The Avenger 32 - The Death Machine (9 page)

“What you mean? You told me—”

“Now, now, Giacomo, we can surely make an exception for such a pleasant couple as this. Your names are . . . ?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Henry Kingsley,” said Cole, “of Rocky Point, Long Island.”

“I’m happy to meet you. Now if you’ll follow me, I’ll be pleased to personally escort you around.” He turned, made his way along a flagstone path which wound round the nearest building and to the entrance of the next one over.

“And are you one of the brothers, too?” asked Nellie.

“Forgive me, Mrs. Kingsley. Yes, I am Giuseppe Macri, the eldest.” He reached out to push open a red wooden door. “We can begin our tour here, although it’s one of the final steps.”

A large chuffing and rattling bottling machine was in operation in the lofty room he escorted them into. The empty green bottles came marching in at one end of the room and then, after being filled, went curving around on a conveyor.

“Looks like a
Fortune
cover come to life,” observed Cole.

“We’re running our vin blanc at the moment,” said the bald man. “An undistinguished wine, if you’ll pardon my frankness. Since the war, and the resultant difficulty in obtaining French wines, our blanc has become quite popular.”

“That’s a very distinctive label you have,” said Cole. “With that almost art nouveau drawing of daisies.”

“That,” said Giuseppe, his lips curling. “My late father was quite fond of the drawing, a bit of amateur artwork he had done late in the last century. Unfortunately it’s become so identified with us that getting rid of it now would be quite impossible.”

“Print your labels here, do you?” asked Nellie as she watched the bottles go rattling by.

“Yes, we have a small press back this way. If you’ve seen enough of the bottling process, I’ll show you the printing room.” He opened another red door.

There was a chill stone corridor beyond.

Cole and Nellie followed their guide down its length to yet another red door.

“Right in here,” said the bald man. He opened the door and stood aside for them to enter.

Nellie took three steps into the room and said, “I don’t see any printing press in here.”

There was nothing but stacks of cardboard cartons against one brick wall.

Giuseppe Macri closed the door and leaned his back against it. “Now suppose,” he said, “you tell me why you are here, Mr. Cole Wilson.”

Smitty made it halfway across the saloon before the machine was turned on.

At first he heard the hum, then he heard nothing. But he felt it, felt the waves of sound pounding inside his skull.

“You guys ain’t going to—”

“Stop right there, you oaf.”

Smitty wanted to keep going, to charge into them. He could not do that, however. The silent sound had done something to the inside of his head. He must do what they told him.

“Now tell us who you are?” asked the young man with the box.

“Smith, Algernon Heathcote.”

“He’s one of them,” said the young man with the gun. “You belong to Justice, Inc.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Why are you here?”

“We came to save Dahler and Markowitz,” answered Smitty. “They intend to use the death machine on them.”

The young man holding the box laughed, a giggling laugh. “How did you ever find that out?”

“By questioning Dr. Lloyd Friessen.”

“Friessen’s been caught.” The gunman took a few steps away from the ancient bar. “Where is Dr. Friessen now?”

“Being held by the San Francisco police.”

“What did he tell you?”

“About Dahler and Markowitz, that was all.”

“Enough of this,” said the other young man. “We are awaiting the return of Dr. Dahler and Professor Markowitz. They are apparently taking a little hike into the played out mine area. Since they’ve left their station wagon, we know they’ll return. It’s more comfortable to wait here in the shade than chase after them in the hot sun. Isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Smitty, “it’s more comfortable.”

“You will cross the room and remain beside the piano until I summon you.”

“Yes, sir,” The giant shuffled across the wooden floor to the piano.

“You are alone on your mission?”

“No, the Avenger is with me.”

“The Avenger!” exclaimed the gunman. “I don’t—”

“Quiet, idiot. Where is he now?”

“Let me answer that one,” said the Avenger.

Both young men looked around, but they didn’t immediately see him.

He was above them on the landing, hands resting against the carved wood railing.

The one with the gun realized that first.

Before he could swing his gun up to aim at Benson, though, the Avenger’s .22 was in his hand and firing.

The slug ripped the weapon from the gunman’s hand.

The other young man started to set the death machine on a table so that he might reach for his own gun.

The Avenger was in the air before the motion was completed, hurtling down from above.

He hit feet first, his feet digging hard into the young man’s chest.

The black box hit the floor.

Gasping for air, the young man fell against a chair.

“Huh?” said Smitty. He shook his head from side to side. “Oh, yeah, I remember. Hey! Don’t do that!”

The other young man was trying to pick up his fallen gun with his left hand.

The giant leaped, flying over one of the round tables. His huge foot came down on the gunman’s good hand.

“Damn!” Yanking his hand free, he turned and ran out through the swinging doors.

Smitty went galloping after him.

He didn’t see him for a second, since he was looking too high.

The young man was sprawled in the dusty street.

“What the heck?” Smitty approached cautiously. “You playing possum or what?”

The boy did not move.

Smitty knelt, touched him. “Holy Hannah! He’s dead.” He rose up, looking around the ghost town. “But what did it?”

“Poison,” said the Avenger.

“Huh?”

Benson walked down the bright midday street toward him. “A tiny capsule of very fast-acting poison.”

“Suicide?” Mouth dropping open, Smitty jerked a thumb in the direction of the saloon. “And the other guy, too?”

“Yes, he broke away and before I could prevent him . . .”

“That’s very creepy.” Smitty walked away from the body, squatted down on the boardwalk. “These guys don’t think much of their lives.”

“That’s the way they were trained.”

Cole frowned at the silver-plated .32 revolver which now reposed in Giuseppe’s hand. “I must say this isn’t a very impressive example of California hospitality, sir.”

“No need to fence with me, Wilson. I am well aware of who you are, the both of you. I’ve studied dossiers on you both.”

“You wouldn’t settle for the explanation that Mrs. Kingsley and I happen to be look-alikes for this Wilson and his partner?”

Giuseppe smiled. “Especially not today when you arrive on the heels of two other snoopers.”

“Oh, so?” Cole’s eyebrows rose. “I wasn’t aware . . . that is, who might our predecessors be?”

“You’ll be sharing their cell shortly. Don Early and Dr. Heathcote are our guests at the moment.”

“Uncle Algernon,” said Nellie. How’d he—”

“Hush, Pixie,” cautioned Cole. “I might as well admit, sir, that your fame as a foreign agent has been spread far and wide. Why, before nightfall the Brothers Macri will be up to here in government agents and police, we’re merely the first wave of the invasion. They’ll soon be swarming. I hear the FBI is chartering a special bus and—”

“You’re being held for two reasons,” said Giuseppe. “Firstly, we wish to interrogate you thoroughly. The second reason, equally important, is that we intend to use you as hostages should the need arise.”

“The FBI won’t bargain with you chaps,” said Cole.

“Oh, I’m sure they will. You’re all very sentimental, despite your hardboiled pose. I don’t think they’ll stand stubbornly by while Miss Gray is put to death before their eyes.”

“Oh,” said the little blonde, putting a hand to her cheek, “such a horrible idea. It makes me feel quite giddy . . .” Her eyes rolled up, she sagged and fell.

“Nell, this is no time to faint.”

“Stay right where you are, Wilson.” Giuseppe had glanced down at Nellie for a second, then turned his attention back to Cole.

That was what Nellie had counted on. She went barreling over the floor, like a log rolling downhill, and slammed into Giuseppe’s legs.

He stumbled forward, clutching at the air.

Cole jumped, chopped the silver-plated revolver from his hand.

Nellie shot upright, caught the bald man’s arm and twisted it up behind his back. “Hope you don’t mind a sentimental little girl doing this to you.”

“Ow,” complained Giuseppe.

Cole snatched up the gun. “No yelling, old chum,” he said. “Let’s continue our tour if you please. I’d especially like to see the place where you’ve got Early and Unc stashed.”

Dr. Heathcote said, “There’s no valid reason why a machine to disintegrate stone couldn’t be constructed. In fact, I—”

“Until you get an opportunity to do that,” cut in Don Early, “would you give me a boost?”

“A boost?”

“I’ve been trying to explain to you. I want to get up there and examine that trap door,” said Early. “It seems to be the only way in or out of this hole. At least from that I can gather by feeling around in the dark.”

“An interesting suggestion, yes. Very well, I’ll cooperate.”

“Cup your hands together.”

“Like this?”

“Can’t see . . . let me grab them. Yeah, that’s fine. Now I’m going to step up on your hands and when I do, you boost me up toward the ceiling.”

“Ah, a demonstration of my considerable physical strength is what’s called for.”

“Okay, here goes.”

“You’re light as a feather, Early.”

“I haven’t stepped on yet. There.”

“Um . . . I didn’t realize you were such a husky lad. From what Algy told me I—”

“Lift me up a little higher. Good, I’ve got hold of the—”

Before the young agent could reach up and push the wooden door itself, it was opened from above.

“The face on the barroom floor,” remarked Cole Wilson, grinning down at Early. “Good news from Governor Warren, you’ve been pardoned.”

“Cole Wilson,” said Early in a less than enthusiastic voice.

Ignoring Early’s glum look, Cole held out his hand. “Let me pull you out of there, old chum.”

Early took hold of the waiting hand. “Thanks.”

“Is Uncle Algernon down there with you?”

“What do you think he’s standing on, you halfwit?”

Once Early was up on the winery floor, Cole got down on his stomach and peered into the black hole. “Can you leap up and catch hold of my arms, do you think, Unc?”

“Certainly, since I’m in splendid physical shape for a man of my years.”

“Leap away then.”

“Stop wiggling your fingers.”

“You two are the most fastidious souls I’ve ever had the pleasure of saving,” said Cole as Uncle Algernon tried another jump. “Good, you’ve made contact.” Gritting his teeth, he hauled the older man up out of the stone underground cell. “Friend Early here would quite obviously have rather been rescued by the Marines or perhaps a band of Boy Scouts, and you, Uncle Algy, make snide remarks about my style of plucking you out of the jaws of doom. It’s a strange age we—”

“We have a few other things to handle now, Cole,” reminded Nellie.

“Right you are, princess.” He turned to Giuseppe Macri. “How many brothers are there, anyway, old fellow?”

“Go to hell,” said the bald man.

“Unlikely,” said Cole, “not a chap with so many good deeds on his record. Well, we’ll have to round them all up without your cooperation. Then we’d better radio Dick Benson and—”

“My agency will take care of any enemy agents we catch hereabouts, Wilson,” Early told him.

“To be sure,” said Cole, giving him a mock salute. “But let’s not count our spies before they’re hatched. If you can stop complaining for a bit, we’ll get down to the business of rounding them up. What say?”

Early said nothing.

“A most hazardous profession, espionage,” observed Cole. He had the seat nearest to the wide window of the seafood restaurant and was watching the sun dropping down toward the sea. “The work-related deaths are fantastic. First that collegiate chap over in Berkeley, then both those lads who were haunting the ghost town.” He shook his head sadly before forking another bite of fillet of sole into his mouth.

“It don’t make much difference, does it?” said Smitty. “We got Unc’s machine back after them guys kicked off and—”

“Not that I want to be a wet blanket, Algy,” said Dr. Heathcote as he tore himself a chunk of French bread off the loaf. “However, I’ve been examining that Heathcote Ultrasonic Brain Control Box you handed over to me when we rendezvoused at the winery. I studied it quite thoroughly while our caravan was wending its way homeward.”

“Yeah, so what?”

“It isn’t mine.”

“Huh?”

“A moderately expert copy, I grant, but it lacks the polish that the Heathcote touch gives.”