lock myself in. You have my number. You can tell me any developments over the phone.”
“I can tell you one now,” said Dick. “We have reason to believe that your clerk, Smathers, did not go home or anywhere else from your office, the night he died. He left for Death’s address, direct from your place.”
“From my office?” Farquar said, with panic in his voice. “That’s bad. That’s very bad! It would look in a law court—if this ever gets to court—as if I sent him on that last errand of his! You’re sure of this?”
“Reasonably sure,” said Benson, not giving the source of the information.
Farquar drew a deep breath.
“I’ll still put my faith in Justice, Inc. I still believe that you can get hold of those three bits of fake evidence held over me, and I’ll hang on till then.”
He left with a different gait from the one with which he’d entered, after waiting a while, as he had said, to throw possible trailers off his path.
“Scaring him physically as well as mentally,” mused Smitty. “The blackmailers must be getting desperate, chief. Suppose one of those near-attempts on his life should accidentally succeed? Then there wouldn’t be any Farquar left to pay out the money.”
The Avenger nodded, eyes pale and icy, face impassive.
CHAPTER XIII
Two More Crowns
Cole Wilson had hung on Beall’s trail like a shadow. But even a shadow can be given the slip occasionally—in the darkness, for instance.
Beall had managed to lose Wilson for several hours the night Harriet and Nellie had been shut up in the office vault. Then Wilson had picked up the trail of Beall again, and had kept to it.
Now, at a little after noon of the next day, Wilson had again taken his station outside the Beall grounds.
But he hadn’t left his car where he’d parked it before. Car and place had proved to be well located, by the ramming the gang had given it when they came out with the kidnaped son of Beall.
Wilson’s car was five blocks away, this time—another car. Wilson himself was hiding in weeds along the iron fence where it came closest to the house.
And he was damned tired of it.
“I’m going to bust this stalemate,” he told himself rebelliously. Wilson was always impulsive. “I’m going to get in that house and see what goes on.”
Beall had not moved out of the place since coming in late last night, either to go to his office or anywhere else. Neither had Beall’s son.
Wilson looked around. There was no one near enough to see him, he judged. He reached up, caught the top of the iron picket fence, drew himself over, and dropped inside.
He did it just about that swiftly, too, vaulting the ten-foot height rather than actually climbing it. The compact power of this man, and his daring, made him a very able henchman for The Avenger indeed.
Inside the grounds, Wilson crept toward the house. The way his dark hair grew back from his forehead made him look slightly Indian. He moved in a way reminding one of Indians, too.
It was broad daylight, of course, but so deftly did Cole slide from bush to tree bole, and then to the yews next to the house wall, that he had every reason to believe that no one in or near the house could have observed him.
He crouched among bushes near a window. Then he pulled a trick The Avenger had taught him. He drew a slim length of wire from an inner pocket. It is amazing what a complete kit of tools a ten-inch length of wire can be.
He bent the two ends in opposite directions till the wire looked like a tiny periscope. Then he raised the wire till one end pressed against the bottom of the windowpane and put the other solidly between his teeth.
For a long time he stayed like that. Any sound in the room would subtly vibrate the windowpane, which would in turn impart tiny vibrations to his jaws.
There was no sound; so Wilson raised his head and looked in.
There was a glimpse of a fireplace flanked by books, several leather chairs almost like club chairs, a small table
“I can tell you one now,” said Dick. “We have reason to believe that your clerk, Smathers, did not go home or anywhere else from your office, the night he died. He left for Death’s address, direct from your place.”
“From my office?” Farquar said, with panic in his voice. “That’s bad. That’s very bad! It would look in a law court—if this ever gets to court—as if I sent him on that last errand of his! You’re sure of this?”
“Reasonably sure,” said Benson, not giving the source of the information.
Farquar drew a deep breath.
“I’ll still put my faith in Justice, Inc. I still believe that you can get hold of those three bits of fake evidence held over me, and I’ll hang on till then.”
He left with a different gait from the one with which he’d entered, after waiting a while, as he had said, to throw possible trailers off his path.
“Scaring him physically as well as mentally,” mused Smitty. “The blackmailers must be getting desperate, chief. Suppose one of those near-attempts on his life should accidentally succeed? Then there wouldn’t be any Farquar left to pay out the money.”
The Avenger nodded, eyes pale and icy, face impassive.
CHAPTER XIII
Two More Crowns
Cole Wilson had hung on Beall’s trail like a shadow. But even a shadow can be given the slip occasionally—in the darkness, for instance.
Beall had managed to lose Wilson for several hours the night Harriet and Nellie had been shut up in the office vault. Then Wilson had picked up the trail of Beall again, and had kept to it.
Now, at a little after noon of the next day, Wilson had again taken his station outside the Beall grounds.
But he hadn’t left his car where he’d parked it before. Car and place had proved to be well located, by the ramming the gang had given it when they came out with the kidnaped son of Beall.
Wilson’s car was five blocks away, this time—another car. Wilson himself was hiding in weeds along the iron fence where it came closest to the house.
And he was damned tired of it.
“I’m going to bust this stalemate,” he told himself rebelliously. Wilson was always impulsive. “I’m going to get in that house and see what goes on.”
Beall had not moved out of the place since coming in late last night, either to go to his office or anywhere else. Neither had Beall’s son.
Wilson looked around. There was no one near enough to see him, he judged. He reached up, caught the top of the iron picket fence, drew himself over, and dropped inside.
He did it just about that swiftly, too, vaulting the ten-foot height rather than actually climbing it. The compact power of this man, and his daring, made him a very able henchman for The Avenger indeed.
Inside the grounds, Wilson crept toward the house. The way his dark hair grew back from his forehead made him look slightly Indian. He moved in a way reminding one of Indians, too.
It was broad daylight, of course, but so deftly did Cole slide from bush to tree bole, and then to the yews next to the house wall, that he had every reason to believe that no one in or near the house could have observed him.
He crouched among bushes near a window. Then he pulled a trick The Avenger had taught him. He drew a slim length of wire from an inner pocket. It is amazing what a complete kit of tools a ten-inch length of wire can be.
He bent the two ends in opposite directions till the wire looked like a tiny periscope. Then he raised the wire till one end pressed against the bottom of the windowpane and put the other solidly between his teeth.
For a long time he stayed like that. Any sound in the room would subtly vibrate the windowpane, which would in turn impart tiny vibrations to his jaws.
There was no sound; so Wilson raised his head and looked in.
There was a glimpse of a fireplace flanked by books, several leather chairs almost like club chairs, a small table
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