adhesive tape passed over her forehead, binding it down to whatever she lay on. She could only move her eyes. Then she tried to scream!
Right over her was an awful thing with great horns, like a caricature of the devil himself. And this also stared at her out of glassy, immobile eyes, like a strange, deadly god staring down at a victim who lay on a sacrificial slab beneath its swollen snout. Nellie made a violent effort to get her arms free and failed. Her elbows were bound by cord that went around her arms and body several times; and her hands, folded at her waist, were clamped together by more adhesive tape.
“She’s prettier’n the other one, even,” said a man. There was regret in his tone but not too much regret. “Too bad the boss couldn’t pick ’em plainer lookin’.”
Nellie rolled her eyes to the side as far as she could. Now she saw four men, from about the chest up. The sight wasn’t any treat. The chests were scrawny. At the left armpit of each was a bulge indicating a shoulder holster replete with gun. And the four faces were those of rats more than of humans. A nice quartet of mobsters, Nellie decided. She tried again, frantically, to free her hands. But they could only flutter harmlessly at her waist.
“Here he comes,” said another of the four, in a low tone.
Nellie heard the door open, heard measured steps. Into her range of vision came the upper half of a body completely swathed by a loose overcoat so that you could not make out any single feature of it. There was a face, but because of upturned coat collar and low-drawn hat brim, you could see only the nose and eyes. And the eyes had dark glasses over them.
The man stood over the helpless girl, staring down at her. Nellie wished she could see the shielded eyes, then decided it was probably better that she couldn’t.
The man took a queer, divided thing from his pocket. Each leg of it had a needle point. A measuring compass, Nellie saw. The man leaned over her. His fingers experimentally parted her shining blonde hair from her scalp. He poised the measuring compass, with one sharp point just touching her left ear. The other point was lightly pressed at the exact top of her skull.
The man calculated a moment; then he drew a pen from his pocket. Nellie felt a slight sting as the point was pressed firmly against her head, and a fleck of ink released to dry almost instantly. The point marked was not quite halfway between left ear and center of the skull. It was a little nearer the ear than the top of the head.
Nellie’s hands began to beat wildly as, with sudden horror in her blue eyes, she sought to shift the binding adhesive tape. The tape didn’t shift. Her fingers could only flutter fruitlessly at her waist.
Richard Benson possessed two of the world’s oddest weapons. Pitted against criminals who went armed as heavily with machine guns and high-velocity short arms as was possible to obtain, The Avenger trusted to only these two. One was a little .22 revolver, silenced, so streamlined for compactness that it looked like little more than a blue length of slim pipe with a slight bend for a handle. This he called Mike; and Mike was holstered at the calf of his right leg, below the knee. The other weapon was an equally slim, razor-sharp little throwing knife. This he called Ike; and Ike was holstered at his left calf.
Faced with a submachine gun and two automatics in the doorway of Mallory’s office, The Avenger had wasted no time in words or false moves.
“Burn him down!” one of the three had said.
With the words, the machine gun began its deadly clatter. But just before, Benson had bent down like a court attache making a deep bow to royalty. The slugs went over his head. The man jerked to get the gun down; but a machine gun tends to tilt up and up, with the constant hammer of bullets passing from its muzzle. So that by the time the gun was lined down again, Benson was a yard to the right, with Mike and Ike in his hands.
The two
Right over her was an awful thing with great horns, like a caricature of the devil himself. And this also stared at her out of glassy, immobile eyes, like a strange, deadly god staring down at a victim who lay on a sacrificial slab beneath its swollen snout. Nellie made a violent effort to get her arms free and failed. Her elbows were bound by cord that went around her arms and body several times; and her hands, folded at her waist, were clamped together by more adhesive tape.
“She’s prettier’n the other one, even,” said a man. There was regret in his tone but not too much regret. “Too bad the boss couldn’t pick ’em plainer lookin’.”
Nellie rolled her eyes to the side as far as she could. Now she saw four men, from about the chest up. The sight wasn’t any treat. The chests were scrawny. At the left armpit of each was a bulge indicating a shoulder holster replete with gun. And the four faces were those of rats more than of humans. A nice quartet of mobsters, Nellie decided. She tried again, frantically, to free her hands. But they could only flutter harmlessly at her waist.
“Here he comes,” said another of the four, in a low tone.
Nellie heard the door open, heard measured steps. Into her range of vision came the upper half of a body completely swathed by a loose overcoat so that you could not make out any single feature of it. There was a face, but because of upturned coat collar and low-drawn hat brim, you could see only the nose and eyes. And the eyes had dark glasses over them.
The man stood over the helpless girl, staring down at her. Nellie wished she could see the shielded eyes, then decided it was probably better that she couldn’t.
The man took a queer, divided thing from his pocket. Each leg of it had a needle point. A measuring compass, Nellie saw. The man leaned over her. His fingers experimentally parted her shining blonde hair from her scalp. He poised the measuring compass, with one sharp point just touching her left ear. The other point was lightly pressed at the exact top of her skull.
The man calculated a moment; then he drew a pen from his pocket. Nellie felt a slight sting as the point was pressed firmly against her head, and a fleck of ink released to dry almost instantly. The point marked was not quite halfway between left ear and center of the skull. It was a little nearer the ear than the top of the head.
Nellie’s hands began to beat wildly as, with sudden horror in her blue eyes, she sought to shift the binding adhesive tape. The tape didn’t shift. Her fingers could only flutter fruitlessly at her waist.
Richard Benson possessed two of the world’s oddest weapons. Pitted against criminals who went armed as heavily with machine guns and high-velocity short arms as was possible to obtain, The Avenger trusted to only these two. One was a little .22 revolver, silenced, so streamlined for compactness that it looked like little more than a blue length of slim pipe with a slight bend for a handle. This he called Mike; and Mike was holstered at the calf of his right leg, below the knee. The other weapon was an equally slim, razor-sharp little throwing knife. This he called Ike; and Ike was holstered at his left calf.
Faced with a submachine gun and two automatics in the doorway of Mallory’s office, The Avenger had wasted no time in words or false moves.
“Burn him down!” one of the three had said.
With the words, the machine gun began its deadly clatter. But just before, Benson had bent down like a court attache making a deep bow to royalty. The slugs went over his head. The man jerked to get the gun down; but a machine gun tends to tilt up and up, with the constant hammer of bullets passing from its muzzle. So that by the time the gun was lined down again, Benson was a yard to the right, with Mike and Ike in his hands.
The two
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