mattress from the bed and shoved it through the hole. Then he dropped matches on it, through the hole, till it blazed. Smoke began to roll up in billows.
Benson snatched the marble top from the little stand, and tossed it through the hole and through the window in the next room. Glass tinkled. Smoke began to curl out of the window in a black pillar.
It began to curl into the room he and Nellie were in, too. He caught up the blanket from the bed, moving with that incredible swiftness of his, and hung it over the hole. Now the next room could become an inferno before fire ate through the partition and began to threaten them.
It could become an inferno—and summon the fire department with the smoke billowing out the window.
The men in the hall didn’t know what had happened. They’d heard crashing sounds, and that was all. They kept on shooting around the lock of the door. But the men outside could understand.
“Borg!” one of them yelled up. “Come out! All you guys! He’s fired the joint! The whole neighborhood’ll be on our necks!”
The shooting in the hall ceased abruptly. There was the sound of running feet. Nellie opened the door, before Benson could stop her. A bullet from the stairs almost took a lock of her yellow-gold hair. The doorway was still covered.
From outside came the snarl of a starter and then the shriek of a motor raced almost beyond endurance. Benson angled to the window, with Nellie beside him. A car was streaking backward out of the garage in the rear of the house.
At the wheel was the man with the sandy-red hair.
“I thought you killed him!” gasped Nellie. “I saw you shoot him in the head.”
“Not in the head,” said Benson. In his expert hand, Mike, the silenced little .22, spat twice. In the driveway, the car skidded to a stop and swerved forward to dash to the street. Both bullets had hit a front tire. But the tire sagged only a little. It was bulletproof.
“Not in the head,” Benson said calmly. Flames crackled and roared in the next room. “I don’t kill, if I can help it. I shoot to knock a man out—to crease him. The bullet hits the top of the skull and bangs a man unconscious without murdering him. But it takes rather close shooting.”
His pale, deadly eyes looked almost apologetic.
“I had to shoot fast in the room downstairs. I must have been a sixteenth of an inch or so off, because the man shouldn’t have recovered so quickly.”
Men piled into the car till it settled almost on its tires. Seven, eight, nine, counting the driver. The car rocketed forward.
“They’re getting away!” wailed Nellie.
Benson’s basilisk eyes followed the car with regret but resignation in their lambent depths. There wasn’t much he could do to stop a getaway, in the face of such heavy odds. He shrugged.
“We’ll be able to leave this room now,” he said.
He walked to the door and opened it. No shot came. The man at the head of the stairs had joined the rest in their flight.
Down in the first-floor hall they found the second man Benson had creased with a .22 slug. He had been abandoned. There simply hadn’t been room for another soul in the overcrowded getaway car.
“This one, at least, we have,” Nellie Gray said.
Benson’s pale, icily composed gaze played over her vengefully pretty face. From the distance came the siren and bells of the fire department.
“So we have,” he said to Nellie. “And what do you suggest doing with him?”
“Turn him over to the police, of course,” flamed the girl. “I don’t understand you. You claim you’re interested in helping the cause of justice, but you won’t co-operate with the most powerful weapon justice has on its side—the police force.”
No flicker showed in the deadly, colorless eyes. No emotion was displayed in the quiet voice.
“Quite so, my dear,” Benson said. “We’ll turn him over to the police.”
There was a cracked mirror in the hall. Calmly, as though there were no such thing as a fire
Benson snatched the marble top from the little stand, and tossed it through the hole and through the window in the next room. Glass tinkled. Smoke began to curl out of the window in a black pillar.
It began to curl into the room he and Nellie were in, too. He caught up the blanket from the bed, moving with that incredible swiftness of his, and hung it over the hole. Now the next room could become an inferno before fire ate through the partition and began to threaten them.
It could become an inferno—and summon the fire department with the smoke billowing out the window.
The men in the hall didn’t know what had happened. They’d heard crashing sounds, and that was all. They kept on shooting around the lock of the door. But the men outside could understand.
“Borg!” one of them yelled up. “Come out! All you guys! He’s fired the joint! The whole neighborhood’ll be on our necks!”
The shooting in the hall ceased abruptly. There was the sound of running feet. Nellie opened the door, before Benson could stop her. A bullet from the stairs almost took a lock of her yellow-gold hair. The doorway was still covered.
From outside came the snarl of a starter and then the shriek of a motor raced almost beyond endurance. Benson angled to the window, with Nellie beside him. A car was streaking backward out of the garage in the rear of the house.
At the wheel was the man with the sandy-red hair.
“I thought you killed him!” gasped Nellie. “I saw you shoot him in the head.”
“Not in the head,” said Benson. In his expert hand, Mike, the silenced little .22, spat twice. In the driveway, the car skidded to a stop and swerved forward to dash to the street. Both bullets had hit a front tire. But the tire sagged only a little. It was bulletproof.
“Not in the head,” Benson said calmly. Flames crackled and roared in the next room. “I don’t kill, if I can help it. I shoot to knock a man out—to crease him. The bullet hits the top of the skull and bangs a man unconscious without murdering him. But it takes rather close shooting.”
His pale, deadly eyes looked almost apologetic.
“I had to shoot fast in the room downstairs. I must have been a sixteenth of an inch or so off, because the man shouldn’t have recovered so quickly.”
Men piled into the car till it settled almost on its tires. Seven, eight, nine, counting the driver. The car rocketed forward.
“They’re getting away!” wailed Nellie.
Benson’s basilisk eyes followed the car with regret but resignation in their lambent depths. There wasn’t much he could do to stop a getaway, in the face of such heavy odds. He shrugged.
“We’ll be able to leave this room now,” he said.
He walked to the door and opened it. No shot came. The man at the head of the stairs had joined the rest in their flight.
Down in the first-floor hall they found the second man Benson had creased with a .22 slug. He had been abandoned. There simply hadn’t been room for another soul in the overcrowded getaway car.
“This one, at least, we have,” Nellie Gray said.
Benson’s pale, icily composed gaze played over her vengefully pretty face. From the distance came the siren and bells of the fire department.
“So we have,” he said to Nellie. “And what do you suggest doing with him?”
“Turn him over to the police, of course,” flamed the girl. “I don’t understand you. You claim you’re interested in helping the cause of justice, but you won’t co-operate with the most powerful weapon justice has on its side—the police force.”
No flicker showed in the deadly, colorless eyes. No emotion was displayed in the quiet voice.
“Quite so, my dear,” Benson said. “We’ll turn him over to the police.”
There was a cracked mirror in the hall. Calmly, as though there were no such thing as a fire
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