Another dim blotch showed to the right.
His hand slid around it to the back of a neck, and his fingers pressed the nerves there that induce unconsciousness as easily and smoothly as if an anaesthetic were being administered.
The unseen crew in here were not idle while he was doing this. They were drawing the ends of the net together, precisely as if Benson were some extremely dangerous fish. And through the mesh of the net they were trying to find his head with clubs and blackjacks.
But that one free arm continued to be an amazing menace.
It crashed a blow into another face! It caught the wrist of one of the hands pulling a corner of the net tight, and there was an incoherent, animal-like snarl following the snapping sound of a breaking bone.
Then there was the noise of smashing glass. And right after that, somebody opened the door again. The whole mob, trying to subdue one netted man, squeezed out to the dark alley. The door slammed and the three locks, unhurt by Benson’s work, clicked closed.
Something in that room was too fragile and too valuable to risk being smashed in a fight.
They saved more breakage of mysterious glass, if that was the idea. But otherwise they didn’t seem to do so well by themselves in the maneuver. In squeezing through the doorway, another end of the net had been wrenched loose by hands that were rather small and white and slim, but seemed made out of tool steel.
At first, in spite of the fact that these men acted without a word to each other, you could fairly feel their almost careless self-confidence. One against eight or ten. The outcome was certain!
Now, still without a sound being uttered by any of them, there was an equally perceptible lessening of that confidence.
In the first place, three men had stayed behind in the black chamber, reducing the odds materially. In the second, their dangerous and supposedly securely netted fish had now freed his other fin.
In the darkness of the alley, The Avenger suddenly ducked to the cobbles, grasped a pair of ankles and hauled. The owner crashed to the cobbles, too, and was swiftly drawn forward.
How it happened, no one there could have quite told, save The Avenger himself. But eight seconds later, Dick Benson was sliding down the alley like a gray cougar, while behind him a fight raged on that was just as fierce as it had been before.
The murderous crew still had a fish in its net and clubbed on and on at it without having any way to know that the recipient of the blows was one of its own number, dragged under the net after being tripped by the ankles.
As Benson reached the alley mouth, the savage but subdued sounds behind him stopped. The substitution had finally been discovered.
The Avenger dropped efforts to be unseen and unheard. He drew out a regulation police whistle and blasted the night with it.
The driver of the squad car that came racing in answer stared with disbelief when The Avenger introduced himself as the legendary Richard Benson. Dick was still in the image of another man; but a long look into the pale, icy eyes convinced the cop, and he got more excited than he would have in a fight with bandits.
“Round up any men you find in the alley,” Dick said quietly. “Then break in the door of the rear-house with the three big locks on it.”
“And?” said the cop deferentially.
“There may be men in there, too. Arrest and hold them. Search the place and see if you can find anything at all unusual.”
“You are coming with us?”
The Avenger had intended going with them. But not now. For while the squad car was coming, he had received a message from Nellie. A message not of words, but of light taps in code with her fingertip on the tiny transmitter at her waist—a method of sending messages used by any of them when they were not free to talk.
“Held for police eighteenth floor Leggitt Building. Important developments. Can you come?”
CHAPTER XIII
The Gathering Web
Benson went fast to the Leggitt Building,
His hand slid around it to the back of a neck, and his fingers pressed the nerves there that induce unconsciousness as easily and smoothly as if an anaesthetic were being administered.
The unseen crew in here were not idle while he was doing this. They were drawing the ends of the net together, precisely as if Benson were some extremely dangerous fish. And through the mesh of the net they were trying to find his head with clubs and blackjacks.
But that one free arm continued to be an amazing menace.
It crashed a blow into another face! It caught the wrist of one of the hands pulling a corner of the net tight, and there was an incoherent, animal-like snarl following the snapping sound of a breaking bone.
Then there was the noise of smashing glass. And right after that, somebody opened the door again. The whole mob, trying to subdue one netted man, squeezed out to the dark alley. The door slammed and the three locks, unhurt by Benson’s work, clicked closed.
Something in that room was too fragile and too valuable to risk being smashed in a fight.
They saved more breakage of mysterious glass, if that was the idea. But otherwise they didn’t seem to do so well by themselves in the maneuver. In squeezing through the doorway, another end of the net had been wrenched loose by hands that were rather small and white and slim, but seemed made out of tool steel.
At first, in spite of the fact that these men acted without a word to each other, you could fairly feel their almost careless self-confidence. One against eight or ten. The outcome was certain!
Now, still without a sound being uttered by any of them, there was an equally perceptible lessening of that confidence.
In the first place, three men had stayed behind in the black chamber, reducing the odds materially. In the second, their dangerous and supposedly securely netted fish had now freed his other fin.
In the darkness of the alley, The Avenger suddenly ducked to the cobbles, grasped a pair of ankles and hauled. The owner crashed to the cobbles, too, and was swiftly drawn forward.
How it happened, no one there could have quite told, save The Avenger himself. But eight seconds later, Dick Benson was sliding down the alley like a gray cougar, while behind him a fight raged on that was just as fierce as it had been before.
The murderous crew still had a fish in its net and clubbed on and on at it without having any way to know that the recipient of the blows was one of its own number, dragged under the net after being tripped by the ankles.
As Benson reached the alley mouth, the savage but subdued sounds behind him stopped. The substitution had finally been discovered.
The Avenger dropped efforts to be unseen and unheard. He drew out a regulation police whistle and blasted the night with it.
The driver of the squad car that came racing in answer stared with disbelief when The Avenger introduced himself as the legendary Richard Benson. Dick was still in the image of another man; but a long look into the pale, icy eyes convinced the cop, and he got more excited than he would have in a fight with bandits.
“Round up any men you find in the alley,” Dick said quietly. “Then break in the door of the rear-house with the three big locks on it.”
“And?” said the cop deferentially.
“There may be men in there, too. Arrest and hold them. Search the place and see if you can find anything at all unusual.”
“You are coming with us?”
The Avenger had intended going with them. But not now. For while the squad car was coming, he had received a message from Nellie. A message not of words, but of light taps in code with her fingertip on the tiny transmitter at her waist—a method of sending messages used by any of them when they were not free to talk.
“Held for police eighteenth floor Leggitt Building. Important developments. Can you come?”
CHAPTER XIII
The Gathering Web
Benson went fast to the Leggitt Building,
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