after they had received the tip about where to find Pelton's murderer?"
"Yes—"
"Ah!" Benson's eyes were glittering. "Now think carefully—what was in the window display before Miss Gray rearranged it"
"Why, there were three Empire chairs. Miss Gray took out two of the chairs, and sent me out to buy a copy of Main Street. When I returned she had the two pictures on the easels, on either side of the chair. They're very old pictures of London, you know—-anonymous pictures that we picked up at an auction. I told Miss Gray that they were Victorian and didn't go with the Empire chair, but she waved me aside and finished the job in a hurry because they had to get away and follow up on the tip."
Benson breathed a deep sigh. He opened the door of the car and slid in beside Sally.
"Drive!" he ordered, "Past the store!"
"But... but that's on Main Street! They'll be looking for you on—"
"Drive!"
THERE was that in his voice which made her swallow hard
and clutch the wheel. She started the car and in a moment they
were around the corner on Main Street. As they came abreast of
the antique store they could see a huge crowd gathered in front
of the rooming house down in the next block, with half a dozen
squad cars in the middle of the street.
"Stop here!" Benson ordered. He opened the door and stepped out and hurried over to the window display. His eyes fastened hungrily on the two pictures. He had passed them over without attention the last time, but now be looked at them as a shipwrecked man eyes a distant smudge of smoke.
The picture on the left-hand easel was an old print of Westminster Abbey. The name, "Westminster Abbey" was printed underneath in Gothic type.
On the right-hand easel there was a similar print of the Tower of London. The name, "Tower of London," appeared underneath in Gothic type, but something had been done to it—the first two words had been blocked out with a pencil so that the only word remaining was "London." And in the lower right-hand corner of the picture there was a signature.
Benson pressed his face close to the window, trying to decipher that signature in the dark. And his eyes blazed suddenly as he made it out. It was a single scrawled name: Louis!
With fists clenched, Benson swung back to the car and climbed in. Sally was watching him, her lips parted, one hand at her breast. "You... you've found something?"
Benson gripped her wrist. "Are you sure those two pictures were anonymous? There was no signature on either of them?"
"Positive. They were both unsigned—"
"All right, get going. Where's the county jail?"
"Back on Broad Street, at the corner of Meridian."
"Take me there!"
"You're mad, Avenger! The county jail is right next door to police headquarters—"
"Do as I say!"
Silently, Sally started the car, made a U turn and headed back to Broad Street, then turned left. "Meridian is four blocks—"
She threw a sidelong glance at Benson and her eyes became wide with wonder. He had taken out a flat silver case, almost a duplicate of the cigarette case. But this one contained no cigarettes. He had it open on his lap, revealing several neat little compartments containing pigments of various shades. There were miniature artist's brushes in the case and wads of other makeup material. Wonderingly, she watched his long and supple fingers work deftly, applying a bit of makeup to cheekbones, a touch of shading to his upper lip, and a bit of darkish color underneath the eyes.
So engrossed was she that she almost sideswiped a car alongside her. She uttered a gasp, twisted the wheel and averted catastrophe. Thereafter she drove with her eyes straight ahead until they reached the county jail.
"Here it is," she said. "The county jail—"
She broke off, gasping, as she saw the face beside her. She had heard, of course, along with other stories, that The Avenger was a master hand in the art of disguise. But she had always imagined disguise as being associated with false mustaches, wigs, beards, and other mysterious and cumbersome paraphernalia.
But she had seen with her own eyes that the only equipment The Avenger had used was that small flat case of makeup. She had seen that he had only applied a dab here and a touch there. Yet here sat a different man, a new personality. The cheekbones were higher, the upper lip seemed longer, the jaw seemed less square and instead of the sense of innate strength which he had formerly conveyed, he now appeared to be a man perhaps ten years older who had dissipated much in earlier years and whose face showed it now in all the cruelty of baggy eyes and flabby cheeks and unwelcome wrinkles.
The Avenger's eyes flickered as he noted her reaction. He nodded as if satisfied. "I guess I'll pass," he said.
"But... but how could you do it—"
"It's the little things that change a man," he told her. "If I put on a false beard, and a pair of eyeglasses, they'd see through it in a minute. But when they look at my face now they'll see only what I have put on it, plus the way I walk and talk."
He pressed her hand. "Park across the street, I notice there's a parking space over there. Wait twenty minutes. If I don't come out by then, get out of town."
He leaned over into the back and lifted the robe. Toby Dobermann was asleep.
"The sleep will do him good. Good luck, Sally."
"Good luck to you!" she gulped. Then Benson was gone.
HE mounted the broad stone steps of the county jail with quick, nervous steps instead of his usual lithe, free-swinging stride. And his shoulders were suddenly sloping, his head cocked a bit to one side, his whole attitude that of another man. It was as if a new person had been born with the makeup. And this was the secret of The Avenger's success at impersonation, the thing that had baffled his enemies time after time.
In the office of the jail he stepped to the desk and spoke in a high, nervous voice. "I am an attorney—Ira Pinkney. I wish to see a client of mine who is under arrest."
"Prisoner's name?" the clerk demanded.
"Er—London Louis."
The clerk raised his eyebrows. "How come? I thought Percy Gilbie was going to defend him."
Benson leaned over the desk and lowered his voice, but still speaking in a rasping tone. "Confidentially, I've been retained by Junius Jones. It—Dr—it's a rather ticklish case."
"Hm-m-m," said the clerk. "Ticklish is right. London Louis was caught with the goods." He frowned at Benson. "You a Deerchester lawyer? I don't think I've seen you before."
Benson shook his head. "I'm from the state capital."
Satisfied, the clerk made out an order slip and a few minutes later, Benson—alias Ira Pinkney—was seated in a small cubbyhole of a room at a table opposite London Louis.
For a moment he sat tensely, while London Louis looked him over without enthusiasm. London Louis had seen him at the station for only the briefest of time, but there was always a chance that he might detect some faint resemblance that would arouse his suspicions. But London Louis apparently had other things on his mind.
"How come Gilbie ain't taking care of me?" he demanded.
The bogus lawyer smiled shiftily. "Frankly speaking, Louis, Junius Jones is very dissatisfied with you. You certainly messed things up."
"It wasn't my fault," whined Louis. "I was only supposed to cover up. It was Benny Slocum who messed things up. He didn't shoot quick enough. That Avenger is poison."
"It's not about the business at the station that Jones is sore," Benson told him.
Louis licked his lips. "Not about that? What else? Did I do something wrong?"
Benson nodded jerkily. "It's about that business of tipping the girl off—Nellie Gray."
He waited tautly for the reaction. He was gambling everything on this moment.
Nellie Gray had managed to place that message in the picture, London and Louis. It could only mean that the tip-off which had sent her and Smitty into the trap had come from London Louis. He waited with bated breath, watching the other's face.
"Whadda you mean? What did I do wrong about the tip-off? I told her just what the boss said I should!"
"You sent her to the wrong place, you fool!"
"The wrong place? No, no. I swear I didn't. I sent her to the gas station up in the hills. The one that's closed."
"You mean the one on Highway 9?"
"Hell, no. The one on the Corlear road, four miles out of town; the one where they got the single cabin way back off the road. Wasn't that right? The boss said he wanted them there so the shooting wouldn't be heard. No one uses that road anymore since the landslide on the other side of the hill."
"Hm-m-m," said Benson. His blood was racing so fast that he had difficulty maintaining his new personality. "That seems to be the right—"
"Sure, it's right. It's what the boss told me. Didn't that girl and the big guy get there?"
"I think there's been some mistake," Benson said, rising. "I'll talk to Jones again and see if we can't straighten it out."
"For Gawd's sake don't leave me out in the cold!" London Louis choked. "Don't leave me to take this rap. You tell the boss if he does I'll squawk my head off."
"Don't worry," said Benson. "I'll be back later. If any other lawyers come to see you, even Gilbie, you're to refuse to see them. Understand? Refuse to see everybody till I return. It's the safest way."
"OK, counselor, whatever you say. Only convince the boss, will you? I ain't taking no rap. He has ways of getting me outta this."
Benson left as quickly as possible. He hurried indecently on the way out.
THE old Corlear road climbed steeply from the city limits, with half a dozen hairpin turns in half a mile. Dick Benson tooled the car ahead, without perceptibly slowing up for those curves. In the rear sat Toby Dobermann, wan and weak, with his head resting on Sally's shoulder.
Benson drove for almost a mile thus, silently, tautly, before the road straightened out, and began to climb at a less pronounced angle. Suddenly he clamped down hard on the foot-brake before the barrier in the road. It consisted of two long wooden horses, against which rested a signboard. The sign said:
ROAD CLOSED
LANDSLIDE BEYOND
DETOUR
An arrow pointed off to the right, toward a dirt road.
As The Avenger brought the car to a stop, Toby Dobermann said weakly, "They closed this road to the public six months ago. The overhanging rocks keep crumbling, and sliding down. One car was crushed—"
But Benson had already descended. He stopped near the detour sign and turned his flashlight on the ground. There were fresh tire tracks here. Several cars had come through, not so long ago. And there were marks on the ground to indicate that the wooden horses had been moved and then swung back into place again. His eyes glittered. London Louis' story was thus far borne out by the evidence. He was banking on the truth of that story.
He removed the detour sign and pushed the wooden horses out of the way. Then he returned and got in behind the wheel.
"Better watch out from here on," Toby Dobermann warned.
Benson nodded silently, and sent the car ahead. Now, as they proceeded through the night, they heard faint, crackling sounds somewhere in the distance, and The Avenger stiffened. His hands tightened on the wheel, and he pressed down a bit farther on the gas.
"That's gunfire!" Toby Dobermann exclaimed. "It's a couple of miles away. The mountains carry the echoes—"
Sally uttered a little gasp. "Junius Jones' men must have opened the attack on your friends."
Under the spur of those distant sounds of battle, The Avenger urged the car along even faster.
THE gunfire was closer now, and it suddenly mounted into
a fresh crescendo of staccato bursts. Someone was using a machine
gun, up ahead, around the next curve!
Benson brought the car to a swift stop and leaped out. "Wait here!" he shouted to Sally and her husband. Then he was running with long, space-consuming strides, around the sharp curve.
He came around the curve and saw the old, abandoned gas station which London Louis had mentioned. It was a one-story structure, and it had at some time in its history been painted red. The windows were boarded up, the gas tanks dismantled. A couple of old, stripped wrecks of automobiles lay in the graveled semicircular driveway behind the pumps. And two other cars were pulled up in the road. One of those cars was that in which Junius Jones had been sitting when he spoke to Benson in the street. Benson recognized its license number.
But he spared only a quick, all-embracing glance for all of that. His attention became immediately centered upon the man who was kneeling on the roof of the gas station and firing the submachine gun. He was sending burst after burst up toward a cabin about a hundred yards behind the gas station.
From where he stood, Benson saw that it was one of a semicircular group of eight or ten cabins of the type once used to accommodate the tourist trade. Both the parked cars had their headlights focused upon that single cabin—the third from the left—making it a shining target for the snipers. In addition, the man on the gas station roof was using tracer bullets, and Benson was able to watch the luminous trail of each burst as it smashed through the flimsy walls of the shack. The gunner was spraying his barrage slowly from left to right, and then back again.
At the same time, Benson noted that tracer bullets were driving into the cabin from two other directions. That meant three machine guns in all. Swiftly, he located one of them over to the left, behind a rusty oil drum; and the third on the right, behind a pile of rocks.
Benson's eyes became agate-hard as he moved lithely forward, gun in hand. His mouth was dry and parched, and there was a deep and empty feeling high up in his chest. For he knew that nobody could be left alive in that cabin. Those gunners of Junius Jones were doing their murderous work in thorough and deadly fashion. Nellie Gray and Smitty must be dead. He had come too late to save them—but not too late to make the killers pay a high price for their victory.
He raised his gun for a snap shot at the machine gunner on the roof, but held his fire as a loud, shrill whistle sounded from somewhere close at hand. Immediately, the barrage from the three machine guns ceased. The grim and merciless headlights of the two cars continued to pierce the darkness, holding the riddled cabin in ruthless silhouette against the background of the night.
The piercing whistle signal had come from Junius Jones' car. Benson was now able to discern Jones' pinched and cadaverous countenance behind the bulletproof glass. The window was drawn halfway down, but Jones' face was still well protected, for he did not lift his head above the top of the open pane.
"All right!" he called, in a harsh and strident voice. "I guess that did it. Go in, Stengle and Gore and Brower, and get their bodies out." He chuckled horridly. "We'll take them back to Deerchester and present them to The Avenger. We'll let him see his dead friends—before we send him to join them!"
The man on the roof slung his machine gun over his shoulder and slid down to the ground, while the other two gunmen emerged from their places of concealment and converged upon it from the right and the left.
IT was just then that a great, deep-throated gust of
laughter seemed to spring from nowhere out of the night. It was
powerful, glorious laughter, vivid with the color of battle and
bravery. And when Benson heard that laughter, he heaved a great
sigh, and some of the tautness went out of him, and he almost
smiled for there was only one man in all the world who laughed
like that—the big Viking of a man who was known as Algernon
Heathcote Smith.
Smitty was alive then! And Nellie Gray couldn't be dead, else Smitty could never have laughed that way.
The three gunmen came to an abrupt halt in the clearing before the semicircle of cabins. The headlights still pointed at their cabin from the left; but it was not from there that the laughter issued. It was from one of the other cabins in that group—one that was in comparative darkness. And those machine gunners crouched, suddenly stiff, and frightened, swinging their weapons' noses around in vague motions, not sure just where to aim them or where to shoot.
Abruptly, the deep-toned laughter ceased; and a mocking voice called out: "All right, you rats. Let's see if you can take it now!"
A heavy revolver began to thunder; orange flashes flamed at the window of the end cabin on the right. And the foremost of the machine gunners uttered a wild scream and threw up his arms and pitched forward. The other two dropped flat on the ground. One of them began to pull the trip of his machine gun, sending a wild burst high above that end cabin. The third gunner rolled over and over till he reached the protection of a stone wall which stood perhaps fifty feet from the end cabin. Then he, too, trained his machine gun on the target.
The two guns chattered for perhaps half a minute before Smitty, firing from the window of the cabin, got the second gunner. And almost at the same instant, Dick Benson, who had leaped forward as soon as Smitty began to shoot, reached the stone wall.
Unnoticed in the darkness, Benson rose up behind the machine gunner, clubbing his revolver, and brought it down hard on the man's skull. The fellow's weapon dropped from his hands, he grunted once, and slumped down behind the wall. All became silent as the machine guns ceased their chatter.
Crouching behind the wall, Dick Benson puckered his lips and hooted like an owl. Almost immediately, the hoot was returned from the cabin—twice.
Benson smiled. One signal for Smitty, one for Nellie Gray. They were both alive, then. They had outsmarted Junius Jones' killers by exchanging cabins at the last moment. Those machine gunners had poured burst after burst into an empty trap!
Benson rose to his feet beside the wall, and peered over to where Junius Jones' car was parked. Jones had opened the door cautiously, to investigate the sudden silence.
"Stengle!" he called in a low voice. "Gore! Brower!"
Benson remained silent. From the cabin where Smitty and Nellie Gray were, there came no sound. It was as if they both understood what was in The Avenger's mind, and were leaving the play in his hands.
Another moment passed, and the door of the car opened just a bit wider. Junius Jones' voice came in a higher key.
"Stengle! What's happened? Where are you? Answer me!"
Slowly, silently, The Avenger picked up the machine gun that the dead gunman had dropped. His finger found the trip in the darkness. He stepped away from the wall, but kept out of the streaking beams of light from the headlamps of the two cars. He raised his voice, deep and sonorous, and suddenly fraught with all the dread solemnity of justice and retribution.
"This is The Avenger," he said. "Your time has come, Junius Jones. Prepare to die!"
"Avenger!" The name came from Jones' lips like a gust of hot wind laden with terror and hate. "How did you get here?"
Benson's voice was hard, unyielding, uncompromising. "Are you ready to die, Jones?"
"Damn you—" Jones shrieked. And then the door of the car slammed shut.
Benson waited, bleak and grim. From the cabin, Smitty came running, his huge bulk looming vast and giant-like in the dark. He was carrying the inert body of a man slung over his shoulder; and behind came the trim figure of Nellie Gray, slim and blonde and graceful. But the automatic in her hand was no less dangerous than it would have been in the hand of any fighting man twice her size.
Smitty deposited the unconscious man at the wall.
"Hi, Dick," he whispered. "You sure showed up at the right time. I lost a bet with Nellie. I bet you wouldn't spot the message in the picture on the easel!"
"I almost didn't," said Benson. He glanced down at the unconscious man. "Who's this?"
"The murderer," said Smitty. "This is the guy for whom Toby Dobermann was supposed to take the rap. He works for Jones. I've got his written confession."
Benson nodded. His eyes were fixed upon Junius Jones' car. Jones was behind the wheel now, and he had kicked the starter over. He was backing the car frantically out of the graveled driveway now, in an attempt to escape from the doom which The Avenger had promised.
Nellie Gray put a hand on Benson's arm. "Dick! Are you going to let him get away?"
Benson shook his head. He held the submachine gun ready, his gaze following the progress of the car as it raced out into the road, narrowly skimming the edge of the precipice. They heard its motor race as Jones accelerated, heading for the curve.
"It's a bulletproof car!" Smitty exclaimed. "He's safe—"
Smitty choked off the words as Benson raised the submachine gun and sent a burst of tracer bullets fanning out across the road directly in front of the racing car. He held his finger on the trip, and the hail of steel-jacketed tracer slugs formed a fiery barrier into which the front wheels churned. There was a popping explosion which mingled with the chatter of the machine gun as the front tire went.
The car swerved crazily, and they had a momentary view of Jones' face above the wheel, as his white hands struggled with it. But the car was out of control. It veered far over toward the edge of the road, teetered for an instant on the brink, and then disappeared.
Benson took his finger from the trip, and the machine gun became silent. In the sudden stillness rose the terror-laden scream of Junius Jones, torn from the very bowels of his frightened consciousness, as he went hurtling down to his death over the precipice.
Moments later they heard a crashing explosion as the car struck almost a mile below. Benson ran to the edge, followed by Smitty and Nellie. Far down flame was rising from the burning car.
"Come," said The Avenger. "We've got to tell Toby Dobermann that the law doesn't want him any more. That confession you got ought to clear him, Smitty."
The big man nodded absently. He was still looking down at the funeral pyre of Junius Jones.
"That guy sure came a long way, looking for death!" he said in a low voice.
Then he turned away and took Nellie Gray's hand, and they followed The Avenger around the bend of the road to carry the news of deliverance and freedom to Toby and his wife.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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