The Avenger 35 - The Iron Skull (2 page)

“Picked a terrific day to start,” he said to himself, hands deep in his overcoat pockets. “Looks like a baby blizzard.”

It was more than just an urge to exercise that had brought the giant out this morning. He was concerned about his friend and associate, Fergus MacMurdie. Since the rest of them had returned from New Mexico two days ago, there had been no sign of Mac. The Scot had not gone West with them, but had remained behind to investigate the possible hijacking of a shipment of poison gas in Fairfield County, Connecticut. Cole Wilson and Josh Newton had been dispatched to Connecticut by the Avenger to seek some trace of the vanished MacMurdie.

For Smitty there was nothing to do but wait.

He blinked, realizing where he’d been heading. Unconsciously his big feet had been taking him to the neighborhood of the MacMurdie drugstore.

And then the giant saw MacMurdie, himself. “Hey, Mac!” he yelled, waving his hand in the snow-filled air.

The figure of MacMurdie was a half-block away, walking in a faltering way, lurching. Patches of snow had crusted on his face and in his hair. His right hand was thrust inside his coat, as though he might be in pain.

“Geeze! What’s the matter with you?” Smitty ran, his feet grinding the snow on the sidewalk to slush. “Mac, you sick or something?”

The figure stumbled into a lamp post and muttered, “Whoosh!” He fell to his knees.

“Mac!”

Smitty was just ten feet from him when the fallen MacMurdie exploded.

Perhaps the cold weather caused the trouble. It wasn’t supposed to.

The long black Cadillac climbed up the narrow road, cutting through the snow-covered Connecticut countryside. The twilight was coming on, and the temperature was coming down with the darkness.

“Feels like we might get more snow tonight, sir,” remarked the uniformed chauffeur.

The man in the back seat was plump, red-faced. He sat with his gloved hands folded on his lap. He’d kept his black homburg on throughout the drive from Manhattan. “What’s that?”

“More snow,” repeated the chauffeur. “Looks like we’ll get more of it tonight maybe.”

“More snow,” said the plump man slowly. “More snow.”

“You can feel it in the air,” said the driver, wondering what was wrong with his employer. The past few days he’d been . . . well, strange. The boss was involved in some kind of war work, something pretty secret. That kind of work put a lot of pressure on you.

“More snow,” said the plump man. He remained motionless, hands folded.

The lights mounted on the whitewashed stone pillars at each side of the main entrance of the Kessell estate showed up ahead in the dark now.

The chauffeur considered saying something to Mrs. Kessell. Not his place, really, but there was sure something wrong with Mr. Kessell. “Better keep your mouth shut,” he told himself as he drove through the open gates of the estate. “Anyhow, she’s sure to have noticed it, too.”

You had to drive up a winding mile of wide graveled road to get to the main house. The acres hereabouts were filled with stark, leafless trees.

“Snowplow took a hunk out of that maple,” observed the driver.

Mr. Kessell was very fussy about the trees. He’d give old Nordling, the gardener, hell for banging that one up. The chauffeur was not fond of old Nordling.

“What’s that?”

“Nordling must of banged into that tree when he plowed.”

“Oh, yes . . . so he did.”

No, that wasn’t like Mr. Kessell. A dig at Nordling was usually good for a nice tirade out of him.

“So he did,” repeated Kessell.

The chauffeur pulled the car up at the front entrance to the big white colonial-style house. He got out, walked around, and opened his employer’s door.

After a few seconds Kessell said, “Yes, what is it?”

“Home, sir.”

Blinking, the plump man said, “Home? Oh, yes, so we are . . . so we are.” He remained motionless.

“Um . . . would you like me to help you out, sir?”

“Out? No, I’m fine.” He slid out of the big car.

“Your briefcase, sir.”

“Briefcase?”

“You left it on the seat. Shall I—”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Kessell. “Leave it there. Doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, sir.” Bowing, he walked around and got in behind the wheel.

The front door of the house opened as the car drove off toward the garages. It was Mrs. Kessell. “Edward, what’s wrong?”

A smile appeared on his face. “Nothing, my dear. How are you? I’m fine.” He climbed the brick steps, took her hand. “Surprised to see you opening the door. Where’s . . . Bascom?”

“He fell on the ice while helping clear the snow off the pond so some friends of Jack’s could skate this afternoon.”

“Sorry to hear that. Sorry to hear that. Sorry to hear that.”

“Edward, what’s wrong? You’re . . . I don’t know . . . are you ill?”

“Never felt better. Never felt better. Never. Felt better never. Felt better never. Felt. Better.”

She took hold of his arm and guided him into the huge living room. “Sit here now, Edward. I’m going to call Dr. Clayton.”

“No!”

“Please, Edward, you must have someone look at you,” said his wife.

“Don’t . . . need . . . a . . . doctor . . . am perfectly fine.” His right arm swung up and knocked his homburg off. “What I need is a nice stiff drink . . . martini. Dry martini. Favorite drink: dry martini. Likes them mixed four to one. Kessell, Edward, age 48. Wife’s name: Hazel. Nickname: Pigeon. Children, two—”

“Edward!” cried his wife. “What’s wrong?” Pushing him toward the sofa, she tried to make him sit down.

He resisted. “Favorite color: blue. Hobby: model railroading.”

His wife backed away from him. The color had left her face. “Edward?”

His left eye had begun to glow, to glow like a bright orange Christmas tree light. From his nostrils wisps of acrid smoke were starting to spin.

“Kessell, Edward,” he said. “Age 48 . . . children, two: Jack, 16. Steve, 8.”

He was speaking much too rapidly now, the words rattling out of him.

His wife ran to the door and called the name of her eldest son into the hallway. “Jack! Come quick! Something terrible!”

After half a minute an adolescent voice from upstairs answered, “I’m busy, Mom. What’s up?”

“Quick! Quick! It’s . . . my God!”

Both of Kessell’s eyes were blazing orange. The smoke came spewing out of his nose and ears. He was babbling now, like a tobacco auctioneer on the radio.

Clomping footsteps sounded in the hall, then a gangling boy appeared on the threshold. “Holy cow! What’s wrong with Pop?”

The figure in the lamplit living room raised one hand to its head. All at once the hand made a popping sound and fell off.

“Kessell, Edward,” said the figure. It toppled over onto the rug. It rattled when it hit.

Sleigh bells jingled; horses’ hooves clopped.

“Still trying to figure out where that sleigh is,” said Josh Newton as they crunched across the snow-covered courtyard of Ye Olde Fiddler Inne.

Cole Wilson, grinning, inclined his head in the direction of a loudspeaker under the eaves. “Yon gadget,” he said, “is providing us that extra touch of New England color.”

The black man took a hand out of his coat pocket to wipe at his nose. “I hope we find more than Connecticut local color at this place,” he said. “Everywhere else we’ve been to look for some trace of Mac has given us a big zero.”

“Let’s not abandon hope, Joshua, until we’ve turned every stone.” Cole took hold of the brass doorknob on the scarlet door of the inn.

“Man, this place is the last stone. This is where Mac checked in when he first came out here.” He followed his Justice, Inc., teammate in out of the snowy night.

A fire crackled in the deep stone fireplace. The large parlor was empty except for a gaunt old man seated at a rolltop desk in the far corner. He was scribbling with a quill pen, his work lighted by a sputtering candle. “No vacancies,” he said without looking up.

Cole strode across the parlor toward the desk. “Fortunately, we aren’t seeking a room.”

Putting his feather pen aside, the old man looked up. “If it’s about that fool public-address system, my wife says it’s got to go . . . no matter what I signed.”

“You mean the delicate instrument which is now giving forth the nostalgic sounds without?”

“Yep, that’s her. We still owe a hundred and twenty smackers on her,” confided the old innkeeper. “See, I made the mistake of playing my new Betty Hutton record on her the other night, and the wife . . . but if you ain’t from the collection people, who are you?”

“I am none other than Cole Wilson,” explained Cole. “And my associate is Mr. Joshua E. Newton. We hail from New York City and—”

“Dreadful place,” said the innkeeper. “Full of crooks.”

“With a few exceptions,” said Cole. “Now then, as to the purpose of our visit . . . we’re inquiring after Mr. Fergus MacMurdie.”

“Ah, the grocery man . . . left without a word. Never even took his suitcase. My wife’s got it in the broom closet down in the—”

“Why do you refer to him as the grocery man?” asked Josh, who’d been warming his hands at the fireplace.

The old man chuckled. “I can see by the look on your face that I guessed her right,” he said. “See, your friend MacMurdie tried to let on as how he was only and merely a fellow vacationing here in Stonebridge. However, I got to thinking he was a mite too shrewd-looking to be nothing else but a feller on a holiday.”

“Very astute,” said Cole. “But how’d you get onto the grocery angle?”

“Well sir, it was mainly by using my deductive powers,” replied the old man. He picked up the pen and stroked the feathered end across his chin. “It’s mostly because I saw him getting into the truck. Just about the last time I saw him, matter of fact.”

Josh asked, “A grocery truck?”

“Had Swensen’s Old-Fashioned Imitation Maple Syrup printed on her side. Thought they’d gone out of business afore the war, but there was the truck. When I saw her I deduced your Mr. MacMurdie was in these parts to do a little business in the grocery line. We got the jam factory and the peanut butter plant here in Stonebridge, you know.”

“You saw MacMurdie,” said Josh, “getting into this syrup truck?”

“They had to help him some, being as he weren’t too steady on his pins,” the innkeeper said. “I deduced they’d all been lifting a few . . . you know, the way folks do when they been talking business.”

“Ah, yes,” said Cole. “You’ve been very helpful . . . now if we might retrieve MacMurdie’s suitcase?”

“Don’t see no reason why not.” With considerable sighing the old man got himself up. “Still don’t see why MacMurdie didn’t come back, though.”

“I have a hunch why,” said Cole.

They were there nearly five minutes before the battle started.

The Swensen’s Old-Fashioned Imitation Maple Syrup factory lay at the edge of town—a dark silent brick building, the snow piled heavy on its skylights and window sills. Josh and Cole had come driving downhill and parked across the road from the place.

A high plank fence, plastered with the remains of
Win With Willkie
and
Remember Pearl Harbor!
posters, surrounded the silent setup.

“Things look a little slack in the syrup business,” observed Cole as they climbed silently out of their auto.

“Obviously they been defunct for quite a spell,” said the Negro.

“One of their trucks is still functioning,” Cole reminded him.

“Big padlock on the front gate.”

“Let’s not pick her,” said Cole. “I think I noticed, appropriately enough, maple trees growing near the rear of the place. We should be able, providing you’re as nimble as I am, to climb up a suitable tree and then get over the fence.”

“Okay, lead on.”

They moved quietly, skirting the fence, walking through the light-falling snow to the back side of the darkened factory.

“Here’s a likely-looking tree,” whispered Cole after a moment.

Josh silently agreed.

A moment later they had climbed the tree, scaled the fence, and dropped down onto the factory grounds.

“Thought I heard you panting a little,” Josh observed quietly. “Can it be you ain’t so nimble yourself?”

“It’s my allergy to maple, no more.”

The snow was several feet thick all around, except for one place. A path, the width of a truck, had recently been cut from the front gate to the garages attached to the rear of the brick factory building.

“Gad, Holmes, it’s the footprint of a gigantic truck,” said Cole.

“Looks like they brought Mac here, whoever they are.”

“Could be we’re on the track of those poison gas hijackers, although I—”

Josh spotted them first and nudged Cole. “Duck!”

Two figures had emerged from the shadows beside the garage.

Cole got out his pistol as he rolled off the path and into a drift of snow.

A slug went singing overhead.

He returned the fire, aiming for the gun hand of the man who’d shot at him.

Ping!

“Ping?” said Cole.

And what about Smitty?