The Avenger 24 - Midnight Murder (4 page)

“Ye’ve got eyes like telescopes, Muster Benson,” Mac began. But the spot where The Avenger had been was vacant. He had melted silently into the darkness.

Mac went on up the low step to the door of the lightless building and tapped for admittance.

The Avenger, after half a dozen steps, took to the trees.

In jungle growth, Benson, with his unusual muscular co-ordination and power, could swing through the tree branches faster than a man could walk. But this was a different proposition. These were trees of the temperate zone, not so close together, and with fewer branches interlacing; but he could move through the foliage twenty feet above the ground all right if he went slowly and carefully.

He went from branch to branch, till he was back toward the gate about fifty yards. Then he stopped in a big fork, and listened. Ahead and to the right, he heard whispering.

He drew a sort of stethoscope from his coat pocket and placed the tiny plugs to his ears. The instrument picked up sound and magnified it by about ten.

Words of the whisperers came clearly:

“We’ll have to get rid of those two. We can get ’em at the gate on the way out. Knives, or clubs, to keep it quiet.”

“Molly says not.”

There was whispered profanity, indicating the whisperer’s opinion of Molly’s common sense.

Then: “Listen, when that Benson guy gets going on a thing, he never stops till it’s finished. And finished, to him, means wiped up for the other guy. He has stuck his nose in this business. We’ve got to get him out of the way—or else. And this is a swell spot to do it.”

“O.K.; O.K.! But I’ll let you do the explaining to Molly.”

Benson put the amplifier back in his pocket and went on, veering a bit so as not to cross directly over the spot where he had heard the whispering.

At the base of an extra-large tree his pale eyes saw a sort of white blur that heaved around silently. He descended.

A man lay there. To be more accurate, he tossed furiously there, trying to get to his feet. He couldn’t do that because he was bound. Also, he was gagged, which explained the lack of sound.

He was in his underwear and must have been chilly. The night was warm, but it wasn’t warm enough to comfort if you wanted to lie around like that.

He glared at the indistinct blob which was The Avenger, clad in dark gray. Benson lowered to him.

“You’re one of the guards? Nod if you are.”

The man nodded vehemently.

“Don’t make any noise when I take your gag out.”

The Avenger ripped the gag off, then slashed the man’s bonds. The man didn’t say anything. He began feeling around the ground, savagely.

If he hadn’t found the thing he was feeling for so quickly, or if he hadn’t happened to have his back turned to Dick when he picked it up, everything would have been all right. But he did find the thing almost at once, and Dick didn’t see him raise it to his lips.

It was his whistle. On it, he blew a ferocious blast! Benson leaped and knocked it out of his hand, but the damage was already done.

There were sounds of running feet in all directions. From the south end of the enclosure came four men in guards’ uniforms, two with flashlights on.

This was fine! But from the north, east and west gathered at least a dozen men. And while three or four of these also wore uniforms, the rest did not; and the way they mingled indicated that none of them was employed here.

One of the men from the south yelped: “Hey, what goes on? Those ain’t our guys—”

The bigger group of men, snarling, jumped the smaller group, including the man in his underwear.

Off beyond, in the direction of the building, Benson thought he saw a figure running. It was going toward the laboratory. It was, he thought, a woman’s figure.

Most men, in the face of such odds, would have thought only of getting away without being killed or of driving the enemy away. Neither of these thoughts occurred to The Avenger.

His vibrant voice sounded over the noise: “Round them up. Don’t let any of them escape.”

One of the gang in a stolen guard’s suit barked with laughter. The idea of five men capturing twelve or fifteen struck him as funny, it seemed.

Dick Benson’s idea didn’t seem too appealing to the real guards, either. Two of them were making a break to get away.

The Avenger threw a small pellet so that it landed just ahead of them. It exploded with a terrific bang but without damage. The two hastened back.

Into the center of the opposing gang, Benson tossed a pellet of a different kind. It lit soundlessly and broke the same way.

Two men in civilian clothes wavered around, then abruptly seemed to decide that they were very sleepy. They sank down and closed their eyes. The rest jumped away from that spot, not knowing what had occurred but instinctively realizing that it was unhealthy.

The Avenger tossed two more anaesthetic pellets. Then two men in street clothes reached him from the rear.

Dick had known they were coming. He had seen them leave the main body and had followed their footsteps as they sneaked up behind him. He hadn’t done anything about it because there were only two of them.

They got to him, now, and one drove a knife straight at his back! The other sent three shots at him in rapid succession!

At least one of the shots got somebody, all right, for there was an unearthly scream of pain and the roar: “Stop shooting, you fools! It’s too dark for it.”

None of the three shots had caught Benson, because his phenomenal ears had heard the little click of a safety being thrown off in practiced hands, and he had dropped to his knee.

With this move, the knife had grazed harmlessly over his shoulder, too. The arm behind it, striking with such force and meeting no target to expend the force on, went right on going, followed by the man behind it. The man fell over The Avenger’s head and shoulders, aided by a deft downward jerk on his necktie. A necktie can be a great handicap in a fight against a man who knows how to utilize one as a handle.

The Avenger clipped the man’s jaw with scientific precision and sprang for the other, who had unwisely sent three slugs in the general direction of his comrades. He got this one with the same anaesthetic tap to the jaw with which the first man had been laid out.

The trouble was—from the enemy’s point of view—that it was so dark around here that they could see practically nothing, while the man with the pale eyes seemed able to see almost as well as in daylight.

This was proved when three of them—they were following a hunch that all would not turn out well, in spite of the fact that the odds were in their favor—turned to steal away.

Promptly, something exploded in front of the fake guards, herding them back. They hadn’t seen where the thing came from, or who had thrown it.

The four regular guards, heartened by the way things were going, were pitching in with a will, now. They used their guns as clubs against men who were doing the same. It developed into a clubbing match!

Benson got two men by the throat and, with the incredible power that lay in his average-sized arms and shoulders, swept them together. Their heads clunked. They went down. He saw three of the marauders knocking one guard around and tossed a sleep pellet. All four got it, but it was worth putting an ally to sleep to get three of the enemy at the same time.

Suddenly, there were no odds at all. The Avenger sent two more to the ground by applying that expert pressure of fingers to nerve centers in the back of the neck. Then there were three guards and himself facing five of the phonies.

One of the attackers voiced the sentiments of all when he yelped, “Scram! It’s getting too hot!”

“Stop them at the gate,” The Avenger’s vibrant, utterly calm voice rang out.

The three guards chased wrathfully after the fleeing five; the guards were good, fearless men. Benson set about clinching the capture of the rest.

Around his waist, The Avenger carried always a slim silk cord with a small hook on it for raising himself up, or lowering himself down, building walls. He drew this forth, cut it into lengths.

Selecting the men first that were stirring and showing signs of coming to, he dragged the prone figures together in pairs and began tying their right wrists together. He tightened the knots so hard with his steely fingers that no one could have slid them loose again without hours of trying.

When he was done, five pairs of unfortunate trespassers were linked together as effectively as if by steel handcuffs.

It appeared that this would be all the prisoners.

One of the three guards came limping back with blood coming from a gash over his ear.

“They got away,” he confessed in shame. “Five were a little more’n we could handle. The other two guards are at the gate, which is closed and locked.”

The man looked with bulging eyes at ten stirring prisoners.

“Say—who are you, anyhow?”

Benson only said, “Look through the woods. The men these stolen uniforms were taken from will be lying bound and gagged in various places.”

In a few minutes, all the captives were able to move under their own power. Benson marched them to the laboratory. They could only go places if they went in pairs with the rear man hugging close to the front man, and both keeping step. Several had to find this out by tripping a couple of times and dragging their protesting partners with them. Eventually, they all got headed right.

Benson took out the transmitter of the tiny radio each member of Justice, Inc., wore under his belt. It was an invention of Smitty’s.

“Mac!” The Avenger said.

In a moment, the Scot spoke over his own radio, from inside the dark laboratory building.

“Coming with some prisoners,” Benson said calmly. “Have the door open so light will stream out and show the way for them. Also, find a room with a strong door to hold them.”

The light coming from the doorway, when they got there, revealed a very choice collection of thugs indeed. Big and little, burly and scrawny, they all had the same appearance: the look of men who make their livings by killing or imposing on other men. There is a definite predatory type of human being. Usually it is inborn, but careful and diabolical effort can sometimes produce it artificially; occasionally, on a national scale. It is not a very attractive type.

Mac was standing by the door. His eyes popped at sight of the line-up.

“What in the worrrld!” he burred, as the ten marched in two by two, tripping a little now and then.

Four other men, two in white lab coats, stood down a central hall, watching in fear and bewilderment. Mac led the way to a door, opened it and showed a stout and windowless storeroom. Dick Benson herded his sullen prisoners in there, closed the door and bolted it. He turned to the four down the hall.

“Have any of you seen a woman, or girl, around here?” he demanded.

All shook their heads looking more bewildered than ever.

“Look around the building and the grounds immediately outside, Mac,” said Benson. “I distinctly saw a woman a while ago, running toward the laboratory.”

Mac left, and The Avenger strode toward the four. One of them, a pudgy fellow with pink hands and neck, smiled suddenly. It was a friendly, welcoming smile.

“Oh! I recognize you, now. You’re Richard Benson. But who are all those men?”

The Avenger told him briefly.

“My heavens!” said the man. “An army about to attack us! It was certainly fortunate you came when you did. But let me introduce myself. My name is Spade. Robert Spade. These three are Frank Boone, Chester Grace, and Ray Ryan.”

The acknowledgment of the introduction on the part of the three was not what you’d call a very grateful one.

Burly Chester Grace, whom Benson had already recognized, glared murderously. Frank Boone grunted. The one called Ryan didn’t look, say or do anything. He just turned on his heel and walked down the hall, followed in an instant by the other two. A door boomed angrily as it was slammed behind the three.

“Well!” said Spade, mopping at his forehead. “My gracious! They don’t seem very grateful, do they? I must apologize for them. Come into my office, won’t you? We’ll talk this over.”

He turned into a large room, fitted luxuriously with walnut desk, chairs, divan, and lamps. The Avenger followed, pale eyes unreadable and face masklike. Spade sat behind his desk and waved hospitably to a chair.

“I’ve heard of you chiefly in connection with large financial deals,” Spade said. “You financed the Texas Synthetic Rubber Corp., I believe. But I’ve also heard of you as a relentless fighter of crime. Since we don’t need financing, I assume you are here in connection with the latter activity, particularly after the way you apprehended and brought in those criminals who somehow broke into our enclosure. Dressed in our guards’ uniforms, too, some of them!”

The Avenger told what had drawn him here, how he had happened to be at the scene of the plane crash in which Aldrich Towne, of this laboratory, had died. He did not mention the slightly magnetized bit of steel he had fished from the fragments.

Robert Spade sighed.

“Poor Towne,” he said. “Dying like that. But if you’re investigating, I suppose it’s because you think it wasn’t an ordinary plane crash. You know, I think it was deliberate, too. Sabotage, perhaps, to destroy what the plane carried. Or perhaps that Carroll boy, the pilot, really was making an attempt to get away with—”

He stopped abruptly.

“Get away with what?” said Benson.

Spade smiled cautiously.

“My dear sir, really! You don’t think I can tell you what that plane carried? It was a thing so secret that even the war department does not know what it could be. The two army procurement officers were shown, but they took their knowledge to their graves.”

“Never mind,” said The Avenger quietly. “I believe I know quite exactly what the device is supposed to do, if not precisely how it works. Tell me, what precautions did you take at the airfield?”

“Towne carried it personally in a sealed suitcase,” said Spade. “Chester Grace went along to watch Towne. This was not because any one of us here does not trust the other; it was at Towne’s own request. If any theft should take place, he could be absolved of all possible blame by Grace.”