doctors were wondering if some epidemic was upon them.
All the metropolitan papers sent first-run copies in a rush to Bleek Street. Josh and Rosabel looked up from these to see The Avenger coming out of the laboratory.
Benson hadn’t slept for a long time, but the fact did not show in his face or actions. He seemed literally to be an iron man. The pale eyes were as clear as though he’d just risen from a rest; the pantherish tread was as firm and elastic as ever.
You couldn’t tell from the colorless, basilisk eyes whether he had been successful with his test tubes and retorts or not.
“Have you heard from Nellie or Cole or Smitty?” he asked the gangling Negro.
Josh gave their reports.
“But that was hours ago,” he added. “There have been no reports for a long time. I wonder if they’re in some kind of trouble.”
“If you do hear from them,” said The Avenger, “contact me at once. I will be in Wilmington, Delaware.”
He went to the roof, moving with that uncanny speed that seemed so effortless, but which left the eye baffled.
There was a facade above the top floor of the building. Hidden by this, except from the eyes of observers in distant, higher buildings, was a small autogiro that Benson had recently purchased.
The Avenger was probably the world’s best pilot. With his great skill, plus the addition of a few refinements on the machine that even the manufacturers hadn’t thought of, he could land and take off from even his small rooftop.* He rose in a perfect jump-start, now, with the motor roaring full on. He leveled off toward La Guardia Field, where he had a hangar of his own with half a dozen various types of planes.
* ( The Philadelphia post office, of course, has maintained a roof-to-airport mail service for some time, but with a much larger rooftop for landing. )
There, he chose a bullet of a thing, all motor and, seemingly, no wings. He sped for Wilmington.
The Avenger had done more in the laboratory than work on the puzzle of the black death. He had recalled every detail of the televised scene he had witnessed over the cameraman’s shoulder in Hannon’s underground crypt.
That scene had showed two men in white coats, working in a distant laboratory. By piecing together all he had seen and heard, Dick thought he knew where that lab was.
“—tensile strength . . . acetate . . . viscosity—” were some of the scattered words he had heard the men say.
A part of a window had showed, reflected in a downward angle from the side of a glass tank. And in this had reared a building tower, far off, which Benson had seen once before and filed perfectly in his marvelous memory.
This tower was in Wilmington, Delaware. The scraps of words indicated that the men were experimenting with a new plastic or fabric, and the home of these experiments was also in Wilmington.
At the gigantic home plant of the Stockbridge Chemical Corp., to be exact.
In the huge administration building of the Stockbridge Corporation, Benson asked for Stockbridge himself, president of the vast organization. The information girl’s eyebrows raised clear to her hairline at the promptness with which Richard Benson was ushered into the private office of the man who was in some ways harder to see than the President of the United States.
She would have been even more surprised at old Stockbridge’s greeting. He shook Benson’s hand almost effusively.
“Fine to see you, Mr. Benson. Fine! Fine! Haven’t seen you since the time when you straightened us out on that new smokeless-powder process. What can I do for you?”
“First, you can answer a question,” The Avenger said. “Have you recently discovered a new rayon-type thread that is cheaper and stronger than any present type?”
Stockbridge’s effusiveness vanished. But he didn’t look angry; he just looked dubious.
“I can’t answer a question like that, even to you,” he protested. “If any of the directors found out—”
“So you have,” Benson
All the metropolitan papers sent first-run copies in a rush to Bleek Street. Josh and Rosabel looked up from these to see The Avenger coming out of the laboratory.
Benson hadn’t slept for a long time, but the fact did not show in his face or actions. He seemed literally to be an iron man. The pale eyes were as clear as though he’d just risen from a rest; the pantherish tread was as firm and elastic as ever.
You couldn’t tell from the colorless, basilisk eyes whether he had been successful with his test tubes and retorts or not.
“Have you heard from Nellie or Cole or Smitty?” he asked the gangling Negro.
Josh gave their reports.
“But that was hours ago,” he added. “There have been no reports for a long time. I wonder if they’re in some kind of trouble.”
“If you do hear from them,” said The Avenger, “contact me at once. I will be in Wilmington, Delaware.”
He went to the roof, moving with that uncanny speed that seemed so effortless, but which left the eye baffled.
There was a facade above the top floor of the building. Hidden by this, except from the eyes of observers in distant, higher buildings, was a small autogiro that Benson had recently purchased.
The Avenger was probably the world’s best pilot. With his great skill, plus the addition of a few refinements on the machine that even the manufacturers hadn’t thought of, he could land and take off from even his small rooftop.* He rose in a perfect jump-start, now, with the motor roaring full on. He leveled off toward La Guardia Field, where he had a hangar of his own with half a dozen various types of planes.
* ( The Philadelphia post office, of course, has maintained a roof-to-airport mail service for some time, but with a much larger rooftop for landing. )
There, he chose a bullet of a thing, all motor and, seemingly, no wings. He sped for Wilmington.
The Avenger had done more in the laboratory than work on the puzzle of the black death. He had recalled every detail of the televised scene he had witnessed over the cameraman’s shoulder in Hannon’s underground crypt.
That scene had showed two men in white coats, working in a distant laboratory. By piecing together all he had seen and heard, Dick thought he knew where that lab was.
“—tensile strength . . . acetate . . . viscosity—” were some of the scattered words he had heard the men say.
A part of a window had showed, reflected in a downward angle from the side of a glass tank. And in this had reared a building tower, far off, which Benson had seen once before and filed perfectly in his marvelous memory.
This tower was in Wilmington, Delaware. The scraps of words indicated that the men were experimenting with a new plastic or fabric, and the home of these experiments was also in Wilmington.
At the gigantic home plant of the Stockbridge Chemical Corp., to be exact.
In the huge administration building of the Stockbridge Corporation, Benson asked for Stockbridge himself, president of the vast organization. The information girl’s eyebrows raised clear to her hairline at the promptness with which Richard Benson was ushered into the private office of the man who was in some ways harder to see than the President of the United States.
She would have been even more surprised at old Stockbridge’s greeting. He shook Benson’s hand almost effusively.
“Fine to see you, Mr. Benson. Fine! Fine! Haven’t seen you since the time when you straightened us out on that new smokeless-powder process. What can I do for you?”
“First, you can answer a question,” The Avenger said. “Have you recently discovered a new rayon-type thread that is cheaper and stronger than any present type?”
Stockbridge’s effusiveness vanished. But he didn’t look angry; he just looked dubious.
“I can’t answer a question like that, even to you,” he protested. “If any of the directors found out—”
“So you have,” Benson
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