laughter behind him like Satan’s plumes.
Xenan was the only one they took from the house.
There was a big sedan in the garage, and when they’d all met there, it was revealed that there were six of them. They crowded into the car.
Hanging limply from one of the garage walls was the enormous form of Smitty, The giant had a deep gash on his head and was still unconscious. Laughing as if nothing had ever been funnier than the sight of the huge fellow spread-eagled against the wall with two pairs of skid chains, the six drove out, taking the wealthy, famous William Xenan with them.
Cole Wilson was the first to recover in the mammoth, baronial front hall. He stirred and blinked. “What—”
His hand drew back from what it had touched, and then he recognized the moveless object.
“Hey, Mac!”
Wilson found a first-floor bathroom, staggered back with a towel soaked in cold water and slapped this against Mac’s face. The Scot spluttered and came to.
“Cole! Where’s— What happened?”
“You tell me,” said Wilson, his handsome face grim. “I went back to the garage and took one step inside. Thought I was being pretty cautious. I heard a laugh, turned, and a house fell on me. That’s all I know.”
“ ’Tis about what happened to me,” said Mac. Then: “Say! Smitty went back to find you. Didn’t you see him?”
“I saw nothing but stars. Where’s the chief?”
Mac answered with a blank look. They ran to the garage.
Smitty was just stirring, with dawning realization and fury, against the wall. He roared as he saw the two.
“They hit me with a four-by-four. Or maybe a six-by-six. I didn’t have a chance. If I get my hands on them—”
He flexed great fingers in throttling motions. He began fighting the chains.
“Wait a minute,” said Wilson, more composedly.
Smitty could have broken loose, all right; few bonds could restrain his gigantic strength. But it was quicker to unfasten him. With this done, the three ran back to the main house with dread in the heart of each.
The Avenger!
There’d been no sign of him in the house; no sound from him anywhere. The members of Justice, Inc. talked as if they had a feeling that Dick Benson was immortal. That he couldn’t be killed. But each knew differently. They knew that some day knife or bullet or rope would cut The Avenger’s career short.
Was this the time?
They spread through the house, calling, hunting frenziedly. No sign of the man with the coal-black hair. No trace of the man with the deadly, icy eyes.
They found Brown.
“This man is a hospital case,” snapped Mac. “We’ve got to get him to an emergency operating room quick.”
“But the chief!” snapped Cole.
Benson wasn’t there, that was all. The gang had gone somewhere. And with them—dead or alive—must be The Avenger.
Feeling numb and dead, as if the mainspring had broken in each of them, they went out with Brown, to drive him to the nearest hospital. They pinned their hopes on Brown. When he regained consciousness and told what he knew—
But this hope was dashed. The doctor at the hospital said: “He may die. I don’t know. It’s a bad skull fracture. In any event, it may be days before he recovers consciousness.”
CHAPTER XII
Private Asylum
The members of Justice, Inc. used gas, themselves, very frequently. With their aversion to taking life, they had found that the best way to knock out criminal opponents harmlessly was with gas.
MacMurdie, chemical genius, had concocted a number of weird gases and with each had worked up chemical antidotes, so that the gases could be used by the little band without rendering them unconscious, too. Finally, the brilliant Scot had combined these into a chemical filter that would absorb any gas.
Now, each of The Avenger’s crew was always with prepared little nose plugs, saturated with this all-purpose chemical. Also, the men constantly had their coat lapels treated with it, and Nellie and Rosabel their handkerchiefs.
When
Xenan was the only one they took from the house.
There was a big sedan in the garage, and when they’d all met there, it was revealed that there were six of them. They crowded into the car.
Hanging limply from one of the garage walls was the enormous form of Smitty, The giant had a deep gash on his head and was still unconscious. Laughing as if nothing had ever been funnier than the sight of the huge fellow spread-eagled against the wall with two pairs of skid chains, the six drove out, taking the wealthy, famous William Xenan with them.
Cole Wilson was the first to recover in the mammoth, baronial front hall. He stirred and blinked. “What—”
His hand drew back from what it had touched, and then he recognized the moveless object.
“Hey, Mac!”
Wilson found a first-floor bathroom, staggered back with a towel soaked in cold water and slapped this against Mac’s face. The Scot spluttered and came to.
“Cole! Where’s— What happened?”
“You tell me,” said Wilson, his handsome face grim. “I went back to the garage and took one step inside. Thought I was being pretty cautious. I heard a laugh, turned, and a house fell on me. That’s all I know.”
“ ’Tis about what happened to me,” said Mac. Then: “Say! Smitty went back to find you. Didn’t you see him?”
“I saw nothing but stars. Where’s the chief?”
Mac answered with a blank look. They ran to the garage.
Smitty was just stirring, with dawning realization and fury, against the wall. He roared as he saw the two.
“They hit me with a four-by-four. Or maybe a six-by-six. I didn’t have a chance. If I get my hands on them—”
He flexed great fingers in throttling motions. He began fighting the chains.
“Wait a minute,” said Wilson, more composedly.
Smitty could have broken loose, all right; few bonds could restrain his gigantic strength. But it was quicker to unfasten him. With this done, the three ran back to the main house with dread in the heart of each.
The Avenger!
There’d been no sign of him in the house; no sound from him anywhere. The members of Justice, Inc. talked as if they had a feeling that Dick Benson was immortal. That he couldn’t be killed. But each knew differently. They knew that some day knife or bullet or rope would cut The Avenger’s career short.
Was this the time?
They spread through the house, calling, hunting frenziedly. No sign of the man with the coal-black hair. No trace of the man with the deadly, icy eyes.
They found Brown.
“This man is a hospital case,” snapped Mac. “We’ve got to get him to an emergency operating room quick.”
“But the chief!” snapped Cole.
Benson wasn’t there, that was all. The gang had gone somewhere. And with them—dead or alive—must be The Avenger.
Feeling numb and dead, as if the mainspring had broken in each of them, they went out with Brown, to drive him to the nearest hospital. They pinned their hopes on Brown. When he regained consciousness and told what he knew—
But this hope was dashed. The doctor at the hospital said: “He may die. I don’t know. It’s a bad skull fracture. In any event, it may be days before he recovers consciousness.”
CHAPTER XII
Private Asylum
The members of Justice, Inc. used gas, themselves, very frequently. With their aversion to taking life, they had found that the best way to knock out criminal opponents harmlessly was with gas.
MacMurdie, chemical genius, had concocted a number of weird gases and with each had worked up chemical antidotes, so that the gases could be used by the little band without rendering them unconscious, too. Finally, the brilliant Scot had combined these into a chemical filter that would absorb any gas.
Now, each of The Avenger’s crew was always with prepared little nose plugs, saturated with this all-purpose chemical. Also, the men constantly had their coat lapels treated with it, and Nellie and Rosabel their handkerchiefs.
When
Similar Books
