The Avenger E-Book

Emile Tepperman

• Herausgeber: Ozymandias Press
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Seitenzahl: 280

Beschreibung

The Avenger was on the prowl tonight. Swiftly, the word spread through the slimy alleys and the dark corners of the great city's underworld. Hard men who flaunted the police and scoffed at the law sought hurried cover as the word reached them. At fly-specked bars, in closed and shuttered rooms, men buzzed in furtive whispers: "What's he after? Has anybody got the dope? Who's The Avenger gunning for?" Those were the questions which flew around on the wings of fear...

Leseprobe

THE AVENGER

Emile Tepperman

OZYMANDIAS PRESS

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All rights reserved. Aside from brief quotations for media coverage and reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form without the author’s permission. Thank you for supporting authors and a diverse, creative culture by purchasing this book and complying with copyright laws.

Copyright © 2016 by Emile Tepperman

Published by Ozymandias Press

Interior design by Pronoun

Distribution by Pronoun

ISBN: 9781531291679

TABLE OF CONTENTS

I. — DEATH TO THE AVENGER!

II. — A COFFIN FOR THE AVENGER

III. — VENGEANCE ON THE AVENGER

IV. — CALLING JUSTICE, INC.

V. — CARGO OF DOOM

VI. — TO FIND A DEAD MAN

I. — DEATH TO THE AVENGER!

~

1. PROWL

THE AVENGER was on the prowl tonight.

Swiftly, the word spread through the slimy alleys and the dark corners of the great city’s underworld. Hard men who flaunted the police and scoffed at the law sought hurried cover as the word reached them.

At fly-specked bars, in closed and shuttered rooms, men buzzed in furtive whispers: “What’s he after? Has anybody got the dope? Who’s The Avenger gunning for?”

Those were the questions which flew around on the wings of fear.

Down at police headquarters, Inspector Cruikshank listened to the whispered voice of a stoolie over the phone and hung up with a worried frown.

“It’s The Avenger,” he said to Dolson, his chief aid. “He’s on the hunt, They say he’s out for big game. What the devil can he be after? What’s on the books these days?”

Dolson scowled and scratched his right ear. “Who can tell, sir?” he growled. “It might be Gregorio Ruiz, or Nick Frogash—”

Inspector Cruikshank groaned. “I hope it isn’t Ruiz. That devil is too big for us to tackle—”

“And for The Avenger, too!” Dolson broke in, “If Dick Benson is going after Gregorio Ruiz, there’ll be fireworks in town tonight!”

“I better find out!” said the inspector. He flipped down the switch of the interoffice communication system and spoke into the box. “Get me Justice, Inc.,” he ordered.

A moment later he had his connection, and a voice said over the phone, “This is Justice, Inc. Smith speaking.”

“Listen, Smitty,” said the inspector. “What’s this I hear about your boss? What’s he on to?”

“On to?” Smitty repeated, in a tone of surprised innocence. “Why, what in the world are you talking about, inspector?”

“Lay off, Smitty,” Cruikshank growled. “You know damned well what I’m talking about. Word is traveling on the underworld grapevine that The Avenger is on the prowl. Now listen, I just want you to tell me one thing—is Dick Benson out after Gregorio Ruiz?”

“I’ll ask him, the next time I see him, inspector,” Smitty said, and hung up.

Inspector Cruikshank swore fluently as he cradled the phone.

“Smitty isn’t talking!” he told Dolson. He reached for his hat, “I’m going out and see if I can find The Avenger, before the big guns begin popping. You, Dolson—order out every man in your detail. Have them comb the town. Whoever spots The Avenger, have him phone in. Put it on the shortwave radio. I’ll pick it up wherever I am!”

Dolson saluted the inspector’s retreating back and got busy on the interoffice phone. Within a matter of minutes, the police department was a bustling beehive of frantic activity.

Two blocks away from headquarters, in the terrace apartment of a twenty-story apartment building that overlooked the East River, a man stood upon the terrace, staring down at the murky waters of the river, far below.

He was a tall man, with the nose of a hawk and the look of a falcon and the eyes of a devil incarnate, His lips were thin and bloodless, and his hands were long and sensitive, like the hands of an artist.

This man was in a black mood indeed. There was a dark unreadable look in his eyes, and his thin lips twitched spasmodically. His hands gripped the terrace railing tightly, as if they would rip it from its moorings.

His eyes, it seemed, were focused upon a single spot down there in the river, a spot near a crumbling and disused dock. But it was strange that his attention should be centered upon that spot, for there was nothing there —no life, no movement.

Suddenly, the man with the hawk face swung around and stepped through the tall French windows into the lighted room beyond.

It was a great room, with costly drapes, rare oil paintings and curios and knicknacks from all parts of the world. Near one corner, under a fluorescent light, was an easel with a canvas resting upon it, Upon the canvas was an unfinished oil painting of a demure girl of nineteen or twenty, technically excellent but tinged with a strangely evil note. There was terror in the girl’s eyes and revulsion in her face. The artist who had worked upon that canvas must have been one who gloried in the sight of terror.

The man with the hawk face brushed past the easel and stopped in the middle of the room, where three men stood waiting, their hats in their hands, servile and eager to please. Though they were hardbitten men, there was a lurking tinge of fear in their eyes as they watched this hawk-faced man.

He stood very still, looking at them for a full space of sixty seconds. And then, when he spoke, his voice was almost gentle. He was holding himself in check. He was not permitting the passion within him to burst its bonds.

“I want The Avenger!” he said, between grated teeth. “I want him dead or alive. I want him tonight! Do you understand, you three?”

The three men nodded their heads. The one on the left wet his lips.

“Yes, Mr. Ruiz,” he said.

The second one swallowed hard. “Yes, Mr. Ruiz.”

The third one spoke quickly, as if he wanted to get it over with. “Yes, Mr. Ruiz.”

“Bah!” exclaimed Gregorio Ruiz. His eyes blazed as he mimicked them. “‘Yes, Mr. Ruiz; yes, Mr. Ruiz!’ Is that all you know how to say?”

His long finger lanced at the first of the three, a husky fellow with close-cropped black hair and a twisted nose. “You, Jasper!” His eyes swung to the next. “And you, Degnan. And you, Lithro. You three have been provided with men and money enough, to accomplish anything at all in this city, not excepting murder. Is it so hard, then, for you to capture or kill one man?”

Jasper was the boldest of the three. “That one man—he’s The Avenger, Mr. Ruiz. He’s tough, that guy. And so are his pals—that Smitty; even the dame, Nellie Gray. They’re tough, and they play for keeps.” Then, seeing the terrible wrath rising in the eyes of Gregorio Ruiz, he added hastily, “But we’ll get him tonight. Don’t worry; we’ll get him tonight!”

Ruiz turned away from them. He strode out on to the terrace once more. Again, as if drawn by some terrible fascination, his eyes fixed upon that spot in the river, near the old and rotting dock. He spoke to them over his shoulder.

“Somebody squealed to The Avenger about that thing that’s out there in the river. We don’t know how much the squealer told. But we can’t afford to have The Avenger find that thing out there. Do you all understand?”

Once more there was that chorus of, “Yes, Mr. Ruiz.”

Gregorio Ruiz sighed. He came back into the room.

“Come,” he said. “I see that I shall have to take charge of this, myself. Listen to me closely, you three. I shall tell you how we will trap The Avenger—”

2. SMOKE OUT A KILLER!

IF Gregorio Ruiz and Inspector Cruikshank were both worried about The Avenger’s activities tonight—each for a different reason— perhaps they both had more cause for concern than they thought. As for Gregorio Ruiz, had he known exactly where The Avenger was at that particular moment, his rage might have burst all bounds.

That terrace apartment of Ruiz’s was two blocks east of headquarters. Only a couple of blocks south of headquarters was the Criminal Courts Building. And here, on the third floor, a jury of seven men and five women was deliberating behind locked doors, on the fate of one man. That one man was Barney Dorset.

The trial of Barney Dorset had lasted nineteen days. A procession of sixty witnesses had occupied the witness chair during Dorset’s trial for murder in the first degree. Now, the jury was considering all the mass of evidence which had been placed before it. It had been locked in at eleven o’clock that morning. The judge was sleeping on a cot in his chambers, so that he would be on hand the moment a verdict was reached. The district attorney was pacing up and down in his office, and the defense counsel was engaged in a poker game with some reporters and bondsmen in a bonding office across the street from the courthouse.

The defendant himself was under heavy guard in the detention room on the main floor.

And it was just outside the courthouse that The Avenger might have been found, had anyone known where to look for him.

The long, powerful sedan of Dick Benson was parked on the side street, only a dozen feet or so from the north entrance. Dick sat in the back, with Nellie Gray behind the wheel. Tonight, Nellie was acting as chauffeur. But, to look at her, no one would have guessed that Dick’s chauffeur was, in reality, a daintily fragile blonde. Her golden-blond hair was piled high on her head, hidden by a chauffeur’s cap. The curves of her slim, girlish figure were hidden by a gray whipcord uniform, and her hands were incased in huge leather gauntlets.

Sitting in the rear, Dick Benson—The Avenger—was hardly more recognizable. He was attired in the complete outfit of a city fireman, with hip boots, fireproof coat and helmet, and a gas mask, slung by a strap over his shoulder. He had a long-handled ax at his side, and his face was liberally covered with soot. To look at him, no one would have thought he was other than a hard—working, tired, city employee.

Only his eyes indicated the driving resolve and the iron will which had made of him the one man whom the underworld feared and hated more than anyone or anything else.

It was he—this Dick Benson—who meted out punishment to those malefactors who were too big and powerful for the law to touch.

The long arm of The Avenger reached out where no man with a badge could legally go. And all over the world, men knew that if their cause was just, they could seek out that little street in the heart of New York where a small sign read: “Justice, Inc.” There, they could find the help which the duly constituted authorities might be powerless to give.

Tonight, The Avenger was engaged in just such a mission—justice beyond the power of the law.

He sat, apparently at ease, with one eye on his wrist watch. Headphones were adjusted to his ears, and he was speaking into the mouthpiece of the powerful but compact short-wave sending-and—receiving set which was built into the car. A distorting device enabled him to speak in absolute privacy with Algernon Heathcote Smith, at the headquarters of Justice, Inc.

“All set, chief,” Smitty was saying. “Inspector Cruikshank phoned, but I gave him the brush-off. He hasn’t got the faintest idea what we’re up to. He’s placed a couple of men outside here, on Bleek Street. But if you use the secret entrance, they’ll never spot you.”

“Right, Smitty,” said Dick Benson, glancing at his watch. “Zero hour is 8:15. Synchronize your time. I have 8:13.5.”

“Right, chief. 8:13.5.”

“Signing off, Smitty.”

“Good luck. Signing off!”

Dick Benson removed the headset, placed it on a hook of the radio set and pressed a button. The set receded under the seat, a panel slid shut, and it was no longer visible.

Nellie Gray was watching him.

“Everything ready?” she asked.

The Avenger nodded. “Go to it, Nellie. Smitty will be phoning the alarm in less than a minute and a half.”

Nellie smiled. This diminutive girl, endowed with the courage and skill which many men would have envied, had preferred to work by the side of The Avenger in his constant warfare against crime, rather than to seek one of the many glamorous careers which might have been open to one as beautiful and attractive as she. And she performed the duties assigned to her perhaps better than any man.

She slipped out of the car, walked swiftly to the corner, and threw a hasty glance around to make sure the cop on the beat was not in sight. Their timing had taken the cop’s routine into consideration. At this moment, he would be at the other end of the beat, but those who worked with The Avenger had been trained always to be doubly sure. It was one of the many reasons why they, who took such numerous and terrible risks, were still alive and healthy.

As soon as Nellie was sure the cop was not in evidence, she reached up to the firebox and pulled the handle. This would flash the alarm at fire headquarters, which, in turn, would flash it over the fire department’s telegraph, to the nearest pumper company.

At the same time, Smitty would be phoning in to say that he was a passer-by who had noted smoke issuing from the top floor of the Criminal Courts Building. This would insure that the dispatcher at fire headquarters would also send hook-and-ladder apparatus in addition to the pumper. Benson wanted as many pieces of fire apparatus as possible at the scene.

After pulling the fire alarm, Nellie Gray strolled back, past the entrance of the building. From the pocket of her whipcord uniform, she took a small round object, about the size of an orange. She hurled this object in through the open doorway.

There was a tinkling sound, as of broken glass, and a moment later, thick smoke began to billow out.

Nellie continued on to the car and slipped in behind the wheel.

Dick Benson’s eyes were on his wrist watch.

“Good timing, Nellie,” he said. “It took you just a half minute to get to the box and a half minute to walk back and throw the smoke bomb. That brought it to 8:15. The engines from the fire house take ninety seconds to get here, which should bring it to 8:16.5.”

They waited till they heard the clang of the engines, around the corner. Then Dick Benson picked up his ax and stepped out of the car. He set off at a run for the side entrance. At the same time, a fireman from the pumper which had arrived at the front came running around the corner. Dick waved him back.

“I’ll take this door!” he yelled.

The fireman thought, perhaps, that Dick was one of his own crew, who had gone in the front, come through the building and out this entrance. He was satisfied and turned back.

Dick adjusted his gas mask, covering his face entirely, and plunged into the cloud of smoke emanating from the courthouse.

He had a complete plan of the layout of the building in his mind, so he did not need to see through the smoke to find the detention room where Barney Dorset was being kept under guard.

The smoke was spreading so thickly that it had filled most of the main floor. But when Benson got close to the door of the detention room, he could see two guards milling around in front of it, with their hands at their eyes. The smoke bomb which Nellie had thrown had been especially constructed for this purpose by Fergus MacMurdie, another member of The Avenger’s band, who was perhaps the most skilled chemist in the world. In addition to the smoke-producing chemical, the bomb which Nellie had thrown also contained a small quantity of xylil bromide, which is a highly effective, though absolutely harmless, form of tear gas. Those two guards would see nothing for perhaps twenty minutes, but their eyes would be all right again before morning.

The Avenger slipped around behind the two milling guards, and fitted a key to the door of the detention room. He had taken the precaution to prepare this key in advance and knew that it would work.

He pushed open the door of the detention room.

The smoke had not yet penetrated here. Barney Dorset was seated in a chair, handcuffed, with a cigarette between his lips. He was a surly brute of a man, with a stocky chest and a pair of long and powerful arms. He had done many a killing at the order of Gregorio Ruiz. Throughout the trial, he had not been greatly worried, because he knew that Ruiz would take care of him. Twice before, he had been tried for murder, and the case had gone to the jury. But in some strange and unaccountable fashion, the juries had found verdicts of “not guilty,” despite the weight of evidence. He was quite sure that this would be the case now, too, and his demeanor indicated this feeling of assurance.

There were two guards on duty inside this room, both armed with sawed-off shotguns. One of them had gone to the window at the arrival of the fire engines, but the other remained at his post, tautly watching the prisoner.

At Dick Benson’s entrance, the guard exclaimed, “Say! Is it a bad fire?”

He assumed, of course, that Dick was one of the firemen, and that the guards outside had opened the door for him.

“Not bad,” said Dick. The smoke rolled in with him, filling the room swiftly. The guard’s eyes began to tear, and he raised a hand to rub them. At the same time, the other guard, at the window, began to rub at his eyes, too.

Dick Benson stepped over to the first one, took a small pellet out of his pocket, and cracked it between his fingers, right under the man’s face. The guard got one whiff of the powerful anaesthetic chemical which the pellet contained, and his head drooped.

Swiftly, Dick repeated the procedure with the second guard. In a moment, they were both unconscious.

It was beginning to be difficult to see through the smoke which was pouring in from the corridor, but Barney Dorset hadn’t missed a thing.

“Hey,” he exclaimed. “What goes on? You ain’t a real fireman—”

“No, you fool!” Dick Benson snapped. He had dropped to one knee beside the unconscious guard and was going through his pockets. He found the man’s keys, and sprang to Barney Dorset’s side. Swiftly, he unlocked and removed the handcuffs.

Dorset’s eyes widened. “I get it! Greg Ruiz sent you. He’s pulling this phony fire to get me outta here!”

“Follow me,” Dick said curtly. “Keep your eyes closed, so the smoke doesn’t hurt them. Hold on to my coat. And don’t lose me!”

“Don’t worry, pal,” Barney Dorset said with a wide grin. “I ain’t anxious to stay in this hole. If Ruiz is pulling this play to get me out, it means he couldn’t reach the jury this time. But I don’t get it. He told me everything was fixed. Something must have slipped up.”

“Never mind the talk,” Dick Benson told him. “Save your breath. You’ll need it.”

His gas mask afforded him protection against the tear gas and he felt his way out of the building, with Dorset hanging on to his coat.

3. PRISONER

IN the street, a great crowd had gathered, and the police had established safety lines. Just before emerging, Dick stripped off his fireman’s uniform and boots, together with the gas mask, and dropped them on the floor. When he and Dorset emerged, they looked like two civilians who had fought their way out of the smoke.

“Keep your face covered with your arm,” Dick whispered to him. “Act as if your eyes hurt.”

“I don’t have to act,” Dorset growled. “I kept them closed, but they sting like the devil, anyway.” He chuckled. “Boy! Ruiz is the smartest guy in the world. Imagine walking right out through the police lines like this!”

Uniformed men helped Dick and Dorset to the curb, and they climbed into the waiting car. As soon as they were inside it, Nellie Gray backed it down the street, with policemen waving them on, glad to get the auto out of the way. In a moment, they had backed around the corner, and Nellie headed the car uptown.

Dorset sat back, reclining at ease, his brutish face mirroring triumph. “It’s good to work for a guy like Ruiz. He sure takes care of you. No wonder he’s got the city eating outta his hand. Take me, for instance. I’d shoot the mayor to death on the steps of city hall, if Greg Ruiz gave the word. Cause why? Because I know Ruiz would get me off!”

He took a deep whiff of his cigarette as the car sped north, and allowed the smoke to dribble luxuriously from his nostrils.

“I swear by Gregorio Ruiz!” he said.

Nellie Gray turned her head slightly and uttered a low, amused laugh.

“Brother,” she said, “you’ll soon be swearing at Gregorio Ruiz!”

At the sound of the feminine note in her voice, Barney Dorset froze, with the cigarette halfway to his lips, his eyes on her trim, whipcord-clad shoulders.

“Hey,” he said. “You’re a dame!”

He turned his head slowly and, for the first time, took a good look at Dick Benson. His eyes became wide, and flecked with terror, as he recognized the face of the man in whose car he was riding.

“The Avenger!” he gasped.

Dick Benson nodded. “That’s right, Dorset. That jury back at the courthouse wouldn’t have convicted you. Your boss got to them. But it will be a little harder for Ruiz to get you out of this!”

With a cry of rage and terror, Dorset flung himself at The Avenger. But Dick Benson’s hands moved with uncanny swiftness, and before the killer realized what had happened, he was helpless in a punishing arm lock.

Benson held him so for a moment, then flung him back contemptuously in the seat.

Dorset stared at The Avenger like a caged and helpless animal which has suddenly learned that its keeper’s whip has mastered it. He licked his lips. The fight was gone out of him.

Dick took another one of the pellets from his pocket. Holding his own breath, he stretched out his hand and broke it under Dorset’s nose. The killer went lax as the powerful drug acted upon him. He slumped down, unconscious.

Nellie Gray tuned in the shortwave radio on the dashboard to get the police calls. The announcer was frantically calling all cars. The escape of Barney Dorset had been discovered. All policemen were cautioned to be on the watch. All exits from the city were being blocked. But The Avenger’s name was not mentioned in connection with the escape. Nellie switched off the radio.

“Chief,” she said, over her shoulder, “I think you’re a wonder!”

“Don’t crow, yet, Nellie,” The Avenger said soberly. “We haven’t licked Ruiz. Our gamble is that this will bring him out in the open; that he’ll try something desperate to rescue Dorset and leave himself unguarded. But he’s pretty clever. From now on, the watchword is ‘constant alert.’ We can’t tell where or how Ruiz will strike back.”

He pressed the button which brought the sending-and-receiving set out and once more got contact with Smitty.

“Operation completed successfully, Smitty,” he said. “We’re approaching headquarters from the rear. All clear?”

“All clear, Dick,” Smitty reported. “You can come in.”

Nellie swung the car into the next street behind Bleek, where the headquarters of Justice, Inc., were located. In the middle of the block was a public garage, which appeared innocent enough to the casual observer. But the moment the car rolled in, a service mechanic waved it on, down toward the rear. Nellie swung the car down a ramp which led into the basement. There were many cars parked here, and at one end of the basement was a greasing pit.

Nellie drove the car onto the pit. Immediately, an overhead door came down, shutting them off, in absolute privacy from the rest of the floor. The whole greasing rack began to descend, like an elevator. A moment later, they were in a wide, concrete tunnel, large enough for the car to move through, with room to spare on either side, but with no illumination.

Nellie Gray switched the headlights on, drove down the length of the tunnel, bringing the car to a stop at a blank wall. Immediately, the whole section of floor on which the car rested began to rise. In a moment, they were in the private garage of Justice, Inc., on Bleek Street.

This was the means of ingress and egress which The Avenger used when absolute secrecy was of paramount importance, or when the headquarters were under surveillance. In addition to the buildings on Bleek Street, Dick Benson was the secret owner of all that property on the entire square block. The public garage through which they had come was operated by a man who was in debt to Benson for his life and who was deeply devoted to him, and the employees of the garage were all trusted men who had seen service with The Avenger in many parts of the world.

There was never any danger of betrayal in the ranks of those who worked for Justice, Inc.

Dick Benson lifted the inert form of Barney Dorset out of the car and slung him on his shoulder. With Nellie leading the way, he carried him through the connecting passage, into the main building, and up a flight of stairs.

Smitty was waiting for them there, grinning.

“Inspector Cruikshank is upstairs in the office,” he announced. “And is he mad!”

“I’ll talk to him now,” The Avenger said, “if you’ll take this off my hands.”

Smitty grinned, and took over the burden of the unconscious Dorset. He didn’t bother slinging Dorset over his shoulder. He just carried him under his arm.

Algernon Heathcote Smith, research engineer and electrical wizard, was a giant of a man, looking like some towering Viking god of old, descended fresh from Valhalla to stride among mortal men. When his parents had sent him to Groton and then to Cambridge and Edinburgh, they had never thought that his brilliant and studious mind would ever find interests outside the cloistered halls of some sedate university.

But the crusade which The Avenger waged against crime had attracted Smitty’s allegiance, and his greatest happiness was to risk his life daily in the constant war which Justice, Inc., was waging against the forces of evil.

He carried Barney Dorset as if he were a child’s stuffed doll, rather than an inert man weighing a hundred and eighty pounds.

“I’ll put him in the yellow room,” he said. “Cruikshank would never find that room—even if he got a search warrant and went through this place with a hundred men!”

Benson raised his eyebrows. “Is it that bad, Smitty?”

“It’s worse than that!” laughed Smitty. “Cruikshank is on the warpath. He threatens to go right out and get a search warrant!”

Smitty left, with Dorset under his arm, and Dick Benson turned to Nellie Gray. He patted her on the shoulder. “That was nice work, tonight,” he praised her. “Better go and change. Get rid of that chauffeur’s uniform.”

He hurried upstairs, to the waiting room, where Inspector Cruikshank was champing at the bit, pacing up and down and listening to the radio. The announcer was babbling excitedly about the escape of Barney Dorset and hazarding a number of theories as to who had planned and arranged it.

Cruikshank shook an angry finger at Dick. “Look here, Benson—I know damned well that you’re the one who got Dorset out. Where is he? What’ve you done with him?”

“My dear inspector!” protested The Avenger, “are you accusing me of helping a murderer beat the law?”

“I know how you’ll help him beat the law, Benson. You won’t kill him yourself. But you’ll arrange it somehow, so that he’ll be found floating in the river some morning. Mind you, I’m not saying that isn’t justice. Dorset wouldn’t have been convicted. I know, and you know, that Ruiz is back of him, and nobody that Ruiz backs ever goes to the chair. But, man, you’ve set the city on its ear. I was afraid you’d do something fantastic, but I never guessed at this. When the word came in that you were prowling all the dives, I sent men out to find you—”

“Yes, I know,” The Avenger said. “But you should have come straight here if you wanted me, Cruikshank. You see, I’m here now. And you’ve had men watching this place since eight o’clock. They didn’t see me come in, did they?”

Cruikshank nodded bitterly. “You’ve got half a dozen ways of getting in and out of here, Benson. I swear I’m going to take this joint apart one of these days.”

“But not tonight, inspector. You’ll excuse me? I’m busy—”

“Now wait, Benson. Don’t give me the bum’s rush. I want Dorset. You’ve got to turn him back!”

“Why?” The Avenger’s voice cracked like a whip.

“You violated the law, Benson. Do you realize you could get twenty years for what you did tonight?”

“How do you know Gregorio Ruiz didn’t do it?”

“Ha! Because Ruiz called me up the minute the escape was flashed. He’s burning up. He’s afraid you’ll make Dorset talk. He didn’t say so, but anybody can guess that’s why he’s so hot about it. He was hot before, when he found out you were gunning for him. There’s something he’s afraid you’ll discover—”

“That’s right,” The Avenger said quietly. “And I mean to discover it tonight!”

Cruikshank looked at him queerly. “What do you mean?”

“Come,” said The Avenger. “I’ll show you!”

4. TRAPPED BLONDE!

DICK led the inspector out of the room, down a corridor, then up a short half flight of stairs. He rapped lightly at a door, and an elderly, high-pitched voice said, “Come in, please.”

The Avenger pushed open the door, and they entered.

Cruikshank stared at the single occupant of the tastefully furnished guest room. It was a little old lady, with gray hair neatly combed and her wrinkled face alight with eagerness. She put down her knitting and stretched forth a hand to Dick.

“Mr. Benson!” she exclaimed, almost pathetically. “Have...have you any word of my Laura?”

Dick went over to the chair and touched her hair lightly.

“Not yet, Mrs. Trent,” he said in a voice that was surprisingly gentle. “But I hope to have something definite—tonight.”

There were tears in Mrs. Trent’s eyes. She tried to take Dick’s hand and kiss it, but he withdrew it gently.

“I wanted you to meet Inspector Cruikshank,” Dick said.

The old lady peered at him through her spectacles. “We’ve met before,” she said dryly.

Cruikshank was embarrassed. “Why...er...yes. I believe Mrs. Trent came to see me yesterday, about her daughter who had disappeared.”

“She didn’t just disappear!” Mrs. Trent snapped. “She was taken. Taken by those devils who work for Gregorio Ruiz. I told the inspector the whole story —how Laura came home that night from work. She’s a waitress in a restaurant, and she works till 9:30. She walks home along the River Drive, and she saw the boat out in the river, and she saw how they lifted the poor man up in the boat. He was tied and gagged, and he had something heavy around his feet. They threw him overboard, and he sank!

“It was raining hard that night, and Laura was hurrying, but she was so shocked she stopped in the rain, unable to move. Then there was a flash of lightning, and she saw the face of one of the men in the boat. The men saw her at the same time, and they turned the boat toward shore. Laura ran all the way home. She told me what she had seen, and I said she should go to the police.”

Old Mrs. Trent stopped, and ran a finger under her glasses, to wipe away the tears. Then she went on: “But Laura never got to the station house. Those men must have followed her home, and waited outside for her. She didn’t come back. Those men must have taken her away!”

Inspector Cruikshank coughed. He looked shame-facedly at The Avenger. “Mrs. Trent told me the story. We dragged the river at the spot she mentioned, but we didn’t find any body. So we didn’t believe her story. We merely filed Laura Trent’s name with the missing-persons bureau.”

“I know,” The Avenger said. “But wasn’t that the night that Lou Marconi disappeared? He was the bookmaker who was trying to buck Gregorio Ruiz.”

“Yes, that’s right. But just the same, we didn’t find the body.”

“Isn’t it possible that those men dived for the body, after they learned that Laura had seen them, and brought it up and dropped it somewhere else?”

“Of course it’s possible,” Cruikshank admitted. “But what can we do about it? If we arrested Ruiz on a charge like that, he’d be out in ten minutes, And he’d sue the city for false arrest!”

“Maybe you can’t do anything about it, Cruikshank,” The Avenger said softly. “But I intend to do something! I’m going to see if I can save Laura Trent"—he lowered his voice so that even the inspector barely heard him —"if it isn’t too late!”

He took Cruikshank by the arm and led him out of that room, nodding to Mrs. Trent as he closed the door behind them.