The Avenger 35 - The Iron Skull (5 page)

The old man came running toward the coupé, watchfully.

Benson could not fire again without risking hitting Nichols. He let his gun hand fall to his side.

“Hey, Professor Nichols!” called a chesty voice from the other side of the garage door. “You okay in there?”

The old man scrambled into the car.

Nevins backed to the driver’s side, keeping Nichols between him and the Avenger. “Shove that mechanism out of the way.”

The old man pulled the simulacrum of George Nichols over closer to him and Nevins, shoving Nichols away, got in and started the engine.

“Professor! What’s going on?”

When Nevins released the brake and gunned the gas, the coupé went roaring straight back. The door splintered, exploding white slivers and chunks of wood out into the chill morning.

The government agent who’d been asking after Nichols had to leap to avoid getting hit by the coupé.

As Nevins took the machine around the drive, the agent pulled himself out of a drift of crusted snow. He waved at the others in his big black car. “Follow those guys!”’

The coupé went rocketing through the gates of the place, bouncing, squealing as it hit the road.

The black car came to life. It gunned off after the stolen coupé. But before it had even cleared the gate there was a huge explosion on the road.

“Holy smoke,” said the agent who’d stayed behind. “They tossed a grenade.”

The government car couldn’t get around the huge crater the explosion had dug.

The Avenger had meanwhile dropped lightly down from the rafters and helped Nichols to his feet.

“Thanks,” muttered the professor. “I don’t quite understand . . . how did you get here?”

Benson said, “I was coming to have a talk with you. I thought I noticed a flash of movement in the garage and went in to investigate. The rest you know.”

“I know what you did in here, but how’d you get past the agents and these other guys?”

“If I don’t want to be seen,” said the Avenger, “I’m not seen.”

The one-legged man bent and tapped his cork leg with his fingertips. “I’m 4F,” he explained as he straightened up behind his desk, “on account of being one-legged.”

“Too bad,” said Smitty.

“I always tell people right off, otherwise they get to wondering why a relatively young fellow such as myself isn’t in the service of his country,” he explained. “Although I’m also holding down an essential job here. Some people don’t understand that, think government offices are a lot of foolishness.”

Nodding, Smitty glanced around the cluttered little one-man office. “One of the things you do is keep track of electronic components used in all sorts of war industries, right?”

“Yes, that’s one of the basic functions of my particular office,” replied the one-legged man. “Having one leg doesn’t keep me from being efficient. Why aren’t you in the service, if I might ask?”

The giant said, “You might say I’m in an essential industry, too.”

“You’d make a good Marine, husky fellow like you.” He studied again the letter Smitty had given him. “ ‘Mr. Algernon Heathcote Smith is to be given every cooperation. His security clearance is of the highest . . .’ Don’t run into many people named Algernon, any more. People call you Algy?”

“They better not,” said Smitty. “Now, about that list of stuff?”

The one-legged man consulted the other sheet of paper the giant had handed him. “Hum . . . hum . . .” he muttered as he read it over. “That’s sort of odd.”

“What’s odd?”

“These 2C gudgeon pins,” said the one-legged man. “Only company made them was Zuber Electronics. And they went out of business in 1940. Most people use the 2X made by Haefle Components now. Hum . . . hum . . . couple of these other parts are Zuber, too.”

“So where would somebody buy ’em nowadays?”

“Couldn’t,” the one-legged man told him. “Can’t get any Zuber components at all, last of them were sold over two years ago. Besides, even if they could, our office would know about it.”

“Maybe some wholesaler stockpiled ’em?”

“No, I’d have that information—wait a sec.” He tugged out a paper-stuffed drawer and began rummaging through its contents. “Never had a chance to check this out . . . overworked as it is.”

“Check what out?”

“Got a report in . . . darn, it was over six months ago. Anyway, supposed to be a warehouse over in Westchester County, New York. Yes . . . it’s in a town name of Terryville. Supposed to be this warehouse there where a lot of Zuber components were stored when the company folded. Been meaning to get over there and check . . . but you know how it is.”

Smitty leaned over to take back his letter and his list. “Give me the address, huh?”

“Surely, since that letter told me to cooperate.” He scribbled the address on a memo slip and gave it to the giant.

Smitty parked his car near a grove of bare maples, got out, and trudged across the snowy field toward the wooden warehouse. A light snow was falling.

There was no fence around the place, but a big padlock hung on the front door.

“Looks like there ain’t nobody home.”

There was a shed next to the warehouse building. Out of it now hobbled a stooped, gray-bearded man. “Go away, sonny.”

“You the watchman?”

“What’s it to you, sonny?” asked the bearded man.

Smitty walked to the shed. Heat and the smell of coffee were pouring out of the open doorway. “I want to take a look around in the warehouse.”

“This ain’t no tourist mecca, sonny. Go away, get lost.”

Fishing out his letter, Smitty said, “I got government authorization to conduct a survey of existing stocks of electronic components in this area. Read this.”

“You some great big muckymuck?”

“Middle-sized muckymuck.” Smitty thrust the unfurled letter nearer to him.

“Hold your horses. Got to get my specs if you want me to read something.” He shuffled back inside, slamming the door in Smitty’s face.

The giant blew out his breath, scattering snowflakes in his vicinity. “Feel like I’m selling vacuum cleaners door to door.”

Another minute and the bearded man reappeared. A key ring jingled in his right hand. “Great day you picked to nose around, sonny,” he said, stepping out into the snow. “Colder than a witch’s kiss today.”

“Maybe I should come back when the spring flowers are blooming, huh?”

The bearded man said nothing. He hobbled along the gravel path that led from his shed to the locked-up front door of the warehouse. Muttering, he tried several keys on the padlock. Finally he got the right one in the hole, and the lock unlocked. He jerked it away, took hold of the doorknob, and opened the door. “Light switch just to your left,” he said, inviting the giant to enter ahead of him.

“Thanks,” said Smitty. He crossed the dark threshold and felt around for the switch.

It was while he was doing that that they jumped him.

“I’m Kirby Macauley,” said the man at the other end of the long, steamy greenhouse.

“I’m Richard Benson,” said the Avenger, “and this is Nellie Gray.”

Macauley approached them down an aisle between the tables and troughs of plants. “I’ve heard of you both, otherwise I would have told my butler to send you away.” He was a tall man, light-haired, about fifty. “I’m one of the leading rocketry experts in this part of the country, as you know. That means my time is very much in demand. The government even begrudges me my hour each morning among my plants. Being a big man in one’s field, though, means one can even tell the U.S.A. where to head in. You’ve probably found that out yourself, Benson.”

The Avenger said, “You’ve been informed, I assume, that security measures are being increased.”

“Yes, yes,” said Macauley. “Lot of foolishness, that. More tax money down the drain. But that’s what war means to the home front, isn’t it? New ways to spend the people’s money. Admiring those tomatoes, Miss Gray?”

“They’re very handsome,” said the little blonde. “Especially for this time of year.”

“They’re all right, although nowhere near as tasty as the ones I raised last year,” said the rocket expert. “I can’t obtain the proper kind of plant food any more. Well, we all have to put up with discomforts in wartime. What can I do for you, Benson?”

“I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Try to be brief, won’t you?”

“Have you been aware of anyone, here at your estate or anywhere else, who’s taken an unusual interest in your activities?”

Macauley picked up a pair of tweezers from a work bench. “You must realize, Benson, that I’m something of a celebrity. Before the war several of my books were bestsellers. People are always watching me, staring.” He laughed, a thin nasal laugh. “Of course, I can’t turn around without bumping into a government man. Now that they’re upping the security watch I’m sure G-men will be coming out of the woodwork.”

“Besides all that,” persisted Benson. “I have a feeling someone has been keeping watch on the key men involved in your project, working out the patterns of their daily lives.”

Macauley gave a negative shake of his head. “Since, as I’ve said, I’m continually being ogled, I’ve developed the ability to ignore completely a good many of the people who stare at me in public. So I’m afraid I can’t be of much real help to you, Benson.” He turned his attention to a flowering plant in front of him and began pruning it with the tweezers.

After exchanging a glance with the Avenger, Nellie began searching through her purse. “I wonder, before we go, if you might tell me what plant food you do use to get such terrific results,” she said. She came up with a pencil, a slip of paper, and something else. “I’ll just jot the name down.”

“Really, it’s much more complicated than that, Miss Gray. You see—”

“Oh . . . I’m sorry.” Nellie had, seemingly by accident, bumped into Macauley and at the same time let go the object she’d taken from her purse.

It was a small kitchen magnet. It fell against Macauley’s wrist with a
ting!
sound. Instead of falling to the floor, the little magnet remained stuck there.

“Magnets like metal,” said Nellie.

Macauley located the magnet clinging to him and brushed it away. “Very clever, Miss Gray.” He slid a hand rapidly inside his jacket.

“You didn’t quite ring true,” Nellie told him.

“Don’t go for a gun,” the Avenger told the robot. His strange pistol, which he’d long ago dubbed Mike, was in his hand.

“Nonsense, Benson,” said the robot. “I’m not afraid of bullets.”

“How about jujitsu?” asked little blond Nellie.

Before he could draw forth his weapon, she threw her hip into his side. At the same time she caught hold of his free arm. Bending, she used the arm as a lever and tossed the imitation Macauley through the air.

The heavy robot landed, with a clatter and a splintering of wood, amidst several large trays of pineapples.

The Avenger grabbed the robot up before he could untangle himself. With ease he threw him down to the slatted floor.

“You can’t . . . you can’t . . .” protested the mechanism as it slammed flat out.

“But I can.” From a pocket Benson produced a length of extremely strong cord. Swiftly he bound the robot’s wrists together, then the ankles. He stepped away, commenting; “That should hold you.”

No expression on his face, the robot thrashed from side to side, struggling to break the bonds. But with no success.

“Looks like we got ourselves a working model this time,” observed Nellie.

The robot stopped its struggles. Then it said, in a completely different voice. “A point to you, Avenger . . . but the game is not over yet.”

A metal door rattled open, and seconds later, strong hands, at least four of them, grabbed hold of Cole Wilson.

“What ho?” he said.

“What’s going on, lad?” asked MacMurdie from his cell.

“Couple of rather aggressive chaps seem intent on carrying me off,” Cole called out to Mac through the darkness. “Mayhap I’m being asked to tea.”

Those who were dragging him out of his cell said nothing.

“Keep a light burning in the window for me,” said Cole as he was hauled along a stone corridor.

A metal door opened, and he was in another corridor. At the very end of this one a single dim light bulb burned in the ceiling.

“Do I have an audience with the king, or—”

“Shut up,” suggested the man on his right.

Another metal door was opened. The next corridor was well lit, plaster-walled.

Turning his head from side to side, Cole scrutinized his two large escorts. “Forgive me for what may well be a gauche remark . . . but are you chaps real, or robots?”

“Shut up,” said the man on his left.

“You’re quite believable, if you’re robots. Especially the way you spit a little when you say, ‘Shut up.’ ”

The next door opened itself.

“Wait in there.”

Cole was shoved through the doorway. The door shut at his back.

The room he was in was about twelve feet square, with wood-paneled walls. There was no rug on the floor, no furniture at all. The ceiling light was shielded by a metal grille.