Also In This Series

By Kenneth Robeson

#1: JUSTICE, INC.

#2: THE YELLOW HOARD

#3: THE SKY WALKER

#4: THE DEVIL’S HORNS

#5: THE FROSTED DEATH

#6: THE BLOOD RING

#7: STOCKHOLDERS IN DEATH

#8: THE GLASS MOUNTAIN

#9: TUNED FOR MURDER

#10: THE SMILING DOGS

#11: RIVER OF ICE

#12: THE FLAME BREATHERS

WARNER PAPERBACK LIBRARY

WARNER PAPERBACK LIBRARY EDITION

FIRST PRINTING: JUNE, 1973

COPYRIGHT © 1940 BY STREET & SMITH PUBLICATIONS, INC.

COPYRIGHT RENEWED 1969 BY THE CONDÉ NEST PUBLICATIONS, INC.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

THIS WARNER PAPERBACK LIBRARY EDITION IS PUBLISHED BY

ARRANGEMENT WITH THE CONDÉ NEST PUBLICATIONS. INC.

COVER ILLUSTRATION BY GEORGE GROSS

WARNER PAPERBACK LIBRARY IS A DIVISION OF WARNER BOOKS,

75 ROCKERFELLER PLAZA, N.Y. 10019.

A Warner Communications Company

ISBN: 0-446-74-254-6

Printed in the United States of America

CONTENTS

MURDER ON WHEELS

CHAPTER I: Death at Dawn

CHAPTER II: Lobby Trap

CHAPTER III: Headquarters for Trouble

CHAPTER IV: The Motor King

CHAPTER V: Captive Giant

CHAPTER VI: O. K.—Maybe!

CHAPTER VII: Clagget’s Field

CHAPTER VIII: Will Willis

CHAPTER IX: News of the Girl

CHAPTER X: Wrecked Rollers

CHAPTER XI: The Hidden Note

CHAPTER XII: The Marr Plant

CHAPTER XIII: The Deadly Ray!

CHAPTER XIV: The Warning Voice

CHAPTER XV: The Man With the Pencil

CHAPTER XVI: Ashes Come to Life

CHAPTER XVII: Prisoner’s Base

CHAPTER XVIII: The Trap Locks Shut!

MURDER

ON WHEELS

CHAPTER I

Death at Dawn

The girl shivered as she stepped out into the dawn. Dawn is a time for executions. But she didn’t think of that at the time. It was only later that she realized that it must have been this dread thought that had made her shiver.

At the moment all she had in mind was danger and the premonition of some fantastic thing about to happen; but death was not within her comprehension.

She had stepped from a train running up along the Michigan shore of Lake Michigan. The train puffed and started on north. She looked around.

The station was all hers; she had it to herself. Not that possession of the station meant much. It was a shack about as big as a boxcar with a small platform sagging between it and the single tracking. No soul was around, save herself.

She left the station and began walking up a road with bare sand dunes on either side. Wild desolation. It was like being alone in the Sahara, instead of in western Michigan. And it was almost as cold as it gets in the Sahara at dawn.

The dirty-gray light changed to pink as the sun began to rise. The pink helped the pink in the girl’s cheeks. It showed that she was a very beautiful girl, indeed—tall, dark-blonde, with deep-blue eyes and a figure to write home about. A very beautiful girl and a very scared girl—for some reason.

She was walking along a narrow dirt road. She was not familiar with the district. This was shown because she kept looking at a road map.

Pretty soon she came to a larger road, two lanes of concrete. The road was like that station had been—completely deserted. It was an old road, heaved at the joints with winter cold and moisture, and it looked practically abandoned. Indeed, the road map showed that it was. There was a big four-lane highway paralleling it, a mile to the east; so this one was probably used very little, now.

The girl figured she had gone far enough. There was a big tree, the only one for some distance around. She stopped beside it and leaned against the massive trunk. She might have been just leaning there to rest—or she might have been hiding from possible eyes. In any event, whether she thought of concealment or not, the tree trunk offered it to her.

She got out her pocketbook. On the side were the two metal letters: D. J. They stood for Doris Jackson. She had a small automatic in the bag, and she took this out and held it in the folds of her dress, in her right hand. It made her feel better.

Sound carried a long way in the still air. She heard a sound, now. It was a deep-throated rumble, far down the deserted road. The rumble was the low growl of an extra-heavy-duty truck motor. And in a moment she could see the truck, itself, with pink from the sun shining on its squat hood.

The truck was mammoth. Even a mile away, she could see that. Its purr of power lowered, and the truck stopped. It had swung a little sideways on the road just before it stopped, as if to block the highway from the south, where traffic was most apt to come.

The girl had slid around the tree when she saw the truck, so that she could not be seen by anyone in that direction. She stood there, the gun convulsively clenched in her hand.

From the back of the truck was slid a sort of runway that slanted down like the runways over which elephants come from circus cars. And like an elephant, a bulk lowered itself cautiously from the great body of the closed truck.

The bulk was that of an automobile—a car within a car. But it was an automobile such as is seldom seen on the public highways.

Then that car, brought here in such concealment in a closed van, began to do the most extraordinary things.

Such were the hummocks on the old road that it was unsafe to drive more than twenty-five miles an hour. But the car began coming toward the tree behind which the girl stood, at a pace far beyond that.

It must have been doing eighty when it passed her. The car seemed to take off and fly at each of the treacherous humps. It was knocked sometimes as high as six feet when it struck one. Impossible treatment for a car to take; but this thing took it.

It streaked out of sight beyond the girl. Then in a moment, it appeared as a fast-growing dot. It had been turned and was coming back at an even higher speed. Then she clapped her hand over her lips to hold back a scream.

One of the bumps had finally thrown even this car. Its superstreamlined body turned sideways in midair. It smashed on its side, rolled over and over and finally stopped right side up, again. It was still under heavy momentum; so it jumped the ditch and crashed into a telegraph pole.

The pole splintered up four feet, and then broke off like a matchstick. The girl peered fearfully at the now inert bulk of the car. Every one in it must be jelly—

A man stepped out, took a step or two as if dizzy, and shook his head. But he was certainly not jelly; he was shaken up but all right. His hat had been knocked off and his hair showed, dark-brown and rumpled.

Doris Jackson stared at the man’s hair with large disappointment in her blue eyes. She sighed, and turned to go. It was as if all she had come here for, in the pink dawn, was to learn the color of the man’s hair.

“Good morning.”

She jumped and stared to her right.

The tree was the only one for a long way around. But the dunes were everywhere, and behind these sand barricades, a person could hide very easily.

Doris didn’t know whether this man had lain hidden behind the dune to her right and watched her while she watched the weird automobile, or whether he had walked openly toward the tree and only this moment topped the dune and come into sight.

“Cole!” she said.

“In person,” said the man.

He was a young fellow, and rather striking-looking. In fact he was handsome, with straight brown hair, high off his forehead, and with the alert black eyes and a heavy jaw. He came slowly toward her, and even that slow pace showed beautiful coordination of muscle and great power.

Doris Jackson, however, didn’t look as if his handsomeness was a treat to her.

“What in the world are you doing here, Cole?” she gasped.

“What are you doing here?” he countered.

She bit her lips and did not answer.

“Don’t you know this place is dangerous, just now?” the man said, nodding down the road toward the car which was incredibly undamaged by the rough treatment it had just had.

“Is that why you’re here?” she demanded.

The man hesitated. His face gave away nothing. It was the face of a man with a razor-keen brain, but it gave away no thought.

“Why not?” he said. “Cole Wilson, friend of the family for most of his life, would want to protect Doris Jackson, wouldn’t he?”

“You weren’t on that train,” Doris jerked out. “So you couldn’t have followed me here. No one on earth knew I was coming; so you couldn’t have learned my plans and met me here. You must be at this place through coincidence. And coincidences are sometimes suspicious.”

“A suspicious nature usually defeats its own purpose,” said Cole Wilson. “I’d fight against being suspicious, if I were you.”

Doris looked as if about to make an angry reply; then she closed her lips firmly and turned. She went back toward the railroad station, across the dunes instead of down the road, because the great truck was still down that way. She didn’t want to be seen.

Behind her, Cole Wilson made no move to follow. He just stood there, face unreadable but keen, black eyes like polished jet, watching her slim, lovely form dwindle out of sight.

The deserted railroad station was in sight ahead of her when it happened.

Sound carries far over the dunes at dawn; and this sound carried to her ears from back there near the closed truck and Cole Wilson and the freak automobile. But she paid no attention to it. If there had been just one shot, she would have. But there were half a dozen shots, and they were so regularly spaced that she thought it was the truck backfiring and went right on.

It was not backfiring. It was deliberate, spaced firing from a .45 automatic! A man had slunk behind a dune till almost beside the streamlined, freak automobile and then had straightened up and poured lead into the driver.

The driver, just settling behind the wheel to go back to the truck, never had a chance and never made a sound. He slumped in the seat, executed at dawn as surely as though stood against a wall! The man with the gun hauled the body out, climbed behind the wheel, himself, and drove the car fast along the road to the north.

The big closed truck started. It raced with sudden frenzy after the stolen mystery machine but was losing two yards in every five, even when it got up to seventy miles an hour.

But all these things, the girl near the station did not know. Even if she had been aware of the tragedy, it would have been driven from her mind a moment later.

That was when the sedan slid to a stop beside her.

She heard the car only when it was within fifty yards of her because it was coming slowly with little motor noise, and a dirt road can mute tire sounds. She heard it and looked behind at a sedan with three men in it, two of whom held guns, and she started to run!

She raced off the road and to the east. So the car went off the road, too, plowing through sand in second gear, and it went after her like a hound after a fox. But the men did not fire.

Far up the track showed a plume of smoke. The next train due was coming down the shore to swing eventually into Gary and South Chicago. Her lips moved wildly, though no sound came out.

So near had safety been! If the sedan hadn’t showed till after she had gotten on the train—

She circled like a desperate rabbit, back toward the lake and the tracks. The car, fast even in sand but not so easily maneuvered, managed to get straightened out by a swearing driver and plunged in her tracks again.

She crossed the road and the train rails, toward a small culvert where a drainage ditch ran under the roadbed to the lake. She threw up both hands, screamed and leaped off the embankment toward the water.

Up the track, the approaching train slowed as the engineer saw some kind of trouble ahead. He also saw a sedan plunge toward the roadbed as if to climb onto bare rails just in time to be struck. But the driver of the car stopped with his nose almost on the track.

The three men leaped from the sedan and raced over the track just as the train hurtled at them with grinding brakes. They looked at the strip of beach and didn’t see the girl.

That was because the girl had crawled back under the track bed through the drainage culvert and now had the slowly rolling train between herself and the men. But they didn’t tumble to that for a minute. They waded into the water, guns glinting in the pink morning light, looking to see if she was swimming under water or something.

The engineer started up again at the sight of those guns. It looked like a potential holdup. The train began grinding south again, at a swifter and swifter pace. And then one of the three men saw the culvert.

They didn’t even swear, they were so mad. Nor did they hunt around any more. They got into the car, backed around, and began following that train.

They were right in their hunch. Doris Jackson was on it. She had jumped a car step like a lithe boy, as she emerged on the land side of the tracks. She went into a day coach, looking calm and fresh as if she had just stepped up here from a rear car. But she was inwardly shaking.

The sedan couldn’t follow the train very closely. The driver concentrated on being at each station when the train reached there, to see if the girl got off. And this was not enough. Because she didn’t get off at a station.

Outside Gary, there is a desolate marsh spot where the trains slow down for a long curve, and here Doris quitted the day coach. She lay in the long marsh grass for a time; then she went to the nearest highway and thumbed a ride east from a cheerful-looking elderly lady in a big car.

About midafternoon she took a cab from the outskirts of Detroit to a small hotel on Woodward Avenue. There, as soon as she got to her room, she put in a long-distance call to New York.

“Mr. Benson is not here, just now,” she heard a musical but somewhat mechanical voice say. “Do you wish to leave a message?”

The voice was mechanical because it came from a phonograph record that was geared to the telephone that had just rung. It was the voice of a girl named Nellie Gray, although Doris didn’t know that; nor, indeed, did she know Nellie.

All she knew, then, was extreme disappointment—and fear.

With despair in her heart, she had called Richard Henry Benson, known to the underworld as The Avenger. And he was not in his headquarters to answer. That was very bad for her.

CHAPTER II

Lobby Trap

It was evident that Doris Jackson hadn’t stayed in the hotel long. One small suitcase was enough to hold all the belongings she had there. She began to pack that suitcase now.

She was going to New York. No telling how long it would be before she could contact Mr. Benson on the phone. There was no sense in waiting. She might as well go there in person and talk to him.

She shut the suitcase on the last of her things, and went down the stairs to the lobby. She went to the cashier’s desk to pay her bill. It was while she was there that the man came up to her.

He was what you might call an anonymous person. That is, he didn’t look like anyone in particular, nor did he dress like anyone in particular. There was nothing about him to make him stand out. You’d never have noticed him in a crowd. Just one small detail made you stare, after you’d been talking to him for a moment. That was a large vein in his forehead that sort of squirmed around like a blue worm.

“You are Miss Doris Jackson, aren’t you?” the man said to her. She was jumpy and frightened, but there was nothing about this fellow to be scared of. His manner smoothed her down, and so did his pleasant voice.

“Yes,” she admitted.

“You want very much to see Richard Benson.”

“Why . . . why, yes. That’s right,” she gasped. “How did you know?”

He smiled. It was a friendly smile.

“You just phoned Mr. Benson and failed to reach him,” he said.

She nodded, round-eyed.

“He got in just after his secretary took your message that Miss Doris Jackson phoned and would come to New York in person to see him,” the man said.

Anyone knowing The Avenger and his band would have smelled a rat. It was quite obvious that the man knew nothing of Dick Benson and the headquarters of Justice, Inc. He didn’t know that the voice on the phone had been a recorded voice; and he had certainly erred in calling Nellie Gray a secretary. She was far more than that in The Avenger’s organization.

But, then, Doris didn’t know anything of Benson’s set-up, either.

“Mr. Benson traced your call here,” the man went on. “Then he phoned me at once to get in touch with you. I am an associate,” he added.

“How do I know that?” Doris said.

The man shrugged, still pleasant about it.

“Naturally you would be suspicious. But the very fact that I know about your phone call would indicate that I’m what I say I am, wouldn’t it?”

That seemed logical, on the surface at least. Doris started to pick up her bag and did not protest when he picked it up instead.

“I think,” he said, “I’d better escort you to New York. You’re in danger. You wouldn’t have called Mr. Benson, otherwise. So, I’ll be guard for you.”

“All right. I was going to take the plane. We can get a cab—”

“I have my own car out here. Two friends of mine are with me. I’ll tell them to get out, and we’ll drive to the airport. Meanwhile, you can tell me what’s on your mind.”

He laughed a little at her expression, and the little vein on his forehead squirmed.

“I can see by your expression that you’d rather talk only to Mr. Benson,” he said. “That’s all right with me. Here we are.”

They passed through the revolving door, and he put a hand under her elbow and steered her to a four-passenger coupé. She vaguely saw two men in the narrow rear seat, and then felt herself getting in as the “associate” of Mr. Benson opened the right-hand door.

He climbed behind the wheel and the car started. It started down the street—away from the airport! At first, Doris thought the man merely meant to turn around a block instead of making a U turn on crowded Woodward Avenue. But he kept on going.

“Say—” she began.

Then she stopped, cold all over. Because he was grinning a little, and it was not pleasant at all. She turned and really looked at the two behind, then, and saw what a little fool she had been.

They were two of the three who had been in that sedan on the other side of the State early that morning!

“Hi, toots,” said one. The other said nothing; he just flexed his hand a very little on the butt of the automatic he held across his knees.

Doris swallowed hard. She knew, now, what had happened. The man who had approached her in the lobby had been near enough to the switchboard to hear calls, or else had bribed the operator. Then he had acted to keep her from ever talking—to Benson or anybody else!

She had been a fool and it looked as if she were going to pay for it with her life!

“How did you get wise to the fact that something was going to happen on the dunes road this morning?” the man at the wheel asked, the vein in his forehead writhing as if it had life of its own.

Doris said nothing.

“Yeah, and just what are you wise to?” snapped one of the men in the back seat.

Doris made the same answer; in other words, no answer at all.

“O. K.,” grinned the man at the wheel. “Don’t talk if you don’t feel like it. It doesn’t make any real difference if we find out what you know. We just want to be sure nobody else does.”

The car was going as fast as the man could wheel it and not get unwelcome attentions from the police. It neared the vast expanse of the Marr automobile plant, one of the motor city’s biggest.

The car they were in was not a very expensive one, but it was a deluxe model of its make. There were two windshield wipers, two sunshades, two rear-view mirrors.

In the rear-view mirrow provided for the passenger on the front seat, Doris noticed that a car was coming after them pretty closely. It was a coupé. She couldn’t see who was in it and didn’t care very much who it was. It was the proximity of the coupé, itself, that interested her.

Doris had her feet straight out in front of her, under the dash. With her right foot she began tapping gently and rapidly against the side of the car.

It sounded amazingly like something the matter with a wheel. Something serious.

“Hey! What’s that?” said one of the two in the rear.

“Must be a wheel bearing,” scowled the man at the wheel. “Aw, let it go. We’ve got no time for—”

Doris was tapping her foot more loudly and was slowing the rhythm of it just a little as the man instinctively slowed speed.

“We can’t go along sounding like a snare drum,” he snarled. “Of all the rotten—”

He was going quite a little slower, now, and Doris’s left hand shot out.

The gearshift was on the steering column. She grabbed it with her palm braced hard against it, and with all her strength she shoved!

The bedlam made by shoving a car into reverse while it’s going ahead about twenty miles an hour is something that must be heard to be believed. Maybe a tooth or two went, probably not, the way they make cars, now. But everything locked from the fan at the front to the wheels in the rear.

The men raved curses and tried to recover their balance. The coupé behind honked loudly, and then plowed into their rear. A crowd started gathering at once; a couple of cops began running from far places. And one of the men in the rear swung his gun viciously to club Doris down!

But Doris wasn’t waiting for the blow to land. The driver already had the car in first again and was stepping on it. And Doris got the door open. She jerked far to the right to escape the downward arc of the gun barrel, and the jerk carried her out the door to land in the street on the back of her pretty neck.

For just an instant the car hesitated; then one of the men in back yelled: “Step on it!” There were two vengeful shots, which missed the girl by a couple of inches.

Then the car sped on, with the two cops racing futilely after it and waving guns as they tried for shots at the rear tires. But they had to give up the notion because of the people around.

The man was out of the coupé, which had a twisted bumper but was otherwise undamaged.

“In here. I’ll get you away.”

It was the young fellow with the hair growing high on his forehead, and with the vital black eyes. The fellow she had met that dawn across the State. Cole Wilson.

“Cole—”

He had her in the coupé as if she’d weighed about a pound and a half and was sending the car toward the next side street. It swooped left and doubled back around the block.

“Cole! What were you doing back there?”

“I saw you leave your hotel,” Cole said, black eyes like polished onyx. “It looked fishy, so I followed you. Lucky I did.”

“Yes, I suppose it was—lucky,” murmured Doris, staring at him with her lip caught between her teeth.

“You sound as if you weren’t quite sure,” he said.

“I’m . . . I’m not. I can’t figure out your position in all this.”

“It ought to be easy,” said Cole. “You’ve known me a long time.”

“I’m beginning to think I don’t know you at all!”

“Where were you bound for when those guys picked you up?” said Cole. “The airport?”

Doris said nothing.

“You mentioned once that you thought you might see this man, Benson, in New York. I don’t think that’s a good idea at all.”

“Maybe not,” said Doris. She was beginning to shiver and feel hysterical from her recent escape. But she controlled it.

“You’d better just go to another hotel and wait,” said Cole.

Doris looked as if she were, by nature, frank and unconcealing. But if that were so, something seemed to have taught her a few lessons recently. For she said:

“Maybe you’re right, Cole. You’d better let me out here, just in case you’re being followed. I’ll get a cab.”

So he let her out, and she got a cab—

But first she went to a phone booth with a handful of change and phoned New York again. This time to get in touch with a man named Robert Mantis.

“Bob, this is Doris.”

“Darling!” came a vibrant voice. “As if you had to tell me! But what’s up? Any news?”

“Some,” said Doris wearily. “But not the kind we are interested in. Bob, I’m coming to New York to see Mr. Benson. Will you tell him that? I couldn’t get him on the phone. Then you can meet me at the station and go there with me.”

“You think that’s wise?” asked Robert Mantis. She frowned a little as he said the same thing to her that Cole had. Then the frown cleared. She knew Robert’s position in this, even if she wasn’t sure of Cole’s.

“I think it’s the only thing to do,” she said softly. “When in trouble—go to Justice, Inc. And—oh Bob! No girl was ever in more trouble than I am, now!”

CHAPTER III

Headquarters for Trouble

Bleek Street, in New York, is only a short block long, but it looms big in the city’s importance.

One side of the block is taken up by the blank back of a great concrete warehouse. On the other side, are three old red brick buildings thrown into one, flanked to east and west by vacant stores and small storage buildings. All are owned or under lease to the man who makes the street so important, Richard Henry Benson.

The middle entrance of the three-in-one red brick building has a small sign over the door:

JUSTICE, INC.

In other words, headquarters of The Avenger and his aides. In still other words, headquarters for trouble; it is to this door that more deadly trouble is brought than to any other in America.

Benson was up in the great top-floor room, taking up the entire third stories of all three remodeled buildings, now. With him were Nellie Gray, Smitty, Josh and Rosabel.

Nellie Gray was unobtrusively watching the chief, as he sat at his great desk checking over the final results of a multiple murder case he had just cleared up.

A most unusual man, this Benson. And a glance at him indicated the reason why he was called by the somewhat theatrical title, The Avenger, and why the underworld walked in such awe of him.

Though Dick Benson was only average in size, you knew from just looking at him that his body packed a whip-cord and steel-cable strength. His face was as dead as the frozen face of the moon, with the nerves so paralyzed by a previous nerve shock—the flesh so inelastic and immobile—that never could an expression register there.

But The Avenger’s eyes were his most salient feature. They were so light-gray as to be almost colorless—so pale as to seem to be holes in his dead face into which you could stare down at an icy, deadly glitter.

But Dick Benson was really a very young man. A very young man, even though the dead face below a shock of virile, snow-white hair made him seem much older.

Nellie Gray, dainty, demure blonde bombshell, was thinking something she had thought many times before. She was thinking of a thing that was very feminine, and that most women thought at sight of The Avenger. He must have been strikingly handsome before the terrific shock had so altered his face and hair. What a shame that he—

“Has that girl called again?” The Avenger asked, looking at Nellie so sharply and suddenly that she went slightly pink with the fear that he’d read her mind.

“The one who left her name on the phone record?” said Nellie. “No.”

“You’ve tried to trace her in Detroit?”

“I tried three times,” Josh Newton cut in.

Josh was a most amazing fellow. A tall and gangling Negro, he looked sleepy and dull-witted. But Josh was a highly educated and singularly intelligent man.

“She checked out of the Detroit hotel from which she phoned,” amplified Josh. “And no one there knows where she went—”

In the wall next to the door leading to the stairs suddenly glowed a pin point of red. At the same time, there was a soft buzz from a black box on a table.

The red glow indicated that someone in the vestibule downstairs was pressing the bell for admission. The black box—about the size and shape of a shoe box—was a remarkably fine, small television set designed by the radio wizard, Smitty. It showed whoever was in the vestibule.

The giant Smitty stepped to the box.

“Young fellow, looks decent enough, no warning from the electric eye of guns or other weapons on him,” he said.

The Avenger nodded his snow-white head, and Smitty pressed the vestibule lock release. In a moment their visitor was at the door. His eyes went curiously over the group, and then rested instinctively on Dick Benson’s awesome, dead face.

“You are Mr. Benson?”

The virile, thick shock of white hair nodded.

“I am Robert Mantis,” said the young man pleasantly. “I’m calling in behalf of a girl named Doris Jackson.”

It was typical of the absolute self-control and quick wit of all in that great room that no one showed an expression of any kind, though each knew that this was the name of the girl who had called so urgently awhile before.

“We would be glad to have Miss Jackson, herself, call,” said The Avenger, pale eyes drilling the brown eyes of Robert Mantis as if going right through them to the back of his skull.

“She intends doing just that,” said Mantis. “She asked me to come here first and make an appointment. I am to meet her at the Pennsylvania Station in”—he looked at his wristwatch—“just twenty-five minutes. She had intended taking a plane from Detroit to New York at first, but something changed her mind. Maybe she thought the airport would be watched.”

“She is in danger?”

“In great danger, I believe. In fact,” said Mantis, “I’m wondering if you can send someone to the station with me—in case of trouble.”

“You’re expecting trouble, then?” asked Benson, voice as cold and emotionless as his dead face was icy and without expression.

Mantis shrugged.

“They know where she is bound for. This place.”

“And who are ‘they’?”

“That I don’t know,” said Mantis. “Some enemies of Doris Jackson who evidently don’t want her to keep on living.”

“Go with him, Smitty,” said Benson, to the giant. “Then bring Miss Jackson here, at once, and we’ll hear what she has to say.”

Smitty and Mantis went out and down the stairs.

“Boy!” breathed Mantis, looking up at Smitty’s colossal spread of shoulders and the vast wall of his chest. “If there is trouble, I’d say you could take care of a lot of it!”

Behind them, Josh’s intelligent eyes went to The Avenger’s dead face.

“He certainly didn’t have much explanation to give,” said Josh.

The Avenger’s pale eyes were like diamond drills. He may have read a great deal from Mantis’s face and appearance. No one would ever know unless he chose to tell them.

At the street, Smitty said: “You came in a cab?”

“My own car,” said Mantis. “We can take that to the train.”

His car was a rather old touring job with the top down, and Smitty’s china-blue eyes clouded at the sight of that. The giant was used to riding behind bulletproof glass. The idea of having nothing but thin air between him and possible gun muzzles was one he didn’t like. But he got in beside Mantis.

First, though, he noticed that the car had a Michigan license.

Mantis backed around, because Bleek Street is a deadend street; then he started toward the north and south avenue on which Bleek Street opened.

“What’s Doris Jackson like?” Smitty asked.

“She’s young, about twenty-two. She has dark-gold hair and deep-blue eyes. She’s about the prettiest thing—”

Mantis looked embarrassed and shut up.

“You two?” said Smitty.

“Uh-huh, we’re going to be married.”

The giant looked sorely disappointed.

Tiny Nellie Gray, who looked as fragile as a porcelain doll and was actually able to throw strong men around like dumbbells with her knowledge of wrestling and jujitsu, was always ribbing Smitty, and a stranger might have thought she had absolutely no use for the big fellow. Friends, though, suspected that he was very close to her heart.

Similarly, it was pretty well agreed upon that Smitty thought the world began with Nellie’s tiny feet and ended in the blond crown of her head, about five feet up.

But that didn’t keep the giant from being very pleased indeed at the prospect of having other pretty girls around, unless they were attached to some one else—as this Doris Jackson seemed to be.

The touring car had swung north on the avenue.

“Better take Seventh,” said Smitty, and Mantis nodded and drove to that broad street. Rather, he drove cross-town toward it. He never did quite reach it!

Just before they got to Seventh Avenue, there was a jam of trucks loading and unloading; this was the wholesale section.

Great vans were backed in to the curb at an angle, and the street was narrow. To traverse it, you had to thread a zigzag path between these monster trucks. And with three more vans to pass, one of the monsters moved.

A ten-ton closed truck roared like a bull elephant and pulled away from the curb just in time to block the path of the touring car.

“What—” began Mantis.

“Out of the car!” yelled Smitty. “Quick—”

The big fellow could move like a slim kid when he had to. And he had to, now! For with the suddenly closed path had come an attack on all sides.

Sun glinted on several gun barrels! There were half a dozen roaring shots. But none of them got Smitty because he had vaulted the side of the car and was abruptly behind still another truck down the street. And none got Mantis because Mantis had rolled out his side, too, and was under the truck that had barred their way.

Now, Smitty could see what he was up against.

In the cab of the truck that had moved were three men, two of them with machine guns. The three were not in the kind of clothes you’d normally use for truck driving; so it looked as if they’d captured the thing from the regular crew.

Lying flat on top of the next monster were two more men, with one of them holding an automatic and the other cupping his hand around a thing about the shape of a lemon but bigger and glinting metallically!

The man threw the thing even as Smitty spotted it. Threw it at the old touring car, in the tonneau of which it lit squarely.

Then there wasn’t any more touring car.

After a roar that shook the eardrums, and a clanging of metal and cloud of dust, there were a lot of pieces in the street looking like a kid’s puzzle—and that was all!

“You didn’t get him!” yelled the other man on the truck top, suddenly spying Mantis under the next truck.

He began shooting down at him. At the same time, the men in the blocking truck began shooting, too—at Mantis and at Smitty. Or, rather, at Smitty’s columnar legs.

So Smitty swung into action, too!

From his vest pockets, he jerked two little glass globes about the size of prunes. He snapped one at the cab with the three men in it and the other at the top of the neighboring truck. The two globes seemed to burst at about the same time.

After the thundering of the explosion and the deadly crack of guns, the soft plop of the two globes didn’t sound like much. But sound had nothing to do with efficiency, in this case.

Inside those little globes was a gas of the devising of Fergus MacMurdie, chemical expert of The Avenger’s band. The stuff couldn’t be seen or smelled; but it could sure act! A whiff of it would knock a man out for two hours.

The two on top of the truck whiffed—and promptly lay down as if suddenly very tired. One had been aiming a shot as he did so, and the bullet went glancing off the fender of the truck and wound up in the street.

But the three in the cab weren’t so much affected. They were farther from Smitty and at an angle that had made it difficult to aim precisely.

They must have gotten just a faint touch of it, for one of them clawed at his throat and the other had to prop his head up with his cupped hand as if he were extremely sleepy all of a sudden. But the man at the wheel was at least able to drive.

And did.

Up against something they couldn’t understand, with the first plain chance at the death of their quarry muffed, they got out of there, slamming over bits of the touring car on their way.

“Mantis!” yelled Smitty.

From all the business places along the street heads were poking and people were running. And the last thing Smitty wanted then was to be delayed by crowds. He wanted to get Robert Mantis—whose precaution in asking for a companion on the trip to the station to meet Doris Jackson had certainly been justified.

But Mantis wasn’t anywhere in view.

A squad car roared up, coming the wrong way down the one-way street. Two men came at Smitty with drawn guns.

Then they put the guns up.

The Avenger was fast becoming a legend in New York. All the cops knew him. And the whole force was rapidly beginning to know Benson’s aides by sight, too. To have seen gigantic Smitty once was to remember him for all time. And these two detectives had seen him before.

“These two,” jerked Smitty, pointing to the two on the truck top. “Put them on ice, will you? And if it’s all right with you, I’ll beat it. Work to do, fast. I’ll be at Bleek Street if you want me.”

He legged it to Seventh Avenue and hailed a cab. There was no use hunting around for Mantis. If the fellow hadn’t showed up by now, after Smitty’s two stentorian yells, it meant that he was way out of earshot and still going.

Which was suspicious.

Smitty was trying to puzzle out how the devil the men had known they were coming down that cross street on the way to Seventh Avenue, so that they could be there ahead of them to ambush them.

They could have been ahead of the touring car, and have been forewarned when Mantis pulled to the left to make a turn. And Smitty remembered they had waited for a long red light before turning. That would have given the gunmen time to prepare their trap.

Or they could have been tipped off, somehow, by Mantis that this was the street he was going to cross on. Only—it had been Smitty who suggested that street.

He finally decided the men must have been ahead and had anticipated their turn.

But the giant still felt pretty suspicious about that guy, Mantis!

CHAPTER IV

The Motor King

Smitty’s cab was down the ramp almost to the door that led from the taxi lane into the Pennsylvania Station when he saw the other cab.

It was just leaving the door, and there was a girl in it. Smitty looked at his watch. He was three minutes past the time Mantis had said he was to meet Doris Jackson.

He looked at the girl.

She had hair of the dark-gold shade that makes it hard to tell if a girl is blond or brunet. Her eyes, he thought, were deep-blue, though it was hard to see them close enough to be sure. Anyhow, Smitty decided to take a chance and follow that cab because he had an idea the girl was Doris Jackson.

“And an extra five if you keep it in sight,” he snapped to the cab driver, after other instructions.

The driver nodded, with a look announcing that for an extra five he’d keep a stratosphere plane in sight with that cab of his.

The taxi ahead pulled out of the ramp and wheeled north. Smitty followed. The taxi went to the left and, after a while, went up on the elevated Express Highway that leads to the Henry Hudson Parkway. Smitty still followed.

Up in the low Hundreds the cab swung off to Riverside Drive.

Here, relics of their kind, a few vast old mansions still frowned out over the Hudson River. And the greatest of these was a gray-stone castle, built by a railroad emperor in 1890 and now owned by Marcus Marr, who was similarly an emperor in business. The motor business, to be exact.

He was that Marcus Marr who turned out more low-priced cars than any other single manufacturer; he even pressed the giant automobile corporations pretty hard. He was that Marr who owned plants all over the United States, railroads, boat lines through the Great Lakes, iron mines, coal mines—well, emperor is the right term.

Amazingly, the cab bearing the girl seemed about to head for the Marr mansion. The driver looked behind to see that the street was clear, put out his hand and started to cramp the wheel.

Smitty had noticed that a large, old, independent cab was right behind the girl’s cab when it swung off the Parkway. At first, his eyes had narrowed alertly. Then they had gone unconcerned again when he saw that the cab was seemingly empty, save for the driver. It had seemed only like a good break that he had a car between himself and his quarry.

But suddenly he saw that his first suspicions had been the correct ones!

In the back of the cab appeared three heads. Men had been bending down to give the cab just that empty look. They straightened up, now, just as the old cab leaped for the girl’s taxi.

There was a howling clang as fenders locked and the girl’s cab was forced against a parked car. Then men leaped from the old cab—and kept on leaping till it looked like one of those scenes in an animated cartoon where a flivver stops and endless people get out of it.

Not three men, but five! Two had been in the jump seats, also keeping out of sight. They must have bumped heads to beat the band, Smitty thought. But he was thinking that with a pretty small corner of his mind, and meanwhile moving like an overgrown streak of light.

The door jerked open in his vast hand so fast it nearly went right on off its hinges. He got to the two cabs before the five men saw him. And one reason for that was the haste they were displaying to open the taxi door and drag the girl out!

They turned as Smitty reached them, and three guns jerked into line. One actually got off its first slug, and Smitty’s body jerked with the impact of a slug!

But under his suit was the bullet-proof celluglass garment of Benson’s invention which all the little band wore, so that the only thing Smitty got out of the direct hit in the stomach was a bruise.

The five from the old cab got a little more than that.

Smitty had never bothered to learn to box. He didn’t need to. When his enormous fists crashed forward with his near-three-hundred-pound body behind it, it went through any clever boxing guard anybody could put up.

His left thus smashed through the startled guard of one of the men and felled him. His right smacked the gun of the man who had fired right back in his face, so that he broke his own nose with it and dropped like tenpins in a bowling alley when the ball hits square. Then Smitty got two of the others by the neck.

He was so busy, and roaring so with the bull-elephant rage that was his in battle, that he didn’t hear the single muffled scream of the girl from the cab! Nor did he see her being dragged back to the old-style, independent taxi by the driver, who had not joined the fracas.

All he saw was a couple of guys who looked like rats to him; and all Smitty wanted was to get his hands on crooks that looked like human rodents. It was what he lived for.

With a neck in his right hand and another in his left, he swept his great arms together. There was a sickening smash as the two heads came together. And then the fifth and last man was running with his face white with fear and his mouth straining sideways as he tried for even more speed. Running from that terrifying giant who had piled four men in the street like sticks of cordwood in about ten seconds.

Then the old cab started down the street, and Smitty saw part of a dress trailing from a door that had been slammed too fast. And he didn’t see Doris Jackson around.

He yelled and raced back to his own cab.

The driver ducked up from under the dash and slid out of his car when he saw Smitty. He was having no part in any more of this, five dollars or no five dollars. So Smitty took the wheel, himself. It looked like the wheel of a kiddy car in his vast paws.

But he didn’t go any place.

That was certainly a moment for cabs! For a fourth appeared, now, and rammed ahead of Smitty and stopped. It had been lurking down the street, but the giant did not know that. All he knew was that his way was being blocked at a vital moment!

He sat on the horn, and the offending cab began to back up, cramping wheels to get innocently into a parking space at the curb.

“Get out of the way!” roared Smitty, seeing the old taxi whirl into the drive. “One more minute—”

The driver of the taxi in front got out and came back to give Smitty a piece of his mind instead of moving out of the way. So, by then, it was useless to try the chase any more, and Smitty saw a man in the back of this other cab. He went up to him, with blood in his eye. This was all too pat, this blockade.

The man in the body of the blocking car got out, looking bewildered and apologetic. He was young and had black eyes indicating a lot of gray matter behind them. His brown hair grew straight back from his forehead; and he moved like a man in fine command of his muscles.

But Smitty didn’t care about any of that.

“You stopped me from going after that cab!” he jerked out.

“Cab?” said the man. And Smitty had no way of knowing, naturally, that his name was Cole Wilson.

“The one with the girl in it!”

“Girl?” said the man.

Smitty’s big fist half swung, then stopped, because this could have been accidental.

“That girl was being kidnaped, in broad daylight!” he boomed. “And you stuck your nose in. I think you’re one of the gang!”

“Gang?” said the man. “Look here, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You stay here!” snapped Smitty.

He got into his cab. The street was clear enough to slide past the other taxi, now. He sped to the corner, on the thousand-to-one chance that he could still see the old cab.

He couldn’t. He came back—to see the blockading one just beating it around the far corner.

Smitty could have sat down and beat his huge chest.

He felt that he had muffed a whole lot of things in a very few seconds; and the fact that, looking back, he couldn’t see what he’d have done differently, didn’t make him feel any better. Even the sight of the four unconscious thugs on the street didn’t help.

He had been sent to escort a girl back to Bleek Street. He had followed her, instead, just to see if she was going directly to Justice, Inc. She hadn’t. So he had let her be taken away from him. So now what?

He looked at the Marr mansion, up the circular little drive in front of which he had thought her taxi was going. He saw that the windows were not shuttered.

Marcus Marr had many homes. This one in New York was the least occupied, used only on the rare occasions when the motor magnate was in the big city on some financial affair.

He was in it, now, it seemed, from the unshuttered look of the place. So Smitty advanced toward the iron-grilled door. He wanted to have a talk with Mr. Marcus Marr.

“That smooth-talking guy with the black eyes!” he was growling to himself as he rang a bronze bell, set in gray stone. He shouldn’t have given him a chance to duck—

“Yes?”

The door had opened and a dignified butler in knee pants looked in a snooty fashion at Smitty.

“I want to see Mr. Marr,” rumbled Smitty.

“I’m sorry, he’s not at home,” said the butler, starting to close the door.

Next instant he picked it out of his face. Smitty had given a gentle shove and stood inside.

“You can’t come in!” bleated the man. “You can’t—”

Smitty’s left hand got his coat collar, and he held the butler up as one would hold up a kitten by the scruff of the neck.

“Where is he?”

Into the butler’s eyes came a look of cunning.

“All right. Put me down. I’ll tell you where to get him.”

Smitty put him down.

“His den,” said the butler, rubbing his neck, “is on the second floor, at the rear of the hall.”

So Smitty went up the broad, curved staircase, emerged onto the second floor—and then ducked far to the right and lunged forward.

The duck got his head out of the way of a gun barrel that had been whistling toward it. The lunge presented his hands with a pair of ankles.

The cunning look had been put into the butler’s eyes by the fact that two guards were at the head of those stairs, standing just around the corner, out of sight. As Smitty had ascended, they had crouched; and one had leaped when he topped the staircase.

This one yelled as his ankles seemed to be detached from the rest of his legs by those tremendous hands. He dropped his gun. On the other side, his companion charged in and started kicking at Smitty’s head.

Smitty was mad anyway, and this double-dealing didn’t put him in a more amiable frame of mind.

He straightened up, bringing the ankles up with him, which dumped the owner of the ankles rather harshly on his head. He whirled the man like an Indian club, and a skull drove into an abdomen!

Then Smitty left the two on the floor and walked, not toward the rear of the hall, but toward the front. It was not his experience to find the rooms inhabited by the master of any house in the rear. They were usually in front.

At the end of this hall there was a door. Smitty opened that door. A man, so thin that he looked transparent and with deep-set gray eyes like faint torches far back in his head, stared calmly at him.

“I’m Marr,” the elderly man said. “Who are you? Why have you forced your way in like this?”

CHAPTER V

Captive Giant

In the face of this courteous but blank reception, Smitty had nothing to say for a minute. He stood on the threshold, marshaling his thoughts. Then he stepped in.

“I work for Richard Benson,” he said.

Marr didn’t pretend not to know that name. He nodded.

“I know of Mr. Benson. A power in the financial world at one time, I believe. And still extremely wealthy the rumor has it.”

The rumor was right. Benson had access, from a former adventure, to all the gold of the Aztecs, their main hoard, hidden from the Spanish invaders centuries ago. It was possible that he could lay his hands on more wealth than any other man on earth. But Smitty didn’t bother to say any of that.

“What interest,” said old Marr, “would Benson have in me, that he should send a man of his here?”

“He didn’t send me,” said Smitty. “I just came in. I came because a girl I was after seemed about to enter here, and then was kidnaped.”

“I thought I heard a shot a moment ago,” said Marr. “So a girl was kidnaped. Who?”

“All I know is, her name is Doris Jackson,” said the giant Smitty.

“Why was she kidnaped?”

“I don’t know that. She is supposed to have some message to give Mr. Benson. But we don’t know what message, because she has never gotten through to him. Now, she has been taken away—to shut her up, I guess.”

He glowered at Marr, and Marr stared evenly back, quite a gentle-looking old man for one so powerful.

“Who is she, anyway?” Smitty snapped. None of Benson’s aides were impressed much by wealth or the owners thereof. “Why was she coming here?”

“I have never met anyone named Doris Jackson,” said Marr. And Smitty was reluctantly persuaded that there was truth in his voice. “I have no notion why she should have been coming here. If, indeed, she was. Are you sure of that?”

Smitty wasn’t sure. She might have been going any place along here.

“Well,” he rumbled, feeling awkward, “do you know a guy named Robert Mantis, then?”

“Never heard of him,” replied Marr. And again Smitty was grudgingly convinced he was telling the truth.

He tried one more thing, on the slightest of hunches. He was still wondering about the man in the cab who had so innocently blocked his path, during the chase of the taxi with the girl in it.

“A young fellow,” he said, “with very black and very live-looking eyes. Has hair that grows back from his forehead on each side and down in a wide peak in front. He’s a little bigger than average, and he walks and moves like he’s powerfully strong. Kind of handsome. Know him?”

Now, the other two he had asked about, he had designated by name. Marr had denied knowing of them, and Smitty had believed him. This third party, Smitty could only describe—and not too completely at that.

Yet, he did not quite believe Marr, when the auto magnate said: “No, I don’t think I have ever seen a man like that.”

The giant couldn’t have told you why he got a different reaction from this denial.

Not a muscle of Marr’s face changed a line. His eyes didn’t waver or have any different shading. But Smitty had felt inclined to believe him before, and this time he didn’t feel so inclined.

But he didn’t know what he could do about it. You don’t wring answers from a man like Marcus Marr, and then call him a liar and cuff him around when you don’t feel like believing the answers.

“Thanks for letting me have a few minutes of your time,” Smitty said, baffled.

“Not at all,” said Marr courteously. He stared at the giant’s tremendous torso. “Do my guards need . . . er . . . hospital attention?”

“Who?” said Smitty absently. “Oh—the guards. I don’t think so. I was pretty easy on them.”

Which, the guards might have said, when they came to about twenty minutes later, was certainly a matter of opinion. Quite definitely, they didn’t think he had been easy on them.

Smitty sighed and went downstairs and to the iron-grilled street door. Once again, he failed to note a vindictively pleased glint in the eyes of the butler.

The butler had been staring out the glass of the door, between the ornamental iron bars, for the last few minutes. And he had seen something that made him look forward to the next few.

But Smitty didn’t sense that at all. He didn’t even look at the outraged butler; he just opened the door and stepped across the small circle toward his cab, still at the curb.

He did take the precaution to note that his driver was at the wheel. He was thinking exclusively of Marr when he muttered to the man: “Bleek Street, Justice, Inc.”

He opened the cab door.

A man stared up malevolently from the floor, and from the same direction a .45 automatic slanted at him. It pointed toward his head, not toward his chest, which had the celluglass garment under the coat to shield him from bullets. Nothing shielded his head!

“What—” mumbled Smitty, caught completely off base, for once.

“Stand easy, big boy,” said the man, gun and eyes not moving at all.

Smitty’s physical faculties were trained to take powerful advantage of the slightest relaxation of an enemy’s guard. So were the faculties of all The Avenger’s aides.

But sometimes that very power of concentration can be a drawback. As it was in this instance. Because Smitty was watching so hard for a break from the gunman with the .45 leveled at his head, he didn’t hear steps as men tiptoed behind him.

From the door, however, the butler saw the three men sneak up. He had seen them arrive in a sedan and hide between this building and the next, after which the sedan had slid on down the block. He hugged himself as he saw the men get right up behind Smitty.

“All right,” said the man in the cab. “Lean down and get in the cab, on the floor.”

Smitty leaned, all right. He thought it was the break he’d been after. He leaned toward the man like a falling tower, to grab at that gun. And the foremost of the three unseen behind him, struck hard.

Smitty kept on leaning forward, unconscious, with a spot on the top of his head that was going to be a turkey’s egg in a few minutes. And the four men laughed and slid his great bulk into the cab.

The man who had been in it in the first place sat up on the seat, with the unconscious Smitty crammed on the floor. The man said to the taxi driver:

“Get going. I’ll tell you where when we reach the Fifty-ninth Street bridge.”

“Yes, sir!” said the cabby. Awhile ago he had ducked out of his car, abandoning it because things had got so hot. Then he had fearfully returned, to wait behind the wheel for the giant to come out of Marr’s house, thinking it was safe. And now look what was happening!

Smitty, however, knew none of all this. He knew nothing of a long ride east and south. He was vaguely aware of having something smash on his head again. That was when the man in the seat above him saw a flutter of eyelids and swung his gun barrel in another vicious blow to keep the big boy out of this world.

Finally, he moaned and stirred, with no one to bop him for it. He opened his eyes and spent about ten minutes recovering from the physical illness that comes of such blows. His brain slowly cleared, and he began to be himself again.

But it didn’t look as if being himself was going to do him any good.

He was tied at wrists and ankles and knees. And his bound arms were further bound to his body by a coil of rope over his chest. A very little attempt at movement told him that.

He managed to sit up, and then was aware of a gag so that he couldn’t yell.

He had been socked while it was still daylight. It was dark now—or dusk, at least. He saw stars when he looked out a dirty small window from across the very wide room where he sat. And they were the stars of heaven and not from the smacks on the skull.

He was on a dirt floor, and there was no heat of any sort. But the night was warm. And the place was out in the open, for he heard no sound of cars or people. Instead, he heard the occasional twitter of night birds, and a whisper of the night breeze through weeds and tall grass.

Smitty’s hands had been bound behind him, and they would have to stay there, till the coil around his chest, binding his arms to his sides, was loosened.

So he proceeded to do something about it.

The men who had tied him had waited to tighten the loop until the unconscious giant had exhaled, in order to get the coil as tight as possible around him. That was ordinarily good tactics. But it was not so good when done to a man like Smitty. Not so good, that is, for the captors.

Smitty took a deep breath. His chest expansion normally was something hard to believe. When he exerted himself—

Around his vast chest, the stout rope creaked and protested. So Smitty took the deepest breath he was capable of, and his arms and shoulders strained as the body of a moth strains as it bursts from a cocoon.

The rope gave out a shrill zing, like a snapped piano wire. And that fixed the coil.

A good contortionist, with his hands bound at the wrists behind him, can work his body backward through the loop of his arms, so that his hands are in front. Smitty was a good contortionist for all his bulk.

With his hands at his waist, he proceeded to get in touch with Bleek Street.

Smitty was an electrical engineer almost without an equal. Among other things, he had designed a two-way radio set so small that it could be contained in a metal case scarcely larger than a cigar case. Each of The Avenger’s indomitable little band carried one of these concealed at his belt.

Smitty began tapping at his, now; and far off, in Bleek Street, the tappings came amplified from the big master set in the great top-floor room. They spelled a message in code.

Satisfied, the giant proceeded to shuck the rest of his bonds.

He had a little gadget in the way of a belt buckle that had tickled him like a kid when he had thought it up. And it came in handy now. It was an ordinary-looking buckle, though a little larger than most. But it had a tongue like an angry woman’s. Sharp.

The underside of the tongue was a knife edge. And when Smitty had fumbled it open with his middle fingernail, it locked out straight from the belt at his waist. Then it was just a matter of sawing the cords along the tiny, razor-sharp knife till they fell apart.

He untied his legs and got up, staggered a minute till dizziness passed, then walked around. He got it, now. He was in an unused hangar, and a glance out the window revealed a weed-grown level field that had once, in barnstorming days, been used as a landing field. Maybe it was used now, furtively, for all he knew.

He went to the wide doors, opened one enough to slide out, and closed it again. And not till then, as if the giant had a private Providence watching out for him, did the gang return.

He saw headlights of a car wobbling rapidly toward him as it came over the field, and he lay flat in the high grass and weeds. He saw men get out of the sedan and go to the hangar.

There was an enraged outcry when they found only cut and broken bonds in there. They came out like angry bees pouring from a hive.

Because it was so dark, Smitty couldn’t see that six men got out of the sedan and went into the hangar, and only four came out. All he knew was that a bunch entered and a bunch left.

He heard the men beating around the high grass, then saw them get into the car again, swearing, and saw the car drive off. Thinking he was alone in the field, he stood up and stretched his big arms.

CHAPTER VI

O. K.—Maybe!

It was Mac, at Bleek Street, who had heard Smitty’s tapped message.

Fergus MacMurdie had been with Benson a little longer than any other of The Avenger’s band. He was a tall, bony Scot with saillike ears, coarse sandy hair and bleak blue eyes. He had fists like bone mallets—and they could hit like mallets when Mac had a crook in front of him to smash.

And he lived to smash crooks.

“ ’Tis the big fella, Muster Benson,” the Scot said, after getting the code message. “He’s out somewhere, held by some mob. Somethin’ to do with this Jackson girrrl ye mentioned, no doubt. Ye said he had left here to get her at the Pennsylvania Station.”

“Yes,” said The Avenger, pale eyes staring thoughtfully at the big radio, lips barely moving with the word.

“I wonder where he’s held,” mused Mac. “We ought to dash after the overgrown lummox. But where do we dash to?”

“Clagget’s air field,” said Benson quietly. He had heard the taps as clearly as Mac, though he was many feet from the radio and the Scot was right next to it. Benson could hear a snake breathe a hundred yards away, Mac always said.

“How in the worrrld do ye know?” gasped Mac.

“Smitty’s thumbnail description of the big room with a dirt floor fits only one thing—airplane hangar. He says all he can hear is wind in weeds and high grass—open field—landing field. Probably abandoned or the weeds could not be allowed to grow. The directional finder points north, northeast. The range of his little radio is eighty miles or so, and this came in clear; so it couldn’t have been sent from much more than forty miles. The only abandoned field and hangar in that direction and at that range is Clagget’s.”

So the two went down to the basement, climbed into the heaviest sedan The Avenger had and rolled up the ramp and over the sidewalk. Behind them, steel doors automatically closed, making Bleek Street headquarters a fort again. And in the sedan, they were also in a fort. A small, rolling fort.

The car was so armored that it weighed close to four tons. Yet it had a motor that would tear it along at about a hundred miles an hour.

“Looks like ye’re expectin’ trouble, Muster Benson,” was Mac’s comment.

The Avenger nodded, face as cold and calm as ice under a polar dawn, colorless eyes like agate.

“There is still not the faintest clue as to why the girl, Doris Jackson, wants to see us so badly. But there are plenty of indications that it’s on some affair that’s very important. So important that murder means nothing to somebody opposing her. That means that it’s only good sense to take the heaviest car.”

Mac didn’t say anything more for forty-five minutes; he just set back in awe while The Avenger drove like an inspired race-track expert. And at the end of that forty-five minutes both saw the same thing at the same time.

They were in the open country, though so many small towns and scattered dwellings were around that it looked almost suburban. Lights were everywhere, for it was about nine-thirty at night, by now.

Against a cluster of lights ahead and to their right, they saw the outline of this black thing. It was in a lane or small side road, just standing there.

“What in the worrrld,” began Mac. “The thing’s a car!” he added suddenly.

But it wasn’t like any car he had ever seen before.

Of course, they could see just the black silhouette against the distant lights, but that gave a fair view: a car so streamlined that it was almost a perfect teardrop shape. It was a foot lower than most cars, and with glints advertising the fact that there was far more glass in it than in most automobiles.

Mac and Benson were near the entrance of the lane, and then the car moved. How it moved! Without one sound, it seemed fairly to leap toward the highway—and toward the car Mac and The Avenger were riding in! It was like a lurking monster that lets its prey get within striking distance and then pounces.

“Look out!” yelled Mac. The yell was instinctive, for he knew very well that The Avenger would see any given thing even faster than he would.

Dick Benson had seen, all right. He twirled the wheel of his ponderous machine as if it had been a tiddly-wink in his steely hands. But no turn could avoid that charge!

The strange-looking car had picked up an incredible speed in the eighty yards or so it had traveled. It must have been going fifty when it crashed The Avenger’s car.

There was a wham that split the night, and Benson’s tanklike machine rocked far over, tipped back and screamed to a stop, hopelessly disabled. Any other car on earth that had hit the specially built machine hard enough to knock it out of the running would have been a smashed ruin, itself. But not this teardrop thing. It backed easily, still without motor sound, and stood with only a couple of small dents in its snout.

Three men got out of it, their faces unidentifiable in the dark, their bodies just black shapes. They yanked open the left door of The Avenger’s car. The right one would have needed a blowtorch and crowbar. One of the men drew a gun!

“No shots!” snapped another. “Club ’em. That’ll make it look like it was done in the accident.”

So they dragged out a slim but compact form. That was The Avenger, eyes closed, breathing heavily. Then they got a gangling, bony body out—and that was Mac.

With the two limp bodies in the open, on the road, where they could swing at them freely, they raised their guns to break bone and cartilage!

They had reason for being so sure that both men were as senseless as they seemed to be. Any others would have been, after that broadside smash. But they didn’t know that one of many devices in that special car of The Avenger was a clampdown arm that snapped across the thighs of all the passengers at the press of a button. This padded bar held bodies straight and firm against impending accident. And Benson had snapped it when the car from the lane leaped at them, and he had unsnapped it again when the accident was over.

But the gunmen didn’t know this. All they knew was that the hands of the fellow with the snow-white hair suddenly shot out, grabbed the legs of the fellow who was bending over him to club him and pulled.

The man choked out a curse and fell. He fell, by intent of the white-haired man, against the fellow who was going to club MacMurdie. And then both of them sprawled in a tangle that would have been funny in less deadly circumstances.

“Get the skurlies!” roared Mac, leaping up and boring toward the third man. This one had leveled his gun hastily. He pulled the trigger and to hell with the noise!

The slug got Mac in the abdomen, and the gunman half turned to help his pals, assuming, of course, that a slug in the stomach would stop any man. Permanently. But under Mac’s clothes was that celluglass protection that had saved the lives of all the band so many times. Mac kept right on coming.

His fist caught the fellow right under the ear; and he turned a pin wheel in thin air that was almost beautiful to behold. Mac whirled to help The Avenger; but, as he might have known ahead of time, there was no need for that.

The two men had risen from their sprawled heap and charged. Benson had clipped one on the jaw as neatly as if delivering an anaesthetic in a hospital before Mac turned. He got the second just as Mac waded in.

“Get to that car!” Benson snapped to Mac. “Quick! Before—”

But the time had already passed for that. Someone had remained in the mystery car, at the wheel. And now it leaped back like a frightened lobster, stopped on a dime, and leaped forward up the road. Mac had never seen such a pickup, and he stopped his instinctive but senseless chase on foot after about four steps.

“Too bad,” said Benson, when Mac came back. “I wanted to look at that machine, very much.” The pale, awesome eyes were coldly disappointed but the paralyzed face, of course, could show no emotion; it was glacier-rigid. “Anyway, we have these three men to question.”

“How about Smitty?” said Mac anxiously. “He must still be several miles from here. I’ll try to raise him.”

The Scot worked the little belt set, and to his infinite relief got a quick answer.

“Yeah, it’s me. Smitty,” came the tiny voice from the set. “You on your way here alone?”

“No, Muster Benson is with me.”

Smitty’s voice was sheepish.

“Hey, that’s too bad. It seems I squawked before it was necessary. I got loose without any trouble at all and got away from the hangar before anybody showed up. Then the gang came back, and they dusted around for me plenty. But didn’t find me; so there’s no need of you going any farther.”

“Are ye sure?” asked Mac anxiously. He kidded the life out of the big fellow when everything was all right. For one thing, he was one of the few men alive who could call Smitty by his true name, Algernon Heathcote Smith, and escape alive. But when trouble threatened, he sprang to the giant’s aid like a frightened mother.

“Sure I’m sure,” said Smitty. “I’m O.K., Mac. But I want to do a little looking around here. I’ll be back to headquarters before the night is over.”

“Fine,” said Mac. “We’ll be there, too. We’ve got a couple of unwillin’ guests that might be persuaded to answer a few questions.”

When Smitty had said he was O.K., he meant just that. He had walked openly around the field near the hangar and seen no one. He was serenely convinced that he was alone and all right.

So he clicked off his little set, put the tiny earphone into his pocket, turned—and gaped into the muzzle of a gun!

It was held by a man who had seemingly risen from the ground beside Smitty, so well had he been hidden in the tall grass. And at the sight of this man, Smitty’s blood ran cold.

He was surely a maniac! That was the giant’s immediate thought.

He was tall, old enough to have iron-gray hair that hung down like a wig, and straggly, iron-gray whiskers. He had a wild light in his eyes. He looked, altogether, like an elderly violin player, even more in need of a haircut than such characters are traditionally supposed to be.

And in his veined hand this wild-eyed maniac held a large revolver.

“You thief!” he squealed. “You dirty thief! You’re going to die, right now!”

And the revolver jerked straight in his hand with its muzzle almost in Smitty’s face! Lead and thin flame lanced from it!

Unfortunately, Mac and The Avenger had no way of knowing what had been done to the giant, less than two minutes after he had told Mac he was all right.

And they were too intent on working over their prisoners to speculate about it.

A truck had brought them to New York again after Benson had stopped the driver and exhibited a badge of the United States Secret Service—of which The Avenger was an honorary member—in front of the man’s startled eyes. The truck had delivered Mac and Benson and their prisoners clear to the Bleek Street entrance; and the driver would take nothing but thanks for it. He had heard of this man with the granite face and the pale, cold eyes.

Up in the vast top-floor room, The Avenger’s icy eyes drilled into the sullen faces of their three captives.

Benson had several chemical aids to the extraction of truth from unwilling guests; serums such as even the big city police departments didn’t even know existed. But he had one way that was superior to all the others, and that was a natural way. Natural to him, at least.

The Avenger’s deadly, glittering eyes had hypnotic power to an almost unprecedented degree; so as he searched the faces of these three thugs, he looked for the weakest will.

The possessor of that, as often happens, was the biggest man physically. He had a jaw like a snow plow, beetle brows drawn in a terrific scowl and a mouth that looked like a slash cut in stone.

But in his shifty eyes, Benson read paralyzing fear, and not very much will power.

His gaze remained on the shifty eyes. Mac, without any words being necessary, led the two other men out of the room. He locked them in a cell that Houdini, himself, could not have escaped from, then hurried back.

The fun was already commencing, short as the elapsed time had been. The man was so subjugated by the icily flaring eyes of The Avenger that he might as well have been Benson’s own hand.

“You meant to kill us tonight,” Benson said, voice pitched in a monotone that was as compelling as the drone of a buzz saw. “Why?”

“To keep you from talking to Doris Jackson.”

“Who is this Doris Jackson?” said Benson.

“I don’t know. We only know her name and what she looks like. We’re to get her, too.”

“Then you haven’t done anything to her, yet?”

“Not as far as I know,” said the man. His voice was like a phonograph recording, it was so mechanical and so without volition.

“Why are you to kill the girl?”

“I don’t know that, either.”

“Do any of the others know?”

“I don’t think so. None of them that I ran around with had anything to say about it.”

“Where did you get that curious automobile you were riding in?”

“Detroit,” said the man, voice dull and docile. “We got it yesterday morning, about dawn, on the east shore of Lake Michigan, but it came from Detroit. We followed the closed van that took it across the State, all night.”

“What kind of car is it?”

“I don’t know. But it’s some buggy. It’ll go away over a hundred, and takes a plowed field like it was a smooth road. And you can’t hurt it.”

“You don’t know whom it originally belonged to?”

“No.”

“Or where it concerns Doris Jackson?”

“No.”

“Who is Robert Mantis?”

“Never heard of a guy by that name.”

Thus ended a period of an almost fruitless questioning. Dick Benson had gotten very little out of his carefully transported prisoners; just the one fact that Doris Jackson was concerned in some manner with a mystery car, the likes of which no one had ever seen before.

CHAPTER VII

Clagget’s Field

First thing next morning, Josh Newton and Mac stood before The Avenger’s big desk and stared into the icy, colorless eyes of their chief.

They could still be awed and disquieted by those eyes. They never quite got used to them.

“Take the small plane,” said Benson, voice quiet but vibrant with authority, “and go to Detroit. See if any manufacturer either there or in Flint has put out a mystery car lately. Some machine that has grown in a guarded laboratory and was recently sneaked out into the country for a secret test.”

“ ’Twill not be easy,” said Mac gloomily. The dour Scot was the world’s worst pessimist. “A manufacturer wouldn’t report even the theft of such a car; he’d be anxious to avoid publicity.”

“You can find out,” said Benson, voice so quietly confident that it made the two feel they could accomplish any miracle. Which is one of the qualities of leadership.

Josh and Mac turned and went to the door. Near it, was Rosabel, Josh’s pretty wife, who was as well-educated and as mentally sharp as her husband.

Josh kissed her, said: “So long,” and went out. But the way he did it told how close the two were. And Rosabel’s smile showed that she knew, as she always did when Josh left her, even on a seemingly safe assignment, that he might never come back alive.

The Avenger’s icy eyes rested on Rosabel.

“Take care of things here,” he said. “Above all, if this Doris Jackson calls, get her to come here if she feels she can do so safely. Find her exact location if she thinks she’d better not risk it. I’m going after Smitty. It’s odd he hasn’t showed up by now.”

He went to the basement and got into one of his cars, a coupé that looked old and sedate but which had a motor like a locomotive. He started again on the trip to Clagget’s airfield which had been interrupted last night.

Nearly nine hours had passed since the giant had said he was O. K., and there had been no sound from him. It was possible, of course, that some emergency had arisen calling for instant action on his part—trailing someone to some distant part, perhaps. But this was not probable because he would almost certainly have reported the fact. And there had been no radio or any other kind of message from him.

So Benson thought it was high time to try to find out what had happened.

The brain behind the colorless eyes was like a filing cabinet, in which maps were stored as well as facts. Dick Benson knew the section of the country around the abandoned airfield so well that he was able to pull into a back road a mile from it without hesitation, though he had never chanced to set foot on the field before. And he made his way over open fields and through woods to the spot without a moment’s uncertainty.

There were woods around the field, which does not make a landing spot ideal, even when the field is large, as this one was. Perhaps it was one of the reasons why it had been abandoned: crack-ups by amateurs in those fringing trees.

The weeds were eyed by Benson with approval. Through them, he started for the desolate-looking small hangar at the side of the field.

Looking directly down on the spot, from a low plane, perhaps, you could have seen The Avenger’s body slowly advancing. But from the eye level of a man standing, he couldn’t be seen at all. He was a past master at traveling through such cover, as many a jungle head-hunter could have testified. He slid through the tall weeds and grass with scarcely a ripple betraying the fact that anyone was approaching the building.

At the door, he paused, then went to the side instead of risking the opening of the big portal. The hangar was of wooden planking.

He took a thing like an atomizer from his pocket, put a couple of grayish pellets in it, and screwed on a tiny nozzle. The pellets were an invention of MacMurdie. They held more than acetylene heat; made the little atomizer contraption a tiny but marvelous blowtorch.

With a thin needle of flame, The Avenger traced an oblong in the wood planks, still under the level of the weeds. The oblong fell out, and Benson crawled in.

So far, his precautions had been unnecessary. There was no one in the hangar. But there was always the chance that somebody might be watching the place from a distance. If so, the watcher wouldn’t dream that a person had crossed the field and entered the hangar, due to Dick Benson’s methodical care.

It was such careful methods that had kept The Avenger alive through adventures that might have done for a score of less coldly thoughtful men.

The big hangar was gloomily dark, save for the space by the one window, Benson’s powerful little flash clicked on, sent a white beam through the gloom.

He found it several minutes later, in a corner of the hangar not quite tucked out of sight under some rubbish; a section of rope with broken ends.

The cold eyes glinted. This was evidence of Smitty’s presence here at sometime in the past. The Avenger knew of no other man who could have snapped a new half-inch rope like that. It was more of a feat than the snapping of iron chains as circus strong men do with chest expansion.

Benson left the rope where it was, started to look around some more and heard voices.

There were at least four men coming across the field to the hangar; he had counted four voices! Then the big sliding door quivered as somebody laid a hand on it to slide it open.

With the opening of the big door, the hangar would be bathed with light. Even a cat couldn’t have remained unseen! And there was nothing in the empty building to hide behind.

Fifteen feet up, were the crossbeams bracing the tin-sheathed roof. Dick Benson leaped to the window sill, up from that, caught a beam and drew his body onto it in one long move.

And then the door opened, and was left open, with sunlight streaming in.

Four men entered. The one in the lead, Benson saw, was quite an average-looking person. The Avenger’s keen eyes picked up, at once, the one small, peculiar detail about him that others would not notice till they’d watched him for some minutes.

That was an oddly enlarged vein on his forehead that seemed to move and pulsate with a life of its own, like a slim blue worm.

“We ought to stay away from here,” this man said. “We got to use the joint once in a while for landing a plane. Other times, we ought to keep as far away as possible, or some apple-knocker won’t tumble to the fact that people are using a place supposed to be abandoned.”

“Aw, nobody’s going to find out,” mumbled one of the others. The three men with the leader were all large, bigger than he was, but not very bright-looking.

“We’ll take no chances,” said the man who had first spoken. “Comb over the place, now, and see if anything’s lying around that might show the place has been used recently. Then we’ll beat it, and we won’t come back unless we have to have a place to sneak a plane in at night.”

“We won’t have to do that any more,” growled one of the others. They were fanning out, looking around. “This is about all cleared up, with the girl on ice.”

“It’s not cleared up yet,” said the leader.

The four were prowling around. Only a couple of yards over their heads, The Avenger lay along the bracing beam, like a serpent watching its prey from an overhanging tree branch. He was in plain sight if anyone of them looked up, but there was a good chance that none would. It is amazing how seldom a person’s gaze lifts above eye level, unless something occurs to pull it up.

The biggest of the four, a hulk of a fellow with a scar from ear to jaw on the left side of his face, suddenly swore and lifted something. He was next to the pile of litter carelessly thrown in a corner by the last legitimate users of this hangar.

“Hey!” he said. “Look!”

The other three looked.

“Well,” said the leader, the little vein squirming on his forehead. “So what? You got a hunk of busted rope. What about it?”

“It’s the rope busted by that big rhino we were telling you about. The big guy we caught—along with the old crazy guy—and salted down in the boathouse at Wyler’s farm.”

“I still don’t see what you have to be excited about.”

“I hid this hunk of rope under this rubbish,” said the man. “I’m dead sure of it. Now, I find it on top, in plain sight. I think somebody’s been in here since we left.”

“Yeah?” said another of the men, silent till now. “You’re nuts, Beanie.”

The man with the repulsive, quivering vein in his forehead stared at the last speaker.

“You were watching the joint from the west side of the field, weren’t you?”

“Sure, I was,” said the man.

“Nobody came in?”

“Nobody showed. And I know! You think a guy could get across the whole field, and into this hangar, without me seein’ him?”

“It doesn’t seem likely,” admitted the leader. “I guess you just forgot where you put that rope,” he added to the man called Beanie.

Beanie muttered and mumbled around, but looked uncertain. And up on the beam, the basilisk eyes of The Avenger were like cold jewels.

The man had stuffed the rope into his pocket, along with a couple of cigarette butts that would have showed a prowler that men had been in here lately. The four started toward the door.

“You say this ain’t finished yet?” Beanie said to the leader. “Even with the girl and this Robert Mantis guy safe out of our way.”

“That’s right,” said the leader. The vein in his forehead was going through even more quivering antics. And the cold eyes of The Avenger, lying silent on the beam overhead, watched it closely. Also, those eyes noted a slight tensing of the man’s right arm.

“There’s somebody else poking around in the business,” said this man. And it seemed that his voice was just a little different than it had been a moment before. The four were almost directly under The Avenger, now!

“You think maybe it’s this Benson?” said Beanie. “You think maybe the Jackson dame got a chance to spill a little to him.”

“Maybe,” said the leader.

And as quick as a cobra he snapped a gun from his shoulder holster, turned and crouched and sent three shots roaring up at the figure on the beam!

Sometime during the last sixty seconds a casual glance had flicked up far enough for him to get a glimpse of Benson out of the corner of his eye. He had pretended not to have seen him, till he opened fire.

It was clever work. Probably any other man would have been taken in by it. But not the man with the paralyzed face and the icy, colorless eyes.

Those eyes had particularly noted the agitated squirming of that vein, indicating sudden mental activity. And with that as a guide, those eyes had caught the faint move of the right arm, preliminary to a fast grab for a gun.

So Benson was not caught unprepared.

A fraction of a second before the first shot, his body moved with a swiftness that made the mob leader’s fast moves seem like slow motion. Off the beam, down in a grim plunge like the leap of a jaguar from a tree.

He lit on the shoulders of a man called Beanie, who happened to be nearest. Beanie yelled and was bowled over—with The Avenger underneath! Benson had seen to that.

A fourth shot lanced from the leader’s gun. It was a cold gamble with the life of his own man at stake if he lost. And he did lose.

The bullet didn’t get the Avenger; it tore away half of Beanie’s throat instead!

There was a scream that registered something new in the way of bubbling horror. Beanie jerked, dying as he did so, not aware that he was still being used as a screen when Benson rose.

The Avenger hurled the jerking body toward the man with the leaping vein in his forehead. At the same time, he jumped to the right where the other two men stood with their guns poking uncertainly around as they tried to get a clear shot at the man with the thick white hair.

Now and then a person appears whose muscles seem to have twice the power, ounce for ounce, of average muscle. The Avenger was that type of person; as these men swiftly found out.

The two men fired as Benson twisted toward them. And missed. Then one was reeling back from a terrific blow to the jaw, and the other was trying to run.

The Avenger’s steel-strong hand got him by the neck. He was jerked back. At the same time, Benson’s foot arced out and forward; and the gun in the hand of the leader, who was working himself free from the hideous embrace of dying Beanie, flew from his hand and slammed against the plank wall of the hangar.

The man Benson had by the neck was over six feet in height and weighed well over two hundred pounds. In addition, the look of the cartilage of nose and ears told that he had been either a professional boxer or wrestler.

The Avenger was about sixty pounds lighter and six inches shorter.

Which meant that it took Benson about twenty seconds to subdue him instead of five or six. Which was lucky for the leader of this deadly crew. For it gave him just time to scramble to his feet, run like a scared rabbit to the door and escape, before The Avenger’s fingers could settle on the nerve centers in the back of his opponent’s neck and put him to sleep.

Benson dropped the third man and was after the fourth like a mongoose after a deadly snake. But the man was halfway across the weed-grown flying field by now; and before even Benson could get near him, he had burst into the fringing woods. Then there was the sound of a car motor started with frenzied speed.

The Avenger stopped his running, but kept on going—away from the field and across country to where his own coupé was parked. He had learned one thing anyhow. A thing he didn’t believe any of the men knew they had given away, so brief had been the mention of it.

The place where Smitty had been taken. Smitty and “the old crazy guy,” whoever that was.

Wyler’s farm and the boathouse thereon.

CHAPTER VIII

Will Willis

The farm was abandoned and for sale, which allowed its location to be quickly learned from a real estate company. It was beautiful, along the Hudson, with a tumbledown boathouse in the midst of trees.

A form suddenly appeared in the branches of the trees nearest the back of the boathouse and dropped lightly to the ground, where high underbrush, and the rear wall of the boathouse concealed it nicely. It was Dick Benson.

The Avenger leaned close to the wooden wall, and listened. He heard the breathing of two men. Two only, in the place. Then he heard a strangled curse; the voice of Smitty.

He looked down.

About two feet up from the ground, two holes had recently been bored. They were on each side of a row of nails indicating one of the main supporting upright beams of the weathered but stout old building.

Through these holes came the two ends of a steel cable, which had been twisted and fastened together. The Avenger’s eyes showed fast comprehension as the cable moved, and there was a curse from inside again.

Smitty had broken an ordinary rope. So the second time he was taken, his captors had used steel cable. They had passed a loop around the giant’s seated body, had run the ends back of him through the wall on each side of a big beam, and there had fastened the ends, binding him with a coil of steel. And let him break that!

The ends had been spliced with powerful pliers. But The Avenger’s slim fingers had strength unbelievable. They managed to twist loose the steel wires composing the cable, one by one, without tools, till the ends hung free.

There was another straining at the cable a moment later, the ends whisked through the holes, and Smitty rumbled on the other side of the wall:

“Hey! I’m loose. Those chumps must not have fastened the cable as tight as I thought— Chief!”

Smitty had looked through one of the holes and seen an eye as icy and pale as ice in moonlight.

Benson went around and into the boathouse. Smitty was stretching his great body. Then he untied another man, who had been bound only with rope.

The man was elderly, with straggly gray whiskers and a sparse mop of gray hair that could well have stood barber’s shears. The hair and the wide stare in his eyes made him look like a mildly insane man.

“Will Willis,” Smitty said, jerking his head toward his companion. “I caught him sneaking around Clagget’s field last night. I mean, he caught me. I’d just finished telling you I was all right when I turned and looked into this guy’s gun. He even fired at me—but missed.”

“They stole my inventions,” muttered the elderly man, eyes staring.

“A minute later,” said Smitty, “a couple of guys, who’d hidden in the hangar without my knowing it, came out and got the drop on both of us. I’d have bopped them, but this guy, who says his name is Will Willis, fell against me. I think he did it on purpose.”

Smitty glowered at the man, who only ran his hand through his wild hair and said:

“My inventions. They stole them.”

Benson’s eyes, like pale diamond drills, were on the wide, staring ones.

“What inventions, Willis?” he said.

“They stole them,” Willis said, as if he hadn’t heard The Avenger.

“Who stole them?”

He heard that a little better. “I don’t know. Somebody. Somebody stole them all.”

“You mean, the new features of the mystery car?”

“How do you know that?” The wide eyes dilated even more. “Who are you? What do you know?” The tone dropped again. “Can you tell me where my inventions are?”

“You’re not well,” The Avenger said.

Suddenly his hand went out, and a deft thumb rolled the man’s upper eyelid back. For an instant, before Will Willis jerked away, Benson stared at the exposed eyeball. His own eyes glittered a little more brightly, but he only said again:

“You’re not well. You had better come with us to my place, where we can help you.”

The three went out of the boathouse.

“I was a dumb to get caught last night like I did,” said Smitty sheepishly, as they got into the coupé. “But this old dumbbell was so clumsy he knocked me off balance. If it was clumsiness.”

The Avenger said nothing. He hurtled the car toward New York.

They’d gotten clear to Manhattan and were crossing Park Avenue, when Willis, who had been motionless for a long time, suddenly stiffened and went as rigid as a bar of iron. The breath whistled between his clenched jaws, and his eyes rolled up till only the whites could be seen. A kind of animal bleat came from his taut lips, and he began to flop around like a hooked fish.

“Hey! He’s having a fit of some kind,” yelled Smitty. “There’s a drugstore. Stop!”

Benson already had the car stopped. Smitty dragged the flopping body out—and it was suddenly leaping and running down the street.

“Get him—” cried Smitty, starting to run, himself.

There was a line of cabs ahead, several of them with motors running. Will Willis got to the first. Insanely, he dove with his fist at the driver, who had been reading a newspaper and hardly knew what hit him. Then Willis jumped into the cab—and was gone!

The Avenger had not left the coupé. He jerked it forward, slowed for Smitty to leap onto the running board and get in, then started on. But the cab had rounded the next corner; and when they got to it, half over the curb with its nose against a hydrant, it was empty. Willis had leaped out, and Heaven knew where he was, now.

The two went on to Bleek Street, with Smitty shaking his head.

“I am dumb! I should have guessed he was pulling an act. And I didn’t. I let him go his crazy way—”

“I don’t think he’s quite as crazy as he acts,” said Benson quietly.

Smitty stared quickly at him.

“I was looking at his eye, closely, back at the boat-house. The pupil was quite normal, not overdilated at all.”

“Then what—” But Smitty stopped. No use asking questions at this stage of the game. Even The Avenger didn’t know the answers.

There was no word at Bleek Street from Mac and Josh in Detroit. So, because they were worried by that, and also because there seemed nothing to do in New York at the moment, Benson and Smitty took one of Benson’s planes, a terrifically fast P-40 type, and hopped off.

But first, Benson had told Nellie in a few words what had happened. Particularly about Will Willis.

“Try to trace Willis,” he told her. “His trail will be lost from the point where he got away. But you might pick him up again at a station or at one of the bridges, if he tries to get away from Manhattan. Get the police to work on it.”

At Detroit, Smitty and The Avenger went directly to the hotel Mac and Josh had said they’d use. It was about seven o’clock by now, and the lobby was crowded.

Dick Benson crossed the large lobby toward the elevators, moving easily, gracefully, but making it difficult for even the giant, Smitty, to keep pace with him.

“Phone Nellie, Smitty,” Benson said. “Find out what success she has had in tracing Willis. Then come up to the room.” He stepped into the waiting elevator as Smitty turned to the phone booths on the other side of the lobby.

At the designated room, Benson tapped the code knock of the little band. The door was opened. But not by Mac. This was a stranger, a young fellow, quite good-looking, with alert black eyes and brown hair that grew straight back from his forehead.

“You’re looking for MacMurdie and Newton?” said this man to Benson. “And you’re Richard Benson, of course. I’m awfully glad you’ve come. Your men are in trouble.”

“Trouble?” asked The Avenger, tone calm but eyes like drills. “Where?”

“At Cass Lake,” said the man. “There’s a summer villa out there that’s boarded up. Belongs to William Wesley, one of the motor crowd. They’re being held there. I waited here to tell you.”

“How is it you know this—and are in this room?”

“I happened to be in the next room, rented by a friend of mine. I heard through the bathroom wall. Heard them call each other MacMurdie and Newton; so I knew their names. Then I heard some men come in after one had knocked and MacMurdie had opened the door. There was a fight, and I heard one of the strangers say they’d take them to Wesley’s boarded-up home at Cass Lake. Just before that, I’d heard Newton mention that you were coming. So I came in here—the door was open—and waited.”

“Why didn’t you come to their aid when you heard the fighting?” said Benson.

The young fellow moistened his lips.

“I . . . I guess I’m kind of a coward. I admit it. I was afraid.”

“Why didn’t you notify the police afterward?”

“I thought you might prefer to handle it in your own way,” said the man. “I’ve heard of you, Mr. Benson, and you are, it seems, a sort of one-man police force all by yourself.”

The Avenger’s face was as expressionless as glacier ice.

“What’s your name and where can we reach you later?”

“I’m Cole Wilson,” said the man. “And I live at the Shelton Arms, on Jefferson Avenue—”

The Avenger’s eyes were cold and piercing, but his dead, white face was as unreadable as always. Without a word, he left the room.

Outside, he met Smitty as the giant stepped from the elevator.

“Mac and Josh are not here,” Benson said. “A man there—he says his name is Wilson—claims he heard some men enter the room, overpower then and say that they would be taken to Cass Lake, outside the city.”

“Then let’s go,” growled Smitty. “We’ll—”

“Wait!” The Avenger said, leading Smitty to the stairs. He seemed to prefer the stairs to the elevator, at the moment. “Stop here. After a few minutes go back to the room and wait. I’ll trail this man, Wilson.”

“Huh?” said Smitty, stopping on the landing, two floors down.

“He overheard Josh and Mac calling each other Newton and MacMurdie, so he knew their names,” said Benson. “But—they never call each other anything but Mac and Josh. Also, there was a disturbed look in parts of the room: Wilson was in there searching the place when I knocked, and he decided it was good policy to open the door frankly—and pull that line. He doesn’t know anything about Mac and Josh, or where they are. He’s a fake. And I want to trail him and see what he does.”

Smitty looked as if it were taking all his self-control to keep from going back to the room and taking this guy, Wilson, apart.

“What did Nellie say,” asked Benson.

“She traced that crackpot, Willis—but too late. She got a report that he’d boarded a train and was headed west.”

The giant spoke as if the words meant a complete blank on the Willis angle. But tiny points of light flared in the depths of Dick Benson’s pale, colorless eyes. From those few words, he had gained a bit of valuable information concerning Will Willis.

Benson went on down the stairs, and out to the street, slipping unobtrusively through the crowded lobby.

In about six minutes he saw Cole Wilson emerge.

Wilson walked in leisurely fashion to a low-priced but excellent sedan and got in. He started off, and Benson followed in a cab.

The Avenger was well acquainted with Detroit as he was with all the principal cities. The sedan ahead hadn’t gone far when he divined where it was bound for—Grosse Pointe, the exclusive suburban section holding the expensive homes of the biggest automobile magnates.

And Benson knew who owned the great house in front of which Wilson’s sedan finally stopped: Sigmund Ormsdale, president of Ormsdale Motors.

Wilson was just going into the door when The Avenger had his driver stop the cab, some distance away. Benson went to the door, too.

He hadn’t a chance to ring the bell. For just as he got there, Wilson showed up again, coming out—and coming out fast.

“Benson!” he exclaimed, looking surprised, but not at all flustered. “I thought you—I told you Cass Lake—”

He stopped and smiled.

“I see. You were suspicious of my story. Well, I can’t say that I blame you. Anyhow, I’m certainly glad to see you here. Something’s happened to Ormsdale. He has been hurt. I tried to phone the police and found that the phone wire was cut; so I came out to get the police, personally.”

“Something happened to Ormsdale?” repeated Benson, colorless eyes unrevealing in his expressionless white face.

“Holdup—or kidnaping attempt,” hazarded Wilson, leading the way into the house. They passed a man in the livery of butler, lying on the floor with a lump on his head.

Benson flicked the swift glance of a skilled diagnostician at him, saw that he would be all right in a few minutes and went on to a library down the hall.

It did look like a holdup. The phone wire had been cut, all right. A chair was overturned and a lamp knocked off the desk. And beside the desk lay Ormsdale, unconscious like his butler, but with the lump on his jaw instead of his head. Apparently, he hadn’t been hit as hard as the servant, either, for his eyelids fluttered as the two went up to him.

Benson bent down, and in a moment Ormsdale was talking, as he lay on a leather divan. He was a heavy man, perhaps fifty, with hard blue eyes under grizzled brows.

“What happened to me?” He stared at Wilson.

“You must have been held up, knocked out by burglars, Mr. Ormsdale,” said Wilson sympathetically. “I was riding past, and stopped off to have a word with you. But I saw the door open and came in and found your butler knocked out. Then I came back here and found you on the floor. I went out for the police, and found Mr. Benson just coming in.”

“We’d better get the police, now,” said The Avenger, voice even. Ormsdale’s hard blue eyes were on him in a way showing that the name was familiar to him,

“Police?” Ormsdale snapped, struggling up on one arm. “Oh, no. No—no! Not at all.”

“But—” began Wilson, looking perplexed.

“Not necessary. Just give me some unwanted publicity,” said Ormsdale. “You can see”—he looked around—“nothing has been taken. No harm done. And I didn’t get a glimpse of whomever it was that knocked me out. So I’d do the police no good—and they’d do me no good.”

The Avenger’s colorless, all-seeing eyes were on the phone. The instrument was off its cradle just a little.

“I see you were phoning when you were attacked,” he said. “Do you mind telling me who?”

“I do, sir,” bristled Ormsdale.

Benson said nothing to that. He went to the phone and spliced the wires. He got a special operator. And the name of Dick Benson was very potent indeed.

“So you were trying to trace a man named Robert Mantis, in New York,” he said to Ormsdale, who was now sitting up and looking angry.

“All right,” he said, “all right. So I was. What business is it of yours?”

“I have reason to think Mantis is in danger,” said Benson.

At that, Ormsdale’s manner changed.

“He is? Oh, my! I’m sorry to hear that. More than sorry.”

“Why?” said Benson.

“Because he’s an employee of mine,” said Ormsdale. “Anyway, he was an employee. Nice young fellow and very capable. I’d like to get in touch with him and ask him to come back. He quit in a huff a few weeks ago.”

He seemed more concerned over Mantis than over his own injuries. And The Avenger watched him with icy, pale eyes, but on his face was no more expression than there is on the frozen face of the moon.

CHAPTER IX

News of the Girl

Benson had taken the rooms adjoining the one in the names of Mac and Josh and had them thrown into a suite. These would be temporary headquarters in Detroit. He had just opened the traveling laboratory he always took with him—a marvelously compact and complete set of apparatus in a case about the size of a wardrobe trunk.

And then Mac and Josh came in.

They looked as if they had been run through a meat grinder. Mac had a blue eye and an egg on his forehead. Josh walked with a limp and was dabbing at a cut on his cheek, in addition to having a swollen lip.

“We had a fight,” said Mac.

“Go on,” said Smitty unbelievingly. “I’ll bet you just tried to pick up the wrong girl.” Which was funny, applied to dour, homely MacMurdie.

“Ye mountain of larrrd,” Mac began. But the cold eyes of the chief recalled him to his reporting.

“We are still on the trail of news concerning a mystery car,” said Mac. “We got some news, too! Then, while we were pumping a workman who must be a lot better mechanic than he is a thinker, a gang jumped us.”

“Six of them,” said Josh, touching his swollen lip. “The reason was, they wanted to get that workman before he could say anything to us. It was near the factory where he works. The man got away, I’m glad to say. We managed to keep them too busy to follow. Then they started shooting. But a squad car showed up; so they beat it.”

“You say you did learn of a mystery car?” asked The Avenger. And the fact that he said nothing of the danger they had escaped did not mean that he wasn’t thinking of it. His eyes were not quite so icy as they regarded the battered pair.

“Yes,” said Mac. “Most of it came from that workman. Marcus Marr is the mon who put it out. His company’s been working on it secretly for a year and a half. It’s almost ready to market, and it’s a honey. There’s a new type Diesel motor, set over the rear axle instead of up front. It’s streamlined, teardrop shape. Twice the power of ordinary cars. But the most unusual thing about it is the steel it’s made of.”

Mac gingerly touched the lump on his head.

“They’ve found some new way of tempering steel at the Marr plant. It takes an ordinary good alloy and turns it into something as good as tungsten. The man said the new processing is the invention of a guy named Phineas Jackson. He’s head research worker for old Marr. Several of the new features on the mystery car, which they plan to call the Marr-Car, are his. Now—he has disappeared. Gone from his home. The plant can’t find him anywhere, and they’re going crazy about it. And that was all we’d learned when the gang broke up our tea party.”

Smitty said: “I don’t see how a new way of treating steel would be so important—”

But MacMurdie shook his head. He remembered the weird machine that had rammed and actually disabled Benson’s tanklike special car—and scarcely suffered dents in the process.

“It’s apparently the most marvelous thing ever discovered in automotive circles. It’s got the rest of the Detroit manufacturers wild. They can see themselves going out of business if—”

The phone rang. Benson picked it up.

“Send him up at once,” he said. And the three men noticed a glitter in his eyes that made them look like agate under white light.

“New development?” said Smitty.

“I think you might call it that,” said The Avenger quietly. “A visitor is on his way up. His name is Robert Mantis.”

“What?” yelped Smitty.

And then there was a knock at the door and they let him in.

Mantis’s pleasant, youthful face was twisted with worry and fear. And he, too, showed signs of having been knocked around recently, though not as recently as Mac and Josh.

“Mr. Benson!” he said. “Thank Heaven you’re in Detroit—and that I found you so quickly. We need your help.”

“We?” said The Avenger.

“Doris Jackson and I,” said Mantis. “I was taken prisoner in New York just after that fight near the trucks,” he said, looking at Smitty. “They carted me off to a warehouse or some place. A little while later the men came in with Doris. They’d got her somewhere. Their leader, a fellow who doesn’t look like much but is a rattlesnake if I ever saw one, was for torturing her to find what she knew. But they didn’t. I think a call from somewhere must have come for him, because he hurried out. If I ever get my hands on him—a man with a slightly enlarged vein in his forehead that moves when he’s angry or excited.”

Benson nodded. That checked. It was the man who had headed the little group of choice thugs at the hangar.

“Go on.”

“There isn’t much more to say,” Mantis replied. “We were held there for hours. I kept working at my bonds and finally got them off. We picked a time when no one was around, escaped and came here by plane. Here, by the luck of the devil, part of the gang spotted us again, and Doris was recaptured. I got away, but I hung around, hidden, and heard where they were going to take her. I know about where the place is. It’s a roadhouse, west of town, on the Ann Arbor road. I’ve heard of the place. The Red Dragon. Anything goes, there.”

Those pale, infallible eyes of The Avenger were staring at him.

“Is Doris Jackson related to a man named Phineas Jackson?” Benson asked.

“Why, yes,” said Mantis. “She’s his daughter. Do you know anything about Phineas Jackson?”

“Only that he’s an inventor,” Benson said. “Come on. I’ll go with you to the Red Dragon.”

“Alone?” said Mantis curiously.

“Yes. It’s better not to have too many on such an errand. Someone in the place would be sure to see a lot of people approaching—and be warned. Just the two of us have a large chance of getting in unnoticed.”

Benson called police headquarters.

“Richard Benson talking. Have you a gangster’s bullet-proofed car in your police garage?”

“Yes,” was the respectful reply. “We’ve got a sedan that Frankie Geraldi had done over. That’s the guy that got knocked off a couple weeks ago. It’s a regular fort on tires.”

“I’d like to use it, if I may.”

“Right. There’ll be some red tape with the D. A.’s office, but we’ll snap the car over to you first and go through the red tape later. Want any men, Mr. Benson?”

“No, thank you. Just the car.”

“You’ll let us in on—whatever it is you’re working on—as soon as you can?”

“Yes,” said Benson. “As soon as possible.”

In the nine-thousand-dollar job of Frankie Geraldi, deceased now and not needing any automobiles, The Avenger and Mantis rolled smoothly and ponderously down the Ann Arbor road.

“So Doris Jackson’s father,” said Benson quietly, “is the inventor of the steel processing in the new Marr-Car.”

Mantis stared quickly at him.

“You seem to know a lot. Yes, he is.”

“And you,” said Benson, “until just recently, worked for Ormsdale, in his competing plant.”

“Why, yes. That’s right.”

“Why did you leave him?”

Mantis shrugged.

“I wasn’t getting anywhere, with Ormsdale. I’m ambitious. I want to better myself. So I left his employ.”

There was silence, then, with The Avenger staring straight ahead with pale eyes that reflected no emotion whatever, and with Mantis jerking quick looks sideways at him now and then.

“I think the Red Dragon must be within a mile or so of here,” he said finally.

The Avenger nodded, paralyzed face as cold and moveless as glacier ice. He knew where the Red Dragon was. It was a hotbed of crime, and such spots were usually known to him pretty precisely.

He went on a half mile, and then stopped. There was a rutted lane leading off the highway into an orchard, used by the man owning the place only now and then when he wanted to drive his truck in and load it with apples.

Benson opened the gate, parked Frankie Geraldi’s car in the dark orchard and closed the gate again. Then the two climbed the inner-orchard fence and started across the fields to the Red Dragon.

They came to the back of the place.

There was a lot of light coming from the many windows of what was really nothing but a huge old farmhouse, turned into a country night spot. A lot of noise came from the windows, too—a nickel phonograph going full blast; loud voices and shrill laughter.

The Avenger mused aloud as the two crouched beyond the rear parking lot in the shadow of a car.

“The basement of such places is usually a storage space. With waiters and busboys going down constantly for liquor and other supplies, it is unlikely that a prisoner would be kept there. The first floor will have the bar and cafe room and kitchen. The second will have private rooms. That’s a possibility. But the attic rooms would be the most logical place—”

He took from his pocket a small round object like a dollar watch. But the stem of the watch was hollow. He gave this to Mantis.

“Stay out here. If you hear shooting or other disturbance, blow into this, and then run as fast as you can for the car. If you are pursued, lock the doors and sit tight. The body of that car should shield you from anything up to a full-size army machine gun.”

“You’ll need help—” began Mantis.

“I work best alone,” said The Avenger. And his voice brooked no back talk.

“What’s this thing?” said Mantis, looking at the watchlike arrangement.

“Siren,” said Benson. “When you blow into it, it makes a sound quite convincingly like a squad car. It should provide enough distraction to help, if I run into difficulties in the Red Dragon.”

He was gone, then. And Mantis stared wonderingly. Not once did he see The Avenger’s whip-cord body as he slid among the cars across the parking lot to the wall of the building. Few men alive could move more unnoticed than he.

There was no tree near enough to climb. There was no rain pipe strong enough to bear his weight to the attic or third floor.

Benson drew from around his waist a length of something that looked like catgut. It was a length of fine cable, made from steel-strong, specially treated silk. On the end of it, he attached a thin steel bar from which four smaller steel bars unfolded like four ribs of an umbrella when it is raised. It formed a nice little grappling hook, with a sheath of silk over the steel to keep it from making too much noise.

Surely, deftly, he tossed the hook up.

One of the grapples caught on the gutter of the roof, and an instant later he was going up the thin cable, hand over hand.

On the roof, he went to a dormer window that showed a dim light through a carefully drawn shade.

His deductions had been right. There was a crack in the shade, and through this he could see a pair of silk-clad ankles with rope around them. Doris Jackson was held prisoner in this room.

The Avenger put his forehead lightly against the pane. In this manner, the frontal bone became a sort of sounding-board to amplify any sounds in the place. But all he could hear was the breathing of one person—the girl. He slowly raised the window and held the shade aside.

A girl’s deep-blue eyes stared at him in terror and dawning hope. But a strip of adhesive tape gagged her cry. He stepped into the room.

Only then did he see that there were two prisoners there. The other was the man with the scraggly beard, Will Willis. He was gagged and bound, too.

The Avenger stepped to the door and listened. No sound. He went to the girl.

“I’m going to untie you and take the gag off,” he whispered. “Make no sound.”

She nodded, and her eyes showed that she was gaining her self-control again. Benson ripped the gag off and bent to unfasten the rope at her wrists and ankles.

And a voice said: “All right, monkey, just stand perfectly still, or I’ll put a coupla holes in your head.”

The door was shut, the window shade was motionless over the open window, there was no one in the room besides Benson and the two prisoners. He stayed the way he was, in a crouch over Doris Jackson, but his right hand furtively was touching his leg.

He saw the speaker, then.

There was a hole in the wall, up high—a little square section that hinged like a small trapdoor. This was open and a man’s head showed. And a gun was trained on The Avenger!

The man yelled: “Hey! Downstairs! Come up here, somebody!”

And from a slim holster on The Avenger’s leg below the knee flashed one of the world’s most curious guns.

It was a .22-caliber, with a butt so streamlined that the whole length seemed like a slightly bent section of slim blued pipe. There was a silencer on it of Benson’s own invention. He called the little gun Mike, and he could hit a fly with it at thirty feet.

The move was as fast as the dart of a snake; but no move could come entirely before the trigger-pressure of a man alert for one.

There was a yell and the roar of the man’s gun, and The Avenger staggered backward as a slug hit him in the chest just one inch below the top of the bulletproof garment. In that one inch lay the difference between life and death.

Lost in the echoing roar of the man’s gun came the whisper of Mike. And the fellow’s head suddenly disappeared from the opening, with a shallow gash on the top of it.

Benson didn’t take life. With Mike, he could snap a slug on the top of a skull, glancingly, so that it knocked a man out instead of killing him. Creased him, in a word, as he had done here.

But not soon enough! For the man had already yelled a warning, and there were pounding steps on stairs outside, hastened by the sound of the shot.

From his left leg, The Avenger whipped Ike, the second of his unique little weapons. This was a throwing knife with a hollow tube for a handle, with needle point and razor edge.

The sharp edge severed the bonds of Will Willis and the girl. And then there was the scrape of a key in the lock.

The door slammed open. A man came in, gun ready. He fired at The Avenger, which was a little like firing hastily at a shifting gray shadow. Mike spoke again! The man went down.

Benson slammed the door, locked it, and smashed the lock with a third shot so that no other key could open it. He rushed Willis and Doris Jackson to the window.

“Hang on!”

He lowered the girl on the thin silk cable, then let Willis down.

The door behind him crashed inward and a head and a gun appeared at the window. The gun spoke, and Benson dropped! But off the roof, not on it. The bullet had only bruised under the bulletproof body sheath.

It was about thirty feet down to the ground; but in the parking lot was a big closed truck left by some driver, who, while en route, had probably stopped at the Dragon for a drink.

It was only about eighteen feet down to that, and The Avenger lit on it lightly, and then leaped to the ground.

The sound of a siren split the air, as Mantis blew into the watchlike device. The sound started low, as if far away, and gradually built up as if a squad car were approaching.

Confused uproar sounded in the roadhouse, and Benson took an arm of the girl and of the elderly man and urged them fast toward the orchard where his own car was hidden.

And Willis suddenly jerked loose. He began to run, when they were halfway to the orchard—off into the night, away from the road. Benson turned to follow and the girl said:

“No! Let him go!”

At the same time her arms wound around him. He could not have moved without hurting her in an effort to tear loose.

He stood still till Willis’s steps couldn’t be heard any more.

“Why,” he said evenly, “did you do that? I needed him for information.”

Doris looked at him and her eyes filled. Then, disconcertingly, Benson had a hysterical, weeping girl on his hands. There was nothing to do but take her to the car and back to the city.

CHAPTER X

Wrecked Rollers

The new Marr automotive works was something that drew sightseers from all over America and technicians from all over Europe who thirsted for industrial knowledge.

The heart of the plant was its new strip mill, into one end of which went scrap iron and raw ingots, and from the other end of which came detailed parts of cars ready for final machining.

There was an entire building devoted to turning out the thin plates from which body parts were stamped. And in this building there was a line of rollers that had cost close to a million dollars to install.

It was a typical blooming-mill operation, with new improvements.

A bloom, or white-hot steel billet went through a succession of rollers. Each set of rollers was adjusted closer together than the last, and the billet became a thinner and thinner and wider and wider plate, till eventually it wound up as the thin-guage steel sheet which would make turret tops and fenders.

The blooms, fed into the thick end of the roller procession, were constantly tested by a metallurgical expert, to see that they weren’t too hard or too soft. Indeed, the very billet that did the damage that morning, was one of the one-in-three that had been so tested.

But you’d never think it had been tested when it hit that first roller.

There weren’t many men in the shop. There are few in a modern plant of that nature. But those who were there suddenly dropped everything they were doing at about ten minutes past ten in the morning. Because that was when it occurred.

The crash sounded like a sixteen-inch gun being fired. Only this was accompanied by a screaming of strained metal and a roaring of metal chunks, weighing tons, dropping to the concrete floor.

Wham!

The next roller, its rolls set closer, went with a report like the blowing up of a battleship!

And the white-hot bloom that had broken the first rolls and had scarcely been flattened at all, sailed past the second set still undented, save for a smaller chunk split off a corner.

Down the moving bed of the rolls it slid, while the cries of men resounded in the place.

“Stop the rolls!”

“Shut off that current!”

“Stop the—”

Bam!

The flaming billet was so much too big for the third set that it merely stayed hard against them while the moving bed buckled and ground underneath. But there was that foot-thick fragment split off before.

That wasn’t too thick to go through, but it was too thick to handle if it wouldn’t flatten.

Which it hadn’t!

One more set of rollers smashed with the unyielding fragment before they got the rolls stopped and examined, speechless, the damage done. Then the foreman handed his shop coat to a workman, rolled up his sleeves and, white-faced, hunted around for the metallurgist who had tested that bloom. He meant to strew pieces of his body around the plant.

“You damned fool! You let a billet go in with a carbon content so high it was like shoving a chunk of high-speed cutting steel in there!”

“I didn’t,” protested the lab man, shaking and gnawing at his knuckles while he stared at the appalling sight. A hundred thousand dollars would hardly cover the damage. What it would cost in lost time to the entire big plant before the rolls could be replaced was almost beyond computing.

“You must have,” shouted the foreman. “Stick up your fists. I’m gonna—”

“I tell you, the carbon content was O. K. Look—I’ve still got a sample of the run. I’ll test it again for you.”

He did, and the carbon content—an excess of which makes steel too hard and brittle to handle—was indeed all right.

“Then what,” said the foreman, “made that bloom bust the rolls?”

“How do I know,” wailed the lab man. “Where’s Jackson? Phineas Jackson? He hasn’t been around for days, and no one can find him. He’s the only man who could tell us what is wrong with that steel.”

The new mystery Marr-Car, put out by Marcus Marr.

The moment Josh and Mac had reported, The Avenger had contacted a friend at the plant.

One of the main reasons why Dick Benson was such a powerful factor in a fight against the underworld was that he had more friends than most ten men.

In the course of a life, short in years but very long in adventure, he had met hundreds of men in all walks of life: dock laborers, millionaires; beach combers, college professors; laborers, ambassadors. And no man ever met The Avenger without feeling awe for his genius, and feeling impelled to obey him if he ever asked for something to be done.

A glance at the Marr personnel had told Benson that he knew the tool-room superintendent. He had phoned the man to get in touch with him at once if anything unusual happened at the plant.

And the wrecking of the rolls was certainly not in the ordinary factory routine!

So The Avenger hung up the phone from that report and went out fast. He went to the downtown office, in the Marr Building, of Marcus Marr.

A hostile-eyed secretary was in the outer office like a prison guard.

“Sorry,” he snapped, when Benson asked to see Marr. “Mr. Marr is very busy this morning. He can see no one. No one at all—what did you say your name was?”

The Avenger gave it again, voice even, eyes on the secretary’s face in a gaze that was hard to bear if you had disobedience in mind.

“Mr. Richard Benson? Oh!” The secretary nervously pulled at his fingers till the joints made little cracking noises. “I was told to let no one—absolutely no one—into Mr. Marr’s office. Something has happened at the strip mill—I’ll tell him you’re here.”

He came out in a minute, looking even more shaken. Evidently Marr had handled the secretary pretty severely for disturbing him, before he found out who was calling.

“He’ll see you.”

Benson went in, and walked across a vast room to a huge desk behind which sat a man who looked small and a bit shrunken in contrast. Marr stared up at The Avenger with veiled eyes.

“If you can make this brief?” he suggested. “I am extremely busy.”

“I’ll be brief,” said Benson. His colorless, awesome eyes bored into Marr’s. “A criminal ring has hatched up a scheme that concerns you and has a direct bearing on your recent troubles. My job is to fight crime. I came to ask you to tell me a few—”

“I’m afraid you have come under a misapprehension, Mr. Benson,” Marr said easily. “I have no troubles, save the regular ones of any man in business.”

“You’re sure of that?” said Benson, eyes like stainless steel chips in his paralyzed face.

“Very sure,” said Marr.

“You have worked for months, with brilliant inventors and mechanics, to turn out a new automobile embodying many revolutionary new principles. Now, this mystery car has been stolen—and all your trade secrets with it. I would call that trouble.”

Marr said nothing; he only looked at the white, still face with tired eyes.

“The man who invented the most important thing about the mystery car—the new steel processing—is missing and you don’t know where he is. Phineas Jackson. For all you know, he is negotiating with rival manufacturers and means to sell you out to them. I’d call that trouble, too.”

Still Marr did not reply.

“Now, only a few minutes ago, your strip mill was put out of commission. Some of the new process steel was run through, and it was too hard for the rolls—”

“That wasn’t the new process steel,” Marr blurted. “We’re not in production on that yet, and besides the hardening comes after—”

He stopped, looking confused, and evidently angry at himself for having said that much.

“Comes after the final machining of the product?” said Benson quickly. “Is that what you meant to say?”

Marr was obstinately silent.

“Do you have any idea where Jackson is, now?” said The Avenger.

Into Marr’s eyes crept a glint of fury. His hands clenched on the desk top. But he was through talking.

“You’re doing yourself an injury by not helping me,” said Benson. “But if you don’t care to help—that is your affair. Good day.”

He went back to the hotel—and to a grim-faced MacMurdie, whom he had left in charge of Doris Jackson to see that nothing happened to her.

“She’s gone!” Mac burst out, as Benson entered.

The pale eyes rested on him with the force of a physical blow.

“The little fool!” rasped Mac. “She went to the lobby to telephone somebody—”

“Why didn’t she phone from these rooms?”

“She said frankly that she didn’t want even us to hear who she was talking to or what number she called,” said Mac. “I thought that was all right. You didn’t say anything about treating her like a prisoner. So I went down to the lobby with her, and she went into a phone booth. I saw her talking to somebody, and then I didn’t look any more because I saw a guy hanging around the lobby that looked suspicious. He turned out to be the house detective. When I looked back at the booth, Doris had sneaked out. I waited for her to come back, and she never did.”

Something almost like cold anger came to Benson’s colorless eyes. But not directed at Mac.

“She was just barely rescued from one muddle,” he said. “And now she is foolish enough to leave our guardianship and risk her life again. Didn’t she know it was dangerous for her to go out alone?”

“Sure she did,” said Mac, looking miserable. “She said nothing would drag her away. And then she stole out like a little thief. And I thought she was such a nice girrrl, too.”

The anger had gone from the cold, pale eyes. A look of thoughtfulness was there instead.

“Something very important to her must have developed during her phone call. Well, we’ll hope nothing happens to her. But I’m afraid—”

CHAPTER XI

The Hidden Note

Nellie Gray entered the hotel suite that had become temporary headquarters for The Avenger, and Smitty said:

“Hey! I thought you were in New York.”

“I was,” shrugged Nellie. “After I told you over the phone that Will Willis had boarded a westbound train, the chief radioed that he’d seen Willis here in Detroit. So I took a plane and here I am.”

“Too bad,” rumbled Smitty. “We weren’t having much luck as it was. Now, with you here to have to be rescued from some jam or other every few hours—”

“Why, you light-brained dinosaur,” said Nellie, for once letting Smitty’s kidding rile her. “You’re the one who is all the time getting in over your head. If I had a nickel for every time I’ve saved your carcass—”

Smitty was grinning. She stopped, and said with dainty dignity: “Where’s the chief?”

“Next room,” said the giant, still grinning. So Nellie flung over her slim shoulder as she walked:

“Remind me to give you the messages of four or five of your brunette friends in New York, when I have time.”

Smitty’s grin changed to a splutter. In the first place, he was very conscious of the fact that he was no lady’s man. In the second, the only girl in his world was not a brunette, she was blonde Nellie Gray. And Nellie knew it.

The Avenger’s pale eyes glinted as Nellie came in. But he only nodded to her, told her to wait in the suite with the rest and hurried out.

There had been more trouble at the Marr factory.

Before an alarmed working staff could stop the rolls, they had been broken by a bloom too hard to be flattened out. That had been in the morning. Now, in the early afternoon, an even more serious thing had occurred. Rather, a lot of more serious things.

Suddenly, trouble broke all over the vast plant.

Drills snapped, as plates were put into the drill presses too hard to be drilled. Punch presses buckled, or the dies in them broke, with metal too hard to be machined. Cutting bars screamed and blunted; milling machines jammed out of line. There was hell to pay!

In every process of making an automobile, now and then a part cropped up that looked just like all the other parts, but it proved mysteriously to be too finely tempered and too hard to handle. So Benson’s friend at the plant had phoned in a hurry. The entire gigantic enterprise was shut down—at a standstill!

So The Avenger went to see Marr once more.

This time the magnate was not at his office. He had been driven to the plant, his secretary said when Benson phoned. He had looked over the rolls, and then, saying nothing, had gone home.

The Avenger went to Grosse Pointe, which was where Marr had his Detroit mansion. It was not far from Ormsdale’s palatial place.

This time Marr wasn’t going to see even Benson. But The Avenger disposed of those orders to the servants in a hurry. He had anticipated that.

The moment a man—not a servant, evidently another of the magnate’s secretaries—opened the front door, Benson’s hand shot out and his thumb and second finger moved. It was as if he were merely snapping them under the man’s nose.

But the snapping motion broke a little glass pill, and from that came an anaesthetic gas of MacMurdie’s invention.

The man said: “Uh—” and slumped to the hall floor as if he had been slugged.

As a precaution, the door had been opened on a heavy chain, which kept it from swinging back more than about six inches. But the chain wasn’t much of a problem, either.

The Avenger got out the tiny blowtorch with which he had burned an almost instantaneous way through the wooden wall of the hangar at Clagget’s field. Tiny but incredibly hot flame played over the chain, and it parted.

Benson opened the door and walked in. He heard fast steps and saw another man coming toward him down the hall. This was one of the regular servants, and he glared at The Avenger.

“You want trouble?” said Benson softly, voice as calm and even as if he were asking for a sandwich.

The glare left the servant’s eyes as he looked into the pale eyes of The Avenger. The man towered over Benson, but he moistened his lips and said: “No, sir. I don’t.”

“Where is Mr. Marr?”

“In the music room—there,” said the man.

Benson went to the door pointed out. He opened it.

“I told you, Peters, that nothing was to disturb me,” Marr began.

Then he turned from where he was standing next to a window, and his right hand went swiftly behind him.

“You again!”

“Yes, me again,” said Benson, voice as cold as his colorless eyes. “This time you’re going to tell me a few things. You understand?”

“My dear sir,” said Marr, “do you think you’re talking to an office boy? Do you realize who I am?”

To that The Avenger made no reply at all. And after a moment of regarding that white, moveless mask of a face in silence, Marr cleared his throat uneasily.

His hand, held so carefully behind him, relaxed, and came innocently out into sight in front of him. He made a slight movement with his foot, backward, and then advanced toward Benson.

But what he had been about to say, if anything, was never said.

There was a phone in the room, one of many in the house. And it burred softly. Marr went to it and picked it up.

“Yes?” he said.

There was the faint sound of a voice from the receiver, which Marr held close to his ear.

Very few could have made out the words, but Benson had ears as keen as his marvelous eyes; and he could just catch what was being said on the other end of the line, in spite of Marr’s precautions. Though Marr had every reason to believe he couldn’t.

It was the factory calling. Someone in authority, and someone in great agitation.

“Mr. Marr, an order has come through that I felt I should check with you. Is it true that you want every car part, in every storage bin in the plant, scrapped at once?”

“Yes,” said the motor magnate.

“But, Mr. Marr, that will cost millions of dollars!”

“That is right.”

“I know why it’s being done, of course. It is to save the machinery that is being ruined. But surely we can inspect the parts and give them metallurgical tests for hardness—”

“There is no way,” said Marr, who was handicapped by not wanting to say anything from which this man with the moveless white face and the pale, expressionless eyes could read a message.

“But—”

“You have your order,” snapped Marr.

“And you,” he said to Benson, who had walked toward the window and now stood where Marr had been a moment ago, “have yours. I will say nothing to anyone, even to you. I want no help. Any emergencies that may be arising, I will handle myself.”

And strangely, The Avenger took the dismissal. He had come there to get information from the motor millionaire regardless. He was certainly equipped to force it. Yet he didn’t.

Without a word, he walked to the door. But with him, on the sole of his shoe, went something he had an idea would be more revealing than anything the magnate might have chosen to say.

A folded bit of paper.

That, a small note, was what Marr had jerked behind him, when Benson had first entered unexpectedly. The Avenger’s quick eyes had just barely caught it. And that was what Marr had nudged with his foot backward—under the trailing end of the window drape.

Benson had put his foot over it, and twisted. The move had protruded several tiny, barbed needle points from the special double sole in the instep of his shoe, and on these points the paper had caught and held.

He closed the door of the music room on Marr’s coldly angry stare, bent and took the paper from its precarious place, put it in his pocket and calmly left the house.

In his car, he opened it. It was important, all right. It was an extortion note!

The letters were crudely printed with blue indelible pencil on a scrap of cheap, lined note paper.

Pay the million to the party named or continue to take the consequences.

Blackmail! On a huge scale! Being attempted by someone who had the power to wreck a mammoth automotive plant.

The Avenger drove slowly and the tense glitter in his colorless eyes indicated that he was thinking of the weird factors in this growing mystery of the automobile world.

There was a new steel process belonging to the Marr Co. With it, automotive parts were tempered to a hitherto unknown toughness after being machined.

With this, the blackmailer was threatening Marr’s business existence; he had somehow managed to subject various parts to this tempering process before the finishing machining. And as a result the tempered parts were ruining the tool machinery, less resistant than the steel it was trying to work.

In addition to plant troubles, Marr had had his finished mystery car—practically ready to be released on the market—stolen from him, and there was no telling where it might be, now.

Besides blackmail, there was murder in this affair. Men had died to permit the theft of that car—though as yet there had been no violence in connection with the factory damage.

So Marr was to pay a million or “continue to take the consequences.” Who, inside the Marr plant, was smart enough and unsuspected enough to cause that damage?

CHAPTER XII

The Marr Plant

The man in charge of the stock room in the motor department of the Marr plant was a close friend of the toolroom superintendent who knew Benson so well. So when the tool-room man told the stock-room man to put himself under The Avenger’s directions and tell no one, the stock-room head did so.

Though the directions given him by Benson were pretty simple.

He was just to sit still as if posing for a picture.

He was doing that now, in one of the rooms at the hotel where The Avenger and his aides were staying. And with him was Benson. The man was staring in awe at The Avenger.

Benson had a small grip like a standard overnight bag open before him. But it was not an overnight bag. It was a most complete make-up kit.

There were scores of pairs of tissue-thin eyecups, with various colored pupils on them, which Benson could slide on over his own almost colorless eyeballs. There were waxes and pigments, pads for the cheeks, false scars, wigs.

Everything a man could need for making himself look like someone else.

And Benson was now in the process of making himself look like the stock-room head.

He had slipped brown-pupiled cups over his eyeballs, and then put on a brown wig streaked with gray. Now, he was making his features resemble the man’s features, and it was this process that was making the stock-room head almost shiver.

The nerve shock that had paralyzed Benson’s face had made the flesh completely lifeless. Dick Benson worked and manipulated the flesh of his cheeks downward into heavy jowls, and the dead flesh stayed that way. Then The Avenger worked with his own temples till there were heavy ridges over his eyes.

His countenance was a plastic mask that could be shaped any way at all. And he was thus shaping it till he was a close twin of the stock-room employee.

But, though The Avenger did not know it, this was the last time he was going to be able to do that!

“Now, the clothes,” said Benson.

The man took off his shop clothes. He was a shade taller than Benson; so The Avenger put three-quarter-inch lifts in his shoes. When he put on the shop clothes, it would have taken a long inspection by trained eyes under bright lights to show that he was not the person he was supposed to be.

“You have just about time to get to the plant,” said the stock-room employee. “It’s seven ten. It’ll take you about forty-five minutes to get out there from here, and you’re supposed to report at eight o’clock.”

Benson nodded, and went out a Marr workman reporting to his job.

In the great plant there was unaccustomed quiet. For the place was almost entirely shut down. There were only several score men in the various stock rooms checking over the stored parts, for no machines were running after old Marr’s orders had been received.

All made-up parts had to be taken from storage bins and scrapped lest they further break the costly machinery! But among the parts were many that had been completely finished and were ready only for assembly. These could be saved, while the parts waiting for a last finishing touch would have to go.

That was why Benson had gone as a stock-room man. These men were kept busy sorting.

For about half an hour Benson went slowly, till he found his way around. Then he worked along with the rest, and talked when he could.

“Certainly a shame to discard all this stuff,” he said. “Can’t they test it for hardness?”

“Seems not,” said the man next to him at the moment. They were dumping wrist pins—complete save for the tiny oil holes—into a truck, to be wheeled to the scrap-iron heap. “Analysis doesn’t show anything wrong. Carbon’s all right—everything. But it’s just too tough. That is, a few pieces are too tough.”

“Couldn’t they find out by touching each piece with a file or something?”

“I guess not, or they’d be doing it. Wonder where old Jackson is?”

“Yeah,” said Benson. “We could sure use him.”

“I guess they’ll be taking the box off the trial assembly line, if he doesn’t show up,” said the man.

Benson didn’t say anything to that. Obviously, he was supposed to know what “the box” was. And he didn’t. So at lunch time he went to look for it.

It wasn’t hard to find.

In the finishing plant there were three assembly lines. In normal times, from the end of each line was rolled, every few minutes, a completed Marr automobile, ready to run when oiled and gassed.

At the end one of these three lines was—the box.

In fact, at first glance, that was all it looked like. Just a great big chamber, or case, almost as big as a box car, through which the assembly belt ran.

The thing was big enough to let a completed car on the line slide right through it; and at each end was a great door designed to permit just that.

At each side of the big oblong case was a sort of window. At least, it was an aperture about four feet square going right into the interior.

Resting on a tripod a yard or so from each aperture, was what might have been called the window, itself, which just fitted into these apertures: four-foot slabs about two feet thick. Only, there were wrist-thick cables trailing from the slabs, which indicated that they were not solid, but had some sort of mechanism within them.

So the steel-processing business began to make sense!

Phineas Jackson, this arrangement hinted, had not discovered a new version of the old methods of tempering steel. The Marr process of tempering had nothing to do with oil or heat or acid. It was a brand-new process. Ray tempering, in some form or other. It was immensely superior to standard tempering. For this could be done when the car was all assembled, processing every bit of steel in relation to every other bit, instead of part by part in the older manner.

It was impossible to do more than glance at the contraption during the lunch hour. And Benson wanted much more than a glance. So it gave him two reasons for going through with the program he’d had in mind when he came in here.

The other reason being to see if anything funny went on in the Marr plant at night, and the program being to stay all night and find out.

That was accomplished by the simple expedient of just not going out with the others when the afternoon’s work drew to a close.

The other men went out. And Benson sat on a pile of steel billets, behind a rack holding drill rods of various sizes. And then the plant was empty, save for several watchmen who would be as hard to find in the acres of floor as ants in a desert.

It was ghostly in the great building, with night lights glowing at intervals, and far in the distance the steps of a watchman going to one of his boxes. And it was particularly ghostly when you remembered that, usually at night, this place was humming with activity. Machinery in big plants is so costly that even if business scarcely justifies it, it must be run day and night in shifts to get back out of it in profits the huge sums the installation costs.

But it was certainly dead tonight; so Benson came out of his corner after a while and went again to the end of the third assembly line.

He crouched down behind a machine while a watchman came past with a slow, regular tread, like a military sentry. Then he went to the box.

He wheeled one of the tripods, which was on casters, to the aperture in the right-hand side of the box. The thick slab from which all the wires came, fitted the aperture exactly. The inner surface of the slab, Benson noted, was of quartz. It bore out his theory of a ray treatment of the steel. Through that quartz slab, as through a window, some force or other rayed over the finished cars that were slowly drawn through the great box—

There was the slightest imaginable sound, far down the line from where Dick Benson stood. Instantly he was behind the end of the box, where the assembly line stopped. He peered down toward where the sound had come from.

He had just a flash of a leg in striped cotton, such as he wore, himself—the clothes of a workman. Then the leg disappeared behind one of the hundreds of small, rubber-tired trucks in which parts were wheeled through the plant.

Dick Benson was not the only workman—or rather, intruder dressed in workman’s garments—to have allowed himself to be locked in the plant!

With the little gun, Mike, in his hand, The Avenger went toward that truck. And the truck started rolling slowly away from him, as if it were an animal with life of its own, retreating from him—and forming a perfect shield for the man behind it as it moved.

Benson had to flank the fellow, somehow; so he went for the shadow of the next assembly line. There, head down, he raced for the end of the shop, till he got ahead of the slowly moving truck.

And there he found that he was up against somebody who had plenty of brains. For—there was no one behind that truck.

It had been given a gentle shove, to keep it rolling for another half minute, and the shover had then disappeared in shadow himself.

Benson started to turn, and then found out where the man was.

He was right behind him!

Hands found Benson’s throat—hands that seemed made of metal instead of flesh! And a leg like a steel cable was curved around his own legs.

The Avenger had fought strong men in his life. In fact, he had once been forced to fight the giant Smitty, himself. But he had never felt such appalling force exerted against him as now!

It took all his skill and all his own almost superhuman power to break that grip and turn.

Even then, he didn’t get a good look at his assailant. The man kept his head down, so that the rather dim lighting in the vast plant didn’t show up his features.

Benson ducked a blow that would have broken his jaw and lashed out himself. And—his blow was ducked!

That sounds simple enough. A man hits at another, and the other twists out of the way. But not one man in a hundred thousand could move as fast as Dick Benson. Which meant that about that percentage could duck one of his fast punches.

The man butted with his head down, and he got The Avenger hard enough before Benson could roll to the charge. Then Benson caught the right shoulder of the fellow, in work clothes.

Never had he felt such slabs and sheaths of flexible steel as this man had for muscles! It was like grabbing hold of an iron beam. But he twisted and jerked in a deft jujitsu hold.

The man went up and over The Avenger’s shoulder. And that should have been the end. He should have smashed back down on the floor with a force to stun him. But he didn’t!

Like a great cat, the man turned a complete circle in the air, lit on his feet and lit running.

He ran for the great box at the end of Line 3.

Benson raced after him. And even here it seemed that he had almost met his match. Dick Benson could run a hundred yards in nine seconds flat. But this man lost less than a yard in a pursuit that must have covered close to a hundred before the box was reached.

At that point the man leaped like a tiger on the broad assembly belt and darted into the box.

Benson similarly leaped, and darted after him. He saw the man flash out the other door, the far opening at the end of the line.

Then at each end of the box-carlike chamber, a great steel door slid smoothly down. Benson halted in mid-flight and streaked for the side of the box.

He himself had plugged one of the windowlike apertures a few moments ago, when he experimentally wheeled the quartz-faced slab into place to see if that was where it fitted.

He raced for the other opening. And just before he got there, it was plugged by the other quartz window. The slabs didn’t yield backward an inch when he tried to push them. The tripods had been fastened some way outside.

The doors didn’t even quiver when he slammed against them.

He was trapped in here!

A low humming suddenly sounded, seeming to be inside his head rather than coming to his ears from outside. Whatever type of current it was that went through those wrist-thick cables, leading to the slabs, had been turned on.

CHAPTER XIII

The Deadly Ray!

The Avenger had guessed a great deal about the secret process that Phineas Jackson had invented for tempering steel.

Ray tempering.

And his profound knowledge of chemistry and physics had led him even nearer to the truth.

Some electronic ray had been discovered that tempered steel—possibly all metals—by rearranging the molecules. Perhaps it “combed” them straight, so that each rod and sheet was formed of myriad lines of molecules in orderly close array, instead of a jumble of them occurring in a promiscuous pattern.

That would make steel tough almost beyond imagining. And it was quite a logical and probable theory, because for some time laboratory scientists had succeeded in thus combining molecules, though not for commercial use.

Assume, then, a ray powerful enough to penetrate every atom of an entire assembled automobile, tempering every steel particle in it. Then put a human being—human flesh and blood—in the path of those rays, as The Avenger was!

What would happen to that flesh and blood?

Benson had no time to speculate on it. And he had no chance to think at all after that. Thought was impossible. Movement was impossible. He was simply an inert mass of torment!

He sagged to the floor of the great box. Rather, to the broad bed of the assembly line which normally moved slowly through here and formed the floor.

Every atom of his body was bursting like a tiny bomb! That was what his quivering nerves told him. He wasn’t a man, he was a ball of fire. He had no legs, arms, internal organs—he was just a lump of pain!

Red-hot needles drove through him. He was dimly aware that his muscles were leaping and jerking against each other, like the muscles of a dead frog on electrical contact.

Particularly did his face and hands seem to be bathed in the terrific, unseen flame. Perhaps the fabric of the clothing that covered the rest of him offered a very faint protection against rays designed to go through metal rather than through vegetable or animal substances such as wool and cotton.

He was in the heart of a volcano, sinking in red flame, sinking—

Benson seemed to be floating some place in faint gray light. There was a fiery sensation at hands and face, as if nettles were being pressed against raw flesh there.

Then he realized that he wasn’t floating, because something hard and sharp was sticking into his back. And it hurt.

He was lying some place, and lying on something that jabbed painfully. He opened his eyes.

“Oh, you’re comin’ out of it!” said a voice.

Benson saw one of the plant watchmen looking anxiously down at him. The man’s face was twisted with worry, and his eyes expressed agonized concern.

“Gosh! I thought sure you were dead when I found you lyin’ here on this pile of pipe a minute ago. I was just going to phone a doc in a hurry. Or the undertaker. Who are you, anyhow?”

The Avenger’s powerful body had been knocked haywire. But there was, it seemed, nothing wrong with his brain.

He thought he had better not give the name of the stock-room employee in whose likeness he had entered the plant that morning—no, yesterday morning. The gray light around him was that of dawn; he had been in the plant all night.

He did not know what had happened to his face. But something drastic had affected it! There was a queer, and as yet unidentifiable, sensation in it that he had not felt in years.

Quite probably he did not look like the man any more; so he had better not give that name.

But it didn’t take Benson as long to think this out as it takes to tell it. With scarcely a hesitation after the watchman’s question, he said:

“I’m Stanislau Calek, a new man in the stock room.”

“How is it you’re here?” demanded the watchman, face half solicitous and half suspicious.

“I have fainting spells,” said Benson evenly. “I must have keeled over here just before the plant was locked up last night.”

“That’s a long time for a faintin’ spell,” said the watchman, staring at Benson’s head. There was something wrong about The Avenger’s head, too; it felt curiously cold to him, over the fiery mass that was his face.

“Yes, I guess it must have been the worst spell I’ve ever had,” The Avenger replied.

He tried to get up, couldn’t quite make it, and then felt the man’s hand under his arm. With that to steady him, he stood on trembling legs which had hardly any feeling at all. All the sensation in his body seemed limited to head and hands.

The watchman was still staring hard at Benson’s head.

“Boy, you must have a hell of a time on a cold winter day,” he sniggered.

The Avenger didn’t say anything to that, because it didn’t seem to have any meaning.

“Want I should get a doc for you?”

“No, I’m all right,” said Benson. He took a few steps, just barely managing to keep from falling, but concealing his weakness as well as he could.

He must have been very close to death for the terrific aftermath to last this long. Very close to death! Yet, the man who had trapped him in the box had deliberately turned the current off to avoid killing him, and then had dragged him out here to recover.

That seemed very tender-hearted for a member of the gang that had stolen the mystery car, murdering freely to get and keep it.

“I’ll go with you to the gate,” said the man. “It’s a quarter after five. I’ll be punchin’ outta here, anyhow, in a little while.”

Benson only nodded, saving his strength for the long walk. He made it, on sheer will power, leaning heavily on the man’s arm.

“You gotta car?”

Again Benson nodded. He had come in the stock-room man’s car. It was down the line in the vast parking lot that was provided for employees. The owner must be pretty nervous by now—also Smitty and Mac and Nellie and Josh—at not having heard from their chief.

They were, all right!

Up in the hotel suite, they all surrounded him and stared literally with their mouths open. Exclamations of surprise burst from them. Nellie particularly was petrified with wide-eyed astonishment.

“Chief! Your face!” she whispered.

Benson rubbed his hands over his cheeks. There was still some the fiery feeling in his face, dying very slowly after that terrific ray bombardment.

“And ye’r head, mon!” gasped Mac.

So Benson went to a mirror and saw for the first time, himself, what had happened.

It was an unbelievable thing.

His face had expression!

Once Benson had had a normal countenance. A nervous shock, that would have killed many men, had completely paralyzed and deadened the facial muscles, and at the same time it had turned his hair snow-white.

He had been a long time in seeing that dead, white face as his own and not that of some stranger stuck on his shoulders. Then he had become used to it.

Now, after a second horrible shock to the nervous system, his face was as it had been nearly two years ago.

And, again, it looked like the face of somebody else put on his shoulders. A living instead of a dead face.*

* (Medical science has recently reported success in the treatment of diffuse scleroderma, an uncommon though tragic condition characterized by the hardening and an expressionless rigidity of the skin. Results have been achieved by operation on the somewhat mysterious parathyroid gland, though such treatment is not inerrant. However, marked progress has been discovered in the practice of chemotherapy—the use of medicines of chemical compounds—and the prescription of scientific diet, and promising claims have been advanced in their meritable effect on this condition. It is also possible that an electrical shock to the nerves controlling the facile muscles would have a similar effect.)

He stared at the countenance that had been his once before. And stared at his head, where the snow-white hair had been, so incongruous on a man so young—

Where it had been.

It wasn’t there, now! There was no hair at all, any more.

In the invisible cyclonic bombardment of that big box, something had happened to the hair roots, so that all his hair had fallen out. That was why his head had felt cold, back at the plant. That was why the watchman had stared so hard, for it is unusual to see a man with no trace of hair at all on his head.

Experimentally, Benson smiled. And Nellie gasped aloud. Never once had she seen a movement of that dead, but now, somehow, revitalized face. And now it was smiling!

The rest were in Nellie’s state of mind. Of them all, only Mac had seen The Avenger in the beginning, with a normal man’s face and a normal man’s look in his eyes. And Mac had gotten just a glimpse of him.

That was at an airfield.

Mac called it to mind. The man with jet-black hair and flaming, colorless eyes in a lean, square face, striding along with a lithe swing of his body, talking warmly and contentedly to companions. No more like The Avenger, that cold machine for fighting crime, than if he had been an entirely different person.

Then that man had, in a sense, died, when his face had died, after the appalling injury a crime ring had done him because he happened to get in their way.

Here was a man with a vital, tense, live face again! Save for the fact that there was no hair—and that other man had had jet-black hair—this person was like that other—

No, not quite. For this man, while once more resembling that other in looks, still had the cold hatred in his pale eyes for anything criminal or murderous. So he was a kind of blend of the two—

All of which Mac could express in only one word—or Scottish gasp, if you like.

“Whoosh!”

“What on earth happened to you, chief?”

That was Smitty, who had never known Benson save as the man with the dead face, whose flesh could be prodded into any likeness and would stay that way like putty. As it had last night, when Dick Benson had adopted the likeness of the stockroom employee. But his features then had been artificial—independent of his facial muscles. So that, upon the revitalization of those muscles, that guise gave way to his natural, normal countenance.

“It seems I got tempered, like any bar of old iron, at the Marr plant,” said Benson with grim humor. “It also seems that I’ll have to wear one of the wigs from my make-up kit permanently.”

Nellie’s eyes reflected the thought that would have come to any woman, as they went over the altered appearance of The Avenger.

He was certainly good-looking. That was her opinion. In spite of the handicap of no hair, he was about the handsomest man she had ever seen.

She had always suspected that he must once have been a very handsome man, till the dead facial muscles took on that masklike appearance. Now the dead mask was gone, and with it had gone, apparently, about twenty years.

Dick Benson looked so young! Good heavens, Nellie thought, he is very young!

And then The Avenger proved that changes like this are only skin-deep. White haired and with a face like a death mask, or young and classically featured—he was still The Avenger. He was still the man of cold genius who was concentrated on just one thing:

The destruction of crime and of the men who made their livings from crime.

“Mac,” he said, and his voice was as cold and even as ice water. “A workman who stayed in the Marr plant all night is the one responsible for this—and was almost responsible for my death. I want you to check on every man who was in the plant yesterday; trace their movements after working hours till you find which did not come home. If you do locate him, be careful. He is unusually clever and incredibly strong. In fact, the most dangerous person I have ever encountered.”

All of them drew deep breaths. The face had altered, but this was still their chief—indomitable, centered on just one thing, brilliant, glacially cold.

“Josh, I want you to check on the man, Cole Wilson, who gave his address as the Shelton Arms, on Jefferson Avenue. Smitty—”

It was then that the phone rang.

CHAPTER XIV

The Warning Voice

Every eye turned to that phone. They all felt that it was important. The Avenger picked up the instrument.

“Hello, Mr. Benson?”

The voice was high-pitched, yet almost a whisper, as if the speaker were afraid of being overheard by someone.

Also, the voice was faintly familiar.

“This is Benson.”

If you closed your eyes, you could see the white, dead face by which The Avenger was known, because the voice was the same. Then you looked at the taut, alert new face and got kind of a shock.

“This is Will Willis talking,” came the faint voice.

And now it was seen that while the face of The Avenger was once more capable of expression, it wasn’t going to be wasteful with it. The others looked surprised. Will Willis! But not a muscle of Benson’s face moved. An iron self-control was taking the place of the former paralysis to keep his countenance from revealing his feelings.

“Yes, Willis?”

Benson looked at Nellie, and his right hand made a fast, significant motion. Thumb and second finger joined tips, and forefinger stood out straight. It meant:

Trace this call, and trace it fast.

Nellie slipped out of the room, and the far voice went on.

“I’m calling about Doris Jackson, Mr. Benson. She is in trouble.”

There was a glitter almost of anger in Benson’s pale, deadly eyes for a moment; his lips thinned a very little. Smitty shook his big head. He simply couldn’t get over that face expressing things.

“Miss Jackson has no one but herself to blame for being in trouble,” Benson said crisply. “She was safe here with us. She was indiscreet enough to leave sanctuary—”

“She had a reason,” came Willis’s voice pleadingly. “She got a call from her father, Phineas Jackson. At least she thought it was from her father. Actually it was from a member of the gang pretending to be her father—”

“What gang?” Benson cut in.

But Willis ignored that.

“This man fooled her. He said he was in trouble, and would Doris come to help him—alone and secretly. She sneaked away from your place because she thought her father’s life was in danger and she could save it. Then, when she got out there, the trap was closed and she was caught—”

“Out where?” snapped Benson.

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” said Willis plaintively. “She is being held near Belle Isle on an old coal scow. About eight miles up the river. Dock 13, not used now. There are several abandoned barges near there, but this is the only one pointed bow and stern. The others are square-ended. You’d better hurry out there. She is in terrible danger!”

“Suppose I meet you at Belle Isle and you guide me—” The Avenger began.

But Willis had hung up. The old man with the wild and woolly hair was harder to pin down than a flea.

There was the sound of a door, slamming in the next room. Nellie had found where that call came from and was racing to get there on the slight chance that she could pick up Willis’s trail before he got too far away.

Mac and Josh had already gone on their errands.

The Avenger was getting out of his workman’s clothes almost before he had hung up the phone. He extended them to Smitty to take in to the stock-room employee in another room of the suite, and was dressed in one of his own gray suits as the giant came back.

“You want me with you?” said Smitty.

Benson nodded.

“Swell!” grinned the giant. “I’m spoiling for a bit of action. This thing has been like fighting clouds, so far. I’d like something solid to hit.”

This wish was to come truer sooner than Smitty might have anticipated.

Dock 13, up the Detroit river, looked as if the number had brought it bad luck, all right. It was a junk dock with only junk water craft near it.

The wharf had rotted, broken planks that made it dangerous for anyone to walk out on it. Though, of course, nobody should be walking out on it; it was private property and there was a high board fence between its entrance and the road.

The pilings were ancient and slimy with green water growth. The whole structure sagged a little to the left. And it was on that side, more secure because it was half on the bottom than because of rotting rope securing it, that there was a scow with pointed instead of squared ends.

From Benson’s and Smitty’s vantage point, it looked like a great big wooden shoe.

That vantage point was the other side of the high board fence, where there were a couple of knotholes that they could look through.

“Now what?” said Smitty, pitching his heavy voice low. “Do we just climb over and go after that scow?”

Benson shook his head. His hat concealed his startling lack of hair, but his complete baldness was still hinted at by the hairless bit of scalp between hat brim and ears.

“If anyone on the scow is watching—and there surely must be someone on guard—they’ll see us. Then they might kill the girl—if she’s there.”

That last sentence had been echoing in Smitty’s mind, too. If she’s there!

This might be a trap—someone of the gang pretending to be Willis—just as Willis had said someone had pretended to be Doris Jackson’s father, in trouble, and had drawn her to doom that way.

“I have a float-tube,” said Smitty. “We could go up to that depression in the bank, there, slip into the water, then come up to the scow from the water instead of out the dock.”

Benson nodded again. They left the fence, went to the place Smitty had designated, where high wire took the place of boards, and climbed over. They did it as quickly as they could, for it was ten o’clock in the morning, now, and sunny. They could all too easily be seen.

In a tiny bay, about twenty yards across, they slipped into the water. The Avenger and Smitty each took out one of the float-tubes Smitty had referred to a moment ago.

These were flexible, small rubber hoses with a mouthpiece at one end and a cork ring at the other. Simple but efficient devices with which they could breath while walking or swimming, out of sight, a few feet beneath the water.

The two dipped under the surface and walked out into the river till it deepened. They kept flipping up with their hands, to keep their bodies down under the surface against the natural tendency to float.

It took about twenty minutes to go a hundred yards. Above them two small bits of cork, like stray and innocent pieces of driftwood, moved slowly toward the scow. Not one person in a thousand could have looked at them and realized that men were in the water beneath.

Dick Benson saw a wall of ancient wood in front of him, and stopped. Beside him, Smitty stopped, too. It was the coal scow.

Now came the most dangerous point; they must come up and crawl onto the thing in broad daylight.

The Avenger nodded to Smitty, and the two came up at the stern.

They had seen through the fence that there was no sign of life on the deck of the scow. If anyone were aboard, they must be in the hold. Though you could hardly call it a hold; it was simply a space. For, in effect, these scows are great hollow rafts, on top of which, not inside which, cargoes are floated.

Near the stern they had seen an oblong hole, leading down into the cavernous interior; so, with that in mind, they slid aboard.

Smitty could fairly feel slugs smashing into him as he and Benson slipped over the solid boarding which formed a rail. But they got aboard, and to the oblong hole, without seeing anyone.

They lowered themselves down and crouched in darkness.

Smitty suddenly remembered an old-fashioned rat trap his dad had once had on the farm. It was the kind that consists of a thick, round piece of wood with holes bored in the rim. In the center, cheese was placed. Then a rat would stick his head in one of the holes—

The scow struck Smitty as being like that trap, with a girl as bait. And they had stuck their heads down this dank black hole—

The Avenger’s light rayed out.

There was a bulkhead in the middle of the black oblong cave, cutting it in two. The flashlight showed that if anyone were down here, at least they weren’t in the rear half. It was completely empty.

There was a door, shut tight, in the middle of the bulkhead. They went to that. Benson listened, heard nothing behind it. That might mean there was nobody in the front half, either; or it might mean that the bulkhead door was so thick and tight-fitting as to be soundproof even to his amazing ears.

Smitty pressed the door, and it sagged heavily back. The Avenger had his flash off, of course. If somebody were lurking in there, with a gun, it would be silly to present him with the perfect target a flashlight would have afforded. Better darkness.

But the darkness lasted only till the two had warily passed the bulkhead and were standing several yards inside the front half of the old hull.

Then three or four flashlights flipped on at once, the bulkhead door was slammed behind them and five men leered at the two.

And each of the five, not just one or two of them, held a submachine gun.

Smitty’s rat-trap simile was now complete. He and Benson had stuck their heads in here. Now they weren’t going to be able to take them out again!

The flashlights gave dim illumination even to the far corners, there were so many of them. Among other things, they outlined Doris Jackson. So at least she was here, where Willis had said she was.

She was sitting on the filthy floor, thick with the coal dust of previous trips of this old scow. She was bound, again, and gagged. This time, instead of adhesive tape over her mouth, a dirty rag was used.

Three men with flashlights in one hand and guns in the other. Five with submachine guns! The leader of the cutthroat band, grinned with plenty of confidence at the giant and The Avenger.

Then his grin faded as his eyes rested on Benson. In his forehead, a slightly enlarged vein squirmed restlessly with bewilderment.

“Hey,” he said. “The big guy’s one of ’em, all right. But who’s this other one? We wanted the fella called Benson.”

“That’s him, ain’t it?” said another, staring at Benson.

“No. Benson’s got white hair—and a dead face. This guy ain’t got any hair at all, and his face moves.”

The Avenger’s features hadn’t moved much—had just become thinner-lipped and grimmer; but it was enough to reveal the difference from former days.

“Aw, that’s him, all right,” still another said. “Look at his eyes. No color in ’em. Like holes in his face. I’ve only seen one pair of eyes like that, ever.”

The Avenger spoke, quietly, confidently, as if there were an army unseen behind him.

“If it will rest your minds any, it is I, Benson. I don’t think you’d better use those guns.”

The men looked at each other in quick doubt. Benson seemed so calm, so sure. They had never seen any other man, faced with certain death, act like that. Even the big guy, Smitty, courageous as he was, had his eyes narrowed and was sort of waiting with bated breath for slugs to blast through him. But not the man with the pale eyes.

Then they rallied.

“Get it over with!” growled the leader, vein in his forehead jumping around. “Hey—”

The bulkhead door had opened a foot, and shots poured from the crack!

“What the—”

“The cops!”

“Douse the lights—”

One of the men dropped his machine gun and grabbed for his left arm, which was spouting red. Then the lights went out, and Benson and Smitty leaped—for the men, not away from them.

They had noted that all the shots came from just one gun. And whoever was at the door, as one lone person, was not going to be a factor in keeping these men cowed for very long. The odds were too great.

So Smitty and The Avenger began to whittle those odds down.

The big fellow felt a thigh, and compressed his fingers. A dreadful scream sounded out! Smitty could easily bend a silver dollar in his fingers, and flesh doesn’t offer the resistance that metal does.

He went on to somebody else, feeling around with his vast paws till they felt something. As he moved, he heard two smacking blows, like hitting a pillow with a whiplash, and then heard two men fall.

He knew that neither was Benson. The Avenger was demonstrating one of the many incredible abilities of his pale, deadly eyes. This was, an ability to see a little in the dark, like a feral animal. It gave him an immense advantage.

He saw, for example, that one of the men was thrusting a flashlight in front of him to take a chance and snap it on again. So he clipped that man just once in the side of the head. That once was enough!

He tripped another, saw Smitty with the neck of a man in each hand, and then Benson went on to where the girl was.

He picked her up and carried her to the bulkhead door. On the way he poked Smitty in the back twice. It was a signal meaning: Clear out with me, it’s all over.

Smitty flung from him the two he had been so enthusiastically working on, and darted to the door. Benson threw several of Mac’s little glass anaesthetic pellets into the space they had just quitted; then he slammed the door shut.

There were yells, then groans, then the thuds of bodies falling. The men in there would be no trouble to anyone for at least an hour.

Benson’s flash snapped on. He held it while he cut the girl’s bonds with his left hand. Then the flash rested on the wide eyes and thin face and wild hair of the man whose bullets had provided the distraction that saved them.

Will Willis.

Doris Jackson was sobbing and shivering, trying to control the hysteria rising from the relief from danger. Even at that she was beautiful, with her dark-blonde hair and her deep-blue eyes.

Smitty was looking at her admiringly. But Benson was not. His pale eyes were noting that Willis’s gun was being held in a peculiar way, half leveled, as if on the slightest provocation he would point it at them!

“This time,” said The Avenger quietly, “you’ll come along with us. We have things to ask you—”

And the gun did level—at Benson’s hairless head.

“Sorry,” said Willis. And his wide, erratic eyes were frightening. “I’m not going anywhere with anybody. Stay just as you are while I leave—”

Benson’s foot shot out and up like the toe of a dancer.

It caught Willis’s wrist, and the gun spun up in an arc and came down again.

“Somebody,” said Benson evenly, lips a grim line, “is going to say something. We’ve been working in the dark on this case too long.”

“Put your h-hands up, M-Mr. Benson,” came Doris’s fear-trembling tone. “You t-too,” she said to Smitty.

She had picked up Willis’s gun and was aiming it at their heads. It was a terrifying thing to see how it shook in her hysterical hands and yet remained in a killing line. The two were probably in greater danger than they had been a moment ago.

Willis promptly turned and ran for the square of light coming in the open hatchway. He leaped, caught the edge and drew himself up and over. The sound of his steps died, and the girl kept on holding the gun till it was too late even to think of following Willis. Then she let the gun sag.

Smitty promptly grabbed it, and his great hands were impatient on her slim shoulders. Her good looks didn’t impress him at all, then.

“You little dope!” he raged. “Why did you do that? Don’t you know we might have learned something helpful to all concerned if we’d had a chance to talk to him?”

Doris made an even more maddening reply. That was, to burst into tears and cling, sobbing, to Smitty’s arm.

The Avenger, pale eyes icy in his newly normal and regular-featured face, went back into the other compartment. He bent over one gassed man after another, going through pockets in search of some helpful clue.

In the coat pocket of the leader, the man with the uneasy vein in his forehead, he found something that narrowed his colorless eyes and formed a harsh square of his jaw.

That was a stub of an indelible pencil. Blue. Benson whipped out the extortion note he had taken from Marr’s house without Marr’s knowing it.

The pencil was almost certainly the one that had written the note. So they took that man back to the temporary headquarters in Detroit for questioning.

CHAPTER XV

The Man With the Pencil

The man was the fellow who had been shot through the arm by Will Willis. It was a clean hole. It was disinfected and treated by Dick Benson, himself, which was much more of an honor than the man deserved. For The Avenger was probably the world’s finest surgeon.

However, the wound, plus the loss of blood, plus the effects of that gassing back at the scow combined to put the leader out of this world for a while. Until next morning, in fact.

He was delirious part of the time, and so deeply asleep as to be almost unconscious the rest. Then, at about ten o’clock, some twenty hours after the scow episode, he opened his eyes, took some food and was all right. It was no longer inhumane to think of firing questions at him.

The Avenger prepared to do so.

Another strange thing had happened to Benson in that eerie ray chamber in the Marr plant. A thing that was just beginning to show up, now.

He had almost died under the excruciatingly painful effect of those rays designed to temper metal. His facial nerves had been shocked and revitalized with the bath of agony so that at last they were normal, alive again. And his thick white hair had fallen out.

Now, thirty-six hours after the terrible experience, his hair was growing in again; so at least it had not been a permanent injury to the hair follicles.

Benson’s scalp looked like the cheeks of a man with a heavy beard and in need of a shave. The scalp was bristly with close, virile new growth as the hair came back.

And it was coming out black!

A little earlier, Nellie had murmured to Smitty:

“I knew he must have been good-looking, once. Now—with his hair black and his face like a real face, again, instead of a mask—oh, boy!”

“Awww, look,” Smitty had mumbled. Then he had grinned at himself, realizing that he had actually started to be jealous. “But he’s the same chief,” he said.

And Benson was. Iron self-control kept his features almost as unrevealing as when they had been paralyzed. And there were still the pale, icy, deadly eyes, and the unswerving, unrelenting concentration on just one thing—the fighting of crime.

As he was doing now, in questioning this leader, whose forehead was made repulsive by the enlarged vein that squirmed there with his mental agitation.

“I’m not talking!” he said, as Benson came in, and before The Avenger had even opened his mouth. “I’m not saying a thing. I don’t know anything about anything!”

The colorless, grim eyes regarded him. He was still in some pain from his wound. He was greatly excited, and all the will in him was bent on refusing to talk.

The Avenger was the world’s greatest hypnotist. But with such a subject, even he could not hypnotize unaided.

“The ball, Smitty,” he said. “And Mac’s partial anaesthetic.”

Smitty went to the marvelously equipped portable laboratory and came back with the two things.

The ball was a sphere, about a foot in diameter, so covered with little round mirrors, like the facets of a great jewel, that all you could see was mirror when you looked at it.

The anaesthetic was one of Mac’s latest chemical concoctions. It was a bit like twilight sleep; it partially cut the brain from sensations of the body, and also sent the mind into a half-sleep where everything seemed dreamy and unimportant.

Benson suspended the ball in front of the leader’s face where he lay propped in bed. He twirled it, and it slowly revolved in front of the man’s eyes, casting little circles of reflected light dancing over walls and floor and ceiling.

“What’s that thing for, anyhow?” the man said fearfully. “What’re you going to do to me? You want me to look at that thing, don’t you? Well, I won’t! I tell you, I—”

Benson gave him a shot of the new anaesthetic, before the man had time to jerk his good arm away from the needle. His voice got less strenuous in about thirty seconds.

“I won’t look at the thing. I—”

His eyes were not wild and staring. They were getting sort of sleepy, and contented. And—they were looking at the slowly revolving ball. It was pretty hard for him to look at anything else.

The Avenger stood just behind the ball so that his pale, icy eyes peered down over it and into the man’s eyes. About five minutes passed, and then Benson judged the man was ripe.

“You will answer questions, now,” he said, voice level and calm.

“I will answer questions,” said the man, staring with vacant, contented eyes at the ball.

“Why have you made such efforts to hold the girl, Doris Jackson?” asked Benson.

“We were to get her father, through her.”

“The inventor? Phineas Jackson?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you want to get him?”

“To kill him,” said the man, staring at the ball.

“You and your gang stole the mystery Marr-Car, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“For yourselves?”

“No.”

“Whom did you steal it for? Whom did you turn it over to?”

“I don’t know who it is that wanted it,” said the man. “And we didn’t turn it over to anybody. Somebody stole it from us, just awhile ago.”

This was certainly surprising. The Avenger thought it over for a moment, eyes as pale and cold as the polar sea. Then he went on.

“Having stolen the Marr-Car, you wanted to kill the inventor, Jackson, so he couldn’t duplicate it for Marr again?”

“Yes. So we took his daughter, thinking we could get him into our mitts with her as bait. But he didn’t show up. Some old guy named Willis, maybe a friend of Jackson’s, came to help her, but that was all.”

“What do you know about Marr?”

“The guy that made the Marr-Car? Nothin’—except he’s the guy that made the Marr-Car.”

“You say you don’t know him; yet you wrote him that extortion note.”

“Who? Me? I never wrote anything to Marr in my life.”

Benson held out the note he had taken from the floor in Marr’s music room.

“You wrote this?”

“Never saw it before,” said the man.

Benson held out the stub of indelible pencil he had taken from the gang leader’s pocket.

“This is your pencil?”

“Well, I had it for a while. But it ain’t mine.”

“It wrote the note.”

“Did it?”

“What do you mean,” said Benson, “you had the pencil for a while but it isn’t yours?”

“Somebody sent it to me.”

“Sent it to you?”

“Yeah. In the mail. Day before yesterday. It was in a heavy envelope, addressed to me with no return address or name on it. I thought, at first, maybe it was some kind of little trick bomb. I got enemies, you see. So I soaked it and looked it over and saw it was just a pencil, all right. But that didn’t make sense. I just slipped it in my pocket, thinking maybe whoever had sent it would write another note sayin’ why. It seemed like it ought to be important, but I couldn’t figure out how. See?”

“That,” said Smitty, “is about the thinnest yarn I have ever heard.”

Yet, the man was under profound hypnosis, and, all were sure, was telling the truth so far as he knew it, without reservation.

“You don’t know who is behind the theft of the Marr-Car, and the sabotage at the Marr plant?”

“No.”

Benson had apparently gotten from the man all there was to get. He left him, and went to the next room. There, as he sometimes did on a case, he summed up what he had both learned and deduced, to date, speaking in a low tone.

“It’s puzzling. Somebody managed to steal the Marr-Car to get the trade secrets incorporated in it—particularly some hint as to how the steel was processed—because those secrets are immensely valuable. Now, that person wants the inventor out of the way, so he can’t put out another Marr-Car and make the theft of the first useless. That’s clear.

“But the extortion note to Marr, the expensive destruction of his plant for the sake of blackmail—that doesn’t tie in at all. The mystery car is worth so much that it makes a million look like small change. Therefore, the sabotage at the Marr plant to make Marr pay out a million to ‘the party named’ would seem to have no connection whatever with the theft.

“On the one hand, the plotter murdered for the car was holding Doris to get the father and kill him, and all through has shown ruthless willingness to kill and do anything else necessary to his plan. Among others, they have tried to kill us, when it began to look as if we might find out something. Yet, on the other hand, last night, all the plotter had to do to kill me was to leave me in the ray chamber just a little longer. And he didn’t! He carefully turned the ray off and carried me from the box—saved my life.

“On the one side there is straight theft of a priceless industrial secret and willingness to murder. On the other, sabotage and blackmail and an unwillingness to take life. It would almost seem as if not one plot were involved here—but two”

Smitty spoke, softly, so as not to break the thread of thought too abruptly.

“Yet the pencil that wrote the extortion note was in the pocket of one of the men who stole the car and planned the murders.”

“That’s right,” nodded Benson. “With the explanation that the pencil simply came to him in the mail from an unknown sender. A ridiculous-sounding explanation, but one that I’m inclined to think is true.”

His eyes glinted and he stopped his musing aloud. It told that he had speculated about as much as the facts warranted, and was ready for action again.

“Nellie, please bring Miss Jackson in.”

In a moment Nellie Gray came from another of the rooms in the suite, with Doris Jackson in tow. Doris, beautiful and slim and tall, tried to look dumb, grateful for what The Avenger had done for her and outwardly willing to help, all at one time.

Benson’s pale, infallible eyes stared at her face for a full moment, studying jaw line, set of ears, shape of nose and chin. Then he said evenly:

“Will Willis is your father, isn’t he?”

The rest gasped, and Doris’s pretense at being dumb and willing to help but unable to supply real information crumbled like sand.

Her hand went to her throat and her eyes went wide.

“Why . . . no—” she faltered. “He isn’t—he is just an old friend of—”

“He is your father. The cast of your countenance shows it. Though I got it back at the river when you held a gun on us so he could get away.”

Doris stood breathless before him.

“He disguised himself a little and took another name,” said Benson, “so he could work at tracing his mystery car and not be recognized by the gang as the inventor. Also, it allowed him more leeway in trying to help you out of a jam after they caught you. That’s right, isn’t it?”

The defiance went out of Doris’s face.

“Yes—that’s right,” she admitted slowly.

“Where is he, now?”

“I don’t know,” said Doris. And her voice rang true.

“You don’t know where he went after leaving Dock 13?”

“No.”

“Why did you keep me from taking him with me and guarding him here?”

Doris caught her lip between her teeth.

“His life is in such danger from so many people,” she admitted finally, “that we didn’t think it wise for even you to have him at your mercy. There was one chance in a thousand that you might sell him out. I think, now, that probably that was a foolish mistake. But it didn’t seem so, then.”

“You don’t know where to reach him, now?” persisted The Avenger.

“No, I don’t. All through this, I haven’t known where he was or been able to contact him. He went away from home several weeks ago; just disappeared. I guess later, when I heard the Marr-Car was stolen, that he was on the trail of it. But at first I didn’t know. And I tried every way I knew to find him. I learned when and where the mystery car was to be tried out and hid there to see if he would be among the men with it. He wasn’t. Later, in New York, on my way to your place, I went toward Marr’s house to see if he knew where dad was. I never got there, I was kidnaped.”

“Apparently you don’t think he has much chance of getting the car back by himself.”

“Heavens, no,” said Doris. “He’s an absent-minded, dreamy, brilliant, impractical man. He has no more business chasing after gangsters than a baby.”

“You have told me all you know of this?” The Avenger demanded.

Doris hesitated a moment, then said steadily, “Yes, that is all I know.”

At the door, Smitty made silent lip-motions which Benson read as easily as print:

“Josh is back. I think he has some dope on young Cole Wilson.”

CHAPTER XVI

Ashes Come to Life

Josh Newton had dug up a remarkably complete book of facts on the past life of Cole Wilson. So many, in fact, as to hint that Wilson didn’t try to hide his past in any way, and hence was perhaps a respectable citizen.

Wilson had gone to one of the best engineering schools in the country, where he had had a brilliant record. He had graduated directly into a job with Marcus Marr, where he had helped Phineas Jackson.

One reason for the job was that he was almost a member of Jackson’s family. Phineas, Josh had found out, had practically adopted Cole Wilson when Wilson was a homeless boy of twelve. Wilson had lived with the Jacksons ever since, till about a year ago when he had taken the apartment in the Shelton Arms.

The only dubious part of Wilson’s past was a repeated tendency to radical political ideas. Though even these were of no particular line. He didn’t seem to hold any particular political belief, but he was always popping off in radical ways.

“Kind of for the underdog,” Josh put in thoughtfully.

“If he heard of anybody working for practically nothing, he was apt to go hotly off and soap box around to help them get better wages. If Wilson heard of somebody in trouble through no fault of his own, even if he didn’t know the person, he’d go out and get into all kinds of a mess trying to help. Kind of a baby Robin Hood.”

Smitty shook his head.

“He seems to have gotten away from that, now! There’s murder in this Marr mess. And he’s mixed up in it as sure as there’s a sun in the West.”

“Go on,” was all The Avenger said, pale eyes like polished agate.

But it seemed that was all to report. Josh had been unable to trace Wilson’s moves for the past few weeks.

“It doesn’t seem to me I got hold of anything very helpful,” said Josh apologetically.

But The Avenger’s face, so newly able to express thoughts, showed that he considered some part of that report quite useful indeed. Though he didn’t talk about it.

And then Nellie phoned in. She had finally traced the call yesterday, and since then had been nosing around the neighborhood. Her tone of voice indicated that she’d found something pretty interesting.

“I’m talking from the booth Willis used yesterday,” she said. She didn’t know yet that Willis and Phineas Jackson were one and the same person. “You know, out on Jefferson Avenue. I’ve been looking and inquiring around again to see if anybody knew anything about Willis. And I got no answer to that. But I did get something else. Something about the mystery car.”

Blonde Nellie’s voice held a triumphant note.

“I was talking to a newsboy near here, and he said he saw a funny-looking car driven past, late last night. A very funny-looking car! And it had no lights and was going like the wind. Then it slowed up, right near the drugstore where this phone booth is, and he didn’t see it any more. After that, I tried a new angle of investigation. Instead of looking for traces of Willis, I tried to trace the car. And, chief, I did! It’s in a garage, a block west of here. I sneaked in and got a look at it. Almost got caught at it, too. It is the mystery Marr-Car, sure enough!”

“Great work,” said Benson. “Stay where you are, and we’ll be out at once—wait a minute!”

For Josh was motioning that Mac was on another phone with an urgent message for The Avenger.

Benson exchanged phones and after just a moment he said into Nellie’s wire:

“We won’t be out for a little while, at that, Nellie. Stay around there and see if the mystery car is driven out. It probably won’t be. They’d only try to move that, late at night. But if it is, trail it. I’ll get in touch with you quite soon.”

For what Mac had said, that which had decided The Avenger to go to join him first, concerned the fellow who had shut Benson in the ray box.

“I found which mon on the skeleton force in the stock room wasn’t home night before last, Muster Benson,” Mac had said. “I was hangin’ around his roomin’ house and saw him come out, awhile ago. I trailed him, thinkin’ he’d be goin’ to work at the plant. But he didn’t. He went to the Grosse Pointe home of Sigmund Ormsdale, and as far as I can tell he’s in there now.”

An ordinary workman—in working clothes that had led Mac to think he was going to the plant—had called on a multimillionaire and apparently had been admitted freely! Mechanics don’t call much on millionaires. Especially when the mechanic is employed by a rival manufacturer.

It was this inconsistency that had narrowed The Avenger’s colorless but brilliant eyes.

“We’ll be out as soon as we can make it, Mac. Stay where you are and see if the workman leaves.”

“O. K., chief,” said Mac. “But here’s somethin’ funny. It looks like the servants are all gone from the place. I guess Ormsdale, himself, must have let the mon in.”

That was funny. Benson looked very thoughtful about it, all the way out to Grosse Pointe.

Mac stepped from a doorway, sunk in a high stone wall, as they neared the Ormsdale place. Smitty parked the car, and they went on foot from there.

“He’s still in the house?” asked Benson. Smitty looked at the colorless, deadly eyes and found himself glad he was not the man who had locked Benson in the ray box. Not if The Avenger ever got his hands on him.

“As far as I know, he is,” said Mac. “But, of course, it’s hard to watch four sides of a place at once. I think, though, that only one mon came out. A chauffeur drove out in a town car a few minutes ago—”

Benson’s eyes flared. Mac said hastily:

“I think it was a chauffeur. The getup was all right. Should I have traced him?”

“You couldn’t have, Mac,” said Benson. “Not and watch the house at the same time. But I have a hunch we won’t find our man.”

Mac had been right about the servants. There were none in evidence. Benson and Mac and Smitty went to the rear door, where Benson opened the lock in short order. They went in.

Not only were there no servants there. Nobody at all was in the place, including Ormsdale. Yet, just before they had entered, Benson’s quick eyes had seen a trace of life.

A faint plume of smoke came from one of the chimneys.

He set out to find the source of that plume, searching through the basement. They found it by feel—one of several metal cases enclosing such things as furnace and air-conditioning unit and water heater and incinerator.

The one that was hot was the latter. Benson opened the incinerator door, and there still were sparks in its bed. Sparks and ashes and a couple of metallic things.

The ashes had a barely perceptible stripe through a few sections large enough to tell what the burned stuff had been. The thing burned had been striped fabric—such as material from which a shopman’s dungarees are made. And the metallic things were buttons.

“Well!” said Smitty, eyes bulging. “This would seem to tie Ormsdale into the thing! A man from Marr’s plant comes here like he’s an old friend, burns a suit of dungarees in Ormsdale’s furnace, and then takes Ormsdale’s car and drives away in Ormsdale’s chauffeur’s livery to safety.”

“Whoosh!” said Mac. “But Ormsdale’s a big mon.”

“What’s the burned clothes doing here if he isn’t part of it?” snapped Smitty.

But then both looked at Benson, who had said nothing. The Avenger’s eyes, like chromium chips in his face, were brooding, almost veiled.

“Say Ormsdale is mixed up in it,” he said slowly, at last. “Say he has that Marr man in his secret employ. It certainly wouldn’t be smart to let the man come here in broad daylight, and then to let him burn his disguise in his own furnace.”

“Maybe ’tis not smart,” said Mac, “but that’s what seems to have been done. The case is closed, I’d say. Ormsdale is our mon, and he ought to be jailed for life.”

Smitty started to agree, but didn’t get any words out.

The Avenger had suddenly taken the tiny earphone of his belt radio out and was holding it to his ear.

“Chief,” came Nellie’s voice again. “Chief, I just saw Robert Mantis. I was in a store near that garage, watching it like you said. I saw Mantis drive past, and stop down the street. He’s sitting in his car, now, as if waiting for someone. I can see him through the window— No, no! He’s going in.”

“In where?” snapped Benson.

Through the earphone came the answer.

“A grocery store. L. M. Monard is the name—”

“We’ll be there!” said Benson.

CHAPTER XVII

Prisoner’s Base

When Benson said at once, he meant almost literally that. The spot from which Nellie had radioed was less than two miles from Ormsdale’s mansion.

The three were out of the house, in their car and at the grocery store of L. M. Monard, near Jefferson Avenue, in a shade over five minutes.

Which was not fast enough to intercept Mantis. Not then. That came a very few minutes later.

“A young fellow came in here a moment ago,” said Benson to the grocer, showing his secret-service badge. He described Mantis. “What did he buy?”

“He didn’t buy anything,” said the grocer, sounding kind of sore about it. “He just used that phone. People, they come in a lot to use my phone. They must think I’m a public—”

Benson wasn’t waiting to hear the rest. He was dialing operator.

He traced the call.

Cole Wilson, Shelton Arms Apartments, Jefferson Avenue.

“And now,” said The Avenger, eyes like bits of cold steel, “we may be getting somewhere!”

At least, they got to the Shelton Arms.

The building was small and had no lobby or man in attendance. But there was a little vestibule between street and inner door. There, a locked door barred you from the wide hall leading past first-floor apartments to the automatic elevators.

The vestibule door yielded to The Avenger’s touch with magic swiftness. Then Mac and Smitty and Benson stepped inside.

Dick Benson’s pale, all-seeing eyes swept over the triple row of mailboxes with the tenants’ names under them.

Cole Wilson was on the fourth floor. A Mr. and Mrs. Altmeyer were on his right; a Miss Vole on his left. Over him was a vacant apartment, according to the blank in the name plates.

The three went upstairs to the fourth floor, because the sound of an elevator can be a warning sometimes.

They went noiselessly toward Cole Wilson’s door, and they began hearing voices when they were still several yards away.

They heard a loud, angry voice, then a softer mumble as another voice replied.

They reached the door, and all three could hear. The loud voice was that of Robert Mantis. They hadn’t heard his voice very much, but he was being so emphatic in there that they couldn’t mistake it. The softer voice presumably was Cole Wilson’s.

“Tell me where Jackson is,” the loud voice of Mantis was rapping out, “or I’ll beat your head off.”

The three in the hall looked at each other. This sounded hot.

They could barely catch the response.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Bob.”

“Yes, you do!” snapped Mantis. “You know all about it. Much more than I ever dreamed, I’ll bet. Now—where is Phineas Jackson.”

Wilson laughed. There was perfect self-control and apparent good nature in the sound.

“If you can prove I have anything to do with Jackson,” he said, “you’re a very smart boy, indeed.”

Mantis literally snarled the answer to that.

“I know you’re fiendishly clever, Cole. I know you’d leave no proof behind. I haven’t even looked for proof. I’m working on logic. And logic tells me you know where Jackson is.”

There was another good-natured laugh. And then something not nearly so good-natured. The smack of bone on flesh, and the thud of a body.

It was plain to the three in the hall. They knew what had happened without having to see it.

Wilson, laughing and apparently looking as if he wouldn’t hurt a fly, had suddenly whipped a knockout blow to the jaw of Robert Mantis. And, now, there was another sound. A sound which set Benson at the lock of that door in such a hurry that he paid no attention to opening it deftly, but simply forced it as fast as possible.

But the lock didn’t rasp back fast enough. The three jumped into a room, to see an unconscious man on the floor—and a significantly open window across from him.

The man on the floor was Mantis, right enough. The Avenger leaped over him to the window.

Four feet away was a fire escape. And as Benson stared down, he was just in time to see a form whisk around the corner of the building down there.

Wilson was gone! Wary as an animal, he had somehow sensed more danger in the offing than that presented by Mantis, then had fled!

“The guy’s got a sixth sense or something,” growled Smitty.

But Benson didn’t listen. He was already leading the way to the door again, and upstairs.

His brief study of the mailbox names and their positions was coming in handy now. Apartments occupied to right and left, but the one directly above apparently vacant.

He went to that one and got the door open. The three were suddenly staring at an elderly man who looked a little familiar, yet whom none but The Avenger placed at once.

Then Mac and Smitty got it, too.

The man looked vaguely like Will Willis, with his hair trimmed and combed, without the scraggly whiskers, and without the wild light in his eyes that had made him look like an unkempt wild man. It was the inventor, Phineas Jackson, with his disguise of Will Willis removed.

“Hello,” he said, not seeming very relieved at the entrance of the three. “How did you get here?” He looked befuddled and added: “And where is ‘here,’ anyway?”

“Say, don’t you know where you are?” said Smitty.

Jackson shook his head.

“I was brought here blindfolded and half drugged. I don’t know who brought me, and I’ve never seen my captor. But whoever he was, he has treated me well.”

That statement was borne out by appearances.

There was a slim chain to a small handcuff over each wrist of the inventor. The chain kept his hands from moving more than eight or ten inches apart. The door had been triple-locked, as Benson had noted when he got in. Aside from these two things, there was no sign that Jackson was a prisoner at all.

There was a cot, an easy-chair, magazines and books on a reading table with a box of cigars next to them. There was a tray that had recently held food, and there was a large thermos bottle to keep drinking water cold.

Jackson certainly hadn’t been abused here.

“You are above the apartment,” said Benson, pale eyes like diamond drills on the man’s face, “of Cole Wilson.”

“Cole Wil—” began Jackson. Then he stopped, looking completely bewildered, but very much on his guard.

“Well,” he said, “I may be above his apartment, but I am quite sure Cole could not have had anything to do with bringing me here. And, in any event, it isn’t the fact that I’m held prisoner that has been bothering me. It is worry over the fate of my—”

He stopped again, looking fearful of saying too much. But he might as well have gone on. Benson finished for him.

“Worry over what has happened to the Marr-Car?” he said.

Jackson looked as if resolving to say no more, then seemed to change his mind.

“Yes,” he said with a sigh. “That’s what I’ve been worrying about. The new-design car. It is mostly my creation, the Marr-Car. And it was stolen, and since then I’ve been running around in a sort of disguise trying to find it again—”

“And now and then taking time off to get your daughter out of trouble,” put in Smitty.

“Yes. Then I was brought here. And the car—”

“The car,” said The Avenger, looking as if he now knew many things, “is safe. And we know where it is. If you like, we’ll take you with us. We’re going to it, now.”

They went out, after Benson had melted the chain, holding Jackson’s wrists together, with the little blowtorch. The handcuffs he would have to wear like bracelets till they had more time.

On the next floor down, they stopped briefly at Cole Wilson’s door. Mantis was sitting up, rubbing his jaw. He scrambled to his feet when Benson entered the room, then he relaxed when he saw it was not Wilson after him again.

“You!” he said, moving his jaw to see if it was in normal working order. “I almost caught the man behind all this monkey business,” he began.

But Benson cut him off. “We know what happened. We are going to where the Marr-Car is hidden, now. Want to come with us?”

Mantis did, emphatically. They all went out and piled in The Avenger’s car—Mantis, Jackson, Smitty, Mac and Dick Benson.

And then to the place where Nellie was still on guard near that garage.

The diminutive blonde stepped from the doorway of a vacant building as the men came up the sidewalk, after parking their car several blocks away.

“That’s the place,” she said, nodding down the street.

There was a garage building there, with a vacant lot on one side and a warehouse on the other. The garage looked almost too small to be a public garage, but too large for a private one. It would hold probably ten or a dozen cars.

It had a window, boarded up, on their side. The big doors, they could see, were apparently nailed shut. It certainly looked as if it had not been used for many months, which would have roused The Avenger’s suspicion even without Nellie pointing the way.

“No one has tried to drive the car out?” he asked.

Nellie shook her head.

“Nobody has been in or out since I last contacted you,” she said.

Benson’s pale eyes narrowed at that.

“You’re sure?”

“I watched every minute,” said Nellie. “Why? Does that surprise you?”

Benson didn’t answer. But there had been a slight tightening of the muscles of that newly expressive face of his that had hinted surprise, as if he’d been sure someone had either left or entered.

“We’d better go and get the car at once,” he said, “before something else happens to it.”

“Yes!” exclaimed Jackson emphatically. Obviously, all he could think of was the new product embodying so many of his brain children. Particularly the new steel. “Yes! That is what we must do first!”

They got to the garage door. This street, just off busy Jefferson Avenue, was practically deserted. A small oasis of vacant buildings, weedy lots and storage places, it held no one to watch them.

“The door isn’t boarded up, as it looks to be,” said Nellie. “That boarding is a fake; it moves when the doors are moved.”

She pushed at one, and it rolled easily open, phony bars and all. The Avenger didn’t enter at once. He stood and looked at that door.

“Not even locked?” he said softly. “Open to anyone that wants to push it?”

“That’s the cleverest part about it,” said Nellie. “It isn’t a trap, as it seems to be. Go inside, and you’ll see what I mean.”

So they all went in—with Smitty sliding the door shut behind them again—and they saw.

Ahead of them, as Benson’s flash rayed out, was seemingly nothing but an empty garage space, with a blank wall cutting off their view about thirty feet from the door.

“That’s it, see?” said Nellie. “Let anyone come in. There’s nothing to look at, nothing to give the show away.”

“Where’s the car?” said Jackson, anxiety in his eyes.

“Behind that wall—which seems to be the end wall of the garage. I sneaked in hours ago and learned all about the wall.”

Nellie went to it, with the others following. She touched the head of a nail, and a plank about eighteen inches wide suddenly came loose at the top. She lowered it.

There was a six-or seven-foot space between this fake rear wall and the real rear wall. And in there, packed tight with fenders almost touching on each side—was the Marr-Car!

Jackson leaped to it and literally stroked the steel of the thing, as if it were alive. He talked to it; patted it. Benson turned to Smitty.

“Stay on the door, Smitty. We’ll all get in the car and drive it out. When we get to the door, you slide it open for us, and then get in the car with us. There’s just a chance that there may be a guard somewhere around here who has seen us enter, and that there may be trouble. But these windows look pretty thick and shatterproof.”

He turned to Jackson. “Will they stop bullets?”

Jackson nodded, proudly. “They’ll stop anything.”

“Then we can roll out easily, trouble or no trouble.”

Smitty walked back to the street door of the garage, using his flash because of the boarded windows and the closed door, which made the place dark. He walked around a large metal sheet in the middle which looked like a trapdoor, and which he knew in a way was a trapdoor: It covered a greasing pit. Shallow iron runways at each side the iron sheet showed that.

The Avenger prepared to take the car from its closed, dark hiding place. His quick, pale eyes had already seen the way, without words from Nellie.

At the floor could be seen half a dozen heavy hinges. They were not to be seen from the garage side, but no one had bothered to conceal them on this side. They showed that the whole wall could be let down into the garage space, hinged at the bottom and free at the top where it met the ceiling. A heavily counter-weighted rope, attached to the wall at the top, further indicated how it worked.

Benson pulled a bar that fastened the thing, and pushed. The wall tilted away from the mystery car.

Mantis, and Mac, meanwhile, were looking at the unique thing so new in automotive circles. The perfect teardrop design. The lack of hood because the motor was over the rear side. The extra-large tires. Jackson in the meantime had the door open and was sitting behind the wheel.

The wall was flat on the floor, now, ready to be driven over on the way to the sliding street doors—

But suddenly those doors opened. And it was not Smitty who had opened them. The giant yelled: “Chief—”

And then they came in—a score of grinning, murderous-looking thugs with machine guns and automatics. And at their head, openly, triumphantly sure of himself, was a man frequently in the rotogravure section of Detroit newspapers. A man looked up to and respected, worth millions, with homes all over the country and owning one of the country’s biggest automobile plants.

Sigmund Ormsdale!

CHAPTER XVIII

The Trap Locks Shut!

Bright daylight was bathing The Avenger and those with him, now that the doors were back. They were in a motionless group, backed against the side of the Marr-Car—Dick Benson with his face a cold, grim mask and his pale eyes agate-brilliant; Smitty dark with fury at himself for not having spotted those gunmen sooner; Nellie, pale but composed as always in the face of danger; Mac, with his bleak blue eyes blazing at Ormsdale.

“Ye skurlie!” he hissed at the latter. “So the burning clothes in ye’r incinerator was the straight lead after all.”

Ormsdale looked a little puzzled at that, but not for long. There was too much ruthless triumph on his face for any other expression to show.

“Walked right in!” he said. “I knew, after we’d found the car, that it would be smarter to leave it right here as bait than to drive it off, and hide it ourselves. So we did—and the whole lot of you walked right in! Well, you won’t walk out again, I can assure you.”

Smitty was so furious that, in spite of the guns. he had taken a step toward the men. A hopeless step. And he reluctantly backed up again when Dick Benson said quietly: “Smitty.”

“There’s going to be an unfortunate accident,” said Ormsdale. “The garage is going to catch fire, and then be blown up. You know—a tank of gasoline carelessly left uncovered? It happens quite often. And if what’s left of you can be identified, why that’s all right, too. It will look as if your own carelessness, instead of some such thing as spontaneous combustion, caused the explosion.”

While he was talking, the gang had been edging closer, guns ready to blast their victims to pieces. Now, Ormsdale said:

“Get away from the car. Over to the side. Move!”

There was nothing to do but obey. Helpless, with death looking squarely into their eyes, the six moved to the side. Ormsdale went to the door of the Marr-Car, left open by Jackson in his scramble from behind the wheel. The inventor was white with frustration. To have been so close to victory and then have this happen! It was plain that the loss of the mystery car was more to Jackson than the loss of his life.

Ormsdale got in. He called to the men with the guns:

“As soon as I get out and down the street a way in this car, shut the street door and fasten them as I showed you how to do. Then one of you go to the roof of the warehouse next door and toss down on the garage roof the thermite and explosive bombs that are in the green sedan.”

The erstwhile pillar of Detroit society turned back to his prisoners, centering his gaze mockingly on Benson.

“Don’t try to rush the doors after they are closed. Even if you could force a way out—which you couldn’t—you would find a warm reception from these guns.”

The car door slammed. There was a deep whir as a starter turned over the new-type motor, and then an almost inaudible hum as its powerful pistons began sliding softly up and down. Jackson moaned.

Ormsdale cramped the front wheels, the teardrop-shaped machine turned at a short angle, and purred to the door.

A man there slid the doors back farther, and the car turned into the street. Then they couldn’t see it any more. Ormsdale was gone with the precious thing.

The gang were backing to the door, now. And there was no breath of a chance to rush them or follow them. Helplessly the six saw the doors slide shut, heard heavy clicks outside as some sort of fastenings were dropped into place.

Benson stepped to a wall-switch he had seen when the doors let in daylight. He snapped it on, and electric light flooded the empty garage space.

“Not much use in trying to keep from revealing our presence here by a light, now,” he said, voice as calm and cold as his eyes.

Nellie looked quickly at his face. It could register emotions, now. She wondered what emotion would show with death by fire and explosion due any moment.

But there was no emotion at all. The Avenger’s new face was under the rigid control of an iron will, so that it still made no confessions to even the most searching eyes. An amazing youthful and handsome countenance, now that the disfiguring paralysis was gone and the hair above was no longer white but growing in thickly black. But a masked countenance just the same.

Dick Benson continued to be completely poker-faced when he stared at the iron sheet over the grease pit and called, to the surprise of all.

“You might as well come out, now, Wilson.”

“What in the worrrld—” burred MacMurdie.

The sheet-metal trapdoor rose, and Cole Wilson came into view. His face was almost as well controlled as The Avenger’s, but a trace of surprise was permitted to show.

“I’d heard you were smart,” he said to Benson. “But how did you know—”

“You fled from the Shelton Arms because you knew pursuit had almost come up to you,” said Benson swiftly. “Knowing that, it was natural to suppose that you would go at once to the object most valuable to you, and see that it had not been disturbed. Here, to look after the mystery car, to be exact. Even when Miss Gray reported the entrance of no one recently, I was still sure you must have slipped in past her guard and have hidden here. And there’s only one place to hide.”

The pale eyes went to the grease pit.

“But how did you guess I knew where the car was?”

“There isn’t much time for talking,” said Benson. “You must have heard the plan to blow up and burn this place. We had better do something about it.”

“Oh, that,” said Wilson, with amazing unconcern. “That’s easy. I was going to come up, anyhow, when you guessed where I was and called, to lead you to a safe spot.”

He led the way to the pit. And down there they saw a four-foot, roughly round hole in the side of the cement wall.

“Follow me.”

The hole was a fairly lengthy tunnel, maybe twenty feet of it. It went steeply down, and toward the rear. It ended in a sort of vault that would hold all seven of them, if they stayed close together.

“We can lie low in here till danger is over,” said Wilson. “This is the old gasoline-storage tank of the garage.”

Smitty was looking unhappily first at him and then at Nellie. Whenever an extra handsome male came around, the giant got all forlorn about his own lack of sleekness and handsomeness and watched Nellie for fear she’d show she liked the guy. And this Cole Wilson was too darned good-looking, with his dark hair straight back from his forehead, and his black, alert, intelligent eyes.

“You seem to know quite a lot about—everything,” Wilson said to Benson.

“I think I do,” said The Avenger quietly. “I will admit frankly that it’s all guesswork. You seem to have been too clever to have left clues, save for the prisoning of Jackson in your own building. Also, Ormsdale has been smart in keeping his skirts clear. But I believe the guesswork comes close to the mark.

“It was plain, some little time ago, that there were two criminal plots at work here. One was the theft of the Marr-Car, with murder no object. The other was the sabotaging of the Marr plant, with a strange lack of violence accompanying it, and with blackmail as the goal. After some thought on the subject, based on a few facts we managed to bring to light, it was possible to separate the two.”

Wilson was staring hard at The Avenger, but not letting any expression show on his face.

“The Marr-Car was wanted by Ormsdale. He was afraid that if it were brought out, it would ruin his own business. So he contacted the underworld and had it stolen, and then went after Jackson, to kill him so he couldn’t duplicate it. He is due for a disappointment when he tries to analyze that steel, however. I’m pretty sure no regular metallurgical test will reveal the secret of the ray tempering.”

Jackson nodded emphatically, and Benson went on.

“You, Wilson, were not in this for your own gain. Reports show that you have always been idealistic and have helped, as much as possible, anybody you thought needed help. You are deeply indebted to Phineas Jackson, and he didn’t get anything from Marr for his revolutionary inventions; so you decided to get a million for him. Whether he thought he deserved it or not. Not knowing of Ormsdale’s plans, you thought up the sabotage idea of tempering a few automotive parts secretly, so that when they were put in Marr’s machines they’d break the machines. You thought Marr would be brought to terms by this.”

“Cole!” said Jackson sadly. “Why on earth—”

“Then the mystery car was stolen,” Benson said. “And you dropped your own plan till you had followed and recovered it. Because the recovery was to help Jackson, too. Right, Wilson? Well, you needn’t answer if you don’t want to. As I’ve admitted, I have no real proof of any of this.

“You knew Robert Mantis well. He finally suspected his boss, Ormsdale, was behind the theft of the mystery car. He quit at once, and told you his suspicions—”

“And I was sorry I talked, too, Cole,” Mantis cut in. “I suspected you of all sorts of things, shortly after that. I guess Doris did, too.”

“Your guesses are not all true, Mr. Benson,” said Wilson, with a glint of humor deep in his black eyes. “But they’re quite interesting, I’ll confress.”

“You went after Ormsdale at once to get the car,” Benson said calmly. “It was you who slugged him in his home when I showed up, trying to force him to talk. He was afraid to call the police and have you arrested. Then you got the car in the East and drove it back here, killing two birds with one stone: You defeated Ormsdale and his thugs, and got a further hold over Marr in behalf of your old friend Jackson, by having possession of the most valuable thing Marr owned. But in the meantime you weren’t through with Ormsdale.

“You spotted my man following you in the workman’s clothes that had admitted you to the Marr plant; so you went to Ormsdale’s home and burned the disguise in Ormsdale’s incinerator—planted a clue that might damage him. And you mailed the pencil, with which you’d written notes to Marr, to the leader of Ormsdale’s hired killers, in the hope that it could be found in his pockets and incriminate him.”

Old Phineas Jackson looked as if he were about to cry.

“It’s true, Mr. Benson,” he moaned. “I feel it is all true. Because it is exactly in character for Cole to have done these things. What a pity! I didn’t want a fortune, Cole. I invented those things in Marr’s laboratory, on Marr’s time. I’m well paid by him. I’ll have a place with him, as long as I live. Couldn’t you understand that?”

“Mr. Benson is just telling us stories to while away the time,” said Wilson, face solemn but with the humor—and admiration for The Avenger—clear in his black eyes. “With no shadow of proof to go on, this must be, of course, just a bedtime tale.”

The Avenger smiled a little.

“You have done no physical harm to anyone,” he said, “save perhaps to some of Ormsdale’s murderers when you got the car back. The Marr plant damage is more than taken care of by Jackson’s steel-tempering process. I don’t think anyone would press charges against your rather misdirected Robin Hood attempt to get a million dollars for your benefactor, even if proofs were at hand. But it’s a pity about Ormsdale. You’re a very intelligent person. You almost had him when this trap of his was sprung on us.”

“I still have him,” said Cole Wilson, seeming very calm and sure about it. “I can pick him up whenever I—”

A terrific explosion rocked the very earth around the deeply buried gas tank. They’d all have been hurled off their feet if they hadn’t been seated and waiting for it. The tank ruptured in several places, and earth trickled in through the cracks. But while it would never hold gasoline again, it continued to be an excellent underground shelter.

Wilson turned the beam of his flashlight toward the end of the tank. There, the rest saw a whitish bundle of what seemed to be thick cotton cloth on the floor. Wilson went to it; picked it up.

Then they saw that it was an all-enveloping garment of some kind.

“Asbestos,” said Wilson unexcitedly. “I’ll go up, now, and when the fire department comes I’ll have them clear a passage around the grease pit first, so you can come up—”

“Wait a minute!” said Mac. “Are ye a magician, mon, to have just the proper thing here at the proper time?”

Wilson shrugged almost carelessly.

“Naturally, it occurred to me, when I hid the car in this deserted building, that Ormsdale and his gang might locate it again. If they did, what would they do? Almost certainly leave it here as bait and try to kill me when I came back to it. If they tried to kill me, how would it be? The easiest way would be either to burn the place down or blow it up while I was in it. So it seemed only common sense to cache this asbestos suit down here.”

“Whew,” said Smitty in an aside to Mac. “This guy is good!”

Wilson, bundled in the awkward, thick asbestos garment, with gloves of the same stuff and an asbestos mask ready to fit over his head, said to Benson:

“I started to say before, Ormsdale is not going to get away. He will be waiting conveniently near here, ready for the police to pick him up red-handed in the car he stole.”

Cole Wilson laughed a little, vibrantly, calmly.

“You see, I fixed the car up a little just on the chance that Ormsdale would lay hands on it. When he closed the door on himself—as he has by now found out—he dropped a pin in the locks of each of the other doors so that they, too, were locked. They also jammed, so that they can only be opened again with blowtorches and crowbars! Also, I shut off the fuel line so that the motor will die after about three minutes of running. We’ll find him, caught in his own web, somewhere within half a dozen blocks of here.”

“This guy, said Smitty more loudly, “is very good.”

Mac and Nellie murmured the same thought. Here was a young fellow with ability, method, forethought almost equal to their leader’s own. Also, he had a terrific desire to right wrongs and fight crime—even though the trait was a little out of place in the case of Phineas Jackson, who hadn’t really wanted to be helped.

“There’s only one place for this mon,” said Mac softly. “That is, with us. If we can persuade him to join us.”

Cole Wilson’s head went up, and his eyes were black pits of eagerness.

“I intended to ask if I could join you,” he said simply, to The Avenger. “For a long time I’ve known of you, and approved what you were doing. But I didn’t know if I’d have the honor of working under you.”

“It would be an honor shared by us all,” said Benson.

The steely hand of The Avenger clasped the powerful hand of the new crime aid. And Cole Wilson laughed softly and said: “We’ll all celebrate this shortly, as soon as I put Ormsdale behind bars and get a path cleared for the rest of you to leave. Be back soon.”

He went out, and The Avenger’s pale, deadly eyes were steely bright with the thought of the valuable new member admitted to his indomitable little band.

For Benson’s face might be young and alive again, and his thick hair black instead of prematurely white, but he was still—The Avenger. He still lived but for one thing, the fight to the finish against the superlords of the underworld!

THE END

Table of Contents

CONTENTS

MURDER ON WHEELS

CHAPTER I Death at Dawn

CHAPTER II Lobby Trap

CHAPTER III Headquarters for Trouble

CHAPTER IV The Motor King

CHAPTER V Captive Giant

CHAPTER VI O. K.—Maybe!

CHAPTER VII Clagget’s Field

CHAPTER VIII Will Willis

CHAPTER IX News of the Girl

CHAPTER X Wrecked Rollers

CHAPTER XI The Hidden Note

CHAPTER XII The Marr Plant

CHAPTER XIII The Deadly Ray!

CHAPTER XIV The Warning Voice

CHAPTER XV The Man With the Pencil

CHAPTER XVI Ashes Come to Life

CHAPTER XVII Prisoner’s Base

CHAPTER XVIII The Trap Locks Shut!