Also In This Series

By Kenneth Robeson

#1: JUSTICE, INC.

WARNER PAPERBACK LIBRARY

WARNER PAPERBACK LIBRARY EDITION

FIRST PRINTING: JULY, 1972

COPYRIGHT © 1939 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 PETER CARAS

WARNER PAPERBACK LIBRARY IS A DIVISION OF WARNER BOOKS,

75 ROCKERFELLER PLAZA, N.Y. 10019.

A Warner Communications Company

ISBN: 0-446-64-881-7

Printed in the United States of America

CONTENTS

THE YELLOW HOARD

CHAPTER I: The Human Rat

CHAPTER II: Television Work-Out

CHAPTER III: Mexican Bricks—And Murder

CHAPTER IV: Benson Takes Over

CHAPTER V: Temple Bricks

CHAPTER VI: The Veil of Mystery

CHAPTER VII: Hollow Hieroglyphs

CHAPTER VIII: Death Strikes Again

CHAPTER IX: The Snatch

CHAPTER X: Prisoner

CHAPTER XI: “Huer”—In A Hurry

CHAPTER XII: Metal Peanuts

CHAPTER XIII: The Trap

CHAPTER XIV: Borg Whines

CHAPTER XV: Land of The Aztecs

CHAPTER XVI: One Way Out

CHAPTER XVII: An “Indian” Makes A Find

CHAPTER XVIII: The Primitive Mint

CHAPTER XIX: The Avenger Plans

THE

YELLOW HOARD

CHAPTER I

The Human Rat

The building was narrow, four stories tall, and of old brick. It was like most buildings around Washington Square—tall and narrow, once the residence of a rich man, now made over into apartments.

There was no hint of deadliness in the building. There was no hint of deadliness anywhere in the lower New York neighborhood, for that matter.

Kids skated on the curving walks. Nurses wheeled babies and stopped to talk to policemen. Nobody looked at the building at all.

Least of all did a man walking west on the upper end of the square notice it. He didn’t have buildings anywhere, of any kind, on his mind. He was going to the Sixth Avenue drugstore of a friend of his named MacMurdie.

The man walking on the upper end of the square was enormous. He was six feet nine and weighed two hundred and eighty-five pounds, and none of it was fat. He was fifty-three inches around the chest and wore a size nineteen collar. When he walked, his arms hung crooked at his sides. There was too much lumped muscle under them to allow them to hang straight.

He looked as slow-witted as he was big. His face was of the full-moon variety, with peaceful blue eyes like blue china marbles. But he was not slow-witted. He was a radio and electrical engineer of the first rank. His name was Algernon Heathcote Smith. But if you wanted to live, you forgot the first two names and called him Smitty.

Smitty was several hundred yards from the building when it happened. He wouldn’t have noticed the man starting to turn to the stairs from the sidewalk, if it hadn’t been for the man’s looks. He looked like a rat, and Smitty didn’t like men who resembled rats.

But the man’s appearance was no warning of what the innocent-looking building was going to do. There was no warning of that whatever.

Kids skating, nurses wheeling perambulators, Smitty walking toward the Sixth Avenue drugstore. And then the building did it.

The tall, narrow old house seemed suddenly to be on rollers. On two sets of rollers, to be exact, with each set moving in opposite directions and carrying part of the building with it!

The front of the house boosted forward a couple of feet. The rear moved backward. Both sections took parts of the two adjoining buildings with them.

The tall front of the building folded slowly, like a tired man sagging in the middle. Almost like slow motion at first, and then gathering speed, it fell to the street with a colossal crash. Brick chips and dust rose ten stories. After that there was quiet.

As far as the giant, Smitty, could tell, there had been quiet all along. He hadn’t heard any noise when the building moved, or even when the four-story front fell, in a welter of debris.

That, he knew, was because his eardrums had been stunned by the violence of the explosion, in the heart of the building, that had caused the wreckage. He had been instantly deafened by it. And even at that moment, he marveled at it.

He had seen explosions before, but never anything as cataclysmic as this.

Sounds began to come to him, and a closer vision, and coherent realization. He heard children and women screaming, heard a cop running toward the debris, swearing in a hoarse and frantic tone. He saw the ratlike man who had been about to enter the building stagger east along the walk with his hand held before eyes momentarily blinded.

After that he saw something much too horrible for eyes to dwell on for very long. Bodies and fragments of bodies—

Survivors began reeling from the choked mound of what had once been a doorway. Just a few, only three, although there must have been at least a score of people in a building that size.

A man got to the mound, then crawled the rest of the way into the clear on hands and knees, with one leg dragging out behind him. Another man came out, bumping into things because he could not see. A woman was the third. She walked almost steadily, but very mechanically, as if she had been wound up and would keep on walking no matter what was in front of her. She tried to keep on walking when the cop got there and stopped her. She grappled with the cop, and fought him. Then she fainted.

Smitty ran to the cop. He could move fast when he wanted to, for all his size. There was pity as well as shock in his china-blue eyes.

“Here,” he said. “I’ll take the woman and this guy with something wrong with his leg. When the ambulance gets here, send it to MacMurdie’s drugstore, Waverly and Sixth. We’ll give the two first aid till it comes.”

The cop nodded. Two more patrolmen came. They began searching through the wreckage.

“Boiler explosion,” said one of them.

The other nodded, white-faced. “Yeah. Terrible what a boiler explosion can do. The thing’s in the cellar, heart of the building. They take everything when they do let go.”

The giant Smitty knew better. Boiler explosion? No such explosion could have had the extreme, the unbelievable violence of that rending crash he had witnessed.

The crowd around the wreckage gaped at Smitty. He had picked up the woman and now held her cradled in one vast arm. With the other, he swung the man onto his shoulder after lowering to his knees.

He went down the street with them as though they had been two children, one in the crook of his right arm, the other on his left shoulder. But they were not children. They were full-grown adults, weighing plenty.

He went into MacMurdie’s drugstore, stooping to let his burden clear the top of the too-small doorway.

The druggist vaulted a corner counter and ran to him, to help him.

“Whoosh, Smitty!” he said. “I heard the explosion. And I heard windows next door break with it. These two were in it?”

The giant nodded, and went to the back room with the two. They laid them on two couches there and worked over them.

“There must have been others, mon,” MacMurdie said. “Where are they?”

“Any others in there will go straight to the undertakers, Mac,” Smitty said. His voice, usually rather high for a man of his bulk, was gruff with sympathy. “What an explosion! You never saw the like. What would make one so violent? Dynamite? No. Even TNT wouldn’t go off like that.”

The woman stirred, and the man with his leg broken ceased moaning. The police ambulance came and got them. Then, with the store quiet and normal again, Smitty faced the druggist.

Fergus MacMurdie was about six feet tall, bony, with coarse red hair and bleak blue eyes. His skin was splotched with great, dim freckles. His hands were like bone mallets when he doubled them into fists. He had a pair of ears that stood out like sails, and the biggest feet Smitty had ever seen.

But there was nothing funny about Fergus MacMurdie when he looked as he was looking now.

“Crooked business, Smitty?” he asked. His eyes were like hard blue stones. Like Smitty, he didn’t care for men who resembled rats. But his hatred of all things criminal went deeper than the giant’s. For MacMurdie, years before, had had his wife and small son killed in one of his drugstores by a racketeer’s bomb.

Smitty slowly nodded.

“I think so, Mac. No honest, accidental explosion could have had the force that one had. There’s something very screwy about it.”

“Do we get in touch with the chief?”

“I don’t know, Mac. There doesn’t seem to be anything definite to report about—”

He stopped and grabbed the Scotsman’s bony arm with a force that made the homely freckled face draw up in pain.

“Ye big baboon, leave go my arm—”

“Mac! See that guy out the Sixth Avenue window?”

“What about him?” said Mac, rubbing his arm.

“He was just about to go into the building that blew up, when the explosion stopped him,” said Smitty rapidly. He studied the face of the man walking outside. Rodent chin and nose, beady eyes set too close together. And there was a cut on his cheek which he pressed now and then with a dirty handkerchief. That clinched it.

“That is the man, Mac! If we could get him back here, and see why he was going into that building, we might learn something!”

MacMurdie didn’t even wait to nod. He darted to the pharmaceutical counter, dipped thumb and finger into a wide-mouthed jar there, and went out to the sidewalk. The man was past the store by now. Mac hurried up to him, trouser legs flapping around his bony shins. He caught the man’s shoulder and turned him around.

“Mon,” he said, “ye’ve been hurt. In the explosion, was it? Let me help ye into my store.”

The sidewalk was crowded, as the Sixth Avenue sidewalks usually are. Several people stopped to stare at the two.

The man jerked at Mac’s friendly—but insistent—hand.

“Lemme loose, you Scotch ape!” he snarled.

“But ye’re hurt. Ye’re apt to fall over in a faint if ye don’t take care of yourself.”

“I’ll slug you if you don’t—”

Mac’s thumb and second finger snapped lightly under the man’s nose. With an odd, vacant expression in his beady eyes, the man tried to say something and couldn’t, tried to walk away and couldn’t.

Suddenly he fell, and would have hit the walk if the Scot’s arm hadn’t been ready to catch him.

“See?” Mac said, as if to the people around. “I knew he was on the point of collapse. I’ll take him into my store—”

He carried the man back, and the people moved on. No soul dreamed that when Mac had snapped his fingers so unobtrusively under the man’s nose he had released a volatile anaesthetic of his own manufacture so powerful that a whiff of it knocked a man out in less than three seconds.

In the store, Mac nodded to his helper, a boy of nineteen with intelligent brown eyes and a commendable habit of being absolutely incurious about all the queer things that went on in that store.

“Take over, Bob,” Mac said. “I may be in with this skurlie for an hour.”

He carried the man to the back room, with Smitty following. Smitty locked the door, and they began a strange procedure.

MacMurdie’s drugstore was like no other drugstore in New York City—or in any other city, for that matter.

The store part took up less than a third of the total floor space the venture covered. Two-thirds made up this room in the back. And big as the room was, it seemed overcrowded.

Along one wall was a bench cluttered with all the equipment of a fine chemist’s laboratory. Beakers and retorts and Bunsen burners jostled glass tubing and jars of mysterious compounds.

Along the other wall was a somewhat similar bench with all the paraphernalia that could have been dreamed of by an advanced electrical engineer. And that was Smitty’s side of the big room.

At the rear, taking up about equal spaces, were results of the work of the two. There was a cabinet full of vials containing drugs such as no chemist knew existed—because they were the product of MacMurdie’s genius and were known to no one but him. Beside this was another cabinet which did not open, but which had a curious screen making up its entire front.

This was a television set, designed by Smitty. In it, he had put the work of other men, changed and bettered by his own work, and principles and devices of his own invention. The result was television such as none of the big radio companies had as yet equaled.

Smitty went to the set and turned on the current. He started to warm up the sending apparatus, then said:

“Maybe we’d better see, first, if you can open this guy up, Mac.”

MacMurdie was insulted.

“Whoosh, mon! I can make a statue talk. You should know that by now.”

The man with the rat’s nose and chin and the beady eyes was beginning to move a little and mumble incoherently. Mac carried him to a deep chair in front of the monster television set, and propped him in it.

Before the man’s nose he hung an object that seemed to have come out of a strange dream. And then began a procedure that would have mystified most people—though not if those people had an advanced knowledge of psychiatry.

CHAPTER II

Television Work-Out

“You are asleep,” said Smitty, softly, to the man in the chair. “You are asleep, but you can hear and answer questions. You understand?”

The man made no sound or sign.

“You’d better give him another shot, Mac.”

MacMurdie stared at the giant.

“Ye know that’s not necessary.” He tapped a vial he had brought from the cabinet. Beside it was a hypodermic needle. “In here is my own refinement of the stuff that makes twilight sleep. It never fails. He’ll come around, slow, but willin’.”

Smitty twirled the object Mac had hung before the man’s face at eye level. This was a globe, about eighteen inches through, covered with small round mirrors. The mirrors overlapped, so that at no point in the sphere could anything but mirror be seen. As it turned, it shot little glints of light on walls and ceiling. The glints went around and around the room in a dreamy, dizzying march.

Smitty spoke to the man again.

“You are asleep, but you can hear me and answer me. You understand. You are asleep, but—”

“I am asleep,” the man said suddenly. His eyes were wide open. He sat rigidly upright.

“But you can hear me.”

“I can hear you.”

“And you can answer me.”

“I can answer you.”

Smitty twirled the ball again, to keep it moving and hold the man in his trance for a moment. He switched on the big television set.

“Chief, this is Smitty,” he said into the transmitter. “Are you there?”

There was a pause. The screen in the front of the cabinet suddenly took on a clouded look. The clouds faded, and a face stared into the back room of the drugstore.

It was a face to make any man stop and look.

It was as white as linen, as white as silver in a blue light. In it were set eyes of such pale, steely gray as to seem almost colorless. Over the face was a thick mane of snow-white hair, although the man owning it was obviously not elderly. Two things about the countenance set it apart from all others. One was the eyes, pale and deadly, like ice in a dawn at the pole. The other was the absolute immobility of feature. As though carved from white metal that face confronted you, changeless, moveless—dead.

“Chief,” said Smitty to the awesome face, “I think we may have something. There was an explosion a while ago—”

“At 25 Washington Square North,” said the face. The words came from lips that scarcely moved. “I know of it.”

Smitty didn’t ask how the man with the white, dead face knew. That man knew many things, with no person being able to discover how.

“This guy in the chair,” said Smitty, “was about to enter the building when it went up. Shall we see if he can tell us anything about it?”

“Yes,” said the man with the still, white face.

The screen faded. It was ready to transmit images, now, instead of receiving them. Smitty wheeled up a stand on which was his visualizing device.

Standard transmission of images by television is done by passing an electric eye swiftly back and forth across the object to be pictured. Smitty had worked out a multiple-eye device whereby hundreds of miniature photoelectric cells caught an entire scene at one time and instantly sent it whole to the receiver. This was functioning now, as he took up his stand beside the man in the chair. That man stared at the slowly revolving sphere of mirrors, eyes wide and blank.

“Your name,” said Smitty.

“Edward Carp,” said the man, in a voice as mechanical as a phonograph’s.

“You were going into the building that exploded.”

“Yes,” said the man.

“Why were you going in there?”

“To see the guy who hired me yesterday.”

“What did he hire you for?”

“I don’t know yet. He hadn’t told me.”

“What,” said Smitty, “made that explosion?”

“Peanuts,” said the man, voice dull and lifeless.

“Peanuts! What do you mean?”

“They look like peanuts, only a little bigger.”

“The explosion was caused by something looking like large peanuts?”

“Yes.”

“What was the name of the man you were to see?”

“They call him Red. That’s all I know.”

“Did he die in the explosion, or come out of the debris after I left?”

“Red must have died. He stayed in the basement. The explosion must have been an accident, and he must have died.”

“What was the explosive for?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t with Red long enough to be told anything much.”

“Was it for any definite purpose at all?”

“Sure. I don’t know what for. But it was going to be used.”

“Anytime anything like that is used, it will cause more death and destruction, won’t it?”

“Red said a few people might be bumped off, but it would be worth it.”

“What would be worth it?”

“Mexican bricks.”

“What about Mexican bricks?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t told.”

“Now that Red is dead, whom will you be working for?”

“I don’t know.”

“He’s a little mon,” said Mac, in a low tone. “Some big-shot crook’s hired boy, that’s all.”

“I’m afraid so,” said Smitty. “But we’ve got a little out of it. That explosion was caused by the mishandling of some terribly deadly weapon of crime. And there may be more explosions that aren’t accidents!”

He went back to the man.

“You and Red were going to wreck and murder—for Mexican bricks. Can’t you tell me any more than that? What kind of bricks? Why are they worth so much?”

“I don’t know.”

A voice came from the cabinet. The voice of the man with the dead, white face.

“That’s all you will get from him, I think, Smitty.”

“Orders, chief?”

“Turn him loose. If Mac’s hypnotic drug works as well as it usually does, he will wake remembering nothing of this. Trail him. See where he goes. We seem to have the start of something huge and deadly here, but we haven’t enough, as yet, to be of value.”

“Right,” said Smitty.

There was in his voice, and in the homely face of MacMurdie, no faintest question of the authority of the man with the dead face and the snow-white hair. Which was as it should be.

The man whose arresting, dangerous countenance had stared from the screen for an instant was Richard Henry Benson, known, since the tragedy that had robbed his life of human meaning, as The Avenger. That tragedy was the loss of his wife and little daughter in a criminal plot. The loss had dedicated him to the smashing of crime everywhere he came in contact with it. And to his grim battle with the underworld he brought the weapons of genius, super-human strength and quickness, and a fortune gained in earlier days from a life of adventure.

Benson had taken on the giant Smitty as his personal aid. MacMurdie had been set up in business in this weird drugstore by Benson in payment for the help he had given the man with the white hair and paralyzed face when he was trying to get back his wife and child through the destruction of the gang that had caused their disappearance.

When Benson commanded, Smitty and Mac moved. And shortly thereafter someone in a high position in some criminal venture was doomed to suffer exceedingly.

The man who had given his name as Edward Carp had closed his eyes again. He was moving convulsively in the chair. Smitty put the mirrored ball out of sight and lifted the man, big chair and all, to another part of the room.

Carp’s eyes opened. Now they weren’t wide and blank. They were wary and narrowed, but also bewildered.

“What am I doin’ here? Where am I? What you guys—”

Mac helped him up out of the chair.

“Ye’re all right now, mon. Ye fainted on the sidewalk. Don’t ye remember? I brought ye in here.”

“Fainted, huh! I never fainted in my life.” But the man’s voice was without conviction. He remembered nothing of the mesmeric trance. Not remembering that, he had no ground for suspicion of the giant and the red-haired Scot.

“Thanks for lugging me in here,” he said grudgingly. “But I got to beat it now. Unless you got some objection.”

He glared at them, all suspicion again; but the suspicion died soon as Smitty grinned and said, mild blue eyes peaceful and not too intelligent-looking:

“You can run right along, any time you please. We just wanted to help you out a little.”

The man left. Not till he’d got out of sight beyond the Sixth Avenue window did Smitty slide out after him. He left a Scotsman as puzzled as any who had ever come from Bruce’s kingdom.

“Whoosh! It’s mad. There’s no meanin’ in it. The explosion was caused by big peanuts. And there’s to be more. For what? Mexican bricks! It makes no sense in any direction at all!”

In the street, Smitty trailed the man as deftly as if he’d been a midget instead of a giant. He kept a full block behind him till the man turned a corner, about three blocks east of where he’d started. Then Smitty edged up closer and peered around the corner.

The man had stopped. He was standing in front of a big building that had once been a railroad magnate’s home. In the gay 90’s. Now it was an exclusive school for the very young tots of the rich.

Smitty’s pulse began to pound faster as he recognized the place in front of which lounged the ratlike Carp. Children of the rich! A crook hanging around! It smelled like kidnap to Smitty.

Though he couldn’t figure out where kidnap and explosives had anything in common.

The doors of the school opened. It was a little after three in the afternoon. Boys and girls from four to six came out. Several had governesses with them, ladies who stayed right at the school with their charges till time to take them home.

Some of the kids went to limousines at the curb, where chauffeurs waited. Some went to cars almost as impressive, in which doting young mothers were ready to drive them home.

One, a little boy with black hair, came out with a girl of twenty-three or so who was so beautiful that even from that distance she made Smitty blink.

She had yellow-bronze hair and gray eyes and the finest pink-white skin you’d ever care to see. She looked like a dish of peaches going somewhere to be eaten with cream. But her dress—smart and trim, but not expensive—told that she was not a rich young matron. She was one of the instructoresses of the school.

With the appearance of the dainty, lovely miss with the black-haired little boy, Carp suddenly straightened. He looked this way and that, and then stepped toward the two. And Smitty began to go there from the corner with space-devouring strides. The way Carp had acted showed he was up to something.

Smitty was still too far away to hear what was said. But he saw Carp’s lips move. And then Carp put a hand on the dainty blonde’s wrist.

Smitty could never afterward figure out quite what had happened.

At one moment Carp had a none-too-clean paw on the girl’s arm. At the next he seemed to have leaped into the air in an attempt at a backward flying somersault. An attempt that didn’t come off very well, because he lit on his back and shoulders with a grunt.

Then Smitty really put on steam. He began running as fast as he could. He had seen the car waiting in the areaway next to the school, and from it he had seen three men come.

All got near Carp and the girl at about the same time. The only difference was that Smitty saw the three men and the three men were too engrossed in the girl to see Smitty.

They were made aware of his presence very soon.

The giant got one of the three by the nape of the neck, like a kitten. He jerked back, hard, and opened his hand. The man kept on going back along the sidewalk, to fall finally and slide for a couple of yards on the cement.

Smitty caught a second of the three by the shoulder. And then the third, snarling, whipped out a gun. In his murderous little eyes was the plain intent to use it, and use it to kill.

Smitty really got mad, then. He didn’t have time to get to the man with the gun, so he smashed the fellow whose shoulder he still gripped against him. The gunman staggered and tried to get his gun back into line. While he tried, Smitty caught his right forearm in a tremendous hand and turned it very quickly, as though the arm were a baton which he mean to twirl.

There was a thin, high crack. The gun thudded to the sidewalk. And the man began to scream while he held his right arm tenderly in his left hand.

A whistle was going mad at the corner. There were pounding feet. A cop was coming up, drawing his gun as he came.

The man who had been smashed to the sidewalk began racing for the car. Carp was already in it, at the wheel. The other two went for the car, also. They leaped in. The car veered over the walk, doors still open from the mad retreat. Down the line a squad car, called by the patrolman’s whistle, gave a siren wail.

The cop got up to Smitty and the girl and the little black-haired boy.

“You all right, miss?” he said solicitously. “You and the kid?”

“We’re all right,” the girl said, perfectly calm. Smitty stared in amazement. She looked as little and delicate as something made out of porcelain. But a scene that might well have excited any man—and which had excited the cop, as his face showed—left her completely unruffled.

At the curb a big coupé had stopped with a white-faced woman in it. The woman’s features were like the small boy’s. She was one of the rich mothers, a bit late in coming to school for her child. She opened the door and came toward them.

“We’ll get those guys in the car,” the cop said confidently. “And when we do—”

The mother had the little boy. With no look at the blond instructoress or the patrolman, she carried sonny to the overstuffed coupé. The cop went with her.

“Well! That was nice while it lasted,” Smitty said to the girl.

Her lovely gray eyes went over his vast bulk.

“You’re rather strong,” she said.

“A little,” said Smitty. “But you—say! What happened to the guy who put his hands on you?”

“What do you mean, what happened?”

“It looked like you tossed him over your shoulder. But you couldn’t throw a grown man around. Or could you?”

“He must have tripped on something,” murmured the girl, dimpling.

“Anyhow, he was one kidnapper who made a mistake. Who is the little boy?”

“Franklin Wellington Course, the Third,” said the girl.

Smitty whistled.

“Of the steel and oil Courses, eh? No wonder there was an attempted kidnap! Can I do anything for you? You all right?”

“Perfectly,” said the girl. “And you’ve already done enough. Thank you.”

She turned and started away. There was purpose and finality in her shapely back. Smitty knew he was dismissed. He hesitated, then started back to Mac’s drugstore.

And there, though he didn’t dream it at the time, he made a mistake. One which, probably, the subtle genius, Dick Benson, would not have made. But then Smitty, for all his horsepower, was not Dick Benson. There was only one Avenger.

CHAPTER III

Mexican Bricks—And Murder

The girl, fifteen minutes later, turned into the vestibule of a neat but inexpensive apartment building near the East River, uptown. She pressed a buzzer there. Over the button was the name Archer S. Gray.

Archer Gray was a retired professor of archaeology, Columbia University. He was, moreover, the girls father. Her name was Nellie Gray.

Professor Gray opened the door for her, and she kissed him. He was a tired-looking man of sixty, stoop-shouldered but wiry, with iron-gray hair. He was in a faded blue robe and had spectacles pushed up on his forehead.

“Dad! At it again?”

“I can’t help looking at them, Nellie. They’re the most important thing that ever happened in my life. And I think it’s safe to get the others pretty soon.”

“I’d give it another month,” said Nellie Gray.

She went back into the apartment with him, to a small room lined solidly with books save where the door and a window made open spaces. There was a flat-topped desk in the center of the room. The window, opening onto a tiny back yard, let in the afternoon sun.

On the desk were two oblongs of dingy brownish-gray.

They were of dried mud, or clay, or some such stuff, and looked quite commonplace—except that there were strange markings on them.

The markings were the ideograph writing of ancient Indians—Aztec Indians, to be precise.

Gray patted the two crude clay bricks.

“If the university knew what I had here—” he said.

Nellie’s pink-and-white cheeks were a little more white than pink as she stared at the two lumps of dirt.

“If anyone knew what you had there, your life wouldn’t be worth a moment’s notice! Dad, why don’t you put them in a safe-deposit box?”

The distinguished archaeologist smiled sheepishly.

“The miser has to have his gold where he can count it,” he said. “I have to have my archaeological pets where I can see them and gloat over them.”

“But—”

“I’ll put them in a bank tomorrow,” promised Gray. “Did you say there was vegetable stew for dinner? Cooked as only you can cook it?”

The girl got dinner. She cooked as attractively as she looked. Which was enough to whet any appetite. Father and daughter ate, and then Professor Gray went back to the little library and closed his door. He wanted to be alone with his precious bricks again.

Nellie Gray sat in the living room by the radio.

The living room was at the other end of the apartment from the little library. The radio, though she turned it low, drowned any noise which might have come from there. She listened to some concert music.

In the library, Professor Gray turned on his desk lamp as gray dusk faded to black autumn night. The lamp made a pool of bright light on the bricks, with darkness rimming the pool as an overhanging bank rims a pond.

In the darkness came silent-footed terror.

The window opening onto the back yard was open a few inches. A hand, in a black glove, slid into the opening and lifted. Slowly, without sound, the window raised. The professor turned over one of the bricks.

A figure slid over the window sill. Draping the figure and causing it to melt into the shadows was a dark suit, a black felt hat and a dark gray shirt. Even the face could not be seen; in lieu of a mask, the man kept his left hand over all his features but the eyes. The eyes burned murderously at the unconscious back of the engrossed professor.

“Soon,” Gray murmured to himself, smiling, “we’ll get them all together again. Then—”

The black, dim figure crept toward the seated man. In one black-gloved hand was a short, metallic object that glinted a little as light struck it.

Down the hall, Nellie Gray turned from classical music to swing. With the change in rhythm, the black shape from the night paused, hand upraised. Then the hand swept down. The hand with the metallic thing in it.

A sort of sigh came from Gray’s lips. Then, as if he were suddenly very tired, his body slumped forward on the desk. From the top of his head a thin red trickle welled from the point where metal had crushed bone.

Down the hall, Nellie went back to concert music—

In another part of New York, at one end of the block-long street, was a big warehouse standing vacant and boarded up. At the other end were a loft building and a couple of stores, also empty and unused. In between were three dingy old three-story brick buildings standing wall-to-wall, of the residence type.

Each building had its own entrance. But the entrances on the right and on the left were never used. They were triple-locked, with the inner doors bricked over. Only the center entrance was used.

Behind the innocent-looking exterior, the three buildings had been made over into one. Dick Benson owned them. Also, he owned the vacant warehouse next door on the right. Also, he had the vacant loft building and the stores to his left under long lease.

Across the street, from corner to corner, the window-less back of a half-block-square storage building loomed in front of Benson’s windows like the Great Wall of China.

Which meant that, as far as privacy went, Dick Benson owned the entire block.

Over the central door of the three buildings that had been thrown into one was an inconspicuous little sign in dull gilt letters. The sign simply said “Justice.”

Nine out of ten of the few people who entered a block where no one but Benson had a real excuse for entrance didn’t even see the sign. The tenth was apt to glance at it, decide that some stuffy legal firm was housed within, and pass carelessly on.

The justice meted out in that place, however, was beyond the law.

Dick Benson had made his permanent quarters in this block, which was a curious, quiet back bay in New York’s crowdedness, when he decided to devote all his energies to fighting the crime which had blasted his life.

Those quarters housed facilities for helping people whom the regular police could not help. And there are many such unfortunates. Usually they are threatened more terribly than folks over whom hangs the standard threat of ordinary crime. For it takes extraordinary crime to be beyond the powers of a police force which is, on the whole, very good indeed.

On the morning after 25 Washington Square North went up in a cloud of dust and chips, Dick Benson was in the top floor of his peculiar residence. The room was tremendous—sixty by a hundred and five. It looked like a combination of club lounging room, workshop and laboratory. It was the back room of MacMurdie’s drugstore multiplied by ten.

Near a rear window, in a shaft of morning sun, Dick Benson himself sat at a long table on which were morning papers from half a dozen large cities. The shaft of sunlight was striped from passing through what seemed to be a Venetian blind at the window. But it was not a Venetian blind.

The slats of the “blind” were fastened in the masonry of the window at each side. They were slanted at a forty-five degree angle to catch daylight, but were made of nickel steel to keep out bullets. All the windows were similarly equipped.

On Benson’s face the sun surprised no expression. No expression was possible there, ever. The tragic loss that had killed Dick Benson’s soul had killed his face, too; the facial muscles were paralyzed, dead. The flesh there could move only when his manipulating fingers moved it. Then it stayed wherever it was put. It made him a man of a thousand faces, but it made him a terrible thing to see, too. An engine of deadly destruction wearing a mask of dead flesh that could never express a thought.

Across the big table from Benson was the giant, Smitty. He had a paper in his vast hands, and was staring at a picture on the front page. The picture was of Nellie Gray, the girl he had seen at the school yesterday afternoon.

Benson spoke, words coming from lips that barely moved in the steely calm of his face. “Read it, Smitty.” Smitty read:

“Held without bail. Miss Nellie Gray!” That was the line under the picture. The news item itself read:

“Last night at approximately nine o’clock, Professor Archer Gray was found murdered in his den by his daughter, Nellie Gray. Death had been caused by some blunt instrument, possibly a gun barrel, though no gun was found in the apartment by police called by Miss Gray.

“Professor Gray recently returned from an expedition into Mexico on which he was accompanied by several business and professional men who financed the expedition for the pleasure of going along as amateur archaeologist. The expedition was for the purpose of studying Aztec ruins which Professor Gray had discovered, but not investigated, on a former trip.

“No valuables were taken from Professor Gray’s apartment. However, Mrs. Linda Veinecke, who cleans for the professor mornings, has noted the absence of two clay bricks brought back by the professor from his recent trip. Miss Gray, who at first denied the loss of the bricks, later admitted that they had disappeared. But since they were valueless to any but an archaeologist, they do not seem sufficient motive for murder—”

Smitty stopped reading. Dick Benson said, in his quiet but compelling voice:

“That’s clear enough. They suspect the daughter, Miss Gray. She’ll go to the chair if the police can’t find the real killer.”

“What a fool I was when I didn’t follow her yesterday!” growled Smitty. “We might have guarded her and prevented this.”

“You had no reason to suspect anything of this nature,” Benson said. “Circumstantial evidence pointed overwhelmingly to the little boy as the kidnap victim.”

“Instead of which, it was Nellie Gray the crooks were after.”

Benson nodded. He opened a drawer of the long table. From it he took two things absolutely unique of their kind. One was a slim, double-edged throwing knife with a light hollow tube for a handle, with which Benson could split a pea at thirty feet. The other was a .22-caliber revolver. The cylinder, to streamline the gun, was small and held only four cartridges. The butt slanted so little that it was almost in a straight line with the barrel. It was almost like a slightly curved piece of blued steel tubing with a little bulge for a cylinder.

Benson rolled up his trouser legs. To the inside of his left calf he strapped a slim sheath for the razor-sharp throwing knife. To the inside of the right calf was strapped the almost-as-slim holster for the tiny gun.

Smitty eyed the deadly little weapons respectfully. Mike and Ike, Benson called them, with sinister humor. Mike was the gun, Ike the knife.

“You’re going out, chief?” Smitty said.

“Yes,” said Benson quietly. “In preparation for obtaining ‘Mexican bricks,’ there was an accidental explosion yesterday, killing eleven people and wrecking a building. Now there is a murder, apparently over Mexican bricks. And a minor crook, who was tied in with the explosion, tried to kidnap the daughter of the murdered man. The whole thing is hooked together, Smitty, the result being that a girl who is almost surely innocent is apt to be railroaded to the chair for the murder of her father. It’s a case for Justice & Co., I think.”

“So?” said Smitty.

Benson got up. It was noticeable then that he was not a big man. He was not more than five feet eight inches tall and weighed no more than a hundred and sixty pounds. Yet he was a person to command profound respect. Very rarely do you see a man move with the lightning co-ordination and flaming vitality owned by Dick Benson. Power was in every motion of his steel-wire body. Smitty was a giant such as seldom is seen among men; but Dick Benson had beaten him to his knees one time before Smitty had known who the man with the snow-white hair and the deadly pale eyes was.

“So?” Smitty repeated, as Benson moved like a gray tiger toward the door.

“So I’ll have a little talk with the girl. And from that we may get a course of procedure against the cold-blooded insects whose ‘accident’ killed eleven people, and one of whom murdered the twelfth—for a couple of bricks!”

CHAPTER IV

Benson Takes Over

Nellie Gray’s eyes were reddened with crying. Her face was white with the shock of her father’s death. Fate had given her a terrible pushing around, and she showed it.

Dick Benson’s pale, deadly eyes, usually glittering like pale steel, were sympathetic as they rested on her. But Nellie Gray’s gaze was not kindly as it rested on him!

“I’m asking you—who are you, and how is it you’re pushing into this?” she flamed, eyes keen with suspicion.

“I’ve told you,” said Benson quietly. “My name is Richard Benson. I’m a kind of unofficial investigator who helps people now and then when they’re in a jam—as you decidedly are.”

The girl laughed. It was not a pleasant laugh.

“I see. Just a knight-errant going to the rescue of innocent damsel’s. That’s a likely story.”

“What do you think is the reason for my call here?” said Benson patiently.

“You’re one of the crooks,” Nellie Gray jerked out. “Your crowd has killed my father—and made it look as if I did it. You got the two bricks he had. Now you want the rest. And you think you’ll get them through me.”

She stared around the small cell, gazing bitterly at the barred door.

“You must have some influence, too,” she said, “to be able to come in here and talk to me.”

Benson didn’t explain that he knew the district attorney, and that a phone call from headquarters had been all he needed to walk into her cell. He didn’t blame the girl for being suspicious of his call. But he had to beat that suspicion down somehow.

“Strange as it may seem,” he said, “I’m just what I appear to be—a person interested in helping you because I know injustice is being done. Also, I’m interested because I want to save possible future victims of this gang that killed your father.”

“How splendid!” said Nellie witheringly.

“But to do that, I must have more information. And so far you have refused to give me any—”

“I’m going to keep right on refusing.”

“I can bring some pretty responsible citizens to vouch for me.”

“I don’t care if you bring the mayor. You’re playing for big stakes, and you’d naturally be a large-caliber crook.”

“Then you won’t tell me about the Mexican bricks?”

Nellie Gray’s lips tightened and she was silent.

“Do you know anything about the exploding peanuts?”

“Exploding peanuts!” That took her out of her stubborn silence. “Are you crazy?”

“Evidently you don’t know anything about them,” sighed Benson. “And equally evidently you aren’t going to tell me what you do know. I can’t blame you.”

He started toward the cell door. A guard outside began unlocking it.

Nellie stared curiously at the man with the dead, white face from which vital, pale eyes flared like beacons. Her gaze went over his prematurely white hair and his explosively powerful body that, even in repose, suggested swift and terrible action.

“What are you going to do now?” she said.

“I’m going to get you out of here,” said Benson.

She laughed again, mirthlessly.

“You evidently don’t know all the things they’ve got against me. You and your gang couldn’t bail me out of here with a million in cash.”

Benson’s dead face couldn’t move, but his eyes seemed to smile a little at that. He went to Lieutenant of Detectives Hogarth.

Hogarth, a square-jawed official afraid of neither man nor beast, knew a little of Benson. He looked curiously at the average-sized, white-faced man who was credited with doing such impossible things.

“About Miss Gray,” Benson said. “Why is she held without bail?”

“Because we’re sure she killed her old man,” said Hogarth. “We haven’t given that out to the papers yet, but we’re sure enough.”

“Why?”

Hogarth ticked off points on his muscular fingers.

“One, Professor Gray was killed in a room that could be entered only by the door. There’s a window, but nothing under it for three floors. No way to climb up to it. And the girl, by her own admission, was alone in the apartment with her father. Anyone coming in the regular front door would have had to pass the room she was in, and she would have seen him. She says she saw no one.

“Two, beside the chair in which was the body, we found a lipstick exactly matching the one in her purse.

“Three, nobody could have got around behind Gray, from which position he was hit, except someone he knew and paid no attention to—like his daughter.

“Four, there’s about a twelve-thousand-dollar inheritance—”

“That’s enough, I think. You’ve proved her innocent already.”

“What?” said Hogarth, not knowing whether to be mad or mystified. He decided to be mystified. You didn’t get angry at a five-foot-eight powerhouse like this white-haired, dead-faced man unless you were incurably reckless.

“The lipstick,” said Benson.

“I don’t get you.”

“You say the lipstick discovered beside the body matched one later found in her purse. Why would the girl be carrying two lipsticks, particularly when she was at home and presumably didn’t care about make-up at the moment?”

“I didn’t say she was carrying two. One might have been in her purse and the other—” Hogarth stopped.

“The other—where? Was she carrying it in her hand, intending to rouge her lips artistically after murdering her father?”

“Well, there’s plenty of other clues,” Hogarth said doggedly.

“Let’s you and I go and examine those a little further,” Benson said.

Hogarth opened his mouth to ask who the hell Benson thought he was, anyway. He closed it with the words unsaid. There was an air of quiet authority about Dick Benson that few, in any position, cared to ignore.

At Gray’s apartment, Hogarth led Benson around to the little back yard first. He pointed up to the library window.

“See? No possible way to climb up to the window, which means the killer must either be the girl who was in the apartment at the time, or somebody who came in with her knowledge from the street.”

“Suppose you go up to the apartment, and sit in the chair Gray occupied,” Benson said. “Assume what must have been his position, back to the window.”

“What for?”

“Just do it, that’s all.”

“What happens then?”

“You’ll see. There’s a man at the apartment door?”

“Yes.”

Hogarth went off, frowning. Benson stepped to the next building. This was taller, and had a fire escape. He went up it to the roof, climbed down a floor to the roof of Gray’s building, and went to the back.

The window of Gray’s library was underneath.

Sitting in the chair in which the dead man had been found, Hogarth waited, fuming. But he kept his face toward the door as ordered. And in a moment he was startled half out of his skin to hear a voice behind him.

“I could have killed you pretty easily, Hogarth.”

Hogarth whirled, with the chair creaking. The man with the white, still face and the pale flames of eyes was standing between him and the window.

“You said, truly, that no one could climb up to the window,” Dick Benson said. “But you neglected to think whether or not a person could go down to the window. And an active man can do it easily.”

“Is that so?” Hogarth said triumphantly. “Well, we thought of that and we went over the roof with a magnifying lens—”

“Come on up with me for a moment.”

On the roof, Benson pointed to the low parapet in the rear.

“Here are my prints in the dust and soot. No other marks are there.”

“Exactly. So no other person climbed down,” snapped Hogarth.

“But look here,” said Benson, pointing to a space on the flat stone near his handprints. “There is a layer of smooth, seemingly untouched dust. But here and there—in spots about the size of two human hands—the dust is a little thicker than it should be.”

Hogarth stared hard, scowling.

“The killer came down from the roof, as I did. He went out the same way, and while he was up here, obliterated all traces by spraying dust back over the prints. But he sprayed a little too much over them.”

“The girl—” Hogarth said uncertainly.

“Is it likely a girl would kill so acrobatically? And if it were Miss Gray, would she wipe out the traces on the parapet when she knew that in so doing she would incriminate herself? And now let’s see the lipstick.”

Hogarth handed it over. Benson pushed the red stick up from its metal sheath. He tested it on his thumb. Red came off, not evenly, but in little blotches and grains.

“See? It’s old, crumbly. Miss Gray either discarded it or lost it long ago. Or else it was lying in her drawer, in the bedroom next door. In any event, it was dropped beside the body simply to implicate her. There were no prints on this lipstick, were there?”

“Well, no,” admitted Hogarth reluctantly.

“So she dropped it beside the man she had murdered—but first wiped her prints from it!” Benson said. “I think there’s enough here, without going any farther, to break your charge. Certainly there’s enough doubt to justify letting her out on bail.”

“It’ll cost at least twenty-five thousand, if I know the judge,” growled Hogarth, seeing a perfect, fast murder conviction fading from his grasp.

It cost fifty thousand dollars, put up by Benson in the form of a certified check which scarcely made a dent in the balance he carried in just that one bank. He had deposits in a dozen others.

Free and on the street, Nellie Gray looked at Benson with, if anything, increased bitterness and suspicion.

“You’re even more powerful than I thought,” she said. “You must be the head of the gang himself.”

“I think you’re going to get over at least some of your quite natural suspicion of me very shortly,” Benson said. He took her arm and guided her around the corner.

After them, from the sidewalk crowds, three men, walking fairly close together, followed.

Around the corner Nellie Gray, who had walked with Benson this far because her uncertainty was overbalanced by his impelling manner and his hand under her arm, stopped and jerked free.

“Where are you trying to take me? Is this why you got me free—so you could take me away some place and make me answer questions?”

Benson didn’t answer. He didn’t have time to. The three men were on them then.

It was smoothly done. There were people all around. The plan had been for one man to knife Benson efficiently and unobtrusively in the back and for the other two to get the girl to a waiting car before the people around knew what had happened. But that nice plan went overboard.

With machinelike precision, the two men got Nellie by each arm just as the knife in the hand of the third flashed toward Benson’s back. But the back was no longer there. The man found himself blinking in utter amazement into a white, still face from which pale eyes glared like gray flame. A man couldn’t turn that quickly! But Benson had.

Benson’s hand flashed up and caught the wrist behind the descending knife. The knife stopped descending. Benson’s steely forefinger found a spot a little above the wrist and in the center of the forearm. The finger pressed, and the man shrieked wildly and dropped the knife.

A crowd was already pressing around.

Benson laced out with his right to the man’s jaw, and then turned his back on him, serenely confident that he’d have no more trouble from that source.

He saw a curious thing when he faced the girl.

One of the two men who had grabbed her arms was on the sidewalk, staring at her with pop eyes. The other man executed a back flip over her extended leg as Benson took a step toward her, and crashed beside the first on the sidewalk. Nellie Gray didn’t need help.

Benson steered her forward.

“Into my car,” he said.

It was an odd-looking car for a rich man to have. It was a big, dull sedan at least four years old and of a not very expensive make. That was the story the outside told. But under the exterior there was a motor capable of a hundred and thirty miles an hour. The shabby sides of the car were bulletproofed, and the tires were filled with petroleum jelly instead of air.

Nellie got into the car in order to get away from the gaping crowd in a hurry, regardless of whether or not she was still suspicious of Benson. And that she still was, came out in a moment.

“You knew those men were following us!” she said. “It was all a play, to make me think you were on the level.”

“What makes you think I knew?” said Benson.

“You were walking on the balls of your feet, like a tiger ready to leap,” she said. “You were just waiting for that attack.”

Benson nodded.

“I knew. But I thought if I let it come off, you’d be convinced I’m not in with the gang that killed your father. That failed. So it’s useless now to suggest what I’d intended to.”

“What was that?” said Nellie.

“It is obvious that you’re in danger almost as great as your father was. So I was going to suggest that you stay with me for a time.”

Nellie stared silently ahead at the street.

Benson said: “How in the world could a girl as slim and harmless-looking as you pitch two grown men on their backs?”

“They weren’t expecting anything,” said Nellie, abstractedly. “People look at me and don’t expect any fast moves.”

“There must be more to it than that.”

“Well, there is, a little. At Vassar, instead of going out for tennis and basketball, I studied jujitsu, boxing and wrestling. When I got out, I kept on with more advanced studies. I go—went—with dad on his expeditions, so I wanted to keep fit. Also, I happen to like the art of self-defense.”

“You’re a very unusual, and very fine, person,” Benson said. “Now, where would you like me to drive you?”

“As if I had any choice!” said Nellie bleakly.

“But of course you have a free choice.”

She looked somberly at him.

“You’re very clever, Mr. Benson. So I’ll go with you as you suggested.”

Benson’s pale eyes probed into hers.

“But if you still won’t trust me—”

“It’s because I don’t, that I’ll go to your quarters, whatever and wherever they are. If I didn’t, you and your gang would get me anyhow, sooner or later. If I do, I may be able to match wits with you, smart as you are. And I can certainly keep an eye on you.”

Benson turned the car toward Bleek Street, the little block-long section that, to all intents and purposes, he owned.

“You’re splendid,” he said quietly. “I’m more glad than ever that Justice & Co. was led to your help.”

That shook her a little. She kept glancing sideways at him. But the suspicion would not down.

“Who got you started on this?” she said. “Michael Bower, Basil Doolen—who?”

Benson said: “Thank you, my dear. That’s the first constructive thing you’ve said yet.”

CHAPTER V

Temple Bricks

Michael Ransom Bower was obviously well-to-do. He owned a narrow-front gray stone house on Sixteenth Street near Fifth Avenue that represented several hundred thousand in real estate value. When Benson pressed at the bell beside the iron-grilled front door, a servant in livery opened the massive panel.

However, the servant had broader shoulders and a more beetling brow than a proper servant should have. His left ear was cauliflowered. His nose was bent. He was either an ex-wrestler or a ham prize fighter.

“Yeah?” he said to Benson.

“I’d like to see Mr. Bower—”

“Beat it, buddy. Nobody’s seeing Mr. Bower.”

The door started to close.

Benson pushed it open, shoving a surprised and furiously straining man along with it. Benson stood in a tiny vestibule, not looking very tall, but not looking any the less impressive for all that. He resembled a limber gray steel bar more than a man. And his pale and deadly eyes made the big ham at the door reach toward his pocket.

“I must see Mr. Bower,” Benson said, with the patient reasonableness of a grown man for a child.

“I told you—” rasped the man. And there was a glint as he got a gun half out of his livery pocket.

Benson apparently didn’t stop to reason it out, as ordinary men might have. There was urgent necessity behind his visit here, and he didn’t intend to give it up. That was all.

The gray steel man’s left hand caught the leveling gun barrel as a hawk catches a bird in mid-flight, and turned it aside. His right hand reached up and around the big fellow’s neck. Thumb and second finger pressed hard there, at the base of the medulla oblongata.

A spectator might have thought the movements slow, so methodically and perfectly completed were they. But they couldn’t have been slow, for the man with the cauliflower ear, trained in a hundred ring bouts, was utterly unable to ward them off.

The man in livery wavered. A sort of hissing exclamation came from stiffening lips. Then he lay on the floor and looked up at Benson with wide eyes that couldn’t see anything. Benson went on through the inner door. The man behind him would lie quiet for half an hour. If Benson hadn’t removed the pressure on the great neck nerve centers, the man might have lain quiet for the rest of time. For that pressure can kill.

Benson went upstairs, moving like a lithe gray fox, and yet seeming to take his time. That was one of the paradoxes of all his motions—he didn’t seem ever to be in a hurry, yet he got from one place to another faster than seemed physically possible.

A man suddenly appeared at the head of the stairs. On him, Benson wasted no words at all. With the same move that bore his body up and over the top step, he whipped forward like a steel rod, with his fist licking out. The second man sagged in three sections, like a swaying Z, and was promptly out of the picture.

There was still another man in front of one of the second-floor doors, about five yards away. Benson, who was in motion again even while the second man was falling, stopped in front of the third guard. He, too, was reaching in alarm for his pocket. But he didn’t complete the move.

He stared almost hypnotically into the pale-gray flames which Benson had for eyes. The deadly penetration of those eyes, the appalling expressionlessness of the white, dead face, made the man’s stomach feel as if somebody were tying it into hard knots.

“I’ll see Mr. Bower, please,” said Benson. His voice had a silky quiet to it.

“Yes, sir,” said the man, stepping aside.

Benson opened the door and went in.

At the window, sitting in an easy chair, was a man in dressing gown and pajamas. The man was corpulent, pompous-looking. But he needed a shave and his hand trembled as he raised a glass from a little table on which was also a half-filled-bottle and a bowl, of ice.

The man turned swiftly with an exclamation ripping from pale lips. Benson went toward him. He cowered in the chair.

He was obviously drunk. Equally obviously, he hadn’t been drinking to get drunk, but to drown terror. And he hadn’t succeeded. Naked terror still peered from his muddy-brown eyes.

“Don’t be afraid,” said Benson. “You’re all right. I’m not here to hurt anything.”

Bower tried twice to say something, and closed his trembling lips again without having been able to force out sound.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions, that’s all,” said Benson.

Bower’s gaze went over Benson’s snow-white hair, his white, still face and almost colorless, deadly eyes, and his gray-clad body that made him seem a thing of steel from head to foot.

“You . . . you are from the police?” he croaked.

“No. I’m investigating the affair of the Mexican bricks, but unofficially. I’m working in behalf of Miss Nellie Gray, daughter of—”

“I don’t know anything about bricks or Nellie Gray!” Bower screamed, face convulsed with fear. “I don’t know a thing about anything! Get away from me!”

“You must know something,” said Benson, voice quiet and soothing. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have hired guards with the murder of Professor Gray. You were on that recent archaeological trip to Mexico with him, weren’t you?”

“No!” yelled Bower. “I never heard of the man. I wasn’t on any trip!”

“I think you were,” Benson said. “Now, if you would tell me what you know, I might be able to help you out of the hole you’re obviously in, and help Nellie Gray, too.”

“I have nothing to tell!” cried Bower. “Are you deaf? I’ve already told you that—”

He stopped yelling. His lips writhed and little white flecks appeared at their corners. He slumped in the chair. Benson got to his side, felt for his pulse. It was pounding in a thin and thready discord. Bower was alive, but had fainted.

Something about this had so terrified him that he had gone out cold at the mere thought of telling anybody what he might know.

For an instant Benson stared at the unconscious man. Then he turned to the door. Nothing to be gained here, even if he stayed around till Bower came to. The man would die rather than talk.

“Your employer fainted,” he said to the man outside the door.

The man glared suspiciously, reached tentatively for his gun again, and again decided, on looking into the pale and flaming eyes, that he’d keep his gun in his pocket.

The man at the head of the stairs was sitting up rubbing his jaw. He made no effort to stop the gray steel bar of a man who had knocked him out. The fellow at the door was still lying on the tile floor of the little vestibule.

Benson left the house and went to the address of Basil Doolen, the second of the two names mentioned by Nellie Gray.

There were no guards in Doolen’s big apartment. The only precaution taken was that Doolen’s servant—a bona fide one—held the door on the night chain while Doolen examined Benson’s face in a mirror held at an angle. Then Benson was admitted.

Doolen was afraid, too. But he was a different breed than Bower. He had his fear under control, and he talked—at least a little.

“Yes,” he said, “I was with the unfortunate Professor Gray on his last trip to Mexico. Quite a few like myself were with him. In fact, the members of the expedition consisted entirely of business and professional men who wanted an exciting vacation, had a layman’s interest in archaeology, and could afford to stand the cost of the trip pro rata as payment for their fun.”

“The trip was successful?” said Benson.

“I think, according to Gray, it was highly successful.”

“But you’re not sure?”

Doolen looked thoughtful.

“I’m not. I got the impression, toward the end, that Professor Gray had discovered something colossal—and sinister. But no direct word of such a discovery was ever said.”

“What could it have been?”

“I can’t even guess,” said Doolen. “But whatever it was, it must be the reason why Gray was murdered. I am wondering now if everybody who was on the expedition is in similar danger, for some reason we do not even know.”

“Is there a chance that Professor Gray took out of Mexico the important thing you’ve guessed he discovered?” said Benson, eyes pale wells of flaming concentration.

Doolen was a composed and very shrewd person. He said, staring hard at Benson:

“If I knew about this, I might be talking less to a man whom, after all, I don’t know. But if you are what you seem to be, I’m willing to talk, in case my guesses might help you. If you are here under false pretenses I’m still willing to talk—because it would be to my advantage to reveal how little I know, and hence how little reason there would be for attacking me. The only thing I know of that Gray took out of Mexico couldn’t, as far as I can see, excite anyone.”

“And that was?”

“Several bricks from an old temple we discovered. I don’t know exactly how many—half a dozen, perhaps—maybe a few more or a few less. I don’t know what happened to them after we got across the border, but I always assumed the professor had brought them here to his New York home with him.”

“After his murder, it was said that two bricks were missing from his apartment—but only two. Not six or seven.”

“I know,” said Doolen. “I don’t know why they weren’t all taken, if they were the illogical reason for murder—unless only those two had any meaning to the killer.”

“Or unless only those two were in the apartment to be taken,” Benson pointed out.

“That is possible,” said Doolen. “But if that’s so, I don’t know where the rest could be. I’m sure Professor Gray came over the border with more than two of them.”

“Would you mind giving me a list of the members of the expedition?”

“Yes,” said Doolen, “I would mind. If some danger hangs over everyone who was on that expedition, I’m not going to be the one to give that danger direction by naming the men!”

“It would be pretty easy to get the names from another source,” said Benson. “The State Department will have their visa list. The Mexican border officials would know. The information would be in the newspaper morgues from announcement of the trip before it was begun.”

Doolen chewed his lip for a while, then shrugged. “I suppose you’re right. Well, here’s the list.” He wrote rapidly on a sheet of paper, and handed it to Benson.

Benson took it, thanked Doolen, and left. He stepped out of the apartment building door, a limber steel bar of a man—and instantly leaped sideways a dozen yards and back into an areaway with the explosive swiftness of a rocket projectile.

He was protected there from the explosion.

Probably any other man alive would have been killed on Doolen’s doorstep. But Benson’s almost colorless eyes had saved him more than once by their instantaneous grasp of separate pictures and their equally instantaneous fitting of them together into a clear and significant whole.

He had seen the coupé twenty yards from the door and noted that though it was empty the motor was idling. He had seen a man in a brown cap standing just beyond the coupé, near the radiator, and had noted that the man was a little crouched as if ready to duck down behind the bulk of the car. He had seen the man’s hand start up and back the instant he, Benson, appeared on the walk. Up and back in a throwing gesture.

As the man’s hand had flashed forward, Benson had made his unbelievably swift dash.

Toward the thrower—not away from him.

Over his head, as he darted forward, Benson had seen a queer object sail on its flight toward the doorway. He had seen that it was small, longer than thick, and rounded at the ends. It was a dull-gray color. It looked like a large peanut, complete with shell.

Then, as he whipped around the building recess into the areaway, there was a terrific explosion. The “peanut” had struck the walk in front of the door.

Windows tinkled down in pieces for many feet around. A crater appeared in the solid cement of the walk. The entire doorway of the apartment building was blown back, leaving only a great jagged hole. All this from a small gray thing, hardly larger than a man’s thumb.

Benson leaped out of the areaway. Again his eyes caught, in a twentieth of a second, a complete picture. But this was not a picture of danger. It was one of tragedy and horror. And at the same instant his eardrums recovered from the violence of the blast and pathetic sounds came to him.

There had been a woman and child, and an elderly man, on the walk not far from the doorway. The man was down—and he had no face! The woman was down, too, and the child, by some freak spared from death, was trying to reach her hands and was crying for her to answer. She would never answer anyone again, and she had no hands to reach.

These people hadn’t seen the move of the man in the brown cap in time to take shelter, as Benson had. Probably they hadn’t seen him at all.

Benson was streaking for the coupé, eyes awful in his white and moveless face. Death rode in those almost colorless wells.

The man in the brown cap was behind the wheel. The motor was roaring under his frantic foot, and gears clashed. The back of the coupé was dented in as if by a gigantic hammer, from the explosion, but the car would run enough to get him away from there. And that was what he was devoting every energy to doing, right now.

The car slid away from the curb. But Benson was on the running board. He got the door open. The frenzied driver had a gun on his knees as he drove. He whipped it toward the man with the flaming pale eyes, and fired. The slug ripped the side of Benson’s dark-gray coat, but his lithe twist saved further damage. He caught the man’s arm and yanked him bodily out of the car. The coupé, driverless, crashed into the rear of a parked truck. Benson and the man rolled in the street.

The man got up, dazed, and leaped for Benson. And Benson struck.

At the last moment, the gray fox of a man pulled his punch a little. If he hadn’t, he would have broken the neck of the killer in the brown cap.

He wanted to break the man’s neck. If ever a man had deserved death—but, dead, he’d be no good to anyone. Alive—he might be.

Benson scooped up the man’s limp body, and ran with it to his old car with the mighty, special motor under the shabby hood. He got away as police sirens sounded at the far end of the street.

CHAPTER VI

The Veil of Mystery

In the huge room on the third floor of Benson’s unique headquarters in Bleek Street, were Nellie Gray, Smitty, and MacMurdie.

The girl, slim and dainty and pink-and-white as a Dresden doll, was staring around as she had several times before.

“To get a layout like this,” she said, “you must rob the United States mint itself about twice a year.”

Mac had just come from his store. He stared at Smitty, with his sandy ropes of eyebrows going up over his frosty-blue eyes, and his sandy-red hair wrinkling down on his freckled forehead.

“She thinks we’re crooks,” the giant Smitty explained.

Nellie sniffed.

“She thinks we’re the ones who are after the Mexican bricks,” Smitty added.

MacMurdie shook his dour Scots head.

“She’s seen the chief, and still thinks we’re crooks?” He took a step toward Nellie. “Whoosh! Ye’re a very suspectin’ kind of gurrrl, I’m thinkin’.”

“Suppose,” said Nellie Gray, “you stop where you are, my Scots friend. You could shoot me, from a distance, but you won’t, because you want me alive to question me. But you’d better not lay a hand on me.”

“Take the advice, Mac,” said Smitty, grinning. “She looks little and harmless, with those big innocent eyes. But she can toss men around like a juggler keeping three billiard balls in the air at the same tune.”

“Ye’re joking,” said Mac, staring at the slim and dainty-looking Nellie Gray.

“Try it,” said Smitty.

“See here!” snapped Nellie, with glints in the “big innocent” eyes. “I’m no guinea pig to experiment on.”

But Mac was curious. He grabbed her left arm, just to see what in the world Smitty was talking about.

He saw. Stars.

Nellie Gray whirled. Mac, feet in a forward line from his last step, perforce whirled, too. He was in balance frontward and backward, but not sideways. He toppled sideways, pawing the air with his free hand as he swayed. But Nellie didn’t stop there. She kept right on turning, and Mac, with one ankle swept from under him by a dainty No. 3 patent-leather pump, loosed her arm before his own should break and smashed in a long slide on the floor against the carved leg of a davenport.

He got up, rubbing his arm, too incredulous to be angry.

“Whoosh!” he said, staring at the softly rounded, slim figure with bulging blue eyes. “Ye didn’t do that! Ye couldn’t have! It would take a man’s strength to toss my weight like that.”

“A man’s strength did it,” said Nellie.

“Whose? Not Smitty. He was clear over there all the time—”

“You did it,” said Nellie. “Yours was the man’s strength that tossed you. You lunged at me like a clumsy ox, and I added a little new direction to your weight and the strength of your lunge and, like the song says, you came out there.”

“They call it jujitsu, Mac,” said Smitty.

“If ye don’t wipe the grin off yer silly face, ye overgrown clown,” burred Mac, “I’ll wipe it off for ye!”

“You mean you will if you get our little friend to help you,” taunted Smitty.

The Scot was about to retort to that one when the door opened. All three swung toward it.

Benson came in. His eyes were pale holes of fury in his white, dead face. But, as always, the face itself could express none of that fury. And its very immobility was more frightening than any grimace of anger could have been.

Hauled along by one hand as easily as if he’d been a child, was a man in a brown cap. He was half again as big as Benson, but his wildest twisting and fighting couldn’t shake the gray man’s one-handed grip by a hair. Indeed, the gray steel figure seemed hardly aware that the man was fighting and twisting.

Quality in muscle, as well as quantity! Now and then a man appears whose muscle fiber, ounce for ounce, is so much more powerful than that of ordinary men that he seems of another race. Benson was such a man.

Eyes flaming so that even Smitty and Mac felt chill shivers run up and down their spines, Benson flipped his wrist. The man with the cap shot away from him, half turned as he tried to catch his balance, and ended up against the back of a great leather chair.

“Sit there,” said Benson, voice silken and quiet, but with something in it that again sent shivers down the spines of Mac and Smitty.

The man glared around the tremendous room like a mad rabbit in a death trap. He calculated the chance of making a break for the door, looked into the almost colorless eyes of death set in a dead, white face, and decided to do as he was told. He sat.

“Who’s your friend?” said Smitty, looming gigantic over the cowering man in the big chair.

Benson, lips barely moving in his paralyzed face, told them who his friend was—and what he had done.

Mac and Smitty went white with fury. And from the lips of the still unreconciled girl was wrung a gasp of pity.

“He threw a bomb that killed an old man and a young mother who just happened to be walking near?” Smitty ground out. “Why, I’ll—”

He got one enormous hand on the man’s throat. His hand went almost completely around it.

A terrified squeak came from the man’s lips. His eyes, insane with terror, stared up and up Smitty’s vast bulk. Six feet nine and as big as the side of a barn. Then his eyes popped half out as Smitty just started to squeeze.

“No!” snapped Benson.

Smitty reluctantly—very reluctantly—opened his ponderous fingers.

“I want him alive. He’ll tell us things before we’re through. You see—the explosion was caused by one of the little peanut-things he tossed. He’ll explain, in due time.”

Nellie, eyes wide on the cowering man who could throw death and destruction around so heedlessly in his effort to kill the white-faced man, said:

“Why didn’t you turn him over to the police, at once? He’s the murderer of two people. Caught red-handed.”

“He’d be out on bail in a day or less,” said Benson.

“A proven murderer?” said Nellie. “There is no bail in such cases. As I should know!”

“There is no proof of murder.”

“You saw him, with your own eyes.”

“Simply my word against his. One against one. The law could not convict on that.”

Benson went to a corner, where a queer thing of bars was standing. It looked like a gigantic canary cage.

“The law, my dear, has perhaps necessarily become a very involved and complicated thing. So complicated that sometimes it can’t function according to the fines of justice. As in this case, where money could bail this man out and let him escape. That’s why our little firm of Justice & Co. has been formed. Come here, you!”

The last words were to the man who sat in the chair and gasped for breath, staring with terrified eyes at Smitty.

The man got up, sidled around the giant, yelled—and leaped to one side as Smitty’s hand raised. He fairly ran to where Benson stood by the cage. Benson opened the barred door.

“Get in!”

“Hey! Me get in there? I won’t—”

The almost colorless eyes—eyes of a deadly marksman—stared calmly at him. His words broke in the same squeak that had sounded when Smitty’s hand encircled his throat.

“What are you gonna do to me? Who are you guys, anyhow? Why’re you sticking your bills in this—”

“Get in, please.”

The man stumbled into the six-by-six cage, looking more dead than alive.

“What are you gonna do to me? You turn me over to the cops! You hear? If you don’t—”

“You can shout as loudly as you like,” said Benson. “The place is thoroughly soundproofed. But I’d advise you not to.”

He went back to the others, with the caged man’s awed and panic-glazed eyes following his lithe body and smooth tiger tread.

Benson drew out the list he had gotten from Doolen.

“Here,” he said, “are the men who accompanied Professor Gray on his last trip. Some one of them—perhaps more than one—must know what this is all about.”

He read the list aloud:

“Michael Bower, retired manufacturer; Basil Doolen, importer; Olin Chandler, engineer; Rex Orto, Jr., no occupation; Harry Armitage, sales manager; John Sanderson, manufacturer; Cole Tega, advertising artist; Alec Knight, student; Mortimer Barker, physician.”

Benson glanced at Nellie Gray.

“You needn’t answer if you don’t want to, Miss Gray. We can go ahead without any help. But you might tell me if this list is complete or if any have been left out.”

Nellie stared a long time into the gray eyes, like pale ice in a polar dawn. You could fairly see her thinking it out:

This is a world of greed. No one does anything unless he’s going to get something out of it. Therefore, Benson must be mixing in because he expects a reward. His claim that he is only doing it to help the cause of justice is, by all logic, silly.

And yet—she was beginning to think, foolish as it sounded, that he was really on the level.

“The list is complete,” she said, in a low, troubled tone.

Benson nodded.

“Three of these,” he said, “have little check marks after them, meaning that on the expedition they were the particular intimates of Professor Gray. The three are Dr. Barker, Olin Chandler, and Alec Knight. Right, Miss Gray?”

The girl nodded, uncertain, still not knowing how much trust to place here.

“Dr. Barker has been our personal physician for years. Olin Chandler has worked with Columbia, and with dad, on Aztec stuff, and was on an expedition with dad two years before, in Yucatan. Al Knight is a brilliant student working his way through Columbia now. They were the three father knew best. Two were with him when he discovered—”

She stopped abruptly.

“When he discovered what?” said Benson. “The bricks?”

She would not answer. She had gone as far as she dared go, at the moment.

What was her secret, that it was so gigantic she dared not, even yet, lift a corner of the veil of mystery for Benson to gaze at?

The pale-gray flames of eyes turned from her face to the faces of MacMurdie and Smitty.

“Mac, call on Rex Orto and Harry Armitage. Smitty, visit John Sanderson and Cole Tega. Learn from them what you can. I’ll take Professor Gray’s three intimates—Olin Chandler, Dr. Barker, and Alec Knight. Then we’ll all get together and see what we’ve turned up.”

A sound, methodical plan. But even the plans of Dick Benson, The Avenger, could fail if the proper factors—beyond any human influence—appeared.

One such factor being death—

CHAPTER VII

Hollow Hieroglyphs

Dr. Mortimer Barker had cut and run.

Bower was so frightened for his personal safety after the murder of Professor Gray that he had fainted when Dick Benson dwelt on the subject. Doolen was frightened, but composed. Barker, it appeared, was frightened and discreet.

He had gone to Europe for a month, his assistant said, when Benson called to talk to the man.

Two phone calls—one to the American consulate in New York and one to the steamship company—verified the statement that Barker was on a ship and fleeing from danger at the moment. So Benson discarded the worthy physician as a possible source of information and went to see Olin Chandler.

Chandler was in an office listed: “Chandler & Co., Zoning and City Planning Engineers.” There was an outer office with half a dozen clerks at work, an anteroom where a smart-looking girl answered phone calls and talked to visitors, and then the inner office of Chandler himself.

Benson was directed in. He saw a big desk in the five-o’clock sun, with a smallish, middle-aged man seated at it. The man had intelligent brown eyes and an alert manner. He looked hard at Benson as the pale-gray man walked with his tiger tread from door to visitor’s chair beside the desk.

Then Chandler withdrew his hand from the partly open desk drawer. In that drawer was a flat automatic.

“So you want to know about the Mexican expedition, too,” he said, folding well-kept hands across his flat and well-kept middle and leaning back in his chair.

“Too?” repeated Benson. His pale eyes were rapidly evaluating Chandler. A man as composed as Doolen, and perhaps even more resolute. A younger man than Doolen, perhaps more of a fighter.

“You’re the third to approach me with questions,” said Chandler. “The police were one. In connection with poor Gray’s death. The second was a man who skulked into my apartment when I was out, waited till I’d got home, and then talked to me from behind where I sat. He said he had a gun and would shoot if I tried to turn and see who he was. I took his word for it and didn’t turn. I didn’t tell him anything either. Rather, I told him a lot of stuff that I made up as I went along. But I’ll talk to you, Mr. Richard Henry Benson.”

“Why?” said Benson.”

“You evidently have a great many friends, some of them in out-of-the-way places. One of them is a Harry Rhodes, who is an importer in Guatemala. Right?”

“Correct,” said Benson quietly.

“Well, it happens I know Rhodes, and he has spoken of you. That’s good enough for me.”

“You’ve been in Guatemala much?” came Benson’s silken voice.

“I was there for two years,” nodded Chandler. “Most of the time between Professor Gray’s next-to-the-last expedition—on which I went along, also—and this final one.”

“You were there in your capacity of zoning engineer?”

“Yes,” said Chandler. “The title indicates my work, of course. I advise governments in laying out new towns, or remodeling old ones. Where to lay the streets, how to group the various business, manufacturing, and residence districts, that sort of thing. I was at work on the town of Chiquimula when the boys told me to pack up and leave because they weren’t going to have the money to spend that they’d thought they would have.”

“Guatemala—munitions,” said Benson.

“That’s right.” Chandler nodded ruefully. “The silly little country is so busy buying a silly little army and navy that they’re broke. They haven’t the money for such comparatively civilized jobs as city planning. So I came on home.”

“There are whispers,” said Benson, “of more munitions being rushed down there than the country itself could ever handle.”

“Right,” said Chandler, eyes narrowing. “There are also whispers that this big store of munitions has something to do with a move against Mexico, with perhaps a foreign power aiding under the surface. But has this anything to do with what you came to see me about?”

“I suppose not,” Benson said. “What I came to see you about was—Mexican bricks.”

The pale and deadly eyes probed Chandler’s brown ones in the pause that followed. And Chandler stared squarely, thoughtfully back. Then he nodded.

“You’ve hit on it,” he said. “The thing of great importance that Professor Gray found in Mexico. The thing he was murdered for, though the police simply can’t quite believe it. Five rough, ancient bricks of ordinary dried clay.”

“There were five, then? I wasn’t sure of the number.”

“There were five. And Gray thought them so important that he split them up when we came up across the border into Texas, past the customs men. He took two himself—the ones that were stolen when he was murdered. He gave one to Dr. Barker to handle for him, another to a young fellow named Knight, and the third—to me.”

“Now,” said Benson, “we’re getting somewhere. As a great favor—if you’re sure enough of me to trust me that far—I’d like you to let me see that brick.”

Chandler got up. He began to pace slowly back and forth across his office. Finally he stopped in front of Benson with a troubled look on his face.

“I’m sure enough of you, after all the things Rhodes has told me about you. But—I haven’t got the brick.”

“You haven’t got it? You gave it back to Gray?”

“No. Gray hadn’t asked me for it before he died. I was still keeping it, waiting to hear from him. I told you a man was waiting in my apartment for me last night, and questioned me? Well, that man got the brick. As soon as he had gone out a rear window behind me, I ran to the place where I’d hidden the brick. It wasn’t there.”

Benson drew a deep breath.

“I understand there was Aztec picture writing on the bricks. If I could have just a glimpse of one of them—”

“There,” said Chandler unexpectedly, “I can help you out.”

On his desk, acting as a paper weight, was a perfect little cannon. A miniature of a field piece as complete in all its parts as the clever model boats that many men build as a hobby. Chandler lifted the little toy and took the top envelope from a pile of several envelopes held down by it.

Benson saw the name Krupp on the little cannon.

The envelope had a transparent window on it, as do envelopes that contain bills. The printing on it showed that it was a firm manufacturing mechanical-drawing instruments.

But the way Chandler handled it indicated that there was something in the envelope far more important than a bill for mechanical-drawing tools. That was just a blind.

“I’m trusting you right down to the ground in showing you this,” Chandler said. “But I think I can.”

“You can,” said Benson quietly.

Chandler took out a sheet of paper. It was covered by lines of little ideographs, the picture writing of the Aztecs.

“This,” said Chandler, “is an exact copy of the hieroglyphs on that brick Gray had me keep for him. I copied them off just in case something should happen to the brick.”

“Can you read this?” said Benson, pale flames of eyes traveling over the cryptic lines.

“Hardly!” said Chandler, smiling a little. “I’m interested in the Aztecs—went on two expeditions to their ruins—because they were such marvelous old city planners. I got ideas for my own modern work. I’m not nearly advanced enough to know their writing! Not many men are.”

“May I copy this?” said Benson.

Chandler thought for a moment. Then he said slowly: “I think I’ll do better than that. I think I’ll let you take the list itself. Since the brick itself, with that writing on it, has fallen into the wrong hands, there is no longer such an urgent reason for keeping the whole thing secret. Although I didn’t show even the police that sheet of paper you hold in your hand.”

“It’s much appreciated,” said Benson.

He got up, only of average size but impressive, with his silver-white hair and white, dead face, as few men are impressive.

“I’ll return this shortly,” he said. “Meanwhile, take plenty of precautions about your safety. There seems to be a menace over all who went on that last expedition. As an intimate of Professor Gray, perhaps you are in danger even more than the others.”

Chandler’s smile went crooked and humorless.

“Good advice—but I don’t need it. My hide is very precious to me. I’ll guard it, all right!”

Benson went to the address of Alec Knight, the one young student taken with Professor Gray on that final archaeological expedition—and the third of the dead man’s intimates on the trip.

Knight was obviously in meager circumstances. The building he lived in was hardly more than a tenement on the East Side. But there were tiny apartments in the tenement, not just single rooms. He was getting along well enough to have more than a single chamber to live in.

Benson pressed the bell under his name, got no answer, and jabbed the button again.

Benson went to the top floor of the four-story walk-up building, and found Knight’s door. He knocked. When there was still no answer, he took out a small pocket knife and opened a blade that looked a bit like an old-fashioned buttonhook, except that it was smaller.

It was not a buttonhook. He inserted the thin, flexible end in the lock, turned experimentally twice, and the door opened. He stepped in—and then shut the door quickly and softly behind him. Shut it on death.

His call on Alec Knight, brilliant student putting himself through Columbia, was too late.

Knight, a sturdy, tanned youngster of twenty-one or so, lay next to the shabby day bed, which was the largest piece of furniture in the room. The top of his head was mashed in, as the top of Gray’s head had been. And the room had been searched by someone so thoroughly that it looked as if a tornado had come to call.

Benson stepped with his tiger tread to the door on the side wall. Opening it, he saw another room, with the big folding doors of a pullman kitchenette at its end. This had been designed as a dining room, perhaps. Now it held a work table cluttered with Indian relics of the more common variety and textbooks.

Here the room was not so disarranged, and the gray steel man nodded, his face, as ever, expressionless. The fact that blood was still trickling from Knight’s head showed that he had been very recently killed. And the fact that this second room was only a little disarranged hinted that the killer hadn’t had time for a complete search before he’d been frightened off. Probably by Benson’s ring at the bell downstairs.

With pale eyes full of sympathy at the youth of the dead man, but with a white, still face as dead as the man himself, Benson finished the searching of the second room. No need to go over the part that had already been rifled; anything of importance there would already have been taken.

Benson found many things relative to Aztec Indians—but no clay brick. Only one thing came to light—in a battered leather portfolio—that caught the notice of the pale, infallible eyes.

That was a sealed envelope addressed to Professor Archer Gray. It was unstamped.

Benson opened it. The piece of paper within had just three marks on it—three of the ancient Indian ideographs. That was all.

Benson put it in his pocket and went back to examine the murdered man. His pockets had been turned out, his shirt had been half removed to make sure he had no secret hiding place next to his skin for anything, like a money belt.

The position of the body indicated that the youth had been slugged while he lay resting on the day bed. Asleep, probably. The poor devil hadn’t had a chance, had never known what hit him.

With a reflection of the terrible, cold fury in his pale eyes that had leaped there at the callous act of the man in the brown cap, Benson left the pitiful place of death.

He went to the Metropolitan Museum.

As Chandler had noted, Dick Benson knew countless people in many unusual positions. One of his host of friends was old Dr. Brunniger, on the staff of the Metropolitan. Brunniger was an outstanding authority on ancient Mexico.

“Dick,” said the old man, as Benson found him munching a cold dinner and studying the latest shipment of primitives, “it’s a treat to see you again.”

Brunniger’s eyes went to Benson’s still, white face and his snow-white hair.

“You’re . . . different than when I saw you last, Richard. I heard about your loss. I’m . . . sorrier than I can say.”

A terrible light flared in the deadly, pale eyes. That light came when anything reminded The Avenger of the reason for his present mode of life. But he moved his hand as if brushing the thought aside.

“I came for a little information on your specialty, doctor,” he said. He opened the paper Chandler had given him.

“Can you read this?”

Brunniger smiled. “Indian ideographs! Why do you come to me? You, with your surprising knowledge of all things under the sun, can read hieroglyphs yourself.”

“My knowledge,” said Benson, “isn’t as deep as yours. At any rate, this seems to be beyond me.”

Brunniger studied the paper.

“Mayan, I think—no, Aztec. They borrowed from the Mayans, who preceded them, as you know—”

The old expert blinked, shook his head a little, then studied the paper again. He stared up at Benson with a humorous quirk to his lips.

“Why, it doesn’t mean anything! I thought so at first, but couldn’t be sure. Is this some brilliant joker’s idea of humor?”

“I don’t think,” said Benson, “that’s a joke. But it seemed to me, too, to have no significance. That’s why I brought it to you. To make sure. You’ll swear to that—that the ideographs have no meaning?”

“Of course. It’s as though a child with a knowledge of hieroglyphs had scrawled several lines of characters having no relation to each other—and no meaning whatever.”

Benson stared at the paper with icily flaming eyes. The copy of the hieroglyphs on Chandler’s brick. Murder had been done for bricks similar to that. Seemingly, the bricks themselves had no real value. So it had been probable that the murder had been done to get and read whatever message had been on the bricks.

And now it was proved that the message on Chandler’s brick, at least, had no meaning at all.

Benson took out the paper with the three ideographs on it that Alec Knight had addressed to Professor Gray.

“What do these tell you, doctor?”

The old man studied the three symbols, and nodded after a moment.

“The first of these,” he said, “is the symbol for death. The last has to do with building construction. Stones—or bricks.”

“I read those two,” said Benson. “But the center one I couldn’t be sure of.”

“That’s natural,” said Brunniger. “It’s a very rare symbol. It means artificial rain, irrigation. The Aztecs raised crops by irrigation, you know.”

“Thanks,” said Benson.

Brunniger’s whimsical smile appeared.

“Thanks for what, Richard? Is it possible that those three symbols spell a message to you? Death—irrigation—bricks! Can you read a meaning there?”

“I think I can,” said Benson.

And the gray steel figure with the dead, paralyzed face and the snow-white hair turned and went out.

Back to Alec Knight’s dingy little apartment.

Benson found it under the tub. Under the linoleum, and then under a loose board in the floor of the bathroom.

That was the way he’d figured Knight’s cryptic message to Professor Gray. Symbol for death, symbol for running water, symbol for brick. “In the event of death, you will find the brick under the bathtub.”

Or it could have been kitchen sink, bathroom wash-stand—anything symbolized by running water. It had been under the tub, however, the first place Benson looked.

He stared at the old clay brick Gray had entrusted to Knight. There was writing on it, too. Hieroglyphs that Benson could make out. It was the same as the picture writing on Chandler’s brick; it spelled no message.

It had no meaning whatever—was just a brainless conglomerate of symbols such as might occur in our own language if a child shook a hatful of words together at random and then copied several lines of them as they fell.

CHAPTER VIII

Death Strikes Again

The newspapers were full of it. With the death of Alec Knight, second to go on the recent expedition with Professor Gray, the lurid sheets were talking of a tomb curse. The expedition had rifled an ancient Aztec tomb. Therefore a curse would lay them all low.

Up in Benson’s headquarters, they weren’t paying much attention to the papers. Benson was examining that brick.

It was about eight inches long, five wide, and three thick. It was curiously heavy. Nellie Gray was watching his examination with veiled eyes.

Benson deliberately broke a corner off the brick. It crumbled easily. He weighed the dried clay fragment. He made rapid calculations on a sheet of paper. Then he looked at the girl.

“This brick weighs about one quarter more than it should for its size and density,” he said. “That is very curious.”

With a powerful wrench of his slim, steely fingers he broke the brick in two. Nellie gasped, and Smitty and Mac looked with intent eyes.

The inside of the brick did not seem as old as the outside. In fact, the dried clay looked quite fresh. And, protruding from the center of one of the halves was a thing that glittered with a dull yellow sheen.

Benson got it out with another twist of his hands.

Inside the clay brick had been placed an object that would have brought a yell of joy to any museum curator. It was a slightly curved plate of old gold, so pure that it could be scratched with your thumbnail. It was about seven inches long and three-and-a-half wide. It weighed nearly a pound. In the center was set an emerald.

“Look at that emerald!” breathed the giant Smitty. “Twenty carats, at least! And you don’t see many emeralds that big that aren’t flawed.”

“There’s no flaw in that one,” said Mac.

There wasn’t. Ancient, crudely cut, it was a perfect stone. The plate, obviously part of a belt composed of several other such plates, was worth twenty or thirty thousand dollars as it stood—and worth an unguessable amount as a museum piece.

“I begin to see,” Benson said, staring at Nellie Gray again. “An ancient gold belt. There are five links like this, in all. Each was baked in a clay brick that was then treated to make it look old and marked with hieroglyphs that had no meaning, but that made it look official. Professor Gray camouflaged the links in that manner to get them across the border, because the Mexican government would not allow such articles to leave the country if they knew of it. Is that right?”

Nellie Gray drew a deep breath. Her voice, when she replied, had a different note in it than had been there at any time before in her visit here.

“Yes,” she said, “that is right.”

“Care to tell me any more, now?”

“Yes,” she said, “I think I will. I think I’ve been silly to distrust you.”

“You’d have been stupid if you hadn’t.”

Nellie smiled at the dead, white face in which flamed the pale and burning eyes.

“As you know, my father went to Mexico the last time to investigate further a discovery he’d made trip before last and hadn’t had time or money to go into then. It was an entire lost city of the Aztecs, known, till then, to no one. The whole expedition dug around, and we found many new things. But dad didn’t seem very excited about any of the discoveries, and one night just before we returned home, I found out why.

“At the very first, he’d discovered what he sensed was a very important tomb. He led us to it late that night—well after midnight, when the rest of the camp was asleep.”

“Us?” echoed Benson.

“Alec Knight, Dr. Barker, and myself. He said if his discovery was half as important as he hoped, he didn’t want to trust a soul but us. He led us to the thing that had roused his curiosity. It was just a mound in the jungle. You couldn’t see a thing about it, till we got close. Then you could see a square corner of stone sticking out near the top of the tree-grown mound, at one side.

“We dug, and in less than an hour had the doorway of the tomb uncovered. It was a small, solid stone building on top of rows and rows of steps running up in a pyramid. We pried a rock slab away that must have weighed over a ton, and went in. It was in perfect condition. It was the first important tomb dad had ever found that hadn’t been looted.

“There was a sarcophagus almost like the Egyptian ones. In it was a mummy. There were dozens of little gold and copper ornaments. But the most important thing was a belt, around the middle of the mummy. A belt of five links, like the one you have there.

“Dad placed the man and the tomb from the picture writing on the walls. We had actually discovered the secret resting place of Montezuma the Second, killed when the Spaniards invaded Mexico and murdered the Aztec tribe in 1520. The belt was worth probably a hundred thousand dollars as gold and emeralds. But any big museum would have given a year’s appropriation for it. The Smithsonian would give half a million, if they could beg or steal it from someone to pay for it.

“We knew the Mexican government wouldn’t let it leave the country, so dad put the links in five bricks, as you guessed. We replaced the dirt over the tomb entrance in the night before we left, knowing that in a few months jungle growth would hide it again.”

Nellie’s eyes grew clouded, worried.

“We were replacing the dirt when we heard a branch crack, and looked around. From beyond the mound, for just an instant, we saw a man’s head silhouetted against the sky. We’d thought no one but us knew the secret of the mound. But someone from the camp had followed us. That person might have seen the whole business, including the belt as dad lifted it from the sarcophagus. We didn’t know. But as a precaution, dad kept two of the bricks, and gave one apiece to Dr. Barker, Alec Knight, and Olin Chandler, whom he knew almost as well as Knight and the doctor.”

Benson nodded.

“So the eavesdropper is now after the belt, getting it piece by piece, killing for it. He got two of the golden plates from your father, after murdering him. He got one from Chandler, without murder. He murdered Knight for the fourth—and didn’t find it. We can be sure of only one thing. There will be more deaths.”

Benson turned the massive gold plate over in slim, powerful fingers. On the curved back, which was still worn smooth from years of contact, centuries before, with the abdomen of King Montezuma the Second, were carved more ancient ideographs.

Benson stared at the hieroglyphs with icily flaring pale eyes.

“If only we had an idea who’d be next, so that we could prevent tragedy!” he said.

Though no mortal mind could have guessed it at that stage of the game, the next person was to be an old man in a storeroom at the Metropolitan Museum.

It was nearly midnight. Dr. Brunniger was reluctantly putting away the primitives he had been examining earlier in the evening. Time to go home. He reached into a locker for his hat and coat, and turned to put them on.

There was a man standing in the storeroom doorway, with his back to the west wing of one of the public display rooms. The man wore a black suit with dark-gray shirt and black hat. He was not bad-looking, very dark of hair and skin, with narrowed black eyes.

“Dr. Brunniger?”

“Why, yes,” said the old man. “But who are you, and how did you get in at this hour? The watchman—”

“I looked for the watchman, to get official permission to see you, but he wasn’t around. The door wasn’t locked, so I just came in.”

“That’s very odd,” said Brunniger. Then: “You wanted to see me? Why?”

“I’ve been told you’re the best-known authority in the country in Indian picture writing,” the dark man said. “So I came to you with some of the stuff to see if you could read it for me.”

“Queer,” said Brunniger. “Another person was in here several hours ago with the same request.”

“That is funny,” said the man. His smile grew set, stony, then was carefully made natural again. “But I wouldn’t know anything about that. Would you try the sign language for me?”

“Why, yes, I guess so,” said the old man. “Our mission is to serve the public. Let’s see it.”

The man took out a sheet of paper, covered with ideographs. But this was not like the paper Benson had had. This had the ideographs in reverse. They had been formed by inking the surface on which the hieroglyphs had originally been carved, and then pressing the paper to that surface. So the picture symbols were white on a dark background.

The old man put on glasses and took the paper to the nearest light. He peered at it, back to the man in black.

“Curious,” he said, after studying it for a time. “It seems to have some sort of topographical description in it. There is something about a great rock image on a hill or cliff. I think the rock image is a freak of nature, like a natural bridge, not carved by human hands. But I can’t be sure. These hieroglyphs have so many meanings that they can’t be accurately read except in totality of subject. And this message is incomplete.”

“Incomplete?” said the man in black.

“Oh, yes. There is obviously much more of it. This is just a fragment of a much longer message.”

The man’s smile grew more ingratiating.

“It’s swell of you to help me out,” he said. “Is there any more besides a cliff and a rock statue?”

“There’s a symbol here that has two meanings, again depending on the context of the rest of the message. One meaning is the setting sun. The other is gold.”

“It’s either a symbol for the setting sun—or gold?” said the man pleasantly.

“Yes. There’s no way to tell wh—”

The word was terminated before its conclusion. So was the kindly old man’s life.

The man in black stared, still smiling, at the body of the old expert, lying on the stone floor with red dabbling his gray hair. He wiped the barrel of his gun, which had clubbed Brunniger down, on the frock coat the old man wore, and then put the gun in its shoulder holster.

He went out, past the body of the watchman at the big front door, and strolled away from the huge building.

The watchman lay there, breathing harshly and unevenly as a man does from concussion of the brain.

Next morning, in a hospital bed, the watchman’s breathing was better. He was conscious now. He stared up into pale eyes like colorless fire, set in a dead, immobile face that itself had no color whatever.

“Can you remember at all what the man looked like?” Benson asked urgently. Over his shoulder, Lieutenant of Detectives Hogarth peered anxiously.

The watchman was too weak to talk normally. He whispered:

“He had black eyes, and his skin was very dark. That’s all I could see. He had his left hand over his face like a mask.”

“How did you come to open the door for him that late at night?”

“I heard a tapping at the door. I called out, and got an answer that it was Van Zyder, who is a director in the museum. I thought he had something important to tell Dr. Brunniger, who was still there. I opened the small door in the big metal one. This man shoved a gun in my stomach. He made me turn around after the door was closed behind us, and slugged me.”

“And all you saw was that he wore dark clothes and had black eyes and a dark skin?”

The wounded watchman thought a minute.

“Just one thing more,” he whispered. “The man had his hat back just a little from his forehead. Enough for me to see that his hair was black too, and grew down on his forehead in a little peak. Widow’s peak, they call it.”

Benson’s pale eyes burned on Hogarth’s face.

“Not enough,” Hogarth growled. “I don’t think we can place the guy with such a meager description. But we’ll try, of course.”

CHAPTER IX

The Snatch

Nellie Gray was as fragile-looking as a porcelain doll. Dainty and small, slim and pink and white, she looked as though life owed her a satin pillow on which to sit and dream in sheltered seclusion. No one could look at her and guess the amazing deftness and strength there was in her slimly rounded body.

And no one at this moment could have guessed the desperate thing she was turning over in her quick brain.

She sat on one of the divans in the Bleek Street headquarters. She sat on one foot, like a little girl, and she tapped her red underlip with the tip of a slim and fragile-looking finger in deep thought.

The gigantic Smitty was there, in the big room. MacMurdie was back at his store. He and Smitty had seen the other members of the expedition assigned to them by Dick Benson, and had turned in their reports.

Reports that told no more than had been found out before they were interviewed.

Nellie spoke to Smitty. “Mr. Benson has said several times that I’m not being held here. That I’m free to come and go as I choose.”

“That’s right,” said Smitty, eyes blue and ingenuous in his good-natured, full-moon face. “Say, you aren’t still suspicious of us?”

“No. Not any more.”

“Then why,” said Smitty, “did you ask if you could go out?”

“Because that’s what I want to do,” said Nellie. “And I wasn’t sure you wouldn’t try to stop me.”

“You want to go out!” gasped Smitty.

“Yes.”

“But you know the situation. It would be very dangerous for you to go roaming around alone! We’re up against a gang of killers. They’ve already tried twice to get you—once at the school, once when you were leaving police headquarters with the chief. And you’d go out and expose yourself to a third attempt!”

“I don’t think there’d be so much danger,” said Nellie pensively.

Smitty snorted explosively.

“Anyway, I want to go out. Will you let me?”

Smitty came and stood over her, gigantic, so muscled that his arms hung crooked at his sides like the arms of a gorilla. He made her appear smaller and daintier than ever.

“You put me in a spot,” he complained. “Sure, you’re free. I haven’t any orders to keep you from leaving. But hanged if I’d allow you to go out and maybe get snatched or knocked off before you’d gone two blocks. There’s a healthy chance this gang knows where our headquarters is and are watching it. They know the chief’s interest by now—and tried to bomb him.” Smitty’s eyes went venomously to the big canary cage in the corner where the bomber was sitting dejectedly on a wooden stool and peering through the bars.

“Then I’m not free!” said Nellie.

“I didn’t say that,” Smitty mumbled, with a harassed look.

“If you won’t let me go out, I’m not free. And if I’m being held a prisoner—”

“Oh, for gosh sake!” said Smitty. “Can’t you understand I’m just trying to keep you in for your own good?”

Nellie stood up. She could have walked under the giant’s outstretched arm and had plenty of room to spare. But she was in thorough, feminine command of the situation.

“Since you haven’t orders to keep me in, I’ll go out,” she said.

“But look here—” Smitty began hoarsely.

“I think my things are on the floor below. Goodbye.”

She went to the stairs leading down from the third floor headquarters.

“But—”

Smitty took a step toward her. Stopped. Started. Stopped.

She smiled sweetly at the giant, and went on down.

On the street, her smile became set and fixed on her full red lips. For her plan was indeed a desperate one.

Police, Benson, everyone, seemed to have made no real progress in finding her father’s murderer. And she burned to have that man found—and electrocuted! So she was going to try a little investigating on her own hook.

This gang wanted her. That was proven. They wanted her, probably, to wring information from her about the bricks. All right, let them catch her! Let them take her to wherever they hung out. There, she’d see just who were in the gang, so she could later identify them. She’d escape, and lead police back to wherever they’d taken her. They could capture the whole lot of them in one stroke.

Of course, it might not be quite as easy as that, to escape from them. But she was willing to gamble on that recklessly slim chance. She might look like a Dresden doll, but she had the will of a man as big as Smitty himself, and she was r’arin’ for action.

She thought the fact that the gang wanted her so badly would insure it. And—she was right.

She had gone three blocks, toward a cab stand, when she saw a man seem to detach himself from a doorway in which he had been leaning. She went on, got into a cab, and saw in the rear-view mirror that a long, dark sedan had slid to a stop a block in her wake. It was too far to see if the man was in it, but he probably was. And in addition, she could see the heads and hats of three others.

Four men against one girl. That should give them odds enough, Nellie thought, with a bitter quirk of her red lips.

“Where you want to go, miss?” the driver said.

Nellie didn’t think it mattered much. She didn’t think she’d be allowed to get to any address she wanted to mention. But she had to act natural.

“Drive north on Ninth Avenue,” she said. “To Forty-second Street.”

The cab started off. The sedan behind crept closer, almost at once. There’d never be a better spot for trouble than the warehouse and wholesale district they were in right now.

Nellie saw it coming.

“Look out!” she screamed to the driver, taking a firm grip on the seat herself. “From the left—”

With a motor scream like that of a charging animal, the sedan had shot abreast of them and veered powerfully to the right.

“Hey—” flared the taxi driver.

That was all. The sedan had his cab pinned against the curb like a bug under a student’s thumb. And the man was hanging over the wheel, knocked out when his head hit the window upright on the left.

Nellie wrenched at the door, screaming. But in the midst of a lot of wild acting, her eyes were cool and calculating. She had to act as if this were terrifying and unexpected, so the men would not suspect a trap. That was all.

They got her and dragged her from the cab, pulling her clutching fingers loose from the door handle. People were beginning to run up. They got her into the sedan. It screamed off, with the right front fender scraping the tire, crumpled down by the accident.

Nellie Gray fainted, and lay in the back of the speeding sedan like a mishandled doll. She lay with her eyes partly opened, veiled by thick, dark lashes. That wasn’t unusual. Many times when people faint, their eyes remain partly open.

What was unusual in a person who had “fainted” was that Nellie was seeing perfectly through her lashes. She burned the faces she saw deep in her memory.

A dark-complexioned man with black eyes and hair who wore a black suit.

A fellow with sandy-red hair much like MacMurdie’s, but whose eyes were vicious and slitted, instead of honest, like the bitter Scotsman’s.

Two men who might have been brothers in their thin, stoop-shouldered build, with yellow-stained fingers and dull brown eyes and mouse-brown hair.

She knew she’d never forget those savage faces.

Back at Bleek Street, Benson didn’t waste time rebuking Smitty for letting Nellie Gray go out.

“I see how it is,” he said in his strong but silken-quiet voice. “You had little choice, Smitty. You had to let her be a fool, I guess, if she insisted on it.”

Strangely, Benson seemed to waste little time on trying to check up on Nellie’s path from the building, too. He seemed to dismiss her utterly from his mind. He went to the big canary cage.

The man inside crouched back as far as the bars would permit.

“You let me out of here!” he squalled. “I demand to be turned over to the cops!”

“Do you?” said Smitty, grinning.

The giant opened the barred door and brought the man out. He plumped him down in a chair.

“You lemme alone!” wailed the big bad man who hadn’t hesitated to take the life of an elderly man and a young mother in an attempt to murder Benson. “What are you goin’ to do to me? I want a lawyer!”

He was still yelling for a lawyer five minutes later when his eyes began to go blank. That was from the stuff Benson had injected into his arm. The drug perfected by MacMurdie, which produced a refined and improved kind of “twilight sleep.”

A little later, with the mirrored ball twirling dizzily before his blank eyes, and with his conscious mind held in thrall by the drug and his subconscious released to speak the truth as demanded, the man talked.

His name was Pinkie Huer. He had been brought to New York from Toledo several months ago to do odd jobs in crime for an underworld big shot named Frank Borg. Yesterday, Borg had given him one of those queer little peanut bombs and told him to trail a white-haired guy named Benson till he had a chance to blow him to pieces. The blowing had been unsuccessful.

No, Pinkie Huer didn’t know what the bomb was, nor where Borg had gotten it. No, he didn’t know anything about a larger plan in which Borg seemed to be acting, nor did he know if Borg had some superior over him who was unsuspected even by the rest of the underworld.

Borg put up at an old house near Sunset Boulevard on Long Island. Borg was an average-sized guy dark of skin and hair, with black eyes. Yes, his hair grew down a little on his forehead in a kind of a point. Yes, he wore dark suits and shirts a lot.

Benson’s pale eyes glittered into Smitty’s china-blue ones.

“That’s the man!”

Smitty nodded. “Know anything about him, chief?”

“Some,” said Benson in his deadly, smooth voice. “He is a sort of mercenary for hire in crime. He has a small gang and he hires out, gang and all, to anyone who wants a crooked job pulled. Anything. Including murder. Besides that, he is sort of armorer to the underworld. He supplies the gangs with guns and ammunition. Everything, from sub-machine guns to tear-gas bombs. No one knows where he picks the stuff up, but it’s always the latest thing in equipment.”

Benson turned to the man. He had a pudgy face, with lips a little too thick and nose a little too thin. His eyes were gray-brown, muddy-looking, and his hair was about the same.

Benson stood a mirror in front of the vacant-eyed crook’s chair, sat beside him so their two faces showed next to each other in the glass. Smitty brought him things as he crisply ordered them. Benson’s white, steely hands moved expertly.

And a miracle was accomplished.

Man of a thousand faces! Made that way by the terrific loss of his beloved wife and daughter that overnight had turned his black hair snow-white and paralyzed his facial muscles!

Benson deftly manipulated the dead flesh of his face. Where his fingers moved that flesh—it stayed. His countenance subtly altered under Smitty’s fascinated gaze. It became the face of the man named Pinkie Huer. The features became pudgy, formless. The lips were too thick and the nostrils too thin.

Benson selected two little glass shells only a few thousandths of an inch thick. On them were glazed pupils of about the same muddy brown as Huer’s. He slipped them over his flaming, pale eyeballs, and those eyes became blurry gray-brown. Hair was next. Nondescript brown hair, which Benson pulled on over his own shock of white hair.

Then shoes, with inch-and-a-half lifts in them; inflated rubber pads at shoulders and waist. Benson stood up. And Smitty whistled aloud. For it seemed that you were seeing double and one Pinkie Huer was sitting with blank, wide eyes while another was standing with taut erectness and purposeful jaw.

Benson relaxed his straight carriage, slouched a little, receded the square of his chin—and was a hundred-percent perfect.

“I’m going to the Long Island house. I’ll have to go it alone, of course, Smitty. If I’m not back within three hours, better get MacMurdie, and Hogarth from headquarters and come for investigation.”

“Can’t I go along now and maybe hide down the block from the house?” pleaded Smitty. “You’re going singlehanded into a whole nest of these rats. That’s not so good.”

“Investigate when I’ve been gone more than three hours, but not before,” said Benson.

And Smitty nodded regretful obedience. You didn’t argue with the gray steel man. At least not more than once!

CHAPTER X

Prisoner

Nellie Gray was resourceful, quick-witted, and had more nerve than most men. Also, she was utterly reckless in her bitter desire to bring her father’s murderer to justice. With that murder still fresh in her mind, she had felt that she didn’t care much whether she lived on or not.

But with all that, she was pretty pale now as she let herself realize just what a spot she had put herself into when she used herself as live bait for the gang.

She was in an old house somewhere on flat land, for although she had made the last of an hour’s trip with a bandage over her eyes, she had noted that the car moved without the rise or fall of hills. Near the sea, she had decided.

There were other houses near here, because she had heard children playing within five minutes of the car’s stop. But there were no neighbors within a block or so, she thought, because all she could see when she looked out the windows was trees.

This was a major hangout of the gang’s. That was apparent because so many men with old eyes in young faces, and with the bulges of guns at their armpits, were around. She had counted eight different men, coming and going, altogether.

But the four who had been in the car with her didn’t come or go. They stayed in the same big, bare first-floor room where she sat on a kitchen chair. They were the nucleus of the crew, evidently. And the black-haired man in the black suit was obviously the leader.

This one came toward her now, moving with a mincing, dandyish gait, and smiling too widely.

“Why don’t you tell us what we want to know?” he said. “Where’s the plate we thought was at Knight’s joint?”

Nellie said nothing. She looked around out of innocent, frightened-appearing gray eyes.

There was a man lounging in the hall doorway of the old living room. There were the two who looked like brothers leaning against the wall near her chair. And there was this smooth-spoken man with the shiny black hair and eyes, who was smiling at her like a cat about to eat a songbird.

She wasn’t tied in her chair. They hadn’t bothered to do that. Why tie one lone girl—particularly one who looked as small and soft and harmless as this one?

Which was an unarmed state of mind that Nellie had counted on when she hatched this mad scheme.

“Come on, talk!” barked the black-eyed man, losing his smile.

Nellie looked more scared to death than ever. But she tensed a little in the chair.

She had seen every member of the gang who counted. She could recognize them surely in a line-up. She knew where to direct the police for a raid that should bag the lot of them.

Now all she had to do was escape.

“Did Knight have one of those bricks, or didn’t he?” snapped the black-eyed man. “We went back to his place later, and saw where a board in the bathroom had been pried up. Was the thing under that board? If so, who took it? The white-haired guy?”

“I don’t know a thing,” said Nellie, voice small and meek.

“Yahh! Talk sense. You couldn’t help but know if the white-headed guy had it. You’ve been in his joint for over a day. Where’s he keep it?”

Nellie only shook her head, dainty body drooping, eyes wide and appealing.

The man stepped up within reach of her and drew his hand back to strike.

“Talk—or I’ll give you a crack!”

“Really, there’s nothing I can say—”

The other three men were watching with callous and expectant grins on their faces. The room was very still.

The black-eyed man’s hand lashed out to give the helpless girl an open-handed slap.

It was what Nellie had been waiting for.

Like light, her own tapering small hand flashed forward. Her fingers, so deceptively fragile-looking, closed on the black-eyed man’s wrist in a grip that brought a yelp of astonishment to this thin lips.

Nellie jerked forward and down, at the same time swinging like a figure in a lightning dance, to the right of her chair. The black-eyed man kept on coming, head down and helpless.

His head hit the chair back and he fell in a hopeless tangle with the thing.

Nellie was at the door, slim body moving like that of a whirling dervish. She didn’t think they’d shoot, because of the noise and the fact that they wanted information from her. But she took no chances.

Her slender figure seemed to be all over the place in a zigzag line as she went toward the door, where the man with the reddish hair had been lounging. He was positively gaping at her.

She started to slide past him, and he lunged. That, too, she was waiting for. After all, she was only a bit more than five feet tall, and weighed very little more than a hundred pounds. Brute strength she had not. She must fight with skill alone, vanquishing attackers by turning their own strength against them, as she had with MacMurdie at Bleek Street. She had to wait for an attack, or a lunge, such as this man executed.

She got his outstretched arm with two hands. She bent, angling from her slim waist. The whole thing was done with such flashing speed that no single move could be distinguished. You could only see that the man bent forward as the girl did, rolled over her hip like water over a smooth round boulder, and crashed to his back on the floor with a violence that shook the house.

That whole thing had been perfectly timed and exquisitely executed. The plan deserved to succeed. But it didn’t. One small bit of bad luck ruined it.

The man with the reddish hair had been lounging in the doorway with one hand, for no particular reason, on the knob of the partly opened door behind him. When he lunged forward, guided by Nellie’s slim hand, he pulled the door closed with him.

Just closed, not locked. But it was enough. If the door had remained open, the girl could have darted out of the room and down the hall with at least a chance of escape. As it was, while she wrenched at the knob to turn it and open the door again, the two who looked like brothers were on her.

One of them slashed viciously at her sleek blond head with the barrel of his gun. She half turned, grasped his wrist, and snapped his arm down over her slender shoulder. The man squealed. For an instant he thought his arm was broken.

The other had a rough arm around Nellie’s body. The black-haired man was beside him, with a blue bruise on his forehead where it had contacted the chair. He was snarling.

Four men against a girl.

She sat on the chair again, staring at them with flaming gray eyes while they stared back in savage amazement.

“She must be an acrobat,” rasped the man with the reddish hair, hand to his back where he’d smashed to the floor. “One half-pint dame like that make so much trouble. I’d never’ve believed it.”

“Tie her!” snarled the black-eyed man. “We don’t make the same mistakes twice!”

Treating her with as much respect as they would have shown a six-foot professional boxer, the men tied her to the chair.

She had had her chance, and lost.

A man came in with a gray felt hat on the back of his head. His lips were one-sided and his eyes had a wise-guy expression that you see on the faces of many in poolroom hangouts. Evidently he had just come to the house, for he looked in surprise at the bound girl and with a wide grin at the shaken-up men.

“For—” he snickered. “You don’t mean to say this jane tumbled you up like this?”

“Shut up!” the man with the sandy-red hair rasped out.

“Ootsy-kootsy,” sniggered the man with the gray felt hat, with his hand digging into the other’s rib.

Evidently his prankster’s thumb had located the most ticklish spot in those ribs before. The man with the reddish hair emitted the high, whinnying laugh of a person who is forced to cackle when he is tickled, whether he likes it or not.

Then the man swung at the jokester. “You dumb clown! Some day I’ll—”

“Shut up and relax, both of you,” said the black-eyed man. “You, life-of-the-party,” he said contemptuously to the man with the gray felt hat. “What’s the dope?”

“You mean on the building we’re gonna pineapple?”

“What do you think I mean? Sure.”

“Well, here’s the timing. We can’t get into the joint a minute later than six. Watchman has orders not to open up to the president himself after that. And at six in the evening there’s still bound to be some dopes in the building. It’s a business layout, you know.”

The black-eyed man nodded.

“Then it’ll be just too bad for the dopes,” he said coldly.

“We might,” said the man with the gray hat thoughtfully, “yell ‘Fire’ or something, to get the joint empty.”

“Getting soft in your old age?” jeered the black-eyed man. “We blow up the building at six. It’ll be just too bad for any people dumb enough to be hanging around there at that time of night!”

He turned away from the man and toward the girl.

“Now look, sister, I’m through monkeying. I want the answers to those questions of mine, and I want ’em fast. If you don’t give, you’re going to be buried looking like nothing human. See? Your own mother wouldn’t recognize the corpse—”

Again a man came into the room who evidently had just come from the outside and wasn’t in on the events of the living room. He was a little more than average size, with a pudgy face and thick lips under a nose that was too thin. He had on a brown cap, pushed carelessly back.

“Who’s your friend?” he began. Then he stopped stone-still halfway from the door and said excitedly: “Hey! It’s the dame from the white-haired guy’s outfit!”

“Thanks for the information, Pinkie,” the black-eyed man said sarcastically. “I wouldn’t have guessed where she was from if you hadn’t told me.” The black eyes stared at the newcomer like cold jet. “Well?”

The man with the brown cap fidgeted.

“Well, what, Frankie?”

“You know what, you nitwitted ape!”

“If you mean where have I been all this time—”

“I don’t care where you’ve been. You could be pushing up the daisies for all I care. I’m not interested in a guy called Pinkie Huer. I’m interested in a guy with white hair called Benson.”

“I missed him,” whined Pinkie Huer.

“You’re telling me! How you could be so awkward—”

“The white-headed guy must have had a tip-off,” said the man earnestly. “Anyhow, he ducked into an areaway when I tossed the thing you gave me. And then the guy got me.”

“Got you?”

“Yeah. That’s why I been so long gettin’ around. He nailed me, and took me to a goofy joint about as big as Grand Central Station, and held me there. I don’t know what he was goin’ to do, because I made a break while there wasn’t anybody around—”

“And came here?” yelled the black-eyed man, “You fool! If it was a stall—if you were followed—”

“Nobody trailed me. I thought of that. I doubled around for three hours on the way out, and when I got six blocks away I stopped the car and walked around another half-hour. I didn’t see a thing.”

“Well—” mumbled the black-eyed man, mollified.

“The white-headed guy treated me like some kind of a squirrel,” fumed Pinkie Huer. “He had some kind of a damn cage in the place. Like a big bird cage. He shut me in that. Like I was a canary or something!”

The prankster in the gray felt hat guffawed.

“Canary! Boy, that’s rich. Sing, canary. Ootsy-kootsy.”

His expert thumb dug abruptly into Pinkie Huer’s ribs.

There was a split second of silence. Then Pinkie Huer laughed. But not with his face.

His mouth was open and from it came the whinnying laugh of a person who has been tickled—but the face around the mouth didn’t change expression in the least.

Dead-faced he laughed for a minute, then stopped.

Two people in the room caught the odd lack of facial movement. One was quick-witted Nellie Gray. The other, unfortunately, was the black-eyed man.

“That,” the man said slowly, peering at Pinkie Huer’s face “is very, very funny.”

“Funny?” snarled Huer. “If you think it’s a joke for a ticklish guy to get jabbed in the ribs all the time—”

“That isn’t what I meant was funny,” said the leader, jetty eyes beginning to glitter. “Your face—poke him again, Joe.”

“Ootsy-kootsy,” said the man in the gray felt hat, who wasn’t getting the nuances of the situation at all.

Huer laughed. Bleated with open mouth—and with his face as set and devoid of all expression as a mask.

The black-eyed man leaped back. A gun appeared in his hand.

“This isn’t Pinkie Huer! Get him!”

CHAPTER XI

“Huer”—In A Hurry

The gun bucked in his hand and the room thundered to the echoes of the shot. But the man with the face like Huer’s was no longer standing where he had been. Like something in a moving picture run at five times normal speed, he had snapped a yard to the left. And with equal dizzying quickness, he leaped forward.

The black-eyed man tried to shoot again, and got a poke on the side of the head like the kick of a mule. A large mule. He fell backward, but not far. The man with Huer’s face caught his swaying body, whirled it around, and catapulted it against the two men who looked like brothers.

The two had been leaping forward almost side by side. One said, “Ooof!” Both sat down with the black-eyed man lying across their knees.

“Huer” bent like a snapped spring, and straightened again. In his right hand was something like a piece of blued steel tubing, slightly bent at the handle end. The little gun gave a hissing spatt. A small slug belched from the deadly mouth of Mike, the silenced, special gun.

The man with the reddish hair had his gun almost lined on Huer’s chest. But he fell as Mike spoke. Fell like a toppled log, with blood dripping from the top of his head.

The man whose face had been unable to crinkle with laughter when his mouth had, picked up Nellie Gray, chair and all. He sent the man with the gray felt hat flying back against the wall with a powerful shove of his right leg.

He got to the door, out, slammed it shut.

“Mr. . . . Benson?” faltered Nellie, still not sure.

Benson nodded. He had bolted the door when he slammed it. Shots were ripping through the panels as the men in the living room prepared to shoot their way out.

Benson’s hands flashed to his eyeballs, removed the little thin cups that had given him Huer’s eyes. Vision was impaired a little by them. He snapped Ike, the razor-sharp throwing knife, from its holster at his left calf. Three sweeps with it, and Nellie was free.

She stood up. Down the hall there were yells and steps of others coming to investigate the racket. The door opened and two men jammed into the hall.

Benson snapped a shot with Mike. One of the two went down with the top of his head suddenly a red smear. The other was shooting. Benson got Nellie around the banister of the nearby stairs and halfway up, out of the line of the shots.

The two raced to the second floor and into a bedroom. Benson went to the window.

Three slugs fanned into the window jamb as he raised the pane. He leaped back toward the door. Bullets thudded through that, too. Men in the hall, men outside on the lawn.

“Caught!” was the word Nellie formed soundlessly on lips not so red as usual.

But Benson didn’t act as if he thought he was trapped.

The room was partly furnished, with an untidy and unmade bed along one wall, and a little marble-topped stand and a chair nearby.

Benson caught up the chair and smashed it against the side wall between this room and the next. The chair broke in his hands. But the wall—as flimsy as most inner partitions—buckled and broke through, too. Benson jabbed with the single chair leg left in his steely fingers.

The hole enlarged. He caught up the mattress from the bed and shoved it through the hole. Then he dropped matches on it, through the hole, till it blazed. Smoke began to roll up in billows.

Benson snatched the marble top from the little stand, and tossed it through the hole and through the window in the next room. Glass tinkled. Smoke began to curl out of the window in a black pillar.

It began to curl into the room he and Nellie were in, too. He caught up the blanket from the bed, moving with that incredible swiftness of his, and hung it over the hole. Now the next room could become an inferno before fire ate through the partition and began to threaten them.

It could become an inferno—and summon the fire department with the smoke billowing out the window.

The men in the hall didn’t know what had happened. They’d heard crashing sounds, and that was all. They kept on shooting around the lock of the door. But the men outside could understand.

“Borg!” one of them yelled up. “Come out! All you guys! He’s fired the joint! The whole neighborhood’ll be on our necks!”

The shooting in the hall ceased abruptly. There was the sound of running feet. Nellie opened the door, before Benson could stop her. A bullet from the stairs almost took a lock of her yellow-gold hair. The doorway was still covered.

From outside came the snarl of a starter and then the shriek of a motor raced almost beyond endurance. Benson angled to the window, with Nellie beside him. A car was streaking backward out of the garage in the rear of the house.

At the wheel was the man with the sandy-red hair.

“I thought you killed him!” gasped Nellie. “I saw you shoot him in the head.”

“Not in the head,” said Benson. In his expert hand, Mike, the silenced little .22, spat twice. In the driveway, the car skidded to a stop and swerved forward to dash to the street. Both bullets had hit a front tire. But the tire sagged only a little. It was bulletproof.

“Not in the head,” Benson said calmly. Flames crackled and roared in the next room. “I don’t kill, if I can help it. I shoot to knock a man out—to crease him. The bullet hits the top of the skull and bangs a man unconscious without murdering him. But it takes rather close shooting.”

His pale, deadly eyes looked almost apologetic.

“I had to shoot fast in the room downstairs. I must have been a sixteenth of an inch or so off, because the man shouldn’t have recovered so quickly.”

Men piled into the car till it settled almost on its tires. Seven, eight, nine, counting the driver. The car rocketed forward.

“They’re getting away!” wailed Nellie.

Benson’s basilisk eyes followed the car with regret but resignation in their lambent depths. There wasn’t much he could do to stop a getaway, in the face of such heavy odds. He shrugged.

“We’ll be able to leave this room now,” he said.

He walked to the door and opened it. No shot came. The man at the head of the stairs had joined the rest in their flight.

Down in the first-floor hall they found the second man Benson had creased with a .22 slug. He had been abandoned. There simply hadn’t been room for another soul in the overcrowded getaway car.

“This one, at least, we have,” Nellie Gray said.

Benson’s pale, icily composed gaze played over her vengefully pretty face. From the distance came the siren and bells of the fire department.

“So we have,” he said to Nellie. “And what do you suggest doing with him?”

“Turn him over to the police, of course,” flamed the girl. “I don’t understand you. You claim you’re interested in helping the cause of justice, but you won’t co-operate with the most powerful weapon justice has on its side—the police force.”

No flicker showed in the deadly, colorless eyes. No emotion was displayed in the quiet voice.

“Quite so, my dear,” Benson said. “We’ll turn him over to the police.”

There was a cracked mirror in the hall. Calmly, as though there were no such thing as a fire within many blocks, Benson turned to it. He took off the brown wig, disclosing his own silver-white shock. He worked at his face. The dead flesh stayed where it was prodded, like putty. And in a moment it had reassumed the features of Benson, instead of imitating the features of Pinkie Huer.

The steel-gray man was himself again.

A squad car was with the fire engines. As Benson and Nellie came from the door of the burning house, a Long Island detective jumped from the car. He raced toward them.

“In there,” said Benson, nodding to the hallway, “is a criminal. He participated in the kidnapping of this girl who is with me. He no doubt has a long record. It’s the chair for kidnapping in this State. I’d suggest that you arrest him and hold him without bail.”

The detective could see the prone body in the hall, through the open door. But his gaze snapped back to Benson’s expressionless, dead face.

“O.K. We take him. But we take you two, also, for a thorough investigation—”

“We haven’t time for that,” said Benson smoothly.

The detective glared at him. Benson was a little over-height because of the lifts in his shoes to give him some of Huer’s bulk, but still not a big man.

“So you haven’t got time!” he said sarcastically. “Who do you think you are?”

“Is there a two-way radio in your squad car?” said Benson smoothly.

“Yeah.”

Benson walked toward the car. The detective took an uncertain step toward him, then went on to retrieve the unconscious man in the thickening smoke of the hall. Benson got New York headquarters on the radio.

“The white-haired guy’s okay,” said the uniformed driver of the car when the detective came out with the unconscious man in his arms. “New York says so. And they say if he says to hold anybody, we better hold ’em.”

The detective glared, then shrugged.

“All right. You win. Must have a pull like the governor himself—”

He stopped, with the icily flaming eyes on him.

“I would suggest,” said Benson, “that you take extra-good care to guard this man.”

“Guard him?” said the detective, staring. “What could possibly happen to him in jail? Or on the way to jail?”

“That’s all I have to say,” Benson said smoothly. “Watch him as you’ve never guarded a prisoner before.”

The big black car that looked so old and innocent but had such a tremendous motor under its hood was nearly six blocks away. Benson had taken no chances on its being spotted by a lookout when he drove up as Pinkie Huer. He walked Nellie to it, and they drove to Bleek Street. On the way, she was silent, but glanced often with puzzled gray eyes at the enigmatic, powerful person beside her.

Up in the huge third-floor room, Smitty hurried toward them. His vast size made Benson look like a pygmy. Yet the gray steel man seemed, impossibly, to tower over the giant, such was the vitality expressed in his average-sized body.

“Chief! They’ve been calling from Long Island. And from New York headquarters.”

“Yes?” said Benson.

“Yes,” said the giant, words coming in a rush. “You turned some fellow over to the Long Island police, didn’t you?”

Nellie’s eyes widened. Benson only nodded.

“Well, the guy was shot. He was right in the police car, in front of the local jail. Somebody drilled him dead as a doornail—and they haven’t found out who.”

Benson glanced at Nellie Gray. She was biting her lips.

“To keep him from talking,” she said, gray-faced for a moment. “They knew they couldn’t get him out on bail, so they killed him for fear he’d talk.”

“Yes,” said Benson. “You see how much good it did to turn the man over to the police.”

Nellie was silent, shivering a little.

“That kind of thing,” said Benson in his silken voice, dead lips barely moving with the words, “is why Justice & Co. was formed. There are some things beyond the power of the police to handle. And from the start, it has been plain that the affair that cost your father his life is one of those things.”

Smitty was bursting with curiosity. Looking, with his ingenuous moon-face and china-blue eyes, like a slow-witted huge child, he stood literally on one foot and then the other.

“Did you find out anything, chief? Did your one-man raid on that gang do any good?”

Nellie had recovered her spirited composure. Her gray eyes rested distastefully on the giant.

“He got me out of there before I could get my silly self killed. That’s doing some good, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” said Smitty, with a twinkle in his deceptively dumb-looking blue eyes not matching the carelessness of his voice. “Seems to me when a person asks for a sock, she ought to be left to take it—and like it.”

“The trip out there resulted in very little, Smitty,” Benson said. “Just one thing, which Miss Gray overheard. The crowd is planning to blow up another building. This time by design, and not by accident.”

Smitty’s eyes lost their levity at once.

“Another—” His huge hands clenched. “Then there’ll be more deaths! More people blown to pieces as there were in Washington Square!”

“I’m afraid so,” said Benson somberly. “The worst of it is that no hint was dropped as to just what building figured in their plans. So it is impossible to move to forestall them. You can’t put a precautionary guard around every building in New York City!”

CHAPTER XII

Metal Peanuts

Upper Broadway, near Riverside Drive, is usually crowded at six in the evening. This particular section, this evening, was not.

There was a bank on the corner, several haberdashery and clothing stores that were open but without customers at the dinner hour, and then some apartment buildings. Only a handful of passers-by were on the sidewalk.

The handful was swelled by two men, who got out of a car down the block a hundred yards and walked to the bank. One of the men was about fifty, heavy-set, with a rather pale face. He had on a derby and a dark-blue business suit.

The other man had jet-black eyes, black hair that grew down in a widow’s peak on his forehead, and wore dark clothes.

They walked side by side, quite close together. The black-eyed man said something to the older man and smiled jovially. The older man smiled back with his lips, but his eyes seemed worried. More than worried, indeed.

The bank was small. It was a branch of a downtown bank. It occupied the ground floor of hall the building it was in. The floors above the bank were turned over to sales agencies and doctors’ offices. All the building above the bank was dark, except the windows just above, on the second floor. Here, where a sign proclaimed that Dr. Phelps, a dentist, worked, were lights.

The older man tapped at the door of the bank branch, which was of glass with ponderous bronze bars over it. The black-eyed man stood a little behind him, hands carelessly in his coat pockets.

Inside the bank, a figure suddenly appeared. The watchman. He stared out. In the older man tapping at the door, the watchman recognized the branch manager. He looked puzzled, and his eyes went swiftly over the man behind the manager.

Later there was indignant wonder that the watchman should have opened the door at all, even for the manager of the branch. And yet it was natural enough.

The man with the manager carried no bundle of any sort. And if his presence with the manager hadn’t been on the level, he would have had to carry something; all the valuables were shut in the massive vault of the bank, at this hour. And the vault couldn’t be opened, because it was worked by a time clock. Therefore, anyone entering the bank with robbery in mind would have had to have blasting material with him. Just a gun, which could be concealed, would do no good.

The man with the manager had nothing remotely large enough on him to tackle that vault door.

Probably the watchman reasoned thus. Anyhow, with his boss motioning for him to open up, he did so.

“I’ve got to get into my desk, Jim,” the manager said to the watchman.

“Right, sir,” the watchman said. He was old but husky—an ex-cop. He stared steadily at the jovial black-eyed man. “And your friend, sir?”

“He’s the reason for my visit,” the manager said. “I have a contract to turn over to him. In my desk.”

The manager moved away from the door, with the black-eyed man behind him. And then the watchman saw.

He saw the bulge of the black-eyed man’s right fist in his coat pocket.

The watchman jerked out an exclamation and whipped out the Police Positive in his belt. But he didn’t have a chance. The black-eyed man shot through his coat. The fabric, and the fact that he had jammed the gun muzzle hard against the watchman’s body, muffled the sound of the shot to a dull ka-chunk. It was loud in here, but inaudible to anyone on the street outside.

The watchman fell, dead before he hit the floor. The bank manager wet quivering dry lips with his tongue.

“You rotten murderer! I wish I’d let you kill me at my door, when you called for me and put a gun in my side. I wish I’d had the guts to—”

The black-eyed man’s gun swished down on the manager’s head, hammering in the derby and the skull beneath it. That ended that.

At the rear of the bank space there was a heavy steel grating from floor to ceiling and wall to wall. A few steps behind that was the big vault, in which safe-deposit boxes were kept all the time and the bank’s cash was kept at night. Ten feet in diameter, of dully gleaming nickel-steel, the vault door shone like a dim moon.

The black-eyed man went to the grating. He didn’t even look at it. He looked through it at the vault door, which could not be opened by the combination till nine next morning.

The man reached gingerly into his trousers pocket and drew out two things that looked like large peanuts, with the shells on.

As far as the average crook was concerned, it would have taken drills, oxyacetylene torches, and a bottle of “soup” to crack this vault. But this man knew something better. With these small metal shells, taking up no more room than a section of his pants pocket, he was going to get the vault open.

He reached through the grating and laid the two small shells on the floor. There was a window pole next to a high, barred side window nearby. The man got the pole. Very gently he shoved the two little shells across the floor inside the steel-barred enclosure till they rested at the base of the great vault door. Then he lit a flashlight and poking with the pole through the bars, shoved it next to the little metal shells so the light shone on them.

After that he walked almost to the opposite end of the bank room.

There was a marble-slab wall, waist-high, where he stopped. The wall divided the main bank room from an enclosure where a dozen flat-topped desks were spaced at neat intervals.

The man knelt down behind the marble barricade, rested his gun on the top, and sighted long and carefully at the little shells spotlighted at the base of the great round disk of the Vault door.

He squeezed the trigger.

The short, sharp crack of the shot was lost in the grinding roar of an explosion whose violence was simply unbelievable when you considered the tininess of the two explosive shells.

That whole section of upper Broadway seemed to rock and tremble. Windows shattered for a hundred yards around. The building above the bank floor seemed to do a stately, reeling dance and finally settle back on its foundations again.

Behind the marble barricade, which was cracked in a hundred places by the explosion’s violence, the black-eyed man lay rolling in agony, for a moment. He had his hands clapped over his ears, dropping the gun with the instant of the shot. But, of course, he couldn’t move quickly enough, and for the time being he was stone-deaf.

He swayed to his knees and tottered toward where the steel grating had been. He recovered rapidly, and was running fairly sure-footedly when he got there.

The grating lay in a twisted mass. Beyond it, the round vault door, two feet thick, was tilted sideways and back in its shattered steel jamb, with space enough for a man to get through.

With frantic haste the man entered the vault. No time for looting, in the real sense of the word. But then he had not had that in mind when he came here.

He sprang without hesitation to one wrenched safety box leaning half out of the wrecked tiers of steel shelves. No time to try to open it, even though the lid was sprung. Anyhow, there was no need to open it. He knew what it held.

An ancient Mexican clay brick, about eight inches long and five wide and three thick.

The box was one of the smaller ones, only about four inches thick. He crammed it under his belt and buttoned his coat over it. He ran to the street door, bare-headed.

There was already a seething jam on the sidewalk. The man unbolted the heavy door, forced it open in its sprung frame, and jumped out. He held his hand over his face, as if the explosion had hurt him. No one seemed to grasp the fact that the gesture also hid his features.

“Police!” he yelled between his fingers. “Fire! The watchman’s lying back in there—”

He ran straight at the crowd.

“Well do something, somebody!” he screamed. “I’m the manager. I want somebody to get the police. Here! Let me through so I can phone them myself.”

The crowd instinctively, witlessly, parted as he ran purposefully for it. He got through. The car, in which he and the manager had come, whirled away from the scene just as the cop on the beat pounded up on one side of the crowd and a squad car turned the corner at the opposite end of the block.

“There’s a man in that wreckage!” cried some woman to the patrolman. “The watchman! The manager just ran out and said he needed help bad—”

The cop ran into the bank. He saw the body of the watchman, hesitated, and then went on to the body of the portly, middle-aged man.

“So the manager ran out, huh!” he blared, looking at the second dead man. “You bunch of dummies! It was the guy that did all this that ran out! The manager’s dead!”

A bank vault blown and the watchman and branch manager murdered! It was quite a few minutes later that the cop and two plainclothes men from the squad car got as far as the second floor—the office of the dentist, Phelps, just above where the vault had been.

The floor of the dentist’s anteroom was blown clear out. A man and two women, waiting there, were in fragments. Beyond the anteroom was the dentist’s office itself. In there had been Dr. Phelps, a pretty girl in white assisting him, and a bald-headed man in the dentist’s chair.

These three were dead, too, though the explosion, by some freak, had scarcely knocked the picture on the wall askew when it made a complete wreck of the anteroom next door.

These three were dead, but seemingly untouched. No mark was on any of their bodies. Their eardrums were burst, but that was all.

They had been killed, without being physically touched, by the sheer violence of the explosion.

The police were completely mystified. How could any sane crook expect to bomb a bank at six in the evening, and then have time to loot it before crowds came?

“The guy must have been an amateur, or just plain nuts,” said one of the detectives.

“Maybe he didn’t realize how much soup he was using,” suggested the other. “Enough to wreck a whole building, when all he wanted was a small dose drilled in the big hinge pins!”

“You got to blow more than the hinge pins on vaults like these,” said the other.

Anyhow, the vault wasn’t cleaned out. Cash, bonds, jewels, everything both in and out of the safe-deposit boxes, strewed the floor untouched. Several hundred thousand dollars in cash alone. It looked as if the murderous blast had produced only empty failure for the killer.

It wasn’t till much later that the cashier, going over the contents of the vault, discovered the one box that was missing—a box belonging to Dr. Mortimer Barker, now on the high seas en route for Europe.

CHAPTER XIII

The Trap

“DARING BANK ROBBERY A FAILURE,” the headlines said.

The account in the papers ran on:

Last night at approximately six o’clock, the Jefferson branch of the City Bank was entered by a lone bandit, and the vault door blown off its hinges.

The bandit evidently misjudged the amount of nitroglycerin needed to accomplish his purpose, for the explosion was so violent that it wrecked almost the entire building and drew crowds from blocks around.

The bandit, whose ill-judged plan is responsible for the deaths of seven people, fled as the crowds began to gather, leaving nearly a million dollars in securities, jewels and cash in the vault.

The only thing missing was the safe-deposit box of Doctor Mortimer M. Barker. Apparently the man, having lost his head completely, snatched at the first thing he saw sticking out of the wreckage and ran with it—

In the Bleek Street headquarters, Dick Benson stood like a gray steel statue and read that account, which was in a paper lying on the table in front of him. Nellie Gray was at his side. Smitty filled to overflowing a specially built, oversized chair nearby.

“So they’ve got the brick—and the gold belt plate inside it—that dad gave to Dr. Barker for safe-keeping,” said Nellie.

“Of course,” said Benson. “That was the purpose of the explosion.”

Nellie’s pink-and-white fists doubled hard.

“Everywhere they’re succeeding. Everything they do, they get away with! And what are we doing to stop them—to get dad’s murderer? Nothing!”

Benson said nothing to that. He looked at the paper again.

“ The bandit . . . fled . . . leaving nearly a million dollars in securities, jewels and cash in the vault,’” he read again. His pale and steely eyes went to the girl’s face.

“By taking a little more care, the gang might have worked it so they got that cash and the jewels. But they didn’t care whether they got it or not. The brick in Dr. Barker’s safety box was worth more to them than all the rest of the valuables in the vault.”

Nellie’s eyes suddenly avoided Benson’s pale flares.

“Well, you’ve seen one of the plates,” she murmured. “Solid gold, with a big emerald—”

“The entire belt, bringing museum prices, wouldn’t be worth as much as the stuff the bomber passed up in that vault,” Benson said steadily.

Nellie Gray’s porcelain cheeks colored faintly. The gray steel man said in his silken voice:

“There is far more to that belt than just the great intrinsic value of its gold and emeralds. Do you care to tell me what it is?”

Nellie bit her lip and stared pleadingly at him.

“I . . . I simply don’t dare . . . even to you.”

“Then I’ll tell you,” said Benson. “The belt, valuable as it is, is only a key to something so much more valuable that it makes its own worth seem like small change in comparison.”

The icily flaming eyes were on her in that probing manner that seemed able to search the very depths of a person’s mind.

“The key lies in the ideographs on the backs of the belt plates. Put all those plates together, and the picture writing tells a complete message. The message is a description of a secret place where something tremendously valuable may be found. Is that right?”

With his words, Nellie had been growing more and more tense. Now she breathed deeply and relaxed.

“How did you know?” she said in a low tone.

“Because I can decipher Aztec hieroglyphs, to some extent. Not quite as well as the late Dr. Brunniger.” His steely fingers shut hard at mention of the gentle old man so cold-bloodedly murdered. “But well enough. I read the ideographs on the back of the plate we got from Knight’s rooms. There is just enough of the message to hint at the real secret of the belt.”

Nellie sighed.

“I might have known before now that nothing could be hidden from you. Yes, that is right.”

She stared at the table, not seeing it. Before her eyes was the face of her father, killed for the possession of this thing The Avenger had shrewdly guessed.

“I told you about the night we found this belt in the tomb of Montezuma the Second. I didn’t tell you quite all.

“When we got back to dad’s tent, from the tomb, he went over the belt. He read the ideographs rapidly enough to grasp the meaning of their story—but didn’t dare take the time to get the story in every little detail; he had to bake the plates into bricks before daylight so no one but his few intimates would ever know of the discovery.

“The story he got was colossal.

“As you know, the Spaniards invaded Mexico in 1520. They killed off the Aztecs—with the help of subject Indian tribes who hated the Aztecs anyway. But the Spaniards, while they got a lot of gold, didn’t find the real, central hoard. They knew they hadn’t found it, and for decades afterward they searched. They had heard legends of whole temple floors of gold, of big statues of solid gold. Tons of the stuff. And these things they didn’t get.

“The reason, which again they suspected from the start, was that the Aztec priests hid this huge hoard just before the Spaniards got into the ancient city that is now the site of Mexico City. None of the priests could be tortured into revealing it.”

Smitty was staring at the girl with his china-blue eyes popping.

“And that belt tells where all this gold is hidden?” he spluttered.

Nellie nodded.

“Directions for finding it are on the back of the belt—if all the plates are together in their proper order. The biggest treasure, perhaps, in the history of the world. A treasure probably larger than King Solomon’s itself. Now do you see why I didn’t tell even you—till now—about it?”

There was silence in the big room, broken finally by Smitty. Benson was pacing slowly up and down, face as dead as a mask of snow, eyes vital and flaring.

“The gang after this belt knows its real meaning, and the size of the treasure, too,” said Smitty finally. “That’s proved by the way they treated a bank vault full of valuables as if the stuff were so many pennies. All they wanted was Dr. Barker’s brick.”

Nellie said nothing. She watched Benson. There was something like awe in her pretty eyes.

Benson thought aloud.

“They have almost enough. They have the two plates Professor Gray kept in his own possession. They have Olin Chandler’s plate. They have Dr. Barker’s plate. Four out of five. With four fifths of the message, they may be able to guess the meaning of the last fifth.”

Nellie said: “I hadn’t told you till now . . . I have the picture writing that was on the backs of dad’s two plates. He made a copy of it.”

“And we have Knight’s brick—the only one the gang hasn’t got hold of, here,” said Benson slowly. “They have four out of five. We have three out of five.”

Nellie’s eyes shone softly.

“I am quite sure that you can learn more from three bricks than they could from four,” she said.

Benson looked as though he might have smiled, had his face been able to move. His eyes lightened a little, then went bleak and deadly again.

“Whether we can or not, we’ll have to try,” he said. “Because the next move of the gang is pretty easy to guess. With four-fifths of the message in their hands, they’ll try at once to locate the treasure, instead of waiting around and trying to get the fifth brick. Particularly since they must have learned by now that it will not be too easy to get that brick from its present location—this building. They will go at once to Mexico.”

Smitty and the girl looked their question, though from the expression on their faces it was evident that they had half guessed.

“Our only move,” said Benson, in the silken-quiet voice that was more impressive than another man’s shout, “is to get there, too, and take the whole lot of them. The leader himself will be with them on this trip. That’s all we’ve been waiting for.”

He turned to Nellie. “Get your copy of the hieroglyphs on the back of Professor Gray’s plates, please.”

Nellie colored a little again. She went to a corner of the room where the tall television cabinet hid her from Smitty and Benson—and from the sulking Pinkie Huer in the big cage. She came back with the front of her dress a bit disarranged, and handed a piece of paper to Benson.

Benson put the paper next to the glittering plate taken from Knight’s brick. With his pale eyes like flaming holes in his dead, white face, he studied the hieroglyphs.

Thirty-five minutes later, he looked up from the three-fifths of the message worth such a king’s ransom.

“I know a little more of the interior of Lower Mexico than most,” he said. “I know a bit more of Aztec history, from original stone tablets now destroyed, than you’ll find in history books. And I think I’ve gotten every last bit of meaning out of these plates. By putting them all together, I believe I can come within five miles of a secret place where the dying Aztec race hid its gold. Of course, you could search a five-mile square for the rest of your life, in the jungle, without actually finding the hoard. The man who wrote the message on the plates took care of that.”

“But at least,” said the giant Smitty, “you could come close enough to locate this gang of cutthroats if they got the approximate spot on the map from their four plates.”

“Yes,” said Benson.

He began his slow pacing again, moving with the lithe, tiger tread that could make you catch your breath at the smooth power and tremendous vitality expressed in it.

“You copied the hieroglyphs on the two plates,” he said to Nellie. “It is barely possible that Dr. Barker, or Olin Chandler, or both, took their bricks apart, copied their plates, too, and put the bricks together again. Barker is almost to Europe now, so we can’t question him—I think I’ll have a talk with Chandler again.”

He went out, a gray steel figure with a white mask of a face in which burned pale and awesome eyes.

On the second floor of the bizarre Bleek Street building were luxurious lounging and bedrooms. Smitty went to his quarters down there, and Nellie went to the dainty rooms turned over to her.

Pinkie Huer was left alone in his cage.

Huer was a second-rate gunman who was only valuable if he had somebody to tell him what to do. But he was not entirely without brains. For a long time he had been looking at a couple of things and scheming what he’d do with them if ever he was left alone for a minute and had the chance.

He was alone now, with the things.

They were a portable hand-set telephone plugged into a socket not far away, with the phone on a table about eight feet from the cage. And a long, slim glass tube that had a bit of rubber hose on one end and a crook, almost like that of a cane, in the other. The glass tubing was part of apparatus used in the gray steel man’s many chemical experiments. But Huer didn’t know that. Nor care. He was going to use it for something a lot different—if he could reach it.

The long section of tubing stood in the corner a little more than a yard from the side of the cage. Huer put his arm between the bars and pushed his body against them till his shoulder was wedged through as far as he could get it.

He couldn’t reach the tube, and whimpered curses came from his lips. Then it occurred to him that a leg is longer than an arm. He turned and wedged his leg between the bars.

His toe just touched the end of the tubing.

Sweat burst out on his forehead. If he moved so that the glass tube fell, it would probably break, and then he’d be done before he got started. With infinite care he moved the tubing.

It slid down from its upright position in the corner and fell. But it fell on his outstretched leg and did not break. A whistling sigh of relief came to Huer’s lips. He drew the tubing within reach with his toe.

With the crooked end of it around the leg of the table, he hauled table and phone and all to the cage. Then the phone was in his hand. He dialed desperately, got a number the police would have given much to know.

“Yeah, it’s Pinkie. Damn you, it’s really me—not the other guy. The white-haired mug has just left for Olin Chandler’s. Yeah, the guy who had one of the things you’re after. And do I know something about that! You can trap the white-headed guy there, if you work fast. After you’ve got him out of the way. for gosh sakes come up here and get me outta this bird cage before they bump me off or I go nuts!”

Huer pushed the table to its former position with the long tube, then slid the tube over the floor, with a flick of his wrist, till it lay under a far workbench as if it had fallen there unnoticed a long time ago and had nothing whatever to do with the man in the cage a full five yards away.

After that, Pinkie Huer relaxed and sat in the cage looking as innocent as it is possible for a man to look when he has the brand of Cain stamped in his face and vicious murder glinting permanently in his eyes.

At the Forty-second Street office of the zoning and city-planning engineer, Benson’s pale eyes bit like knives into the eyes of the girl at the information desk.

“Mr. Chandler just left here and went home?” he said.

“Yes, sir,” said the girl. Something in the silken voice of this man with the white, still face made her feel almost afraid. Certainly it made her feel very, very obedient.

“It’s not yet noon,” said Benson. “Is he accustomed to leaving his office and going home at this hour?”

“No, sir. But he just had a telephone call from the man at his apartment, asking him to come home in a hurry. I took the call, as I take all Mr. Chandler’s calls, and I recognized his servant’s voice before plugging in to Mr. Chandler’s desk. The man seemed very excited. Or maybe he was frightened about something.”

Benson turned from the desk. Then he was out, in the hall. The girl blinked. It hadn’t seemed to her that the man with the snow-white hair and pale eyes was running. Yet he’d got out the door faster than most men could if they’d been leaping for their lives.

The giant motor under the hood of the old-looking car thrummed with more than its usual lazy song as Benson went from Forty-second Street to Chandler’s address on West End. Half a dozen cops stared at the speeding car with the intention of chasing it, then saw the expressionless, chalk-white face over the steering wheel and did not. Benson hadn’t been in the big city long, but already word was trickling from precinct-station captains to plain-clothes men to rookies on the beat that the man who looked like a limber gray steel bear was to be let alone no matter how many ordinary ordinances he cracked.

There was a doorman in front of Chandler’s building entrance, talking to a pretty maid in a French lace apron and cap. Everything looked all right. But with the same uncanny speed with which he had left the zoning engineer’s office, Benson hurried into the building.

The elevators were automatic. He stepped into one and began rising.

The cage stopped at the eighth floor. Benson flashed open the door and stepped out. A gun ground into his side, held by a man who had stood so flattened against the wall next to the elevator doorway that only a crystal gazer could have known he was there.

“Keep your hands by your sides,” the man said to Benson in a low tone, “and walk to Chandler’s layout. If you yell, you’ll get it right now. If you don’t, you’ll live maybe another ten minutes. Take your choice!”

CHAPTER XIV

Borg Whines

Chandler’s apartment was a former artist’s studio. It consisted mainly of one big, high room, with several smaller rooms off that. In the big room were the black-eyed man, the two human rats who looked like brothers, and the man with the reddish hair. Also Chandler.

The engineer sat in a big leather chair. A sheet had been brought from one of the bedrooms, twisted into a most efficient cord, and tied around his body and the chair. Easy to work loose if he’d been alone and unmolested. But he wasn’t. The man with the reddish hair sat across from him, about four feet, with gun drawn and leveled at Chandler’s body. Whenever Chandler moved a little, the gun moved, too.

In a far doorway lay Chandler’s servant, a thin man in a white jacket. The top of his head was crushed. He was still breathing, but a glance told that he wouldn’t keep on breathing very long. He was good as dead.

Chandler stared at Benson, white-lipped but calm.

“Sorry,” he said. “If I’d only had a chance to warn you—”

“Shut up!” snapped the black-eyed man. It was at the point of his gun that Benson had been driven in here.

Benson stared at him with eyes like ice in a chill dawn.

“You’re Borg,” he said.

“Frank Borg, if it’ll do you any good to know the full name in hell,” the black-eyed man retorted. “Now, listen, and get this the first time, because we want to leave here fast. You’ve got the brick from Alec Knight’s place. We want it. Step to that phone there, call your joint, and have somebody bring it here.”

Chandler’s eyes cried out “No” to Benson’s white, still face. The engineer shook his head urgently.

One of the ratlike brothers stepped to Chandler and gave him a hard, backhanded slap across the face.

“Keep your bill out of it!” he snarled. “Let the white-headed guy do his own thinkin’.”

Red leaped into Chandler’s cheek where he had been struck. He glared at the man with slitted, cold eyes, and then looked at Benson.

“Why,” said Benson, silken voice showing no more emotion in the death trap than his cold, dead face, “do you want an ordinary clay brick so badly?”

“Stop stallin’. You know as well as we do. We want the nice gold hicky inside it. We’ve got almost enough without it. Maybe entirely enough. But we want that to make sure. So you just pick up the phone and order it brought here.”

Benson was silent. Then he shrugged and nodded.

“All right.”

Chandler looked savagely, coldly contemptuous. Borg grinned with triumph. Then the grin faded.

“Don’t have that man-mountain of yours bring it,” he cautioned. “Tell the jane, Nellie Gray, to come with it.”

“She doesn’t know where I keep it,” said Benson.

“You can tell her over the phone, can’t you? Come on—get going!”

Borg moved to the phone with his gun solidly in Benson’s side. The ratlike brothers stayed close, too, guns in their hands. The fourth man remained where he was, gun and eyes closely covering the engineer tied in his chair by the sheet.

Benson picked up the phone, of the hand-set type. He dialed a number. Meanwhile, he did not look at Borg. There had been surrender in Benson’s voice. There was none in the pale blaze of his eyes.

“Smitty,” he said, evenly, when a man’s voice answered, “take an order.”

A mile away, in a garage that chanced to own the number Benson had dialed at random, a man said bewilderedly:

“Smitty? Who you callin’ Smitty? There ain’t nobody here by that name. This is Hoag’s Garage.”

“You know that brick, Smitty,” said Benson, keeping the receiver end of the phone tight to his ear so that Borg couldn’t overhear. “Well, have Miss Gray bring it to me at Chandler’s apartment right away. What? Oh! She isn’t?”

Benson half turned toward Borg.

“He says Miss Gray isn’t there at the moment. Do you want me to have him bring it?”

“Well—” began Borg.

What he had been going to say was never finished. With the natural little half-turn toward him, Benson had accomplished his purpose, to get the gun shifted just a little less solidly and surely from his ribs.

Now he arched his body like a snapped spring, flashed his right arm up and down, and jerked hard.

Borg’s gun belched, but the slug missed Benson in his lithe turn by three inches. And then Borg choked and twisted with a noose around his neck made by the telephone cord Benson had snapped around his throat.

“You guys—” Borg choked out. “Get him—”

But to get Benson, the three would have had to get Borg first. For he was between the gray steel man and their guns.

The phone cord ripped out of the box with the force of Borg’s struggle. Benson dropped the cord and got his left arm around Borg’s throat instead. His forearm, like ridged metal, was viselike against Borg’s Adam’s apple. His right hand sought and got Borg’s gun.

He faced the three gunmen, with Borg as an anguished human shield in front of him, and Borg’s automatic leveled first at one and then another of Borg’s men.

“Drop the guns,” Benson said, silken voice deadly, white face like a mask.

The two brothers might have obeyed, but the reddish-haired man thought too fast.

“Go to hell,” he said hoarsely. “You ain’t as bright as you think you are. You can’t call the cops, because the phone’s broken. You can’t kill us all, because in the time it takes you to plug one of us the other two can plug you through Borg.”

“No! No!” panted Borg, struggling in the iron grasp of the gray steel figure.

Benson tightened his arm pressure.

“I can break your neck easily,” he said, soft-voiced. “And I will, if you don’t stand still.”

Borg stood still. Benson’s deadly, colorless eyes dwelt on the three who stood with guns pointed at Borg—and hence at him, too. It looked like a stalemate.

Chandler’s voice sounded suddenly.

“I’m about free, Benson. Another minute and I’ll be out of this chair. When I get you, I’ll take their guns—”

“No, you won’t,” said the man with the reddish hair. “If you try that, we’ll plug the white-headed guy through Frankie, too. And then the one or two of us left will get you, Chandler.”

“When you get free,” Benson’s smooth tone capped the gunman’s rasping voice, “go to whatever room has a fire escape by the window. I’ll follow.”

The engineer was on his feet as Benson finished. He edged toward a door behind and to the right of the men Benson had covered.

“This room,” he called.

“Right,” said Benson.

The gray fox of a man backed toward the door Chandler held open. Borg backed involuntarily with him, held by the awful forearm around his throat. And the man with the sandy-red hair bit his lip indecisively.

If an attempt had been made to disarm him and the other two, they’d have shot, even if they had to kill Borg to get Benson. If Benson had tried to shoot them down, the survivor or survivors would have done the same thing. But the mere escape of the engineer and the man with the pale eyes was an alternative the gunman didn’t know how to handle.

He didn’t know whether to shoot through Borg to prevent that or not.

“Don’t,” gasped Borg, reading the deadly uncertainty in his man’s eyes. “Leave ’em go. Don’t drill me!”

Benson was at the door by now, with Chandler opening a window. So the question was decided of itself. Benson shoved Borg away from him, toward the guns of the three, and slammed the bedroom door and locked it. Then he joined Chandler at the fire escape.

The engineer was admirably calm, though his eyes still reflected the shadow of death.

“I thought you’d given in, Benson. But . . . you hadn’t. That was a good stunt with the phone cord.”

He was running down the iron treads, with Benson behind. The door would stand the battering of the men long enough to let the two get to the bottom.

“Where now?” asked Chandler, on the last flight, panting from eight floors of swift descent.

“My place on Bleek Street,” Benson said. He wasn’t even breathing quickly. “You’ll be safer there than anywhere else.”

A little later, in the great top-floor room, Chandler told about it.

“They got into my apartment and overpowered my servant. They must have held a gun on him and made him phone me at the office. He told me to hurry home, as there had been another robbery and he was afraid some valuables I keep at home were taken. He didn’t know what I’d had, so I’d better hurry and check up and report to the police. Then, I guess, they slugged him.”

Chandler’s lips were stiff with anger. “My man was killed by them. And I guess I would have been, too, if you hadn’t showed up. Although . . . I’m not sure of that—”

“You think perhaps they had other plans for you besides murder?” Benson said.

Chandler nodded thoughtfully.

“They knew, somehow, that you were coming. They waited there for you, with the black-haired man out by the elevators. While they waited, they talked a little. Something about ‘the other guy who was with old Gray’ not being too well up on Mexico, and maybe I would know my way around down there better because I had been there twice.”

“I see,” Benson said. “There’s logic there. Those men are going to Mexico and—”

“In connection with Gray’s secret?” said Chandler, eyes intent. “You mean—they’ve guessed it?”

“Yes,” said Benson. “Apparently you have, too, from the expression on your face. They know the secret of the belt. They have most of the links. They are going down to find the cache described by the hieroglyphs. It was rather smart of them to think of forcing you to go, too, and help them locate it. You’ve been down twice, you’re familiar with Central America and South Mexico, and your engineering and survey work would make you a good trail finder.”

Benson’s pale flares of eyes were steady on Chandler’s face.

“In fact, it’s such a good idea that I think I’ll borrow it—and ask you to go down there with us, and help us.”

“You’re going, too?” exclaimed Chandler.

“Yes. They have four direction plates. We have three and a slightly superior knowledge. I think we can come as close to the spot as they can. And if we both do hit near—we’ll capture the gang there in the jungle and bring the lot of them to justice.”

“By George, I believe you’re capable of it!” said Chandler, staring into the inexorable, pale eyes.

“Want to go with us and help?” said Benson.

“By all means!”

Benson nodded approval. Then he said:

“When you mentioned the talk of Borg’s gang, you said one of them said something about ‘the other guy who was with old Gray’ not being too well acquainted with Mexico. Who do you suppose they meant?”

“I don’t know,” said Chandler, slowly. “But I’m afraid they meant some one of the men who were on the last expedition with Gray. Though I’d have bet my life they were all decent, sound citizens.”

“Yes, one of them must be our man,” Benson replied thoughtfully. “Though it’s pretty confusing to try to guess who it could be. A man of mine named MacMurdie has been checking on the movements of Bower, Doolen, Rex Orto, Harry Armitage, John Sanderson, Cole Tega—six of the nine members of the expedition besides Gray and his daughter. They all seem harmless enough. Alec Knight was killed at about the same time you were robbed of your brick, so he’s out. Only Dr. Mortimer Barker is unaccounted for. But he can’t figure in any of this, of course, for he’s on the high seas, on his way to Europe.”

CHAPTER XV

Land of The Aztecs

Mexico City had been left behind a long time ago. They were far south and east of it.*

* (For reasons that will become obvious, Dick Benson has requested that the precise location be withheld.)

Benson’s twin-engined plane was soaring at an altitude of over thirty-two thousand feet. The tail of the moon, with dawn about to break through, lighted the earth far below.

Benson cut off his motors. He had reached the great height so that he could ride silently down on a long slant for the last thirty miles and land unheard.

In the hermetically sealed cabin were Nellie Gray, the giant Smitty, MacMurdie, and Olin Chandler. Nellie was staring down at thick foliage.

“The jungle here is unbroken,” she said, “but the trees don’t get very tall.”

“That’s because of the soil formation,” Benson said absently. He was handling the great plane glider-fashion, riding the air currents. He probably had no peer on earth as an all-around pilot. “The soil is thin, with a limestone-and-shell base. It was sea bottom once. The soil isn’t thick enough for big trees, except in earth pockets.”

Far ahead, barely to be seen against the pearl-gray dawn rising in the east, was a low, flat ridge through the jungle. On this was a protuberance seeming from this distance, to be about the size of a man’s thumb. Benson was shooting for that as a target.

“Where will you land?” said Nellie, staring down.

“On this side of the ridge,” said Benson, “there is a small rock elevation too bare for trees. We ought to be able to sit down there if we’re careful about it.”

“You seem to know every foot of this territory!”

“Quite a few years ago,” said Benson, “I charted most of the lower peninsula for the Mexican government.”

The plane slid down its long slant, with no lights and with little noise. Ahead, the tiny ridge had grown to a four-hundred-foot sheer rock wall. On it the little protuberance was a rock shaft at least thirty feet high. It was a strange freak of nature—a natural statue grotesquely like a human being standing with arms at sides and head tilted back a little to stare into the sky.

“This will be it,” said Benson quietly. “The one mention of the ‘rock that stands like a man,’ at the tail end of one of Gray’s plates, placed it for me. There can’t be two natural monuments like this in Mexico.”

The plane dipped. Down and ahead was a bare rock patch, not too even, looking like a handkerchief laid in the surrounding immensity of the wilderness.

Tensity held the others. It was impossible for a man to set a plane down on that rough rock surface, in the dim gray of early dawn. They clutched their seats.

But Benson did it. His pale, infallible eyes saw the spot like a camera, and remembered each rough outcropping so that when the wheels touched he could line them along the smoother ridges though he could no longer see them.

“Camouflage,” Benson ordered, as they got out in the cool dawn.

There were two small axes. Smitty and MacMurdie took them, cut bales of branches from saplings and big-leafed plants nearby, and strewed them over the plane so it could not be spotted from the air.

Benson and Chandler looked at the high wall of the ridge, just ahead of them, with the great natural figure of a grotesque human looming at the top. Then they looked once more at a sheet of paper Benson spread out. On the sheet were co-ordinated all the hieroglyphs of the three plates of Professor Gray and Alec Knight.

“We must be close to the cache right now,” Chandler said in a low, awed tone.

“You think it’s on this side of the ridge?” said Benson, pale and deadly eyes on the almost unscalable wall up to the huge figure.

“I’m sure of it,” said Chandler. “Look. The last symbol we have here is one for the setting sun. It comes right after the ideograph representing that statue. It must mean that the spot described in the next plate—which we haven’t got—is on the afternoon side, this side, of the ridge. At the statue’s right hand, so to speak.”

“I have an idea about that,” said Benson. “I’ll outline it a little later. In about,”—he stared at the pink sky eastward—“an hour and a half. Is this where you all camped on Gray’s last expedition?”

Chandler shook his head. “They found the tomb of Montezuma the Second far northwest of here. This particular locality is strange to me.”

Nellie Gray had been wandering at a little distance. She came up, trim in riding breeches and khaki shirt.

“We’ve hidden the plane,” she said. “Don’t you think we ought to hide ourselves, too? The gang may be here any minute.”

Benson nodded.

“There’s a thick grove, over there. We’ll have some breakfast in it. Watch out for snakes. The boas get pretty big in this section.”

“I’d rather see a hundred boas than Borg and his men,” said Nellie with a little shiver. “When we face them I want to be way behind the rest of you!”

She stared at the high ridge, like a two-mile wall before them. And it was too bad the wall wasn’t made of glass, so they could see the other side.

Borg, the ratlike brothers, the man with the reddish hair, a big fellow with a twisted nose, and three Indians as vicious-looking as any of the white men, were over there. The big fellow with the twisted nose was preparing to light a fire, over which some food would be prepared.

A fourth Indian slid into their camp. He said something in dialect. One of the other Indians interpreted to Borg.

“He say, they come. Big bird like your bird come down quiet like hawk on other side of wall. Four men and a woman. One man with old, old hair, but man young.”

“Benson!” exclaimed Borg with a satisfied oath. “We’ve got ’em now. We’ll leave them down here for the ants to feed on when we go north with the first load of that gold.” He stared at the man with the reddish hair. “Come on, Pete. You and me’ll take a little trip around the ridge with the guide. And the rest of you—no fire. The smoke could be seen. Eat your grub cold.”

The three set out through the low but almost impenetrable jungle, with the Indian gliding ahead. It took them nearly an hour and a half to get around the ridge and near the small cleared space on which was Benson’s plane.

In their close-covered glade, Benson was staring at the rising sun. More particularly, he was staring at a long shadow cast by the sun—a shadow cast by the great rock shaft atop the ridge.

“Secret hiding places for treasure fall into patterns,” he said, lambent gray eyes watching the creeping shadow of the shaft. “About half the time a central object is used for the starting point of measurements one way or another. The other half—the shadow cast by the conspicuous object—points to the cache. We’ll try that method now.”

“But we’re after that gang, not treasure,” said Nellie.

“By locating the treasure, we can ambush the gang with the most chance of success,” said Benson. “We’ll go to the end of the shaft’s shadow, and follow it as it shortens under the rising sun.”

They walked slowly after the shortening shadow, in a line, watching for any sign of man’s age-old handicraft in the thick tropic growth. Spiders as big as a man’s fist peered at them from red and gray-barked trees. Tiny lizards scuttled carefully out of reach of the spiders.

There was a low mound with trees all over it and a small sunken area in front of it. The shadow led them to this mound, and Smitty stumbled over something and almost fell.

The thing that had caught his feet was a stone, lichen-covered. But it was a peculiarly regular, square stone.

Benson stared at the mound. “This is it, I think.” He dug a little, parting overhanging roots. A hole appeared.

“All that’s left of an ancient door.”

He squeezed in. The others followed, with eyes shining and breath coming fast. Benson had his flashlight going.

A rough, crude hole was the entrance here. But once inside, the roughness and crudity disappeared. They were in a stone chamber, perfectly preserved, at least twelve feet high and thirty square—part of an old temple.

From this chamber led four openings. Benson went to one after another of them, playing his flash. The light went on and on down each, showing no end.

“Which?” said the giant Smitty.

“I’m thinkin’ we’d better take no one of them till we have a ball of yarn,” said MacMurdie dourly. “Whoosh! ’Tis a labyrinth we’re in!”

“He’s right,” said Chandler. “We’d better not go down any of those black holes too far.”

Benson paced to the center of the chamber.

“Your flashlight, Nellie.”

He set Nellie’s light on end, with the white beam playing up on the dimly carved ceiling.

“Now, we’ll go down one after another till we lose the light. At that point we’ll stop, assuming the tunnels themselves haven’t already stopped.”

In the side wall of the old temple room there was a rock, a little rougher than the surrounding dressed stone, sticking out several inches. Nellie was looking at it, and her hand went out.

“Don’t touch it!”

Benson’s voice was like a whiplash. Nellie drew her hand back from the rock and stared at him in surprise. Benson said, less urgently:

“It’s known that the Aztecs left clever and deadly traps for enemy raiders. Touch an innocent-looking stone outcropping, and tons of rock are released by a lever action to crush you. Or the floor falls away from you. Or a chasm opens under your feet. They were pretty good engineers, the old Aztecs. They knew their weights and counterweights. It might mean nothing to touch that stone knob—or it might bring the whole roof down on us.”

Nellie retreated hurriedly from the projection. Benson went on.

“You stay here with the light. Mac, take the tunnel in the left wall. Smitty, the one in the right. I’ll take the left rear tunnel; Chandler, the right rear. Anyone finding anything, call out. But not too loudly! Sound vibration might bring this old temple down around our ears.”

They split up. Benson went into the tunnel he had selected and down its smooth floor, with his pale and icy eyes piercing the gloom at the end of his flashlight’s ray, almost like the eyes of a cat.

He felt the coolness and dampness after he’d gone less than a hundred yards, with the light still visible behind him in the central chamber. He went very slowly after that. A subterranean lake or stream was nearby.

He got to it in another thirty yards. He stood on a stone ledge and peered down—straight down.

There was a chasm about thirty feet wide. Filling it from wall to wall was black water that rushed swiftly but soundlessly. It came out of blackness and went into blackness. Across from where Benson stood was blank rock. The tunnel ended in this deadly stream.

Behind him, in the temple chamber, Nellie’s wild scream suddenly rang out. There was a dull, grinding boom!

The solid floor of the tunnel trembled. There was an avalanching roar from the temple chamber. And suddenly Benson was not standing on anything.

He had warned of the deadly Aztec traps, but he had not paid sufficient attention to his own warning. The ledge he’d been standing on was part of such a trap. The explosion in the distance had set off some rock lever, perhaps a dozen feet away, that acted on the ledge.

And the ledge had dropped suddenly from under Benson like a sprung trapdoor.

He plummeted down through darkness, with his flashlight hitting the water and winking out. He heard the stone ledge splash into the ebony stream. Then he hit the rushing depths himself.

As he struck, he was thinking of something. From the plane, there had been no glimpse of the lake or river anywhere near. Wherever this stream came above ground—if it ever did—the intervening distance would drown a man a hundred times over before air and open sky could be reached again.

He went down and down into the icy water which bore him on its smooth and silent rush—toward blackness.

CHAPTER XVI

One Way Out

The entrance to the temple room was blocked so that an army of elephants could not have gotten through to outer air. Several dozen monolithic slabs, each weighing tons, had slid from the ponderous temple roof and shut the temple forever from the outside world.

Smitty got from the depths of his tunnel first. He was running, for all his vast size and weight, like a fleet youngster. He emerged into the rear two-thirds of the room, which was all that was left.

“Miss Gray!” he yelled. “Nellie—”

He stopped. She wasn’t under the rock pile locking them in here forever. She was crouching at the rear wall, with her hands over her face. The slide had missed her by only a few feet.

She looked up at Smitty’s cry, gray eyes wild.

“Borg!” she cried. “It was Borg. I saw him, at the entrance. He set off one of those little bombs and trapped us in here.”

“So—the gang got the jump on us!” said Smitty, hard-eyed. “We weren’t as smart—or as fast—as we thought we were. Chief! Oh, chief!”

MacMurdie stumbled from the tunnel he had been exploring, followed within a few seconds by Chandler. They were white-faced and shaken.

Dick Benson did not come from his tunnel.

“Where’s the chief?” said MacMurdie, anxiety for his boss overshadowing fear for himself. “Why doesn’t he come out of there?”

They watched the tunnel, breathlessly. There was no sound from within, no sight of the white, dead countenance, and the icily flaming pale eyes.

“We’d better go down—”

They hurried down Benson’s tunnel—all of them, with Nellie’s hand clasped in Smitty’s great paw to keep her from tripping. They got to the black death of the river. And there was no sign of Benson.

“He must have . . . fallen in,” faltered Nellie, swaying.

“The chief?” said Smitty. “Not him! He could walk a tightrope over Vesuvius and not fall.”

“There’s no place else he could be,” said MacMurdie, frosty-blue eyes filled with a dreadful certainty.

Chandler pointed to the brink of the twenty-foot drop down to the water. There, the outline of the place where the overhanging ledge had been could be plainly seen.

“A stone slab collapsed under him,” said Chandler. “A mountain goat would fall, if the ledge he stood on fell under him.”

There was a vast and horrible silence, while the wind fanned up from the narrow chasm, stirred by the noiseless rush of the water.

Smitty, voice strained and hoarse, said:

“Maybe we can get out ourselves. Better to try than just stand here looking into that river.”

“There’s no way out of here,” said Chandler, eyeing the blank wall across the deep crack in the rock. “And my tunnel ended in a little tomb, with solid walls. No way out there.”

“The one I was in just stopped,” said Smitty.

MacMurdie, peering at the river with suffering blue eyes under sandy ropes of eyebrows, shrugged a little.

“I didn’t get to the end of mine. There might be a way out there. I couldn’t tell.”

“Then we’ll go down that one,” Smitty said. “Take it slow, everybody. Keep close together. And hang onto your flashlights!”

They went back to the central chamber, which had become a tomb with the rock seal over its mouth. They went down the tunnel MacMurdie had explored a little way.

Long before that tunnel ended, they would have gone back—if there had been any hope to go back to. The underground tunnel twisted and turned until they were hopelessly lost. Every few yards, some other tunnel laced into it. Methodically they explored each of these, finding an end after a dozen or a hundred steps. Many of them became natural fissures instead of artificial tunnels, after a few feet. The ground here was honeycombed with caves and runways.

“We’ll never get out!” cried Nellie.

“Maybe a little farther on,” said MacMurdie. As usual, when things really looked desperate, the dour Scot was optimistic. When things were normal he gloomily predicted disaster; when they looked impossible, he grew almost cheerful.

“We’ll be comin’ to a way out—” he said. And then he stopped talking. And the rest stopped walking. They were at the end of the parent tunnel—their last hope. And that end was black.

They looked at each other, ghostly in the fading light of the flashlights. Then, as the illumination faded a little more, Chandler cried out.

“At the very end there! Where the tunnel goes to a blunt point! Look!”

They all stared, and Nellie’s gasp was audible.

They could see a tiny scrap of light there; a postage-stamp-sized square of daylight. They scrambled forward.

There had been blank rock wall at the end of this tunnel. The wall of some low cliff. But, ages past, a tree had got its roots in crevices near the tunnel. Roots had swelled through the years, chipping off rock slabs, till now there was an opening.

But the opening was plugged by the tree itself, a hardwood, over a foot in diameter, with a mass of tangled roots filling the end of the tunnel.

Chandler’s shoulders drooped. His voice was quiet but resigned as he said:

“We’re still stuck. We can’t bore up through the heart of that tree with nothing but penknives. And to remove the tree we’d need dynamite.”

Mac turned his frosty-blue eyes on Smitty’s massive bulk.

“We’ve got dynamite,” he assured the engineer. “Only it walks on two legs and calls itself Smitty. Whoosh! Ye can tumble that thing, can’t ye, Smitty? The trunk of it must slant out of balance on the other side, growin’ out of a wall as it does.”

Smitty was looking thoughtfully at the roots.

“Dig under ’em so I can crawl in there, and we’ll see,” he said doubtfully.

Working with their hands, they hollowed under the ball of tree roots. There was earth as well as rock, which made it possible. Then Smitty writhed under the base of the tree, and worked his body upward against the roots till he was on hands and knees.

“It’s impossible!” said Chandler, staring. “A man can’t tip an eighteen-inch tree over!”

“Catch hold of the big roots that stick out,” said Smitty, “and heave when I do.”

Chandler and MacMurdie grasped roots.

“Now!” said Smitty, and heaved.

They could hear his tendons cracking with the effort. Mac and Chandler were doing a little cracking, too. The tree quivered, but that was all.

“Again!” grunted Smitty, arching his vast back.

The tree swayed a bit.

“Again, in rhythm.”

They began to rock it—lifting, relaxing when the tree outside settled back, lifting again. With each lift, Smitty heaved explosively, putting back and legs and arms into it, expending twice the power of the other two men put together.

“I tell you it’s impossible—” panted Chandler.

There was a crack, a creaking sound, a moan as if the tree were a thing alive. Then the roots which stuck into the end of the tunnel slowly pulled themselves out as the bole of the tree tilted. There was a moment when the whole leaning bulk seemed to hang frozen, then it went on its way with a crackling of breaking roots and a final crash. And a hole was torn where the tree base had been that was almost big enough to walk through.

“We did it!” yelled Mac to the panting giant. “Smitty—Nellie—we are free—”

He stopped as they stared into light and freedom. They were near the low rock table on which the plane had been. Had been! It wasn’t there any more!

There was a shallow crater in the rock. All around this was fragments of branches and bits of plane. The men with Borg had planted one of the peanut bombs under the transport ship and rained it in bits from the heavens.

“Sure, we’re free,” said Chandler heavily. “But Benson is gone, and the plane is smashed, so we’re marooned here, and we have no food or supplies.”

“The skurlies!” MacMurdie muttered, bony fists clenching. “If I ever get my hands on them—”

“We won’t, if they can get to us first,” said Smitty. “We’ve got to hole in. And not in any tunnel or cave where the entrance can be sealed to bottle us up! We’d better build a barricade in the open. Logs. That’s the ticket. We’ll all scatter into the jungle and bring logs. There. Where the big tree stands. There must be water near it, or it wouldn’t tower so high above the rest. We’ll build a log wall around that tree, and see what comes. We’ve got an automatic apiece and a few extra clips. We’re not done yet.”

They started getting logs. Chandler went farthest afield. And then they heard his cry.

“Help! They’ve got me—”

The cry came from near the base of the ridge. Smitty and Mac dropped their logs and ran toward the spot. Nellie, behind a tree, was aiming her automatic toward the place—but wasn’t seeing anything to shoot at.

Smitty and Mac got four yards—and dropped. From the tangled greenery ahead of them had sounded something that was grimly familiar. The deadly riveter’s song of a machine gun.

Lead sprayed over and around them, snipping leaves from the trees, cutting small branches. From a lot farther off they heard Chandler cry out again. Then they heard him no more.

Smitty and Mac, grim-lipped, snaked their way back toward the huge hardwood tree they’d selected as a base. Nellie, with the woodcraft of a man, after her experience on expeditions with her father, slid through the thick growth and joined them there. With the solid bole between them and that pounding tattoo, they were safe even from a machine gun.

They looked narrow-eyed at each other.

“The chief gone. Chandler gone!” Smitty said. “It doesn’t look too hot for the rest of us.”

“Whoosh, mon!” said Mac, with his cockeyed cheerfulness in the face of the impossible. “We’ll get ’em yet!”

From the side, another machine gun opened up on them. It crept farther around, searching for them behind the bole. And then from the opposite side a third machine gun opened up.

“What’s after us—the whole Mexican army?” Smitty said, staring.

Nellie looked upward. The huge tree presented a thick globe of greenery above them. Impenetrable greenery.

“I think we can climb to the lower branches before they really see us,” she said. “Up there, they couldn’t get a line on us for quite a while.”

Something like a small pineapple crashed to the ground not far from them. It burst with a dull plop, and greenish vapor came from it.

“Gas!” exclaimed the Scotchman. “Now, where would the skurlies get all this stuff?”

The gas bomb decided them. Smitty, with his great height and reach, got his hands over the lowest branch and swarmed up to it. Mac lifted Nellie to him. He hauled her up one-handed, as if she had been a feather. Mac followed. They climbed forty feet, and then stopped.

The machine guns were drumming out lead—but still around the base of the tree. Two more gas bombs had released their deadly load, but the phosgene wasn’t rising to anywhere near their height.

They were out of sight up there, and safe for at least a little while.

But they didn’t dare come down, and they couldn’t stay up there forever.

CHAPTER XVII

An “Indian” Makes A Find

In the pitch darkness of that underground river, Benson was carried at least a dozen yards before he came up to the surface again. When he did rise at last, with powerful strokes, he bleakly expected that there would be no surface to rise to—that the water would fill entirely the underground natural tunnel through which it silently raced.

His life was saved, though he did not realize it for a while, by just one thing—it was the dry season, and the subterranean river was not swollen to capacity.

He came up to free air, and when he reached up with his arms he felt about a two-foot space over his head.

Treading water, he let himself be borne swiftly along in an upright position. He kept his arms stretched up. Now and then the roof of the tunnel raised till he felt nothing. Now and then it narrowed till he had to duck under water so that his head could clear it.

As he moved, chill things touched his legs, coiled around them with slimy and eyeless tenacity till he could kick them loose.

The current suddenly slowed, showing that, ahead, the river bed was much wider. At first, Benson took the slowing as a good sign. But in a moment it became clear that it was a bad one. The roof over him rapidly dipped down, not in any short intervals, but inexorably and endlessly.

He had six inches clear, then four, then no more than two. But now the current was slow enough so that he could stay his forward rush with his hands. He held himself motionless for a moment, with just the tip of his nose between water and roof, breathing in air.

The pitch blackness seemed mysteriously to have lifted just a little. You could feel the faint relief of it more than actually see it. Taking a deep breath, Benson dipped beneath the surface to try to locate it.

Ahead, an unguessable distance, there was a vague light spot. A very small spot, in the top of the watery tunnel. Benson raised again, with his nose out for air.

He could hang on there, alive, for several hours. But there was no hope in the end. He could go forward toward the light with a fractional chance of getting to upper air again. Ninety-nine chances of drowning, to one of escape.

The bleak, colorless eyes hardly changed expression. Benson had been up against hundred-to-one odds many times, and hadn’t hesitated. He didn’t hesitate now. He drew as deep a breath as his capacious lungs would hold, ducked down and began sliding through black water toward the faint patch.

In the jungle above, a stolid-faced Indian was squatting beside a small pool whose surface, mysteriously, was never still. Things appeared on that surface continually, moved to the other side, bobbed down and were never seen again. But the Indian was not concerned with this. He was getting a drink, scooping up ice-cold water in his hands.

In the black depths of the pool something moved. The Indian darted back. Two hands came up from the water, then a head and face. The Indian stared in a mixture of horror and superstitious awe.

The face was as white and still and dead as something carved from limestone. In the face were awful, colorless eyes that transfixed the Indian like lances of light. A god! An evil god! Or a monster!

Yelling, the Indian clubbed down toward the head with a length of wood his hands touched at random. And then the Indian knew it was a god. No man could have moved so fast.

White, steely fingers caught the descending club easily, jerked. The Indian toppled forward toward the pool, and the figure drew itself dripping from the water with the same move. A right hand clubbed against the side of his jaw, and the white, steely fingers of the dripping figure’s left hand caught him by the throat.

The Indian consigned himself to his fathers as he felt consciousness leave him. A monster had arisen in the Pool-to-the-heart-of-the-world, and killed him.

Dick Benson released the nerve pressure at the Indian’s throat that should hold him unconscious for several hours but would mercifully not kill him. He looked around. He was in a shadow caused by something other than the trees. In a moment he saw that it was caused by a rock wall shutting off the sun. A rock ridge that was like, and yet unlike, the ridge they had seen when he set the plane down.

He was at the foot of the ridge on which the huge natural statue was set—but on the other side. The underground river had borne him clear under it.

Off a little distance, Benson could see the spiral of smoke marking a fire. That would be the camp of Borg and his men.

Benson stared at the unconscious Indian. He was one of the seedy modern descendants of the once lordly Aztecs. He wore the ragged remnants of pants he had gotten long ago from some village store, and an even more ragged jacket of cotton. He carried with him an ancient rifle.

Benson didn’t seem to think out his next move at all, so instantly did he set to work. Yet the plan was suddenly in his mind to the last detail.

The red-barked trees were plentiful nearby. He stripped yards of the shaggy bark from the trunks, soaked them in the water of the pool. Hot water would have been better, but he didn’t dare build a fire. And enough of the cold suffice. It softened the inner layer of bark to a sort of slimy skin.

Looking into the pool, Benson rubbed the softened bark on his white, still face and tanned body. He got the color fairly well, reddish-brown. Then he appropriated the Indian’s pants and jacket and the ancient gun.

A native of the poorest nomad sort, he started toward the fire of Borg’s camp. As he went, he had recourse to a trick that had saved him once in Tibet among dark-eyed people. He jabbed his eyes with his thumbnail till they were bleared and reddened and their pale flares were a little disguised.

Across the ridge, he could hear the spatter of machine-gun fire. It was puzzling, quite out of place here. Where would several machine guns come from? Brought with Borg in his plane? Benson didn’t think so. He knew most pieces of ordnance by ear; and he spotted these, not as sub-machine guns, but the full-grown army variety, six hundred or more shots to the minute.

He gave up the puzzle. Those guns were being turned against Smitty and Mac and Nellie and Chandler, of course. But there was nothing Benson could do about that just then.

The camp showed before him—a plane camouflaged as his own had been; a clearing with a fire in it, and three men. Two of the men were at a distance from it because of the heat. The third was sweltering and cursing as he made coffee.

One of the three was Borg. Another was the man with the reddish hair. The third, near the fire, was one of the ratlike brothers.

Borg was saying: “How they got outta that rat hole I bottled them in, I can’t figure out. One of these natives said he saw a tree fall down, and they came up from the roots. Baloney! Anyhow, they got out. But we’ll get ’em with the guns and gas.”

“We better!” snarled the man with the reddish hair. “Hey—visitors—”

Benson walked calmly and evenly across the little clearing and up to them. There was an Indian with them, vicious-looking, squatting on his hams near the fire and seeming impervious to the heat. Benson kept his gaze on the Indian. It was from him that the greatest danger lay.

Benson directed a stream of native dialect at Borg, gesturing with his hands as he did so. The squatting Indian stared hard and listened harder.

“What’s he tryin’ to say?” Borg snapped impatiently. “Who is he? What’s he want?”

As Benson had said, he had charted the territory all through here for the Mexican government. He had done it when just out of school. At the time, he had picked up some of the language, but it was a dialect in use farther south, in Yucatan. It seemed all right here, however.

The squatting Indian said:

“Him want job. From south five days. Saw fire and white men and came to see.”

“Tell him to beat it!” snapped Borg.

The Indian interpreted. Benson burst into even more volubility.

“Him say saw you blow up dirt. Bang! Blow up white man’s sky bird. Bang! Want food and an ax or maybe tell what him see.”

“Why, the coffee-colored stool pigeon!” flared the man with the reddish hair. “I’ll—”

His gun was in his hand. Borg caught his arm.

“Wait, Pete. Not so good to bump him off. We got four working for us, and they might get sore if we drill a brother Indian. Let him hang around if he wants, till we beat it. Then we’ll see.”

Pete put the gun up reluctantly. Borg said with an oily smile:

“Tell him okay. Make himself useful. Get some firewood first.”

The Indian relayed the message. Benson grunted, laid the ancient rifle down carefully, and collected dry wood. He brought it back, and squatted on his hams near the Indian. The native disdained speaking to him. Natives are no more apt to do a brother act with strangers than white men.

The afternoon deepened. A shaft of shadow from the great statute on the ridge began to lengthen into the jungle as, in the morning on the other side, it had shortened with the climbing sun.

Benson got up and moved a little way into the jungle. No one was paying any attention to him. He went off, in the shadow of the shaft.

He walked slowly, as the shaft advanced, with his pale, all-seeing eyes on the ground. He saw that there were no prints on the soft earth, and no broken twigs. None from the camp had investigated through here.

The shadow lengthened before him like a pointing finger. It touched a tangle of branches formed by half a dozen trees leaning inward on each other around a small sunken ring, as if space in the center had collapsed a little, letting the rimming trees sag together.

Benson glanced back. There was no one in view. He investigated the small sunken spot. There was a crude arc of metal in the center. He scraped around it, and found it was a ring of massive copper, oxidized greenish-black.

The ring was set in a stone slab, he saw, as he scraped a little more. Benson put his two hands in the ring and heaved.

Only an average-sized man, weighing little more than a hundred and sixty. But there was that mysterious explosive quality to his muscles.

The stone slab weighed at least four hundred pounds. But it came slowly, steadily up in Benson’s steel hands till it could be slid to one side.

Rough stairs were revealed. Benson went down them.

Every step convinced him that no one had been in here from the time the steps had been carved until now. The stone was rough from ancient chisels, and had not been worn smooth by many feet. And at the foot of the steps, lying almost in the center, was a rough circle that glittered dim yellow. He picked it up.

It was a carved, heavy plaque of solid gold.

With his stained face as expressionless as something carved from mahogany, Benson went on. The tunnel from the stairs was not long. It ended in a blank wall. But in the wall was another copper ring.

Benson pulled. There was a tremor. He leaped back.

The ring opened up the tunnel, all right; but in a way to trap an ordinary man. It was another of the ancient Aztec death traps. For a tug on it brought the whole wall down on whoever pulled—several tons of stone. Only one knowing the secret—or a man able to move like light itself with the first faint rock tremor—could escape death.

The fall of wall bared a cave or chamber beyond. But it was pitch dark. Daylight from the rock stairs carried barely to the mouth of the chamber and did not penetrate inside.

Benson had felt flint and steel in the tattered jacket he wore. He got them out, ripped a strip from the already ragged pants, and struck sparks. There was a smolder that leaped to a small, reluctant flame when he blew on it. He held up the flaming strip of cotton like a torch.

The average man would have gone stark mad with what the flame revealed. Benson merely stood a little more still than usual, and stared with pale and deadly eyes at stuff that had no meaning to him since the tragic loss of his wife and daughter, for whose sake alone he might have been excited about this. But it was a startling sight just the same.

The cave was some twenty feet wide and ten high, and went back farther than the light from the cloth strip could penetrate. The stuff that was piled in the cave from wall to wall and almost to the ceiling, with one narrow aisle in the middle, went back out of sight, too.

Gold! The stuff that had brought the Spaniards to Mexico. The stuff for which they had murdered the gold’s owners, the Aztecs.

To the end, the Spaniards had insisted that the huge quantities of gold they took back home in galleons was a fraction of the total. To the end, they had maintained that the great central hoard, the real wealth of the tribe, had been hidden from them and was untapped.

They had been right. Because here it was.

There were piles of gold slabs an inch thick by six to ten square. The legends of temples and priestly courtyards floored with solid gold had been correct. Here were the slabs, torn up and hidden to protect them from the invaders.

There were crude statues of gold several feet high and apparently solid. There were disks and plaques and bas-relief slabs of gold, ponderous in size. There were countless gold bells and rough ingots from which more of the plaques had been destined to be hammered. There were sheets of gold.

It was probably the greatest single mass of the yellow stuff that any human eyes had looked on at one time, barring a national mint. The yellow hoard of the Aztecs. Wealth uncountable.

“So you’re not quite the harmless coffee bean you made out to be!” a voice snapped behind Benson. “You knew where this was—which is more than we knew. Thanks for leading me to it, pal. Your bones can guard it—”

Benson had whirled, like light, strip of cloth still burning in his hands. At the entrance of the treasure room stood the man called Pete, gun leveled.

Pete never finished his sentence. From the “Indian’s” immobile face were glaring deadly, almost colorless eyes. In their menace they seemed actually to send out little sparks. There was only one pair of eyes on earth like that.

“You!” croaked the man. And fired.

CHAPTER XVIII

The Primitive Mint

The big tree, towering above everything for miles around, was a little world of its own. A dozen machine guns couldn’t dislodge Nellie and Mac and Smitty from it, because they couldn’t be seen through the thick foliage. Gas couldn’t hurt them because it couldn’t rise to where they were.

But already, at four in the afternoon, they were burning with thirst. It was just a hint that their stay in this place of safety was very limited. They’d have to come down soon.

Mac and Smitty talked it over. They agreed that their best chance to get down would be when night fell. Although it wasn’t much of a chance, at that. As darkness clamped down more and more, their ambushers would simply creep closer and closer to the tree, to be sure there was no escape.

The fact that the three handling the machine guns were none of Borg’s men, but three Indians scarred by a dozen revolutions in their hot-tempered land, wouldn’t have made Mac and Smitty feel any better about it. Where they might have escaped the eyes of white men, they hadn’t a chance against the lynx eyes of natives!

On another fork of the great tree, Nellie listened to the two of them without really hearing what they said. A plan of her own was forming in her mind.

Fragile and dainty-looking as a porcelain doll, she had already proved herself to be an adversary more to be respected than most men. And certainly one with more nerve than most men. As her present plan showed.

She was thinking of something Benson had said. She had come in a very short time to have a very large respect for this man whom Smitty and Mac called chief. Indeed, unconsciously, she had taken, in her own mind, to calling him the chief, herself.

Benson had wanted to locate the gold hoard because “it would make it easier to ambush Borg’s crew.” It had built up an instant picture in her mind.

Borg’s men were the personification of greed. They had murdered for gold. They had forgotten all the decencies. If they found it, wouldn’t they even forget their own personal safety for a few minutes, too?

She had a picture of an underground treasure chamber, with Borg and his murderers in it, staring open-mouthed at heaps of gold, forgetful of all else. If that picture could ever come true—couldn’t the men be trapped in there while they were off guard?

So Nellie’s scheme was to try to find the treasure, leave an obvious lead so the men could “discover” it themselves a little later—and then bottle them up in the ground as they had almost bottled Benson and his followers.

To do that meant finding the treasure to use as bait, of course. But Nellie had an idea on that, too.

The hieroglyphs from their section of the belt had included the symbol for the “rock that stands like a man,” and concluded with the ideograph that stood for gold—or the setting sun. In this case, might not the symbol mean both gold and the setting sun? Coupled with the statue, might not the message be that the gold was under the right hand, or the western hand of the statue?

Benson and Chandler had read one of the symbols as that of the rising sun, and had placed the treasure to the east of the ridge. It seemed to her just as reasonable to use the other symbol and place it to the west—and directly at the base of the great rock instead of at a distance to its right.

That would place the treasure up on the ridge itself.

Nellie looked out at the ridge, a hundred and eighty yards off. A little under where she leaned, the solid tops of the smaller jungle trees formed a rough floor over the jungle earth so that all you saw was green. Pity it couldn’t be walked on like a floor.

But Nellie had an idea that was quite similar. Branch to branch, treetops intermingling, the jungle crowded together. Might not a small, strong person like herself give a pretty good imitation of a monkey and swing through the trees to the ridge wall?

Smitty couldn’t do it, for all his great strength. His vast bulk would be too heavy for some of the smaller branches. She didn’t think Mac could do it; he wasn’t supple and lithe enough. But she could try. As supple as a dancer, with muscles under her satiny skin as tempered as silver coils, she could negotiate the monkey road through the trees, if any human could.

She knew, though, that neither Mac nor Smitty would allow her to try, if she said anything. So she resolved to say nothing and go her way.

She edged out along the branch she was on. In ten feet she was lost to the two men, still discussing their plans. In twenty she could hardly hear them any more, and was at the end of the branch.

Half a dozen branches of other trees invited. She took one and swung like a trapeze expert to the neighboring tree. And now she wouldn’t know if Smitty and Mac missed her or not, for they wouldn’t dare to call very loudly for fear of giving their positions away to the machine gunners.

Less than twice the length of a football field intervened between the great tree and the wall of the ridge. But it took Nellie nearly an hour to traverse it.

One reason was that many times she had to retrace her way a dozen feet when she got to the end of a branch and found no branch to the next tree big enough to hold her weight at that spot.

Another reason was that midway she started to put her hand on a branch and discovered just in time that it was an eighteen-foot boa. She stayed motionless till the head of the great snake stopped weaving around, and then cautiously went back to another spot.

The main reason, however, was that toward the end of her journey she heard a slight crackling noise and looked down and to her right to see a native with a full-throated machine gun on a tripod before him. The native was gazing upward—had heard her moving, but could not quite place her.

Nellie remained stone-still for twenty minutes, that time, before finally going on.

She got to a shoulder up the face of the ridge that was between her and the sight of the big tree. With that to keep her out of view, she scaled the cliff like a professional mountain climber. Then she was on the ridge, with the natural rock statue towering before her.

There were scattered, stunted trees and bushes on the ridge. She went from the cover of one to the shade of another, cautiously.

A hieroglyph meaning both setting sun, and gold! Would she find the guarded-entrance to the treasure under the right hand of the statue? She got closer.

Now she noticed a strange thing. It was something to make her scalp crawl a little with an instinct of terrible danger, though the thing didn’t look too frightening at first glance.

Along the top of the ridge, cutting it into two long strips, the narrowest of which was toward the side where Smitty and Mac clung to the big tree, was a little crack in the rock.

The crack varied from a mere half inch in width to three or four inches. It was in such a straight line that it seemed artificial. It started at some distance far behind Nellie and out of sight, and extended ahead of her as far as she could see. Apparently the little crack bisected the whole top of the table-like ridge for its entire two miles.

She looked at it more closely, and the impression that it was not a natural fissure increased.

Here and there she could see what seemed to be holes crudely sunk into the stone, always along that crack.

When primitive people want to blast stone, they have an age-old way of doing it. They bore holes along a straight line, pound round wooden rods in it, with the wood very dry, and then pour water on the wood. The wood swells with the moisture, setting up an incalculable pressure—and the rock cracks and falls all along that line.

It almost seemed here, as if the old Aztecs had once decided to crack a third off the entire ridge and send it thundering to the ground on the side where Smitty and Mac were. Then, apparently, something had interrupted their plans and they had abandoned the idea.

Nellie thrust the crack aside in her mind, and started toward the statue again. Then she stopped and crouched low in the cover of a stunted bush.

There was someone else on the ridge.

Moving with the agility of a great ape, a man’s figure was shuttling around the base of the statue. The rock shaft had hidden him from Nellie when she first got up here. Now his activities had brought him around where she could see him.

He was prying around the bottom of the huge natural-rock figure—which, Nellie had just noticed, was on the edge of that long, thin crack. She thought for a moment that someone had beaten her to the idea of the treasure being at the base of the statue. Then she saw that he was not digging for treasure.

He was boring a little hole and dropping something; boring another, and dropping something. Like a man planting kernels of corn by hand. But it was not corn.

Nellie’s hand suddenly went to her throat as she saw at last what the man was planting.

Into each little depression he was scooping near the base of the rock shaft, he was placing one of the deadly little peanut bombs!

In the centuries-old underground chamber where the colossal yellow hoard of the Aztecs lay, Benson had acted like a streak of leaping flame when Pete, the man with the reddish hair, leveled that gun at him.

The man’s hoarse yell, the shot from his automatic, and Benson’s explosive action, had all seemed to come together. But actually Benson had moved about a quarter of a second in advance of the other two sounds. The slug whistled over him as he fell to the treasure-strewn floor. And as he fell, he mashed out the flaming strip of cloth under his body.

Positions were reversed. Benson had been illuminated by the wicklike torch, and Pete had been in the dimness of the entrance. Now Benson was in darkness, and Pete was outlined by the vague daylight behind him.

The man shot three times in quick succession, searching wildly, blindly, for the body of the man with the awful, colorless eyes. Then there was an answering shot.

This was not a thundering crash. It was a venomous, crisp little spatting sound, as if a bare wet foot had smacked lightly on stone. It was the businesslike whisper of Mike, the silenced little special gun Benson wore at his calf, directed a second time at this man.

Pete went down without another move or sound, with his skull creased by The Avenger’s uncanny marksmanship.

Benson went up out of the treasure chamber, and at the head of the crude rock stairs lifted that ponderous rock manhole cover over it again. He strewed dead leaves and branches, and the place was hidden.

He had gone fifty yards when Borg confronted him, gun in hand. Borg glared at Benson. The real Indian was behind Borg.

Benson burst into the dialect of northern Yucatan.

“What’s he yapping about?” snapped Borg. “I heard shots—”

“Him say man with sandy hair shoot at big snake,” the Indian translated Benson’s oratory. “Go on, that way.”

Benson had pointed into the jungle behind him.

Borg still glared suspiciously. He yelled: “Pete! You okay?”

There was, of course, no answer.

Borg started to yell again. Then there was a hail from camp.

“Frankie! The boss is here.”

Borg chewed his lip uncertainly.

“Find Pete and bring him in,” he said to the Indian with him. “I’ve got to get back. And You!” He stared at Benson with narrowed black eyes. “Keep your nose out of camp for a while. There’s something about your face I don’t like.”

Benson turned questioningly to the Indian, who translated the command to keep out of camp. Benson shrugged, and squatted with a resigned air where he was.

Borg went hurriedly back toward the gang’s jungle headquarters. Benson gave him five minutes, then crept after him.

He didn’t get into camp; there was a small clearing that he couldn’t cross unseen. But if he couldn’t see what went on there, he could hear from his ambush.

He heard Borg say: “Now, honest, I didn’t try to cross you. How’d I know where you were?”

Then another voice, crisp, cold, commanding, spoke up. It was not the voice of any of Borg’s gang. It was, at last the real leader of this murderous crew; the man who had lurked in the background all along and used Borg and his gang merely as tools of his own superior intelligence and ruthlessness.

“All right. Forget it,” this voice said. “We’ll take it up later. What is important is that I’ve got a way to smash that crowd after us in one stroke. With one blow I can kill everything on the other side of that ridge. And I’m going to do it. In half an hour our troubles will be over.”

“Look,” said Borg, “three of these coffee-bean natives we’ve got working for us are over there, too. They’re holding them steady with the machine guns. If you do what you say—however the hell you expect to do it, I don’t know—you’ll knock off those three, too.”

There was a little pause. Then the cold voice said:

“So what? Do you really care?”

“Well, no,” mumbled Borg. “I guess they got it coming.”

“Then shut up about it.”

“Yeah, but look. How about the gold? If we don’t get that last plate they got, to show us where the stuff’s hidden—”

“We can find it without it. Hang tight, and in a few minutes you’ll see how a lot of men can die!”

CHAPTER XIX

The Avenger Plans

It was all Nellie could do to keep from screaming as she saw what the man at the base of the shaft was doing. For the purpose was only too clear. Too terribly clear!

A deep fissure dividing the ridge. A great rock shaft along the fissure, weighing hundreds of tons. Explosives around the base of the shaft!

A shattering explosion, and the fall of that great weight, would almost certainly send that whole side of the ledge, hundreds of thousands of tons of stone, avalanching down on Smitty and Mac. The slide would reach the great tree, sweep it down like a twig, cover it, and go on for another hundred yards or more. They were doomed—everything on that side of the ledge was doomed, if those explosives went off.

Calmly, coldly, the man was coming toward Nellie, dropping a few of the peanut bombs lightly down the fissure, too, just to make sure. They’d be exploded with the blast of the shells around the rock shaft.

He got nearer, lifted his head a little, and for the first time Nellie saw his face in the late afternoon sun. And then she didn’t entirely manage to keep back her exclamation.

The man was Olin Chandler, “carried off” a while ago into the jungle by their enemies!

Chandler heard the girl’s repressed gasp, up there in the silence. He crouched, then began racing toward the bush behind which she was hiding. He had his gun out.

Nellie shot at him. She saw the peak of his coat at the shoulder split a little. He began zigzagging toward her. She shot again, and missed.

She felt like a person in a nightmare. If she didn’t stop this man, there would be an avalanche of rock like an earthquake, and Smitty and Mac would die under tons of stone. Everything rested on her.

Chandler began shooting, now. At every other step he sent a slug tearing through the bush at the person he could not see. He didn’t hit with any of them, but he kept Nellie down where she could not shoot back. And then he was around and on her.

His savage eyes raked her with a little surprise, which was succeeded by murderous fury. He didn’t slow up at all—leaped straight toward her, a hundred and eighty pounds against her fragile-looking hundred and five.

Nellie seemed to dissolve and reappear a foot to the left. She whirled with his rush, hands grasping his outstretched right arm and abruptly letting go again. Chandler smashed on for twenty feet like something out of a slingshot, and fell to the ground.

He was up and back at her like a cat.

Nellie had dropped her gun. She scrambled for it, and couldn’t get it in time. Chandler’s gun crashed down for her head. She ducked, got a glancing blow, and caught at his ankles, dazed with pain.

He fell, but not hard enough to stun him. He got to his knees and struck with the gun barrel again. This time Nellie felt the world go black, though again she had managed to elude the full force of the blow. Only the silky thickness of her hair saved her life.

She fell, and felt herself being dragged over the rocky ledge-top. She was dumped like an empty sack, and a moment later managed to open her eyes.

She had been left midway between the deadly fissure and the edge of the ridge, on the side doomed to split away from the other two-thirds and come crashing down.

Chandler was off at quite a little distance. Dazedly, she saw him hurrying toward a stunted tree, well away from the rock shaft and on the safe side of the ledge. He had a rifle in his hands now.

Her numbed brain was struggling with the meaning of his move, knowing what it portended and yet not able to put it into a clear picture.

She cried out a little, and struggled to move. A gun—explosives at the base of the great shaft—a shot—

Chandler meant to explode the terrible little bombs with a bullet from a safe distance.

He got to the tree. There was a fork in it. He placed the rifle in the fork, for a positive gun-rest. He sighted toward the statue.

Nellie was screaming, without quite being aware of it. She heard her voice keening out, and hardly knew it was hers. Like a crippled thing, she was crawling toward the fissure, unable to stand up, going on hands and knees. And Chandler was sighting long and expertly at several of the little bombs in an exposed heap at the base of the shaft. Even with a gun-rest, it was a difficult shot from the distance he had taken for safety.

Screaming, crawling, Nellie urged her dazed body toward the fissure, to cross it and be on the safe side when the bullet spanged into the little bombs. Chandler flicked a glance at her, saw that she was no menace, and turned back to his long, sure aim.

Nellie was near the fissure. She’d never make it! Yes, she might—

A hand caught her arm and pulled her violently back. She screamed again, and fought the grasp that was robbing her of her fight for life. The hand simply pulled her back some more, farther onto the strip of ledge that was to crash into grinding fragments with the pull of a trigger.

She turned to beat the force preventing her from reaching the fissure.

She got an instant’s glimpse of a red-brown native in tattered pants and cotton jacket—but a native from whose dark features blazed pale, deadly eyes, and whose face had no more expression than a mask of dark clay.

Those icily flaring, colorless eyes—the chief!

She never heard the shot. It was instantly engulfed in a blast that seemed to rock all that part of Mexico. The ground rolled and heaved under them. The roar of the explosion seemed to prolong itself on and on, mingled with the grating sounds made by rock fragments as big as five-story buildings grinding together.

Herself and this “Indian” with Benson’s eyes—riding the falling crest of the ridge strip for a few seconds—to be ground to bits in the slide that would also bury Mac and Smitty as bits of pulp—

But somehow Nellie didn’t feel herself falling. The solid rock beneath her was still doing a devil’s dance. The incredible roar of falling rock, like the thunder of a dozen tidal waves rolled into one, was going on and on.”

But she didn’t seem to be falling.

She opened her eyes.

She was at the sheer edge of a cliff whose face was of glittering, newly exposed rock. Before her, several hundred feet down, was a moving, awful carpet of tremendous rock slabs that hadn’t yet come to rest but was rolling on and on over the jungle growth, engulfing trees as if they’d been grass blades.

On and on over the jungle floor—and over the camp of Borg’s men—and then on some more.

It was the two-thirds of the ridgetop that had slid with the explosion, not the narrower strip of Mac and Smitty’s side. It was Borg’s camp that had been buried by uncountable tons of rock, not their own side. And Chandler?

If he had screamed in mad amazement and horror when he saw that he had sent himself to oblivion by his misguided shot, no one would ever know; for the screams of a city could not have been heard in that uproar.

The world-shattering din slowly subsided as the last of the avalanching rock slabs slid to a stop among crumpled trees over an eighth of a mile from where the slide had begun. Still Nellie couldn’t hear anything; her eardrums were temporarily out of commission. But she could see. And her eyes, wide with awe and horror on the scene in front of her, caught movement at her side out of their corners. She turned.

The “Indian” face as immobile as a thing carved in granite, pale eyes like colorless agate, was standing at her side and looking, too.

She started to say something to him, saw him look down at her—and fainted.

Benson had the brown stuff off his skin. Still in the Indian’s rags because he had no way of getting other clothes for a little while, he was still a more impressive figure than any Nellie had ever seen before as he stood at the top of the freshly made cliff.

Mac and Smitty were there. They had seen the machine gunners fleeing in superstitious terror before the deafening catastrophe that sounded like a world ending. Smitty and Mac had left the tree and raced up the cliff on their side to see what had happened.

“The whole lot of them,” breathed Smitty, staring at the tumbled sea of rock over Borg’s camp. “Their bones will he there till Judgment Day. The whole lot of them! And their own leader snuffed out their lives!”

Mac shook his dour Scots head.

“Chandler! He was the skurlie behind it all! And we asked him to come along with us—to ‘help’ us!”

“It was the easiest way to keep an eye on him,” said Benson, lips barely moving with the words in his dead face.

“Whoosh!” exclaimed Mac. “Ye knew Chandler was the man?”

“Yes.” Benson’s brooding, colorless eyes were on the scene of devastation before them. “Many things indicated his guilt. He said he was a zoning engineer working in Guatemala till a ridiculously big armament program took all their money and left none for city planning. The sinister big armaments program was correct. His statement that he was a zoning engineer was not.

“He said he had come with Profesor Gray on Aztec expeditions twice because he learned city planning stunts from the way the ancient Indians laid out their cities. But the Aztec cities, with no traffic of any kind, were not laid out. Buildings were put up haphazard. There was no lesson to be learned there by a modern engineer.

“And on his desk, when I called on him, there was a perfectly made and designed working model of a field gun. An unusual and expensive little ‘sample’ handed out as souvenirs by big munitions companies to just two types of people—those who buy large quantities of arms, and those who sell them.”

Mac whistled. The giant Smitty stared, still not quite getting it.

“Chandler was a munitions salesman, not a zoning engineer. His presence in Guatemala and Mexico was in connection with the mysteriously huge shipments of arms arriving in this part of the world recently.”

“Those little bombs—” Nellie said.

Benson nodded. “Their unbelievable power told the whole story. They are filled with a formula of liquid oxygen, carbon and tung oil, and are the latest thing in wholesale death. Bombers will strew tons of the little peanut bombs, like seeds of death, over cities in the next war. But the point is that only a munitions man could have got hold of those. Which instantly tied Chandler in as the evil spirit behind the entire plot to get the treasure whose key your father discovered.

“It also placed the man commanding Borg—who was known as the arms supplier for gangland. Arms bought from Chandler. And it explains the machine guns and gas bombs with which they attacked you in the big tree—gotten from a munitions cache near here, placed by Chandler.

“However, I confirmed my decision that Chandler was our man. To make it doubly sure, I allowed the man Pinkie Huer, in our Bleek Street headquarters, to reach a phone while he was alone so a trap could be set for me. The trap was laid—at Chandler’s. It was so staged that if it failed—which it did—it would look as if Borg had meant to kill or kidnap Chandler too.”

“Borg almost did kill Chandler when he bottled him up in that hole with us,” said Smitty.

“Yes. That was an attempt at double cross for which Borg would have paid later. Borg was going to keep all the gold himself.”

“He couldn’t have found it, with only four plates.”

“He counted on getting the fifth plate from one of our bodies when we’d been in our tomb long enough to die,” Benson pointed out. “Chandler, of course, didn’t even need to wait that long. He had seen the fifth plate, Alec Knight’s plate, and knew the whole message. He could have gone right to the treasure as soon as he’d killed everybody in his way with the rock slide.”

“You let him set off that explosion,” said Nellie, staring hard at the white, still face.

“Yes, I let him,” said Benson.

“And you knew which way the slide would go. Because you kept me from going to the side I thought was safe.”

“I knew,” Benson nodded quietly. “I scarcely even needed a look at the fissure to know that. Because that small crack was the only visible evidence of the last and greatest Aztec death trap of them all—designed as a last resort to protect their treasure from raiders. And since the hoard was buried on Borg’s side of the ridge, naturally any trap protecting it would be bound to send death on that side, no matter which way it seemed the avalanche would slide from an examination of the top of the ridge.”

The baleful colorless eyes stared at the tumbled tons of rock.

“So I let Chandler destroy himself and his men as the ancient Aztecs would have destroyed them had they been here today to guard their treasure. If he was ruthless enough to scheme our deaths by the twitch of his trigger finger, let him bring on himself the fiendish fate he had hatched.”

The giant Smitty sighed. “Justice & Co.,” he murmured. But Mac had something else in mind.

“Whoosh! How d’ye know the treasure was on that side? Ye hunted on our side this mornin’.”

“I found it,” said Benson, voice as cold and emotionless as his dead face.

“Ye did? Then it’s under all that rock and no man will ever see it—”

“It is—under the third biggest boulder in the middle of the slide,” said Benson. “We can find it quite easily, whenever Nellie Gray wants it. It’s hers.”

Nellie shook her sleek blond head vigorously.

“It’s ours. We share alike. But I’ve a suggestion to make.” She stared very seriously at Benson. “I’d suggest that we leave it where it is as a sort of permanent and tremendous bank deposit, to be drawn on in a perpetual fight against crime. And I’d like to join in that fight. I want to work with you. I could do many valuable things that no man could do. And I . . . my father—”

She stopped for a moment and composed herself.

“Crime killed my father. I want to wipe that out by working against crime. With you.”

There was a pause. The pale, inexorable eyes searched her to the soul. Then Benson’s hand went out, and the steely fingers gave her hand a man’s grasp.

MacMurdie was his dour self again.

“Ye’re plannin’ great and noble things, my girl,” he glowered sarcastically. “But how’ll we get out to do ’em? We’re stuck here in the jungle. Our plane was blown up. The gang’s plane is under half of Mexico—”

“You pessimistic Scot!” said Smitty. “Haven’t you got feet? We’re hardly a hundred miles from the coast. There’ll be a coast town where we can get a tramp ship to an airport. All we’ll lose is a few days’ time.”

Wrangling amiably, they went to the edge of the cliff and started descending to make camp for the night. Nellie paused a moment beside the man who was now her chief.

He was staring with pale, basilisk eyes over the jumbled thousands of tons of rock. Thinking of the human rats lying beneath, sent to death by their own leader? No. Thinking of the vast wealth lying there to be tapped by themselves alone whenever they should need any of it? No.

Nellie didn’t think either of these things was behind the colorless eyes that flared like ice in a glacial dawn. She thought she knew what he was thinking.

Of a woman for whose sweetness he had lived; of a child for whose promise he had worked. Wife and small daughter, snatched from him by crime.

He was thinking of them—and dedicating his remaining bleak existence anew to the fighting of crime.

Nellie turned and went softly away, leaving him to the chill and dangerous immensity of his thoughts.

THE END

Table of Contents

CONTENTS

THE YELLOW HOARD

CHAPTER I The Human Rat

CHAPTER II Television Work-Out

CHAPTER III Mexican Bricks—And Murder

CHAPTER IV Benson Takes Over

CHAPTER V Temple Bricks

CHAPTER VI The Veil of Mystery

CHAPTER VII Hollow Hieroglyphs

CHAPTER VIII Death Strikes Again

CHAPTER IX The Snatch

CHAPTER X Prisoner

CHAPTER XI “Huer”—In A Hurry

CHAPTER XII Metal Peanuts

CHAPTER XIII The Trap

CHAPTER XIV Borg Whines

CHAPTER XV Land of The Aztecs

CHAPTER XVI One Way Out

CHAPTER XVII An “Indian” Makes A Find

CHAPTER XVIII The Primitive Mint

CHAPTER XIX The Avenger Plans