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
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
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