The Avenger 19 - Pictures of Death (7 page)

Durban Vaughan’s private office was a full room away from the front, display part. Dick and Mac passed through a storeroom where scores of canvases were stacked and opened a door to the office.

The first thing The Avenger saw was that the door was half a foot thick, like the door of an ice box. That gave him the idea, which only a glance at the walls was needed to confirm, that the office was elaborately soundproof.

This is excellent for comfortable and silent working. But it can—and in this case it had—become a decided disadvantage. No sounds can get in from outside to disturb concentration. But no sounds can get outside, either, even the sound of yells, to attract attention.

And in the death of Durban Vaughan, there must have been yells!

The man, middle-aged, partly bald, a little too heavy, lay in front of the door of his office vault. His shoes and socks were off, and there were burns on his feet.

A lieutenant of detectives named Parsons was in charge of the case. Parsons had met The Avenger several times.

“Hello, Mr. Benson,” he said. “I’m glad you’re interesting yourself in this case. It looks like a tough one. No one saw anybody come in here; no one knows what they were after. It’s a blind alley.”

“You have found nothing important?” said Benson, pale eyes ranging the big private office.

“Nothing,” said Parsons.

“You have no idea what the killers were torturing this man to get?”

“No, sir.” Parsons was over fifty. The Avenger was in his twenties. But that “sir” just naturally slipped out.

“Anything missing?”

“Not as far as we can tell. Or as the clerk who found Mr. Vaughan can tell.”

Benson’s gaze went to the vault and stayed there.

“It is probably,” he said, “that the murderers were torturing Vaughan to make him open that vault. There seems to be nothing else around that they couldn’t have searched without his help. I see the vault is now closed. Was it closed when you got here?”

“Yes, sir. I don’t think it had ever been opened. You see, Vaughan died of shock caused by the torture. That’s what the medical examiner said. There was nothing to kill him, but he died from fright and pain. His heart couldn’t stand it—which makes it just as much murder as if he’d been shot.”

“Of course,” nodded Benson. And though his voice was quite even and calm, Parsons almost shivered when he looked into the pale, glacial eyes.

Benson had seen many cruel things in his work of avenging cruelty, but he could still be profoundly, icily enraged at such things.

“Have you gone over Vaughan’s record of purchases yet?” he asked.

Parsons nodded. “His regular ones, anyway. But his senior clerk thinks there have been purchases lately that aren’t entered in the books. Private stuff, maybe.” The lieutenant looked speculatively at The Avenger. “Such private records, and maybe more stuff we want to see, may be in that vault. Can you open it?”

“I think so,” said Benson.

He went to it.

“Have you photographed for fingerprints?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Parsons. “Go right ahead. You won’t disturb anything.”

The Avenger’s fingers touched the combination knob of the vault. As strong as tool steel, those fingers were; as sensitive as the strings of a violin; as clever as if each fingertip held a tiny brain.

In about three minutes the vault door swung back.

The lieutenant shook his head. “I’m glad you work with the cops instead of against them,” he said. “Do you want to look around a little before we plow things up?”

“I would like to. Thanks.”

The Avenger found the little brown book almost at once. It was the main thing he had wanted to see. It recorded transactions in pictures which, for some reason, Vaughan did not want to keep in his regular books.

The last such transaction told why the secrecy was desired. The last entry read:

Dubois’ “Diabolo” _________ $94,500.00

The Avenger’s almost colorless eyes glinted like ice. The painting, “Diabolo,” by Dubois, had been in the Louvre in Paris, last he had heard of it. It was owned by the French government. If Vaughan had bought it here in New York, it was stolen property, looted from the museum during the war disturbance and smuggled into this country. No wonder its purchase was in a private-account book.

In the vault, along with office and gallery records, were a dozen paintings which were obviously too valuable to leave in the regular storeroom. Each was a masterpiece, worth many thousands of dollars.

But Dubois’ “Diabolo” was not among them!

“You’re sure the killers hadn’t gotten into this vault?” Benson asked.

“I can’t be sure, of course,” Parsons said slowly. “But I am almost sure. You see, there were a lot of prints on the combination knob. But none of them belonged to Vaughan. And his prints would have almost had to be there if the vault had been opened. Not many could walk in here, strange, like you, and open it up.”

“You have a theory, then?”

“Yes. As far as it goes. I think several men walked in here off the street—there was only one clerk in the place because it was lunch time—came into this office by surprise and shut and locked the soundproof door before Vaughan could yell for help. I think they wanted something that they were sure was in the vault. So they set about making Vaughan open it. Vaughan took a lot of torture without breaking. Then he up and died of shock on them. They went away without having found what they came for.”

“It sounds likely,” Dick said.

Parsons grinned with the commendation. This would be something to tell the boys about for a long time.

“Could I see the clerk who found Vaughan’s body?” Benson asked.

Parsons called him.

His name was Wendell, and he looked like a tired professor. He was Vaughan’s senior clerk and had been here for thirty years. He was a little pale, now, as he wondered what would happen to him. Such jobs as his are not plentiful. Where would he get another?

At least, that seemed to be all that bothered him. He certainly didn’t act like a guilty man.

“You didn’t see anyone go into the office?” Benson asked Wendell.

“No, sir.” Wendell paused, then added: “I was quite busy with two important patrons. It would be easy for anyone to pass from street door to back room unseen, while we were discussing pictures in one of the small alcoves.”

“Mr. Vaughan’s private-account book indicates that he recently bought the ‘Diabolo,’ by Dubois. Have you seen it?”

“ ‘Diabolo!’ ” Wendell exclaimed, aghast. “How on earth could anyone get hold of— No, sir, I haven’t seen it here. And I didn’t know of its purchase, though I’ve had an idea for several days that Mr. Vaughan got hold of something exciting. It has showed in his manner. Quite buoyant, he has been.”

The Avenger’s eyes were like steel drills. This struck him as important.

“Since when has his manner been excited, buoyant?”

“Since Monday, four days ago,” said Wendell.

“Can you remember any incident that might have been responsible for his elated manner?”

“I’m not sure.” Wendell’s hand caressed his long, thin jaw. “It seems to me, though, that it began right after a strange fat man came in here to see him.”

“A fat man?” snapped Benson.

“Oh, very fat. I think he weighed around three hundred pounds. He had a very heavy beard. The kind that needs shaving twice as often as an ordinary growth. I think his name was Timbu, or Tarbo, or some such—”

“Was it Teebo?”

“Yes, that was it.”

Benson and MacMurdie left the shop. Mac looked questioningly at The Avenger.

“Vaughan bought the ‘Diabolo,’ all right, from Teebo. But it isn’t on these premises. I’d like a look at that, to see if it, too, is a fake.”

“Maybe he put it in his safe-deposit box,” said the canny Scot. “Some of those boxes are as big as trunks. One would take the ‘Diabolo,’ if ’twas rolled up like ‘The Dock.’ ”

“I don’t think he’d choose a bank box as a hiding place,” Benson said. “He has a home in Connecticut, I happen to know. The picture may be concealed there, or it may be in his New York apartment. He has a penthouse on Seventy-fourth Street.”

He went to the nearest phone booth and called Bleek Street.

“Nellie? Locate the Connecticut home of Durban Vaughan. Go there with Smitty and see if you can find the picture by Dubois called ‘Diabolo.’ It will probably be well hidden.”

“Right, chief,” came the little blonde’s clear voice through the receiver.

Dick turned from the phone to MacMurdie. “We’ll take the penthouse, Mac. Come along.”

Meanwhile, Cole Wilson had reached the Long Island mansion of Clay Marsden, retired oil magnate and purchaser of museum pieces of art.

The Marsden house was big but not especially elaborate when you remembered all the millions of dollars Marsden was supposed to own. It was set in a half block of lawn, with thick shrubbery. There was a high iron fence and a gate.

The gate was closed. Cole got out of his car and went to it. There was a buzzer in the stone pillar to the right. He pressed this and heard a click. He tried the gate, found it open and walked into the place.

The path led among well-kept bushes and cone-shaped evergreens. All beautiful enough. But Cole was like a trained soldier who does not look at landscape for beauty but for possible ambushes. He looked around here, and he didn’t like what he saw.

A dozen men could be hidden, even in daylight, in the thick clumps of shrubbery. Another dozen could keep the boles of thick trees between them and him. And the house itself, under shade of more trees, loomed dark and somehow mysterious. Its walls were thick—so thick that Cole’s first thought was how easy it would be to shoot a man and never have the shot heard outside.

“I’m getting jumpy,” Cole reproved himself.

After all, this was just an ordinary mansion, housing ordinary people. It didn’t shelter a gang of cutthroats, not here on respectable Long Island.

He felt better after he had reached the big front door with no hint of anyone else on the grounds. He pressed the bell and felt still better when the door was opened. Also, he felt a pleasant tingle of visual satisfaction.

For the door was opened by a girl that any man would look at twice—or five times if possible—on the street.

She was tall, slim but full-curved, with chestnut-brown hair that looked warm enough to kindle a fire, and with light-brown eyes.

She looked pleasant, too. “Yes?” she said. “What is it you want?”

“I’d like to speak to Mr. Marsden, please,” Cole told her. He had no hat to take off because he always went bareheaded. But there was a suggestion of a doffed hat in his chivalrous tone. He found himself wishing that he could rescue this girl from some kind of trouble.

“What do you wish to speak to him about?” The girl smiled. “I am Jessica, Mr. Marsden’s daughter. You could confide in me.”

“I would love to confide almost anything in you,” Cole said. “But this particular matter must be confided to your father. If you don’t mind—”

“Just step in here,” said the girl, smiling. “You can wait in the front hall while I see if he can see you.”

Cole went in. Smiling, the girl shut the door. Cole heard the clack of a heavy automatic bolt.