Also In This Series

By Kenneth Robeson

#1: JUSTICE, INC.

#2: THE YELLOW HOARD

#3: THE SKY WALKER

#4: THE DEVIL’S HORNS

#5: THE FROSTED DEATH

#6: THE BLOOD RING

#7: STOCKHOLDERS IN DEATH

#8: THE GLASS MOUNTAIN

WARNER PAPERBACK LIBRARY

WARNER PAPERBACK LIBRARY EDITION

FIRST PRINTING: FEBRUARY, 1973

COPYRIGHT © 1940 BY STREET & SMITH PUBLICATIONS, INC.

COPYRIGHT RENEWED 1969 BY THE CONDÉ NEST PUBLICATIONS, INC.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

THIS WARNER PAPERBACK LIBRARY EDITION IS PUBLISHED BY

ARRANGEMENT WITH THE CONDÉ NEST PUBLICATIONS. INC.

COVER ILLUSTRATION BY GEORGE GROSS

WARNER PAPERBACK LIBRARY IS A DIVISION OF WARNER BOOKS,

75 ROCKERFELLER PLAZA, N.Y. 10019.

A Warner Communications Company

ISBN: 0-446-74-025-X

Printed in the United States of America

CONTENTS

TUNED FOR MURDER

CHAPTER I: Dollars on Wings

CHAPTER II: World Threat

CHAPTER III: Murder in the Corridor!

CHAPTER IV: Death Trap

CHAPTER V: Mind a Blank

CHAPTER VI: Into the Depths!

CHAPTER VII: Strange Doom!

CHAPTER VIII: Cranlowe Heights

CHAPTER IX: The Stalker

CHAPTER X: Two Faces of Death!

CHAPTER XI: Field Reports

CHAPTER XII: The Secret Voice

CHAPTER XIII: Sound Beyond Hearing

CHAPTER XIV: The Black Disk

CHAPTER XV: Unholy Convergence

CHAPTER XVI: Berserk Guards

CHAPTER XVII: Last Stand

CHAPTER XVIII: The Masked Man

CHAPTER XIX: The Grim Joker!

TUNED

FOR MURDER

CHAPTER I

Dollars on Wings

The man stood on the downtown corner doing things that no one had ever seen done before. Outrageous, crazy things you might have expected to see done in an institution where the windows are barred and the walls are padded, but never on a street corner in the financial section of a respectable city.

Garfield City was extremely respectable, as towns go. It was in southern New York State in a hill region where quarries, mines and farming produced a lot of wealth. It was filled with well-to-do people and middle-class people. A sober-sided, reputable city of ninety thousand inhabitants, it distinctly was not in the habit of having men stand on its corners and do such things.

If the man had been an ordinary citizen, it would not have been so perplexing. But he was not an ordinary citizen.

He was about sixty, with a Palm Beach tan showing over the velvet collar of a lightweight spring topcoat, for which he had probably paid some tailor a couple of hundred dollars. He was portly, impressive in appearance, and had a dominating eye. He looked like “big time.” But he wasn’t acting like “big time.”

He was standing on the downtown corner occupied by the Garfield City National Bank. He had a sheaf of one-dollar bills in his right hand. Sticking out of both overcoat pockets were more one-dollar bills. Sticking up from the overcoat collar at the back of his neck were still more.

He was handing out a dollar—and a comment—to every person who passed him on the sidewalk. The walk had been crowded enough before, since it was noon and in the heart of the city. It was more crowded now, with the advent of free one-dollar bills.

People were lined up for a block in a gaping, puzzled but expectant queue. Other people, hundreds, stood and stared, held back by policemen whose faces were studies of pain and indecision. Now and then one would start toward the man with the dollar bills; then he’d turn back to keeping the crowd in order.

Plainly, they didn’t know what to do. Nobody knew what to do.

A woman got to the man on the corner. She was a very large woman, with a very small silver-fox neckpiece.

“Compliments of the Garfield City National Bank,” said the man on the corner, handing the woman a crisp, new dollar. He looked at the fur neckpiece. “Your necklace seems to have gotten moldy, madam.”

The woman gasped angrily. But she wasn’t too angry to take the dollar. She grabbed it and went on, muttering to herself, but with eyes that were almost scared.

A man with a dog was next. He was a large man. The dog was very small and looked even smaller in the crook of the man’s beefy arm. The dog howled suddenly.

“And here is your dollar, sir,” said the man on the corner. “Compliments of the Garfield Bank. You might buy a new dog with it—something that looks more like a dog and less like a four-legged mustache.”

“Why, you—” began the man.

He was elbowed out of the way by a too-thin shopgirl with eyes only for the next extended dollar.

“With best wishes of the Garfield City Bank,” said the man. “Buy a bottle of olives with it. Swallow them one at a time, whole, and you can go to a masquerade as a string of beads.”

The thin girl flounced off. But she didn’t refuse the dollar. The parade went on, with each person getting a nice new dollar bill and a nasty crack.

Compliments of the Garfield City National Bank. Well, the man had a right to mouth those words.

He had more of an audience than showed on the street. In the bank building behind him, eight feet up from the sidewalk and barred like the U.S. Mint, was a window. In the window were clustered all nine executives of the bank.

“We’ve got to get him away from there,” moaned the vice president in charge of new accounts. “He’ll ruin the bank’s prestige. And once a bank’s prestige is ruined, the bank is nothing but a pile of marble and old bronze.”

“He’s crazy,” nodded the cashier, eyes tortured.

One of the others looked scared.

“You mean eccentric, don’t you?” he said. “I’d be careful, saying the president, himself, is crazy.”

“Look,” said the cashier, “what’s the craziest thing a—a farmer, for instance, could do?”

“I don’t know,” said the other. “Pull out the crops and cultivate the weeds, I suppose.”

“What’s the craziest thing a salesman could do?”

“Take a consignment of salt-dried herring to the desert to sell, or something.”

“Now, what’s the craziest thing a banker could do?”

“Give away money,” nodded the other.

“So,” said the cashier, “that man out there, whether or not he is president of the Garfield City National Bank, is stark crazy!”

“He’ll put the bank out of business,” bleated the vice president in charge of new accounts. “Can’t somebody do something?”

“How about you doing something?”

“Oh, no!” said the vice president. “He might wake up tomorrow and not be crazy. And then I wouldn’t have my job.”

“He never showed any signs of mental instability before,” said the vice president in charge of loans. “Whatever it is that set him off, must have happened to him today. Was he here in the bank all morning?”

The cashier shook his head. “He went out to the Garfield Gear Company about a new short-term loan they want. You know how he handles them himself because Jenner, the president, is a friend of his.”

“That’s all he did?”

“That’s all. And there’s nothing about a visit to Garfield Gear to make a man act the way he’s acting.”

Outside, the line was three blocks long, and the bank president was reaching for the bills stuck in his overcoat collar. He was almost out.

“For you, sir,” he said, handing one to a young fellow in a checkered cap. “Compliments of the bank. And why don’t you wash your ears? Then you wouldn’t have to try to hide them with a hideous-looking thing like that cap.”

“I’ll take a sock—” snarled the young man.

He saw a cop looking at him, and slunk off. The cop turned his perspiring face toward a brother cop.

“We’ll have to run him in, Casey. There ain’t anything else to do.”

“You do it, then,” was the prompt reply. “Me—I’m not takin’ John R. Blandell, president of the Garfield Bank, to the cooler.”

“We don’t have to take him to the cooler. We could take him to a brain doc.”

“I’m not goin’ to accuse a bank president of bein’ nuts, either.”

The portly president turned with all the dignity of a multimillionaire to a ragged, gaping newsboy, standing at his elbow.

“Go into the bank, please,” he directed. “Tell them Mr. Blandell wants more dollar bills. New dollar bills. Thousands and thousands of them.”

“Gee! Yes, sir,” breathed the boy.

He darted in through the bronze revolving doors. And the bank guard caught his arm.

“You! What did Mr. Blandell send you in for?”

“More dough,” said the boy. “He’s about shot all his dollar bills.”

“Naturally,” said the guard, “he’ll get no more bills. You stay in here.”

In the window, the bank executives were getting more worried than ever. They were experienced in crowd psychology. They could read in people’s faces the things the people were beginning to say, out there.

“Hey! I’ve got my cash in that bank,” a man said, beginning to edge toward the revolving door. “I don’t want any money in a madhouse like that. If the president’s goofy, what about the rest? I’m going to take my money out, fast.”

“Me, too,” said his neighbor. “Maybe it’s some of my dollars he’s passing out!”

The two crowded toward the door, and a lot more began to crowd along with them.

The cashiers turned from the window. “Get the tellers ready. There’s going to be a run.”

The vice president in charge of loans said nothing. He began to walk fast toward the president’s office. Then he began to run. He wanted to see what loans Blandell had made recently and cancel them out. The loans of a lunatic are no good.

On the street, Casey was beginning to share the other cop’s conviction. Some of Casey’s money was in the Garfield Bank, too.

“Yeah, we’ll have to take him in,” he said. “It’ll probably break us, but we got to do it. Imagine me, takin’ in the president of a bank!”

The two pushed their way to the generous banker. Casey stood at his right with the other cop at his left. Mr. Blandell handed Casey a crisp, new dollar.

“Compliments of the Garfield City National Bank, officer. Buy some spot-remover and go after that gravy on your tunic.”

Casey purpled, but didn’t forget the man’s position in the town.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, taking the dollar. “Now, would you mind comin’ with us?”

“I can’t, officer. I must stay here. I am nearly out of dollars and more are coming from the bank. I must be here to receive them and pass them along.”

“We know a place where you can get even more dollars than the bank has,” said the other officer coaxingly. “How would you like to come with us and get them?”

“How,” said the dignified, elderly bank president, “would you like a smack in the puss?”

The cop bit a little piece off his tongue.

“Come on,” he said.

He dragged on one arm, and Casey on the other. The banker struggled.

“I won’t go,” he yelled. “I’m staying right here. You understand? Officer! Officer! You over there! Come here and arrest this cop!”

“Bundle him off,” said Casey. “Oh, you would would you?”

Blandell had kicked him in the shins. Casey sighed—and measured a short arc to the banker’s jaw. Then he laid his fist there, in just the right spot.

Blandell’s head snapped back, and he sagged in their arms. The other cop shook his head.

“I’d sooner hit a grizzly bear than a banker. It’d be safer.”

“Come on, come on!” growled Casey. “We got to get him to a brain doc, and then get back. I want my money out of this joint.”

In the bank the tellers were shoveling out money to alarmed citizens.

“Yes, you can have it all, of course. The bank is perfectly sound. Every depositor can have every cent. But it’s not wise for you to withdraw like this.”

And the guard was calling: “Watch out for pickpockets. Many of you have a lot of money. Watch out for thieves!”

In the president’s office the vice president was feverishly tracing any recent loans the president might have made. And he was canceling them just as feverishly, till investigation could be started.

CHAPTER II

World Threat

At nine o’clock that night, a hundred and ten miles away, a man sat reading a newspaper.

Three things made that simple-sounding act remarkable: the man, the story the newspaper screamed to the world, and the place in which he was reading.

The man was an awe-inspiring figure. He was obviously young, in spite of his thick, snow-white hair. But it was his dead, waxlike face that commanded breathless attention. The paralyzed facial muscles remained constantly immobile and could express no emotion whatever, though this lack of facial expression was made up by the almost colorless eyes that flamed inexorably from his white, dead face.

He was Richard Henry Benson, but because he had made it his life work to fight crime, he was known far and wide as—The Avenger!

The place in which Benson, The Avenger, now read his newspaper, was as unique as the man himself. It was his headquarters, located on a short block in New York City called Bleek Street. Three brick buildings opposite a block-square warehouse—which Benson owned—had been thrown into one, to house his complete laboratory, office and living accommodations.

Over the entrance was a small sign:

JUSTICE

The Avenger and his aides were known as Justice, Inc. Two of the aides were up in the great room now as Benson read the newspaper item.

“The man who let that yarn get into a reporter’s hands is asking for death,” said one of the aides.

The man who had spoken was the giant, Smitty, the electrical engineering genius of The Avenger’s crime fighters.

“It would seem,” said a gangling, lean Negro, Josh Newton—another of The Avenger’s aides—“that he released the story deliberately to all the papers at once. Cleveland has it, and Philadelphia, and Denver—every big paper in the country.”

“This man Cranlowe must want to commit suicide awfully bad,” said Smitty.

“Or else he thinks he’s a superman and can protect himself against the trouble this is bound to start,” Josh added reflectively.

The Avenger nodded in his critical analysis of the item.

The headline read:

FAMOUS INVENTOR GIVES

ULTIMATUM

And the account went on:

Mr. Jesse W. Cranlowe, well-known inventor, proclaimed to the world last night that he is going to stop all future warfare. From the remote fastness of his lower New York State home, he handed out a statement which he says will have historical importance. The statement hinges on a recent invention.

“I have discovered a war weapon,” said Mr. Cranlowe, “which makes obsolete all the present paraphernalia of war of all nations. With this weapon, a small nation could crush a large one in a week. It is, in my opinion, the most deadly force ever contrived. But it shall not be used for war. It shall be used for peace.

“I shall keep the formula myself—not on paper, but only in my memory. I shall hold it in reserve against all aggressive nations. This is my ultimatum to a restless world: From this date forward, any nation that shall aggress against any other national shall find itself faced by the terror of my new weapon. For I shall at once turn the formula over to the victimized country, free of charge, and personally help them manufacture it. Hence, any nation that decides on conquest shall, with that decision, instantly become a beaten nation. This I swear.”

Mr. Cranlowe would not explain the nature of his new weapon. But your correspondent, through a great deal of questioning, discovered that for the last three years the distinguished inventor has been working on explosives.

The news story went on for two columns more. Its tone was half jest, half earnest. The colossal conceit of a man who proposed single-handedly to end war, naturally drew jest. Yet Cranlowe was a great inventor. Anything he had to say commanded attention.

“The man’s a fool,” said the giant, Smitty. But there was somber admiration in his eyes. And in the cold, flaring eyes of The Avenger, like bits of polar ice in a cold dawn, there was also admiration.

With that announcement, Cranlowe made himself the target of every nation on earth desiring new weapons for new conquests.

Yes, he was a fool. But a splendid fool—risking all he had in an effort to stop war.

“Where does he live?” asked Josh.

“Garfield City,” said Benson, voice quiet but vibrant. “That’s about halfway across the State, west of here.”

In Garfield City, a little earlier, a man had gotten out of a plane who was, in his way, as distinguished as John R. Blandell, president of Garfield City National Bank.

The man, tall, dark of hair and eyes, with a dark Vandyke beard, was Henry Sessel, biologist and author. He was Blandell’s nephew. Word had been sent to him about his uncle’s curious slide from sanity, and he had flown here instantly in answer.

Blandell was in his own home, but he might as well have been locked up somewhere. He was not allowed to leave; friends had kindly seen to that. He was under constant supervision, “for his own good.” He was a bewildered, shattered prisoner.

“What made me do it?” he said, after he had told his distinguished nephew of the corner episode. “I don’t know. I didn’t even know what I had done, till they told me later. My mind seemed to go blank while I was taking leave of Jenner, and it stayed blank till I was here at home with police swarming around and a doctor and psychiatrist in attendance. I suppose the word for it is—insanity.”

“Stop it!” snapped Sessel. “There never has been insanity in our family. Why should you suddenly lose your mental balance?”

“I suppose it has to start in a family sometime,” sighed Blandell. “It’ll be a couple of years before the bank lives down what I did,” he added. “Naturally, I’ve resigned as president.”

Sessel was striding up and down the Blandell living room, fingering his well-kept dark Vandyke beard.

“You say this happened to you while you were taking leave of your friend Jenner at Garfield Gear?”

“Yes,” said Blandell wearily. “But that doesn’t mean anything. It just happened that I was there. If a mental lapse was due, it could have come on me any place.”

Sessel answered noncommittally, and went out to the company in question.

The Garfield Gear Company was a large plant on the edge of town. There was a high barbed-wire fence around it, with an electrified strand on the top. There were men nearby to act as guards. This was because the company, in addition to making gears and axles, made a lot of gun and torpedo parts for the government. War materials are guarded.

Ned Jenner, president and majority stockholder of the company, knew Sessel slightly, so the nephew of the bank president was immediately ushered in to see him.

Jenner was a big fellow, not quite fifty, with a strong jaw, a frank handclasp and a straight glance. In his office, when Sessel entered, was an employee: a slim, slightly bald young man with sensitive lips and a high-arched thin nose.

“Mr. Sessel, Mr. Stanley Grace, my secretary,” Jenner said, rather absently. “I won’t need you for a little while, Grace.”

The secretary nodded silently, folded his notebook, and left the office. Jenner’s frank gaze came to Sessel.

“You’re here about your uncle, I suppose?”

Sessel nodded. He was looking at a leather divan, set along one wall of the office. On the divan was curled a little fox terrier, not asleep, looking Sessel over with bright, alert eyes, but making no move or sound.

“That’s Prince,” said Jenner. “He’s my pal, aren’t you, Prince?” The dog’s tail wagged. “Where I go, Prince goes. He’s in the office when I am, and he usually looks over the plant beside me.”

Jenner turned back to Sessel. “I don’t know that there’s a thing to tell about your uncle,” he said. “It was shocking to hear the news. Shocking! But I’m sure it’s temporary. John has been eminently sane all his life. I know that. Went to school with him. He couldn’t have gone off his head now, at middle age.”

“I don’t think so either.” Sessel was staring at the fox terrier. “The attack came on, he thinks, while he was here at the plant with you.”

Jenner nodded. “I heard that also. And I can see, now, that probably it did. Because the minute I heard it, I remembered that John’s eyes had gone curiously dull as he was shaking hands and leaving. As if he were very tired. All I thought, at the time, was that the old boy must be working too hard. But looking back on it—”

“There was nothing that happened here that could have disturbed him?” said Sessel, staring at the dog.

“Nothing!” said Jenner. “He came out to discuss a short-term loan, we settled the matter and had a chat; then he left. That was all.”

A little whine came from the fox terrier, and he moved uneasily on the divan.

“Did Uncle John do anything queer before he left the plant?” Sessel asked.

Jenner shook his head. “He went out of the office quietly. He left the building like a normal person, nodded to the man at the gate and got in his car. He was driving himself. No one around here had the faintest idea that he wasn’t all right.”

Suddenly the fox terrier howled. There was a curious note of pain in it, though nothing was anywhere near the dog to disquiet it. He howled, and scratched at his ears with his paws.

“What’s the matter with your dog?” said Sessel.

“I don’t know,” said Jenner, anxiously. “He has done that several times lately. Pawed at his ears, as if they hurt. Maybe it’s ear canker. I’ll have to take him to a veterinarian.”

“Yes, that’s a woman who eats vegetables,” Sessel said.

“I beg your pardon?” said Jenner.

“I’ll have to run along,” Sessel said. “Thanks for the ear canker.”

He moved out of the office. He passed through the anteroom where Grace, Jenner’s secretary, had his desk, and into the big general office. As he went he chanted in a low tone, “Thanks for the canker. Thanks for the canker.”

CHAPTER III

Murder in the Corridor!

In the world of letters and biology, Sessel’s was a shining name. But as a tap dancer he wasn’t known. That was natural because he had never even tried to tap dance before.

He tried it now in the center of the general office with gaping clerks and scared stenographers watching.

With his chin high, sticking his Vandyke out at a crazy angle, he whistled “Sweet Adeline” and tried to clog the time with his feet. He fell down, bumping his head against a desk leg.

He didn’t seem to feel it at all. He got up, laughing shrilly like a whinnying horse and tried again.

“Sweet”—tap, tap, tap, stumble—“Adeline”—tap, tap, heavy fall.

Sessel lay where he had fallen that time, for he had turned his ankle. But lying there, he was screaming with laughter as though at the funniest joke in the world. And between laughs he was chanting the song and jerking his feet in rhythm.

Jenner came running toward him. The clerks in the office stared with growing horror in their eyes.

“Good heavens!” said Jenner. “He has gone mad! Like his uncle!”

They carried him to the gate. Blandell’s town car and chauffeur were there. They put Sessel in, still shaking with laughter and trying to dance. Jenner went to the Blandell home with him.

There were more cops around the Blandell place now. There were three more psychiatrists there. And Sessel, who had come to help Blandell in his mental lapse if he could, was now being treated as a patient, too. And in his eyes was the fear that had been in the banker’s for the past hours.

He wasn’t trying to tap dance or sing or laugh, now. He was cold sane; he felt as a man does who is cold sober after a heavy drunk.

“I can’t understand it,” he moaned, for the dozenth time. “I simply can’t. I never had a blank spot in my mind like that before.”

Blandell bit his lips. He had heard what Sessel had done. It was about the maddest thing that his dignified, distinguished nephew could have attempted.

Sessel himself had had to be told, too. He had no recollection whatever of it.

“Your mind just went blank when you were leaving Jenner?” Blandell said.

Sessel nodded.

“I have a faint recollection of saying something to him that didn’t quite make sense, and of hearing his pet dog howl as if something had hurt him. And that’s all.”

Blandell stared. “That’s exactly the way it happened with me! I was leaving Jenner. Things faded out. And—I heard Prince howl as if something were hurting him.”

Uncle and nephew stared at each other.

“Neither of us has ever had a mental kink before,” Sessel said at last, slowly. “Now each of us does. And each of us first experienced it—at the office of Ned Jenner, at Garfield Gear. Same thing, same place.”

“You think that means something?” asked Blandell.

“I don’t know.”

“Why would Garfield Gear be mixed up in it?”

“I don’t know that either. I could make a wild guess that something mysterious might happen at a place that makes secret government war materials. But that doesn’t seem to mean anything as far as you and I are concerned. We have nothing to do with such stuff. You’re a banker and I’m a biologist.”

“The only secret thing I know of that Jenner’s turning out now,” said Blandell, “is a new kind of gyroscopic control for torpedoes. One of Cranlowe’s devices.”

They thought that over.

“It still has no meaning,” sighed Blandell.

“It means one thing to me,” said Sessel. “We’ve got to go out to Jenner’s office again, and do a little looking around.”

“We’ve got to do something, all right,” the banker agreed. “We’re in serious trouble.”

“You’re telling me,” snorted Sessel, reverting to slang. “We’re on the edge of an asylum right now. I can see our being shut up for life, if we can’t find some answer for our crazy spells.”

“What good would it do us to go out and look around?” Blandell asked helplessly. “We’re not detectives. We ought to leave that to the police—”

“What do you suppose would happen if either of us asked the police to investigate anything?”

Blandell was silent, chewing his lips. But he knew what would happen. The cops wouldn’t actually say anything, but they’d simply think the request of a lunatic was too crazy even to listen to—and they’d do nothing about it.

“What will we do, then?” he said. “We can’t get out of here. We’re prisoners in my own home.”

“We’ll try in the morning,” replied Sessel. “But we can do something else, right now. We can phone a man I know in New York and ask for help.”

Blandell glanced at the clock. It was past midnight.

“Pretty late, isn’t it?”

“Not for this man,” said Sessel. “When you look at him, you get the idea that he never sleeps. Certainly he sleeps lighter than most, and comes out of it instantly if there’s a reason.”

“Who is he?”

“A man by the name of Richard Benson. He’s an extremely wealthy man who handles criminal matters the police aren’t able to take.”

“Criminal matters?” said Blandell. “Really, Henry! Crime! I don’t see—”

“There’s certainly something criminal behind this,” snapped Sessel. “I don’t know what, nor where we fit in. But I do know there’s something big and terrible afoot. We can’t get the police to do anything because they think we’re insane. It’s precisely the kind of job this man Benson likes to tackle.”

“There’s a phone,” said Blandell. “I surely hope—”

Sessel called the Bleek Street number, and gave his plea for help. After hearing the vibrant, though quiet voice of The Avenger, he sighed with relief.

“Now,” he said, “things will happen! But we won’t wait for him to come. He might not get here till noon. First thing in the morning we’ll go to the plant and investigate.”

“But how can we get out of here?”

“I’ll tell you in the morning. It will work, I think, though it is a dangerous thing to do—”

It was a very dangerous thing to do. After a fitful sleep and a silent breakfast, Blandell checked a loud exclamation when Sessel told him. The danger was not exactly a physical one, but it was no less great.

At nine-thirty, Sessel said, two of the eminent psychiatrists of Garfield City were coming to call on them again. One was about Blandell’s build, and the other about like Sessel. They would overcome the two doctors and go out of the guarded house disguised as them.

“Good heavens, Henry!” said Blandell. “Overpower two distinguished doctors and sneak out like prisoners in a jail break? Then they would think we were crazy!”

Sessel nodded. “After that, we’ll be locked up behind bars with keepers in attendance for the rest of our lives—if we don’t find the answer at Jenner’s office. But I am sure we will find the answer.”

“How?” demanded Blandell.

Sessel stared at him with bright, dark eyes. He was a brilliant man and a fine scientist in his manner of thinking.

“I think I have an idea of what it’s all about,” he said. “The way Jenner’s dog howled when your mind went blank, and howled again when mine did the same thing—the fact that neither of us has ever had mental trouble before, indicating that the trouble recently was made to happen to us— Yes, there’s an answer at Garfield Gear. And we’re going to find it.”

Blandell looked at him a moment, then nodded. And Sessel went to shave off his Vandyke.

Dr. Lucien and Dr. Grabble had worked with a lot of mentally unstable patients in their careers. But neither of them had quite made up his mind that Blandell and Sessel were really insane. Therefore, they came into the room where the two were, without any thought of precaution.

They hadn’t time even to yell when Blandell hit one with a vase and Sessel downed the other with a heavy book.

Blandell and Sessel took off the doctors’ outer clothing, and then bound and gagged them. They were pretty pale as they did it. It was a tremendous risk they were running. But they thought if they could find out something at the manufacturing plant it would be worth it all.

The servants and guards in the house weren’t prepared for extreme measures, either. They had been told to persuade the two men to stay in if they tried to leave. But no one had the faintest idea that there actually would be a violent attempt at escape. And it was dark in the hall.

When Dr. Grabble and Dr. Lucien left the room in which Blandell and Sessel were supposed to be, no one paid much attention. The two got into Grabble’s car, at the curb, and drove off.

“We’d better keep right on going, if we don’t find out anything,” shivered Blandell, in Grabble’s clothes.

Sessel nodded, and the two thought of hiding out, as criminals hide out, unless they could solve the mystery of yesterday’s strange conduct.

They got into the plant easily enough by sending a card from Lucien’s case in to Jenner.

“Shall we go up that openly?” said Sessel.

Blandell shook his head. “No!” if there really is something sinister here, we’d be fools to walk right into it again. We’ll get in by asking for Jenner. But we won’t see him at once.”

Sessel looked at his uncle questioningly.

“There is a narrow corridor leading past the general office and into a sort of lounging room off Jenner’s office,” the banker explained. “He uses it as a sort of relaxing room. Goes in there and sleeps or reads, sometimes. We’ll sneak into that room and listen through his office door for a while—see if we can hear anything that might give us a hint of what it’s all about.”

“Excellent,” said Sessel. “You know how to get there?”

“Yes. I’ve been here often enough.”

Blandell passed the door leading to the big office on the second floor to a small room, unmarked, at a distance to the right. He opened it, and a narrow corridor stretched before them.

The corridor, reserved for Jenner’s use if he wanted to go or come in privacy, was completely empty. They walked past the general office, hearing a hum of voices and typewriters through the thin partition. They got to a door that was partly open and Sessel started to open it farther. Blandell silently caught his arm and pointed. Sessel looked in.

This was not the lounging room Blandell had spoken of. It was the anteroom where Jenner’s secretary sat on guard. Grace was there now, but he was working at something on his desk. The two, one a well-known financier and the other a brilliant scientist and writer, slid past like burglars without the secretary looking up from his desk.

Reaching the door of the next room, they heard voices from the room beyond, Jenner’s office. They stopped there in the corridor, to listen. But the distance was too great. They couldn’t quite make out words.

After several minutes, Sessel reached out his hand to open the lounging-room door and creep into it. He stopped suddenly. From Jenner’s office came the sharp howl of a dog! Jenner’s fox terrier. The howl was weird, like that which dogs sometimes utter when they bay at the moon. Only there was pain in this cry.

They looked at each other. That happened when I was here, was the thought in Blandell’s scared eyes. And Sessel showed his own thought as plainly. That happened when I was here. Now what—

Again, his hand went forward to turn the doorknob. But, again, he never did.

The door banged open suddenly, and a man stood on the threshold. Blandell and Sessel stared at him, started to turn and get away—but stopped dead.

The man had a gun in his hand. It was a silenced gun, which is an out-of-the-ordinary weapon. He was holding it level before him, staring over the sights.

The man grinned, showing teeth in a wolfish snarl, and pressed the trigger twice, after deliberate aim.

CHAPTER IV

Death Trap

A car was skimming the road from New York City to Garfield City in the midmorning sun. It wasn’t an impressive-looking car. It was the large model of a well-known maker, four or five years old. It was rather dull, of enamel and metal trim. You’d look at it and think that it was rolling along exceptionally silent, and rather fast, but that was all.

Actually, the sedan was making ninety-four miles an hour, though the tremendous special motor under the unobtrusive hood was only turning at a rate that would propel the average vehicle at fifty or so.

That dull old car was the favorite automobile of The Avenger, who was rich enough to have ordered Rolls Royces in fleets of a dozen, if he had cared to. It had a top speed of a hundred and thirty miles an hour. It was bulletproofed throughout, and equipped with devices and special little inventions for offense and defense that would have made an army-tank officer gasp.

Benson was speeding to Garfield City in answer to the call of an acquaintance of his, Henry Sessel. With him were the giant, Smitty, and the sleepy-looking Negro, Josh. Also with him was another aide who had not been at Bleek Street when he read the account of Cranlowe’s new war weapon.

This third aide was a tall, bony Scotchman, Fergus MacMurdie.

“Whoosh, mon!” Mac said to Benson. “It seems to me we’re on a mighty queer trip.”

Mac was the soul of pessimism. It always seemed to him, when Benson strapped on his weapons and went out on a job, that they were on a mighty queer, or mighty senseless, or mighty futile mission. And always it was sure to end in failure.

There was only one time the Scot was cheerful. That was in a jam when there seemed no possible way to escape death. In such a situation, when any sensible man would give up all for lost, Mac would chirp that things were going well, and that they’d win out in another minute or two.

“It’s going to be one of the queerest of all our trips, Mac,” The Avenger said. His voice, as ever, was quiet; but the ring of command was strong in it. The man with the dead face and the white, thick hair was a great natural leader.

“Ye think there is a connection between Cranlowe’s war invention and the trouble of this man Blandell, the banker?” probed Mac.

“I don’t know yet,” Benson said, stepping the speed of the mighty sedan up to ninety-eight on a smooth stretch.

“There would seem to be nothin’ but coincidence in it,” persisted Mac. “Just because a mon goes crazy for a minute—”

“If Blandell alone had suffered a temporary lapse, it would be one thing. But Sessel, his nephew, also— No, that’s too much. I know Sessel and have read his works on biology. They don’t agree with some of my own findings, but that’s beside the point. The point being that Sessel is eminently sane. If he, too, had a lapse, it must have been artificially induced.”

“But chief,” said Smitty, “what connection could such things have with Cranlowe’s invention?”

Benson was silent for a moment, while the great car hummed smoothly on its bullet flight.

“I spent most of last night getting information on Blandell,” he said at last, pale eyes glinting like ice under a winter moon. “And I got hold of one bit of knowledge that might hint at the connection. John Blandell is the financial backer of Jesse Cranlowe, and has been from the inventor’s start. What that means—if anything—we’ll have to find out when we get to Garfield City. Which should be”—he glanced at the electric clock in the dash—“in about twenty-five minutes.”

Others were calculating the speed of the huge car. These others had learned when The Avenger left New York, and had timed his speed by clocking him from the big city to Westport, a town halfway to Garfield City.

They had learned of Benson’s intended visit by the simple procedure of tapping the telephone from Blandell’s house when Sessel phoned for help.

“He’ll be here in about twenty-five minutes,” one of the men said, almost like an eerie echo of the white-haired man’s voice miles away.

“Gosh! It just ain’t possible for a guy to roll a car that fast!” exclaimed another. There were five of them. They were in a large, duplex room in the tower apartment of the nineteen-story Garfield Point Hotel. It was a lavishly appointed place, with expensive fittings. The men didn’t go very well with it. The interior decorator who had furnished it evidently hadn’t realized that gunmen would be using the apartment.

There was a slouching, narrow-jawed fellow with a felt hat on the back of his head; a slant-eyed man who had drawn only the worst points from forbears of various nationalities; a youngster with old, savage eyes; a fat man who looked jolly till you stared at his deadly, dope-diminished pupils; and a grinning ape of a man who might appropriately have been named Gargantua.

“The guy’d have to be doin’ better than ninety an hour to come that fast,” argued the narrow-jawed thug.

“Nearly a hundred,” corrected the jolly-looking fat man.

“But, look! Nobody can make that on a public road—”

“You don’t seem to have heard who was doing the driving,” snapped the youngster with the old eyes. “The Avenger. Now, do you get it?”

“No! Who’s The Avenger?”

The other four stared at him open-mouthed.

“Well, I knew you were dumb,” said the fat man, not looking jolly for the moment. “But I didn’t know you were that dumb! ‘Who’s The Avenger?’ he asks.”

“All right, who is he?”

“First you take the Feds at Washington and roll ’em all up in a lump,” said the young fellow with the old eyes. “Then you take all the best detectives in the country and add ’em. Then take a big-shot scientist from about every line you can think of. Bundle ’em all up into one guy and add J. P. Morgan. Then you’ve got The Avenger.”

“Nuts!” said the narrow-jawed man. “Nobody could be that hot.”

The grim looks of the others—almost as if he had uttered some kind of blasphemy—subtly changed his mind.

He cleared his throat.

“That’s why we got such strict orders to knock him off, huh?” he said, in a different tone.

“Yeah! And that’s why we get such heavy dough if we manage it,” said the fat man. “Believe me, we’ll have earned it!”

“Aw, we can’t miss, the way Kopell’s planned it,” said Gargantua. “But hadn’t we better get goin’?”

The fat man looked with deadly eyes at his watch.

“Yeah! Take us about fifteen minutes to get out there, and a couple more to fix things for ’em.”

They piled out of the room and down to the street. There, a heavy closed truck waited for them. Two got in the cab, and the other three in the rear. In the closed back of the truck there was a freshly painted detour sign.

The sign read:

ROUTE 232 CLOSED

TURN RIGHT FOR GARFIELD CITY

TEMPORARY 232

The sign was nailed to a sawhorse of the type used by road gangs, ready to be placed.

The truck drove out of town, and four miles along the main route. There it dropped the sign and one of the men.

The truck turned back a quarter of a mile, passing a narrow dirt road to the right as it did so. It went on just a little farther to a lane to the right. The lane was hardly more than a pair of ruts running through woods. But the truck took it for five or six hundred yards, and then stopped. Ahead could barely be seen still another road. Beyond the road was a sheer drop into deep, still water.

“I’ll stick at the wheel,” said the fat man. “You three go on to the point you know about, with the tommy guns. We’ll get ’em comin’ or goin’. Doesn’t matter which.”

The three took up submachine guns and crept through the woods. There was a place where two big dead trees had fallen into a V. Anyhow, they looked as if they had fallen till you examined them carefully. Then it became clear that they had been felled that way, recently.

The three squatted behind the barricade and poked the snouts of their guns out. The section of road the guns covered had suffered a recent washout. There was a gully, littered with stone, over which a car would have to creep at a bare five or six miles an hour.

Gargantua grinned over his gun-sights.

“I don’t care if the white-headed guy is all the things you say he is. Brother, nobody could get out of this!”

“And if they did,” added the man with the narrow jaw, “nobody could get out of the second installment. How deep did you say that lake in the old quarry is?”

“Sixty-eight feet deep, in close to the road,” said the evil-eyed youngster. “Out further, maybe a hundred. Nobody knows.”

“So they go out in a bust of tommy slugs,” grinned Gargantua, “or they feed the fish, seventy feet down. Either way we get our dough from Kopell. Easy!”

CHAPTER V

Mind a Blank

At Garfield Gear Company there was the devil to pay. There always is when two prominent men are murdered. Even when, in the minds of all, those two men were insane.

In the corridor off Jenner’s private lounging room, John Blandell and Henry Sessel lay dead. Each had a bullet hole between his eyes.

A girl clerk in the general office had found them. There had been, she told the police hysterically, a couple of sounds in the corridor like hard handclaps. Then the sounds of two bodies thudding to the floor. She had been at the filing cabinets backed against the corridor partition; so she had heard the sounds no one else had.

She had gone around into the corridor, not sure anything was wrong, and had seen the two bodies. Her screams had aroused the general office and brought the yard detective who had notified the police.

The police had a swell job on their hands!

The two men had been crudely disguised as two other men. A call to the Blandell home had cleared that up: they had gotten away by an insane attack on a couple of doctors, in their clothes and car. Nutty as a pecan orchard, all right. But that didn’t stop the fact that murder had been done!

And it was the murder itself that stymied them.

There were two men dead in the corridor. They had been shot with a silenced gun. But no employees had been in that corridor, to hear them tell it. And neither had anybody else.

“So the guys shot each other and then swallowed the gun,” rapped the harassed homicide man in Jenner’s office.

There were three others in the office with him. They were Ned Jenner; Stanley Grace, Jenner’s secretary; and a man known not only over Garfield City, but all over the State: Allen C. Wainwright, financier, promoter, many times a millionaire.

“You!” the homicide man shot out, glaring at Stanley Grace. “You say the door from your office, opening on the corridor, was partly open. You didn’t see those two go by? Or anybody after them?”

“No,” said Grace, awed by the tone. He moistened his lips nervously.

“And you didn’t hear the shots?”

“No!”

“Yet a girl heard ’em through a wall—”

“That partition is thin.” Jenner came to the defense of his secretary. “It could act as a sounding board. It is quite possible to hear a sound through it more easily than through Grace’s door.”

The young man thanked his boss mutely with his eyes. The detective grunted a little.

“Then nobody knows who went near that corridor in the last half-hour!” he snapped.

Stanley Grace shook his head. Jenner said nothing.

Wainwright looked curiously perturbed.

“Nothing out of the way happened, about the time of the shots, that any of you three know about?” persisted the homicide man.

Then Wainwright said, as if he didn’t know whether to bring it up or not: “There was one odd thing, officer.”

“Well? Well, let’s have it.”

“I wouldn’t mention it at all, save that I know the police want all details on such a case. It certainly seems impossible that it makes any significance. Yet—it was strange.”

“What was strange?” snapped the detective, on the verge of forgetting the prestige of millionaire Wainwright.

“Jenner’s dog, Prince.”

All eyes went to the fox terrier on the divan, trained to lie still and silent there when his master was busy. Prince wagged his tail a little and watched them all with bright little eyes.

“Prince howled just before the girl screamed. About five minutes before. It was the weirdest howl I ever heard. No, not quite. I heard much the same thing, once, on a hunting trip in Maine. A dog with one of the party began much the same howling. The guide got up and ran out—and found that man dead. The dog had sensed it in some way, and howled for his dead master.”

The detective pursed his lips, plainly impressed.

“Hey, now! There may be something here. So Prince howled about five minutes before the girl ran to the hall when she heard the shots. Maybe these guys died before any of us know. Anything else happen?”

None of the three said anything.

“Are you guessing at the five minutes?” said the detective to Wainwright.

“No! I looked at the clock about then. I looked because I had an appointment in the center of town at eleven thirty and I wanted to be sure I didn’t rest too long—”

He stopped suddenly.

The homicide man was staring at him, and he went on, his florid face a bit pale.

“I wasn’t feeling well. I proposed to go into the next room and lie down for a few minutes.”

“You mean the little room off this office, that opens onto that corridor? The one where them two guys are lying now, right outside the door?”

“That’s right,” said the financier.

“Hey! If you were right in there, with only a thin door between you, when they were shot—”

“I don’t know that I was,” said Wainwright.

“Huh? What do you mean, you don’t know. You’d know where you went, wouldn’t you?”

Wainwright moved his head as if his collar pinched his thick neck.

“I don’t know,” he said, “because about that time—my mind went blank.”

“Your mind—”

“Went blank,” repeated Wainwright. “I guess I fainted, or something. I didn’t snap out of it till just before you came from headquarters. So I don’t know if I went in that room or not.”

The detective stared at Jenner.

“Were you here with him?”

“Yes,” said Jenner reluctantly.

“Well, then you know. Did he faint or what?”

“He didn’t faint,” said Jenner, after a moment.

The homicide man just stared at him, with red beginning to show in his jowls at the stalling around.

“He went into the room and lay down,” Jenner went on.

“I didn’t know till this minute that he’d felt faint at all, or that he had that—er—mental lapse he mentions now.”

“He walked right in and lay down?”

“Yes!” Jenner glanced apologetically at Wainwright. “I didn’t say anything about that before, because it is so fantastic that Mr. Wainwright could have anything to do with the murders—”

“You heard the dog howl,” the homicide man cut in, speaking to Wainwright again. “You started to go into the next room. Then your mind went blank and that’s all you know.”

“That’s right,” said the financier.

“This mind-a-blank stuff,” said the detective. “Has that happened to you many times?”

“This is the first time it ever happened,” said Wainwright miserably.

“So you don’t have any idea what you did when you went into the next room?”

“No—I don’t.”

“But if the door was open so Mr. Jenner could see you lie down, then he must have seen whether you stayed down or not.”

Wainwright looked at Jenner.

“The door,” Jenner said, dragging the words out, “didn’t stay open. I walked over and closed it, so Mr. Wainwright could get a complete rest for a few minutes. But whatever you’re thinking—”

“I’m thinking,” said the detective, “that anything could happen, even with a man like Mr. Wainwright, while his mind was a blank.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, man!” snapped Jenner.

“He isn’t being ridiculous,” said Wainwright, with a wan smile.

“Glad you take it that way,” said the homicide man. “You won’t mind if I search you, then?”

“Not at all,” said Wainwright. “You’d have to, of course.”

So the homicide man searched him. And found nothing. But in the next room, under the cushions of the chaise-longue where the promotor had lain, he found a silenced .32 revolver with two shots gone and fingerprints all over the butt.

The bullets in the gun matched the slugs that had drilled the skulls of Blandell and Sessel. And the fingerprints matched the fingertips of Allen C. Wainwright.

One of the wealthiest, most respected magnates in the State had killed two men—just after a dog had howled weirdly—while his mind was “a blank.”

It wasn’t possible, but it had been done.

Thus, three eminent men in Garfield City had done mad and violent things in a space of twenty-four hours. Were all the prominent citizens of the ill-starred town to go insane? The humbler citizens began to wonder.

On Route 232, the huge sedan with the white-haired man at the wheel slowed suddenly. It takes eyes like telescopes to drive a car at ninety and ninety-five miles an hour on an open highway and see things far enough ahead to slow for them if necesssary. The Avenger’s colorless, flaring eyes were equal to the task.

About a half mile ahead he saw the sawhorse across the road, and the sign on it. He even read the sign at that distance.

TURN RIGHT FOR GARFIELD CITY

He had the great car rolling slowly by the time the sign was reached. A car and a light van came past them from the opposite direction. From Garfield City.

“Say, maybe the road’s still open,” said Smitty. “Maybe the sign’s just been put up and work hasn’t started, yet. Those cars are coming from town as if things weren’t blocked off.”

Benson turned the wheel, and the sedan angled with a noiseless little drop onto the narrow dirt road leading to the right through thick woods.

“We’ll do as the sign says,” Benson said quietly.

“But—” began Mac uneasily.

He stared at the chief’s profile, and stopped. The dead, white face was like something cast in metal. You didn’t argue with the owner of that awesome countenance.

Mac changed the subject hastily. “Ye say ye got some dope on Cranlowe, as well as Blandell, in your investigations last night?”

“Yes,” said Benson. “Cranlowe is just as eccentric as you’d expect a man to be who would give such a story to the newspapers. He is about sixty, looks like Edgar Allen Poe, and is tyrannical, tempestuous and honest as daylight. His wife is much younger. Second marriage. She lives in a town apartment most of the time. He has a son who is fundamentally all right, according to reports, but inclined to be wild.”

Benson was sending the car along the rutted road at thirty-five. He slowed for a sharp bend to the left.

“Cranlowe has made a great deal of money from his inventions. But he hasn’t kept any of it. He is a fool with money—always spending before taking it in. Thus, he is chronically without a cent, and deeply in debt. That’s where Blandell has come in, in the past. He has financed Cranlowe, and he has taken the perpetual chance that Cranlowe wouldn’t be able to invent anything more, to repay him—”

Ahead was a gully recently washed in the road. Rocks lay in it, forcing a very slow speed. Beyond the gully, a hundred yards or so, the road skirted the edge of an abandoned quarry. There was a rail along the road here that wasn’t very heavy. The quarry had filled with water, as most do, making a small, deep-edged lake.

“It doesn’t look like anybody in his senses would mark this road out for a detour,” Smitty grumbled. “Particularly a detour for a big highway like 232.”

“Chief—look out!” yelled Josh.

CHAPTER VI

Into the Depths!

Dick Benson had made his millions by professional adventuring, in the days when he was a warm, normal human being, before crime’s tragedy had made him into a machine to fight crime.

In his teens he had spotted rubber in South American jungles, led native armies in Java, made aerial maps in the Congo. In his twenties he had mined amethysts in Australia and emeralds in Brazil; found gold in Alaska and diamonds in the Transvaal. He had done these things so successfully that while still a very young man he was very wealthy.

But the point was that Benson had made his life a series of narrow escapes from death. And in a routine like that, you get to such a fine point that almost no danger can approach you without some split-second warning.

The warning yell of Josh Newton was not needed by The Avenger.

About a second and a half before the Negro shouted, Benson had seen all that he needed to know with one quick flash of his colorless eyes.

He had seen three little glints of light on something metallic peeping over two logs that lay in a shallow V at the side of the road. He had seen the glints move ever so little to follow the movement of the car.

And his steely white finger had flashingly pressed a button.

The bulletproofed glass windows of the sedan could be rolled up and down by hand, like ordinary windows. But in time of emergency, they could be flashed into place.

With the press of that button, every open window of the sedan shot up into closed position with the release of powerful springs. And as they thudded into place, there was a sound like the beginning of a young war.

Three submachine guns poured streams of lead at the huge, old-looking car. And the car acted toward the lead pellets much as a duck’s back acts toward drops of rain.

There was a clangor like that of three riveting machines at work on a steel boiler. And the car rolled slowly and steadily along with no damage whatever, save for cloudy patches on the windows where the bullets struck.

The Avenger could have rolled on past with no discomfort. But he didn’t choose to do that.

He turned the wheel hard left, waddled the car up the dry gully like a tank, straight at the felled trees.

There were yells from the unseen gunners behind the tree trunks. They kept on firing at the pointed, armored snout of the car. Then, at the last minute, they broke and ran.

But they didn’t run far!

Benson and Smitty and Josh and Mac could have shot all three of them as easily as you’d shoot clay pigeons on a shooting range. But they didn’t. Benson, himself, never took a human life. His aides did now and then, when absolutely forced into it. But on this occasion they didn’t feel forced.

The Avenger’s white finger pressed another button.

From a small tube opening just under the breather-cap on the radiator, shot a slim little cylinder. It was like a miniature torpedo shooting from the tiny tube of a miniature sub.

The cylinder arced gracefully over the head of the running men, and plopped to the ground before them.

“Lam! Tear gas!” yelled Gargantua.

But the little cylinder didn’t contain anything so prosaic as tear gas. In it was a composition devised by Mac, who was one of the country’s finest chemists in addition to being a brilliant bacteriologist and pharmacist.

The gas in the tiny projectile was so powerful that a whiff knocked a man out for an hour; and so volatile that it could fill a ten-yard space in a little less than a second.

So the three running men didn’t yell again. There wasn’t time.

They dropped their guns, staggered a moment and then fell. They lay very, very still!

Benson and the other three put on nose-clip masks and walked over to them. They walked warily. Most men would have been careless; would have figured that they had won their battle and the danger was over. But not these four. Without a word being exchanged, they all had the same thoughts:

“The gun must have come here in some sort of vehicle. Where was their car? And was there another man in it and perhaps training gunsights on them?”

Nothing happened, however, and no sound could be heard. They bent over the three.

“So they tapped Sessel’s telephone wire, and knew we were coming!” said Smitty.

“And prepared a welcome committee,” nodded Benson. “In doing that, since they had failed, they did a stupid thing. We came here more or less blindly, not knowing if there was a real reason for investigation. Now we do know, since someone thought it important enough, to prevent investigation, to kill us before we could look around.”

“You knew something like this was ahead of us,” said Josh.

Again The Avenger nodded.

“The detour gag is a pretty old one. And so much a matter of routine to guard against that before we started I phoned the highway commission and found that there were no detours at present between New York and Garfield City. But I followed along the road pointed out by the fake sign to see if we could find out anything.”

“We don’t seem to be findin’ out much,” gloomed the pessimistic MacMurdie.

And, indeed, they didn’t seem to be.

The pockets of the three were all emptied now. In none of them was there an identifying article. Besides, all labels had been taken from their hats and clothing. It was the usual gangland preparation when gunmen departed for a risky job.

Benson stared at the guns. They were the standard tommy guns of the underworld and had no tale to tell. He went back to the felled trees. And there he found one object.

That object was a “pineapple” bomb which none of the three had kept his head enough to toss when the car unexpectedly drove straight at their ambush. It wouldn’t have mattered, anyhow. The big sedan could take such small bombs in its stride.

“Look at the fuse!” said Smitty.

On the metal fuse case were the letters:

GARFIELD GEAR

“That’s a standard army casing,” said Josh, eyes narrowing.

“Garfield Gear makes army and navy parts,” Benson said. “But I don’t know that one of their fuse casings means anything here. It might have been stolen, or bought from a crooked workman.”

They went back to the car. As they went, Mac cast murderous looks at the three men lying on the ground. They were rats. And Mac had a frenzied hatred of men who were in the rat class. As always, it wrenched him to leave adversaries lying loose. Yet he knew the realistic wisdom of the chief’s philosophy.

You couldn’t kill a defenseless man in cold blood, crook or not. You could turn them over to the police, but in jobs of the size The Avenger always tackled, there were bound to be superiors who could get them free on bail in a few hours.

Therefore, forget about them and concentrate solely on getting the superiors.

The four got into the sedan. Benson backed it onto the road, and they crossed the gully.

Ahead and to the right was the quarry they had noticed before the excitement at the gully. There had been a lot of quarries in their drive, and this seemed to be just one more. It was filled with water, and was quite pretty.

Josh and Mac and Smitty stared at it in relaxed appreciation as the sedan rolled along the road with only a thin guard rail between. Even Benson glanced at the little lake for an instant out of the corners of his pale, deadly eyes.

No man can be superhuman. The Avenger came about as close to it as a mortal can come. But even he was not infallible.

With the slight instant that his eyes were on the quarry lake, there was a berserk roar from the woods at their left. The roar of a heavy motor gunned to the full. Instantly Benson was vibrantly alert, again, but it was too late.

A heavy truck rocketed from the woods, down a lane so dim that it could only be seen when you were right at its mouth. It shot for the sedan. And its goal was absolutely assured.

There was a level, clear space at each side of the lane, where the truck could veer right or left if necessary. That meant that the sedan could stop still, back up, or shoot ahead—and still not get out of the way of the truck, which could change direction just as the sedan did.

Benson tried to shoot ahead. The sedan motor roared with as deep a note as that of the truck motor as it hurled toward the car.

The heavy front bumper of the truck ground into the left front fender of the sedan, forced the wheels hard right.

Benson fought the steering wheel. With the astounding power that lay in his lithe body, he jerked them back in line. But the elephant weight of the truck was still jammed against their side, straining, pushing.

For an instant it looked as if the eight thousand pounds of the sedan would be enough; as if the steel hands at the steering wheel would be enough. But the instant passed!

The sedan leaned through the guard rail. Two wheels slid over the sheer edge of the old quarry. The track seemed to squeal with triumph like a vast boar. And then the sedan went over, with the four men in it.

It hit the water with a great splash, and sank, wavering from side to side like a dropped coin as long as the eye could follow its subterranean course. Then the eye could no longer see the sinking bulk. After all, it was sixty-eight feet down at this point.

There was no sound. The ripples subsided on the surface of the water. Air bubbles came from the black depths. Then these ceased, too.

The jolly-looking fat man at the wheel of the truck chuckled a little. Then he backed the truck, heavy iron bumper-guard bent like a pretzel, from the water’s edge.

He ran back up the road to the gully, to see what had happened to the three men there; and, arriving, picked up their unconscious forms and put them in the truck. He went to the main highway and gathered up the false detour sign and the thug who had hidden it in the woods as soon as it had performed its task of turning Benson onto the side road.

Then, with all loose ends neatly gathered up, the fat man drove back to the penthouse apartment in Garfield City to collect the huge sum offered for killing The Avenger and his helpers.

Bit money! Easy money! The fat man chuckled as he thought just how easy it had been.

CHAPTER VII

Strange Doom!

With the temporary mental lapse of the well-known banker, John Blandell, Garfield City seemed to have been let in for a series of lunatic occurrences.

There was Blandell’s weird act of giving away crisp one-dollar bills, in front of the bank.

There was the equally weird attempt of Henry Sessel to do a tap dance in the general office of the Garfield Gear Company.

There was the wholly incredible murder of the two men by Allen Wainwright—which was as outlandish as it would be for a Cabinet member to murder the President.

But the things didn’t stop there. They kept right on happening, only to less well-known personages.

The first succeeding thing was the utterly fantastic performance of an old man in a station wagon.

The old man was parked at the gate of the Garfield Gear Company yard. He was just sitting there in the station wagon. There were letters on the wagon’s side. They read:

CRANLOWE HEIGHTS

The old driver, a sturdy, rugged, gray-haired figure in livery, was staring unseeingly into space. But a glance at his face would have told you that he was neither simple-minded nor a woolgatherer. He was just relaxed, that was all, as a person tends to be when he is waiting for another person or for an answer to a message.

It was the latter the old man was waiting for. He had turned over to the gate guard an urgent letter. The letter had been taken to Mr. Jenner. Now the old man waited for a reply to it.

Near the straight, heavy wire of the fence, a mongrel dog happened to be prowling. The dog yawned, scratched at a flea, started to trot past the station wagon.

A bone, in the last stages of decomposition, attracted the dog, and he started toward it. Then he stopped.

He began to howl! It was a strange sound. It was the way a dog often bays at the moon, or in answer to shrill music.

Or it was like the dread sound a dog makes when there is death in the air.

The dog howled and scratched frantically at its ears. And the unseeing gaze of the old man at the wheel of the station wagon suddenly became really unseeing—and blank! It was as if the soul in him had abruptly died, leaving only the husk of him sitting there.

Down the street rolled a van. It was one of these things that travel coast to coast and look as big as a boxcar. A ten-wheeler. Garfield City, being on a big State highway, attracted a lot of vans like that; and they rolled past the Garfield plant because that was on the edge of the four-lane concrete strip.

The van rumbled forward at about twenty miles an hour over the local speed limit, which was thirty. And the old man in the station wagon stepped dreamily on the starter. The motor came to life. The man shoved into gear.

After that, no two versions agreed.

The gate guard said that the man simply rolled the station wagon right in front of the van, like a little boy darting from behind a parked car into the path of another speeding one.

But that wasn’t credible, of course; so other versions, sounding more natural, were considered and the guard’s view ignored. The emergency brake of the station wagon had come off, rolling the car in front of the van before the van driver could stop. The old man had shoved into second instead of reverse, when he meant to back around and swing into the gate. He had—

Oh, there were a lot of plausible-sounding theories. But they didn’t change the fact that the station-wagon driver had deliberately started his car and, open-eyed, driven it into the path of the grinding, roaring van.

Inside the Garfield plant, at the moment, something else was happening that might be looked on as equally odd, considering the man who was doing it and the implications of the act.

Jenner wasn’t reading the letter the old man had brought. He wasn’t in his office to read it. He was in the company stockroom.

He had walked in the doorway with a sober greeting to the stock clerk, and gone to the racks containing jigs and dies—master tools for stamping or drilling precision parts in quantity.

The stock clerk hung around till a call from a foreman for a drill rod drew him to the front. Then Jenner acted fast.

Looking around to be sure he was unobserved, the president of the company dipped into the pigeonhole containing a male and female die for one of the punch presses. They were small dies. He put them into his hip pockets where they wouldn’t sag enough to be noticeable. But first he took identical parts from the hip pockets and slid these new ones into the rack to replace the older, worn ones.

He turned around before the clerk had come back. No one in the vast plant could dream of the transfer. The finished hole punched in beryllium alloy by that press could be inspected as much as you pleased and found correct—because the precision gauge used for the measuring was not quite right either. Jenner had changed the gauges over a month ago.

The company president smiled pleasantly at the stock clerk, complimented him on the neatness and system with which he kept his stock, and left.

He went up to his office and was handed the letter delivered by the station-wagon driver.

The letter was from Jesse Cranlowe, and it asked what in the name of thunder had happened to the last royalty payment on torpedo parts made for the United States Government. Cranlowe wanted it, and wanted it badly.

Jenner called in Grace, and dictated smoothly to the pale, partially bald young man.

Some hours later on the twenty-fourth floor of the Garfield Woolens Institute Building, a girl hurried down the hall to the street window that opened on a fire escape. She was a very pretty girl, about twenty-five, tall and slim, with soft brown eyes.

The eyes, at the moment, however, were oddly vacant-looking. Vacant, and yet glazed with a fixed purpose.

The hall was floored with marble slabs and her little heels made tapping sounds on the stone. Crisp, direct little sounds. Tap, tap, tap, tap. Toward the hall window and the fire escape.

At the window, she paused. Then she opened the broad, metal-sashed lower pane. She stepped quickly out onto the escape. So quickly that you’d think she was fleeing from a fire. Only there was no fire in the building behind her; nothing apparent to drive her there.

She stood on the twenty-fourth-floor balcony of the escape and looked down onto Garfield City’s most crowded street. And with that look, the dreadful purpose on her mind became all too plain.

Far below, cars crawled like little beetles, and moving pinpoints were busy people. She stared down at them, down two hundred and fifty feet to the hard sidewalk.

And in her eyes was no sorrow, no rage, no emotion whatever. There was just the empty, glazed look.

She climbed over the waist-high iron railing of the escape balcony. She stood facing forward, hands behind her, loosely clutching the railing. Far below, a woman chanced to look up. She screamed. More people looked, and yelled and shouted.

The girl, calm-faced and empty-eyed, released her hold on the rail and stepped off, as if she intended to walk on empty air and was sure that it would support her.

Strange things happening in Garfield City. Grim things. There seemed no sense to them. Certainly there seemed no central, connecting thread of meaning. But one thing might have been gleaned from all of them, had an observer known all the facts and had wit enough to put them together.

Each occurrence was in some way tied in with Jesse Cranlowe, eccentric, famous inventor.

The old man had driven Cranlowe’s station wagon to deliver his plea for money to Jenner.

Jenner had substituted a freshly tooled die for an old one—to fit the press punching out a part of Cranlowe’s torpedo control.

And the girl who had stepped into thin air, twenty-four floors up, happened to be Cranlowe’s private secretary, on an errand in town for the inventor.

All concerned with Cranlowe.

At about that hour, when the street in front of the Woolens Institute Building was being roped off and cleaned up, a Negro girl and a blonde were reporting to a man with snow-white hair and a dead, waxlike face from which colorless eyes peered forth like chips of ice. That is, they were going to report for duty as soon as the man came into the room. Meanwhile, the blonde stared up at the good-natured moon face of a giant whose torso was so muscled that his arms couldn’t hang straight at his sides.

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Nellie Gray to Smitty. “You mean to say the car was knocked over into seventy feet of water with you four in it?”

“That’s right,” said Smitty. He didn’t grin outwardly as he stared down at her, but he grinned inwardly, enjoying her amazement.

“Well, how in the world is it that you’re alive?”

“We turned mermen,” said Smitty.

Nellie Gray stamped her small foot. “You big, dumb lug—”

“Don’t let him get you down,” smiled the pretty Negress, in a soft-cultured voice. She was Rosabel Newton, Josh’s wife. She, too, was a valued aide of the Avenger.

“How did you get out of that one?” snapped Nellie.

Smitty let his grin show on his lips, then. The tiny blonde usually led him around by the nose like a captive elephant. He enjoyed seeing her at a loss, for once.

“We used the motor fan for a propeller, and the car rose right up to the top,” he said.

A spot of clear red glowed on each of Nellie’s pink-and-white cheeks. “If you don’t—”

Smitty became more serious. “You know the sedan’s windows were made gas-tight, in case anyone tried to kill us that way. Well, it came in handy in the quarry. With the windows up tight, there was air enough in the sedan to keep us going for about two minutes under water. In that time we fastened on the nose clips and the little oxygen tanks the chief kept in the car—again for use in case of gas. But they were just as effective for use under water. We rolled down the sedan’s windows, waited a little while, and then floated up to the top of the quarry. And that was that.”

“Yes, simple!” jeered Nellie. “But it’s a miracle you weren’t killed. My heavens!”

The startled look in her eyes and the pallor of her cheeks was something Smitty liked to see. The giant had a soft spot in his heart for this diminutive blond tornado.

“It’s nice for you to think of me like that,” he said awkwardly.

Nellie turned woman on him.

“I wasn’t thinking of you at all,” she snapped. “I was thinking of the chief and Josh and Mac.”

The hot retort on the giant’s lips was checked by the appearance of the three named.

Smitty and the two girls were in a large office which was one of six in a vacant suite. The Avenger had decided that as long as his foes thought he and the rest were dead, it would be a good idea to have them go on thinking that. He hadn’t wanted to go to a hotel because their presence might be reported. So he had come here, to the office building of an old friend, and secretly arranged to use this vacant suite. He had put cots in. It would be their headquarters in Garfield City.

Benson felt safe because he knew he could trust the building owner. The Avenger had friends in almost every city in the land; and such was his judgment of men that none ever failed him.

Benson’s colorless, icy eyes were not quite so sharp as they turned on Nellie.

He told her and Rosabel what had been discovered to date, in a few, brief words. Very few, and very brief. For there was not much to tell, as yet. A man had invented a super war weapon, and at once a lot of mysterious things had begun to happen. The underworld was somehow mixed into it. That was all that was known.

“So we’ll start at once to learn some more,” Benson concluded. “Mrs. Cranlowe, the inventor’s young wife, is in town. You will take rooms in her building, Nellie, and make her acquaintance. Find out from her what you can. No matter how irrelevant it may seem, what you hear may be valuable. So make a note of everything. You, Rosabel, will be Nellie’s maid. And keep a gun with you.”

The colorless eyes, like ice in a polar dawn, turned on Josh.

“At the Garfield Gear Company, two men had suffered strange mental lapses. Just outside the company yard, another seemed to have suffered one, too. And the first two men were killed—at Garfield Gear. Then there was that fuse casing, which may or may not be significant. You, Josh, will keep an eye on that place and all the executives in it.”

The cold, pale eyes raked the red, freckled face of MacMurdie. “You will interview the psychiatrists who tended Blandell and Sessel, before they were murdered.”

The giant came next.

“Smitty, try to get on the trail of that gang who tried to kill us at the quarry. Yours will be the most dangerous job, not only because you’re going after out-and-out gunmen, but also because you’re apt to be spotted. The rest of us can disguise ourselves a little. You can’t.”

“Whoosh,” chuckled Mac. “I’ll say not! Ye could disguise Pikes Peak as easy as Smitty.”

“You’re not too easy to make into a chorus girl, yourself,” growled the giant, looking at the Scot’s freckled homeliness.

Benson looked at the two, and the byplay stopped.

“All of you,” said The Avenger, “be on the alert as you never have before. We don’t know yet who our enemies are, but we do know they are as clever as Satan himself. Any one of us who relaxes his guard for a moment, will probably die for it.”

CHAPTER VIII

Cranlowe Heights

Benson had said that Smitty’s was the most dangerous job. It wasn’t. The task The Avenger had in mind to tackle was far more dangerous. But always he excluded himself when talking of peril.

Benson wanted to talk, at once, with Cranlowe. Which meant that he would have to get into a heavily guarded fastness to see a man who, after that defiant ultimatum to a warlike world, would shoot on sight any person he was not acquainted with or sure of.

To accomplish this, The Avenger had thought up a typically fantastic and clever plan.

He would go to see Cranlowe in a dead man’s shoes!

When Benson had come up from the sunken sedan, he had carefully taken along a small case which was nearly always with him. He turned to that, now.

It was about the size of a small overnight bag; but when he opened it, it revealed equipment not usually found in such bags.

There was a top tray filled with tissue-thin glass shells, to fit over his eyeballs. Each pair had a slightly different color. Then there were wigs, the face tints and plastic for building up features. But this latter was seldom used, for the very curious reason that Benson’s face, itself, seemed to be made of a living plastic.

Because of this fact, Benson could mold his face into the likeness of almost any person he chose; and it accounted for the nickname whispered in fear in the underworld, Man of a Thousand Faces.

In the lid of the little case was a mirror. Beside this, Benson pinned a photograph of—John Blandell.

The steely, white fingers prodded at the dead white face, and a miracle was wrought.

Blandell’s face had been heavy, pudgy-featured. With a great deal of manipulation and the use of a very little plastic, Benson’s face became the same way. Blandell’s eyes were brown; Benson slipped two of the ingenious little eye-shells over his eyeballs, and had brown eyes. Blandell’s hair was brown, streaked with gray. There was a wig like that in the case. Blandell’s body was burly, sagging with middle age. Benson’s body became that way with the use of artful rubber forms that could be inflated at waist and thigh, hips and upper arms.

The Avenger went to the corridor door of the empty office suite, and he was not Benson. He even walked like Blandell; in his careful gleaning of information concerning the banker, he had learned all his mannerisms.

The Avenger was not Benson—he was a man shot dead and at that moment in a funeral parlor being prepared for the grave.

He went out of the building, head down to keep from rousing incredulous recognition among chance acquaintances of Blandell, and climbed into a hired car. He drove to the country place of Jesse Cranlowe.

It had seemed insanely foolhardy for any man to dare to announce with all possible publicity that he was the possessor of a secret worth millions to any supercrook who could steal it. But a look at his place showed that he had quite a chance of protecting that secret, at that.

Cranlowe Heights was on a bare hilltop about eighteen miles out of Garfield City. The hilltop had been made bare. There was nothing but close-cropped grass for five hundred yards around the knoll, giving no possible cover for anyone trying to sneak up on it.

Around the base of the hill was an iron fence at least twelve feet high. Along the top ran a single heavy wire; and that wire was charged with voltage enough to kill a man at a touch. Along the top of the fence, floodlights were studded to play over the close-cut grass outside at night.

There was no chance at all of sneaking into the place, as Benson had guessed beforehand; so he had decided to come in openly. And there was no chance of entering openly unless you were a trusted friend, or someone highly unusual.

And that was why Benson had decided to come as Blandell.

Blandell had been a trusted friend of Cranlowe. Now he was dead—or reported so in the papers. His sudden appearance here, when he was supposed to be dead, ought to create such amazement and consternation that ordinary precautions of guards and servants would be relaxed.

Benson reached the heavy gate in the iron fence in his rented car. He got out of the car, walking like the dead banker. A guard with a sawed-off shotgun over his shoulder came to the inside of the gate, looked surlily at Blandell’s image—then glared with wide eyes and pale face.

“Mr. Blandell! But you’re dead! You’re shot! What the hell are you—a ghost?”

Blandell, Benson’s information had said, was an impatient, domineering man.

“Come, come!” Benson snapped peevishly. “Don’t keep me standing here. Let me in at once.”

“You—you are Mr. Blandell, aren’t you?”

“What do you think? Open that gate, instantly.”

The guard did so, with trembling fingers. And when Benson stepped inside, he felt furtive fingertips on his arm. The man was touching him to make sure he really had substance.

“You’ll have to stay here a minute while I phone,” the guard said.

“Of course,” Benson said crisply. “But hurry, please.”

There was a telephone on the gatepost. Benson saw the man pick it up, and ring. Meanwhile he looked around.

There were no trees inside the fence, either. There had been many; but they had recently been felled and taken away. The reason, of course, was Cranlowe’s invention. He had had to sacrifice beauty in order to be sure no daring thief entered his place under cover of trees or bushes. The grounds surrounding the house were bare, with no shelter anywhere.

The house itself was like a castle. Cranlowe had taken some castle on the Rhine as an architectural pattern; and here it stood, narrow slits in thick walls for windows, two turrets with flat tops on either end, a double, iron-studded door in front.

As Benson looked around, he saw three more men with shotguns patrolling; there were at least eight here, he concluded. And with them were eight or ten Great Dane dogs, the biggest and most ferocious-looking dogs Benson had ever seen. Cranlowe was guarding his formula, all right!

Benson could hear the conversation between the guard and the master of this house at the open phone.

“Blandell is there!” came a harsh, strong voice from the castlelike residence. “Blandell? Are you insane? He’s dead! He was murdered by Allen Wainwright.”

“Maybe Blandell’s dead,” said the guard, perspiring, though it was quite cool. “But he’s here at the gate just the same.”

“You’ve gone blind!”

“Nothing’s the matter with my eyes, Mr. Cranlowe. I’ve let Mr. Blandell in often enough to know him when I see him. And he’s here right now.”

“Let me talk to him.”

Benson took the receiver from the guard. Here was a shaky moment. When The Avenger impersonated someone, he usually had all knowledge of that person at his fingertips. He had a great deal of information on Blandell—but not all. He hadn’t had time or opportunity for that.

He did not know, for example, just what Blandell was in the habit of calling his old friend Cranlowe. So, to avoid calling him by an unused nickname or term, he didn’t mention the inventor’s name in any way.

“Tell this too-vigilant guard of yours to pass me to the house, will you?” Benson snapped into the phone. “I’ve been kept standing around long enough, I think.”

“Blandell!” Cranlowe gasped, at sound of the impatient, rather pompous voice. “You are— But how—”

“I’ll tell you about it when I get in and see you.”

“Get the guard on again,” said Cranlowe.

Benson gave the phone back to the man with the sawed-off shotgun.

A moment later he was walking to the great iron-studded front door. This opened as he neared it. An inside servant, or guard, with two automatics in a belt around his waist, admitted him.

This man, too, stared with bulging eyes at a man supposed to have been murdered yesterday.

And then Cranlowe was advancing down the wide hall.

Jesse Cranlowe, almost as well-known a name in the circles of invention as Thomas Edison, was a very tall, very thin, very stooped man nearing sixty. He had intense, black eyes deep in his head under heavy black brows. His head was enormous, and while he wasn’t actually bald, he gave the impression of being so. There just didn’t seem to be quite enough lank black hair to cover his huge skull.

He stared at Benson, looking like Edgar Allen Poe, and then came forward with both hands out.

“John, old friend!”

Benson took the extended hands. He disliked playing on emotions of friendship like this, but he had to know things from Cranlowe, for the inventor’s own good, and this was the only way of learning them.

“Your murder!” exclaimed Cranlowe, black eyes burning far back in his head. “All the papers said you were shot yesterday outside Jenner’s office. Everyone I know, personally, said the same thing. And here you are, alive.”

“I was shot at,” Benson said. “The shot missed. But headquarters was afraid another might be tried; so they are letting it be thought that the shot was successful, and, meanwhile, I keep out of sight.”

“Your nephew, Henry?”

“Not so fortunate,” said Benson, tone grim.

Cranlowe peered into the expressionless image of Blandell’s face—necessarily expressionless because of the paralyzed muscles beneath—and shook his big head.

“It’s a miracle! But I’m glad it happened, John. Come into the library.”

Benson, walking with portly dignity as Blandell had walked, followed the man who looked like Poe into the book-lined room. He had woven together the few meager facts he knew about Blandell’s last hours into a likely statement to explain his visit.

“I won’t stay long,” he said. “I only came to tell you something I suppose you’ve already guessed plainly enough.”

“And that is?” said Cranlowe.

“There won’t be any more money advanced to you for a while. Neither mine, nor the bank’s. My personal funds are all tied up in the bank, and of course the bank is honoring none of my loans now that I’m supposed to be insane.”

Cranlowe nodded his huge head. “I was afraid of that. And I’ll confess that I need money desperately. I always have seemed to need it. Now, for some reason, my royalty payments on torpedo controls haven’t been coming from Jenner, and I’m in very bad shape. I must have money!”

“You can hang on for a while, can’t you?”

Cranlowe shrugged. “This place—the guards—everything requires a lot of cash. I can’t let the guards go or give up my fortress home—with my knowledge. But I can’t keep them, either, without cash.”

“You wouldn’t—sell the formula?” Benson queried.

Cranlowe’s stooped shoulders straightened. “Not if I starve!” he said. “Only one thing can ever draw that formula from me. That is, if a small, weak nation is attacked by a big, ruthless one. Then the small nation gets it for nothing.”

“But if you’re forced to leave this guarded place, and strangers can get near you, someone might steal the formula—”

“I thought I’d told you,” Cranlowe said. “I have never set that formula down on paper. It exists only in my memory. And that’s a place safer than any vault.”

“I wonder,” murmured Benson.

“What do you mean?”

“A secret can be tortured out of a man.”

“That can never happen while I’m here,” laughed Cranlowe. “Later, if I can’t get money to pay guards— But we can cross that bridge when we come to it. While I’m here I am safe.”

“You seem very sure.”

“Come with me,” said Cranlowe, rising. “I’ll show you something you haven’t seen before. Just another of my many precautions. I was not quite such a fool in giving my ultimatum to the world as people probably think.”

At the door of the library, the servant with the two guns was standing. He stood aside as Cranlowe came forward; and Benson followed him out of the room.

Cranlowe took him down dark stairs, to the basement of the place.

“You remember the peculiarity of this hilltop?” said Cranlowe. “Its queer rock formation was one reason why I built here.”

“Of course,” said Benson, wondering what it was.

“But you’ve probably forgotten, in the years the house has been here. I’ll show you how it works out, now.”

The inventor led the way through a conventional cellar with heating plant and other equipment, to a heavy door. He opened this, and exposed a second basement. And this one was oddly cold and drafty.

Cranlowe switched on a light, and Benson saw what he had meant by mentioning a “peculiar rock formation.”

In the center of this basement, the floor of which was bare earth, was a black, irregular ditch. At least it seemed to be a ditch, till he moved closer. Then he saw that it went down and down, into black depths. And from far down there a hundred feet or more at least, came the faint trickle of water.

“There is my disposal arrangement,” said Cranlowe. “A branch of the Garfield River runs under there. It must be around the range of hills between here and Garfield City. And it must flow underground for at least twenty miles, for no one knows of this branch at all.”

“Disposal arrangement?” Benson echoed Cranlowe’s words, staring into the black, deadly chasm.

Cranlowe drew himself up.

“With a secret like mine, I hold myself above the law,” he said quietly. “And since I am greater than the law, I dare not call in the law to protect me.”

Benson was staring at the man. There was egotism and eccentricity here that approached mental unbalance. And yet the man was sharp enough.

“I am the law under this roof,” Cranlowe said. “And I am executioner. If anyone does manage to get in here to steal my secret, he shall go down this chasm. His body will appear, hours later and miles away, in the Garfield River. And that is all anyone will know about it.”

“Well, I don’t blame you for your attitude,” Benson said. Then, since he had many more things he wanted to question Cranlowe about, as Blandell, he started to suggest that they go back upstairs.

But the suggestion was never made.

The door from the other basement opened, and four of Cranlowe’s shotgun-armed guards walked in.

“So?” said Cranlowe.

“That’s right, boss,” one of the four said.

“What—” began Benson.

The look in Cranlowe’s blazing, dark eyes interrupted him.

“I don’t know who you are,” the inventor said, “nor by what devil’s genius you can imitate another so perfectly. But imitation it is!”

Benson stared at the inventor, whose teeth showed suddenly in tremendous anger.

“Blandell, eh? When a man’s death is announced in the headlines of all the papers, and later that man shows up in person—it is time to investigate and corroborate. While you were on your way from gate to house, I ordered a man to phone Garfield City headquarters about you and, also, to phone whatever undertaking establishment you were supposed to be in. If everything wasn’t all right, these four picked men of mine were to report to me—down here.”

“So we report,” said one of the four, a big fellow with doglike loyalty in his eyes. “You see, Blandell is now holding down a slab in Fain’s Undertaking Parlor in Garfield City, and he’s already half-embalmed. So he can’t be here too, can he?”

“Grab him!” said Cranlowe. “Throw him down the chasm!”

The cold, dank air eddied up from the deep crack in solid rock as the four dragged Benson to the edge of the abyss.

CHAPTER IX

The Stalker

The rent on the three-room hotel-apartment suite was quite excessive. They were beautiful rooms, on the fifteenth floor, but they weren’t worth the high rent. However, Nellie Gray, registered as Josephine Lang, hadn’t even looked twice at the figure. None of the aides of The Avenger thought about expenses. They didn’t have to.

None, that is, save MacMurdie, who would always be in anguish when he had to spend a nickel, no matter how unlimited was the supply of nickels at his disposal.

Down two floors, there was a suite much larger than Nellie’s, and renting for twice as much. It was rented to Mrs. Jesse Cranlowe. The fancy sum indicated one of two things: Either Mr. Cranlowe had unlimited means at his disposal, too, or she was a very selfish person about her expenditures.

“It must be the latter,” said Nellie to Rosabel. “For the chief told us that Cranlowe was pinched for money at the moment. I guess the second Mrs. Cranlowe doesn’t care how pinched he is!”

“She seems to be nice, though,” said Rosabel.

“Yes, she does,” Nellie admitted. “I guess she’s more ignorant in financial matters, and spoiled, than mean. She probably hasn’t any idea what it means to be pinched for money.”

“She and Mr. Cranlowe’s son get along better than children and stepmothers often do,” said Rosabel.

Nellie nodded. That was her impression, too.

She had let no grass grow under her feet in her task of getting acquainted with Mrs. Cranlowe. The inventor’s wife had come into the lobby while Nellie was taking the suite for herself “and maid.” Nellie had exclaimed aloud and bent suddenly, with a wet fingertip trying to catch a run in her stocking. A run she had just started with a furtive fingernail.

“Oh!” she said. “And I haven’t time to shop for new stockings now. And my others are in my trunk, which won’t be here till tomorrow!”

The exclamation had been subtly directed at the passing Mrs. Cranlowe, who had turned, to be met with a rueful smile.

She had taken the bait.

“You are just coming in? You can send your maid to my rooms, if you like. I have a little thread that ought to match that flesh tint. It will make a pucker in the stocking, but it’s better than a run.”

“Oh, thank you so much,” said Nellie. There was a little general conversation, and a self-introduction. And then, with Nellie’s dainty charm turned on full, there was a suggestion of dinner together.

Nellie was getting into a crisp frock for dinner, now.

“Did you see that man when you went out to the drugstore a few minutes ago?” Rosabel asked in a low tone as she hooked Nellie up the side.

The man in question was a fellow Nellie had told Rosabel about glimpsing as she left Mrs. Cranlowe in the lobby and went to an elevator.

He was a young-looking chap with something the matter with his eyes. They didn’t match the rest of him. They were a thousand years old, and all evil; as if they had been pried from the skull of an old, old man and set into the sockets of a young man.

The young man with the ancient eyes had come to the building door shortly after Mrs. Cranlowe had. He hadn’t come in; had just stayed there, but Nellie got the idea he was watching the inventor’s wife.

Then he had seemed to watch Nellie after she talked to Mrs. Cranlowe.

“No, didn’t see a sign of him,” Nellie said cheerfully.

“Be careful,” urged Rosabel.

Nellie laughed. It was a reckless, musical trill of sound.

“I’ll be careful, all right. I don’t think a coffin would become me.”

She went down to Mrs. Cranlowe’s apartment.

Mrs. Cranlowe was a woman of thirty-three or four, but looking younger. She was a brunette, on the plump side, with a full red little mouth and hands that were always making vague gestures.

She opened the door, when Nellie knocked, on a businesslike-looking night chain. Then she unhooked it when she saw Nellie’s face.

“I wanted to be sure it was you,” she explained.

“Sure it was me?” repeated Nellie innocently.

“Yes! You know I have had some most unpleasant experiences recently. Men following me, watching me. At least I think they have. Maybe I’m getting a persecution complex. But—no, I’m sure I’ve been observed.”

They went out to a small, exclusive restaurant near the building, and over a women’s meal she talked freely on the subject.

“It’s all due to that silly invention of my husband’s. You knew my husband was the Cranlowe? Jesse Cranlowe, the inventor?”

Nellie made polite sounds indicating that she was surprised and impressed.

“Well, Jesse, my husband, recently invented some kind of war thing. I don’t know what it is. I’ve never been much interested in his work. But this, it seems, is quite important. After he had invented it, he gave an announcement to the newspapers. It was an absurd thing to do. He said he had the most deadly weapon yet invented and would give it to any small nation for defense in the event that it is attacked by any larger nation. Going to stop war, and all that. But perhaps you read about it.”

“A little,” Nellie murmured. “Not a great deal.”

“Well, of course the minute such an announcement came out, it meant that all sorts of terrible people would try to get the weapon from Jesse. So he had to take necessary precautions. That’s why I’m living here, in town, instead of out at Cranlowe Heights with him. Though I have always spent a great deal of time in town.”

She waved a smooth, white hand.

“Our country home has been turned into an armed camp.” she said distastefully. “Guards and dogs, and all the trees cut down because otherwise people might hide behind them. It is very uncomfortable out there, so I live here.”

Nellie recalled her to her former subject.

“And you really think people have been following you around since that newspaper announcement? Because of your husband’s invention?”

“It must be because of the invention,” said Mrs. Cranlowe, nodding wisely. “Because no one ever followed me around before.”

“But why do you suppose they annoy you? You haven’t anything to do with his invention. Or—have you?”

“Not one single thing,” said Mrs. Cranlowe. “So, you see, it is all very stupid.”

Nellie didn’t say anything for a moment. But she was thinking. Not so stupid, perhaps. This woman didn’t have anything to do with Cranlowe’s work. But she had a great deal to do with the man, himself. Presumably she was adored. If she were kidnaped, and then threats made—

“Have you ever seen the people you think are following you? Ever had a good look at them?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Cranlowe. “There is one man I have seen so often that I’m sure he is following me. That is a young chap who doesn’t, somehow, look young, though you know he is. If you get what I mean.”

Nellie did get what she meant, having seen the same man herself.

“The other I’ve seen several times. He is a very fat man, not tall, who looks extremely good-natured. And yet I would hate to meet him on a dark street with money in my bag.”

Nellie marked those descriptions down graphically in her memory. She was getting, she thought, information more valuable than she had dared hope for.

The meal was about over. Mrs. Cranlowe kept looking at a tiny jeweled watch on her wrist.

“My son is coming for me very shortly,” she explained, at last. “Rather, Mr. Cranlowe’s son. He’s really my stepson, though neither of us ever think of that.”

“You mean the young man who came up to you in the lobby just after we’d met over the run in my stocking?” said Nellie, pretending she didn’t already know all about young Robert Cranlowe.

“Yes, that’s the man— Here he is now.”

A very good-looking young chap was coming in the restaurant door. He was tall and slim and dark-haired, with engaging blue eyes. Almost too engaging, Nellie thought. He was one of these young fellows whom everyone describes as “his own worst enemy.” The kind everyone liked but no one trusted in important matters.

He came gaily to the table where the two women sat. Mrs. Cranlowe introduced Nellie.

“Oh, yes, I noticed Miss Lang this afternoon!” Robert Cranlowe said easily. It took a minute for Nellie to remember that that was her pseudonym. “It is a real pleasure to meet you, Miss Lang. I hope you’ll be in Garfield City for quite a while. You are staying at the same building as Mrs. Cranlowe?”

Nellie assured him that she was. She was very nice about it, too. She might get information from the inventor’s son as well as the inventor’s wife, though she already was sure the information would be innocently given. She was quite sure neither the woman nor young man had any crookedness in them.

“Can we take you anywhere in my car?” asked Robert Cranlowe.

Nellie smilingly shook her head. The two bade her a pleasant farewell, and drove away. Nellie watched them from the curb for a moment, then turned to walk back to the building. It was only a short distance, so she went along with no haste. Once in her room she would communicate with the chief over the marvelously effective little radio Smitty had devised, and with which each aide of The Avenger’s was always equipped.

A long way behind her, and very cleverly, a man stalked her as a hunter stalks an animal.

He was the young fellow with the old eyes. In those eyes, now, was speculation—and murder. He trailed her to the building entrance, then hurried to a phone booth from which he could still see the building and make sure Nellie didn’t get out again without his knowledge.

“Kopell?” he muttered into the phone. “Something new on this, I think.”

“You mean on the Cranlowe dame?”

“Yeah! She’s got a new friend awful fast. A swell-looking little blonde. She checked into the building just before dinner, and got talking to the Cranlowe dame. I thought it was pretty fast, and I thought it was pretty smooth. But I wasn’t sure it meant anything, till a while ago. Then I saw the two of ’em go out to put on the feed bag together.”

“So?” said the smooth, oily voice at the other end of the wire.

“Well, look,” said the young fellow. “The blonde could be with some other mob that we don’t know about, couldn’t she? She could be shining up to Cranlowe’s wife on a new angle we ain’t hep to yet, couldn’t she?”

The logic of this was admitted, too.

“So, maybe—” said the young man with the old eyes, reaching mechanically a little way toward his automatic.

“Be on the lookout,” said the oily voice. “Don’t take the chance, yet. But be ready to with one funny move.”

The young man with the ancient eyes patted his shoulder holster.

“You bet,” he said, mouth like a thin gash in his flinty countenance.

CHAPTER X

Two Faces of Death!

Death’s face loomed close in that dark basement under the left wing of the Cranlowe castle.

There was the cellar room, perhaps forty by sixty feet, illuminated only by an unshaded electric bulb at each end. There was the curious chasm running through the center, lengthwise; beginning with a mere crack in the earth at one end of the basement, broadening to ten-foot width in the center, and narrowing to a crack again at the other end.

And there, on the brink, was the man pretending to be John Blandell, with two men gripping each arm.

“Have you anything to say before you’re thrown in there?” snapped Cranlowe.

“Just this,” said Benson quietly. “I’m a friend, not an enemy. I came out here to help you.”

“You sneaked out, made up as an old friend of mine and worked your way in here like a snake into a hole—because you wanted to ‘help’ me?” jeered Cranlowe. “That’s a good one! You came out here to steal my secret. And now you’re going to pay for it with your life. But I’ll take last messages, if you like.”

“There are no last messages,” said Benson steadily.

The cold wind from the river, far below, was dank on his made-up, paralyzed face. The four men looked at Cranlowe, who nodded. Their muscles tightened to force this man over the edge of the chasm.

Cranlowe yelled suddenly. But so fast had it all occurred, that his yell followed the thing he yelled about at least three seconds after it had happened.

Only about five feet eight, The Avenger weighed hardly a hundred and sixty-five pounds. But every one of those pounds had that queer muscle-quality now and then found in a great athlete which is more effective than muscle-quantity can ever be.

With the tensing of the grip of the four, Benson had moved, and moved fast! Backward—not forward. Had he swept his arms forward he might have thrown a couple of the four into the pit, and he didn’t want to do that. They were acting out of loyalty. They did not deserve death.

He swept his arms backward with a suddenness and violence that no one could have dreamed lay in his average-sized body. One of the four holding him fell flat. Another had his grip torn loose, staggered back a few feet, and fought with waving arms to keep his balance. The other two still retained a precarious grip on arms that seemed to have turned to steel bars in their hands.

Benson flung his arms forward, now. He was far enough away from the chasm. And the two remaining men smashed together with a force that knocked both breathless.

The man who had managed to keep his balance leaped in with sawed-off shotgun swinging down like a club! But the figure he aimed at had slid two feet to one side, like an elusive shadow. The gun stock grazed past harmlessly and smashed against the earth floor before the man could stop it. The stock splintered.

The man who had fallen was aiming his gun. Benson jumped for him. Not angry, he was simply trying to get out of a deadly situation with as little hurt as possible. His heels jammed down on the stubby barrel, and it discharged its flood of slugs into the earthen floor.

Benson kept on toward the door after the flashing movement. He seemed to flow toward the exit, rather than run like a normal man. Cranlowe got in his way.

Benson didn’t harm the inventor at all. He caught a thrusting arm and whirled the man around, and then he was at the door. He leaped out, and slammed the portal. There was a bolt on it. He shot that and ran on. The men in the cellar pounded fiercely. Then there was a shot, and half the panels splintered.

One more shotgun blast, and they were free. Benson raced up the stairs.

There was apparently no way out of here. Armed men in the house. Armed men roaming the grounds. Savage dogs loose. Iron fence encircling the place. But The Avenger had picked the one way out even before he had been dragged to the chasm.

The garage of the place was next to the north wing, attached to the castlelike house. He ran down a hall in that direction, felling a servant who first gaped at him and then tried to draw guns. He leaped over the body, slammed through a door at the end of the corridor and raced into the garage.

There was a roadster and a large sedan. The sedan sagged lowest on its tires. Armor-plated, bulletproofed, built to protect a man who had jeopardized his life with an announcement of his super war weapon.

Benson got in and kicked the starter. The motor roared to life. The garage door into the house flung open, and one man fired a shotgun; another let go with an automatic in each hand. The slugs spanged against steel and bulletproof glass—and did not penetrate.

The Avenger had the heavy car rolling. The big front door of the garage was only half opened. No chance to roll it back. So Benson hit it with the car, and tore it half off on his way out! He sped down the driveway.

Ahead of him was the iron fence, and the great iron gate. He had slipped off the special eye-shells as he ran up the basement stairs, because the tissue-thin things might be broken in a fight and injure his eyes. Now his unmasked eyes, colorless and icy and deadly, stared at the gate ahead of him and at the fence beside it.

He made his decision in about a tenth of a second. The fence didn’t look as strong as that gate. So, twenty feet from the gate, he whirled the heavy car to the left.

It jammed into the iron fence beside the gate with a whanggg that could have been heard for half a mile. Jammed into it, rolled through with a sound like tearing paper magnified a thousand times, and then sagged at the front end and stopped like a tired rhinoceros coming to its knees. Both front wheels had been jammed sideways and back, putting the car out of commission.

So many men were running down the driveway after him that it looked like a young army. Ahead of them were loping the dogs.

Benson got out of Cranlowe’s car and jumped into the rented one that he had left at the gate, seeming to be a whisking streak of light rather than a man. He started away from the gate.

Not bulletproofed, this car. Just an ordinary automobile, He took a long look at the straight road ahead, noting that there was a ditch at each side not deep enough to wreck a car but quite pronounced enough to let you know if you hit it. Then he slid out from behind the wheel, and down.

Crouched on the floor between gear-shift lever and right front door, he drove with a hand stretched up to the wheel. Drove blind, with the car dipping into the shallow ditch first on one side and then the other and being brought back to the unseen road again by the deft steely hand.

The back window of the sedan flashed out. The windshield seemed to explode and disappear! Holes ripped into back and front cushions. Then there was neither sound nor violence. He had gotten out of range.

He raised back up to the driver’s seat just in time to avoid a head-on collision with another car in which women were screaming at sight of an apparently driverless machine rocketing toward them. He roared on till the shot-riddled gas tank was empty; then he left the car and went back to town in an obliging farmer’s produce truck.

In a grim, dark cellar, the face of death grinned fiendishly from a deep, black chasm which led to an underground river. But death has many faces. It showed another the next afternoon, at a place where its grimacing features had been seen before.

At the Garfield Gear plant.

Josh Newton had been told to look around the plant, and keep an eye on the executives. On the face of it, that would seem to be an impossible job. The place was guarded and fenced because of the war orders it handled. How could a Negro get in and watch the officials? But Josh handled it very simply.

He picked up a shoe-shine stand in the morning; the kind of portable box in which are polishes, brushes and rags, and on which is a foot-standard. He showed up at the plant gate at noon. He asked humbly for permission to take care of the shines within the office—and got it.

So now he was in the general office, at work. He had shined the shoes of the superintendent, a young hard-jawed driver who barked orders to underlings while he shifted his feet for Josh to work on. He had taken care of the black high-tops of the old office manager. And now he was in the office of the president, Mr. Jenner.

There were three men in the office—Jenner, Josh and the anemic-looking secretary. And Jenner was dictating a letter while Josh began on the right foot.

“Testing Laboratories

“United States Government

“Washington, D.C.

“Gentlemen:

“We are at a loss to understand the complaints regarding the Cranlowe torpedo controls sent to you over the past five weeks. The release-pin holes were inspected as usual here, along with other general inspection, and each checked for accuracy before being shipped. Each was carefully gauged, as were the release pins themselves. We cannot, therefore, understand why any of the pins should stick and fail to function. We can only assume that a mistake has been made in your testing laboratory, and hope that it will be straightened out very soon. Mr. Cranlowe extends the same hope, through us, as he is being badly embarrassed financially by the withholding of the usual royalty payments.

Sincerely yours,

Ned Jenner.”

Josh tapped the right foot, to indicate that he was through with that. Jenner raised it, and then the left, while Josh slid the stand under it. And with the move, the plant president seemed, for the first time, to become really conscious of the Negro’s presence.

“Are you a newcomer to Garfield City?” he asked pleasantly.

“Yas, suh,” replied Josh, with a wide grin.

Though an honor grad of Tuskeegee and as intelligent as most professors, Josh always acted as people expect a Negro to act—when he was with strangers. Good protective coloration, he called it.

“You seem to be the first with initiative enough to think of working up a little business out here. It’s a nice idea, too. We’re on the edge of town, and it’s hard to get in for a shine.”

“Ah hopes to give full sat’sfaction, suh,” said Josh, polishing industriously.

“Is there anything else, Mr. Jenner?” asked Grace, the president’s secretary.

“No, that’s all,” Jenner said.

Stanley Grace went out to type the letter to Washington.

“I’m sure you’ll give satisfaction,” said Jenner to Josh. “And I hope you will come regularly—be, in a way, one of the plant employees.”

“Thank you, suh.”

Jenner’s smile deepened a little.

“It might not be a bad idea for you to look over some of the plant you’ll be visiting regularly,” he said. “I have a little time. Would you like to see it?”

“Very much, suh,” said Josh, who was thoroughly bewildered behind his sleepy-looking face, but naturally didn’t want to refuse such a thing.

It all seemed extremely kindly and democratic.

Jenner led the way through departments where gears were being stamped, ground or cut, depending on precision required and temper of alloy used. He went leisurely on into the plant’s big foundry.

“We make all our own castings,” the president said genially to the increasingly perplexed Negro. “See—there’s a cauldron that will handle forty tons of molten steel.”

The huge kettle in question was being swung by a crane at the moment. It came toward a row of forms where the metal was to be poured into molds. Next to the forms was a stairway, up an end wall, with a catwalk about ten feet up.

“We can see them pour from the catwalk,” said Jenner pleasantly. “It’s quite a sight. Come on up.”

Josh decided it was the most peculiar thing that had ever happened to him. But he went up, with Jenner beside him, talking, as if piloting any regular plant visitor around.

They got to the catwalk as the swinging cauldron of molten metal stopped over the forms. It was terrifically hot on the catwalk; the cauldron was very near. Josh stared down into its white-hot incandescence.

Jenner smiled beside him. And then his arms shot out.

“Look out! Don’t fall!” he screamed.

And he pushed Josh powerfully off the catwalk, straight toward the terrible cauldron a little below and beyond!

It was the last thing in the world Josh was expecting. It caught him completely off guard. It was simply impossible that any man, high or low, would have the ruthless nerve to try murder in a shop full of men. Impossible-—but it had happened.

The only thing that saved Josh, where it looked as if nothing could possibly have saved him, was the fact that tons of molten metal in a ponderous pot need suspension. A great chain, in this case, stretched taut and quivering by the weight it bore.

Josh’s body shot out and down toward the white-hot, molten surface. And it seemed as if he must plummet into it. But Josh had the strength and quickness of a black panther.

In midair, his body, like a cat’s body, turned a little so that he was facing in the direction of his wild fall. His arms snapped out and his hands clawed for the chain.

There was an instant of searing heat and reeking gas as he shot over the cauldron. There was an instant of blinding pain as his hands gripped the chain, almost red-hot itself. Then he had swung himself beyond, twenty feet past the waiting forms on the foundry floor.

He lit running like a black streak, but with his face taking on a grayish tinge as he realized just what he had almost come to. He kept on running, out of the foundry, through the plant and out the gate.

This face of death—where death seemed utterly fantastic and out of picture—had worn so fiendish a look that Josh knew he’d be a long time getting over it. But that knowledge didn’t slow him any as he sped to report to the man with the white hair and blazing, colorless eyes that was to Josh like some kind of God.

CHAPTER XI

Field Reports

Benson’s pale eyes in his dead, white face were like little ice chips in a glacial sea. He seemed to stare right through Josh, such was his concentration on the report.

“That’s a thing no one would believe if it hadn’t actually happened,” he said at length. “The cold openness of it! And yet, it wasn’t as reckless as it seems. If he had succeeded in killing you, no one in the shop could have proved that you did not fall. All would have thought you had, because of his warning yell. So he would have gotten away with it. But it was mad. Insane! You say not one trace of his purpose was in his face?”

“No,” said Josh. “He was smiling and pleasant. No one could have guessed there was anything in his mind.”

“He must be a clever actor.”

Josh said, after a moment: “I can swear to that because I was watching his face closely. It was most unusual for a high executive to decide suddenly to take a shoe-shining Negro through the plant. I was sure something was wrong. So I kept watching his face, and now I realize there was one peculiar thing about him. He didn’t show any trace of dangerous intentions, but he did look just a little as if he were listening.”

“Listening?” said Benson.

“Yes! Almost as if some voice a long way off were trying to tell him something.”

The Avenger’s eyes glinted. Something about that last statement had set the flaming genius of his brain to moving in a new direction. But he didn’t put any of it into words.

“Stay in for a while, Josh,” he said. “And when you go out again, change your appearance a bit. Murder may strike at you again if you’re too easily recognized.”

Josh went out to one of the other vacant offices of the suite. And Benson turned to his small radio as the call signal of one of his aides sounded.

It was Smitty.

“Chief,” came the giant’s voice, in guarded accents, “I think I’ve stumbled onto something; so I thought I’d call and tell you about it.”

“Listening,” said The Avenger, voice quiet and crisp.

“You wanted me to get on the trail of the guys who tried to kill us. I didn’t have any definite lead on it; so I just began nosing around the crooks’ haunts, picking up what I could. Garfield City isn’t so big, but it seems it has a very well organized underworld. There’s a gang here as deadly and efficient as anything in Chicago. Run by a guy named Kopell, who is open for any job from murder down, for a few hundred bucks. Kopell lives openly and in style at the Garfield Point Hotel; has the whole top floor. So I went there, and I’ve been nosing since noon.”

“You’re there now?” said Benson.

“Yes!”

“Where are you speaking from? Your voice is barely audible.”

“I have to talk low,” explained Smitty. “I’m in a closet on Kopell’s floor. When he rented the floor, he didn’t rearrange any. The regular corridor is still there, with linen closet and all. I’m in the linen closet, now.”

“You said you’d stumbled onto something,” said Benson.

“Yes! Just a thing I happened to overhear. It was a mention of a guy at Garfield Gear. That’s the way it was put. “The guy at Garfield Gear.’ That’s all I heard, but to my mind it ties the company in with Garfield City’s underworld quite neatly.”

“Yes,” said Benson grimly, thinking of Josh’s terrible experience at the plant, “it does! Meanwhile, I have heard from Nellie Gray something that may help you. She has reported on two men who seem to be quite active in keeping tabs on Cranlowe’s wife. One is a young fellow whose eyes look much too old for him. The other is a jolly-looking fat man.”

“Check!” said Smitty. “Those are two of the guys that have been coming in and out of Kopell’s floor all afternoon. Signing off, chief. I’ll look around some more.”

The little radio went dead. And The Avenger turned from it. The glittering intensity of his colorless eyes showed that he was methodically tabulating what he had learned to date. More pieces all the time. With the proper places for them and more clearly indicated.

Cranlowe was frantically in need of money for two reasons. One was that his government royalty payments were being held up because of defective shipments of torpedo control parts from Garfield Gear. The other was because Blandell, his backer as well as friend, was out of the picture. So that looked pretty deliberate.

Somebody had first discredited Blandell, to keep him from advancing Cranlowe more loans. Then had discredited Sessel, who came to help his “demented” uncle. Then had had to kill both when they began to investigate around for the cause of their mental troubles. The point was that from the first the purpose had been to get Blandell out of the way and break Cranlowe financially. Granting this, it was reasonable to assume that the royalty payments had been stopped, in some crooked way, for the same reason: If Cranlowe could be bankrupted out of that fortress home of his, he would be defenseless and it would be easy to get to him and pry that war secret from him.

He knew why these various things had been done. But how! There was no guessing.

Blandell had been discredited by acting like a lunatic. So had Sessel. Then both had been killed by another, well-known man, also acting like a lunatic. In addition there were the insane acts of Cranlowe’s driver and Cranlowe’s secretary.

How had these people been impelled to do these things? Did it have anything to do with the queer “listening” look which Josh had read in Jenner’s face? There was no key to that, at the moment. Benson would have to know more before he could arrive at more definite conclusions.

Smitty had said he was in a closet when he had contacted his chief. A linen closet. He found its confines cramped for his huge body. So he got out of it as fast as he could after whispering into his tiny radio.

The top-floor hall of the hotel building had been furnished like the hall of a private home when Kopell took it over. There were urns along it, and a few big chairs, and a chest or two.

Smitty, looking out the cracked door of the linen closet, had seen that all the men who came here in the time he’d been concealed went to the same door; a portal at the front of the building on the left-hand side. And in front of that door a man lounged all the time, with a toothpick between his yellowed teeth and his coat unbuttoned so that now and then you could see the butt of a gun at his shoulder.

This guarded door was about twenty feet from the door of Smitty’s closet. He wanted very much to get into it—and out of the closet. But the man had to be dealt with first, and dealt with noiselessly.

Smitty’s vast hand went into his pocket and came out with a five-dollar bill. He opened the closet door two inches, wadding up the bill as he did so.

The guard at the door was staring dreamily at the opposite wall. The toothpick bobbled between his lips as he thought of something pleasant—possibly a glass of beer. He scratched his neck contentedly, and turned just a little toward the hall window.

Smitty snapped the wadded-up bill out along the hall as far toward the man as he could, using thumb and forefinger as a boy snaps a marble. The bill stopped about ten feet from the closet door and spread out slightly on the corridor carpet.

The man at the far door turned back from the window, scratched again, looked placidly toward the rear, and saw the green, wadded bit of paper.

Smitty had reasoned well. Even a millionaire will stop to pick up money if he sees it lying loose. When it comes to a gangster and a five-dollar bill—

The man stared with an unbelieving look, then with a look of slyness. Instinctively he gazed around to be sure no one was watching. Then he walked fast to the bill, and stooped down for it.

And Smitty sprang!

For all his bulk, the giant could move like a slim youngster. He was on the man in two soundless, flowing leaps. The fellow looked up in time to see a human avalanche descending on him, but not in time to do anything about it. Not even in time to yell.

Smitty got one hand on the man’s throat, and the other on his right wrist, as his hand clawed for his gun. The hand went almost around the man’s throat, it was so big. It squeezed a little.

After a minute Smitty left the man lying there, and went back to the closet. He returned with sheets and pillow cases. With the sheets he tied the man up like a mummy. With the pillow cases he gagged him till he couldn’t have uttered so much as a squeak. Then he bundled the guard into the linen closet, closed the door, and went back to the door that interested him so much.

He opened it an inch. His ears picked up mumbling voices a room or so beyond. His eyes told him that there was no one in the small foyer off the hall.

He went in.

Beyond was a two-story room, big, elaborate. In that the voices were sounding. Smitty tiptoed to the entrance, and stood there behind a drape.

In the duplex room were three men. One was a young fellow with ancient eyes. Another was a narrow-jawed man who looked as if he’d slit a throat for a quarter and give back ten cents change. The third—

Well, the third must be Kopell, the leader of Garfield City’s underworld, himself.

He was a little on the heavy side, about forty, well dressed and well barbered. His hands were soft and immaculate. His voice was soft and oily. But his eyes, dark and cold, like cold-black onyx, were a plain warning that here was a master killer.

“Trillo got the job drivin’ the station wagon.” the narrow-jawed man said. “Took a little work. Cranlowe was suspicious as hell after that crazy accident that put his old driver out of the world for six months.”

“Nice,” said Kopell, in his smooth, oily voice. “Now we got at least one guy inside that iron fence.”

“But Maizie,” said the young fellow, “didn’t get to first base on the secretary’s job. Either Cranlowe smelled something wrong, or else, for now, he don’t need a secretary.”

Smitty’s lips thinned. Here was the reason for the suicide of that girl, and the mad accident of the old station-wagon driver. Simply to get two of Cranlowe’s employees out of the way so that two of the enemy could get in in their places. And the fact that one death and one near-death had resulted meant nothing at all to this murderous crew.

“What’s this talk about a Negro out at the plant?” said the narrow-jawed man.

Kopell’s dark eyes slitted.

“I don’t know, exactly. He got in as a shoe-shine boy. I don’t know that it wasn’t all right. Nobody does. But it looked suspicious—like he was sent to spy around. So it was thought best to get him out of the way. But he managed to lam.”

The young fellow with the ancient eyes said thoughtfully: “There was a Negro in that sedan.”

Kopell stared, then laughed.

“I guess it couldn’t have been the same one. Fats said he stayed at the water’s edge for five minutes, and nobody had come up by then. And nobody could come up from seventy feet of water anyway.”

“I suppose not—” There was a little silence. Then: “What’s all this stuff of everybody out at the plant goin’ goofy, boss?”

“What do you care?” snapped Kopell.

“I bet you don’t know, yourself,” said the young fellow.

Kopell looked as if undecided whether to get sore or not. Finally, he didn’t. He scratched his jaw.

“Well, I don’t know if it’ll do you any good to be told. A lot of people have done a lot of funny things. I’m curious, naturally. But I don’t ask questions. I figure it’s none of my business—”

Smitty, behind the drape, heard a faint rasp from the door, and whirled fast. But not in time!

A man was standing on the threshold, pointing a gun at him. The man was the jolly-looking fat fellow he had seen up here before. The door had made that rasp, not when it was just beginning to open, but when it was opened all the way. And that was too late for Smitty.

“Just stand easy, with your hands up,” said the jolly-looking man. “Kopell!”

There was a rush from the duplex room, and the three within appeared on the other threshold, a few feet from the giant. They stared at him, first in amazement and then in murderous fury.

“What— How—”

“I came up the hall and didn’t see Pete at the door, where he should have been,” explained the fat man. “I looked around a little and found him—in the linen closet. So I came in quiet, and here’s this overgrown ape listenin’ in.”

“Kopell,” said the young fellow, eyes wide, almost whispering the words, “in that sedan, besides a Negro, there was a great big guy. How big, I couldn’t tell, because he was sitting down. But he might have been this guy here.”

“Nuts!” said Kopell. “There’s more than one big guy on earth. Everybody in that car’s dead, I tell you. They’ve got to be!” He glared at Smitty. “But I’d like to know where you come in on this, just the same. Who are you? Who you working for?”

Smitty was silent, a giant with hands raised and a gun almost touching the wall of his chest.

“Is another mob horning in?” snapped Kopell. “Who’s behind it?”

Still Smitty said nothing. His upraised hands were touching the drape behind which he had hidden.

“Look!” said Kopell persuasively. “You’ll get bumped off, here and now, if you don’t talk. If you do—well, maybe your mob can work with ours. This is awful big. There’ll be enough for both—”

Smitty’s hands flashed forward and down, and at the same time his body twisted sideways as if it had been a willow wand instead of a gorilla torso. A shot blared from the fat man’s automatic, slicing a red welt on Smitty’s abdomen. And then, the drape, torn loose by the giant’s big hands, went over the fat fellow like a fish net.

The fat man screamed in a muffled way under the drape, and fought to get loose. Guns appeared in the hands of Kopell and the narrow-jawed man.

The guns weren’t fired. Smitty’s vast paws had each by the nape of the neck. He smashed the two bodies together as if they had been rag dolls weighing about a pound apiece, flung the limp results at the young fellow with the ancient eyes and raced out of there.

CHAPTER XII

The Secret Voice

A man who looked to be about seventy years old, save that his bitter blue eyes were clearer and brighter than the eyes of most old men, went into the anteroom of Dr. Wheeler Markham, psychiatrist and specialist in mental diseases.

“Will you tell Dr. Markham that Dr. John MacGregor would like to see him when he has a free moment,” the old man said to the trim nurse at the desk.

“Surely, Dr. MacGregor,” the girl said.

She went into an inner office. The elderly doctor was left in the anteroom with one patient—an overweight, childish-faced woman who carried a yapping Pekingese under her fat left arm. The old man sank into a chair as if burdened with the weight of years.

Which he was distinctly not.

Fergus MacMurdie, distinguished biologist, pharmacist and chemist, could call himself “doctor” any time—though he could not truthfully call himself MacGregor. There was a gray wig over his sandy-red hair, and grayish powder over his highly colored, coarse-skinned, freckled face. He walked with a weary stoop. It was a simple but excellent disguise.

MacMurdie had talked to three doctors who had attended Blandell and Sessel. Among the three had been the two who had been overpowered at Blandell’s home. They had had little information to offer.

Three well-known men had suddenly done insane things. Criminally, murderously insane, in the case of Allen C. Wainwright, now being held for murder. But no one of the three had a background of mental unbalance either personally or in his family. And each of the three had been sane by every known test—after his strange lapse.

Each had done mad things. Each had no idea why, later; and each said the same thing: there was no memory of what they had done; so far as they knew they’d been unconscious during that period.

That was all that was known. What had made the three act as they did was a complete mystery.

Blank at these three offices. So MacMurdie—as Dr. John MacGregor—was now visiting the fourth and last name on his list.

This psychiatrist, Dr. Markham, had visited Wainwright in jail several times, in addition to having questioned Blandell and Sessel. Mac had hopes of learning something here.

“Dr. Markham can see you at once,” said the nurse, returning.

Mac went into an elaborately outfitted office, and shook hands with a distinguished-looking man.

“Dr. Markham? I don’t know if my name means anythin’ to ye, but I have offices in New York and am in work much like your own. I read of the Blandell, Sessel, Wainwright cases and was so interested I came here to find out more about them. I was referred to ye, if ye don’t mind havin’ some of your time taken up unprofitably.”

“Time spent with distinguished colleagues is never unprofitable,” said Dr. Markham politely. It was a clever way of ducking a statement on whether or not he had ever heard of Dr. MacGregor. The man was polished. “What is it you would like to ask me?”

“First,” said Mac, “about the malady, itself. In the papers, it would seem there was no doubt as to the insanity, if temporary. Do you subscribe to that?”

“Oh, of course,” said Markham.

“Yet they hadn’t been the least bit demented before, and weren’t after?”

Markham nodded. “Unless you want to call an insane act the overpowering of Dr. Lucien and Dr. Grabble by Sessel and Blandell. Personally, I am sure that act was the desperate one of normal men trying to get free to help themselves because they knew no one else would help them.”

“I gathered that impression, too,” said Mac, “which leads me to my next question. External circumstances. What could have happened to throw these men off? And why did Blandell and Sessel go directly to the Garfield Gear Company to look around when they’d fled from Blandell’s house?”

“I’m afraid the reason for their visit to that particular place died with them,” mused Markham. “But I should hazard the guess that they went there because it chanced that each had his mental lapse shortly after being in the place.”

“And Wainwright had his terrible blind fit there, too,” Mac said. “All at the same place. Might not somethin’ at the plant have set these three men off? Some definite occurrence that unhinged their reason?”

“You sound more like a detective than a doctor,” laughed Markham.

“A psychiatrist has to be a detective,” retorted Mac, “as ye well know, yourself.”

“I don’t think anything at Garfield Gear could be responsible,” said Markham slowly. “What could occur at an ordinary manufacturing plant to drive a man temporarily insane? No, to my mind it was only coincidence that each had his lapse at the same location.”

It was all Mac could get. For the fourth time, he had drawn blank. Markham was pleasant and open and was telling all he knew, apparently. But all he knew was not enough to shed any light.

Mac left, in another ten minutes, passing with his old man’s gait through the anteroom in which was the adipose lady with the Pekingese. He was just an average, if exceptionally intelligent, human being; so—he left. Had he been the seventh son of a seventh son and gifted with supernatural powers, he would have stayed. For right after he had gone, some weird things happened.

The doctor was about to call for the nurse to send in the sole remaining patient in his anteroom. But he stopped with his mouth still open for the call—and stayed silent and motionless!

In the anteroom, the yapping of the Pekingese suddenly changed to a sharp, pained howling. That went on for ten or fifteen seconds while the fat lady tried to quiet the beast. Then the howling stopped, and the doctor moved again.

He went to a cabinet and got out his black medical bag, moving with a curious, volitionless obedience. His head went to one side as if he were listening. Then he went to a cabinet containing paraphernalia, and got out a crystal ball. It was the type used by clairvoyants. But, also, crystal balls often are used by brain specialists as an aid to healing hypnotism.

His head was still in the listening attitude. And though no words sounded in the ominously quiet office, an observer would have known that an actual voice was directing real commands to the man.

The doctor put on hat and topcoat and went out, carrying his little bag. The nurse started to say something to him, but stopped at the preoccupied look in his eyes. Markham went right past her and the patient and into the hall, without glancing at either.

The nurse glanced nervously at the patient before venturing the excuse that the doctor had had an emergency call and wouldn’t be able to care for her today.

The nurse was nervous because she thought she was hearing things. She thought she had heard a voice—a very odd, secret voice, whispering, “Don’t let that bag out of your sight.”

But she knew there could have been no voice because there was no one in the inner office, now that Markham had left.

At the curb in front of the building in which was Markham’s office suite, was a new station wagon. On its door was lettered:

CRANLOWE HEIGHTS

There was a young man in livery at the wheel. He stepped out smartly, opened the door, and Markham got in.

The car went rapidly out to Cranlowe’s guarded estate. And as it rolled, the doctor sat with his head a bit to one side, as if listening—listening! Hence he did not notice that the chauffeur drove with one eye on the speedometer and the other on the dash-clock, as if he were following some very definite schedule of time and speed.

There was no delay at the gate. The guard there telephoned the house, and Cranlowe said: “Oh, yes. Dr. Markham. His co-worker phoned and asked if he might see me. Bring him to the house.”

The guard escorted Markham, carrying his little bag, to the iron-studded front door. The guard didn’t know any more than Cranlowe, that Markham had no co-worker in his office, that he worked absolutely alone.

The man who looked like Poe shook hands briefly with the doctor and went into the study with him. There, the inventor ran nervous fingers through his lank dark hair.

“As you perhaps know,” he said. “I am not in the habit of permitting anyone to enter this place, save my trusted guards and oldest friends. I would not have allowed you to enter, save that you said you wanted to ask me some things that might shed light on poor Blandell’s fate. If that can be cleared up—”

“I think it can be,” said the doctor. “I have been checking on the things he did and the places he visited, just before that strange mental lapse of his. I found out that first thing in the morning, before he had his attack, he visited a spiritualist medium to—”

“Blandell did that?” Cranlowe snorted. “Impossible! He didn’t believe in that kind of thing.”

“If he did, no one would ever know,” said Markham. “A bank president would not broadcast such visits. Anyway, he went to this one. The seeress said something about you and told him to look into her crystal ball. A ball,” he concluded, “much like this one.”

He took out the crystal he had brought from his office and set it on the table before Cranlowe.

“What Blandell may have seen in the ball, the medium swears she doesn’t know. How it might have affected him, she doesn’t know, either. At least that’s her story, and the police have been unable to shake her.”

“Well?” said Cranlowe, looking at the ball. “How does all this concern me?”

“I want you to look into the ball and tell me if you see anything.”

“Nonsense!” snapped the inventor. “You know as well as I do that all you ever see in these things is what you imagine yourself.”

“Precisely,” said Markham. “That is why I want you to look into the ball. The imagined scene you may see there, might give you a clue to what Blandell saw—or thought he saw—just before he had his mental trouble. After all, you were mentioned by the medium. There may be some event, known both to you and to Blandell, that was responsible for his lapse.”

“If I knew of any such event, I’d tell all about it,” said Cranlowe. But his tone was a little different, a little more slow and dreamy.

“Of course you would,” said Markham. His own tone was changing, now. It was becoming soothing, settling on a monotonous level that was almost a chant. “But the event may be locked in your subconscious mind so that it could only come out when you weren’t really trying to think of it. While you were looking into a crystal ball, for example. Look into the ball, Cranlowe.”

“I . . . am . . . looking,” said Cranlowe.

“Look hard! Try to see something in the ball, Cranlowe. Stare deeply into it.”

The inventor seemed scarcely to be breathing. His face was blanked of all expression.

“Tell me what you see in the ball, Cranlowe. And keep looking.”

“I am . . . looking. And now . . . I see something—”

“What do you see? Tell me, what do you see?”

“I see . . . myself,” said Cranlowe dreamily, sleepily. “I am at this desk. I am writing. It has something to do . . . with my war inventions.”

“Ah, yes, the invention,” said Markham, voice as monotonous and soothing as dripping water. “What is this invention, Cranlowe? You are to tell me what it is.”

“It is a superexplosive,” said Cranlowe, mouthing the words a little. “It kills by concussion. It is so powerful that . . . that a two-pound bomb will kill every living thing in a two-and-a-half-mile circle. Too terrible to be used . . . even in a barbarous thing like modern war. Only to be used if a nation invades another. Then used for defense. That will stop all war. No nation will aggress.”

“Yes! Very commendable, Cranlowe. You see yourself at this desk, writing. And it has something to do with the invention. You are writing the formula, are you not?”

“Yes! I am writing . . . the formula,” said Cranlowe.

“Show me, Cranlowe. Show me how.”

“Like this.”

Without looking, Cranlowe’s hands went to the places where paper and pencil were kept. He put a sheet of paper before him, and poised the pencil. A slight spasm crossed his face, as if with an inward struggle.

“Show me, Cranlowe,” said Markham.

“Like . . . this—”

A word was written—

There was a sharp exclamation from the doorway, and Markham was seized in powerful hands.

“Mr. Cranlowe! Wake up! Snap out of it! Cranlowe!”

Markham struggled in the hands of the inventor’s armed butler, who growled an oath and clipped him on the jaw. Markham went down, unconscious.

Cranlowe was wavering in his seat, and into his deep-set eyes a normal light was coming.

He stared at the ball as if he had never seen it before, stared with horror at the sheet of paper with the first word of his precious formula on it, glared with frantic hate at the unconscious man on the floor.

“Charlatan! Crook!” he screamed at Markham. Then he whirled to the servant.

“Summers, thank heaven you looked into this room when you did and had wit enough to realize what was going on. Take this man to the basement strong room and lock him up. Hypnotize me, will he?”

“How about the hole in the ground?” said Summers.

“Not yet! We don’t throw him into the chasm, yet. When he has gone without food and water for a few days, he may decide to tell us who is behind this trip of his to Cranlowe Heights. Maybe he is the man behind what happened to Blandell and the rest. We should know shortly.”

CHAPTER XIII

Sound Beyond Hearing

If there was one thing that stood out clearly in this crazy welter, it was that the focal point of the whole business was the Garfield Gear Company. More precisely, that part of the Garfield Gear Company in which the president, Jenner, had his office.

So Dick Benson went to the Garfield Gear Company to Ned Jenner’s office.

The Avenger went openly, as himself. Till now he had kept under cover so that the gang which had attacked him at the quarry would continue to think him dead. Now he walked undisguised. For a purpose. If, after he left the office, attacks against him started again, it would prove beyond all further doubt that someone high in Garfield Gear—almost certainly Jenner—was directly connected with the underworld and had reported that he still lived. It would also expose Benson to death with every breath he drew. But the man with the white, dead face and the icy, pale eyes didn’t bother to think about that. Risk was normal to him; absence of risk the exception.

Benson got through the gate and through the general office simply by walking through and saying to anyone who gave evidence of wanting to stop him and inquire his business: “To see Mr. Jenner.” An ordinary person would have been detained and made to wait by any of a half a dozen employees; but such was the white-haired, dead-faced man’s air of quiet authority and power that none tried to stop him here.

Till he got to the small office outside Jenner’s own, where Jenner’s secretary had his desk. The pallid, quiet young fellow with the high-bridged nose tried to get in his way—but stepped back at the impact of those terrible, pale eyes on his own.

Benson opened the door of Jenner’s office and walked in.

The president of Garfield Gear was reading some letters. He looked up with a sharp frown.

“Who in the world are you? And how did you get in here, unannounced? I am busy. If you will wait your turn—”

He stopped, and looked again at the expressionless, white face in which were the colorless, icy eyes.

“I am Richard Benson, Mr. Jenner,” said The Avenger, in his calm but vibrant voice. “I don’t know if the name is familiar—”

“Why, yes, it is,” said Jenner, tone completely different. “I have heard of you, though I never expected to meet you. It was in connection with our government orders. You have done some work for the government, I believe.”

“I have done work for several governments,” Benson said, pale eyes gauging the man.

“It is an honor to have you here,” Jenner said. “But what is the occasion for the visit?”

“The murder of Blandell and Sessel,” said Benson. “I have come out to ask you a few questions about it.”

“The police asked many—”

“I am sure they were quite thorough. But I would like to know a few things that, perhaps, they didn’t think to go into. For one thing, I understand your dog howled just before Sessel went through his antics in your general office. And I believe he howled again just before Wainwright went strangely mad and killed the two men. Is that right?”

“Yes,” Jenner nodded. “That is correct.”

On the leather divan, Prince, Jenner’s canine companion, stared at the two men with bright little eyes, divining that he was being talked about, but staying still and soundless as he had been trained.

“There was more of the same thing,” Benson said. “I have learned that while Blandell stood on the corner giving away dollar bills, a dog with one of the men getting a bill did the same thing. Howled—almost as if something hurt him. And again, outside the plant gate, just before the old man driving Cranlowe’s station wagon drove suicidally in front of a truck, a mongrel dog nearby howled as if in pain.”

“I hadn’t heard of those two things.”

“But you did hear your dog howl. Have you any idea what was behind his antics?”

“No,” said Jenner, “I haven’t. He howled, and pawed at his ears. But why, I can’t say. Is it important?”

“I think it may be very important, indeed. Haven’t you even a guess to make?”

“Not even a guess,” smiled Jenner.

The white, dead face remained immobile as it always must. The colorless eyes, like bits of ice in moonlight, were steady, like diamond drills on the plant executive’s face.

“Another thing, Mr. Jenner. Royalty payments to Mr. Cranlowe on his torpedo control have been held up recently because the government has rejected recent shipments. Do you know why those shipments should be rejected?”

“I don’t understand,” said Jenner, frowning a little. “You said you were here on the murders of Blandell and Sessel. What have Cranlowe’s royalty payments to do with them?”

“Perhaps a great deal. If you would just tell me what the government has written you concerning the rejections—”

Benson stopped. The pale, chill eyes in his dead face took on an intent, fixed look. The Avenger was hearing something, very faintly, as if muted by distance. Yet it was something that seemed near at hand, too.

“Well?” said Jenner. “Go on!”

But Benson didn’t go on! He listened to the faint, shrill noise. It was a sound that not one person in a hundred thousand would have heard at all; but such was the trained acuteness of Benson’s hearing that he got it quite distinctly.

Though he felt it almost more than heard it.

Jenner was staring at him with a slightly different look. A sort of waiting, expectant look. And on the leather divan, Prince began to howl.

He had howled just before a man went crazy and tried to tap dance in the general office. He had howled just before two men had been murdered.

He howled in precisely the same way, now. And pawed at his ears as if they hurt him.

The sound The Avenger heard was gradually growing shriller, going more and more above the range of audibility even to his marvelous ears.

And in a blinding flash the meaning of it became illuminated and clear.

Why the dogs had howled and pawed at their ears as if in pain. They were in pain! They could hear this sound that only Benson, among humans, had heard. They could hear it distinctly, and it hurt their ears with its shrillness.

Why men had had blank spells, mental lapses, in this place, and gone out to do mad, murderous things.

Why—

Benson knew, now! He knew, suddenly, many things. But in the instant of his knowing, the sound passed at last beyond the range of hearing—and his agate-bright, colorless eyes went strangely blank. His body was erect and straight and powerful; but it seemed, in those last few seconds, to have become a shell—as if life and volition had been drained from it.

Jenner smiled. He rose from behind his desk and went to Benson.

“Shake hands with me,” he said peremptorily.

Benson’s steely right hand came out and clasped his.

“You will do precisely as you’re told?”

The Avenger’s voice had a dulled and docile quality that no man on earth had ever heard in it before.

“I will do precisely as I am told.”

“Good!” said Jenner, chuckling and going back to his desk. “You have an international reputation for honesty. You are widely known as a very rich man who does not need to steal secrets. We can use you!”

In the hotel-apartment building where Mrs. Cranlowe was staying, Nellie Gray and Rosabel Newton were going out. But they were not going out to call on Mrs. Cranlowe. They were not going out for any social reasons at all.

They were going because there was a gun jammed in the side of each.

“You’re making a mistake, I tell you,” Nellie said.

“Yas, suh, yo’ sho are,” said Rosabel, who, like her husband, Josh, talked quite differently to strangers than to close friends.

The two men with the guns prodded them harder. One of the men was fat and jolly-looking—till you stared a second time. The other had a narrow, mean jaw.

“It’s no mistake,” said the fat man. “You’re hornin’ into somethin’ that’s nobody’s business but ours. So you’ll come with us and tell all about it.”

Nellie considered a reckless move. If she could get that gun away from her side for a second, she could handle three like the fat man, versed as she was in jujitsu.

But she didn’t dare try anything. Not only would she almost certainly be shot; but if she did win free, the other man would probably shoot Rosabel. And Nellie didn’t want to risk the pretty Negress’ life.

“Down the stairs,” said the fat man.

“Down fifteen floors?” gasped Nellie.

“Sure! Why not? You’re young and healthy. Pretty, too,” Fat leered.

“But—”

“Go on, go on!” growled the narrow-jawed man. “There ain’t any elevator operators on stairways to tell the cops, later, about a coupla dames bein’ walked along at the point of a gat.”

Nellie and Rosabel went toward the stairs. There was nothing else to do, with death nudging their ribs like that.

Nellie was coldly furious at herself. She figured this had been her fault. She had been expecting Robert Cranlowe to knock at her door. The inventor’s pleasant son had asked if he could take Nellie to dinner along with his stepmother that evening, and Nellie had jumped at the possibility of getting more information.

He had phoned and mentioned the time that he’d come for her. Nellie could have sworn it was really his voice. But it began to look as if it had not been. Because when she had opened to the knock at her door, at the time given, a gun had been jammed at her by this fat man and another had leveled at Rosabel.

“Why are you kidnaping us, anyway?” Nellie asked, on the long trip down fifteen flights of stairs.

“As if you didn’t know!” snorted the fat man. “Anyway, I told you. You’re hornin’ in where you ain’t wanted.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Cranlowe, babe. Cranlowe! You picked up Mrs. Cranlowe too smooth and easy to be natural. You found out there was a guy trailin’ her, and reported it to somebody or other. We know that because a great big guy with hands like hams suddenly shows up at our headquarters and begins listenin’ in. So we come to get you and have you tell us, like a good little girl, just where you fit.”

There was a closed car in the alley behind the building. The four stepped out the rear door and into the car without a soul seeing them. It was a jolt for Nellie and Rosabel. They’d hoped someone would be around.

The car went out of Garfield City to an old farm. There was a house with the roof gone, and a barn that was a little more intact. The car passed the abandoned house and stopped beside the barn.

The girls were prodded out of the car and into the barn; then the car drove away again. But neither of the two paid much attention to that. They were staring at a man in the barn who was sitting moodily on a moth-eaten-looking bale of hay.

The man was Robert Cranlowe!

“For heaven’s sake—” began Nellie.

Robert Cranlowe shook his head at them in sober sympathy.

“So they got you, too!” he said. “But—why?”

“You mean, you were kidnaped?” said Nellie.

“That would seem to be the word for it,” young Cranlowe growled. “And believe me, if I ever get my hands on some of these bright boys when they haven’t got guns at their shoulders—”

There were three men at the far end of the barn, playing with greasy cards on an upended box.

“Aw, shut up!” grated one.

Young Cranlowe glared, but did as he was told. The card game went on, with the cards making little slapping sounds.

“They must have heard you phone me,” Nellie said, “and then came to my rooms at the time you said you would come—”

“Listen,” one of the three at the box jerked out, “we don’t want to hear anything from any of you! Get that?”

Each had his automatic lying on the box. The man who had spoken picked his up, and faced the two girls and the inventor’s son for a moment. Then he returned his attention to the game, and there was silence.

Nellie glanced at Rosabel, who shrugged a little. And then the dainty blonde, who looked so fragile and soft and helpless, gazed around the place of their confinement.

The barn was small, rough-floored. The floor of the old hayloft above had been removed, leaving a tracery of beams and supporting joists in midair. There was still the ladder up to where the hayloft had once been, now leading to nothing but a warped old beam.

Nellie began to walk slowly around. The ill-tempered man at the upended box looked as if he were going to stop all movement as well as all speech, but finally he snorted and said nothing. Nellie got near the ladder.

Rosabel glanced at her once with alert, comprehending eyes. And the slow minutes passed.

Then another car approached outside. They could hear it roll quietly to a stop beside the barn. A good, powerful, silent car. The heavy barn door slid back and another man came in.

This man was smooth in dress and manner, and had dull, dark eyes, like black onyx.

“Kopell,” said one of the men at the box, looking up from the cards.

The man nodded, and looked with contented eyes at the two girls and young Cranlowe.

“So you picked them up,” he said. “Good enough. Even if we don’t get anything out of them, we’ve got them away from her, so there won’t be any trouble at that end. That was the main thing.”

“You wanted to pop a couple questions at the girls, didn’t you?” said the man at the box.

“Oh, sure,” said Kopell. “If they’ll talk, swell. But it don’t matter much if they refuse.”

“No,” said the man at the box, grinning. “I guess it won’t matter much to ’em—six feet underground.”

CHAPTER XIV

The Black Disk

The Avenger and his aides rarely got into a mess, no matter how perilous, from which they did not emerge with some useful bit of information. It was so in this case, with Nellie Gray.

At least she had the information. Whether or not she was going to be able to emerge with it was something else again. But she was hoping that she was.

Kopell, Garfield City’s Public Enemy Number 1 and underworld leader, came rather carelessly toward the tiny blonde who looked so softly feminine and helpless. She backed against the ladder, presenting an excellent picture of scared girlhood in the hands of bold, bad men.

“Don’t like this so much, huh?” Kopell said to her, smiling wolfishly. “You mix into a big game, and then don’t like it so well when you lose out. Well, you shouldn’t have poked your pretty little nose in it in the first place.”

“In what?” said Nellie innocently. “What big game are you talking about?”

“The game that made you pick up a fast friendship with Mrs. Cranlowe,” said Kopell.

“You all keep talking about that,” said Nellie. “I just happened to meet her in the lobby when I checked into the apartment hotel—”

“And then pumped her for information,” nodded Kopell. “And also spotted the guys we had watching her. But still you don’t know a thing about anything!”

“That’s right,” Nellie said.

“A while ago,” snarled Kopell, “you heard me say it didn’t matter much whether you talked or not. Well, it doesn’t. But I’m curious, like any other guy. I’d like to know where you come into this, who you’re working for, and a lot of other things. If it isn’t too much trouble, I’ll make you or that maid of yours tell. I will now proceed,” he added, with a smirk, “to take some trouble. A good twist of the arm ought to refresh your memory.”

He reached out toward Nellie’s left wrist. He really shouldn’t have. Rosabel knew that and got ready for action. But Kopell, naturally, didn’t know.

He almost got the wrist, and then it had moved up six inches so that he missed his hold. But Nellie Gray did not miss hers. Her small right hand darted out and closed on Kopell’s wrist. It was there for about a second, but the man yelled as if he had laid his hand on a stove.

Nellie’s thumb had found a nerve center and pressed, with the resulting effect of running a large red-hot needle into Kopell’s arm.

That was just for good luck, it wasn’t the main purpose of her clasp. The main purpose came out a breath later, when Kopell suddenly took a header over her outstretched left leg and crashed ten feet away on the splintery floor.

Rosabel screamed then. She shrieked like a steam whistle and jumped toward the side of the barn where a loose plank flapped. She grabbed hold of the plank and began shaking it back and forth, screaming.

There was no sense to it, but there didn’t have to be. Working in perfect unison with Nellie, the Negress had wanted just one thing—to get all eyes on her for a second or two. And her shrieks and crazy actions accomplished this.

Everybody gaped at her for a couple of heartbeats except Kopell, who was dazedly, incredulously picking himself up off the floor. And in that short time, Nellie was six rungs up the ladder. She leaped from there.

Like a dainty projectile, she flew toward the upended box on which the three gunmen had been having their card game. She lit on it, and three guns, which were being snatched up by men who were beginning at last to get really alarmed, went in three different directions. They had been lying on the box. Under the impetus of Nellie’s small foot, they were kicked yards away.

The three grabbed for her. But it was like grabbing for a shadow which you didn’t expect would be in that particular spot at that particular time anyway. She jumped over the head of one of the men and was halfway to the door before they were on their feet.

There was a shot, sounding like a cannon roar in the close confines of the barn. But the shot didn’t hit anything. It had been aimed at Nellie, but Rosabel had found the loose plank in her hands at the moment and had lunged with it. When thrust powerfully under a man’s chin, a plank can be an excellent weapon. Kopell went down again.

“Run!” cried Nellie at the door. “You, too, Robert!”

Rosabel was out almost as quickly as Nellie. The car Kopell had come in was just ahead.

“Robert!” called Nellie. “Hurry up—”

“Get away!” she heard young Cranlowe’s muffled voice. “I— They’ve got me! I can’t—”

Rosabel had the door open. She got into the car, and Nellie dove in after her. The men were at the barn door, having recovered their weapons. They still had blank, incredulous looks on their faces that a girl could do these things to them. They began to shoot. Then they stopped, knowing it was useless. Kopell’s car had been shot at before. It stopped bullets.

Nellie and Rosabel streaked for the road—two girls who, unaided, had gotten away from four armed gangsters.

The speedometer read eighty.

“We don’t have to go so fast,” said Rosabel. “We’re out of range, now.”

“Yes, we do have to go fast,” Nellie retorted. “You heard what that man said when he came in. That we had been gotten away from her so there wouldn’t be any trouble at that end.”

“Yes,” said Rosabel, comprehension dawning in her eyes.

“ ‘Her,’ ” said Nellie, tramping on the accelerator, “must mean Mrs. Cranlowe. The gang must be going to do something to her. If we can just get there in time to stop it—”

It was not the gang, however, that was with Mrs. Cranlowe just then. At least it was not the gang, proper. With her in her apartment was Jenner, or Garfield Gear. He was looking at her pet dog.

“I don’t know what’s the matter with Toby,” Mrs. Cranlowe was saying to the friend of her husband, who had kindly droppped in to see her for a few minutes.

Toby was howling, as dogs howl at the moon—or after a death. He was howling, and pawing at his ears!

“I really don’t know,” began Mrs. Cranlowe again.

Her voice faded to silence, and her eyes got oddly blank. Jenner peered keenly into them, and smiled. He reached into his pocket.

Out of his pocket he took a little black, thick, smooth disk. It was a thing about the size of an old-fashioned key-wind watch. There was a purse of Mrs. Cranlowe’s on a nearby table. He opened the purse, put in the thick black disk, and handed it to her.

“You will not let this purse out of your hands,” he said to the woman.

“I will not . . . let this purse . . . out of my hands,” Mrs. Cranlowe parroted.

“You will go to your husband, at Cranlowe Heights, and get from him the secret formula of his war invention.”

“I will go to my husband . . . and get from him the secret formula . . . of his war invention,” Mrs. Cranlowe repeated.

“Good! He’ll give it to you if you ask it very nicely, as a loving wife knows how to do.” Jenner went to the door with her, and down in an elevator. He talked pleasantly and inconsequentially for the operator’s benefit, but on the street, his manner changed. It was commanding again.

“Drive out at once,” he said. “Bring the formula to my office at Garfield Gear Company, no matter how late it is. I’ll be waiting there.”

Mrs. Cranlowe got into her car, a blue coupé, with no one seeing her. That was because Nellie and Rosabel and Robert Cranlowe had been “gotten out of the way.” But not, it developed, out of the way enough.

Mrs. Cranlowe was driving slowly, as she always drove. She got around the next corner just as Nellie and Rosabel were about to run a red light in their hurry to get back to the building. Mrs. Cranlowe stopped mechanically for the light.

Nellie saw her. She looked for a car of thugs trailing her, and there wasn’t any. She looked for a man in the coupé with her, but she was alone. Nellie was nonplused. She had expected Mrs. Cranlowe to be in mortal danger, and here she was, driving calmly alone.

She got out of Kopell’s car and ran to Mrs. Cranlowe. The light was changing to yellow.

“Mrs. Cranlowe!” she called, tapping at the door glass. “Mrs. Cranlowe!”

Surely her voice was loud enough to be heard. But the inventor’s wife gave no sign of hearing it. She started to drive on. Nellie was left standing in the street, but not for long.

This all seemed mad, and futile. But on impulse, still convinced from what Kopell had said that something threatened this woman, Nellie took three fast steps and caught the rear bumper of the moving car. She hauled herself up on the trunk rack of the coupé, and felt for the rear-deck handle. The compartment was unlocked. She opened it, gazed at Mrs. Cranlowe through the rear window and saw that she was looking straight ahead, apparently unmindful of her new passenger.

Nellie got into the compartment and closed the lid down over her, all but a crack.

Time is exaggerated when you are in a cramped position and can’t see anything. It seemed hours to Nellie before that car stopped again. Actually, Mrs. Cranlowe had reached Cranlowe Heights in about a half-hour.

Nellie, of course, didn’t know they were at Cranlowe Heights. In her dark cubbyhole, she only knew the car had stopped, that a man’s voice had sounded, and then Mrs. Cranlowe’s. After that she felt the car sway as Mrs. Cranlowe got out, and sway again as someone else got in. This was followed by another short drive, up a lane that rattled gravel under the tires. Then the car stopped. Nellie heard the person in it get out and walk away, and, giving herself five minutes, she opened the rear deck of the coupé.

She was in a garage. The rolling front door was splintered as if from a recent accident. There was a shiny, new station wagon and another car in the garage beside the coupé. In front, to one side of the drive, she could see a heavy sedan with the front smashed in. She knew about that wrecked car. The chief had wrecked it. It told Nellie where she was.

Mrs. Cranlowe, supposedly in the shadow of grave danger, had driven out here to her husband’s house. Had she, knowingly or unknowingly, given Kopell’s men the slip? Or was there in her seemingly natural and harmless visit to her husband, some obscure peril to justify Kopell’s words?

Nellie got out of the coupé to find out.

There was a side door to the garage, leading into the house. She stole through that, and was in a long, narrow hall. At the far end was a man with guns in a belt around his waist. She flattened against the wall till he had gone past the open end of the hall. Then she went forward, as soundless as a pink-and-white blond wraith.

She heard the voices long before she had reached the big front hall from which this narrow passage stemmed. Mrs. Cranlowe’s voice, and a man’s. Mrs. Cranlowe had evidently stopped her car at the gate and come into the house on foot, while a man drove the coupé around to the garage.

Nellie got to the front hall. She heard the woman’s voice, languorous and persuasive; heard the man say: “But I don’t understand. Why this sudden solicitude for my invention? And why do you think it would be safer with you than with me?”

Edging closer to the door from which the voices were coming, Nellie heard Mrs. Cranlowe’s reply.

“Because everyone knows I am not familiar with your work, Jesse. I’m afraid I have a reputation for being a little—flighty and frivolous-minded. No one would dream I had the formula. It would be utterly safe with me.”

“I have said I’d never set it down on paper.”

“But, Jesse, suppose something happened to you? Then all your plans for stopping war would be exploded, because everyone would know there was no longer the terrible weapon in existence that would frighten aggressor nations into staying within their own territory. But if you gave me a copy of the formula, your plans could go right on. I could follow out your last wishes.”

“Seems to me you’ve already got me dead and in my grave, all in a space of ten minutes,” grumbled the man. There was a pause, then a sentence that made Nellie’s small fists clench.

“There may be something in what you say—give me pen and paper.”

This must be Cranlowe himself talking. And the pen and paper must be for the purpose of at last actually writing out that formula that was so priceless.

Nellie found her heart thudding rapidly. Something was very wrong here. She felt it, knew it!

But it seemed she was not the only one who suddenly gained that knowledge.

What small word of inflection gave Mrs. Cranlowe away to the inventor, Nellie couldn’t guess, of course. But something certainly did.

“Summers! Come here!” Cranlowe’s voice came screaming from the room. It went on in a tirade compounded of fury and despair. “You! My own wife—a traitor! I wish to heaven I’d never made that discovery! My own wife, coming out here and treacherously trying to get that formula! Summers!”

Nellie was in a slant-ceilinged little closet under the hall stairs when she heard the man she’d seen with the guns at his belt run past in the hall. But the hall closet wasn’t much of a hiding place.

She got out of it and to a door in the rear of the hall. She opened that. It went downstairs. She started down slowly—then began running, as steps in the main hall came straight toward it.

She got to the basement, and jumped for the shelter of some laundry tubs, getting behind them just as the man and Cranlowe came down the stairs with Mrs. Cranlowe between them. For a moment, such was the desperate frenzy in Cranlowe’s deep-set eyes, Nellie thought they were going to kill the woman right there. But they didn’t. They took her to a heavy side door and opened it.

Nellie got a glimpse of a man in there, white-faced but distinguished-looking. It was Dr. Markham, psychiatrist, had she known it. Then they put Mrs. Cranlowe in the prison room, too, and banged the door.

CHAPTER XV

Unholy Convergence

For hours Benson had sat in the private lounging room of Jenner’s office. He had sat there while Jenner went out for an hour or so, and sat there when Jenner returned. He sat there while Jenner waited the results of his dispatching of Mrs. Cranlowe to Cranlowe Heights to tackle the inventor. It was eleven o’clock when a phone call was sent through the deserted plant on a private wire to the president’s office.

“Mr. Jenner? This is Al calling.” The voice was low, guarded. “At the Heights. Can you hear me? I can’t speak any louder. Someone might hear me at this end.”

“I can hear you, all right,” Jenner said.

The man phoning was the fellow named Trillo, who had managed to get himself hired as Cranlowe’s chauffeur after the old man had driven the station wagon into the path of the van.

“It’s no go on Mrs. Cranlowe,” said Trillo, at Cranlowe Heights. “Something slipped. Anyhow, Cranlowe caught on there was something wrong. He tossed her into a cell in the basement.”

Jenner exclaimed sharply. “You’re sure?”

“Yes! It happened quite a little while ago. But this is the first chance I’ve had to call you about it.”

Jenner thought for a moment, then said: “Very well. Stay on out there and keep your eyes open.”

Trillo laughed harshly. “No doubt about my staying out here! You can’t get out of the place. Or in, either.”

“We’ll see about that. About getting in, I mean,” said Jenner.

He made a phone call himself, then went in to where Benson sat.

“Come in here, you,” he said.

Benson got up and came to him. His pale eyes had that blank look in them. It was about the look that had been in Blandell’s eyes when he gave away the dollar bills, and in Cranlowe’s secretary’s eyes when she stepped off the twenty-fourth-floor fire-escape balcony into thin air.

“We are going out to Cranlowe Heights, you and I,” Jenner said to him. “When we get there, you are to try to persuade Cranlowe to give you that formula. You understand?”

“I understand,” said Benson dully.

Jenner’s hand went to Benson’s inner coat pocket. Without resistance it came out again, bearing a thick little leather case. In the case were letters and documents to The Avenger from governors of several states, from the head of the department of justice and from many police chiefs. It was his portfolio of identification.

“Fine,” said Jenner. “Anyone looking over these things would trust you implicitly. Also, Cranlowe has probably heard of you. You will pose as a government emissary and persuade him to ‘sell’ the formula to the war department.”

“Yes,” said The Avenger, in dull obedience.

Jenner took from his pocket a thick black disk of the type he had given Mrs. Cranlowe. About the size of an old-fashioned dollar watch.

“Put this in your pocket. Keep it there.”

Benson put the disk in his pocket and followed Jenner out to the street. He got in Jenner’s car with him and was driven to Cranlowe Heights.

There was a delay at the gate.

“Richard Benson?” came Cranlowe’s voice over the house phone. “Yes, I’ve heard of him. But I don’t know him by sight, and I don’t see what business he has with me.”

“Won’t you take my word for it that this is Mr. Benson with me, and that he must see you?” said Jenner. “He has come from Washington to see you secretly. He knew I was a good friend of yours; so he came to see me first and asked me to get him in to you.”

“Must he talk to me at midnight?”

“He has come at this hour to preserve the secrecy of his mission,” said Jenner.

“I’ve had a hard evening, Jenner,” came Cranlowe’s voice wearily. “A rotten thing happened to me. I won’t go into it. But—if I must see him—”

Cranlowe gave the appropriate order to the guard at the gate. Jenner and Benson were escorted to the iron-studded front door, through the glare of many floodlights.

Lights blaring over the lawn inside the iron fence of Cranlowe Heights. Lights blaring over the bare hill slopes outside the fence. A lighted fortress.

Inside the grounds, The Avenger walked, empty-eyed, beside Jenner. Outside, beyond the range of the floodlights, two cars approached the hilltop, one from the east and the other from the west. The one from the east got to the bottom of the hill first. From it stepped Kopell and four men.

On the other side, the second car stopped and five men got out: the young fellow with the old eyes, the jolly-looking fat guy, the man with the narrow jaw, the big ape who looked like Gargantua and the mixed-breed chap with the slanting eyes.

The five made a silent way around to where Kopell waited. He nodded, without words, in greeting.

Everything converged on Cranlowe Heights. Like a lone king on a chessboard, Cranlowe was being slowly and methodically surrounded by the entire opposite force. There had been one subtle, ruthless move after another designed to wring that formula out of him. Now, this final, concerted effort against him.

He didn’t know about it yet, of course. But he was very shortly to be informed!

Kopell looked at his watch, while his nine choice thugs looked at him. It was ten minutes past midnight. He kept looking at it, and then at the floodlighted expanse between himself and the gate, till five minutes passed.

At a quarter after twelve, as if the thing had happened by clockwork, the floodlights went out.

“Up to the gate,” said Kopell in a low tone.

There were cries from the fence up there.

“The lights! What’s the matter in there?”

“Get those lights on!”

“Must have been a fuse—”

In the sheltering darkness, Kopell and his men ran silently up the hill to the big gate. They knew the lights wouldn’t go on again for a long time. Trillo, in there, had orders to wreck the fuse socket of the floodlight line so it couldn’t be fixed in a hurry.

Sheltering darkness, favorable to a crook’s plan. But darkness can shelter more than crooks. And it was doing so in this case.

One more car had crept up from the east. It had followed Kopell’s at a long distance. The giant, Smitty, was at the wheel. With him in the car were Josh and Mac. Smitty had been trailing Kopell for a long time, waiting for some such move as this. A half-hour before, when the underworld leader had set the nose of his car for Cranlowe Heights, Smitty had collected Mac and Josh and gone after him at once. Now he was very glad of it.

“Looks like they’re going to shoot their way in,” whispered Josh, as the darkness continued and the men ahead made their way to the dim shadow of the iron fence.

“And it also looks as if they had a partner on the inside,” observed Mac.

“I wonder,” said Smitty, not replying to either, “where the chief is?”

Benson, at that moment, was in the library of the inventor, Cranlowe. And on his lips were sentences that had been drilled into him on the way out to the Heights with Jenner, who started the ball rolling now that they were with Cranlowe.

“Mr. Benson is here with the entire authority of the war department,” he said smoothly. “There was a conference in Washington when you released that newspaper statement, and it was finally decided to send him because you, as well as everyone else acquainted with him, must know he is to be trusted completely.”

“I am sure of that, of course,” said Cranlowe, with weary politeness. He had looked over Benson’s credentials.

“I came to see you,” said Benson, “on your new war invention, of course. Your government wants to buy it.”

Cranlowe’s lips were tightening, as they did with every mention of the new weapon. He was shaking his head even before Benson was through speaking.

“My invention is not for sale, even to my own government,” he said. “I am as patriotic as anyone, I think, but my motive is a larger one than patriotism. I mean to stop all wars—”

“Yes, I know,” Benson said. “It is a laudable motive. But a situation has arisen, known only to our Secret Service, which makes patriotism come first. There is an urgent reason why you must sell it to the United States at once.”

“And that?” said Cranlowe skeptically, lips tighter and more stubborn than ever.

“The United States, itself,” said Benson, “is about to be invaded.”

There was silence in the library, broken by a well-rehearsed gasp from Jenner.

“Benson! You didn’t tell me that.”

“I am telling you, now,” said Benson. “And Cranlowe.”

“I can’t believe it,” said Cranlowe, paling. “It is impossible! Who would invade us—and how?”

“We are to be invaded from Guatemala. Air bases have been secretly constructed by the dozen, down there. Thousands of planes have been assembled, waiting only for the signal.”

Cranlowe stared hard at Benson with his deep-set, tired eyes.

“I’m sorry. I simply can’t believe such a thing. An endeavor like that would be instantly known. You can’t hide all knowledge of dozens of air bases and thousands of planes.”

“As I have said, our Secret Service knows of it.”

“More than that would know,” insisted Cranlowe. “Such a large maneuver would become public property before it could be completed. Indeed, it would never be allowed to be completed. Our navy would see to that.”

“It is our policy now not to send armed forces to the Latin American countries—” began Jenner.

“Policy be hanged,” said Cranlowe. “No policy would hold in the face of such a threat.”

“You mean—you think Mr. Benson is lying?” exclaimed Jenner in an outraged tone.

“I mean,” said Cranlowe, “that I think even my own government might connive a little to get such a weapon as I possess—with no thought of using it save in self-defense, I am sure. Nevertheless, they may want it badly enough to stretch the truth a little.”

“You’re a very suspicious man, Cranlowe,” said Jenner with a sigh.

“You would be too, Jenner, in my shoes.”

“Am I to go back to Washington and say that you refuse to co-operate in the face of such a grave emergency?” asked Benson.

Cranlowe looked troubled, and desperate.

“It sounds so fantastic,” he said. “Invasion from Guatemala! If I thought it was really threatening, I’d send you back with the formula tonight, of course. But—I simply can’t accept that on your bare word. With all your prestige and reputation, Mr. Benson, I simply can’t.”

Cranlowe was an intelligent man. He was silent a moment, then said.

“We can do it this way. You go back to Washington to tell our President how I feel. Ask him to get in touch with me in person. If he assures me that what you have said is the truth, I’ll turn my formula over.”

There was a little pause after that, and on Jenner’s face, a hardening, frustrated look. It was going to take something more than logic to answer this all-too-logical thrust!

“Suppose we are invaded in the meantime?” said Benson. “Cities bombed, thousands killed—”

But Cranlowe was shaking his head. No argument could shake the rocklike will of this man with the big-domed skull and deep-set eyes.

“That’s enough,” said Jenner. “Cranlowe is too stubborn and stupid to—”

From out of the night came a weird baying. On the lawn inside the iron fence, the big dogs were howling as if at the moon.

Or as if sensing death in the air.

“The floodlights!” cried Cranlowe, staring out the study window. “They’re out! What on earth—”

CHAPTER XVI

Berserk Guards

Out there, in the darkness by the fence, Kopell and his nine men crouched, dim shadows near the gate. Kopell left the others and went up to the right-hand gate post. He stood there, hidden by it from anyone on the inside.

Beyond the gangsters’ sight, Mac and Josh and Smitty were mere dim shadows in the night. Smitty had a pair of binoculars in his hamlike hands. They had special lenses, worked out mathematically by The Avenger. The lenses were ground to an optical formula, as yet known to no others, which gathered a maximum amount of light where it would seem there was no light to be gathered.

With these exceptional night glasses in his hands Smitty could dimly see the gang leader at the gate, through Josh and Mac couldn’t see him at all.

Smitty saw Kopell take something out of his pocket, and stand with it in his grasp. He couldn’t, of course, see what it was. And if he had seen the black disk Kopell held, he still would not have known what it signified.

From the gate came the voices of two men.

“Stick on this gate hard, Pete. There’s something screwy about those lights burning out the fuse. There’s never been any trouble like that before.”

“You bet,” said the other man. “And you and the rest better walk a fast beat around the fence. Wait. Is the charged wire on top all right?”

There was a short pause, then a blue flash from the top of the fence. The man had thrown something up there to see if the current was dead, and had found it was not.

“O.K.,” said Pete. “I guess—”

That was all that was said. At least by Pete. His voice trailed off uncertainly, and he stood like a statue.

And two dogs near him suddenly began to howl in a weird death bay.

“Pete!” Smitty heard the other man say, voice perplexed. “What’s eatin’ you, man? Pete! Pete—”

There was a roar like that of a small cannon. A roar that was hideously muffled, as a sawed-off shotgun exploded its terrible charge into a man’s middle at short range.

And now Pete was alone at the gate.

Smitty, still stunned by the astounding knowledge that one of Cranlowe’s guards had suddenly whirled and shot another in cold blood, heard Kopell’s voice. He just barely made out the words:

“Go after the rest, pal. And the dogs. Don’t forget the dogs!”

At the same time, Smitty saw Kopell’s hand slide inside the gate bars, and then saw the gate begin to open outward.

The treacherous guard had opened the gate to the enemy. And yet—Smitty had a wild and baseless hunch that something more than treachery was afoot here.

Pete screamed. It was a high, unearthly wail, a lunatic outcry. And there was another shot, and again it was hideously muffled.

There were yells all over the Cranlowe grounds, now.

“Get Pete! Get him! He’s gone nuts!”

Wild shouts and the excited baying of the dogs. Then another shot, and one of the deeper bell-notes of a dog abruptly ceased as a shotgun blew its head off.

“He’s over there, in the corner. For Heaven’s sake, get him!”

Kopell had beckoned silently. His men came up to him. One by one they slid into the grounds, under cover of the hell that had broken loose with the berserk charges of a madman with a shotgun in his hands. They started toward the house.

“This is it,” whispered Smitty to Josh and Mac. “The payoff. I don’t know how in the world they managed to do that to the guard. But—come on!”

The three crept in through the opened gate at a safe distance behind Kopell’s mob.

The wild commotion was at the back of the house, now. For probably the first time since Cranlowe had announced his invention, felled all the trees and hired the guards, one whole side of his place was left vacant and unattended.

Kopell’s gang got to the iron-studded door, with Smitty and Mac and Josh forty yards behind. The gang had not the faintest notion that they were being trailed.

Nor had Benson’s three aides any idea that they had a silent follower. But such was the case.

Behind the three came one more figure, slim, silent, head down. The trailers were being trailed!

In the study, Cranlowe had leaped toward the door with the sound of the shots. And Jenner had interposed his bulk. Cranlowe drew back, knowing something terrible was up, ready to charge the plant president.

“Benson!” snapped Jenner. “Get him. Get Cranlowe.”

The Avenger stepped, like a docile robot, toward the inventor. Cranlowe yelled and tried to run. Benson was on him with one quick move. He hurled Cranlowe to the floor, and looked up at Jenner for further orders.

“Tie him up, Benson.”

Panting, raging, Cranlowe struggled. But he was a child, of course, in those steely white hands. Benson took the window drapes, torn down and tossed to him by Jenner, and bound Cranlowe with them.

“So you’re a man of honor,” Cranlowe raged to the man with the white hair and the dead face. “And you, Jenner, are my lifelong friend! Is every one in the world against me, just because I tried to save the world?”

Jenner didn’t even bother to reply to that one. He came and stood over Cranlowe.

“The formula, Cranlowe,” he said, voice level and emotionless. “I want it. At once.”

“You won’t get it. Nothing will make me give it up.”

“Nothing?” said Jenner. “I wonder. We have still another ace to play, my friend. Your son! Do you think much of your son?”

Cranlowe stopped his convulsive struggling and stared up at Jenner in a great silence. His eyes seemed to withdraw farther into his skull than ever.

“What . . . do you mean?” he whispered at last.

“Would you hold your formula as more precious than your son?”

Cranlowe was silent, glaring.

“Robert Cranlowe is being held at this moment,” said Jenner. “He will be unhurt, if we get the formula. If we do not—”

“You wouldn’t kill him,” whispered Cranlowe. “You wouldn’t do that, Jenner. No matter what else you’ve become, you’re not a murderer.”

“Do you want to wager Robert’s life on that?” said Jenner. “Or—do you want to write out the formula?”

Cranlowe began struggling again, exhausting himself against the tightness of his bonds. Finally he stopped. Jenner said, emotionlessly:

“I swear he’ll die, Cranlowe, if you don’t do as you’re told. And he won’t die a very pretty death, either.”

The inventor lay very still and straight, staring up at the plant president.

“Well?” said Jenner.

Cranlowe spoke, then, in a tone that was hoarse and cracked, but still indomitable.

“With that formula, a warlike nation could conquer the earth, and uncounted thousands would die in the process. With the formula in the wrong hands, I would become a kind of monster, for inventing such a thing. Whereas, used for peace, it can be a great blessing. My answer, Jenner, is— No!”

“It won’t be used for peace if something happens to you. It will die with you, and all your work will have been for nothing. And your son will have given his life for nothing.”

“Not for nothing,” said Cranlowe hoarsely. “At least the weapon will have been kept from evil uses. I am sorry. I hope for forgiveness. But my own son will have to die for the sake of a threatened humanity.”

It was a complete failure for the plant president, apparently. But he only smiled.

From his pocket he drew another of the black disks. He came toward Cranlowe with it. He clicked a tiny knob on its side, like the stem of a watch, only smaller. There was a tiny, shrill buzzing sound, which almost at once went up beyond the range of Cranlowe’s hearing.

Jenner had paid no attention to Benson as he did these things. Why should he? The white-haired man was his machine, with will completely chained—

The Avenger’s foot danced out in a move almost too swift to follow. It caught Jenner on the wrist, and the black disk flew to the far end of the room.

With his mouth literally open with surprise, Jenner jumped for Benson. A lashing fist caught him on the jaw with delicate precision. He fell as if anaesthetized.

“I guess,” said The Avenger quietly, “I’ve learned about all I could in my role as automaton.”

CHAPTER XVII

Last Stand

“So you’re friend and not enemy,” said Cranlowe, as Benson began to untie him. “And it’s Jenner who is the false friend—the brains behind these attacks.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” said The Avenger.

“The round black thing,” said Cranlowe, bewildered. “And your obedience to Jenner’s orders—”

“The one was the cause of the other. At least, Jenner thought so. I went to his office, some hours ago, to have a talk with him. Suddenly I heard a tiny buzzing sound, like that which came from the disk a minute ago when he began to work on you. It kept going up in volume and pitch. But I still kept hearing it, when most people would not have. My ears are pretty keen. The answer came to me before it was too late: something about that disk was what made men go mad—or at least obey someone’s orders to do mad things. I pretended to be in a deep trance, before the pitch of the thing had reached a point where I really would have lost control of my voluntary thought-processes. And the sound stopped at that point. And stayed there.”

Benson drew out the disk Jenner had said to keep always with him.

“Can you hear the buzz of this thing?” he said.

Cranlowe shook his head.

“Queer,” said Benson, colorless eyes glittering. “I can. My hearing must be quite different from that of most people.”

He turned the little stem of the thing slowly counterclockwise. And the high pitch of the vibrating thing inside lowered as his fingers moved. He pressed the stem, and the intense, high noise stopped.

He opened the black disk.

“A tiny but powerful battery, and a vibrating tongue between two little hard-rubbed diaphragms,” he mused. “With a rheostat action to slow or hasten the vibrator.”

He set the rheostat back as far as it would go, and started the shrill little vibrator again. Now he could hear it as plainly as any other sound. Even Cranlowe caught it, a little bit.

“I’ve heard that sound before,” he said swiftly. “Yes, now I remember. Vibration— Bacteria—”

He took the thing in his fingers.

“Years ago,” he said, “I performed an experiment at Garfield Gear. I tested the effect of rapid vibration on bacteria. It was my thought that possibly vibration, at the precise pitch might kill bacteria. So I devised a vibrating machine. Like this, only not so compact and perfected. The experiment didn’t work out satisfactorily; so I abandoned the whole thing. But I remember—one of the workmen acted queerly during one stage of the affair.”

Benson nodded, pale eyes like ice in his white, dead face.

“Somebody else remembered,” he said. “And somebody continued to work on it, not to use against bacteria, but against people.”

“I still don’t quite comprehend—”

“Vibratory hypnosis,” said The Avenger. He stopped the little thing. While the sound was audible, it hurt the eardrums.

“Vibration may not destroy bacteria as you had hoped it would,” he said. “But it appears that the right kind of vibration, up beyond the range of hearing, numbs the voluntary nerve centers and makes a man a machine to obey the orders of a ruthless master. The rheostat, for subtly changing the pitch, indicates that every individual has a slightly different vibration point at which hypnosis is reached. Whoever holds the vibrator would slowly increase the pitch till the reaction of his victim told him the proper point had been reached. Then he would hold it there; as long as that vibration played on the man’s brain, he was that man’s master.”

“And you divined that,” said Cranlowe, “and pretended to be hypnotized before the exact pitch had been reached?”

“Yes.”

“Thank heaven you had the wit for it. For if Jenner had turned one of those things loose on me, he’d certainly have the formula by now, to sell to whatever greedy nation offered the most money—”

“I don’t think Jenner would have sold it to anyone,” said Benson. He bent over the prostrate form of the plant manager, began going through his pockets. “The formula would have meant nothing to Jenner, personally—”

His fingers felt a disk in Jenner’s vest pocket. He drew it out.

“I think we’ll find, when Jenner comes to, that he hasn’t the faintest idea how he got out here, or what he did after he arrived. More, I think we’ll find that Jenner doesn’t know anything he has done for weeks.”

“You mean—”

“I mean Jenner is the tool and not the master. I think he was probably the first person one of these diabolically clever little disks was used on. Since then he has been playing an unknown master’s game, seeming to be the head of the conspiracy, but actually only acting that part.”

“A hypnotized man hypnotizing still others?”

“Exactly!” said The Avenger.

Cranlowe shook his head. “Someone is as smart as the devil himself—I think we’d better see what those shots were awhile ago. Evidently my men repelled an attack of some kind—”

“That’s what you think,” came a snarling voice from the door.

Kopell stepped into the room, submachine gun leveled. And behind him came nine men comprising the cream of Garfield City’s underworld.

The Avenger’s pale, deadly eyes drilled into Kopell’s dull, black ones. Benson stood with his hands raised a little, and death pointing at him from half a dozen sources. But even at that there was something about his gray steel, limber body that filled the men with uneasiness.

“Well,” Benson said, voice as emotionless as his dead face, “I’ve seen carefully planned criminal actions, but never one more methodically plotted out than this one. If none of the many previous thrusts were successful, you were to come in here and complete the thing by brute force. Is that it?”

“Something like that,” said Kopell. He grinned at the jolly-looking fat man who was one of his most murderous lieutenants. “Looks like you owe me five grand, Fats. The dough I paid you to put this white-headed guy and his pals out of the way. You may have pushed their sedan into the lake, but they didn’t stay in the sedan! So you’ll just kick back with the money. See?”

Fats was swearing in a half-awed tone.

“They must be wizards or something to have gotten out of that jam.”

“Well, we won’t go into it, now. We’ll do what we came here to do. Get that formula—”

A sort of scream from Cranlowe interrupted him. The inventor’s self-control had shattered to bits with this last of a day full of intolerable surprises.

“You won’t get it! You hear? You’ll never get it! You drove mad, and then murdered, my financial backer to get me out of my protected home. You injured my driver so that a spy of yours could take his place. You made my secretary kill herself, to try and get another spy in here. You sent Dr. Markham out to try to mesmerize my secret from me. You sent my wife out, hypnotized—as I can see now, thank heaven—for the same purpose. You hold my son’s life in your hands. Now you burst in here with guns. But you will not get the formula! Never, never, never!”

Self-control gone. But not his indomitable will. That would not crack, no matter what was done.

Kopell stared at the inventor with something like grudging admiration in his eyes.

“You’re kind of a tough customer,” he said. “But you’re licked before you start. As you’ll find out soon—”

“You can kill me, but I won’t tell you what you want to know,” screamed Cranlowe hysterically—but unchangeably.

“Maybe we’ll do that, too,” shrugged Kopell. He looked at Fats. “Tie him up, again.”

The fat man and the big fellow who should have been named Gargantua, retired Cranlowe in the heavy drapes.

“Now go out the back way and round up whatever guards the guy Pete didn’t get,” Kopell snapped. “And get rid of any dogs that might be left alive.”

Three of the men went out. In a moment there were four quick shots, then the tramp of returning feet. Five pairs of feet coming back, where only three had gone. And the owner of one of the pairs moaned as he was forced along.

“Lock the monkeys upstairs,” said Kopell. “Then we’ll have the whole joint, all to ourselves, to play around in.”

Benson’s eyes were like chips of ice under a polar moon. But he could only watch, for the moment, while this crew of murderers went from one triumph to another.

There was another who could only watch, fruitlessly, for the moment. That was a diminutive blonde who could see out a crack in the hall-closet door and into the library, by the aid of a mirror hanging on the library wall just inside the portal.

Nellie Gray had crept in here, in the back of Mrs. Cranlowe’s coupé, and couldn’t get out again past the dogs and guards. Now she was glad she’d had to flit from hiding place to hiding place like a ghost for these past few hours. For now she felt that right here was precisely where she should be, to help the chief, if possible.

She bit her short, pretty upper lip as she saw the previous rescue work of The Avenger, when he knocked out Jenner and untied Cranlowe, being all undone again. Then she pressed her hand against her lips to keep back a cry as she saw something else.

The big head of a man who must be a giant, so far was that head from the floor, poked into the hall from the garage corridor for an instant. Smitty! He was here!

Smitty and Mac and Josh were all in that narrow corridor. They had slipped into the house after Kopell and his men without much trouble, because Kopell was so utterly without suspicion that anyone but his gang was within miles of the Heights. Now the three were just hanging around waiting to edge into the game at some effective moment.

But this was not that moment. Not with nine heavily armed men—some with submachine guns in their hands—present and alert. They had almost taken a chance on it when the three went out back to get the surviving guards. But they had let the moment slide.

“And we won’t be gettin’ another chance as good,” whispered Mac, pessimistically. “That cooked us when we didn’t take advantage of it.”

“Will you stop your croaking?” Smitty snapped back, in an answering whisper.

“Croakin’, is it?” retorted Mac. “When ye’re six feet under, lookin’ like a sieve from tommy bullets, ye’ll wisht ye’d had sense enough—”

“We’d better not even whisper,” said Josh. “We aren’t any too well hidden in this hall.”

Black of skin and wearing dark clothes, the colored man could scarcely be seen at all. Only white eyeballs and a flash of ivory teeth showed where he was.

“You are hidden well enough,” Smitty grunted. But there was wisdom in Josh’s words. So they kept silent after that.

They crept to the mouth of the corridor again, and for a second time Smitty poked his head out to look around. There was no one there. They were entirely unseen and unsuspected—

They did not, of course, know of the lone figure that had trailed them in here. They could not guess at the presence of the slim, well-dressed young man behind them, right now, who had put over his face a mask made of a dark-blue silk handkerchief that hid all his features.

They didn’t hear him creep up on them, slowly, one noiseless step at a time, till he was within six feet of the giant, Smitty.

He stood there, with his hand held flat, clutching something.

If there had been a dog around, the dog would have howled. But there was no dog, and Smitty, of course, could not hear the thin, high vibration that was being directed at him!

CHAPTER XVIII

The Masked Man

Four guns were leveled on The Avenger. The four men who held them were in awe, almost afraid, of the man’s absolutely expressionless face. They did not know of the paralysis responsible for its utter immobility. All they knew was that here was a man who showed no emotion of any kind in a situation where any one of them would be scared witless.

The white-haired man’s eyes bothered them, too. They were icy, colorless slits in the white, dead face; and they seemed to hold quiet promise of doom for every man in the library belonging to Kopell’s mob.

But because they were a little afraid, the four were even readier than usual to shoot if an order was disobeyed or a quick move made. The Avenger sensed that and knew that he had better keep quiet.

“Down to the basement with him,” Kopell said. “There are some tricks down there that’ll keep him busy, I’ve been told.”

“Cranlowe, too?” said one of the men.

“No! Keep him up here. We’ll come back and work on him later.”

“ ‘We’ll’ work on him?” said the man, glancing at the still unconscious Jenner. “What about the boss, there?”

Kopell grinned. It was a deadly, cold grimace.

“Look! We’re after a thing worth more dough than any of us ever thought existed. We got a chance to get that thing for ourselves, now. Why share it with him or anyone else?”

There were murmurs of approval. The four men marched Benson downstairs. Kopell and the rest came too, leaving Cranlowe lying bound and helpless on the floor.

Kopell nosed around. He found the door leading to the locked-off cellar room, through which ran the deep chasm, and peered down its shuddery depths. Then he found the door behind which were imprisoned a bewildered psychiatrist and an equally bewildered and hysterical woman.

“Who are you?” snapped Dr. Markham to Kopell. “I demand to be let out of here. Where am I, anyhow? And how did I get here? Who put the little phonograph in my bag?”

“Where is my husband?” wailed Mrs. Cranlowe. “Did he bring me here? And why does he allow me to stay a prisoner?”

“Sure, boys and girls,” grinned Kopell. “You’ll be let out. And then you’ll go by-by, down toward the center of the earth. You won’t be able to blab what you might know, down there.”

He herded them into the dread, earth-floored cellar room. And then he had Benson prodded in there, too.

“One more,” he said. “Get Jenner, from upstairs. He can keep the others company down there.”

Two men went up and came back with the unconscious plant manager. They dumped him next to the chasm.

The two men had just gotten down the basement stairs when a low voice said in the hall behind Smitty and Mac and Josh:

“Get them!”

Mac and Josh whirled, hands going for their guns. They saw, at last, the slim, lone figure behind them. But they had no chance to do anything about it.

A vast paw clamped on the throat of Josh, and another poised like a mallet over the dour Scot’s head.

“Smitty!” croaked Mac. “Have ye gone insane, mon? What—”

The great fist smashed down, and Mac was all through protesting. It was a favorite blow of the giant’s, because of his great height and strength: a hammer blow straight down on a man’s skull. It usually put them out for many minutes.

Josh, in the meantime, was struggling like a black cat. But he wasn’t getting anywhere with it. Either of the two were grim fighters ordinarily. But against the vast strength of their own comrade, they were helpless.

Josh got one frantic kick at Smitty’s shins. So the giant simply held him off at arm’s length, in one hand, till Josh wasn’t struggling any more. Then he dropped him beside Mac, and turned to the slim, masked figure in the corridor.

Smitty’s eyes were blank, and there was a strange and eerie docility in his face. He was waiting, like a robot, for orders.

For a moment the masked young man seemed to hesitate in thoughts. Then he said:

“Take them down to the basement— Wait!”

Down the big front hall which right-angled this corridor, Nellie Gray had seen all the gang go to the basement. She figured it was safe for her to slide out of the stair closet.

She had given herself a few minutes to make sure—and now took this unfortunate moment for her exit.

She came straight to the narrow corridor. Down there she could see only indistinct figures; but her own shapely figure was clearly silhouetted against the light in the main hall.

“Smitty,” she whispered.

Afterward, she thought she had heard very faintly the words:

“Get her. Take her down too.”

But she wasn’t sure of that; and at the moment she paid no attention at all, such was the freakishness of the big man’s reaction to her whisper.

Smitty came toward her and for an instant she felt safe again. Because Smitty had been her tower of strength in a tight place more than once. But then, next instant, she would have turned and run. For then she saw his face.

“Smitty!”

His big, moon face was strangely blank, and his eyes seemed to look at her, but not actually to see her.

His great right hand shot out and got her by the shoulder.

“Smitty, for Heaven’s sake stop clowning around. I don’t know how you got here, but there’s work to be done. They’ve got the chief—”

This time she didn’t hear the words at all, even faintly. But they came distinctly to the giant’s ears.

“Take her down first, and come back for the others.”

Nellie wanted to scream as she had never wanted to in her life before. But she kept it back. She fought like a little tigress while the man she was accustomed to regard as a comrade dragged her like a kicking child to the rear stairs and down into the basement.

Kopell and four of his men were in the space at the foot of the stairs when the giant appeared on the bottom step. The rest were in the other room. Kopell had a gun in his hand, ready to drill the man making the noise on the steps.

But his dull, black eyes narrowed thoughtfully and he withheld the shot.

“This is one of the guys that was in the sedan! We know that now,” bleated Fats. “Don’t you think we ought to burn him down?”

“Wait!” commanded Kopell, staring at the giant’s blank eyes, and watching his oddly mechanical actions as he dragged the girl into the center of the concrete-floored room before releasing her. The man with the narrow jaw grabbed her, then, as she turned to dart back to the stairs.

“Who is she?” said Kopell, gun still steady on Smitty but eyes full of dawning comprehension.

“Nellie Gray. She works for Richard Benson,” said the giant docilely.

“Smitty!” blazed the tiny blonde.

But the giant paid her no attention, nor did the others.

“Hold a gun on her! Don’t try to hold her with your hands,” Kopell said. “She’s as dangerous as any man, if you get close to her.”

But he was staring at Smitty. Even Fats was getting it, now.

“Hey, he’s all coked up or something, ain’t he?” he said.

Kopell said slowly, “Not exactly coked up. But something like it. I guess Jenner brought him along, fixed up so he’d do what he’s told.”

Smitty was turning and going back to the stairs.

“We ought keep him in sight—” Fats began doubtfully.

“No! Let him go. I’ll trail him.”

Kopell went after Smitty, up to the narrow corridor. There the giant got Josh by the belt in one hand, and Mac similarly by the other, and began lugging them to the basement that way.

“Well, well!” said Kopell, putting his gun up at last. “So Jenner had you after these two, before he was conked, with orders to get rid of them. Good stuff, big boy. You’re going to be a handy guy to have around. I can see that. What the hell is it about those round black things that can do this to a guy? I could use them in my business, plenty!”

Kopell saw the two men Smitty picked up. And he went back down to the basement after the giant with no knowledge, whatever, of still another man in the hall.

The masked man had utilized the stair closet that had thrice sheltered Nellie, when the big man came back up. He slipped out, now.

He went to the library and stared in. Cranlowe glared back from the floor, bound and raging but still unshakable. Cranlowe didn’t remark much to himself on the appearance of this new figure. All he knew was that still another of his murderous enemies was after him.

The man walked in, alone with the bound inventor. He was utterly unidentifiable. You couldn’t even see his eyes, behind the blue silk handkerchief acting as a mask. The slits for eyeholes were too narrow for that.

“Luck is with me,” the masked man murmured. His voice was obviously disguised as well as his features. “Things are working out even better than I had planned.”

His hand was going into his pocket as he spoke. It came out with one of the black disks.

“The last,” he said. “But I won’t need any more. Just this one for you; then I’m all through.”

He set the stem. Cranlowe, horrified, heard the first shrill whine of the thing that was going to make an obedient machine of him; then the whine rose beyond hearing.

“My gracious scapegoat, Jenner, is in the basement,” the masked man went on contentedly. “With him are your wife, and that fool psychiatrist. Also all of Benson’s gang save the little Negress, whom I can kill easily, a little later. Also Kopell and all of his gang who know anything about this affair. Two small moves will leave me with the formula, alone, with not one soul knowing I have it. One move is to lock everyone in the cellar, with that nice thick iron bar you have on your oak door. The other is to fire the house.”

Cranlowe’s eyes were beginning to reflect a dawning recognition of the masked young man—and a wild incredulity. But they were also beginning to dull a bit, too.

The masked man watched him intently, hand on the tiny stem in the black disk.

“Curious,” he said, his mask moving a little with the words. “For every individual, a slightly different vibration point at which his conscious brain is numbed. The exact pitch for one will work with no other— Ah!”

The inventor’s deep-set eyes had blanked out at last. The masked man set the little disk so that the pitch at which Cranlowe’s vibratory hypnosis point occurred, should continue as long as he wished to hold the man in bondage.

He stepped to the library table and came back with pen and ink and paper. He unbound Cranlowe’s right hand.

“Write the formula!” he said.

And obediently, without a tremor, Cranlowe’s hand began to move—to set down the priceless formula that he had withstood murder and threat, kidnap of son and blandishments of wife, to keep inviolate.

CHAPTER XIX

The Grim Joker!

Kopell had a sense of humor. He was a joker. His sense of humor was rather crude, but it was easily roused. It was roused in this case, for a joke that he thought would be the best of his life. A little on the grim side, but excellent for all that.

It had occurred to him that it would be funny for the giant, Smitty, to throw Benson and the others down the chasm, one by one, and then obediently jump down it himself. Very, very funny!

In the earth-floored part of the basement, the rest watched the cruel grin grow on the mob leader’s face with varying expressions of their own.

Mac, still a little dazed from the blow on his head, stared with bitter blue eyes promising what he’d do to the man if he ever had a chance. Josh, as sensitive to hunches as any of his race, looked with growing, cold apprehension. Nellie stared at the mobster as one would stare at a black widow spider.

Benson, alone, had no expression on his face. It was as emotionless as a white desert of ice; but from it, his pale, deadly eyes stared in full comprehension of what was in the wind. He had seen Kopell’s furtive glance at the chasm, and then at the docile giant, and the icy genius of his mind had picked up the gangster’s intent immediately.

Mrs. Cranlowe and Markham only cowered a little lower on the floor. But the gang looked very expectant. They were used to their leader’s jokes, and his grin told them another was on its way. Boy, this would be good!

Kopell kept silent for a full minute, savoring the situation. Then he gave his order.

“You, big fella, toss the girl down the crack in the ground.”

“Hey!” one of the gang said. “She’s cute!”

“She’ll be cuter when she can’t talk,” snapped Kopell. “Go on, you big ape!”

There was a fluid flash of movement that took everyone by surprise. It came from The Avenger. At one instant Benson was ten feet from Smitty. At the next, he was on the big man.

“Get the white-headed guy!”

“Burn him down—”

“Hold it!” yelled Kopell.

This was going to be fun, too. And even the white-headed guy couldn’t do any real harm with nine men around to blast him, if necessary.

Benson’s steely white hands grasped Smitty’s big arms.

“Smitty! Come to your senses, man! You’ve just been told to kill Nellie Gray! Nellie Gray! Don’t you understand?”

Smitty shook loose from the grip, china-blue eyes on Benson’s face with no recognition in them at all. He turned toward the horrified blonde again.

Nellie leaped back. She was afraid of death—who is not? But she had faced it before with no fraction of the sheer terror she felt, now. Death was bad enough—but to receive it from a man she knew was more than fond of her, and whom she held in high regard, too, was many times worse!

She leaped back. And Smitty followed with a long step. Then Benson jumped like a gray cougar on the giant’s broad back.

There was a quick, marvelously deft move, and the giant was sprawled on the floor on his face, with Benson atop him. But the position didn’t last long. No man could restrain so easily the titanic strength of the giant.

Smitty arched his huge back. Benson slid half off. Smitty shook himself like a big dog ridding its coat of water, and Benson lost the rest of his hold.

Almost holding their breaths, the gang watched the encounter. A man as fast as light, with a body seeming to be made out of steel—-but, after all, only of average size and weight pitted against a fellow who weighed close to three hundred pounds and yet carried his bulk as lightly as a lightweight boxer.

A weird note was added, due to the fact that neither of the two had an emotion on his face. Smitty’s was as blank and impersonal as Benson’s. It was like a struggle between two machines—but machines of power and speed to make your hair stand on end.

“Gosh!” breathed Fats.

With the instant of his fall from Smitty’s back, Benson was up and in again, lacing out two blows like rapier thrusts for the giant’s jaw. Smitty, a little slower in recovery, was still on his knees. The blows hit flush, but he only shook his head and got all the way up. Mac groaned, and Nellie’s lips moved.

Benson tried a third blow, and Smitty’s huge hand caught his arm. It was like catching and holding a steel bar, but the giant held it till he could get his other arm around Benson’s middle. Then he squeezed, like a great bear.

Benson’s head went back, neck cording with his effort. His arms spread out at the sides and he twisted just a little in the terrific grip!

“Gosh!” breathed Fats again.

No man could break that gigantic grip. But—The Avenger did it. He twisted again, got one hand loose long enough to whip it up behind the giant’s back and find a nerve spot at the base of the skull. Smitty staggered and let Benson slide free.

The Avenger bored in once more. Smitty’s fist raised to smash down on the top of his head. Benson ducked sideways with his fluid swiftness—but not quite far enough! The fist crashed on the cap of his left shoulder, and even though Benson had rolled with the blow, his left arm hung limp from that moment.

When wounded or outnumbered, attack. That was The Avenger’s slogan, and he followed it, now. He leaped for Smitty almost before the giant had brought his arm back from the crippling blow. Leaped for him and tried to get the deadly neck pressure, again.

The giant could have killed him, now. But there was something lacking in the heavy swing with which he hurled the white-faced Avenger off of him. There was a certain spirit and ferocity gone, and there was also, for the first time, some expression on his face. He stared around—

“What—” began Kopell.

The narrow-jawed man snarled, “Hey! I believe the guy is maybe snappin’ out of it—”

Benson crouched where he had ended after Smitty’s wild swing. And in his pale, inexorably eyes was a queer glint of satisfaction. It was too bad for the gang that they couldn’t see that pale glint, and know by some sort of sorcery what had caused it.

Benson hadn’t attacked the giant with any intent to overcome him. If he had, there might have been a different outcome. And Benson’s left arm wasn’t nearly as numbed as its posture indicated. It was all pretense. All an act to permit him to do one thing. And that thing he had done!

At the very first of the fight, Benson’s deft hand had slipped into Smitty’s pocket and closed on the black disk he knew must be there, keeping the giant in submission.

He had withdrawn the disk and thrown it down the chasm by a furtive movement entirely lost in the ferocity of the fight he was staging. Then he had prolonged the fight only in order to let Smitty’s mind clear.

Now, it was clearing.

The Avenger’s aides had minds and bodies very nearly as fleet as the gray steel man’s own. The gang was beginning to catch on—but Nellie and Mac and Josh knew. And in an instant they had begun to act on that knowledge, with the unspoken unity that made them such a perfect small crime-fighting corps.

They began to separate, moving unobtrusively so as not to attract attention.

They didn’t have to try. The gang didn’t have much attention to spare for them. They were too occupied with watching the giant who was changing so disconcertingly. One of the men leveled his gun at Smitty’s great back.

The reaction to that came from a source almost completely forgotten by Benson’s aides, as well as by the mob.

Dr. Markham was about as frightened as an intelligent man can be, but he was not too frightened to have been looking for a weapon ever since the change in Smitty began to become apparent. Not having been able to find any missile, he had jerked off his shoe.

The shoe hurtled neatly forward and caught the man aiming the gun at Smitty squarely at the back of his head. It wasn’t much of a blow, but it jerked his finger convulsively before it was ready to constrict on the trigger, and sent the shot into the floor.

The shot started it. Things had gone wrong with Kopell’s joke. There was no use fooling around any longer. Shoot these mugs, and be done with it.

But then the unobtrusive moves of Mac and Josh and Nellie showed their value. None of them were where the gang had left them, in a little knot by the chasm. They were all over the place.

And next to the wall, the guy with the prematurely white hair and the death-pale eyes was stooping to get at something at the calves of his legs.

Kopell cursed and raised a tommy gun to finish The Avenger off with a burst. As he did so, an automatic spoke behind him as one of the men fired at Mac.

But the shot at Mac went wild because Josh was on the shooter’s back a fraction of a second before it was aimed. And a man who was following the Negro’s shifting body with a gun muzzle, had to hold his fire because he was afraid he’d shoot his pal.

Kopell, meanwhile, was too busy to see that the diminutive Nellie Gray was streaking toward him like a blond rocket. He had The Avenger over his sights, and then he didn’t have anybody over them. He was doing a kind of pinwheel imitation in midair, with his right arm as the axle and his body as the wheel. Nellie had exerted a little deft pressure at just the right spot, and his own weight and strength had been used against him to do the rest.

There was shooting all over the place. But the gang were shooting, they began to think, at ghosts. Highly co-operative ghosts. When you aimed at one, something smacked you from side or rear. When you whirled, the one you’d aimed at, first, slugged you unconscious.

Kopell had retained his grip on the submachine gun when he fell. Nellie’s high, sharp heel persuaded his hand to relax. She stooped for it, but he managed to bat it out of both their reaches.

Then Smitty was in the fight. With a roar that still had a note of bewilderment in it as to how he had gotten here and what he had been about to do when he unaccountably regained his senses, he jumped at three of Kopell’s men who happened to be standing in a little knot.

One yelled and fired, and the slug got the giant in the leg. Another fired—and drilled one of his own pals just beyond Smitty’s flying form, in the back of the neck. Then the giant was on them, and those three weren’t doing any more shooting. Smitty couldn’t stand any more, but he could, and did, put his vast arms around all three and drag them helpless to the floor in his own fall.

And, now, another ghastly thing was happening. A man of Kopell’s, with no one near him at all, sank to the floor without a sound or a further move. There was a gash on the exact top of his head as if he had been blackjacked—but there wasn’t a soul around to blackjack him.

Another, ten feet from him, fell with the same kind of gash on his head, and Kopell’s crew began yelling like maniacs! Somehow, although it couldn’t possibly have happened, the tables were being turned on them.

The big fellow who looked like Gargantua turned dumbly for Kopell, to see what was to be done. He saw Kopell being thrown a second time by a little bit of a blonde who looked as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, saw the blonde reach for Kopell’s tommy gun.

Gargantua aimed from the hip for a quick shot that would put a hole in the pretty head under the silky blond hair. And with the move he screamed something and dropped his gun, to stare in agonized bewilderment at his hand.

There was a slim, needle-pointed dagger in his hand, transfixing it neatly.

The Avenger had gone to work with his weapons.

Benson had probably the strangest pair of weapons the world holds. He kept them strapped in slim sheaths on right and left calf, below the knee. He called one Mike and the other, Ike.

Mike was a streamlined, special .22 revolver with a tiny cylinder holding only four cartridges and with a specially devised silencer on it. With this, The Avenger “creased” enemies; smashing a slug across the top of their heads so that they would be knocked unconscious but not killed.

Ike was the dagger which Gargantua found transfixing his hand before he could shoot at Nellie—a throwing knife with a hollow tube for a handle with which Benson could hit a flyspeck from twenty feet.

Nellie had her hands on the submachine gun, now. Kopell saw it, and leaped for her with a savage yell. His feet were aimed at her head, to crush her skull. But he had jumped too fast to reckon his distance properly, and to realize just how close Nellie was to the edge of the deep chasm.

Nellie twisted aside like a blond shadow, so that the flying feet missed their cruel aim. Kopell went right on, hands clawing as he lit, but not stopping his slide in the dirt.

His body hurtled over the edge. For an instant he clung with just his fingertips, hanging over the brink of the cleft with the dank, cold air whipping up around him from the secret river far, far below.

His scream was a ghastly thing in the closed cellar. Then it was receding as his body plummeted down. Quite a joker, Kopell. A grim joker! But death had proved the grimmest and most effective joker of all, and had directed his jest at Kopell.

A man racing from the infuriated pursuit of Mac, turned to fire at him. And there was a burst from Kopell’s gun. The slugs shaved his head and knocked craters in the basement wall beside him. The man gasped at the unexpectedness of it, then yelled hoarsely as he realized how close the marksmanship had been.

“Drop the gun,” said Nellie Gray. “Or next time I’ll shoot your ears off. And I can do just that!”

There was silence where there had been pandemonium.

Four men lay unconscious on the floor. Gargantua was groaning and nursing his streaming hand. Kopell was floating down a subterranean river. The young man with the old eyes, the man with the narrow jaw and the fellow with the slant, Mongol eyes, were released from Smitty’s tremendous embrace to join Fats—facing Nellie’s submachine gun.

“And that’s that,” said Nellie. “Where’s the chief?”

Benson was no longer in the basement room. But Nellie didn’t look very hard. Her eyes caught the red stream welling from Smitty’s columnar leg.

“Smitty!” she gasped. “Smitty! Are you hurt badly?”

“Just a scratch,” said Smitty through set teeth. “Keep your eyes on your work, will you, you frivolous blond nuisance?”

Nellie jerked her gun back in line in time to avert incipient rebellion on the part of the four she covered.

In Cranlowe’s library over their heads, the masked young man was exhorting the inventor who, with wide eyes, was writing out that formula. It was an intricate thing, taking time.

“Hurry, Cranlowe!” the masked man snapped. “That shooting downstairs— Something’s gone wrong! Some piece of careless—some stupid blunder— Hurry up!”

Cranlowe made a last symbol on the paper, and stopped.

“That’s all there is to it? The formula is complete?”

“Yes,” said Cranlowe.

The masked man stooped, took the paper so swiftly from under Cranlowe’s hand that he almost tore it, and whirled to run, stuffing the precious formula in his pocket as he did so.

He stopped at once and stood very still.

In the doorway stood a man whose hair was snow-white, though the man was obviously young. From a death-white face that moved not at all, pale and deadly eyes peered at the blue silk handkerchief acting as a mask. The man was not big, but he seemed to fill the doorway as he stood there.

“Who—who are you?” said the masked man, mechanically. He was stalling while his right hand, still up from putting the formula in his inner coat pocket, strayed slowly toward a holster under his left arm.

“You know who I am,” said The Avenger. “I’ll have the formula, please, Grace.”

“Grace! Grace? Why are you calling me by a girl’s name?”

“Stanley Grace,” Benson corrected, quietly.

“Why, you’re mad!” The hand was touching the gun butt, now. “You’re—”

“Who could be in a position to dominate Jenner so easily and constantly? His secretary. Who could have witnessed the experiment with the vibrator to kill bacteria, in the Garfield Gear plant? The president’s secretary. It was apparent from the beginning that you were behind this, Grace.”

“And now I’m beaten, eh?” said Grace, shoulders drooping while his hand, slowly, unobtrusively, drew the gun free from its holster. Why, the white-haired man didn’t even have a weapon in his hand!

“Now you’re beaten,” nodded The Avenger. “You’ve moved heaven and earth to get that formula. And now you’re caught with it. And downstairs is an underworld gang that will go up for kidnaping to the last man—Miss Gray knows where Robert Cranlowe is being held, and can take the police there. It’s all over, Grace.”

With his left hand, Grace reached up and slipped off his mask, revealing the high-bridged nose and pale, almost delicate face. The move was to distract his captor so that he could get that gun still a little farther into the clear.

“A proposition, Benson,” he said, pleadingly. “This high-explosive formula is worth more millions than any one man can spend. Let me go, and we’ll split the money which some nation will pay for it. I’ll give you a duplicate of it, right now, to prove that I’m not trying to put anything over on you.”

The gun was ready to whip out. The man in the doorway was surely doomed. Yet, Grace felt a chill steal up his spine.

The Avenger looked like the figure of Fate, herself, as he stood there, empty-handed, pale eyes flaring like chips of ice in an arctic dawn.

But it seemed that he was not quite empty-handed after all. Not quite!

A subtle change was stealing over Grace’s weakly aristocratic face. It was becoming—blanker! Mounting triumph, even hatred, died slowly on his countenance.

Benson’s left hand moved a little, within itself. It was enough to tell the tale to Grace, whose hand had moved that same way many times.

“Damn you!” he screamed. “You’ve got . . . a disk.”

“Of course,” said Benson. His voice was not a fraction of a tone different. “Didn’t Jenner, at your command, put one into my pocket in his office?”

“You’ve . . . got . . . a . . . disk—”

Sweat was standing out on Grace’s forehead as he fought the swift numbing of his will power. He got the gun out of its holster. But his hand was moving more and more slowly. And it stopped with the muzzle barely freed.

“I’ll . . . get . . . you—”

With the last remnant of his will, Grace tried to pull the trigger. He did not know the gun was pointed, not at The Avenger, but down at his own abdomen in his lax and will-less hand.

Ruin, if another three seconds passed, and left him at the mercy of this man with the white-steel eyes! Ruin, if he could not shoot him down and get to the disk!

Grace squeezed the trigger as the last light of volition blanked from his horrified eyes. He pulled the trigger—and fell at the feet of the man in the doorway.

Not an expression appeared—could not appear—on the white death-mask of a face. Then Benson took the formula from a bloody pocket and dashed both the disk he’d held in his left hand, and the disk beside Cranlowe, against the wall.

The inventor, when he began to think for himself again, found himself free. And found the man with the prematurely white hair silently, extending a bloody paper to him

“Did I . . . write that?” he gasped. “And Grace . . . was going away with it?”

Benson nodded. Cranlowe put his face in his hands and groaned.

“There is no safety anywhere,” he whispered.

He had not taken the blood-spattered formula.

“This is your property,” the Avenger said. “You may take it if you want it, and do with it as you please. But don’t you think it would be safest in the secret vaults of the United States government?”

For a long time Cranlowe stared into the icy eyes, so inexorable and yet so direct and honest.

“Yes,” he said at last. “Yes! Now—I do. Take it to Washington for me, Mr. Benson.”

The Avenger went toward the basement.

In his pocket was a priceless weapon for his country. In the library, dead by his own hand, was a supercrook who had almost stolen it for the world’s detriment. Downstairs was a mob that would go to jail for kidnaping. His job was done.

Victory had again come to The Avenger and his aides. But in Benson’s pale and deadly eyes, there was no triumph. After the tragedy of his loss, which had set him against all crime everywhere, there could never be in his heart any emotion as human as triumph.

There was only the grim anticipation of the next great task, wherein he could cause the annihilation of criminals ordinarily beyond the law.

THE END

Table of Contents

CONTENTS

TUNED FOR MURDER

CHAPTER I Dollars on Wings

CHAPTER II World Threat

CHAPTER III Murder in the Corridor!

CHAPTER IV Death Trap

CHAPTER V Mind a Blank

CHAPTER VI Into the Depths!

CHAPTER VII Strange Doom!

CHAPTER VIII Cranlowe Heights

CHAPTER IX The Stalker

CHAPTER X Two Faces of Death!

CHAPTER XI Field Reports

CHAPTER XII The Secret Voice

CHAPTER XIII Sound Beyond Hearing

CHAPTER XIV The Black Disk

CHAPTER XV Unholy Convergence

CHAPTER XVI Berserk Guards

CHAPTER XVII Last Stand

CHAPTER XVIII The Masked Man

CHAPTER XIX The Grim Joker!