The Avenger 36 - Demon Island

THE GREATEST CRIME FIGHTER
OF THE FORTIES RETURNS!

IN THE ROARING HEART OF THE CRUCIBLE, STEEL IS MADE. IN THE RAGING FLAME OF PERSONAL TRAGEDY, MEN ARE SOMETIMES FORGED INTO SOMETHING MORE THAN HUMAN.

IT WAS SO WITH DICK BENSON. HE HAD BEEN A MAN. AFTER THE DREAD LOSS INFLICTED ON HIM BY AN INHUMAN CRIME RING, HE BECAME A MACHINE OF VENGEANCE DEDICATED TO THE EXTERMINATION OF ALL OTHER CRIME RINGS.

HE TURNED INTO THE PERSON WE KNOW NOW: A FIGURE OF ICE AND STEEL, MORE PITILESS THAN BOTH; A MECHANISM OF WHIPCORD AND FLAME; A SYMBOL TO CROOKS AND KILLERS; A TERRIBLE, ALMOST IMPERSONAL FORCE, MASKING CHILL GENIUS AND SUPER NORMAL POWER BEHIND A FACE AS WHITE AND DEAD AS A MASK FROM THE GRAVE. ONLY HIS PALE EYES, LIKE ICE IN A POLAR DAWN, HINT AT THE DEADLINESS OF THE SCOURGE THE UNDERWORLD HEEDLESSLY INVOKED AGAINST ITSELF WHEN CRIME’S GREED TURNED MILLIONAIRE ADVENTURER RICHARD BENSON INTO—THE AVENGER.

DEMON ISLAND

ON A FOG-SHROUDED “HAUNTED” ISLAND OFF THE CALIFORNIA COAST, FILM-MAKERS ON LOCATION TO SHOOT A HORROR FILM FIND MORE THAN GHOSTS TO TERRIFY THEM. THERE IS REAL DANGER HERE—DANGER THAT DEMANDS THE SPECIAL SKILLS OF THE AVENGER HIMSELF.

The girl standing in the fog smiled at him—a smile like the smile on a skull.

Jepson turned round—and there she was again, beckoning.

“What do you want?” he faltered.

She raised a hand, motioned him to come closer.

“No!” Jepson spun, pushed off the path and into the woods.

Again she appeared in front of him, smiling that death’s head smile. He ran in another direction. All at once there was nothing beneath his feet. He’d been forced to the cliff edge.

Down he fell, through the foggy night, three hundred feet to smash on the black rocks.

Jepson was the first, but not the last, victim of a sequence of weird happenings that only the Avenger could handle when he came to

DEMON ISLAND.

Also In This Series

By Kenneth Robeson

#1: J
USTICE
, I
NC
.
#2: T
HE
Y
ELLOW
H
OARD
#3: T
HE
S
KY
W
ALKER
#4: T
HE
D
EVIL
’
S
H
ORNS
#5: T
HE
F
ROSTED
D
EATH
#6: T
HE
B
LOOD
R
ING
#7: S
TOCKHOLDERS
IN
D
EATH
#8: T
HE
G
LASS
M
OUNTAIN
#9: T
UNED
FOR
M
URDER
#10: T
HE
S
MILING
D
OGS
#11: R
IVER
OF
I
CE
#12: T
HE
F
LAME
B
REATHERS
#13: M
URDER
ON
W
HEELS
#14: T
HREE
G
OLD
C
ROWNS
#15: H
OUSE
OF
D
EATH
#16: T
HE
H
ATE
M
ASTER
#17: N
EVLO
#18: D
EATH
IN
S
LOW
M
OTION
#19: P
ICTURES
OF
D
EATH
#20: T
HE
G
REEN
K
ILLER
#21: T
HE
H
APPY
K
ILLERS
#22: T
HE
B
LACK
D
EATH
#23: T
HE
W
ILDER
C
URSE
#24: M
IDNIGHT
M
URDER
#25: T
HE
M
AN
FROM
A
TLANTIS
#26: R
ED
M
OON
#27: T
HE
P
URPLE
Z
OMBIE
#28: D
R
. T
IME
#29: T
HE
N
IGHTWATCH
D
EVIL
#30: B
LACK
C
HARIOTS
#31: T
HE
C
ARTOON
C
RIMES
#32: T
HE
D
EATH
M
ACHINE
#33: T
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B
LOOD
C
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#34: T
HE
G
LASS
M
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#35: T
HE
I
RON
S
KULL

WARNER PAPERBACK LIBRARY

WARNER PAPERBACK LIBRARY EDITION
F
IRST
P
RINTING
: M
AY
, 1975

C
OPYRIGHT
© 1975
BY
T
HE
C
ONDÉ
N
EST
P
UBLICATIONS
, I
NC
.
A
LL
R
IGHTS
R
ESERVED

T
HIS
W
ARNER
P
APERBACK
L
IBRARY
E
DITION
IS
P
UBLISHED
BY
A
RRANGEMENT WITH
T
HE
C
ONDÉ
N
EST
P
UBLICATIONS
. I
NC
.

C
OVER
I
LLUSTRATION
BY
G
EORGE
G
ROSS

W
ARNER
P
APERBACK
L
IBRARY
IS A
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IVISION
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W
ARNER
B
OOKS
, I
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.
75 R
OCKERFELLER
P
LAZA
, N.Y. 10019.

A Warner Communications Company
ISBN: 0-446-75858-2

Printed in the United States of America

DEMON
ISLAND

Death was waiting.

Waiting somewhere in the foggy silence which hung over the island. The island lay a few miles off the southern California coast, and its official name was San Obito on the maps and charts. It hadn’t been called that for years, though, by the fishermen and boatmen of the area. They knew it as Demon Island.

No one had, supposedly, lived there for years. The big, partially ruined castle which stood at the island’s center had long been deserted. No one had walked the rocky beaches or roamed the thick, junglelike forests of Demon Island.

Until tonight.

They had arrived at dawn, four of them. Four men who had landed silently and moved up through the fog-shrouded dawn forest. They knew—or one of them knew, at any rate—the island well. Not only the woods and beaches, but the castle. And more.

They had searched all day, but with no luck.

After dinner—canned beans and bitter coffee—Jepson had decided to look some more on his own. The fog, burned away by the southern California sun during the day, returned to the island at nightfall.

That didn’t bother Jepson. He’d been born in Frisco, lived out by the park until he was nearly grown. Fog didn’t bother him.

He was moving along an overgrown path which they hadn’t covered yet.

This island must have been something in its day, Jepson thought as he walked through the misty forest. Yeah, back twenty years ago. The roaring twenties . . . all those skinny girls with diamonds in their hair. Parties, jazz bands. Like they say . . . whether you’re rich or poor, it helps to have money.

That’s what this was all about. Hell, that’s what the whole world was about. You spend your life trying to make money. Even if you succeed, as Jepson’s father had, there was no guarantee that you could keep it. They’d made it through the big crash of ’29. Then in 1932 everything had gone down the drain.

So here was Jepson a dozen years later, almost thirty-five years old, and tied in with the three others. All because of money.

“Fool’s gold, probably,” he said.

The fog was closing in tighter around him. It had a chill, spiky feel. You were always in the middle of it.

Suppose we really do find that million dollars he mused. Cut it in four and I’d still have a hell of a lot for my share.

If it was actually here. They had only Stark’s word for that.

Sure, it’s here, he thought. Stark ought to know.

But Stark had been out of things for a long time. All sorts of changes had taken place in the world while Stark was in prison; still he claimed to be the only one who knew about the money.

The only one alive, that is.

So believe him, Jepson told himself. Be an optimist for once in your life.

Okay, the money’s here on Demon Island. We’re going to find it, find it before that damn movie company arrives next week.

Through the shrouding fog he could hear the sound of the night surf. Jepson was on the north side of the island. Beyond the trees were the black, rocky cliffs, with the Pacific three hundred feet below.

He realized that he wasn’t really looking now. He simply felt like being by himself. His three partners—Stark, Tucker, and Morrison—were . . . well, you couldn’t spend all your time with them.

For a quarter of a million I can put up with them, he reminded himself.

Jepson slowed, frowning.

He cocked his head to listen.

No, it wasn’t something you could hear. It was something you felt.

I’m not alone, he thought.

No sound, except the waves far below. The fog a thick, swirling wall of white all around him.