out. Dick Benson picked up one of the battery of phones on his vast desk. This one, Smitty knew, was a direct line, always open, to Washington.
Dick called an unlisted number in the state department. The name he called, after a few seconds’ wait, was one to command respect. Benson didn’t bother with underlings.
“Richard Addington,” he said. “Average height, a little more than average weight, very dark hair and eyes, sleek. He looks like a playboy and a rather weak one at that—except when he’s on a job. Then his face hardens till you realize that he is smart, ruthless, a powerful enemy. Do you have anything on this man?”
The reply was given in about eighty seconds.
“A naturalized citizen,” was the state department’s answer. “Roland Ardmore, alias Richard Addington, alias a dozen more names. Suspected of being a foreign espionage agent, but not once has any definite proof of it been found. He is watched constantly. His mail is inspected, and he is followed. Now and then, however, he has managed to shake off his trailers. He is very clever.”
“Associates?” said Benson.
“There is only one known, and that one has not been thoroughly checked. All we know is that his name is Teebo.”
The Avenger stared at the phone, his face and eyes without emotion. Then he said: “I would suggest that the watch on Addington, and on Teebo, too, if it is possible, be doubled.”
“Right,” came the voice from the state department.
Benson hung up, then called police headquarters on a regular phone.
“Richard Benson talking. On the murder of Frank Teebo at the Coyle Hotel.”
“Yes, sir,” was the response. “What can we tell you about that?”
“Two people in the foyer of the Pink Room saw Teebo at the open window, though neither saw him actually fall. At any rate, that’s their story.”
“That’s right. There was a woman in a white evening dress who gave her name as Emily Brace. A man in white tie and tails was with her. Name, Richard Addington.”
“Have you followed them up?”
“No, sir. They seemed innocent enough. Just witnesses—and not important ones, either.”
“Do you have their addresses?”
“We have the ones they gave. There seemed no reason to check them. If they’re people who ought to have been held, it’s possible the addresses are phonies. However, here they are—” He gave Dick the addresses.
“Thank you.”
“Did we slip, Mr. Benson?” asked the police voice. “Should we have hauled the pair in?”
“I don’t know, yet,” said Benson evenly. “I’d like a free hand on these two, if you don’t mind. I’ll report later, if I find anything.”
He turned from the phone and handed Smitty a slip of paper.
“Smitty, see if Richard Addington is at this address. If he is—”
“If he is,” said the giant, doubling his vast fists, “I’ll try to keep from breaking his back in my two hands. I’ll try to bring him in alive.” He went out.
Benson motioned to Nellie, and they went out, too, a few minutes later.
CHAPTER XI
Contact
It was Mac who noticed the birdhouse as he and Cole and Jessica Marsden drove in the gateway of the Marsden estate and up to the house.
It was a mansion of a birdhouse; but it wasn’t open for tenants, it appeared.
From the front step, before Jessica had opened the big door, Mac pointed.
“That is cerrrtainly,” he burred, “a hotel of a bird-house.”
It sure was. It was as big as a wardrobe trunk.
Jessica smiled a little in spite of her distress at her father’s desperate danger.
“Dad made it himself,” she said. “We have kept some of the migrating birds here all winter by feeding them and letting them nest in the loft of the carriage house. Then they move out to that house in the spring.”
“But not this spring,” Mac pointed out. “Because it’s all closed up. Funny it wasn’t opened.”
The girl stared. “That is funny,” she said. “It was open two weeks ago. I remember distinctly. But now
Dick called an unlisted number in the state department. The name he called, after a few seconds’ wait, was one to command respect. Benson didn’t bother with underlings.
“Richard Addington,” he said. “Average height, a little more than average weight, very dark hair and eyes, sleek. He looks like a playboy and a rather weak one at that—except when he’s on a job. Then his face hardens till you realize that he is smart, ruthless, a powerful enemy. Do you have anything on this man?”
The reply was given in about eighty seconds.
“A naturalized citizen,” was the state department’s answer. “Roland Ardmore, alias Richard Addington, alias a dozen more names. Suspected of being a foreign espionage agent, but not once has any definite proof of it been found. He is watched constantly. His mail is inspected, and he is followed. Now and then, however, he has managed to shake off his trailers. He is very clever.”
“Associates?” said Benson.
“There is only one known, and that one has not been thoroughly checked. All we know is that his name is Teebo.”
The Avenger stared at the phone, his face and eyes without emotion. Then he said: “I would suggest that the watch on Addington, and on Teebo, too, if it is possible, be doubled.”
“Right,” came the voice from the state department.
Benson hung up, then called police headquarters on a regular phone.
“Richard Benson talking. On the murder of Frank Teebo at the Coyle Hotel.”
“Yes, sir,” was the response. “What can we tell you about that?”
“Two people in the foyer of the Pink Room saw Teebo at the open window, though neither saw him actually fall. At any rate, that’s their story.”
“That’s right. There was a woman in a white evening dress who gave her name as Emily Brace. A man in white tie and tails was with her. Name, Richard Addington.”
“Have you followed them up?”
“No, sir. They seemed innocent enough. Just witnesses—and not important ones, either.”
“Do you have their addresses?”
“We have the ones they gave. There seemed no reason to check them. If they’re people who ought to have been held, it’s possible the addresses are phonies. However, here they are—” He gave Dick the addresses.
“Thank you.”
“Did we slip, Mr. Benson?” asked the police voice. “Should we have hauled the pair in?”
“I don’t know, yet,” said Benson evenly. “I’d like a free hand on these two, if you don’t mind. I’ll report later, if I find anything.”
He turned from the phone and handed Smitty a slip of paper.
“Smitty, see if Richard Addington is at this address. If he is—”
“If he is,” said the giant, doubling his vast fists, “I’ll try to keep from breaking his back in my two hands. I’ll try to bring him in alive.” He went out.
Benson motioned to Nellie, and they went out, too, a few minutes later.
CHAPTER XI
Contact
It was Mac who noticed the birdhouse as he and Cole and Jessica Marsden drove in the gateway of the Marsden estate and up to the house.
It was a mansion of a birdhouse; but it wasn’t open for tenants, it appeared.
From the front step, before Jessica had opened the big door, Mac pointed.
“That is cerrrtainly,” he burred, “a hotel of a bird-house.”
It sure was. It was as big as a wardrobe trunk.
Jessica smiled a little in spite of her distress at her father’s desperate danger.
“Dad made it himself,” she said. “We have kept some of the migrating birds here all winter by feeding them and letting them nest in the loft of the carriage house. Then they move out to that house in the spring.”
“But not this spring,” Mac pointed out. “Because it’s all closed up. Funny it wasn’t opened.”
The girl stared. “That is funny,” she said. “It was open two weeks ago. I remember distinctly. But now
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