the most important, as far as Dick was concerned.
Many elaborate homes have underground corridors connecting the house with the servants’ quarters. This was one of them. There was a tunnel from house to garage, and it was this tunnel to which the fourth door led.
Mac didn’t know about this, either. He stayed at the stairs and watched The Avenger. He saw Benson go into the third doorway, knew from the length of time he stayed inside that something important was in there. He listened for sounds indicating that the pale-eyed man needed help, and didn’t hear any. So then he relaxed and watched the stairs again.
And while he watched the stairs, that fourth door opened, very slowly, and murderous eyes looked at his back.
It might have been coincidence or it might have been by deliberate arrangement, but at that instant something happened to take the Scot’s attention even further from the basement he was in.
Mac heard a faint laugh from somewhere upstairs.
His teeth set hard. He crouched instinctively, for this laugh spelled peril. It was faint, as if suppressed, but it was drawn out, repeated.
He glared up the stairs, too intent to know that the owner of the murderous eyes in the fourth doorway was creeping soundlessly toward him. He heard that maniacal laugh again.
Mac whirled to shout a warning to The Avenger in the wine cellar. He never made the noise.
The figure from the garage tunnel was on him by then; and before Mac could even get his arms up to defend himself, a gun cracked down on his head. The attacker then sped to the heavy door of the wine cellar, slammed it shut, and dropped a thick iron bolt through the staple loop.
That door would have to be broken down, now, before anyone could get out. And no human being without a battering ram, not even The Avenger, could break the massive oak.
The man began to laugh. He stared down at Mac’s bony, unconscious length and wheezed with laughter. Laughing, he picked up the bony body and started with it up the stairs.
Like a crazy echo, laughter sounded from the head of the stairs, too. And another man appeared, carrying another body. This was the body of Cole Wilson.
He dumped Wilson in the hall. And half over Wilson’s body, Mac was dropped.
“The big fellow?” said the one who’d carried Mac.
“Ha-ha-ha! He’s in the garage. Chained him to the wall.”
The second man sputtered this out between chuckles and then, shaking with laughter, went to a closet and came back with a vacuum cleaner. He put the hose on the reverse end of this, put a flat attachment on the end of the hose and stuck this next to the crack under the wine-cellar door.
He turned on the motor and the thing began shooting air under the door into the almost-airtight wine closet. Then he poured a colorless liquid, that began to evaporate in misty white fumes almost at once, into the air stream.
“Hee-hee! When they get a couple whiffs of that gas—”
With murderous eyes intent in his laugh-twisted face, the man emptied the small bottle he had tipped over the air stream. The whitish fumes snaked under the door as if pulled by strings.
The man stared at his watch, twitching with laughter, till ten minutes had passed. Then he opened the door.
There were three bodies inside, now, instead of two. All three were limp and still. The man stepped inside, holding his breath as well as he could between chuckles, then caught Xenan by the shoulders. He dragged him out, leaving the wounded man, Brown, and the still body of The Avenger where they lay.
“Ho-ho!” laughed the man, glaring at Benson. “So you’re the guy everybody’s scared of. Haw-haw-haw!”
He pulled a gun and leveled it at The Avenger’s head. His finger flexed on the trigger. But not quite enough. Not quite. For twenty seconds that seemed like twenty years, he stood there, with Benson only a half-ounce pull from death. Then he put the gun up, put his other arm around Xenan’s flaccid body, and went out, trailing
Many elaborate homes have underground corridors connecting the house with the servants’ quarters. This was one of them. There was a tunnel from house to garage, and it was this tunnel to which the fourth door led.
Mac didn’t know about this, either. He stayed at the stairs and watched The Avenger. He saw Benson go into the third doorway, knew from the length of time he stayed inside that something important was in there. He listened for sounds indicating that the pale-eyed man needed help, and didn’t hear any. So then he relaxed and watched the stairs again.
And while he watched the stairs, that fourth door opened, very slowly, and murderous eyes looked at his back.
It might have been coincidence or it might have been by deliberate arrangement, but at that instant something happened to take the Scot’s attention even further from the basement he was in.
Mac heard a faint laugh from somewhere upstairs.
His teeth set hard. He crouched instinctively, for this laugh spelled peril. It was faint, as if suppressed, but it was drawn out, repeated.
He glared up the stairs, too intent to know that the owner of the murderous eyes in the fourth doorway was creeping soundlessly toward him. He heard that maniacal laugh again.
Mac whirled to shout a warning to The Avenger in the wine cellar. He never made the noise.
The figure from the garage tunnel was on him by then; and before Mac could even get his arms up to defend himself, a gun cracked down on his head. The attacker then sped to the heavy door of the wine cellar, slammed it shut, and dropped a thick iron bolt through the staple loop.
That door would have to be broken down, now, before anyone could get out. And no human being without a battering ram, not even The Avenger, could break the massive oak.
The man began to laugh. He stared down at Mac’s bony, unconscious length and wheezed with laughter. Laughing, he picked up the bony body and started with it up the stairs.
Like a crazy echo, laughter sounded from the head of the stairs, too. And another man appeared, carrying another body. This was the body of Cole Wilson.
He dumped Wilson in the hall. And half over Wilson’s body, Mac was dropped.
“The big fellow?” said the one who’d carried Mac.
“Ha-ha-ha! He’s in the garage. Chained him to the wall.”
The second man sputtered this out between chuckles and then, shaking with laughter, went to a closet and came back with a vacuum cleaner. He put the hose on the reverse end of this, put a flat attachment on the end of the hose and stuck this next to the crack under the wine-cellar door.
He turned on the motor and the thing began shooting air under the door into the almost-airtight wine closet. Then he poured a colorless liquid, that began to evaporate in misty white fumes almost at once, into the air stream.
“Hee-hee! When they get a couple whiffs of that gas—”
With murderous eyes intent in his laugh-twisted face, the man emptied the small bottle he had tipped over the air stream. The whitish fumes snaked under the door as if pulled by strings.
The man stared at his watch, twitching with laughter, till ten minutes had passed. Then he opened the door.
There were three bodies inside, now, instead of two. All three were limp and still. The man stepped inside, holding his breath as well as he could between chuckles, then caught Xenan by the shoulders. He dragged him out, leaving the wounded man, Brown, and the still body of The Avenger where they lay.
“Ho-ho!” laughed the man, glaring at Benson. “So you’re the guy everybody’s scared of. Haw-haw-haw!”
He pulled a gun and leveled it at The Avenger’s head. His finger flexed on the trigger. But not quite enough. Not quite. For twenty seconds that seemed like twenty years, he stood there, with Benson only a half-ounce pull from death. Then he put the gun up, put his other arm around Xenan’s flaccid body, and went out, trailing
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