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

WARNER PAPERBACK LIBRARY

WARNER PAPERBACK LIBRARY EDITION

FIRST PRINTING: MARCH, 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: 0-446-74-142-6

Printed in the United States of America

CONTENTS

THE SMILING DOGS

CHAPTER I: The Smiling Dogs

CHAPTER II: Little Red Man

CHAPTER III: Sulphur and Salt

CHAPTER IV: Senatorial Interest

CHAPTER V: Lost Geyser

CHAPTER VI: The Black Book

CHAPTER VII: Two in Trouble

CHAPTER VIII: To the Asylum

CHAPTER IX: Wings of Death

CHAPTER X: The Cryptogram

CHAPTER XI: Lights Out

CHAPTER XII: Angry Congressman

CHAPTER XIII: Color Blind

CHAPTER XIV: Under the Flood!

CHAPTER XV: Catch a Nightmare

CHAPTER XVI: Terror in the Senate

CHAPTER XVII: Death’s Corral

CHAPTER XVIII: Death by Flood!

THE

SMILING DOGS

CHAPTER I

The Smiling Dogs

The setting for the scene was a little like the setting for a nightmare. It was about the time to have nightmares, too—almost twelve o’clock at night.

You know how, in nightmares, you sometimes seem to see long vistas, with horror at the other end? Or endless lines of walls around you, shutting you in with fear? Or interminable flights of stairs with some devil coming up them a step at a time after you?

Well, it was the latter with Spencer Sewell.

Sewell was looking down the endless stairs, straight at terror. It took Sewell a minute to realize that this was not a nightmare, and that the stairs really existed.

They were the long, long stone steps leading down from the Capitol Building into Capitol Park.

And it also took Sewell a minute to realize that he was not having nightmares, even though he was practically asleep on his feet.

Sewell had been in the Capitol Building, in a cloakroom near the Senate wing, since ten o’clock that morning. He had been there with Senator Burnside. Sewell was Burnside’s secretary; and when Burnside was busy, which he had been that day, seeing countless people and working on several plans, then Sewell was busy, too.

Sewell had worked himself into a frazzle all day long. He had almost staggered out of the domed building to go home and get some sleep.

Then, at the top of the long, nightmare stairs, he had stared down at—death! Or approaching death, at least, unless he could do something about it.

There were two men down there near the bottom step. But one of the two men didn’t know the other was around. This one man was slowly descending, a step at a time, with his face blank with intense thought. He had his hands in his pockets. The pockets bagged a little because the coat they were in had seldom known a press. Yet his clothes did not look shabby. They were the clothes of an outdoor man with tan on the back of his neck and a leathery skin.

The second man was at the right and a bit behind the first. The second man was stealing slowly, soundlessly after him. His hand was upraised for a blow, and in the upraised hand something glistened. You could tell clear from the top step that the something was a gun.

These things Sewell had seen in about a second and a half, with time seeming to stand still just as it does in nightmares. Then, just as he began to make his work-tired brain click a little bit, the second man struck the first.

Probably Sewell didn’t actually hear the blow, so far away. But he thought he did: a sickening crunch as steel broke bone. And he knew that the man whose back had been turned was done for.

Sewell yelled. Then he acted!

The man who had struck, still oblivious of the fact that the murderous blow had been witnessed by a third party, was stooping over the body of his victim with his hands darting into the baggy pockets.

The yell made him jerk his head up, his face a mask of fear and rage.

There was a trash basket at Sewell’s elbow, placed on one of the level stone parapets flanking the interminable stairs. Sewell picked this up, hardly knowing what he was doing. He slammed it down and out, toward the killer.

The trash basket weighed about fifteen pounds, and was aimed more truly than perhaps Sewell, not an athlete by any means, might otherwise have aimed it.

The thing hit the stairs just before it got to the two men. But it hit with a bounce like that of a golf ball and went on to slam, heavy end first, against the temple of the fellow with the gun in his hand. The man grunted, staggered back, fell to his knees.

Sewell was leaping down the stairs by now. This, too, was an instinctive act. The secretary was not very husky. He weighed about a hundred and fifty pounds, wore glasses and was soft from lack of exercise. Had he had time to think it over, he would have been too afraid to have acted so impulsively.

But he didn’t have time to think; so he lammed right at a murderer, in an instinct to help the victim.

The man who had struck faded off into the night.

Sewell bent over the victim. A glance told him that he couldn’t help there. The man with the baggy clothes and outdoor look was dead!

Sewell recognized him. The dead man was Sheriff Aldershot. Sewell knew because Aldershot had been one of the many visitors pestering Senator Burnside all day. Aldershot had been the last visitor of all. In fact, he had left the cloakroom just before Sewell himself.

Burnside had been agitated after that visit, Sewell remembered, though the Senator hadn’t explained his agitation to his secretary.

Sheriff Aldershot, Sewell knew, was from Bison, Montana, which was not far from the section where Burnside, one of Montana’s two senators, had his home. Now Aldershot, after talking in great secrecy with Burnside, was dead!

Sewell suddenly saw something beside the body. He reached down and picked it up. It was a wallet. The killer had gotten it from the dead man’s pocket, fumbled and dropped it, and hadn’t had time to pick it up again before that trash basket hit him.

Sewell pocketed the wallet with a feeling almost of disappointment. He had thought all sorts of things about the attack, but he hadn’t thought the motive for murder was such a simple one as common theft.

He began to yell for one of the Capitol guards.

No guard appeared; so Sewell, forced to abandon the dead man for a moment, went down the last few steps and into the park.

He kept calling, but he didn’t see any guards.

“Hang it,” he said peevishly to himself. “The only time you see any guards around here at night is when you’ve got a girl with you and want a little privacy under a tree.”

He was moving to the right, toward the down-curving drive at that side of the slant. And as he moved, another figure moved, too, in the same direction and a little faster! The other figure moved in a way that would bring him behind Sewell in about a minute. But Sewell didn’t see that.

This other figure was that of a bony man with a face a bit paler than normal. Down one pale cheek was a red trickle of blood. The trickle originated on the left temple, where the heavy end of a trash basket had struck.

It was the man who had killed Aldershot, slinking batlike in the night.

Sewell, far off, saw a uniform. He yelled again, and this time got some attention.

“Retired cops from the regular force,” Sewell muttered. “Instead of pensioning them, they give them jobs as Capitol guards. I suppose the old guy is half deaf—”

That was all that Sewell muttered or thought—forever! Because the man with the bleeding forehead got to him just then. For a second time a gun barrel raised up and flashed down. And for a second time a man fell and didn’t move again.

The killer began to go rapidly through the pockets of his second victim. But once more he was balked.

The guard to whom Sewell had yelled had seen the bony man bending over the other. He was running, drawing his gun as he came.

The murderer swore and clipped a shot at the guard. The shot that came back took a piece of his ear. The guard might have been an elderly man, a retired cop, but he could sure use a rod!

The man swore once more, venomously, and for a second time faded off into the night.

The guard got there, puffing, took a look at Burnside’s dead secretary and blew his whistle.

Half out of Sewell’s pocket was a wallet. Twice a man had killed for that wallet. And twice he had been driven away from his victim before he could quite get it. But it wasn’t till a few minutes later that answering guards found the second dead man. And it wasn’t for half an hour after that, at headquarters, that they found the thing in the wallet.

Then they didn’t know what to do with it.

“The guy at the foot of the steps was Sheriff Will Aldershot, Bison, Montana,” said the chief, looking at the personal possessions of the Westerner on his desk. “This second guy is Spencer Sewell. He has something or other to do with Senator Bailow Burnside. He must have, because he has some correspondence of the Senator’s in that briefcase that was picked up at the head of the stairs.”

The guard who had finally heard Sewell yelling nodded his grizzled head. He had figured out a few things.

“Sewell’s briefcase was at the head of the steps. Aldershot lay at the foot of ’em. Beside Aldershot was a trash basket belonging up near the top of the stairs, and there’s no mark on Aldershot where the thing hit. So it was like this: Sewell saw some guy bean Aldershot. He threw the basket and drove him off. He took the wallet from the sheriff’s pocket and started yelling for me. The other guy got to him and brained him before I could stop it.”

The chief nodded.

“Looks like the guy was after the wallet both times. Let’s see what’s in it that is so important.”

He opened the thing and thumbed through it. There was about three hundred dollars in it. Most of the money was in the main compartment. But in a side flap there were three bills set aside from the rest. They were a two-dollar bill, a five-dollar bill and a ten-dollar bill.

“Mad money,” said a reporter who was in the office.

The chief looked at him, and the reporter cut out the facetiousness. He didn’t want to get kicked out.

The chief, meanwhile, had been looking through the compartment opposite the one in which the three bills were segregated. In here he found a folded bit of paper with several lines of numbers on it.

“Code,” said the reporter, whistling softly.

The chief nodded and stared at it. The numbers were: 7 7 6 39 4 7 3 2 7 7 9 0 0 0 7 7 9 82 46 38 10 1 9 47 6 7 7 84 0 1 1 50.

The chief tossed it to one of his men.

“Take this to Drake. He’s about the best code man in Washington. And now this other guy, Sewell. Got any answer yet from Senator Burnside?”

The Senator had been phoned twice, with no answer. At the chief’s words, one of the men tried a third time.

He gave the Senator’s number and waited. All in the office heard the phone ring in Burnside’s home.

“Did you try the Capitol Building?” asked the chief.

The man nodded. “I tried that, and also the Senate Office Building. They all thought Burnside had gone home. But if he’s home, he’s either dead or too sound asleep to hear the phone.”

Ring, ring, ring. But no answer.

“Better run out there and have a talk with him,” said the chief. “Two guys dead—and now Burnside don’t hear his phone! I don’t like it.”

CHAPTER II

Little Red Man

Out on Massachusetts Avenue there is a luxurious nine-room mansion built by a railroad magnate for his daughter and son-in-law. The daughter separated from the son-in-law almost before the house could be completed, so it had been rented to a succession of political figures ever since.

The present occupant of the house was Senator Burnside. Burnside was in the house at the moment. The telephone was ringing, yet he was not really hearing it. That was because his brain was too occupied with other things. Too horribly occupied!

The Senator from Montana was a tall, heavy-set man with a gray mustache and gray-brown eyes. He was dressed in a creased lounging robe and had felt slippers on his feet. He was ready for bed. But he had decided, before going to bed, to come down to the living room and look once more over a reforestation bill that was to be introduced in the Senate in the morning.

He was in the living room now, with that phone ringing within a yard of him, but not being heard. Senator Burnside was staring at the double door leading from the living room into the large den at the rear of the house.

In the doorway was the thing he was staring at. And it was no wonder that his gray-brown eyes were popping half out of his head and that his gray mustache was quivering on a trembling upper lip like the whiskers of a frightened cat.

In the big double doorway was a man with a dog.

The sight of a strange man leading a dog into your living room at half past twelve at night would give anyone a start. But there was more to it than that. Far, far more.

In the first place, the man was only a miniature human being. He was less than three feet high. In the second place, he was red.

The exposed parts of him—face and hands and wrists—were brilliant carmine. Or, rather, cerise. The brightest, shiniest red attainable by any substance.

The little crimson man was dressed impeccably. He had on striped morning trousers and frock coat and a silk topper. He carried gloves in his left hand; the right was occupied with the dog leash.

The leash was made, apparently, of daisies twined in a chain. On the end of it was the damnedest dog imaginable.

It was a dachshund, small, but looking bigger than it really was when compared with the watchcharm size of the little carmine man.

The dachshund was colored, too. It was bright green. Grass green. Pea green. And it was smiling a little.

Dogs can’t smile. They haven’t the little muscles which make that grimace possible. But this was one dog that smiled. It was a sly, furtive, Mona Lisa kind of smile—as if that dog knew something pretty funny, although pretty terrible, too, and was smiling over it.

A little red man leading a green, smiling dachshund on a leash of braided daisy stems.

Senator Burnside squawked a couple of times, finally got out words. “Who . . . are . . . you?”

The words were so cracked and incoherent that it seemed the little red man could not understand them. So the Senator tried again. “Who are you?”

There was no answer. But then, Burnside thought in a crazed way, he hadn’t really expected one. There hadn’t ever been any answers from the little red man. Neither man nor dog had ever uttered a sound.

Burnside knew that because he had seen them before, yelled at them before, in various, unexpected places.

This time he meant to have some kind of answer, however. He heaved himself to his feet.

Eyes wild, mustache quivering like a cat’s whiskers, robe sailing out behind him, he leaped to a table to the right of the doorway. The little red man and the smiling green dog just watched him. And made no sound.

Burnside ripped open the table drawer and took out a gun. He fired wildly at the apparition in the doorway.

The shots died. The man and the dog weren’t there. They were not lying on the floor, nor running away. They just weren’t there!

Burnside began to run toward the doorway to investigate further. He stopped in his tracks and glared at the other doorway to the room—the one which led out to the hall.

The little red man in the cutaway and striped trousers and ridiculous silk topper was in that doorway, now! He was there with his dog, which stood squat and elongated with its green body contentedly held by the daisy-chain leash, and with an impossible smile on its muzzle.

Burnside tried to leap toward that new apparition, but he couldn’t. His legs didn’t seem to work, somehow. They were traitors. They buckled at the knees and let him down on the floor.

At the same time, his eyelids snapped wider open, and the eyes behind them went blank and rigid. Burnside had fainted. The strain on his anguished mind had been too great.

He recovered to find his butler working over him, bathing his forehead with cold towels. The butler was eying him in a funny way.

“I heard shots, sir,” he said. “I ran in to see if you had been attacked by a burglar or something, and I found you on the floor.”

Burnside said nothing. He sat up and stared at the hall doorway, where he had last seen the little crimson man and the pea-green dog.

“Was it a burglar, sir?” the butler persisted.

Burnside’s mouth opened, but closed again with no words having been uttered. He decided he had better not say what he had seen. Or thought he had seen. The Senator had visions of padded cells if he did.

“I was . . . cleaning the gun,” he said lamely. “Guess I’ve been working too hard lately. That will be all. You can go to bed.”

The servant left; but as he went, he looked at his employer with a highly understandable glance.

He thought Burnside was crazy. That was the conviction the Senator read in the man’s eyes. Burnside shivered again, and went to his room.

On the night table was a newspaper folded to an inner page. Once more Burnside read the item of interest contained there.

The newspaper item was a short one. It mentioned the fact that Dr. Augustus Fram, the famous psychiatrist, had come to Washington as a one-man lobbyist for a bill he wanted made into law.

Burnside had met Fram several times. He knew the man and knew about the bill he wanted introduced. But now he was not looking at the bill part. He was simply staring at the name, Fram, and the occupation, psychiatrist.

Psychiatrist. That was a person who knew about brains and the odd quirks they sometimes develop. Burnside got his clothes on in record time and went to Fram.

The well-known psychiatrist was in bed. But he answered the ring at his door promptly. He stared out, a tall, distinguished-looking person with a small goatee on a lean jaw, and with a tiny mustache which looked waxed but wasn’t.

“Senator Burnside!” he said, eyebrows going up in well-bred astonishment. “Isn’t it a bit late for calls?”

Then Fram saw the agitation in the Senator’s face. “Come in,” he said at once. “Here. Into my office. Sit down.”

Burnside relaxed in a chair, looked at charts that took the human brain apart and put it together again with neat numbers for every segment. Fram was economically continuing to practice, while he was in the nation’s capital trying to get his bill introduced.

“I’ve been meaning to come to you for several days,” Burnside mumbled. “I’m very worried—about a friend of mine. I’ve put off talking him over with you. But tonight he had another seizure, so I came in a hurry to you.”

“Seizure?” said Fram. “Friend?”

Burnside cleared his throat. The vision of padded cells and large internes dressed in white had never been stronger than it was right now. So he clung to the “friend” pretense.

“This friend of mine,” he said, moistening his lips, “seems to see something that is impossible to be seen. It’s as silly as seeing pink elephants or purple crocodiles. Yet he insists that he has seen the thing, not once but half a dozen times. Tonight was the last time.”

“Yes?” said Fram. He was a good psychiatrist. He didn’t prod; let the patient tell as much as possible.

“What would you say,” said Burnside, sweating, “if you heard that a man had seen a little fellow about three feet high, bright red in color, dressed in cutaway and topper, leading a bright-green dachshund on a leash made of daisies?”

Fram looked hard at him. “I’d say the thing was some advertising stunt. Someone got a dog and painted it—”

“My friend has never seen it in a public place. It has always been when no one else was around but him. The last time, tonight, not half an hour ago, it was in his own living room.”

“Then I’d say your friend was drunk and on the verge of delirium tremens.”

“I . . . my friend hasn’t touched a drop of liquor in over thirty years.”

Fram walked slowly back and forth in front of Burnside. He stroked his little goatee with his middle finger.

“In that case,” he pronounced at last, “I’d be inclined to say that your friend was—insane. But, of course, we’re very slow to pronounce such a judgment in my profession. I’d like to talk to the man sometime. And soon!”

“I’ll bring him in,” breathed Burnside. He got up. “What would be the treatment recommended for such a case.”

Fram sighed. “The man would have to go to an institution, of course. A private one, where his name would not be known. He would have to retire temporarily from all normal business. And he would have a course of physical treatments that might be rather extreme. But I don’t want to worry you unnecessarily. Bring your friend in and let me examine him. He might be all right.”

But Burnside knew from the doctor’s tone that the friend would not be pronounced all right. He thanked Fram and went to the door. The doctor bowed him out Burnside crossed the sidewalk to his car, and another car drew up behind his.

From it came a man that he knew. The man was Senator Wade, of Nevada.

“Burnside!” exclaimed Wade, who was small and spare and quick-moving. His political enemies described him as being like an angry sparrow.

Wade glanced covertly at the door from which Burnside had just come, then back at the Senator. Burnside looked at the ground.

“What are you doing here at this time of night?” he mumbled.

“Coming to have a word or two with Fram on his pet bill,” said Wade. “You know—the one that would make a sanity test obligatory to all young couples about to marry. Splendid idea. Fram was telling me the other day that about one and a half percent of couples of marriageable age have an insanity history in their families that should prevent them ever from marrying. If we could pass that bill, we might stop the births of a lot of imbeciles. What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I came to see him about his bill, too,” said Burnside hastily. Never would he have admitted to his colleague from Nevada the true reason for his late-night visit to a psychiatrist.

As it happened, Wade had lied, too. He wasn’t going in to talk about a bill making it mandatory for young folks to take a sanity test before getting married. He was going to talk to Fram about a mad, impossible hallucination he had been suffering from recently. He kept thinking he saw a little crimson man leading a bright-green dog—a smiling dog—on a leash made of the braided stems of daisies.

But naturally Wade would never tell Senator Burnside such a thing. Burnside might think what Wade himself was agonizedly beginning to suspect: that he was insane.

Yet Wade was sure he had seen the fantastic thing. In fact, not half an hour ago, he had seen the little red fellow lead the green, smiling dog through his bedroom.

CHAPTER III

Sulphur and Salt

The man was about the most awe-inspiring person it had ever been the fate of the police chief of Washington to look at.

Dressed in gray, he looked more like a gray steel bar than a human being. His face was dead, like something dug out of a cemetery. The muscles were paralyzed so that never, under any circumstances, could they move in an expression. This dead, weird face was as white as snow—as white, in a word, as you’d expect any dead flesh to be.

In the white glacial expanse of the face were set eyes so light-gray as to seem absolutely colorless. They were like deep, slitted holes into which you could peer and get a half glimpse of a world of fog and ice and personal despair.

“You got the cryptogram from Drake?” the chief asked this awesome personage, whom he—and the nation’s underworld—knew as The Avenger.

“Yes,” said The Avenger, whose full name was Richard Henry Benson.

“It must be a tough one to figure out, if even Drake can’t decode it,” said the chief.

“Drake’s idea is that the code is basically a simple one, but incomplete,” said Benson. His voice was quiet, low, but vibrant with power. “I have an idea he is right. Any code can be figured out, particularly by such an expert as Drake, if the message is all there to work on.”

“I’d hoped I would know what those damned figures mean by now,” said the chief glumly. “I haven’t got very far with the two murders. I thought maybe the message of the cyptogram would give me a lift.”

“Tell me about those two murders,” said Benson, who had just arrived at headquarters from his call on the government code expert, Drake.

The chief told The Avenger what he had found thus far.

“I agree with your guard as to the probabilities of what happened,” said Benson, voice quiet but authoritative. “Sewell either saw Sheriff Aldershot attacked, or he saw the attacker going through his pockets after murdering him. He charged down the steps, driving the man away before he could get the wallet with the cryptogram. Sewell took the wallet and called a guard. Before one could reach him, the killer struck again, but again didn’t have time to take the wallet. What facts have you on the two dead men?”

“Sheriff Aldershot,” said the chief, “is from the town of Bison, Montana, near Bison National Park. He has no family; he lived alone there. Far as I can get over the wires, no one knew why he came to Washington. But he did come, and with some business he was taking up with Senator Burnside of his home state. In fact, Burnside tells me that he must have been one of the last to see Aldershot alive. He—or Senator Cutten, the other Senator from Montana. Because Aldershot seems to have had a talk with both of them.

“Sewell has a room in a hotel in Washington, Southeast. He lived alone here. Has a mother and sister in Chicago. Burnside says he was an excellent secretary, but quiet about himself. The Senator doesn’t know much about his personal life.”

The Avenger was staring at the chief with pale eyes like diamond drills. Obviously, the eyes were not really on the chief; they were glittering with intense thought. But the chief felt a sort of chill creep through him anyway. They were hard eyes to face.

“You questioned Burnside?”

“Of course. But the Senator can’t seem to help me out.”

“What did Aldershot see him about?”

“That’s a funny thing,” said the chief. “Aldershot didn’t seem to have anything at all important on his mind. At least, that’s what Burnside said. The sheriff came up to him, he says, and muttered something about a reforestation plan that ought to be put into effect in the eastern part of the state. Some hare-brained kind of thing. Burnside’s a great land-conservation exponent, you know. He says he couldn’t make head or tail out of what Aldershot was trying to tell him.”

“You talked to Cutten, too?”

“The other Senator from Montana, yes,” nodded the chief. “He gives the same story. Aldershot approached him about some reforestation plan for a part of the country where trees won’t even grow. Hung on his tail like a leech, Cutten says, till finally he got rid of the guy.”

“Then Aldershot walked outside the Capitol Building, down the long stairs, and was killed,” Benson mused, eyes like ice chips in his dead, white face. “And from his wallet comes a cryptogram that is going to be quite difficult to solve. Did Aldershot go to see Cutten or Burnside about that cryptogram? Or did he get it from one of them? And what did he discover out in Montana so important that he came to Washington concerning it? A reforestation plan? It doesn’t sound convincing.”

The chief nodded. It hadn’t sounded convincing to him, either. But you don’t press United States senators too far in police questionings. Matter of fact, you can’t because such men have senatorial immunity.

Richard Benson came back to a point that had already occurred to the chief. “I wonder what Aldershot found out in Montana that brought him here to Washington.”

But Benson, to answer this question, brought to bear on the problem more ingenuity than the chief had. Which was no reflection against the chief. Only a few men can have genius.

The Avenger got Bison, Montana, on the phone, and asked to speak to one of Aldershot’s deputies. It turned out that there was only one, a man who introduced himself over the phone as Sam Phelps.

“Phelps,” said Benson, “Sheriff Aldershot was found here in Washington in a brownish, worn suit, narrow-brimmed Stetson hat and high-topped hide boots, well shined. Can you tell me if that’s the outfit he left Bison in?”

“Yeah,” came the deputy’s twangy voice over the phone. “Them’s his store clothes, and he was wearin’ ’em when I took him to the train.”

“They are not the clothes he usually wore in Bison?”

“Nope. He only wears ’em to weddin’s and funerals and State occasions.”

“Then he had on no articles of that costume during the few days preceding his trip here?”

There was a slight pause.

“The boots, maybe,” said Phelps. “Yeah, I think he was wearin’ his regular old boots. He didn’t change much. His feet kinda hurt him when he tried store shoes.”

The Avenger thanked him, hung up and turned to a mystified chief. “Is Aldershot’s body still at the morgue?” Benson asked.

“Yes,” said the chief.

“I’d like to look at it,” said Benson.

But when he got to the morgue, he paid little attention to the body itself. Instead, he concentrated on the shoes—the hide boots which the deputy thought were the ones he wore out West, too; had probably worn in the few days before his sudden trip from Montana to confer with Senators Cutten and Burnside.

The Avenger took out a keen-bladed little knife and two small envelopes. He carefully scraped the upper part of the dead sheriff’s left shoe, and put the minute scrapings in one of the envelopes.

Then he inserted the point of the knife along the groove between sole and upper. From this welt he got more fine scrapings which he put into the second envelope.

The chief nodded, at that, with understanding in his eyes. “Going to see if dust from his shoes will tell where he has been recently, huh? It’s a good stunt. But I can tell you that. He came direct from the train to the Capitol Building when he got to Washington. I’ve traced his path from the depot. No side trips.”

Benson wanted to go farther back than that. He wanted to know, not where the sheriff had gone since hitting Washington, but where he might have gone in his own country before ever getting on the eastbound train. However, he didn’t explain that.

“Thanks very much,” he said quietly. “I’ll get in touch with you if anything interesting results from an examination of these scrapings.”

He went from the morgue and to the home of Senator Cutten. Burnside’s fellow senator from Montana lived in a large cottage out in Georgetown. Cutten was a pleasant-looking man of fifty or so, with tired lines bracketing an orator’s mouth. However, there was steel in his blue eyes and granite in the firm line of his jaw. The Senator was a strong man.

In a tastefully decorated living room, Cutten stared expressionlessly at the man with the white, still face and the colorless, deadly eyes. More and more people were hearing of The Avenger. It was obvious that Cutten knew a little about Benson by repute.

“I came to talk to you a little about the death of Senator Burnside’s secretary and of Sheriff Aldershot of Bison, Montana,” said Benson.

Cutten spread strong, thin hands in a frank and open gesture that was not quite matched by his eyes.

“The police have already talked to me about that,” he murmured. “And I’ve told them all I know, which is little enough. But I’ll be glad to go over it again, if you like.”

Benson nodded his thanks. “Aldershot had quite a talk with you—and with Senator Burnside—I understand,” he said. “What did he come to see you about, Senator Cutten?”

“As I’ve told the police, he came to see me about reforestation. An impossible plan. Like many laymen, Sheriff Aldershot seems to think trees will grow wherever they are planted. Take a bare, desert stretch that is arid and ugly and of no use to anyone, plant seedlings—and in ten years you have a beautiful young forest! Only it doesn’t work out that way. The district he had in mind has never known trees and wouldn’t support them if they were planted. I told him so, but he was rather persistent.”

“Doesn’t it seem strange,” said Benson, pale eyes like diamond drills, “that the sheriff should have packed in a great hurry, dropped everything and traveled to Washington just to talk about planting a certain bare area with trees?”

Cutten’s eyes continued pleasant—and expressionless. “Aldershot is an enthusiast about the West. He has approached me before, and Burnside, too, about projects designed to beautify our section.”

The Avenger’s colorless eyes were like stainless steel chips in his dead face. “Did the sheriff, by any chance, mention a crytogram to you?”

On Cutten’s face was a fleeting expression of utter perplexity. “Cryptogram? No! He said nothing about cryptograms.”

“He neither showed you one—nor got one from you?”

Cutten frowned a little. “I have said there was no talk of such things. As for getting one from me, there are implications in that question that I don’t quite like. I know you by reputation, Mr. Benson, and know that your integrity is not to be questioned. But I don’t think that gives you the right to doubt my assertions.”

The Avenger stared for a long time into the blue eyes of Cutten. Benson saw an iron will there, a determination not to be lightly shaken. But he also thought he saw fear. No, something deeper than fear—horror! As if the man stared through his questioner and saw ghosts.

“Thank you, Senator Cutten,” Benson said smoothly. “Good night.”

He went out, and the blue eyes followed his straight steely back with the fear growing in their haggard depths.

Benson went back to the hotel suite he had engaged on coming to Washington a few hours before. His assistants were there, waiting for him.

The Avenger’s aides were almost as remarkable, and as capable, as The Avenger himself. Four of them were with him on this trip.

There was the huge giant, Smitty; the dour Scotchman, Fergus MacMurdie; the sleepy-looking but extremely intelligent Negro, Josh Newton; and Josh’s pretty wife, Rosabel.

MacMurdie started fuming when Benson came in. “Whoosh, Muster Benson,” he greeted The Avenger gloomily. “I’m thinkin’ by now ye’ve probably found we’ve had a trip for nothin’. A couple of murders. ’Tis bad, of course, and I’m sorry for the lads that got killed. But ’tis not as important as the crrrooks we usually go after.”

“You Scotch raven,” snapped the giant, Smitty, “is it up to us to judge whether or not a case is important enough to work on?”

“Ye couldn’t judge, anyway, Algernon,” retorted Mac. “Yer head’s a long way up from the ground, but there’s nothin’ in it to make judgments possible.”

The Scot was one of a few rare souls who could call the giant by his true name, Algernon, and not be instantly annihilated. But even from Mac, Smitty didn’t like it.

“I’ll show you—” he growled, starting toward Mac.

The Avenger paid no attention. His two men were always bickering back and forth, but Benson knew that such bickering stopped in a hurry and changed into efficient cooperation when there was work to be done.

Something in his colorless eyes and the set of his gray steel bar of a body stopped the two. They watched him while he went to a case like a small wardrobe trunk and opened it.

The big case was the most complete traveling laboratory imaginable. And Benson was probably the world’s finest chemist. Put the two together and you got results that any of the big commercial laboratories might have envied.

Benson analyzed the scrapings from the left shoe of dead Sheriff Aldershot. In silence, the four watched him while his deft hands performed their miracles with microscope, acids, and retorts. At last, The Avenger straightened up from his meticulous task.

“Sulphur and salt,” he said.

“Eh?” gaped Mac. “What about sulphur and—”

“From the welt of Aldershot’s shoe. What do you know about Bison National Park, Mac?”

The Scot wrinkled his reddish, coarse-skinned forehead and his bleak blue eyes narrowed in thought. “ ’Tis a rather small one, as national parks go, and doesn’t get the tourists that the big ones do. It’s in Montana, near the city of Bison. There are the usual freak stone formations, several miniature grand canyons, a couple of geysers, mineral springs—”

“And from mineral springs,” nodded Benson, “some such mixture of salt and sulphur deposit might be lying around. Go out to Bison and find it, Mac. Go with him, Smitty. Take the plane. I want to know just where Aldershot was in Bison Park, before he came in such a hurry to Washington.”

CHAPTER IV

Senatorial Interest

The eminent psychiatrist Dr. Fram had his office on the first floor of the home he had rented while in Washington. The office took up most of the first floor. There was a large anteroom, which was normally the living room of the place. A heavy double door led to Fram’s private office, formerly a paneled dining room.

In the big anteroom was Fram’s secretary and assistant. And a glance at her suggested that Fram had excellent taste in secretaries.

She was rather small, with a figure that could have gone into any floor show, and with dark eyes and soft brown hair, and lips to make a man go around talking to himself. Her name was Nan Stanton, and she had been working for Fram for about a year.

Because she had worked for him that long, she was frowning perplexedly over a bill that had just come in the doctor’s regular mail. The bill was from a veterinarian’s office. It was for ten dollars but didn’t specify what the ten dollars was to pay for. It was just a bill for ten dollars from a veterinarian.

That was why Nan Stanton’s soft brown eyes expressed such perplexity. She had worked for Fram for a full year; and to the best of her knowledge, he had no pets of any kind. Certainly he had brought none to Washington with him from his regular New York office. Why, then, a bill for ten dollars from a vet?

She laid it aside, to ask Fram about it later, as a man came out of her boss’ private office. She smiled at the man as he nodded a farewell to her, and he smiled back.

The man was Senator Cutten.

Nan began slitting open other envelopes, and sorting their contents for Dr. Fram. She didn’t know quite how long she was engaged at this routine task, when suddenly she was aware of someone else in the anteroom.

She looked up—and gasped.

She was staring into eyes that had so little color as to seem to be pale crystal. And they were as hard as any crystal, too. The eyes were set in a white, dead face that gave you the shivers.

For an instant, the pale eyes were not meeting hers. Then they flickered up to her face from the thing they had rested on before.

That thing was the bill from the veterinarian.

“Good morning,” said the owner of the colorless, deadly eyes and the mask of a face. “My name is Richard Benson. I would like to see Dr. Fram.”

“I’ll take your name in,” said Nan, staring more curiously than ever. This man was one of the most memorable she had ever seen. But in his remarkable appearance, at least one thing was missing that usually appeared in the eyes of visitors here.

That was—fear. The people who came here were usually driven by fear! Of a nervous breakdown. Of their mental balance. Of the brain troubles of near and dear ones. That was what good psychiatrists were for—to be visited by people in such trouble.

But there was no fear in those pale eyes. No fear of anything on this green earth. And if ever she had seen an icy, unconquerable clarity of logic and sanity, she saw it in those eyes.

She came out in a minute. “Dr. Fram will be glad to see you,” she smiled.

The Avenger went into the psychiatrist’s office. Fram got up politely from his desk and offered a slim, capable hand to the white-faced man’s steel grip. Then he touched his trim, small goatee with his middle finger and smilingly came to the conclusion that his secretary had reached.

“You don’t appear to be in need of my professional services, Mr. Benson. You are here on the behalf of someone else?”

“Yes,” said Benson quietly. “I am here to ask about someone else. That is, Senator Cutten.”

The psychiatrist’s eyebrows went up a little. He was silent, studying his visitor’s paralyzed, dead face.

“I happen to know that Senator Cutten was just in here.” The Avenger didn’t bother to explain that he knew because he had trailed Cutten to Fram’s door. “His visits to you have worried me a little. I have wondered what he came here about. People who come to you are usually in trouble of some sort.”

Fram laughed. It was a pleasant, honest sound. He waved a well-kept hand reassuringly. “Your worry is needless, Mr. Benson. Your friend is no more in need of professional advice than you are. He came about the matter that brought me to Washington—my proposed new bill. Have you heard of it?”

Fram hitched his chair forward, and his eyes began to glow as do the eyes of an enthusiast launched on his pet subject. “Do you know that one and a half percent of all the people in the land are doomed to insanity through heredity? That means that we have two million potential lunatics at large in the United States. Now, these people can be put in institutions when their affliction gets dangerous to the public in general. But as matters stand, there is nothing on earth to stop them from marrying and bringing more children of doubtful mental capacity into the world. I have come to Washington to urge a simple law on the land. That is, that every couple be obliged to take a rudimentary sanity test before they are allowed to marry. Think of the suffering that would prevent; the expense and the terror that would be avoided!”

“It sounds like a good bill, but a dangerous one politically,” commented Benson evenly. His eyes were as steady as steel on the psychiatrist’s eager face.

“Senator Cutten is politically a brave man,” retorted Fram. “He is willing to think over my idea, even though it might have a dubious effect on the voters. It was about this bill that he came to see me a few minutes ago.”

Fram laughed again, softly, pleasantly, and moved back in his chair. “When I get on my favorite subject,” he said, “I am apt to become a bore. But now you know why Cutten was in here. His visit has nothing to do with himself. You can dismiss any worries along that line.”

“This is a relief,” said Benson. He took the slim, well-manicured fingers in his grip again, and went out.

As he left the private office, with seeming absent-mindedness, he slid the double doors shut behind him. They were thick. A voice could not be heard through them if it were not pitched too loud.

The Avenger asked a question of pretty Nan Stanton in a tone that did not seem furtive, yet was controlled so that it had little carrying power.

“I suppose other representatives come to see Dr. Fram about his proposed bill?”

“Oh, yes,” said Nan. “Others have come here frequently. Besides Senator Cutten, Senators Hornblow, Burnside, Wade and Collendar have visited Dr. Fram. Quite a bit of interest has been roused in that sanity test idea.”

“It would seem so,” murmured Benson, pale eyes like polished agate.

He left and went to the Senate Office Building. He found Senator Burnside there. Burnside did not know of The Avenger. But it didn’t matter. The deathly still face, the colorless, indomitable eyes, won respect—and something more than respect—for Benson everywhere.

“I understand you have called on Dr. Fram several times,” Benson said.

Burnside had been smiling. The smile stayed in place, but abruptly it was not repeated in his eyes.

“Yes, that is right,” he nodded. “I have seen him about his suggested sanity test bill.”

“Isn’t that apt to arouse political repercussions?” said Benson. “I should think such a bill might be very unpopular with the voters. A lot of people would be very angry, indeed, at the announcement that they couldn’t marry, or their children couldn’t marry, unless they took some test that would seem silly to them. And if the test turned against anyone, the whole family would be furious at the implications of the thing. Isn’t such a bill political dynamite to handle?”

On the forehead of Senator Burnside were tiny drops of moisture. The Senator dabbed at them with a handkerchief, but his automatic smile stayed firmly in place.

“There are times,” he said pompously, “when a man has to forget political expediency and do as his conscience dictates, even if the voters don’t like it. I am about convinced that this is such a time.”

“That is the only thing you have seen Fram about?” The Avenger asked evenly.

Burnside was literally in a cold sweat, for some reason.

He took refuge in bluster. “See here,” he said suddenly. “By what right to do you come into my office and question me? You’re not one of my constituents; your card says your home is in New York. Are you some sort of investigator? And if you are, why are you here?”

“I have no official right to ask you any questions,” Benson replied. “I am here merely from personal curiosity.” Which was true enough. “It occurred to me that a proposed sanity test of this kind would be a tricky thing for a man in public life to touch, and I wondered why you did it.”

“You can keep right on wondering,” snapped Burnside. “My reasons are my own. Good day to you, sir.”

He opened the door for Benson to leave, the perfect picture of an authoritative man in a towering rage. But something about the picture didn’t ring quite true.

Benson had noted many times that usually a man talks that loud only when he is desperately afraid of something.

CHAPTER V

Lost Geyser

The town of Bison consisted of two big hotels, four or five livery stables where horses could be rented, half a dozen houses and a store.

Sheriff Aldershot had had his office over the store. The first thing Mac and Smitty did when they got into the little town was hunt up that office.

Deputy Phelps, the man who had talked to Benson over the long-distance phone, greeted them by squirting tobacco juice five feet into the top of a milk bottle which he used for a spittoon. He didn’t wet the sides of the milk bottle.

“Yeah, I’m Phelps. Glad to know yuh. Damn shame about what happened to the sheriff in Washington. That must be a right tough town.”

“It was tough for Aldershot, at least,” agreed Smitty.

“Got any dope on his killers yet?”

“None,” admitted Smitty. “We’re out here, now, trying to pick up a few loose ends. Specifically, we want to know what Aldershot did just before going to Washington. Why he went there, in other words.”

“The police chief in Washington asked me that,” sighed Phelps. “A guy named Benson also asked me. A couple of detectives phoned and asked me. Now you come and ask me. I don’t know. Nobody knows.”

“Surely ye have some idea where the mon went and what he did in the forty-eight hours before he left Bison,” remonstrated Mac.

Phelps shrugged lank shoulders. “Aldershot went away from here two days before going East,” he said. “He headed toward the park. That’s all I know.”

“That’s something,” said Smitty hopefully.

Phelps fixed him with a sour stare. “Got any idea how big that park is, mister?” he said. “A guy could wander in it for weeks and never see the same thing twice.”

“The sheriff was riding?”

“Sure! We don’t walk around here, much.”

Mac’s bleak blue eyes followed a squirt of tobacco juice on its accurate way from Phelps’ lips to the milk bottle.

“Lots of mineral springs in the park, aren’t there?” he said.

“Uh-huh,” said Phelps. “Lots of other things, too. Among ’em, a nice-size helium deposit. But I suppose you know that.”

Mac and Smitty hadn’t known. They made a careful note of it.

“Any mineral springs in the park where you find both salt and sulphur?”

Phelps shrugged again. “I ain’t no chemist,” he said, “but I can say there are a couple dozen with salt and sulphur. They call ’em mineral springs, don’t they? And mineral springs have minerals in ’em, don’t they?”

Smitty’s face didn’t change expression, but his vast hands curled a little. Phelps added hastily: “There’s about six have more deposits around ’em than most.”

“Do a lot of tourists visit them?” asked Mac.

“Tourists crawl around five of ’em,” said Phelps. “The sixth ain’t easy to get at, so only a few but the rangers ever see it. That’s a hot spring called Lost Geyser.”

“How would you get to Lost Geyser?”

The deputy produced a map, somewhat fly-specked and tattered but still readable. “Here’s the main road into the park, just outside town. See? Take this left fork, into the center of the park. Them’s the Rooney Hills. See? When yuh get to ’em, branch right. Yuh’ll end up in a box canyon with a dead end. Only it ain’t a dead end. Climb the blank wall, and yuh’ll find yoreself lookin’ down into a kinda big cup. It used to be a volcano crater, I reckon. The Lost Geyser is down in there.”

“Thanks,” said Mac.

Phelps was incurably sour. “Don’t thank me. Yuh’ll want an ambulance fer a coupla busted legs before yuh ever see Lost Geyser. Not six people a year bother with it.”

“Which makes it a good one to start investigating,” Smitty decided, when they were outside on the street. “If there’s a mystery about any of these springs, it probably wouldn’t stay a mystery long if a hundred tourists a day were scrambling around.”

They headed toward a stable to rent a couple of horses.

“It’ll take a dinosaur to carry you, though,” Mac growled, looking at Smitty’s huge bulk. “Ye were never built for ordinary horses to carry—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Instead, he jumped into a doorway so fast that he seemed a blur. Smitty was not far behind. They’d gotten clear into the doorway when a faint sound in the distance drifted to them. The sound of a shot. Mac took off his hat and looked grimly at a hole in the crown. A nice, neat bullet hole. “Whoosh!” he snapped. “Some skurlie’s a good shot. That slug must have come from near half a mile away, and it didn’t miss more than an inch and a half.”

“Anything down to the ears would be a miss,” said Smitty unkindly. “You wouldn’t feel it at all.”

But Smitty, grinning, was going toward the stable again. They didn’t even consider going after the marksman. All they knew of his whereabouts was that he had shot from somewhere south and east. So they kept buildings between them and that direction.

When they got horses, they reined northwest. That way lay their path, anyway; so they weren’t going out of their way to avoid giving the shooter a better chance at them.

However, the marksman, a bony man with a half-healed gash on his temple where a trash basket had hit him, mounted a horse, too, with his telescopic rifle in its sheath, and started after the two.

There wasn’t another encounter, however, till about two and a half hours had passed. Then Mac and Smitty were in a very bad spot for it.

They’d reached the end of the blind canyon described by Phelps. They’d thrown the reins over their horses’ heads and started to climb the end wall. Halfway up, they rested on a ledge. Above them was a surface so steep that only superlative athletes such as The Avenger’s aides could have dreamed of climbing it. Below them was a surface almost as sheer.

Smitty was resting a little, flattened against a rock wall.

Far off, a bit of whitish smoke drifted up. Just a puff. At the same instant, rock chips flew about a foot to his left. A half-second later, the sound of the shot came to them.

They scrambled upward again. And Mac exclaimed aloud as he felt something like a mule’s kick in the back.

The Avenger had devised bullet-proofed garments for himself and his assistants. They were made out of woven plastic which Benson also had invented and which he called celluglass. At this long range it would stop even a high-velocity rifle bullet, but the impact was going to leave a bruise on the Scot’s back.

“The skurrrlie!” he burred, panting his way upward. “If I get my hands on him—”

They got to the top, but not before Smitty had felt the kick of a bullet against his side and Mac had winced under another on his shoulder. Then they were over a ledge and half sliding, half running down a steep slant.

They were in the crater of an extinct volcano, all right. It was as steep as the sides of a giant’s shaving mug.

But it was not entirely dead, at that. In the center was a column of steam that ascended lazily for a few hundred yards before losing itself in the air. The steam was yellowish.

“There’s yer hot spring, or geyser, or whatever,” said Mac, rubbing his shoulder. “And the tint of the steam whispers of sulphur, Smitty. Also the smell.”

They made their way toward it. For the time being, the marksman could be put out of mind. It would take him a long time to catch up with them by climbing over the route they had followed. Meanwhile, they were safe down here.

There was movement ahead of them, near the spring. Mac instantly squatted down.

Smitty laughed. “Ducking jackrabbits now, Mac?” he jeered.

“Oh, a rabbit,” said the Scot, getting to his feet again and turning a little red.

“Yes—and tame. Things don’t come in contact with humans enough to get scared of them in here, I guess.”

Mac eyed the rabbit, which was making a slow way toward the steam column. “No,” he said, after a moment, “ ’tis not that he’s tame. He’s not feeling so good.”

The giant saw that, too, after a moment.

The rabbit acted like a sick animal. They saw him more clearly for a moment, saw that there were sores along his mangy flanks. Queer-looking sores, open and apparently incurable. Then the animal was around the steam column and out of sight.

“And there’s another sick beastie,” said Mac, pointing.

This one was a young buck. It hopped away from them, toward scrub underbrush at the far side of the big cup. On the deer’s flanks, too, were the strange sores.

“Must be some funny kind of disease,” said the Scot, frowning. “Or else, maybe the water here slowly poisons anything drinking it steadily.”

“Must be,” said Smitty vaguely. He wasn’t interested in funny diseases. He was interested in sulphur and salt, and in a marksman who might be showing over the rim of the crater at any moment, now.

He went on toward the steaming hot spring. The thing had built bulwarks around itself, through the centuries. The bulwarks were of glistening, yellow-white mineral deposit. The spring looked as if surrounded by a lot of little pulpits, climbing up and up to the steam.

Smitty bent down and scraped up some of the stuff. He put it in a small tin box he had brought for the purpose. He started to straighten up, and saw something a little farther ahead.

The object was quite a curious one to find here in an out-of-the-way place.

It was, of all things, a lady’s handbag.

“So we think we’re such good mountain climbers,” he said to Mac. “Yet some woman’s been here before us. An elderly one, too, from the look of the bag.”

He picked it up. It was large, dull-black, with a gun-metal clasp.

“Yes, the kind a woman over fifty would carry. Conservative, durable and—”

He stopped and stared at Mac. The Scot wasn’t listening, that was obvious. Mac was staring at something instead—staring with his bleak blue eyes very wide indeed.

He was staring at the steam column. “Smitty,” he croaked. “Smitty!”

“Well?” said the giant peevishly.

“Am I goin’ mad, or do you see it, too?”

Now it was Smitty’s turn not to answer, but just to stare with his eyes sticking out so you could have hung canes on them.

He was looking at the steam column, too. Or, rather, at something in the live, hot heart of it.

A man was in there. A little man, scarcely three feet high. The man was dressed in frock coat and striped trousers; on his head was a silk topper.

The little man hadn’t a normal skin. He was bright, blazing cerise in color.

In his small hand was a leash made of some kind of flowers braided together. At the end of the leash was a dog. Smitty’s huge hand closed crushingly on the Scot’s shoulder as he looked at the dog.

It was a dachshund. It was brilliant green—grass-green. And it was smiling! An unmistakable smile, sly, furtive, was to be made out on the dog’s face—if a dog can be said to have a face.

A little red man, leading a smiling green dog. And standing in the heart of that steam where no living thing could endure.

“It isn’t there,” said Smitty hoarsely.

The little man and the dog were coming steadily toward them, out of the steam.

“We’re both crazy,” said Smitty.

Mac yelled and leaped. Straight toward the apparition. When in doubt, charge. That was Mac’s motto.

Smitty saw him get within ten feet of the little red man and the green dog, in spite of the terrific heat from the steam column. Then man and dog faded back into the heart of the steam and disappeared.

Smitty and Mac got out of there. They looked at each other, sidewise, many times as they climbed to the top of the crater’s rim.

Just once, Mac put into words the thing those looks expressed.

“Nonsense!” he said stoutly. “We aren’t crazy, Smitty. We both saw it, didn’t we?”

“No matter how many see a thing,” said the giant, “if that thing’s impossible—if it just couldn’t have been there to be seen—then—”

There were three horses, now, where they had left their two. In a minute the owner of the third horse appeared. It was Deputy Phelps.

“I followed you,” the lanky deputy said. “Good thing, too. Seems we got horse thieves around.”

A squirt of tobacco juice hit a pebble eight feet away.

“I got here just in time to see a guy tryin’ to get away with your horses. He got away before I could do more’n take a coupla shots on the fly.”

“What did he look like?” said Mac, eyes bleak.

“Kind of a bony guy with a scar or somethin’ on his forehead. That’s all I can say. I didn’t get very close.”

Mac stored that meager description for future reference, with his hands meanwhile making grim, throttling motions.

Smitty sighed with relief. He’d had visions of their horses being taken by the marksman and of their trudging twenty miles on foot to Bison, dodging long-range bullets as they did so.

“Well, you guys find anythin’ important?” said the deputy.

Smitty carefully avoided looking at Mac. Neither of them had any idea of telling what they had seen.

A little red man leading a green dachshund right out of a column of live steam?

“Nothing important,” mumbled Smitty. “Just—sulphur and salt.”

CHAPTER VI

The Black Book

It was about three o’clock in the morning. Smitty and Mac had streaked back from Montana in one of The Avenger’s fastest small planes at a rate that bid fair to beat the official transcontinental record. They had gone straight to their chief.

Three in the morning. But Benson was dressed in his usual unobstrusive gray, and he looked as if sleep were the farthest thing from his mind. As far as anyone could tell, the gray fox of a man seemed able to get along on about three hours’ sleep a day.

He looked at the two objects Smitty and Mac had brought back with them from Bison Park. The little box with the salt and sulphur from the mineral spring and the shabby old handbag Smitty had picked up.

“Go over what happened at the park again,” he said, his voice even and emotionless.

Mac repeated the tale of their morning and half-afternoon at Bison Park and of the shots taken at them.

“Since you’ve never been out here before,” said Benson, “the chances are the marksman is from Washington. He must have seen you here to be able to recognize you—although it is barely possible that descriptions were wired ahead. I have checked the telegraph offices and the phone records and can find no trace of such a warning. Still, it is possible.”

“I haven’t seen anybody such as Phelps described, around here,” said Smitty. “A bony guy with a scar on his forehead.”

“Scar?” repeated Benson quickly, pale eyes like colorless jewels in his dead face.

“Phelps thought it was a scar. But he wasn’t sure. There was just a line down over his temple, he said.”

The Avenger’s eyes took on the brooding look that came when he was co-ordinating past reports. “There was a heavy trash basket thrown at the murderer of Sheriff Aldershot, it is believed. That could have produced a mark on the man’s temple. It is possible that you had a brush with the killer of Aldershot and Sewell. Go on!”

The Scot recalled the sores on the flanks of the jack-rabbit and deer.

The Avenger’s face was as dead as the face of the moon, but his eyes grew colder and more brilliant. He made no comment, but it was plain that he was very much interested in the peculiar disease.

Mac told of Smitty’s picking up the handbag. Benson was looking it over as the Scot spoke. A plain black bag with a gunmetal clasp. There was nothing in it. There was no identifying mark on it.

“And then we saw the little red man leading the green dog,” said Smitty, twisting his huge forefinger uncomfortably between his collar and his columnar neck. Even with the chief, he was afraid of being thought demented when he mentioned that crazy sight. “A little bit of a thing; he was no more than a yard high. And the dog he was leading was smiling. I’ll swear to that.”

“It’s true, Muster Benson,” said Mac seriously. “Even though it sounds mad.”

“You saw the man and dog in the steam column?” The Avenger said.

“Yes! I know nothing could live in that steam. But that’s where we saw them.”

“You saw this vision just after you had picked up the handbag, Smitty?” Benson did not look at the giant as he spoke. He was looking at a long scratch in the gun-metal clasp of the bag.

“Yes, that’s right,” Smitty said.

The Avenger rose, with the box of mineral deposit from Lost Geyser. He went to the traveling laboratory.

Eight minutes later he explained his conclusions. “The scrapings from the sheriff’s shoes reveal thirty percent salt, eight percent sulphur and the rest miscellaneous debris,” he said. “The sample from Lost Geyser has precisely the same percentages. That is where Aldershot went just before hurrying to Washington, all right.”

The gray steel bar of a man with the paralyzed face began to pace slowly up and down the room. Even in this unconsidered, leisurely movement, there was revealed a bit of the enormous physical power compacted in that average-sized body.

“Burnside and Cutten, from Montana,” he mused, “have frequented Dr. Fram’s office. So have Senators Hornblow, Wade and Collendar. It just happens that all those men are outstanding in one field of government activity: soil conservation. They are leaders in reforestation projects, dam building, prevention of erosion. It was Burnside and Cutten, in fact, who sponsored the bill, ten years ago, making Bison a national park.”

Mac spoke up then. “We heard something that might interest you, Muster Benson. In Bison Park there are known deposits of helium. Did ye know that?”

“Yes,” said Benson, “I knew that”

Mac subsided. Would he never learn, he asked himself bitterly, that The Avenger apparently knew everything about everything?

Benson went to the phone and called his personal headquarters in New York.

In a tremendous top-floor room there, a diminutive blonde whose eyes were fogged at the moment with sleep took the call. This was Nellie Gray, fifth of Benson’s assistants.

“Nellie,” said Benson, “there is a well-known psychiatrist by the name of Fram maintaining offices in New York. He is in Washington at the moment, but New York is his home. The offices are closed while he is away. I want you to go through them and make a copy of any records having to do with Senators Collendar, Wade, Hornblow, Burnside and Cutten.”

There was no sleep in Nellie Gray’s voice when she snapped back: “And anything else that looks as if it might be important?”

“And anything else that looks important,” agreed The Avenger.

“Do you want me to come down to Washington personally with any information I might pick up?” asked Nellie Gray wistfully. She was pint-sized, but always spoiling for action. And she wasn’t getting any at the moment.

“I’ll talk to you later,” said Benson.

He hung up. From his pocket he drew the folded bit of paper that had been taken from the wallet of Sheriff Aldershot. “Smitty, you’ve dabbled with code. I haven’t been able to get very far with this. See if you can do anything with it.”

“If you haven’t unscrambled it,” said the giant, “I can predict right now what luck I’ll have with it. About as much as a herring in a den of cats.”

The Avenger put on his hat, an ordinary-looking felt which was not ordinary at all. Through crown and brim were laced scores of fine wires which would take and hold any shape into which the hat was molded.

“Going out?” said Mac. “Want me to go along with ye, chief?”

Benson shook his head. “I’ll go alone.”

He went out. Smitty began poring over the exasperating code message that looked so simple but was so stubborn about being decoded.

“7 7 6 39 4 7 3 2 7 7 9 0 0 0 7 7 9 82 46 38 10 1 9 47 6 7 7 84 0 1 1 50,” he read aloud. “Now isn’t that a pretty dish to set before a guy at three thirty in the morning?”

Benson went to F Street, to the address of a certain veterinarian.

The Avenger’s mind at times seemed to be a mechanical combination of camera and filing cabinet. This was one of the times. He had had one glimpse of a veterinarian’s bill on the anteroom desk of Dr. Fram. In that glimpse he had noted the name of the vet, Albert Quinn, the address on F Street, and the amount of the bill, ten dollars.

An examination of the phone book had revealed that Quinn had his dog-and-cat hospital out in Chevy Chase. But he maintained this office near the downtown section as his headquarters.

Like a gray shadow, The Avenger drifted to the doorway of the office. There wasn’t a soul around at this dawn hour.

The place was a small store, or had been designed as a store originally. The window had been made opaque, with lettering on it stating Quinn’s profession. Benson looked at the lock for a moment.

There wasn’t a lock made that The Avenger couldn’t pick, given time. This one required hardly any time at all—about a minute and a half. He opened the door soundlessly and stepped in.

There were a few whines and whimpers from cages in tiers along two walls. But not much noise. The animals Quinn kept here were obviously ones too sick to be moved out to Chevy Chase. They were paying little attention to anything themselves.

A door to a rear room showed in the darkness, as Benson’s eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom. He went toward it, still with that remarkable soundlessness. He made so little noise that it was almost as if he floated, wraithlike, an inch or so above the floor.

He tried the rear door. It was unlocked. He opened it and waited a full minute before going in. As he waited, he strained his ears.

Richard Benson had spent years adventuring. His tremendous personal fortune had been acquired in jungle and arctic waste, in dangerous desert and on hazardous mountaintops. His instincts were so acute that he could fairly smell danger, if it lurked near. Those instincts were working overtime, now. However, he could hear nothing and see nothing, so he stepped into Quinn’s back room.

Instantly the darkness seemed to come alive. The men had been clever about it. They had not lurked behind the door, or flattened against the walls. Benson would have seen them if they had. No, they had crouched on top of things, above normal eye level, so that even The Avenger had been thrown off guard for a second or two.

Down from a tier of cages leaped one. From the top of a filing cabinet came another. And from the top of a big crate like a piano box came a third. The three hit Benson in one solid scramble. And Benson went down! Even the giant Smitty would have been bowled over by that unexpected mass impact.

To the three attackers, it must have looked as if it were in the bag. Three against one, and that one taken completely by surprise. But the odds were not quite as uneven as they appeared. Not when the one on the receiving end was The Avenger.

Benson had been jumped by groups before. He now acted with the swift method of long training. First he allowed himself to fall relaxed, when it became plain that he was going to have to fall anyway. That saved broken bones. Then, on the floor, he began to fight!

His steely left hand got hold of a thigh. His fingers sought the hollow just above the kneecap and squeezed.

Nerves as big as pencil leads are near the surface there. His fingers got the right spot with a surgeon’s accuracy, and the owner of the maltreated thigh began to yell like a circus calliope.

His right hand, meanwhile, had not been idle. It jammed up over a chest to rip aside a collar and expose the throat beneath. Here, the inhumanly clever fingers squeezed hard, too.

The third man was frenziedly beating away in the darkness with a blackjack. Some of the blows got home, but never squarely. Benson was moving his head too fast for that. He was dazed, but nowhere near unconsciousness.

The man whose throat he grasped went limp. The man who was screeching with the intolerable agony of his leg was fighting, not to disable Benson, but just to get away. His main ambition in life just then was to say “Uncle.”

He managed to tear loose. And The Avenger’s left fist shot up at a pale blur. The blur was the face of the third man, who had been jabbing viciously at him with the blackjack.

Benson’s fist caught the blur squarely, with the force of a piston. The man coughed and half fell off Benson’s chest.

The Avenger got to his feet. It was all over but the running. The two left conscious realized that pretty enthusiastically. They raced for the rear door and leaped out.

Benson got there almost as fast as they did. But the door did not move to his tug. Cannily, the men had rigged an outer fastening, before entering here, so that they could stop just such a pursuit as this.

The Avenger’s shoulder muscles bulged to pull the door back inward, off its hinges if necessary. Then he relaxed. The sound of a car in rapid motion came to his ears. Too late to do anything about the two.

He turned back to the third man, still out from the pressure against the great nerves of the neck. Benson calmly switched on the light. And then, with better illumination and time to look around, he saw that there were two bodies in the back room. One was that of his attacker, stirring a little now and moaning.

The other body lay near a divan, and did not stir at all. It was a dead man!

Benson, pale eyes like ice in a polar dawn, stepped to the dead man first. He noted that the body was in pajamas. It was that of a small fellow with a bald spot rimmed with gray hair. Spot and hair were a mess where a club had broken the whole dome of the skull.

It was Quinn, proprietor of the place. Sometimes, it appeared, the veterinarian slept here in his downtown office on the divan. Tonight had been one of the times, which was unfortunate because tonight these killers had sneaked in after something.

The Avenger set about discovering what it was the three had been looking for. The room was in a mess from a thorough search. So he decided that if what the three had wanted had been in there, they’d already found it.

He stepped to the man he had rendered unconscious with the delicate precision of his fingers. He went through his pockets. One possession of the dead veterinarian was there. It was a small black book. The blank pages of the book were alternate yellow and white. The doctor’s letterhead was printed at the top of the pages, and lines were ruled in bill form.

It was a fairly new book, with only eight entries in it The entries described pets he had worked on. Benson thumbed through it. There were three entries concerning cats, one for a pet monkey, one for a pony, and three for dogs. The entries regarding the dogs read:

Breed, Airedale. Answers name of Tierre. Distemper.

Breed, Dachshund. Answers name of Bob. Vocal cords cut.

Breed, Dachshund. Answers name of Gordo. Crushed left front paw.

This little case book, it seemed, was what the three men had come here for. Its attempted theft was responsible for the death of the veterinarian, Quinn.

The Avenger pocketed it and went out to phone headquarters and have the unconscious man booked for murder.

CHAPTER VII

Two in Trouble

In the late afternoon of that day, Nan Stanton, in Dr. Fram’s anteroom, wrote down the name of the latest visitor. It was strictly routine. She listed all who came to see the doctor.

This man was quite well known for his wealth and his power in the business world. He was Tetlow Adams, railroad magnate and mine owner.

Adams was a husky man of sixty, still retaining the straightness of body and wideness of shoulder gained in his youth by hard labor on the roadbed of one of the railroads he now controlled in Wall Street.

He had a hard blue eye, a bluish, close-shaven jaw hinting that he was not a person to trifle with, and a craggy nose twisted a little to one side from having been broken in a fight long ago.

Nan, smiling, went into Fram’s office, and came out again at once.

“You can go right in,” she said. “Dr. Fram is expecting you.”

The railroad and mining man went into the inner office. Nan completed her entry of the visit: time, date and the rest. Purely routine.

It seemed that her routine was to be interrupted for a while. Dr. Fram came out and stood looking down at his pretty brown-haired secretary. His middle finger touched his trim little goatee gently.

“Miss Stanton,” he said, “I’d like you to go back to the New York office, please. Open it again and take charge.”

In Nan’s brown eyes appeared the natural wonder as to why he wanted her in an empty office. Fram continued pleasantly: “I’m thinking of running up to New York every other week or so. I have things well started here in Washington on my sanity test bill. You may make appointments for next week in New York.”

“You want me to go at once?” asked the girl.

“At once, please,” Fram said.

Nan packed some papers for the New York files in a briefcase, checked out of her hotel and took the next train from Washington.

She ate on the train; and then, on arriving in New York, she took a cab for the office instead of the small apartment she maintained in lower Manhattan. Nan was like that. The interests of her employer came first The papers in her briefcase were important. Therefore, she would file them first in the office vault, then go home.

It was an unfortunate act of loyalty.

Fram’s office was near the downtown financial section in a building with so many offices of professional men that it was kept open all night. It was not like the average big building—hard to get into after regular hours.

Nan nodded to the elevator starter, took an elevator to the eighteenth floor and went to where Fram’s suite was located. As she went, she hummed a tune from a recent movie, and thought of the things she wanted to catch up on now that she was back home.

If there was anything she did not think of, it was danger. She saw no one in the eighteenth-floor corridor, but that was not unusual at eleven o’clock at night. She inserted her key in the lock of Fram’s suite, opened the door, shut it behind her as she stepped inside and reached for the light.

And that was the last Nan Stanton knew about anything for a long, long time! Colored lights burst behind her eyelids as something hard but padded smacked down on her head. Then blackness.

“O.K.,” said the man who had clubbed the girl. He clicked on the lights.

The light revealed him to be a most offensive-looking man, with bony features and a tallow color to his skin. There was a fresh scar running down over his forehead.

The bony man had damned that trash basket a good many times. “Bundle her into the locker,” he said.

He was talking to two men who looked so much like gunmen that they could have stepped into the movies as they stood.

Undersized men with narrowed eyes, weak mouths, and belligerent jaws. They were dressed in clothes that were twice as expensive as the clothes of most men, but still didn’t look right on them.

In the center of the anteroom where they all stood, was a little heap of white, starched dresses of the type Nan wore in Fram’s office.

The heap had come from a steel locker, which now lay empty on the floor beside it. The locker, placed horizontally, looked gruesomely like a coffin with a hinged lid.

Into it, as into a coffin, the two men lifted the unconscious girl.

“Is she dead?” asked one of them, without much curiosity.

“I don’t know,” said the bony man, equally indifferent.

“If she ain’t now, she will be later. Carry her down to the car. You, Joey, drive her to the garage.”

The two men took the locker, one at each end, and went out into the corridor. They headed for the freight elevator, straining to make the steel case seem as light as it would have been had there been no body cramped in it.

Behind them, the bony man reflected that he might as well turn that light out. And with that decision, he let another girl besides Nan Stanton in for a load of grief.

Nellie Gray, stanch aide of The Avenger, was as petite, feminine and fragile-looking as a white porcelain doll. And she was as explosive as a hand grenade when the occasion demanded action.

Nellie, told to prowl through the offices of Dr. Fram, had wandered idly by the door during the day, and looked over the lock. It was not a very good lock. It was of the type that didn’t even need to be picked. A knife blade inserted in the crack, pressed down on the lock-bar with the cutting edge getting a leverage, and waggled back and forth a few times would release it.

However, there were too many people around in the daytime to permit such suspicious actions. So Nellie returned at a little past eleven o’clock, waited till the eighteenth floor was clear—a couple of men carrying a steel locker were the last to occupy the hallway—and then went to Fram’s door.

Three waggles with the knife slid the lock-bar back. Nellie, looking like a little girl getting into mischief rather than the extremely competent aide of a nationally known crime fighter, opened the door and tiptoed into blackness.

She pressed the button of a little pencil flash. Its thin beam quested around inquiringly.

Just a few seconds before, another thin beam had been questing. It had been snapped off when the sound of her knife in the door crack had rasped faintly. But she had no way of knowing that. Nor did the fact that the door of a little washroom was standing open a crack seem particularly suspicious to her.

Go through the files, The Avenger had said, and copy anything concerned with the listed senators. Or anything else looking important.

Nellie went through the anteroom into the inner office—and stopped with a gasp.

Someone else had beaten her to it. Someone else had searched to see if anything important were around. The drawers were out of the desk and filing cabinet, and papers were all over everything. The rugs were scuffed up, where someone had looked under them. Pictures were askew on the walls. The small office vault hung open.

Nellie suddenly held her breach. This room was disrupted from floor to ceiling. But the other room, the anteroom into which she had just come, was not disarranged.

Yet there might be papers in the desk out there just as important as any in here!

Nellie whirled with the swiftness of a coiled silver spring. One room searched, another untouched! It looked very much as if she had come in the middle of a search, not at the end of one. And the washroom door had been open a little bit—

The swiftness with which she had whirled threw the bony man off aim. He had been bringing his hand noiselessly down, with the blackjack in it, when she turned with that lightning suspicion in her brain. The weapon missed its goal completely, and the bony man early fell forward onto his knees.

Nellie dropped her tiny flash. There was blackness in the room. But in the blackness, she remembered just where to grab.

Her dainty small hands reached for the spot where the bony man’s wrist was flailing, caught the wrist. She gave a curious sideways twist and a forward wrench.

Nellie Gray, so little and fragile-looking, knew more about jujitsu than most advanced instructors of the art.

The bony man spun forward and down to crash to the floor like an unloaded ton of bricks. “What the—” he mumbled, sitting up with a loud ringing sound in his ears.

It was too bad he spoke. It gave away his exact location in the darkness. With her soft red lips in a grim line, like a pretty teacher punishing an unruly pupil, Nellie struck again.

The edge of her right hand, little finger first, slashed against the man’s throat like the edge of a board.

The slashing edge caught him squarely on the Adam’s apple; and such a blow is nothing to laugh about. At any rate, the bony man on the floor didn’t do any laughing.

A sound like a squawk coming from a chicken with a ring around its neck split the darkness. Nellie repeated the slash to the all-too-tender Adam’s apple, then turned and started out of the place. It was a little more crowded than she had anticipated.

Her retreat, begun in good order, was destined not to continue so smoothly.

There was a click, and light flooded on! It had been turned on by a man with the stamp of gunman and crook all over him. He stood in the doorway, with an inquiring finger still on the light switch.

Then, as he saw his bony chief on the floor and a very pretty but very determined-looking blonde coming his way, he lunged savagely for the blonde.

That wasn’t bright of him, as it turned out.

Nellie caught his outstretched right arm, twisted it in a way that was going to make it very sore for several days, and jerked him on forward so that he sailed across the room half out the window. The window was closed, so that he had a chance to find out just how much a pair of hands can be cut up when they lunge through glass.

Nellie started a second time to get out of there. But when she had jerked the second man forward and off balance, she had swayed backward a little herself to multiply the power of the move.

She had gone backward just enough to be within reach of the bony man on the floor.

Still getting the loudest sounds possible out through his maltreated Adam’s apple, the man got a grip on one slim, silken ankle. He jerked.

Nellie Gray sat down.

The bony man sprang at her, hands flailing to smash her face in. She ducked, put up a small fist at just the right time and let him break a loosely clinched thumb on it.

But he got her with the other hand. And then she felt warm, sticky stuff smearing her neck as the second man’s bloody hands closed on her throat from behind.

That was all for Nellie.

She knew how the bony man’s Adam’s apple must be feeling, when, after an interval whose length she could not guess had passed, she opened her eyes.

“Awwph,” she said, rubbing at her bruised throat and looking around.

She found herself looking at the bony man. He had been just about to kick her, but he didn’t when he saw her eyes open. She might be able to grab his leg and do more damage if he tried it.

With the bony man was the one with the cut hands.

“She’s a tiger,” this second man snarled. “I’d like to—”

“Let her alone,” growled the bony one. “Shell get hers later. Hellcat! It’s lucky you came back from the car instead of driving out here with Joey and that front-office dope. She’d have gotten away from me.”

The two went out. And Nellie saw someone who, before, had been hidden by their bodies.

The someone was a pretty girl with brown eyes and hair, and with blood on her forehead.

“Who are you?” asked Nellie, rubbing her throat.

“I’m the front-office dope,” replied the girl. “The front office being that of the eminent Dr. Fram. The dope being me—for not realizing that someone crooked was going on. And you?”

“Looking through Fram’s office to see what I could see,” said Nellie huskily. “I got something, too.”

She reached into her dress, smiling bleakly.

“I hit the bony man a couple in the throat. With the first smack, while he was too busy feeling his Adam’s apple to feel me going into his pockets, I got this from him.”

She took out a crumpled ball of paper and opened it.

“Why, that’s a page from my list of routine calls of patients to Dr. Fram,” said Nan Stanton. “I wonder why they took that?”

“I wonder,” said Nellie. “But they did; so it must be important.”

She looked through it, searching for the name of any of the senators Benson had listed. There was no such name.

There was one name on the list, however, important enough to draw her eyes.

“Tetlow Adams!” she said. “So he’s a client of Fram’s. Don’t tell me he needs a psychiatrist!”

“No,” said Nan. “But it seems that his son does. Anyhow, that’s what he said he came to Dr. Fram about. His nineteen-year-old son.”

Nellie put the paper back in her dress, wondering if it could have any significance for The Avenger. She decided, on looking around, that she would probably never live to find out.

She and Nan were in an underground room with only one heavy door breaking its concrete expanse. Now and then she heard a rumble overhead, and she surmised that they were in the basement of a garage.

She wondered if there were any hearses upstairs, handy, among the other vehicles.

CHAPTER VIII

To the Asylum

Senator Burnside had lived with horror in his heart for days. It wasn’t a vague horror. It was a very precise one. It was a horror of padded cells and strait jackets, asylums and high gates closing behind him and shutting off the outside world forever.

He knew exactly what he was afraid of. So that, almost at the sound of the men’s voices, he realized at once what was going on.

Burnside was in the living room of his home—that living room in which he had seen something it was impossible for any man to see because it was impossible for it really to have been there: a little bright-red man leading a green, smiling dog on a leash made out of flowers.

The voice sounded at the front door, heavy, arrogant, callously indifferent.

“Is Senator Burnside in?”

The Senator heard his servant answer to the effect that he was in. And Burnside started to get out of the living room.

If he went out the regular door, it would land him in the hall in plain sight of the street door. So he didn’t try to get out that way. He stole toward the dining-room door.

Then he heard steps as somebody, his servant he thought, came to cut that doorway off. So he jumped like a frightened rabbit toward the window.

What he saw out there in the street confirmed his worst fears. There was a sort of ambulance out there, which had grating over the windows. It looked like a cage in which dangerous animals might be borne off.

Or dangerous men. Madmen!

Burnside was tugging at the window, but it wouldn’t go up. Then he heard someone come into the room behind him. He turned with what dignity he could muster. There was only one course, now. Try to bluster it out. The man standing in the hall doorway was broad of shoulder and hairy of hands. He had on white like an interne, but he looked, Burnside thought in terror, more like a butcher.

Beside the big man in white was a little fellow, middle-aged, with a kind of happy smile on his face as if he went around continually with a secret joke in his mind that he didn’t intend to share with the rest of the world.

“Senator Burnside!” the little man chirped, rubbing his hands together. The hands looked like bird claws. “You surely weren’t trying to go out the window, were you? Or were you? That wouldn’t be a reasonable thing to do when there are doors to use.”

“Of course I wasn’t trying to go out the window,” said Burnside stiffly. “I merely wanted a little fresh air in the room and was raising the window to get it. Who are you, sir?”

“My name is Sherman,” said the little man. “Dr. Sherman, of the Washington Board of Psychiatrists. We—the board, that is—want to have a little talk with you. So I came in the car, which the board has at its disposal, to get you. If you will just get your hat and coat—”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” said Burnside thickly. When you’ve dreamed of something like this for days, and then it happens, the fact tends to clog your throat a little and make it hard to talk.

“We merely want to talk to you a bit,” soothed the birdlike little man who called himself Dr. Sherman. His jolly smile beamed out. “We understand you have been having a little trouble lately with—your eyes. You see things. So if you will just come along with us—”

Burnside lost all reason, then. He forgot about trying to act pompous and authoritative.

Fram, he thought wildly, had betrayed him. He had gone to Fram with a story of a “friend of his” seeing the little red man with the green dog. Fram, after saying that anyone seeing such things could not be sane, had deduced that Burnside was talking about himself and not any mythical third party. Then Fram had gone to the Washington Board of Psychiatrists about him.

Probably Burnside wouldn’t have gone so completely to pieces if he hadn’t entertained such grave doubts in the last two weeks as to his own sanity. He didn’t need anyone to insinuate that perhaps he didn’t have all his buttons; he was increasingly afraid of it himself.

And now—an asylum wagon, an attendant, and a horribly smiling little psychiatrist!

Burnside screamed and leaped for the dining-room door in spite of the steps he had heard there a moment ago. He was confronted by his butler, who stepped into view when Burnside charged.

Burnside was hopelessly aware that his servants had been looking askance at him for days—realizing that he was acting very queerly indeed. The butler had never, for example, swallowed that story about Burnside’s gun going off in the dead of night because he had been “cleaning” it.

The servants thought he was crazy, too. So the butler promptly closed with Burnside and kept him from getting out of the living room into the dining-room.

The Senator lashed out wildly with his fists. The servant went down. But by then the white-coated man had him. He got the Senator down and held him by sitting on his head, as one would hold an unruly horse.

“I’m not crazy!” screamed Burnside. If he wasn’t, it was exactly the wrong thing to yell. “I swear I’m sane!”

“There, there,” soothed the little doctor, never losing his smile or his professional composure for a moment. “Of course you’re sane. Of course you’re not crazy. But we just want to ask you a few questions— Oh, you would, would you!”

Burnside had tried to grab Sherman’s legs. So the little birdlike doctor nodded to the big man sitting on Burnside’s head, and the man smacked the Senator in the jaw.

Burnside wasn’t out, but he was unable to move when they hoisted him out the door and into the dreadful vehicle with the grated windows. He heard the little man say: “My, but it’s fortunate this was discovered! Think of having the nation’s affairs handled by a crazy man! A United States Senator, gone mad in office!”

“Sometimes I think they’re all a little nuts,” observed the big man, dumping Burnside into the wagon.

Burnside was stirring again; but it did him no good, then, because the door at the end had clanged shut on him. It sounded to the anguished Senator like the big iron asylum gates which would also presently clang shut on him. Unless he could beat this—somehow.

“Just make yourself comfortable, Senator,” chirped birdlike Dr. Sherman. He had climbed into the rear of the ambulance with Burnside. So had the big man in white, who now glowered at him, plainly ready to sock him again if he tried any tricks.

Burnside couldn’t see the driver. There was a little window in the front wall of the padded truck, but the man at the wheel was sitting to the left of it, out of his range of vision. All he knew was that there was a driver, because the car was moving.

“Look, here,” the Senator said to Sherman. “This is all pretty ridiculous. I don’t care what Fram told you, it isn’t true.”

“Of course, it isn’t,” said the little psychiatrist, beaming.

“The things I told Fram were about a friend of mine,” said Burnside.

“Of course. About a friend of yours.”

The ambulance slowed, then stopped.

The little doctor hopped to the small front window, opened it a crack, and said to the driver: “What’s up? Why are you stopping?”

“Dr. Fram is out here. He wants to go with us, I guess,” Burnside heard the driver reply.

Then the car sagged a little as a man got on. Burnside saw the back of someone’s back, beside the driver. The car started on—

Afterward, Burnside never knew exactly what had happened. For that matter, neither did the husky man in white, nor little Dr. Sherman.

The driver of the car with the grated windows had stopped for the man with the trim goatee and the mustache that looked waxed but wasn’t. Dr. Fram nodded pleasantly to him and climbed up beside him.

Fram had touched his goatee gently with his middle finger. Then, after the car had rolled several blocks along Massachusetts Avenue, things happened in that front seat too swiftly for the driver to keep pace.

Dr. Fram’s left hand shot out and clamped over the driver’s neck—from the rear, instead of the front. That was because the hand was not concerned with throttling the driver, but with finding certain nerve cables there.

That the questing fingers found the right place, the driver could have testified, because in a second things began to go black before his eyes.

Dr. Fram’s right hand caught the wheel after the car had wobbled once, and kept it on a straight path. The driver slumped behind the wheel.

There was a deft exchange, in which the man with the neat goatee pulled the driver’s unconscious form out from behind the wheel and onto the floor, and then slid over himself.

But behind, the three men in the body of the ambulance did not know these things.

They had felt it when the car swerved, and merely thought that the driver was wheeling to avoid hitting something in the street. After that they felt nothing—except a sudden, overpowering sleepiness.

Burnside and the man in white let their heads nod with nothing but a dull wonder in their eyes that they should become sleepy at such a time. But birdlike little Dr. Sherman fought wildly against the slumbrous feeling. With his medical training, it had penetrated instantly into his numbing brain that something was very wrong.

The startled knowledge didn’t save him. His figure joined the other two on the floor. And the car rolled smoothly over Washington streets with three in the back who slept so deeply they might have been dead.

Burnside opened his eyes some time later to find himself in a small room that looked much like a standard bedroom, save that it had no windows.

He lay in bed, dazed, staring around. The door opened and a man with a neat goatee and a super-neat small mustache came in.

That stirred the Senator. He sat up with the dull-red of rage in his cheeks. “Fram!” he rasped. “You damned, double-crossing—”

He stopped. “Fram” was taking something curious from his eyeballs. Two small, tissue-thin glass cups with pupils painted on them like the pupils of Fram’s eyes.

The eyes that were revealed were not the eyes of the psychiatrist. They were like stainless steel chips in the emotionless countenance so cleverly resembling Fram’s face. They were—the eyes of The Avenger, otherwise disguised as Dr. Fram.

Man of a Thousand Faces, Benson was called. And once again he had proved his right to the title.

“I heard Dr. Sherman talk to your butler yesterday,” Benson said calmly. “I tapped your telephone wire. I heard the butler tell all about the way your gun went off ‘accidentally’ the other night, and I suspected something like this was in the wind. So I prepared for it. A substitution of Fram’s features for my own, a bit of gas for the men in the ambulance, and here we are.”

“You saved my life,” mumbled Burnside, eyes profoundly grateful.

“Perhaps not,” said Benson. “Perhaps you were only to be thoroughly frightened. But I couldn’t take a chance. I didn’t know.”

Burnside clutched The Avenger’s arm as his first fear came back. It was a good deal like clutching a length of tapering steel cable.

“You don’t think I’m insane, do you?” he implored. “You haven’t taken me—just to shut me up in a private sanitarium?”

“I think you are quite sane,” Benson said.

“Where am I?” said Burnside, relaxing again.

“In the storage room of an office suite I keep rented here in Washington. No one knows it is mine. You will have this room, and two outside, to wander in. But I don’t want you to leave the suite.”

“But you just said you didn’t think I was crazy.”

“I don’t. But others may. It would be safest for you to lie low here for a time.”

“I’m a busy man,” protested Burnside.

“When matters come up in the Senate making your presence there imperative,” said The Avenger, “you can go there from here, doubling on your tracks so that you can’t be traced. You can return the same way. But this hide-out must be your temporary quarters. I have assigned my two servants to take care of your needs.”

He nodded and went out, with authority and power so dominant in his average-sized body that even a man like Senator Burnside was left incapable of questioning it.

Outside, he drew Josh Newton aside. “You and Rosabel will tend the Senator’s needs,” he said. “Burnside knows something that he doesn’t seem to want to tell. I want you two to try to find out what it is.”

CHAPTER IX

Wings of Death

Nellie Gray was an excellent judge of character. She had talked quite a little with Nan Stanton, her fellow prisoner in the basement of the garage, and was sure Nan could be trusted.

The two girls had told a little about themselves to each other. Nan kept dwelling on the phrase the bony man had used to describe her.

“ ‘Dope from the front office,’ huh!” she repeated for the dozenth time. “Well, they’re right. I certainly was a dope.” She stretched slim, shapely arms. “It begins to look as if Dr. Fram sent me up to the New York office for the sole purpose of getting me grabbed off by those men.”

“So Dr. Fram’s a phony,” mused Nellie Gray.

Nan shook her sleek dark head doubtfully. “He’s not a phony—at least in his profession. That’s what makes it puzzling. He’s a bona-fide psychiatrist with a fine reputation. And his reputation has been earned. He is good.”

“It certainly looks as if he’s mixed up in this, somewhere,” shrugged Nellie. “Why would he want you kidnapped, though? What do you know about his business?”

“Not a blamed thing,” said Nan. “But I suppose he, or somebody, thinks I know something. I suppose he kept an ignoramus like me in the anteroom because I was a good front, and then suddenly decided I knew too much.”

“But you just said he wasn’t a phony, which would indicate that he wasn’t mixed up in anything crooked,” argued Nellie.

“I don’t know what I think,” Nan admitted.

Nellie cast back over The Avenger’s phoned command to her. Find out anything she could about the visits of the senators to Fram.

“Tell me about this sanity test thing Fram’s in Washington about,” she said.

“It’s a pet subject with Dr. Fram,” replied Nan. She repeated words she had heard often in his office. “Do you know that about one and a half percent of the population in the United States is doomed to insanity? Well they are. And usually they can be spotted by examination of their lives and their family history. Now, if all young people with doubtful streaks in their heredity could be kept from marrying, gradually the insanity rate would dwindle down to nothing. There would be no children with weak minds brought into the world.”

“You know,” said Nellie, “if enough cranks could pass enough laws designed to better the human race, in about a hundred years there wouldn’t be any human race left to better.”

“It sounds logical to me.”

Nellie shrugged again. “Maybe it’s logical,” she murmured. “But to me it sounds like the ‘so-what’ department. I find it very strange that Senators Wade, Hornblow, Burnside, Collendar and Cutten should call so often on Dr. Fram on such an uninteresting political issue. But they did call often, didn’t they?”

“Yes,” said Nan. She spoke slowly, and very thoughtfully.

Nellie Gray noted the slowness, and said, “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking,” responded Nan, “that more than once I thought I saw something in the eyes of those Senators that a sanity test bill shouldn’t have brought. That was—fear.”

“Fear?” said Nellie.

“Yes—fear! And several times some of them, particularly Burnside and Wade, called very late at night. Much later than you’d think men would call in regard to an ordinary bit of proposed legislation.”

“Had Fram entertained this pet idea of his for a long time?” Nellie asked.

Nan shook her head. “I’ve worked for him for about a year. I didn’t hear him mention the thing till about six weeks ago. Then he suddenly began harping on it all the time. Finally, on a moment’s notice, he packed and went to Washington to lobby for the bill.”

Nellie had noticed the same thing that Benson had about the Senators who often visited the psychiatrist. “These men,” she said, “are all well known for one thing: activities in soil conservation. They haven’t anything to do with the type of legislation Fram wants pushed. Why did he pick on them?”

“I don’t know,” said Nan.

“Did any other representatives call on Fram?”

“A congressman came once,” said Nan. “Congressman Coolie.”

“Also interested primarily in dams and erosion and reforestation,” nodded Nellie. “He’s the chief leader of bills of that type in the other wing of the Capitol Building. It’s strange.”

She tried another tack. “Tetlow Adams! He’s a power in the land. You say he came to see Fram about his son?”

“That’s what he said,” Nan replied. “I overheard him once or twice when the doctor didn’t shut his inner door tightly. Mr. Adams has a nineteen-year-old boy who is acting strangely.”

“Didn’t he ever bring the son in?”

“No,” said Nan, “he didn’t. He always came and just talked about him. I thought that was queer, though I didn’t think about it very hard.”

“He always talked to the doctor only about his son?”

“I can’t say that,” admitted Nan. “Twice I heard a little, when, as I said, Dr. Fram didn’t shut his inner door tightly. But each time, after I’d heard only a little, he got up and shut the door flush.”

“It could be,” murmured Nellie, “that you were supposed to hear just that much—and no more.”

“It’s hard to believe anything like that. As I say, Dr. Fram isn’t a phony. He’s eminent in his line. And in a whole year of contact with him, I’d say he is a nice, honest, pleasant person.”

“Who set you up to be kidnapped,” Nellie pointed out.

“We don’t know that.”

“No, we don’t know it. Perhaps he is innocently surrounded by some sort of crooked work and hasn’t yet suspected it. Perhaps he has been forced into something; an unwilling tool. Perhaps—”

The door opened. In the doorway stood the bony man and the two who had carried Nan Stanton downstairs in the coffinlike steel locker.

The bony man was smiling a little. One glance at the smile made Nellie wish he wouldn’t. She had seen murderous smiles before. This was a perfect example of one.

“My, ain’t they a nice pair?” mocked the bony man, looking the two girls over.

They were a nice pair. Nellie, with her tawny-yellow hair and blue eyes, was a perfect foil in beauty for Nan Stanton’s brunette loveliness.

But the minds of the three kidnappers were obviously on things other than pulchritude. The bony man had just sounded off to be smart.

Nellie felt cold all over. This was it, she thought, in a corner of her brain. The bony fellow had been waiting orders from someone as to the disposition of the two prisoners. Now he had received his orders. Deadly orders!

The wings of death were hovering very low over Nellie Gray and Nan Stanton!

“You’re going to have a little sleep,” said the bony man, smirking. “You’re going to go by-by to slumber land, just like the kids’ programs say on the radio.”

He stopped smiling.

“Out! Come with us. And you”—he glared at Nellie—“any of your panther tricks and you won’t go out the easy way.”

Nellie and Nan went to the door. The men stood back—way back—till they had passed. Then the men fell in behind, herding the two girls along.

Nan was white and scared and mystified. Nellie was not so mystified. The few words of the bony man, and the fact that they weren’t clubbed or shot down at once, had given her the key to the next act.

They were to be killed, but in such a way as to make it seem to be an accident and not murder.

The two went along a narrow corridor and up a greasy flight of stairs. They stepped into a small garage room.

Not a big one. A small room. That was because it was a back room, partitioned off from the main garage. It was a workshop, with a bench along one wall. The partition was flimsy, of planks instead of concrete and cement blocks; but it would do to keep any casual visitor to the garage from knowing what was going on back here.

“Got the sedan ready, Buck?” the bony man called.

A man standing next to a two-year-old black car of moderate price nodded and opened the back of the sedan.

“In there,” rasped the bony man, shoving Nan.

So then Nellie got the rest of it.

Carbon monoxide. The two girls would be killed by the stuff so often responsible for accidental deaths. Then they would be found by the roadside somewhere, in this car or another impossible to trace. And that would be that. The motor of the sedan was running gently. But no exhaust smoke showed at the rear. That was because a hose ran up from the exhaust pipe into the body of the car. The interior of the sedan was already faintly blue and nauseous with gasoline fumes.

“Tie ’em?” said the man called Joey, looking at the two girls.

The bony leader shook his head. “That’d leave marks. You know how a bruise shows up—afterward. No! Just bundle ’em in and—”

Nan screamed and tried to run. Joey caught her, but was careful not to hit her.

Nellie said, voice amazingly calm; “We just won’t get in there. And what do you think of that?”

“You won’t, huh?” snarled the bony man.

“No! And you can’t make us. Before you could shove us in there bodily, we’d have plenty of bruises to give your little show away. And if you club us, that will show later and ruin the accident theory. And certainly you can’t shoot us.”

The bony man slowly drew an automatic. He leveled it, not at Nellie’s body, but at her legs.

“If we can’t make it look right,” he said, “we’ll make it very, very wrong. Now this is what I’m going to do if you don’t get into that car. First I’m going to put a slug in your right kneecap. Then I’ll smash the left one into gravel. Then I’ll—”

“I’ll get in,” said Nellie, slumping.

“I thought you would,” nodded the man. “It’s a lot easier to just drift off, than to go through the things we can dish out to you. All right, go on.”

Nellie got into the car. She coughed, and her eyes watered. Nan got in dully, too. All the fight was out of her. The man nearest the sedan slammed the door. Then he did something to the handle. They’d fixed the car so that the two couldn’t possibly get out, once they were in. They had fixed it so there was no chance at all of the girls escaping from the closed deadliness of the interior!

Nan was already choking for breath. In addition to the unobtrusive carbon monoxide fumes were the noxious, raw gas fumes.

But now Nellie was not choking! That had been an act. She was breathing through her handkerchief. The men outside, seeing the two doomed girls only dimly through the inner fog, only grinned at that. Let her breathe through the thing. It couldn’t help.

What they did not know was that the handkerchief held in it a small vial which, when broken, flooded the fabric with a concentrate of oxygen in a volatile solvent. It was a product of MacMurdie’s laboratory, and The Avenger and all his aides carried a few of the glass capsules at all times.

So the men grinned and watched Nellie’s body slacken as Nan’s already had.

But they stopped grinning when, in spite of the blue fog, they saw a lithe body suddenly squirm over the back of the front seat and plump down behind the wheel. And they drew guns and began cursing wildly and shooting about the same way when the purr of the idling motor rose to a scream, and the sedan began to shoot backward like a crab.

The car crashed the partition wall.

Planks flew like straws. The sedan caromed off a truck parked near the partition on the other side, straightened again and shot down a cleared lane between cars in the middle of the main, outer garage room, with the hose jerking off the exhaust pipe.

The sliding door in front was closed, too. And this was heavier. But three thousand pounds of car, made as automobile builders make cars nowadays, is a projectile taking a lot of strength to stop or put out of the running.

The garage door didn’t have that strength.

Still backing, the sedan hit it with a roar like that of a landslide, and the door slammed off its overhead rollers, rode the top of the sedan out into the street, and then dropped off as Nellie tore the wheel around.

The car, banged to bits in the rear, with the gasoline tank pierced and streaming, but able to run miles before all the fluid leaked out, tore down a street toward the East River.

With the little oxygen store in her handkerchief dangerously low, Nellie stopped. She banged at the shatterproof windows with a wrench, till they finally broke out of their frames, and let the fresh air pour in on Nan while she drove still farther away from the garage and the furious gangsters pouring out of it in other cars to follow.

“Boobs,” sniffed Nellie. “Did they expect me to lie still and choke obediently to death with a running motor in front of me?”

But she remembered reading of other carbon-monoxide deaths. Several, now, looked as if they had originated right in that garage. So others had choked obediently to death; others without the agile brain and fast, lithe body of Nellie Gray.

CHAPTER X

The Cryptogram

The Avenger never wasted energy in getting angry. He occasionally became coldly, glacially furious at a particularly rotten criminal act. But he never became plain angry, as other men do.

Had he indulged in such nerve-wasting emotion, he would have been angry, now, at the Washington police sergeant who had had charge of the wallet from Sheriff Aldershot’s pocket. The wallet in which the cryptogram had been found.

From the start, The Avenger had known that the cryptogram was incomplete. If it hadn’t been, he could have solved it. So, for that matter, could have the government expert, Drake.

But it wasn’t complete. There were a lot more numbers that should have been among the meaningless string on the folded bit of paper.

Benson had gone through that wallet with microscopic care, and found no trace of a key to the thing. Then the hapless sergeant had idly mentioned an odd fact—that three bills out of the several dozen in the wallet had been in a separate compartment.

After mentioning that, the sergeant had felt himself shrivel to pinsize under an icy, colorless stare that seemed to go through him like a couple of diamond drills. But Benson only said quietly, “What three bills?”

So the two, the five and the ten-dollar bills had been handed over to him. And with them, the key to the message. The serial numbers on the bills.

Benson had drawn up the code arrangement he was convinced had been used in the message.

6

7

8

9

0

a

b

c

d

e

1

j

i

h

g

f

2

k

l

m

n

o

3

t

s

r

q

p

4

u

v

w

x

y

5

It was one of the easiest of all codes. But it was a senseless scramble if a lot of the figures in a given message were held out.

Smitty was staring over The Avenger’s shoulder.

“You know how the code would work, of course,” said the man with the dead white hair and the pale, icy eyes. “A would be 16 or 61; B, 17 or 71. You can reverse the numbers now and then to mix it up more. Cat, for instance, would be 81 61 64. Or 18 61 46, if you preferred it that way. But take out some numbers and make it 1 1 6, or just 1 6, and it isn’t anything. Not till you put the missing numbers in. Which these bills do for this message.”

Benson had arranged the bills in the order that made sense out of their serial numbers.

The numbers on the cryptogram were:

7 7 6 39 4 7 3 2 7 7 9 0 0 0 7 7 9 82 46 38 10 1 9 47 6 7 7 84 0 1 1 50.

The serial number of the two-dollar bill was 43162993; of the ten-dollar bill, 23132322; of the five-dollar bill, 63133169.

“Now we’ll put them together,” said Benson.

The resultant figures were: 74 73 61 39 46 72 93 92 37 72 39 10 30 02 73 72 29 82 46 38 10 16 39 47 61 73 37 84 10 61 91 50.

The Avenger could read it almost like print. The message was:

SLANTING LINE OF LIGHT MEANS ALL READY.

Smitty growled disgustedly. “So we finally get the thing unscrambled,” he complained “and what do we have? Another cryptogram! Slanting line of light! What line, what light? And what is it that’s ready when the line of light slants?”

The Avenger’s prematurely white head shook a little. “I don’t know yet. But we’ll find out, Smitty. We’ll find out. Two men were killed for this. It must have importance.”

He got up. “Sheriff Aldershot probably intercepted that message. Then he took it, in his wallet, into the Capitol Building. But did he show it to Burnside and Cutten, or tell them anything about it? We’ve got to know.”

Burnside, in The Avenger’s own hideout, was most accessible for questioning. So Benson went to his secretly held office suite with the windowless storage room so conveniently fixed as a bedroom.

But he did no questioning. For Burnside wasn’t accessible after all.

Benson opened the door, started to go into the first room of the suite, and stopped with his icy eyes taking on their crystalline glitter.

On the floor of this room lay Rosabel Newton. The pretty negress was deeply unconscious. The cause of the unconsciousness was plain enough: it was a deep welt on the side of her head where she had been slugged.

There was no sign of Josh. Nor was there any trace of Senator Burnside.

Both were gone! The Avenger went swiftly through the two rooms and the storage room, and found that out in a hurry.

Gone! But where? Why?

He went back to Rosabel. From his pocket, the pale-eyed man who was as eminent in the field of medicine as in all other fields, drew a small hypodermic case. The needle went deftly into Rosabel’s arm.

In two or three minutes Rosabel’s soft dark eyes opened. They rested on the white, dead face of The Avenger. She struggled up with a cry.

“Josh! Where’s Josh?”

It was typical of Rosabel. The first thought of Josh Newton was for her—always. And that went double for Rosabel.

“Josh isn’t here,” said Benson gently. “What happened? Why are he and Burnside gone?”

“Some men came.” Rosabel closed her eyes in pain and moaned a little. “They must have taken Josh out with them. And Senator Burnside, too. But they hit me when they first came in; so I can only guess.”

“Some men?” repeated Benson. “But how could they have located Burnside here?”

“He telephoned,” said Rosabel.

“Telephoned!” Benson’s pale eyes were steely chips. “Why on earth did he do that? He was hiding out. Didn’t it occur to him that there was a big chance of this place being discovered by his enemies if he went phoning all around Washington?”

“Josh and I tried to stop him,” said Rosabel. “But we’d have had to knock him down and tie him to keep him from it, he was so determined. And you hadn’t left any orders about it—”

“It’s not your fault,” Benson said, “but Burnside—he should have known better.”

He stepped to the phone. In a few seconds the exchange was tracing that call, spurred on by the magic name of Richard Henry Benson.

“He telephoned Congressman Coolie,” said the Avenger, after a moment. “Coolie is also from Montana, near Bison. And he is also interested in conservation projects, as Burnside himself is. How soon were you raided after the call?”

“Less than half an hour,” said Rosabel.

Benson’s pale eyes had been darting around the room. They rested now on a little white thing under a table. He went to it and picked it up.

The little white thing was half a handkerchief. In it were four pennies.

Four pennies and half a handkerchief. The Avenger’s pale eyes glittered. Josh had left these as a message.

“Get Mac and Smitty over here. They’re at the hotel. Tell them to go after Josh. They’ll know what to do when they see these. Are you all right?”

“Yes. But—”

The Avenger was gone, seeming to move slowly, such was his perfect coordination of mind and muscle, but actually getting out the door before Rosabel could utter another word.

The reason for his hurry was the swiftness with which the man had come to get Burnside after that phone call. Less than half an hour! It could only mean one thing. That was that the men had been near Coolie’s phone when Burnside called. In no other way could the call have been traced so quickly.

Coolie’s home was in the top-floor apartment of a big building overlooking Rock Creek Park. The building had no lobby or desk where Benson could get a pass key.

The Avenger went to the cliff side of the building. There was ornamental design in the side of the building, formed by the familiar method of placing alternate rows of bricks endways instead of lengthways and letting the ends protrude a half inch. Benson went up the side of the building.

It was a hundred feet down to jagged rock. But he didn’t look down. Apparently he didn’t even think of that sheer drop. Up he went, as easily as if climbing a ladder, till he got to the top floor.

He opened a window and climbed noiselessly into a bedroom. But there was no need for soundlessness in the apartment of Congressman Coolie.

There was nobody in it but Coolie, and Coolie would never show interest in anything any more.

The Congressman lay in a pool of his own blood, with a knife blade sticking out of his chest. The Avenger’s deductions had been all too sound.

Burnside would have been rash to make any phone call at all. As luck would have it, this particular call had been more than indiscreet. It had been suicidal. He had chanced to telephone a person in the clutches of the very men he was hiding from.

Coolie had, perhaps, been dead, and his voice had been imitated by one of the men. Or perhaps he had been forced to talk, and then had been murdered later.

That point suddenly struck the cold brain behind the icy, colorless eyes as important.

Coolie’s body was clad in a bathrobe. One tassel of the robe lay in the blood, reddened a couple of inches up its length. The other tassel was on top of the body, and dry.

The Avenger put the dry tassel in the pool of blood, and watched it with his watch in hand.

It took sixteen minutes for the tassel to suck up blood to the point reached by the other tassel that had landed in the pool when Coolie fell.

The Congressman had been murdered thirty-two minutes ago. That was after Burnside had been safely taken into custody again. They had not killed him till they knew they had Burnside where they wanted him.

The Avenger looked at his watch again. It was twenty minutes past ten at night.

CHAPTER XI

Lights Out

Twenty minutes past ten was the time the man with the dead, paralyzed face and the cold, colorless eyes had noted on his watch.

Twelve minutes later, at twenty-eight minutes to eleven, a man got a phone call.

The man was a hard-working young fellow who had just opened an office as sales representative of a New York toy firm. He had two tiny rooms. One was the office part. The other was the sample room, with shelves around all the walls and samples of different kind of games and toys on the shelves.

He was in the office part, bending over a new list of prospects he had dug up that afternoon. But the light was on in the sample room, too. Through the open door a toy panda leered at his back with glass-button eyes.

The building in which the little suite was located was on Pennsylvania Avenue not far from the Willard Hotel. There were several other lights in it. Not many, for few were at work this late at night.

And then the man’s telephone rang. He picked up the receiver, wondering who was calling him at this time of night

“Peter Gottlieb,” he said mechanically. “Knox Toy and Novelty Company.”

“Mr. Gottlieb,” came a smooth voice, “I am Withers, with the Baylor Game Company. I wonder if you could drop over and see me about a business proposition. I am at the Willard Hotel.”

Gottlieb looked mildly surprised. “It’s a little late, isn’t it, Mr. Withers?”

“Yes. But I’m sure an up-and-coming young man like yourself doesn’t mind a night call.”

Gottlieb was an up-and-coming young man, and he did not mind a night call. Or one at two o’clock in the morning, if it would bring in some business. But he was clever, too. And he did not think it would be good policy to make this call.

If the Baylor Game Company wanted to see him, it must be that they wanted him to handle their line of games and toys, too. And it would not be good business to be too eager about accepting such a proposition. He would get less commission the more anxious he appeared to want the job.

So he stalled, which was good psychology, but very bad destiny. “I’ll have to make it in the morning, I’m afraid,” he said importantly. “I’m very busy listing a big order I got today.”

“It will have to be tonight—at once, or not at all,” snapped the voice of Withers.

Gottlieb smiled. Fat chance this man had of getting another representative this late at night. He’d be around in the morning, all right. And Gottlieb could get a better commission in a contract if he stuck to his guns.

“I’m awfully sorry. I just can’t get away tonight.”

The phone went dead.

Gottlieb had a moment’s doubt, but he reassured himself that he had acted smartly and that a phone call at that time of night on such a proposition was kind of screwy anyway. He went back to his work.

Ten minutes passed; then there was a tap at his door.

“Come in,” he said.

A heavy-bodied, elderly woman, dressed in shabby grey, with mop and bucket in hand, opened the door.

“Will you be through pretty soon?” she asked wearily. “I’m supposed to clean up in here.”

Gottlieb stared, then smiled. “You’ve made a mistake. This office has already been cleaned. At about eight o’clock.”

“I’m supposed to do the floor again,” said the woman. “It wasn’t done right before.”

“It’s done well enough for me,” said Gottlieb cheerfully.

“But—”

“You can just skip this office. I’m busy; don’t want to be interrupted.”

The scrub woman looked as if about to say more, but didn’t. She went out.

On her feet, though Gottlieb didn’t notice it, were men’s shoes. But perhaps many scrub women wear the heavier soled brogans of men for their work.

Five minutes later the phone rang again. Gottlieb, frowning a little, picked it up.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Withers, but as I told you—”

“Who? This isn’t anybody named Withers. My name is Mason. I’m buyer for the Washington Department Store. I’d like you to run over here now, if you will, and show me your line. It’s a little late, but—”

Gottlieb scowled. He knew some young fellows in Washington. By now he had decided that these phone calls were a practical joke of some of his joking friends. So he just hung up.

He was getting kind of stubborn about not leaving his office now. He was stubborn anyway. Two phone calls and a belated visit by a scrub woman.

It was almost eleven o’clock.

The door opened. His back was toward it; so he did not see the movement.

Through the doorway slid a figure, careful to make no noise. It was the scrub woman again. But in her hand was a heavy .45 automatic, and in her eyes was murder.

But it wasn’t “her” eyes. It was “his.” For now you could see that this was a man dressed in woman’s clothes.

Gottlieb turned a page of his new prospect list. He bent over a map of the city. He was listing each name in a certain section, so that he could avoid all unnecessary traveling around in calling on prospects.

The woman’s figure was right behind him. The hand with the gun in it, raised.

Perhaps Gottlieb heard something, at that last moment. Perhaps he merely meant to get up and get a drink of water from the cooler behind him. Anyhow, he started to turn.

The move was never completed. The gun flailed down. There was a horrible dull thump. Gottlieb slid from chair to floor, with a deep crease in his skull!

The man with the gun wiped the barrel on Gottlieb’s coat. Then the killer went back to the door of the sample room. He turned the light out in there. He returned to the corridor door, turned out the office light, too, and left.

He didn’t look around. He didn’t take anything.

He just struck murderously, turned out lights, and left.

In the darkness the little toy panda stared with unfeeling button eyes through the sample-room doorway at the dead body of Gottlieb.

In the hideout where Burnside had been—and from which he and Josh had been snatched—Mac and Smitty stared at the cryptic message left behind by Josh.

Four pennies an the handkerchief torn in half.

But it wasn’t so cryptic. The Avenger had gotten the message in a flash, and had been so sure that Mac or Smitty would, too, that he hadn’t even bothered to tell it to Rosabel.

Four pennies and the handkerchief torn in half, half. To anyone at all familiar with Washington, that was crystal-clear.

The dark street near the Bureau of Engraving—4½ Street.

That was pretty vague. Josh had overheard his captors say that he was to be taken to 4½ Street, but either hadn’t overheard the address, too, or had been unable to figure a message to leave that was that explicit.

Mac and Smitty set out for the street named.

The dour Scot’s bleak blue eyes flamed with the light of battle, and the giant Smitty’s vast shoulders hunched in the same anticipation. When one of The Avenger’s little crew was in a jam, the rest sprang to the rescue. But even without so compelling a motivation, they would have sprung.

They didn’t like men who resembled rats—as all crooks do. They were always ready to smash them.

At the beginning of 4½ Street, they got out of their car. They started prowling down the walk.

A little later this street was to be widened and made beautiful. But now it was a dank runway of old buildings, badly lighted.

Mac saw the things first.

In catching Josh Newton, the gang of cutthroats who had murdered Coolie had caught a black panther. They didn’t know it, for Josh made it a policy to look sleepy and dumb. But it was only an effective guise.

There had been ingenuity in leaving that handkerchief-and-penny message. There was more ingenuity in marking the exact spot on the street. Yet it had been easy to do.

Josh, dragged along from car to house, had simply stepped out of his shoes.

There they were, at the edge of the walk in front of a totally darkened house a block and a half from the beginning of 4½ Street. And the Scot had no difficulty in recognizing them as Josh’s. They were too big to belong to anybody else.

Mac nudged the giant, Smitty, and pointed. Smitty nodded. The two started toward the entrance. Then they vaulted a rickety little picket fence and crouched in darkness in the next yard.

A man was coming out of the dark house. He walked slowly to the street, looking around as he did so. The men inside had finally seen that Josh wasn’t wearing shoes, apparently, and had sent someone out to see of they were lying around the house. They’d tumbled to his trick.

The man got to the sidewalk, grunted a little as he saw the shoes, and bent down to pick them up. Smitty took that moment to act!

It wasn’t a very complicated action. The giant, who had moved near to the man, simply leaned over the picket fence and brought his left fist down like a vast mallet on a nailhead. But the nail was the skull of the man with the shoes in his hand.

The man’s head seemed to sink clear down into his chest under that incredible blow. Then he went down, himself, and stayed down.

Smitty reached over the fence, picked up the body in one hand and lifted it over the pickets. He dumped it in the darkness and went on, with the Scot at his heels, to the entrance of the house from which the man had come.

The door was unlocked. The fellow hadn’t intended to be out long, so he hadn’t turned the key. Smitty and Mac stepped silently into a narrow little hallway.

The hall was dark. But from a door down the hall and to the right came light. The window there was probably covered with a blanket, for the two hadn’t seen light in any of the windows outside.

Smitty’s vast paw touched Mac’s arm as they were passing a darkened door on their way to the lighted one. Mac stopped as the giant did. They listened, and heard hoarse breathing.

They turned into the room.

There was a short, soft series of tappings. And Mac went to them and leaned down.

The taps had spelled, in code, “Josh.”

Mac felt around. He felt a gag and rope. He untied the rope and slid up the gag. Josh stretched his cramped body, and used his tongue. “Mac?”

“Yes,” the Scot whispered. “Smitty’s in here with me.”

“I could only hope— Couldn’t see in the dark—I tapped just on the chance.” He sighed. “I was afraid they’d found my shoes and picked them up. They didn’t see they were gone for a long time, because they dumped me in here in the dark. Then a man came in with a flash, a few minutes ago—”

“Smitty hammered his head flat,” said Mac. “Come on! Follow us out of here—”

Just sneak in, untie Josh and sneak out again with him. But it wasn’t to be as simple as that. Suddenly, lights flashed on in the room.

Smitty got an instant’s glimpse of a man in the doorway, gaping in stunned surprise at three men where he had expected only one. Then he whipped out an automatic.

Smitty reached up. He didn’t have to jump to reach the ceiling. He could touch almost any ceiling quite easily, with his six-foot-nine elevation.

He reached up and slapped the electric-light bulb seven ways from Sunday. It plopped into a million pieces. The light went out. Blackness resulted, split by three red streaks as the man in the doorway fired three times.

The three men in the room weren’t where they’d been when the light went out; so none of the slugs rang a bell. And there wasn’t a fourth slug because Smitty had reached the door and slammed it shut so hard that it carried the man in the doorway with it, to bang him against the opposite wall of the hall outside.

“The window!” yelled Smitty. “Out the window.”

But he grabbed an arm of Josh and of Mac and kept them from following the loud command.

He found a chair in the darkness and threw it at the window. Tinkling glass followed its crash. Then the giant stepped back from the door. Mac and Josh, getting the idea, flattened against the wall, too.

There were yells as men went outside to watch the window. There were more shouts as, in the hall, men banged against the door.

It was disconcerting to them to find the door unlatched. It opened so easily that all four of them poured into the room like water from a tap. They landed in a heap at the feet of the three aides of The Avenger.

Smitty got one, with his right hand almost circling the fellow’s throat. The bone mallet which was Mac’s left fist caught another in the face. And Josh felt a head and began banging on the front side of it with piston blows.

In twelve seconds there was no opposition at all when they started to walk out of the room.

Smitty shut the door, and this time he locked it against assaults. Then he leaped up the stairs. He wanted Burnside. They’d gotten Josh; now he wanted the other man taken from the hideout, the Senator. His window ruse had been for the purpose of clearing the house to give him a minute or two in which to search.

Burnside wasn’t upstairs. Smitty took the steps down in about three giant’s strides, and looked through the rest of the first floor. No Burnside! Nor was he in the basement.

The men in the room were shooting at the lock. They’d be out in a minute. The others were streaming back in the front door—and being methodically felled by Josh and Mac as they stuck their heads in.

Shots were popping, and some of them hit home. But the celluglass bulletproofed garments Mac and Josh wore were keeping them from any harm other than bruises.

Smitty came up to them, sore because he had failed to find Burnside. He took it out on a couple of the gunmen, who popped in through the door together and instantly crouched and began pumping slugs.

Smitty’s huge right hand caught a throat, and so did his left. The men screamed. Smitty banged them together. Head hit head like a pair of melons.

“Let’s go,” said Smitty, hurling the two bodies out the door and against three other men who were trying to get in.

They went out the back way.

“I want my shoes,” said Josh.

Mac snorted. “Whoosh! Ye can’t go back into that gang just for a pair of brogans!”

“I probably won’t be able to find another pair in Washington to fit me,” said Josh. “Where’d you say the car was? Foot of the street? I’ll meet you there.”

He was gone before either the giant or Mac could detain him. They shrugged and went on.

Josh appeared, almost invisible in the darkness, as they got to the car. He wore his shoes. And on his right fist was a gash where knuckles had hit teeth. But he was luckier than the other man. He still had his knuckles.

CHAPTER XII

Angry Congressman

Josh and Rosabel sat very close together, watching The Avenger. Reunited after danger, the Negro and his pretty wife seemed to want to touch each other frequently to reassure themselves that each was there. They were a devoted couple.

Diminutive, blond Nellie Gray was there, from New York. She sat up straight like a little girl. You’d never have been able to look at her and picture her at the wheel of a gas-filled car, smashing it out of a garage through planks, heavy door and a rain of bullets just a short time ago.

Very near her was the giant, Smitty, trying to look unconcerned about her. It was to be suspected that little Nellie Gray was the giant’s main concern in life. It was also to be suspected that Nellie had a spot in her heart for Smitty; though a caterpillar tractor could not have dragged any such admission from her.

Mac was on the opposite side of the room. His eyes, as were the eyes of the others, were on The Avenger.

Benson sat in a straight-backed chair, powerful, compact body easily erect. His pale, icy eyes were like cold crystal, staring at nothing. He was putting together the things he had found out so far.

There was one other person in the room. An outsider, as far as the indomitable little band of crime-fighters was concerned. But not an outsider in this particular case. That was Nan Stanton. Nellie had brought Nan with her to Washington.

In his steely hands, Benson had the crumpled page from Nan’s book of routine calls that Nellie had deftly taken from the bony man’s pocket. He was looking at those names.

One of them was Tetlow Adams. The other was that of a man just murdered: Congressman Coolie.

“You say Tetlow Adams has called several times on Dr. Fram?” The Avenger said to Nan.

She nodded her sleek brunette head.

“But Congressman Coolie called only once?”

“Just once, as far as I know,” said Nan.

“That was in the New York office?” said The Avenger. “Not down here in Washington?”

“That was in the New York office,” nodded Nan.

“Tell me about it, please?”

Nan Stanton half closed her eyes to remember. “Congressman Coolie was in New York for the day, on some personal business,” she said. “At least that was what I gathered when he came in and asked to see Dr. Fram. It seemed that the doctor had gotten in touch with the Congressman and requested him to drop in. Congressman Coolie had come to the office, as asked, but was pretty impatient about it. He had a lot to do in a short time. And he didn’t seem to know why he had been called.”

“You’re sure of that?” interjected The Avenger, colorless eyes like ice under moonlight.

“Yes. He didn’t know what Dr. Fram wanted to see him about. I guessed that it was on the sanity test bill; but all I could do was guess, because nothing was said. The Congressman went into Dr. Fram’s private office. After a few minutes I heard his voice rise angrily; then he came out again. He looked angry and—and defiant. I think that’s the way you’d describe the expression on his face. He brushed past me without seeing me and went out. And that’s the last he ever saw of Dr. Fram, as far as I know.”

The Avenger’s prematurely white head nodded. His face was as emotionless as paralyzed, dead flesh must always be. But his eyes were like pale agates with little lights behind them.

“That fits in with the idea that has been shaping up in my mind,” he said slowly. “Coolie is House leader of land conservation plans. In the Senate, Burnside and Cutten head most of the same movements. All three are from Montana.

“Somebody wants some area in Montana taken out from government supervision, and turned over to private ownership. On the order of the Teapot Dome scandal.

“To narrow it down: Sheriff came in a hurry to Washington to talk over something with his State representatives. And just before he came, he had been on a visit to the government park nearest his town, Bison National Park. So it is Bison Park that some interest wants to get out from under the government’s thumb.”

Smitty usually sat as silent as the others when the man with the dead face and the icy eyes summed up facts. But this time something burst in his mind with such violence that he exclaimed aloud before he thought. “Of course! Helium!”

The deadly, pale eyes swung his way.

“It’s known that there are helium deposits in Bison Park,” said Smitty hastily. “It must be that private interests want to get control of the park because of the helium.”

Mac shook his dour Scotch head. “Helium’s no big factor industrially,” he said. “There is a very limited market for it. It would pay no man to steal it. Besides, helium is a weapon of war—for dirigibles. There would be a terrific public outcry if politicians turned over a deposit of it to private concerns.”

The Avenger went slowly on. Such was his concentration that it was quite possible that he had not heard the two at all consciously.

“Somebody wants Bison Park. The sheriff, somehow, got wind of the plan, and got hold of the cryptogram we just decoded, and hurried to Washington to block the move. He was killed to recover the cryptogram. So was Sewell, Burnside’s secretary. The plan went on. Coolie, Burnside, Wade, Hornblow, Collendar, Cutten were worked on to get a bill through that turned over Bison Park to private bidding. Burnside and Cutten, incidentally, were the two chiefly responsible, ten years ago, for having the Bison section taken over by the government. But how could these men be persuaded? Because of the helium known to be in Bison Park, anyone proposing that the park revert to private hands would surely be committing political suicide. An outraged public would never return them to office again. Some great threat would have to be held over them. They would have to be forced by fear—and a fear greater than the fear of death!”

“But where does Dr. Fram come in on this?” asked Nan Stanton. “He has nothing to do with parks or helium or anything but the practice of psychiatry.”

Now it was Nellie’s turn to have an idea that simply forced expression. “Tetlow Adams! He’s a mining man. He would be the one most interested in mineral rights. He must have forced Dr. Fram to be his mouthpiece, with the sanity test business as a blind to cover the real—”

Another voice sounded out. A voice that came from none of them there, but from the small radio The Avenger carried always with him. The radio was tuned to the police band.

“Calling Car 29,” came the monotonous voice of the announcer. “Calling Car 29. Signal Q. Rocker Building. Car 29. Signal Q. Rocker Building.”

Smitty and Mac looked at each other. Signal Q. That was—murder!

Nan Stanton didn’t know what Signal Q meant, but the address had significance for her. “Rocker Building!” she gasped. “That’s on Pennsylvania Avenue. And it’s the business address of Tetlow Adams. His office is in the Rocker Building.”

The pale, cold eyes of The Avenger looked at and through her. Then the man with the dead face was gone, with Mac and Smitty right after him, exerting themselves to keep up with their chief.

The Washington police had been given orders to treat the man with the white, death-mask face and colorless, awe-inspiring eyes as if he were the chief, himself. They let him into the lobby of the Rocker Building after just a glance at his unforgettable countenance.

“Who is it?” asked Benson of one of the men. “Adams?”

“Adams?” repeated the man. “Nope. Nobody by that name is mixed up in this, far as we know. A guy named Gottlieb was the one who got bumped off. Toy salesman. Tenth floor. The building watchman saw a trickle of blood comin’ from under his door and busted in. He saw the guy dead on the floor and phoned headquarters.”

“A toy salesman!” exclaimed Smitty. Mac shook his sandy-thatched head, with perplexity large on his homely Scotch features.

The Avenger strode to the big board on the lobby wall. The directory for the building. He looked up Gottlieb, Knox Toy & Novelty Co. It was 1019. He looked for the name of the mining magnate, and found it. Tetlow Adams, 910 to 919. That would bring his suite almost directly under the office of the dead toy salesman.

Benson went up to the tenth floor to the office where murder had been committed.

Gottlieb lay beside the chair from which he had slumped, next to his desk. His head was a gory ruin. But it seemed otherwise untouched. His clothes were not in the disarray that should have resulted from a search. And as far as could be seen, not one thing in the office had been touched.

Two detectives and the coroner were in the office. One of the detectives caught that swift, all-embracing glance of The Avenger and read it.

“Not one thing was touched or taken, as far as we can tell,” he said to Benson. Meanwhile he stared in awe at this legendary person. “There don’t seem to have been a motive for murder at all. Unless some enemy of the guy killed him because he was sore at him. Anyhow, all we know is that somebody sneaked in here, killed Gottlieb, turned the lights out, and sneaked away again.”

“You mean he just came in, killed, turned off the lights, and left?” said the giant Smitty. “Nothing else?”

“That’s what it looks like.”

The Avenger was saying nothing. But the pale, cold eyes were like shiny, stainless steel chips.

“I think that will be all that this murder can tell us,” he said to Mac and Smitty. And he started away.

Outside the building, the Scot couldn’t contain himself any longer. “And the murrrder of the toy man does tell ye something, Muster Benson?” he burred.

The Avenger nodded. “The slanting line of light,” he quoted the decoded cryptogram.

“I don’t—” began Mac uncertainly.

“The line of light referred to in the message in Aldershot’s pocket must mean a slanting line of lighted windows in a certain building—the Rocker Building—at a certain time. That was to be the signal to someone that ‘all is ready.’ I’ve thought that was the way of it, for some time. This proves it.

“That someone is the man we’re after; the instigator of this gigantic criminal plot. But like so many other criminal minds, he has directed his plans—his murders—from behind the scenes; unknown even to those doing his bidding. He is probably in a window of one of these neighboring buildings or many blocks away reading the message, ‘all is ready,’ with binoculars.”

“I get it,” Smitty said, understanding The Avenger’s implication. “Protection against blackmail. The head of this steal doesn’t want his own men to know who he is for fear they’ll put the squeeze on him later.”

Benson’s head nodded agreement to the giant’s deduction. “Gottlieb was murdered by someone who didn’t touch a thing on his person or in his office. The killer simply came in, murdered, turned the lights off and left. There is your motive. Gottlieb’s lighted windows would ruin the slanting light signal planned in the cryptogram. He had to be gotten out of here and his windows darkened by a certain hour. Probably the man wanting to give the signal tried several tricks to get Gottlieb out of his office peaceably. Gottlieb didn’t fall for them. The time of the signal was at hand. The man had to kill Gottlieb to give it.”

“So,” rumbled Smitty, “the signal now has been given that ‘all is ready.’ And that means that the thing that is ready is the steal of Bison Park. I wonder where the next act takes place?”

“On the Senate floor in the morning,” said The Avenger quietly. “The last act would have to be there. Which means we will have to move fast or the government will lose valuable Bison Park with its helium deposits—a loss that might mean the difference between victory and defeat in time of war.”

CHAPTER XIII

Color Blind

It was the wee small hour of the morning again. But again The Avenger was not in the least concerned with sleep.

He was slowly pacing the room at the office suite which had been rented secretly by him for his Washington visits. And his pale eyes were jewel-like in their concentrated brilliance.

Congressman Coolie had been slain at a few minutes past ten. An hour or so after that—so soon afterward as to indicate a clear connection between the two acts—the unfortunate toy salesman had been slain so as to get his disruptive office lights out.

First the death of Coolie, then the signal of the slanting lights.

It looked very much as if Coolie had been a stumbling block in the Bison Park plans. As soon as he had been put out of the way, the “go-ahead” signal had been flashed.

The Avenger had sent Josh Newton for a short history of Congressman Coolie. Biographical facts on all the representatives of the nation are available if you know where to go for them.

He pored over the short biography now.

Congressman Coolie. Twice elected representative from Montana. Mild liberal record. Interested in soil conservation and reforestration. Sponsor of nine such bills into the House. Fifty-four years old, married and divorced, three children. Color blind—

The Avenger stopped right there.

So Congressman Coolie was color blind. Benson’s icy, brilliant eyes half closed. It was as if little, shining moons were being partially eclipsed. That fact seemed to strike him as one of the most important things he had found out to date.

He turned from Coolie’s short description to reports on the phychiatrist, Dr. Fram.

Fram was in Who’s Who as eminent in his profession. He was the author of a small book on psychiatry as applied to wayward girls. His reputation was excellent. There was no hint of an interest, however, in pressing through a law forcing couples to take a sanity test before being given marriage licenses. Not a mention of that had been made, till about six weeks ago.

Then, abruptly, the distinguished doctor had begun to live, seemingly, for nothing else. He had suddenly packed and gone to Washington to lobby for the bill.

His trip had occurred the day after Tetlow Adams had come to see him—ostensibly about his son—for the third time.

Did the psychiatrist’s sudden trip have anything to do with Adams’ last call? Or was it sheer coincidence?

The Avenger went to the big home of Tetlow Adams, out near Wardman Park.

There was a half acre of ground around the house. It was enclosed by a high spiked iron fence. There was a heavy gate—and the gate was barred. That would seem to indicate that Adams carefully guarded himself and that he was afraid of something.

It was after two o’clock in the morning, a very suspicious time to call. The Avenger didn’t even attempt to explain to the guard, who came to the gate when he pressed the night bell, what his reasons were for wanting to see Adams. He knew his entrance would be refused.

The guard stared through heavy iron bars. His right hand was at his belt, and Benson saw a holster there.

“What you want at this time of night, bud?” he demanded truculently.

Benson didn’t say anything. He just stared at the man.

“Well? What’s the matter?” the guard said. “Can’t y’u talk?”

Benson stared into the man’s eyes, with his pale orbs like misty crystal.

“Beat it,” said the man. But his voice was uncertain, and his face was getting a queer blank look. “You can’t get in . . . get in here—” He stopped, jerkily, like a rundown clock.

Benson stared a moment longer, with eyes like naked steel blades. The man was profoundly hypnotized.

“You will open the gate for me,” said The Avenger, voice quiet but vibrant with power.

The man opened the gate, moving like something that acted only when a button was pressed. The Avenger went in; then he shut the gate himself.

He left the man there, standing as erect as a sentry, but standing like a wooden thing, too, carved only to resemble a sentry.

Benson went down a driveway. There were bushes lining it. He heard a stealthy movement a little ahead and to his right but kept on walking.

A figure catapulted over the line of bushes and straight at Benson’s body. That figure would have instantly bowled over anyone not warned of its coming. A short, murderous club in its right hand told what would happen after that.

But The Avenger had been warned by his marvelously acute sense of hearing. So he was prepared.

He side-stepped a foot, seeming to move slowly. But there are men whose actions are so fast that they make the maneuvers of ordinary men seem to have been done in slow motion. Benson was one of those rare few.

The man crashed to the driveway, got up snarling and leaped again.

The Avenger’s right fist flicked out. It caught the man on the side of the jaw, and the fellow went down. He would be out, The Avenger calculated from the impact, between twenty minutes and a half hour.

Benson went on.

He tapped on the door, two knocks, and then two more. It wouldn’t matter what the code knock was to get into the guarded house, or even if there were no code at all. Whoever was at the portal would be almost certain to figure that it was one of the guards wanting to get in.

The man at the door, a husky butler, opened it all right. But he opened with a gun in his hand, taking no chances. At least he thought he was taking no chances. But it developed that the gun might just as well have been a toy.

With the first movement inward of the door, Benson caught the glint of light on steel, and his hand snapped forth. It caught the gun in a vise-like grip and swirled it around in the man’s hand till it pointed at his own body.

Then the butler’s main concern was not to pull the trigger. Then The Avenger got second finger and thumb of his left hand at the back of the man’s neck in that swift pressure which could bring unconsciousness, or, if not released in time, even death.

The butler sagged, and Benson leaped over his body and reached the stairs just as three more men in servants’ livery appeared at doors down the first-floor hall.

The Avenger sped up the stairs. At the front room near the head of them, a healthy-looking man of sixty in rumpled pajamas had his head poked out the door, gazing sleepily into the hall.

Benson wrenched that door back and stepped in. “You are Adams? Sorry I had to come in this way. I hadn’t time to wait till morning and—”

“Who are you, sir?” snapped Adams, purpling with anger. “Get out! I’m not seeing anyone!”

“It was because I thought it wouldn’t do any good to send in my name that I entered in this manner,” Benson said quietly. “I wanted to talk with you, at once.”

“I told you to get out of here! If you don’t—”

“Sit down,” said The Avenger.

“Wait till my men get here—” sputtered the mining magnate.

“Sit down!” snapped Benson. There was the crack of a whiplash in his voice.

Almost without realizing what he was doing, Adams sat down on the edge of his bed. He stared with wide eyes at the death-mask face of The Avenger.

There was a banging at the door. Benson had locked it, hand behind him, when he walked into the room. The guards were trying to get in now.

“Tell them everything is all right and to go away,” Benson ordered.

Adams had intelligence, and he was wide awake by now. Obviously, he reasoned that if his life were in danger, it would be the easiest thing in the world for this white-haired young man to kill him if he tried to call for help.

“You, out there in the hall,” he growled. “I’m all right. This is a friend. Go and take your guard positions again.”

“You sure you don’t need help, boss?”

“No! Go away!” yelled Adams, at the look in the chill, colorless eyes.

Footsteps faded down the hall. The Avenger nodded. “That’s better. And I assure you you’re in no danger. I’ll introduce myself. I am Richard Henry Benson.”

Adams was a mining and railroad power. In both circles he had heard of the vastly wealthy Benson. Also it would seem that he had heard of The Avenger’s more widely known activity of crime fighting. For his face paled a little.

“Mr. Benson! If you had just sent your name in—”

“You would have told me, if I were the President himself, that I’d have to wait till morning to see you,” said Benson calmly. “And as I said, I have no time to spare. What do you know of the psychiatrist, Dr. Fram?”

“Dr. F-Fram?” sputtered Adams, caught off-balance by the unexpectedness of the question. “Why, he is a fine nerve and brain specialist and a great psychiatrist. That is all I know of him.”

“You have seen him several times recently.”

“Yes. About my son,” said Adams.

“But you have never brought the boy into Fram, personally.”

“That’s right.” Adams seemed very anxious indeed to answer all questions openly. “I don’t take Robert out if I can avoid it.”

“I would like to see your son, please.”

Adams attempted bluster again. “Surely you can take my word for it that it was about Robert that I visited Fram—” he began. His voice faded out.

“That will be easy,” he resumed in a different tone.

“My boy sleeps in the adjoining room, where I can keep an eye on him.”

Adams stepped to a doorway, reached in the next room and clicked on a light. Benson watched over his shoulder.

A youngster of nineteen or so had been asleep in a tousled bed. He was blinking now, looking at his father.

The Avenger needed only a glance. Fram might be a fine psychiatrist. The Avenger was a great one. He needed only a glimpse of the boy’s wide, vacant eyes and too-bulging forehead and fluttering, uncertain hands to know that there was a person in need of mental attention.

“Thank you,” he said.

Adams clicked out the light and closed the door.

“If you don’t mind, tell me what this is about,” he said, with a certain dignity.

“It’s about the Bison Park steal.” As he said the words, Benson’s eyes took on their diamond-drill hardness. Few could meet those eyes and lie.

Adams met them squarely. “I know of Bison Park,” he said. “But what is this about a steal?”

The Avenger’s steely fingers drummed lightly for a moment while he searched the eyes of the mining man. Then, with surprising candor, he told him.

“Somebody is trying to have Bison Park opened to private bidding and to grab it off, to obtain a deposit of helium located there,” he said. “They are trying to frighten certain senators into getting legislation through that will remove the park from government control. Your name has come into the deal several times.”

“My name? I swear Bison Park could never be anything to me, no matter what the government did with it. But how could anyone scare senators into that kind of a bill? It’s not a well-known park; so, no doubt, a few men could jam it through. But later, when the public found out and learned that a helium supply had been given away, those men would be all through politically! What possible fear could make senators commit political suicide by proposing such legislation?”

The Avenger did not answer that one. But he knew.

It had to do with little red men, scarcely three feet high, and smiling green dogs.

At almost that exact moment, Nellie Gray and Nan Stanton were seeing one of these incredible creations. It was in the hall of the hotel where The Avenger had reserved half a floor for himself and his aides.

The two girls had come out of the big living room in Benson’s suite. They were about to separate and go to their respective rooms for some sleep. High time, too; it was getting on toward dawn.

“Want me to stay in your room with you?” said Nellie. “Are you afraid?”

Any stranger hearing that would have smiled. Frail, dainty, pink-and-white Nellie Gray looked as if she could not have protected a lump of sugar from the onslaughts of a butterfly. But Nan Stanton had seen her in action and took the offer seriously—and gratefully.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “I don’t believe there is any danger—”

She stopped, and stared over Nellie’s shoulder down the hall. She glared with bulging eyes in which there was a colossal fear; a horror even greater than had been in them when she was bundled into that sedan to die of carbon-monoxide gas.

Nellie whirled, and a gasp came from her own soft, red lips.

Down there, plainly to be seen in the hall light, was something that just shouldn’t be. Something that obviously couldn’t be. Only—there it was.

A bright-red man with a dog!

The man was a miniature, scarcely a yard high. He was soberly dressed in striped trousers, cutaway, wing collar; and this sartorial perfection was topped by a glossy silk hat.

The dog he was leading—on a leash made of some sort of flowers braided together—was green. And it was smiling!

It practically leered at the two astounded girls, as if it knew a secret that was very funny, if a little grim, which it did not intend to share with anyone.

A smiling green dog led by a little bright-red man!

“Do . . . do you see it?” whispered Nan, with a chattering of even white teeth.

Nellie did not reply.

The diminutive blond bombshell had one cardinal rule of life: When you see anything inexplicable, investigate it as promptly as possible.

She sprang down the hall toward the crazy vision. And Nan, who had courage herself, given this example of fearlessness, ran after her.

Then the little man and smiling green dog weren’t in the hall any more. But there had been a whisking open and shut of the door to the hall stairs.

“They’re taking to the stairs!” panted Nellie. “After them! Don’t let them get away!”

“And if they really aren’t there . . . to get away?” gasped Nan.

“Then I want to know that, too,” said Nellie grimly.

Her small white hand was on the knob of the hall-stairs door. She jerked the door open and jumped onto the stair landing, with Nan at her dainty heels.

The two leaped straight into oblivion. Light, sounds and intelligence faded out in their numbing brains and they fell.

CHAPTER XIV

Under the Flood!

The Avenger sat in a shaft of morning sunlight at a desk. The bright sun brought out in bold relief the unusual appearance of the man.

His white hair, thick and virile for all its lack of color, was like hard silver. His face seemed more ashy white than ever—and more emotionless. His eyes were like ice in a polar dawn.

The desk at which he sat held a curious thing. In outward appearance it was an ordinary small traveling case; but its contents were far from ordinary.

In the case were about all the aids to disguise ever invented. The top tray held dozens of pairs of little glass eyecups, tissue thin, with various colors of pupils glazed on them. These could be slipped over Benson’s colorless orbs to give him any color eyes he wished.

Under that tray were wigs, pads to change cheek contour, transparent adhesive and half a hundred tiny pots of pigment for skin coloration.

The top of the case held a mirror. The Avenger was peering first into that mirror at his own reflection, and then at a picture propped right next to it.

The picture was of Tetlow Adams.

As Benson stared, he worked at his own face, shaping it over to resemble Adams.

In a remarkably short time, The Avenger’s face was that of Adams. And when he slipped blue cups over his eyes, the resemblance was startling. Only a very close friend of the mining man’s, after a careful look, could have told that this was not Adams.

The Avenger put on iron-gray hair over his own thick white shock, dressed in a brown pin-striped suit of the type Adams often wore, and went out.

He went to the Capital Building.

The Senate was convened; it was ten o’clock in the morning. Benson went to the gallery. The guard there greeted him respectfully.

“Morning, Mr. Adams.”

So, apparently, the mining man had come here often!

The Avenger sat down quietly, and stared at the semicircular rows of desks beneath, identifying the various members of the Senate.

At the same time, Mac and Smitty were cruising slowly along 4½ Street.

They were down there, watching the house in which Josh had been held in particular, and the whole neighborhood in general, on the faint chance that they would find a clue to the whereabouts of Nellie Gray and Nan Stanton.

The two girls had been gone all the early morning. And Smitty was wild.

“Doggone that little blond halfpint,” he growled. “She isn’t happy if she doesn’t head into some kind of trouble that even a marine would go miles out of his way to avoid: I don’t know why any of us bother to help her out again.”

Mac only grunted. Smitty’s words went in one homely Scotch ear and out the other. Mac knew that the giant was only talking; that he wouldn’t eat or sleep till he’d rescued that frail-looking little fighter from her current mess.

If he could!

Because one of these days she was going to get in so deep she wouldn’t get out. Except in a coffin.

“Whoosh!” sighed the Scot. “I wish we had just a bit of lead to worrrk on—Is that a handkerchief wavin’ from yon window?”

It wasn’t. It was a diaper, hanging in a window to dry, not a furtive distress signal from a prisoner.

The two cruised on.

Josh and Rosabel, equally worried about Nellie, were on another assignment given by The Avenger.

That trail lay along the path of little red men and smiling green dogs. They were following out the lead provided by the little black book of the murdered veterinarian, Quinn.

Benson had told them to locate the dachshund answering to the name of Bob. The one listed in the small black book as having had its vocal cords cut. They were to report on the nature of its owner.

There were several thousand dachshunds in the city; but fortunately only a few dozen had been recently sold by pet shops. And Benson had told them to look for a recent sale.

Josh and Rosabel were plodding from new dachshund owner to new dachshund owner and finding nothing suspicious anywhere. Meanwhile, they were half out of their minds with sorrow over the vanished Nellie Gray.

Nellie, at that moment, was not far away. But she might as well have been on a desert isle as far as proximity could help.

Nellie and Nan Stanton were in a small stone cell. They’d had nothing to do for quite a while but look at it, in the light of a single candle; so they knew it all too well.

It was dank, with water oozing down its walls like sweat from the skin of a frightened man. It was far down in the earth; they knew that, from absence of all noise as much as anything else.

Absence of all noise? Well, there was a little noise in evidence. A constant, murmuring noise. A terrifying noise.

The noise of rushing water!

It came from a distance and from overhead, never slackening, never changing in tone. It was so faint that had it not been for the utter soundlessness of the place, you’d never have heard it at all. But it was unmistakable, nevertheless.

The two girls were not alone in the dank, deep dungeon. There was a third party in with them. That one was—Dr. Fram.

Fram had been bound and gagged when the two girls were thrown in here. They had untied him. Now he was giving them the low-down on the strange and tangled mess in which all three had been caught.

Nan’s first words, when she had looked at her former employer, had been an angry accusation. Fram met the charge with a weary but patient denial.

“I didn’t send you up to the New York office just to be kidnapped,” Fram said. “I sent you out of Washington simply because I was ordered to do so. I didn’t dream you were to be captured and held. I thought you were just wanted out of the way for a little while, so you would not have a chance to learn anything of what was going on in Washington.”

“You were ‘ordered’ to send her up?” Nellie Gray said swiftly.

Fram nodded. “Yes. Ordered! I’ve been under orders for a long time. And bitter ones they’ve been. I’ve been forced to betray my country and my soul.”

The psychiatrist paced up and down the cell, eyes bitter and defeated. The pacing was pretty constricted; the cell was hardly ten feet square.

“Wealthy mining interests want Bison Park,” he said. “One of them, fiendishly clever, found out about my interest in the sanity-test law for couples about to be married. He decided that that would be an excellent blind, behind which I could get in touch with politicians about turning Bison Park over to private interests. So I have been forced to be a mouthpiece, negotiating with senators and congressmen about the matter. Now, my usefulness is over. The mining crowd has made all the contacts they need. So I was seized and thrown in here to be killed. In that way, I’ll never be able to turn on my enemies.”

“How could they force you to do such a thing?” said Nellie, lovely gray eyes puzzled. “What possible hold could they have on you—what threat that would make you betray your country? And you did betray it. The helium deposits in Bison Park might be vital to the United States.”

Fram shuddered. His eyes seemed to sink a little farther back into his head. “What difference does it make how they forced me?” he said. “They did. That’s what matters. And now I’m to be killed for what I know.”

“I’m sorry,” said Nan impulsively, gazing at the man for whom, after all, she had worked pleasantly for over a year.

“You’d better save your sympathy for yourself,” said Fram dryly. Then his face softened. He touched his trim goatee with his middle finger. “I didn’t mean to be sharp. It’s fine of you to say that. But we’re all in the same boat, you know. We’re all going to die down here. And the ironical part of it is that with just a little help we could beat this gang and turn the tables on our enemies.”

Nellie Gray’s face lightened at that. “How?” she demanded.

Fram shrugged. “Why go into it, since we can’t get the help that is necessary?”

“Tell me anyway.”

“Do you know where we are?” said Fram.

Nellie listened a moment to the faint, ever-present swish of water overhead. “We’re under something awfully wet,” she said, with a game little smile. “But that’s all I can guess.”

“We’re under the Potomac River,” said Fram. “I heard the gang talking about it when they brought me here. There are about twenty men in that gang, the choicest bunch of roughnecks I’ve ever had the bad luck to lay eyes on. It seems that years ago the city decided to build traffic tunnel under the Potomac to avert some of the overcrowding of the bridges during rush hour. The project was started, and then abandoned when two thirds done. The tunnel was bored and reinforced, but never paved or finished off.

“We are in a raised chamber off the tunnel. I was bandaged when I was brought here, but I got the cloth up from over my eyes a little and saw how they entered. There is an empty warehouse on the edge of the river. I saw part of an old sign:—RAIN CO. I suppose it is the something-or-other GRAIN CO. In that warehouse there is a newly cut opening, covered by a section of basement wall, that leads into the abandoned tunnel.

“But the main thing is—a plain iron lever in the beginning of the old tunnel, about fifty yards from the entrance. I heard the gang talking about that, too. It seems that that lever opens a floodgate into the river above us. If the police ever track them here, the gang means to open that and simply flood them out. That lever would be our salvation—if we could only get help. If we could be helped out of this barred dungeon, we could pull the lever ourselves and trap the gang!”

Nellie drew a deep breath. She’d had the means of calling for aid ever since she and Nan had been in here. But she hadn’t utilized it because she’d had no way of knowing where that aid was to come. She hadn’t had the faintest notion where she was.

Now she knew. Her hand went to her slim waist.

At his or her waist each member of The Avenger’s little band always wore a compact little receiving-and-transmitting radio that had been designed by Smitty.

So Nellie’s hand went to her tiny radio to call the help that Fram despaired of getting, and which should trap the trappers down there under the Potomac’s flood.

CHAPTER XV

Catch a Nightmare

Josh and Rosabel had located the pet store from which, about a month ago, had been sold the dachshund answering to the name of Bob.

The pet store proprietor couldn’t remember the purchaser very well.

“He was a bony fellow, well-dressed and, yet, not looking right, somehow. His skin had an unhealthy color. And that’s about all I can tell you.”

It was enough for Josh and Rosabel.

A bony man with a skin like tallow had tried to kill Smitty and Mac at Bison Park. A bony man with a new scar across his forehead which, The Avenger had surmised, was made by the heavy end of a trash basket thrown at him by Spencer Sewell.

Which meant that he was the murderer of Sewell and Sheriff Aldershot.

Now this character was turned up as the purchaser of a dachshund.

“You have his address?” Josh asked. Ordinarily he talked and looked as sleepy as a worthless houn’ dog from his own South. But now the Negro was using his best and most precise English. He had to appear authoritative or he wouldn’t have gotten any information at all. As it was, the pet-store owner was talking with a great deal of reluctance.

“Of course I have the address of the buyer,” said the man. “But I don’t see why it should concern you—”

“I’ve already said,” Josh retorted, stretching the truth a little, “that we want to know because we found such a dog and would like to return it to its owner.”

The pet-shop man shrugged and opened an account book.

“Name of the buyer: Job Petrie. Address: 2232 K Street, Georgetown,” he said ungraciously. “I doubt if you’ll get a reward from Mr. Petrie. He didn’t strike me as a man who liked dogs very much. He probably bought it for a friend.”

“Then he can tell us where to find the friend,” said Josh.

He thanked the man and left, with Rosabel. But outside the pet shop they looked at each other and shrugged.

It looked as though they had struck a hot scent—but a short one. For, of course, the bony man wouldn’t have given a real address.

There was no such number as 2232 K Street in Georgetown. Where it would have been, along a well-to-do residential street, was only a vacant lot.

“Stuck!” said Josh.

But Rosabel shook her head slowly, soft dark eyes intent. Rosabel had plenty of brains, and she kept them polished by frequent and efficient use.

“There’s only this one vacant lot for blocks along here,” she observed. “All the rest is built up.”

“Well?” said Josh.

“Well, the man who bought the dog could hardly give the first number that came into his head—and have it just happen to be this vacant lot. The chances are a hundred to one against such a coincidence.”

Josh’s quick brain was getting into step. “Of course!” he said. “The purchaser gave this address because he knew it was a vacant lot. He did it to throw off all possible investigation. But to know that, he must be very familiar with the neighborhood. In fact, it’s a safe bet that his real address is near here. Let’s get a city directory. An old one, if possible.”

They went to the next street, where a few stores were mingled among houses not quite so pretentious as those on K Street. In a drugstore, they found a directory about three years old.

House by house they checked the block they were in and the block on either side.

They were in an old section; and the people there were home owners and not transient. They were looking for a recent buyer or renter in the neighborhood; but they didn’t find one.

But almost behind the vacant lot, on the next street, there was a vacant store.

Josh and Rosabel looked at each other. It was the one possible location for monkey business that showed anywhere around there. They went back down the street and through an alley to the rear of the vacant store.

There was a cluttered back yard and a general air of desolation, as if no one had been around the place in years. The two went to the rear door anyway.

Josh didn’t need to point to the lock. He and Rosabel worked so closely together that she had seen it as soon as he.

There was a shiny scratch on the lock where a key had recently been used.

Rosabel took a bobby-pin from her jet-black hair and handed it wordlessly to Josh. Josh bent it, inserted it in the lock experimentally, bent it a little more, and opened the door.

They stepped in.

There was a large back room, one side of which had been partitioned off and had a frosted-glass door in the partition. Then there was an open door to the front room of the store. A little light came from that one. Not much. The store front was shuttered.

They started toward that door, and then stopped. A noise had sounded within the small, narrow space partitioned off as an office. Josh took a step toward that, to throw the frosted-glass door open. But it was opened before they got there.

As silently as if swinging of its own volition, with no hand touching it, it opened back. And Josh and Rosabel croaked out exclamations and stared with rings of white showing clear around the pupils in their rolling eyeballs.

A little man, bright-red in color, stood in the doorway. The impossible little fellow was in frock coat and topper. At the end of a leash of braided flowers he had a dog. The dog was grass-green, and was smiling.

“For the love of—” breathed Josh.

A sound came from the door to the front room of the store. They turned.

There, on that threshold, was a little red man and a smiling green dog.

Rosabel checked a scream. She and Josh stared first at the one unbelievable apparition and then at the other, identical one. And after that they acted.

When in doubt, jump.

Rosabel sprang like a black tigress for the little man in the office doorway. Josh jumped at the little man in the store doorway.

And both found their hands clutching tangible substance.

These things looked like nightmares, more than anything that could really exist. But if so, each of The Avenger’s assistants caught a nightmare.

Rosabel’s little red man spoke first.

“Stop twisting my arm, will you?” he said peevishly. “You’re about three times as big as me. You don’t have to break me all up.”

Josh’s small red captive was yelling at the top of his voice.

The green dachshunds were apparently barking like mad—but no sound came from them. Then Josh caught on to the entry in the veterinarian’s book:

“Vocal cords cut.”

And also he caught on to a lot of other things.

“What’s you going to with us?” squalled one of the little men. They were quite unremarkable midgets, dyed red, when you examined them closely. And the dogs were quite ordinary dachshunds, dyed green, with lines cleverly painted at the corners of their mouths, thus making them appear to be smiling.

“What’re you going to do to us?” the little red man repeated sulkily. “We ain’t done nothin’. We just worked for a guy a coupla times who wanted to play a practical joke on some friends. And we posed for a coupla pictures. And that’s all.”

Josh knew, now, what The Avenger, it was apparent, had known for some time.

“Practical joke?” he burst out. “Why, say! This is the threat that was held over the Senators! This is the thing that’s making them willing to put over the Bison Park steal, even though it means their finish politically.”

Rosabel nodded, dark eyes bright.

“They’d see this impossible sight,” she said, “and be convinced they were going crazy. They wouldn’t dare tell anyone about it. They wouldn’t dare even talk to each other about it. They’d be too afraid of being put in padded cells.”

“And then,” added Josh, “they’d be horrified to find that someone, probably this psychiatrist, Fram, had ‘discovered’ their secret. They could be threatened with a lifetime in an asylum if they didn’t do just as they were told!”

One of the almost identical little red midgets spoke up, jerking at Josh’s viselike hand.

“I tell you, it was all done for a joke! The guy who hired us said so. He wanted to play tricks on a couple of senators and a congressman; so we paraded in front of ’em at odd times when nobody else was around. One of ’em, Burnside, shot at me,” he added angrily. “Almost winged me. Then my pal walked into another doorway and drew his attention away from me.”

Josh was puzzling over something.

“How can you live in steam?” he said.

“Live in steam? You’re nuts,” his captive snapped. For a miniature, he was certainly bad-tempered.

“In Bison Park,” exclaimed Josh, remembering Mac’s and Smitty’s account of seeing a little red man and a green dog in the heart of the steam column from lost Geyser.

“Bison Park? We were never in Bison Park in our lives,” snarled the little man.

“You had the dogs’ vocal cords cut, so they couldn’t bark, and make your victim realize that he was seeing something real instead of the fantasy of a disordered mind.”

“We didn’t have the dogs fixed,” protested the little fellow writhing in Rosabel’s resolute grasp. “The guy who hired us must have. Because the dogs never barked when we had ’em. So what? Lots of folks have the bark cut out of a dog, so they won’t keep the neighbors awake at night.”

Josh returned to one of the midgets’ statements.

“You say one of the men you paraded in front of was a congressman.”

“Yeah!”

“Was it Congressman Coolie?”

“Yeah. That’s the one. Congressman Coolie.” The little man scratched his bright-red chin with his bright-red hand. “The one that got bumped off by somebody just last night. He didn’t fall for the joke at all. Just asked us who the devil we were and what the devil we were doing in his house. He threw a chair at me and nearly got me. He wasn’t scared a bit.”

Josh thought he knew the answer to that one, too.

“I looked over that short biographical sketch of Coolie, that I got for Mr. Benson,” he said to Rosabel. “It said the Congressman was color blind. You see? Coolie didn’t see what the rest did. All he saw was a little man with a dog, without the crazy coloring. It wasn’t quite enough to plant the insanity scare in his mind. He held out on the Bison Park deal, therefore, because he wasn’t properly subdued. So they had to kill him to get him out of their way.”

“I think you’re right,” nodded his pretty wife. “But Josh—who are,’they’?”

Josh turned to his diminutive captive. “Who hired you for these practical jokes, to assume for the moment that you aren’t lying?”

“I’m not lying. The guy who hired us was a bony man with a pale face, as if he had been sick a long time. Said his name was Petrie. Just lately he showed up with a cut down his forehead. That’s all we know about him.”

“Josh—” began Rosabel.

But he held his hand quickly to stop her, and she didn’t say whatever it was she’d had in mind.

The upraised hand was not necessary to halt her. She had felt the same thing he had—the thing that had brought the intent look into his black eyes.

A slight tingling at her waist.

That tingling was the vibrating little signal of their belt radios that same other member wanted to contact them. Josh took his radio out with his free hand.

“Hey, that’s a cute little dingbat,” said his midget. “Where do you buy—”

“Shut up!” snapped Josh.

And a tiny but sweet voice came from the little set. An urgent voice. The voice of Nellie Gray.

“Mac—Smitty—Josh—Chief. Nellie Gray talking. If any of you hear this, come to the aid of Nan Stanton and myself. We are being held for death. Come as soon as you can. We are being held in a cell in a tunnel under the Potomac River. The entrance to the tunnel is through a vacant warehouse. Part of the sign over the warehouse is—RAIN CO. Probably some grain company. In the basement, a concealed manhole leads to the tunnel. Watch for a lever about fifty yards from the tunnel entrance. If there is anyone at the lever, get him before he can pull it down. It operates a floodgate which will flood the whole tube. I will repeat. We are held in an abandoned tunnel under the Potomac River. The entrance is through a vacant warehouse with the sign—”

Josh laid his little radio down so as to have both hands free. He grabbed Rosabel’s midget, and held both.

“The dog leashes,” he said. “Get them free, and we’ll tie these two back to back.”

Rosabel’s slim dark hands were flying before he had finished the sentence. The leashes were really of leather thong, with the flowers braided over the outside. Rosabel used one to bind the midgets’ ankles securely together, and the other to pass first around their chests and then in a deft loop over the wrists of each small man.

“Hey!” snarled one of the midgets. “You can’t do this to us. Leave us loose. We ain’t done a thing—”

“We’ll see later just how much you’re guilty of,” said Josh. “Meantime, you’ll stay here, on ice, for a more thorough questioning.”

They left the raging little men and the soundlessly barking dachshunds and piled into their car to seek for a warehouse on the river with the sign:—RAIN CO.

Several miles away, Mac and Smitty were racing on the same mission in their car.

SOS! Nellie Gray! She didn’t have to call twice.

CHAPTER XVI

Terror in the Senate

There were few visitors in the Senate gallery. Perhaps it was the earliness of the hour; perhaps it was because no very important legislation was on the slate for the opening.

The Avenger, disguised as Tetlow Adams, looked around.

There were half a dozen middle-aged women, looking as if they might be a small party touring the Capitol. There were several newspaper reporters. And there was a man who seemed to have been able to smuggle a small camera into the gallery. The man was vague-looking, with watery brown eyes, not dressed very well. He had his small camera up between the folds of his coat, where it could only be seen from straight ahead—or by eyes as keen as The Avenger’s.

Just these few in the gallery. And there weren’t many more than that in the room below.

About twenty-five senators were there, reading newspapers, talking in low tones, walking on and off the floor. The rest were in various cloakrooms.

All the senators reported to have had anything to do with Dr. Fram, however, were present. Benson’s eyes went from Wade to Cutten, and Hornblow, and Collendar, and Burnside.

Yes, the Senator taken from The Avenger’s hideout was there. Benson had been sure he would be. It was improbable that Burnside would have been hurt or killed—or permanently detained. His usefulness was there on that Senate floor.

Burnside looked like a man who was ill. His face was pale. His eyes were dull and weary. His shoulders drooped. His fingers drummed nervously on his desk top, and his gaze was confined to those fingers and that desk top. He didn’t look at anyone else.

The rest of the senators whose names were linked with Fram’s were pale and nervous too; but not so much so as Burnside.

It was certainly a sleepy-looking scene. In the gallery, the women tourists looked disappointed. One of the reporters yawned audibly. The man with the concealed camera leaned back in his seat and looked bored, too. And the low buzz from the members of the Senate, down below, was like the sleepy drone from a beehive, or the low talking of a class of boys when teacher is out of the room.

Roll call was taken. Then, as scheduled, a bill was introduced by an elderly representative from Tennessee.

It was not a very startling or interesting bill. It proposed that $4,500,000 of flood control money be allocated to the purpose of building a dam across some little river somewhere in his home state. The proposal didn’t get a ripple from anyone.

The Avenger wasn’t listening to the rambling discourse following the proposal. He was looking down at Senator Burnside, eyes hawk-keen in spite of the colored pupils over his own colorless ones.

Burnside looked as if about to have a seizure of some kind.

He was sitting rigidly in his seat. His hands were clenched over each other so that clear from the gallery Benson could note their strained, milky whiteness. And he was glaring at his desk top as if the thing had suddenly become a great open maw about to engulf him.

Every drop of color had drained from his face. He was trembling a little, all over.

The Senator from Tennessee sat down. And Burnside, after trying twice before he could make his knees support his weight, stood up.

The Avenger leaned forward a little, eyes like ice behind their disguising tissue eyecups.

This was it!

“Mr. President,” quavered Burnside.

“Senator Burnside.”

“I would like to propose an amendment to the bill of the gentleman from Tennessee. It is that the park in my state designated as Bison National Park be thrown open to private bidding for mineral rights.”

One of the reporters in the gallery lifted an eyebrow, but then yawned again. There was no stir on the floor. It was quite true that such a bill might easily become law because few people knew much about the small section named. It would only be afterward that a storm would rage.

Burnside, sweating, trembling so that his colleagues stared curiously at him, rambled on.

Bison Park was small and out-of-the-way. He cited figures of tourists, indicating that few citizens of the United States had any interest in it. The park was expensive to maintain. He told of the money spent annually in upkeep. There was no reason why it should remain under government control—

The Avenger’s pale gaze was on Cutten, now. The other Senator from Montana was shifting in his seat, alternately red with a great anger, and white with a great fear.

But with anger winning out.

Burnside sat down. There was still no commotion at all. In fact, there was practically no interest. Ten years ago, Senator Burnside had been co-sponsor of a bill turning Bison Park over to the government. Now he was sponsoring a bill turning it back to private hands again. So what?

Burnside sat down and Cutten sprang up. In his face was a great resolve. And a determination that made his features seem as if carved out of stone. The Avenger leaned forward tensely, waiting.

Waiting for the storm of condemnation of the amendment to come from Cutten’s lips. For obviously the man intended to blast the park proposal wide open, and to hell with the personal consequences.

The blasting never began.

“Senator Cutten,” droned the chair, in recognition.

But Cutten was not staring at the chair. He was looking down at his desk top. And in his eyes was a horror that was as great as Burnside’s terror of a moment ago.

“The gentleman from Montana wishes to add a few words to Senator Burnside’s proposed amendment before the matter is opened for debate?” asked the chair.

Cutten moistened his lips, but obviously could not speak. He swallowed hard, shook his head and sat down, with no word uttered.

It was complete defeat!

The giant Smitty stared at the sign over the vacant warehouse sprawled on the bank of the Potomac River on the fringe of Georgetown.

Over the door of the building was a big, peeling sign: MURRAIN CO.

“That’ll be it,” said Smitty. “There’s nothing about grain in the sign, but Nellie said it was a vacant warehouse and the sign ended with—RAIN.”

“Ye’re right,” nodded Mac. “Now to get in.”

It was midmorning, but there weren’t many people along here. For the benefit of the few who might observe them, Mac and Smitty stepped from their car and walked openly to the warehouse-office door as if they had business there.

The door was boarded over; but when Smitty tugged at the handle a little, boards and nailheads moved in unison. The boarding was a fake.

So Smitty, vast right hand clutching the knob, exerted a little strength.

The lock, groaning, then screaming thinly like a live thing, came apart. The knob came out with its square stem like some kind of strange fruit plucked stem and all from a tough branch.

Smitty dropped it, reached a ponderous forefinger into the ragged hole, manipulated the bolt mechanism of the ruined lock and the door swung inward.

Mac and the giant entered a small, bare office that was an inch thick with dust—except in a straight line from door to rear partition.

There, many feet had recently scuffed the dust away.

The two followed the little trail, walking silently, alert for any sound or move.

It led them to basement stairs, and down. And it ended before what seemed a blank wall, till Mac began prodding around with powerful, bony fingers. Then a section of the wall swung back disclosing a tiny cell, in the floor of which was a manhole cover.

A new manhole cover.

“It’s been verrra easy,” whispered Mac dourly. “I’m thinkin’ it’s been too easy—to come here and find just what we’re after.”

Smitty snorted and lifted the manhole cover. The Scot was always sure of disaster when things were going well, reserving his optimism for situations so desperate that any other man would give up completely.

There was a tunnel under the manhole cover. Smitty’s small flash revealed that. He lowered himself to it, and Mac did the same.

“The lid?” whispered Mac.

“Better put it back in place, over our heads,” Smitty replied in a low tone. “Just in case some dope comes along in a minute and gets wise by seeing it out of position.”

Mac lowered the manhole lid into place. They went down the tunnel by the light of Smitty’s flash.

Speedily the thing broadened and heightened till it was a full-sized traffic tube, twenty or twenty-five feet wide and almost the same in height. But walls and floor were of rough concrete, never finished off, and drops of moisture oozed from the river bed just above.

They could hear the swishing of the water near their heads. They opened a heavy steel door.

“I don’t like this at all,” whispered Mac dolefully again, looking back at the door. It was like a bulkhead.

Smitty glared at him and the two went on.

There was a slight bend in the tunnel at the beginning. They rounded this bend; then Smitty pointed. Mac nodded wordlessly.

There, protruding from the side of the tunnel, was a plain iron lever. This was the lever Nellie had mentioned. It was rusted very little, indicating that it, and the flood-gate mechanism it controlled, had been installed only recently.

They had been told to keep anyone from throwing that lever, if anyone were near it as they came along. But there wasn’t a soul in the tunnel ahead of them.

They went on.

And behind them a score of men crept in the darkness as silently as rats!

The men got to the heavy steel door across the tunnel at the bend. They went through the doorway, and closed the portal behind them. One of their number remained behind, outside the door. There was a heavy iron bar there. He dropped it into place. Now, no matter what happened in the tunnel ahead, the big fellow and the Scotch guy would be trapped.

Mac and Smitty were, as yet, unaware of the events in their rear. They were too busy looking ahead.

Nellie had said she was held in a cell off this tunnel. So the two men were looking for some kind of portal behind which might be such a dungeon.

They didn’t see one. Instead, staring ahead, they suddenly saw feet and legs, in Smitty’s flashlight beam.

“Back!” roared Mac. “There’s an arrrmy of the skurlies waitin’ for us!”

The two started back.

Smitty’s flash rayed into the tunnel’s gloom, and threw into bold relief a multitude of faces. Rats’ faces, though on the shoulders of men.

“They’re here, too!” growled Smitty. “They’ve got us two ways, like a pair of pincers.”

As he yelled, he threw his flashlight at the nearest face, and charged, to fight them in the darkness. But it seemed they were not to have that advantage.

Light leaped out all along the tunnel’s length, from bulbs strung high overhead. With the light, the men behind the two and the men ahead of them, rushed forward.

It was like being caught between two tidal waves. A score of men on one side, a dozen or more on the other.

The two waves of snarling humanity met, with Mac and Smitty like two pieces of driftwood in between!

Smitty howled, and grabbed a man by his two clutching arms. Then he began to swing the man around in a giant’s circle. The fellow screamed as his arm sockets gave way under the strain and both arms were dislocated. But the scream didn’t stop Smitty.

He just kept swinging! And the flying feet of his captive knocked over men like tenpins.

Meanwhile, Mac was laying to right and left with fists like bone mallets swinging at the end of wirerope lengths.

The gang stepped back to avoid the swirling, helpless body of their pal. They waited till Smitty had to stop turning round and round to avoid getting so dizzy that he couldn’t stay on his feet. Then they came in again, in a second double wave.

Mac was down on one knee, but still battering away against the hopeless odds. There were going to be broken bones as souvenirs of his cold, controlled ferocity.

Smitty was doing all the damage he could. Which was about as much as a baby tank could have done.

The giant had never bothered to learn to box. With his colossal strength, it simply wasn’t necessary. He just hit, and whether his opponent had his arms up in a boxing guard, or not, made no difference. Smitty simply smashed through all conceivable guards and mashed face or body behind them.

He was knocking men around now with an enthusiasm that brought cold terror to their murderous eyes. The odds had been sixteen to one against these two; and it developed that such odds were not very much more than were needed. There weren’t many of the men unmarked when Smitty finally went down and out beside his unconscious friend.

The men kicked the two and took them down the line.

They threw open a door and tossed the two into it. Then they slammed the door shut again and barred it before a black panther could come from the cell inside and maul a few of them.

The panther, as Mac and Smitty discovered when their senses wavered back to them, was Josh Newton.

Nellie was in this dismal dungeon with Nan Stanton, as her radio SOS had said. But in addition, Rosabel and Josh stared somberly at the giant and the Scot when they sat up and rubbed their aching heads.

“So they got you, too,” growled Smitty.

Neither Josh nor Rosabel answered. The fact was self-evident.

All The Avenger’s aides were nicely immobilized in this rock prison. But there was one person missing who had been there at first.

Fram!

The doctor’s voice sounded suddenly from outside.

“Thank you for calling the help, Nellie Gray,” his voice came mockingly. “It was a help. It caught your companions quite neatly. Now I’ve got you all—except the man who commands you and so arrogantly calls himself The Avenger. I’ll have him too, in a little while. Then the lever will be thrown and we’ll be rid of the lot of you.”

Nellie looked guiltily and in distress at the rest. She had been the one to send out the fatal call for help. She had been entirely duped by the clever man whose business was the subtle manipulation of minds.

None of them wasted any time in regrets.

“The chief,” said Smitty in a low tone. “We’ve got to warn him. The radio—”

His great hands had been fumbling at his waist. They went slack. There was no radio there. The men outside had ripped it from him before throwing him into the cell.

He stared at Mac. The Scot mutely shook his homely head. There was no radio at his belt, either.

It was the same with Josh and Rosabel and Nellie. The diminutive blonde had been allowed to make that appeal; then her set had been snatched from her.

Now they had no way of contacting the man with the pale, infallible eyes and the white, dead face. They could only hope that he had not heard Nellie’s signal, as all the rest of them had.

CHAPTER XVII

Death’s Corral

The Avenger had heard the signal.

Sitting in the Senate gallery, watching a great treasure belonging to the government being tentatively thrown away. Benson had felt the vibration of the radio call. He had unobtrusively held a tiny earphone, kept in a vest pocket, up to his ear. Nellie’s call had come to him.

But there was nothing Benson could do about that, at the moment. For just then, his keen eyes had detected the reason for the horror with which Burnside and Cutten had glared at their desk tops.

The little, vague-looking man with the camera concealed in the opening of his coat, didn’t have a camera at all.

That little black case, aimed downward, was not a camera. It was the reason for the terror in the Senate.

So it was that The Avenger had a hideous choice to make.

Nellie Gray was in danger. Perhaps the others of his aides, if they had obeyed that call, were in peril too. And the urge to help them was strong.

But—there was patriotism. And no man loved his country more than The Avenger. If he dropped everything and sped to his comrades’ aid, the United States would suffer a terrific loss. One, he knew now, that would entail needless suffering to countless thousands of its citizens.

Patriotism against loyalty to individuals! He had to serve his country first.

Benson slipped quietly along the row of seats in the gallery, a row behind the man with the black case. He sat down next to the man before the fellow realized anyone was within six seats of him.

The Avenger’s hand went to the man’s leg, just above the knee. He pressed.

The man had started to jerk his leg away from the searching hand. He stopped moving it and stopped breathing, too, as an awful pain seared him from the waist down. The Avenger’s fingers, trained as few surgeons’ fingers are trained, had found their nerve quarry.

“Hand me that case,” whispered Benson.

The man tried wildly to clutch Benson’s wrist, but stopped as the appalling pressure tightened just a little. Sweat was forming a little ring of moisture around his lips.

“Hand me the case!”

The man passed the case to The Avenger.

Benson turned. A guard was at the gallery entrance. The Avenger motioned with his head for the guard to come.

“You know me?” he whispered to the guard.

It was not suspicious to whisper. The natural attempt of anyone would be to avoid interrupting Senate proceedings down below.

“Yes, Mr. Adams,” murmured the guard. The mining man, whom Benson was supposed to be, was known all over the Capitol.

“I caught this man acting very suspiciously,” Benson whispered. “I wish you’d turn him over to the police for later questioning.”

“You can’t do this!” the little man whispered savagely. “I’ll raise hell in here! I’ll—”

He stopped, and a repressed yell sounded like the thin moan of a dying man, as Benson’s fingers tightened still a little more above his knee.

The man could scarcely use that leg when the guard marched him silently out of the gallery. It had been very quietly done. A few people had looked disapprovingly at the whispering three, then stared down at the Senate again.

Benson took the little black case.

It was a stereopticon.

An ingenious little thing, it had batteries and a small but intense light. There was a slide in the thing. Just one.

It was a picture, in color, of a little red man in frock coat and topper, leading an impossibly smiling little green dog. The kind of thing only a man with a disordered mind would see.

The radio vibration seemed still to be burning The Avenger’s waist. Hurry! Hurry! Nellie Gray—perhaps the others—in deadly danger!

But there were things that must be done first.

Benson snapped the little slide from the clever tiny stereopticon, and ground it under foot. He wrote swiftly on a small sheet of paper from a notebook; then he tore the paper to fit the slide.

He pointed the tiny stereopticon, himself. First at Burnside’s desk top, then at Cutten’s. He saw both men stare in an astonishment greater than their previous fear, then in a relief so profound that both men leaned hard on their chairbacks while a physical weakness swept over them.

Benson got up and hurried to the door of the gallery. His work was done.

On that slip of paper, projected like a small movie image onto the desk tops of the two Senators, he had written:

You’re perfectly sane. What you saw was a stereopticon slide, as this is. Block that bill!

Even as Benson went out the door to the stairs, he heard Burnside’s voice, with a buglelike note in it as the man wrenched free from the awful chains of fear which had held him.

“Mr. President, with your permission I shall withdraw my amendment concerning Bison National Park—”

The Avenger hurried on. His little crew in danger! The men and women who were always ready to give their lives for his—and for whom, naturally, he expected to do the same!

But great as was his urgency, The Avenger made one stop before seeking out the death-trap described by Nellie.

The one stop was at the Library of Congress, where were collected all the statistics and data on every undertaking ever attempted by the city of Washington.

The Avenger had the disguising eyecups off his pale, icy eyes now. His face was still that of Tetlow Adams; but the eyes, colorless, deadly, calm as glacial moonlight, were The Avenger’s.

He was in the opening of the tunnel. He had sped straight to the Murrain Co. warehouse on the edge of the Potomac. He had gotten in as quickly as had Smitty.

He had dropped into the dark tunnel and had replaced the manhole cover over his head, just as Smitty and Mac had done.

But there, his path, for the first minute or so, was different.

He went back, first, instead of forward.

Seeming to float a little above the concrete flooring of the tunnel, instead of moving on top of it, so silent were his feet, the gray fox of a man stole into blackness.

He stopped. His ears, miraculously keen, had heard breathing. The breathing of many men. He waited there in the blackness, with unguessable odds lurking at the very end of the tunnel, fifty yards back from the manhole cover.

Finally, he heard a whisper.

“Now?”

In the blackness ahead of the man with the dead, white face, came the answer.

“Yeah! After him. He’s had time to get along quite a ways. And don’t any of you mugs make any noise!”

The Avenger felt upward. The tunnel, at this spot, was much lower than under the river itself. He could just reach the top with his fingertips. And up there, he felt an angleiron bracing, with a thick glass insulator, from which a power cable had been hung at one time when power drills and other tools were in use in the tube.

He drew himself up as far as he could, with his head against the tunnel roof and his knees doubled under him.

And under Benson, the men lying in ambush for him, their last victim, stole toward the river.

It was a terrific muscular strain, hanging like that. But Benson held the position for at least five full minutes, to make sure all the men had gone. Then he dropped and stole along after them.

Ahead, he could catch the faint rasp of a shoe sole on concrete, now and then. He followed. All sounds stopped. He stopped, too. There was a whisper.

“You say the guy ain’t been past here? You’re nuts! Or else you weren’t on the job.”

“Nobody’s been past this door,” came the earnest whisper, in reply.

“Look. We seen the guy lift the manhole cover and drop down. We didn’t see him go back up, and we would have if he had opened that lid again. The light up above would have given him away. See? He’s in this damn tunnel. And he’s got to be ahead of us. We went along abreast; so we knew we didn’t slide past him in the dark. That means he went through this door.”

“I didn’t hear or see anything,—” protested the first whisper.

“The guy can move like a shadow. We know that. He probably slipped through while you were lighting a cigarette or something. He has to be beyond here! Keep your eyes open and your ears, too.”

The footsteps resumed their faint sounds, going on under the river away from The Avenger.

Benson moved forward again.

It was so black that an owl could scarcely have seen anything. But The Avenger’s rare eyes picked out enough so that, sensed as well as actually perceived, he made out the dim barrier of a wall with a wide door in it across the tunnel, and in front of that the vague shape of a guard.

The unfortunate guard was peering ahead, not behind. So there was never a more surprised man than he, when suddenly something like a vise clamped around his neck. He had no chance to utter a sound. He could only jerk wildly for half a minute, then sag to the tunnel floor when the deadly hand released him.

Benson felt over that barrier. Solid metal. The big door, with a lever bolt on the outside—his side—was easy to understand: it was a bulkhead arrangement, designed to stop water if the tunnel ahead sprang a leak. Like the water-tight bulkhead of a ship.

The Avenger lifted the deeply unconscious guard over the raised sill and into the river side of the tunnel. His steely fingers arranged the outer bar delicately.

Then he stepped through the steel barrier himself, and shut the heavy door.

He slammed it hard. And that ended the whispering and tiptoeing around, for that ended the silence in the tomblike place.

The clang of that ponderous door in its metal jamb rang down the tunnel like a cannon shot. And was answered by startled cries of men ahead, still groping forward for The Avenger.

After the cries, in a solid flood, came light, as the many bulbs in the string overhead were turned on.

From down the tunnel, the men came pouring back. Over a score of them. But The Avenger moved toward them instead of trying to get back and away.

He passed the flood-control lever. His pale eyes took on a crystalline glitter as he sped past that. Nellie had mentioned it specifically.

He saw a door, again of heavy steel, to his right, about thirty yards ahead. Behind that door would be Nellie. But he had no chance of reaching there. For even as he glimpsed it, the men were on him.

Benson backed to the wall. For an instant, the gang paused. This man’s face was as still as if he were in no danger whatever. There was no fright, or anger, or any other emotion on it. It was as cold as ice—and as unmoved.

Besides, it was not the face of the man they’d thought they were trapping. That man was called Benson. And this one looked like somebody else—

“Hey, it’s Adams,” yelled one of the men.

But from behind them all came a voice that Benson knew. The voice of Dr. Fram.

“That’s not Adams, you fools! Look at his eyes! That’s the man we want. Get him!”

They rushed him again. At their head was a bony man with a fresh scar on his forehead. And with real pleasure, The Avenger took care of him first.

The fist of the gray steel bar of a man lashed out, and the bony man fell back, whimpering, with a broken jaw. The rest jumped the average-sized fellow with another man’s face.

The Avenger’s hands were like precise laboratory tools as they pistoned in and out.

Each blow caught a man where it would do the most good. The side of the jaw. Over the heart. The pit of the stomach. And each blow knocked a man out of the fight, as if, one by one, a supreme marksman were shooting down clay pigeons.

Could Benson have taken them on one or two at a time, he might actually have downed the lot of them. But that, of course, was not possible. They were milling around him in even greater numbers.

From behind them the voice of Fram kept egging them on.

“Get him! Is one man to beat the lot of you? Can’t you take on one person, and that one smaller than any of you?”

They were smothering Benson by sheer weight of numbers. They had him down. A few more yelped and jerked back as his calm hands found places to apply their steely pressure and ruin nerve centers.

Then he was done.

Cursing, panting, looking as if they had fought an army with brass knuckles, the men limped to the steel door in the bend of the tunnel. They opened it, with half a dozen of them standing guard with drawn guns.

The drawn guns were necessary.

With the opening of the door, a giant, a Negro who was raging like a panther, and a bony Scot leaped out to do battle.

They were forced to leap back in again as lead splashed all around them from watchful guns.

The gang threw Benson into the cell, and clanged the door shut. The big bolt on the outside boomed into place.

They were all there, now. The Avenger himself, as well as his indomitable little band. All there—in death’s corral!

“Why, it’s Tetlow Adams!” Nan Stanton exclaimed.

But Nellie shook her head.

“It’s the chief,” she said. “Those rats outside! They’ve killed him.”

Benson’s eyelids opened. His eyes peered at them out of the death-mask face, colorless and icy and perfectly normal.

“Not dead,” he said. “Not even unconscious. But I thought I might be treated a little less savagely if I pretended unconsciousness.”

He got to his feet and went to the door. His eyes glittered with grim satisfaction as he saw that to reach the door you went down three steps; the cell was a little higher than the tunnel, itself.

At the door, with the eyes of the others on him, he wasted no time trying to force it open. That was obviously impossible. Even Smitty couldn’t force that metal door.

Instead, The Avenger began doing a curious thing.

He ripped off his shirt, slit it into lengths, and began stuffing cloth tightly into the small crack between the top of the door, and the jamb.

Just the top of the door. Sides and bottom he paid no attention to.

“I . . . I got us into this,” mourned Nellie. “I’m so sorry. If I hadn’t lost my head and used the radio—”

A voice from outside cut her off. Fram’s voice.

“Nice of you all to walk into my parlor,” he said. His voice was without a qualm, without any human feeling at all.

Smitty shook his head.

“I thought, till now, that Adams was the man behind all this, and that he was making Fram do his bidding. But it looks as if it were the other way around. Fram was the man who wanted Bison Park, and he meant to make Adams and his mining connections the goat. I wonder how?”

“Adams was threatened as the Senators were,” replied Benson quietly, as he completed stuffing cloth into the crack at the top of the door with all the force of his slim but steel-strong fingers. “He thought he was going mad—seeing hallucinations—the little red man and the dog. Fram threatened him with an insane asylum for life if he didn’t do as he was told. Just as he threatened the rest.”

The Avenger raised his voice.

“You mean of course to throw that lever and drown us, Fram?”

“I do, my white-haired friend with so many faces,” said the psychiatrist.

“Don’t do it, Fram,” said Benson, voice like the somber tolling of a death knell.

Into Fram’s tone crept a little trace of fury, carefully controlled.

“You’ve stopped the Bison Park deal. I heard that just a minute ago on my own small radio. You’ve beaten me there. But you’ll never live to menace me with the penitentiary.”

“Don’t throw that lever, Fram!”

There was a laugh from the tunnel. Then those inside heard the man shout:

“Pull down the lever. Wide open! Then run for the bulkhead door and get away. You can all get out and slam and bolt the door, before the flood reaches that point.”

“Well,” said The Avenger, voice still like the tolling of a bell, “they had their chance.”

CHAPTER XVIII

Death by Flood!

Outside came the steps of the men as they retreated back up the tunnel toward the warehouse exit. All of them, in a group. The little band in the dank cell heard one man say:

“You guys’ll have to jump fast. The water gets this far along in a hurry—”

“O.K.!”

With the cry, the steps outside changed tempo. They became the steps of frantically running men. And at the same moment, down the tunnel in the other direction came a roar of water as the whole Potomac River tried to shoulder into the tunnel running beneath it. The floodgate had been opened!

Nan Stanton screamed once. But none of the others made a sound. It looked like the end, but they only stared at the man they called chief, blindly faithful to him. In a moment even Nan, an outsider, managed to regain some sort of self control, with the example of that icy calm before her.

Smitty thrust his great hands in his capacious pockets, and talked, as a small boy will whistle to keep up his courage.

“The little red man and the dog,” he said. “Nobody’s given an idea as to how they could live in steam. And Mac and I saw them in steam at the Lost Geyser.”

The Avenger shook his head. His eyes were on the bottom of the door. Under the door, water was forcing itself in a solid sheet. It hit the first step up to the cell floor, and then the second. Outside it was a rushing, howling flood.

“They weren’t in the steam,” he said. “What you saw was a stereopticon slide. A man was trying much the same trick from the Senate gallery, a while ago—keeping the Senators in line by making them think they saw visions on their desk tops. That lady’s handbag, Smitty.”

“Huh?” said the giant, moistening dry lips as he saw the flood top the third step and rush over the cell floor.

“A lady’s handbag,” said Benson, “lying in such an unexpected place as Lost Geyser, where you wouldn’t think any woman would be able to go, was sure to be picked up by anyone seeing it. When it was picked up, it set a concealed stereopticon in motion and the mad little man and his green dog appeared against the column of steam. In that way, anyone blundering past Lost Geyser would be apt to be scared away, and wouldn’t be able to talk of what he had seen for fear of being thought a maniac—”

Like the cries of birds, far away, came men’s voices from outside and down the tunnel.

“Hey, what goes on out there?” said Mac, bleak blue eyes beginning to take on a speculative look as they rested on Benson’s white, still face. “What are they sayin’?”

“They are saying,” said The Avenger calmly, “that they can’t get that steel door open to escape.”

“What?” gasped Smitty. Josh and Nellie and Rosabel stared with their mouths open.

“I set the outer bar in such a way that when I banged the door shut from the inside, the bar would fall and block the exit,” said Benson calmly. “I did that because from the nature of the trap and the layout of the blueprints, it was evident that our doom was to be death by drowning.”

“B-blueprints?” said Josh.

“In the Congressional Library.” The water was up to their knees, and spurting in around the dungeon door in flat sheets. “Blueprints of this abandoned traffic tunnel are there, naturally. I stopped on my way to have a look.”

“So you let the men and their precious leader, Fram, throw the lever that will drown them all like the rats they are!”

“I don’t take life, as you know,” was The Avenger’s calm, cold retort. “If murderers kill themselves in their efforts to kill us, that is their own affair. So I let them throw that lever, knowing that by the time they found the steel door locked against them they wouldn’t have time to get back and shut the floodgate again. By then, the rush of the water would have cut them off from it. But they had their chance. You heard me warn Fram not to do it.”

The cold, even voice was like something coming from a machine—a machine of vengeance—rather than a human being.

“But, Muster Benson,” spluttered the Scot. “Ye’ve killed us, too. We’ll be drowned along with the rats. Look at this, now!”

The water was up to their waists.

“What I saw in the blueprints at the Congressional Library,” said Benson, “governed my procedure here. This cell, the only logical place for prisoners in the tunnel length, is in a bend of the tunnel, and its roof is four feet above the roof of the tube outside. It is logical to assume that inrushing water will trap air in this cell.”

“So that’s why you stuffed the crack at the top of the door!” Josh said.

“Yes.” The Avenger’s tone was as even and unmoved as if they were all at a garden party speaking of the arrangements of flowers. “That was to keep the air in this cell from oozing out the top of the door as the water pressed in at the bottom. It’s impossible to caulk the door cracks to keep the water out. The pressure is too great. But it is possible to keep the air in.”

Smitty and Mac were silent. It all sounded very smooth and easy; but they knew that only a great engineer could have read this possibility in a glance at a blueprint.

And even a great engineer, in a case like this, might have miscalculated a very little.

In which case they would all die.

“The men outside?” shuddered Nan Stanton. The shiver was caused by the icy water as well as her fears. The water was now up to the dainty chin of Nellie, who was the shortest of them.

Benson didn’t answer. But they all knew the reply.

The men outside in the tunnel were drowned. Fram included. The tube was flooded from floor to roof, since no more rush of water sounded. And spurting into the cell around the door. It would soon be up to the ceiling in here. Unless Benson’s delicate calculations of elevation and curve was precisely right.

“It still seems fantastically impossible that Dr. Fram was the head of this,” said Nan. “You are sure, Mr. Benson?”

“Even without his presence here at the end, I would have known,” said The Avenger. Nellie was standing on tiptoe to keep her head above water. “The whole plot was one of applied psychology. Only a professional psychologist, trained in the knowledge of manipulation of minds, could have concocted it. Only a master of subtlety like Fram. Certainly it would have been beyond the powers of an ordinary businessman like Tetlow Adams.”

“But why?” burst out Nellie. “Fram wouldn’t want the helium in the park.”

“There was never a question of helium,” said Benson, watching the inrush of water as coldly and impersonally as if his life were not dependent on it. “Mac and Smitty reported seeing a deer and jackrabbit, at Lost Geyser, with incurable sores on their flanks. Don’t you really know what must have made those sores, Mac?”

The Scot, after a few seconds, emitted a kind of squawk at his own thick-headedness in not seeing it before. Particularly since he was one of the world’s finest pharmacists and an equally fine chemist.

“Radium!”

“Of course,” said Benson. The flood was coming into the cell more slowly. But it was still coming in. “Radium. That’s why Fram wanted to get the park—intending to force Adams to bid it in under his own mining corporation titles. There are evidently pitchblende deposits around Lost Geyser so rich, that animals lurking in the vicinity too long develop incurable radium burns. Such deposits are worth uncounted millions to the man who could acquire mineral rights to Bison Park.”

Nellie gasped aloud, then repressed the sound. She was forced to tread water, now. She couldn’t touch the floor any more.

The ceiling slowly neared them till it was only a foot above their heads, and they were all treading water.

The flood was coming in extremely slowly, as the air between water and roof became more and more compressed.

But it still had not entirely stopped!

Nan Stanton began to cry, first silently and then hysterically. All very well to trust The Avenger as blindly as these others seemed to be doing. But, after all, he was only mortal; even he could make a mistake. Besides, assuming there would remain enough air to keep them alive in here for a while—then what? There was at least a quarter of a mile of tunnel between them and the street exit, filled from floor to roof by water. How could they ever get out of that? And the door to this cell, of solid metal, was barred from the outside. How could they get that open?

The bulb in the ceiling was still burning. Rosabel paddled to Nan’s side and put an arm around her to comfort her. At that moment the light blinked out as water, far away, finally caused a short circuit somewhere in the line.

There was about six inches between water and ceiling.

“All of you,” came The Avenger’s calm voice, “go to the walls. They are rough, unfinished cement. You can find irregularities to cling to, so that you won’t tire yourselves treading water constantly.”

They did as commanded and clung with fingertips to irregularities, with their faces tilted so that nostrils and mouths were in the thin stratum of air.

And then the flow had stopped. Benson had calculated the air pocket in the cell, in advance, to the inch.

“Pressure is equalized,” his calm voice came. “We’ll leave now.”

Nan Stanton couldn’t guess what he meant. But his aides knew.

He had his small combination gas mask and oxygen dispenser under the lining of his coat. He clipped that onto his nostrils and over his mouth; then he sank on the floor of the cell, taking in oxygen from a rubber bladder as he did so.

Also with him, as usual, was one of Mac’s inventions. A tiny blowtorch whose fuel was several pellets which, when crushed and moistened, produced a blue, terrifically hot point of flame.

It would work under water as well as in air.

They could all see the blue point move slowly in a circle, under the water, as Benson cut a hole in the steel door. Then a little wavering of the water told of the door being partly opened.

Benson’s head came above surface again.

“Stay in here till I can get to the lever and close the floodgate. Then I will go on to the steel bulkhead door and burn that open. That will allow the flood to go on along the rest of the tunnel till the surface at this end is several feet below the tunnel roof. You can swim out at your leisure. When you feel the water move, follow me.”

As simple and easy as that, to hear the man with the paralyzed face and the pale, deadly eyes express it. But what miracles of applied science and engineering forethought lay behind this incredible escape!

“He’s a great mon,” said Mac, in a hushed tone.

“And a lonely one,” murmured Nellie Gray, profound sympathy in her voice.

She knew better than any of them, perhaps, how desolate was the world in which Benson moved. His was a death in life, without the wife and daughter that crime had taken from him.

Now he had won again. An entire gang, with their cold, subtle, inhuman leader, had been destroyed by their own hands—as gangs of crooks fighting The Avenger always were destroyed; since he himself refused to take life.

A great treasure had been taken from scheming hands. Now, a large source of radium would be opened to relieve public suffering at a cost low enough for the majority to afford. A great public benefaction.

Yes, he had won again. And with their own lives saved. Nellie could picture the awesome personage, whose face could never express an emotion, going calmly under water to the lever, shutting it off, going on to burn through the flood bulkhead and open the doorway there. Then he would be carried in a rush of the released flood till he could get his footing again, and open the final manhole cover for them. And there would be other bodies swirled through the door with him. Dreadful, staring things. Dead gangsters and—Dr. Fram, diabolical in life, harmless in death.

But the victory would mean nothing to The Avenger. Nothing save release of brilliant energies for another case; another brush with criminals too subtle for the police to handle; another chance to avenge the death of his dear ones—

The water began to suck from the cell, waving their legs in its passage. The bulkhead door down the line had been opened, and the floodgate shut to prevent the entrance of more water. The way to life and safety was clear.

THE END

Table of Contents

CONTENTS

THE SMILING DOGS

CHAPTER I The Smiling Dogs

CHAPTER II Little Red Man

CHAPTER III Sulphur and Salt

CHAPTER IV Senatorial Interest

CHAPTER V Lost Geyser

CHAPTER VI The Black Book

CHAPTER VII Two in Trouble

CHAPTER VIII To the Asylum

CHAPTER IX Wings of Death

CHAPTER X The Cryptogram

CHAPTER XI Lights Out

CHAPTER XII Angry Congressman

CHAPTER XIII Color Blind

CHAPTER XIV Under the Flood!

CHAPTER XV Catch a Nightmare

CHAPTER XVI Terror in the Senate

CHAPTER XVII Death’s Corral

CHAPTER XVIII Death by Flood!