got a fistful of white nursemaid’s dress.
Somebody dragged her half a dozen yards and let her drop with a thump. Then, when she hit out, her hands found only empty air.
She heard a heavy door, or something, bang tight. And then she heard a voice say, “Nellie!”
She looked toward the voice.
She was inside the small chamber she’d seen through the crack in the door. Apparently, caves of various sizes were strung along here, like beads on a chain. This was one of the smaller ones. It was lit by a candle stuck in a bottleneck.
The owner of the voice was Cole Wilson. He was bound with so much phone wire that he looked like a mummy.
“Always nice to see you,” he said, “but this time it’s a pleasure I’d like to forego.” He was obviously having trouble keeping the light tone. His face was paler than usual. He shook his dark head a bit. “It’s not a nice place, Nellie.”
“Oh!” said Nellie. She went to the door which had just admitted her. She shook at it. It was so massive that she doubted if Smitty himself could have done anything about it.
“Did you phone me awhile ago, Cole?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“I was afraid not,” said Nellie.
“I haven’t phoned anyone or done anything,” Cole said. “A block from headquarters, I saw a woman in a taxi having a fainting spell or something. I jumped to the door and opened it, to help her, and a gun was stuck in my face. The ‘woman’ was a man in a dress. One of the oldest tricks in the world—and I fell for it.”
His voice was full of disgust.
“The gun slugged me. When I woke up, I was here, like this. In this animal house.”
“Animal house?” repeated Nellie.
“Use your nose,” said Cole.
Nellie sniffed. And now, with her mind on it, she caught it. An odor of something living, but not human. The smell of a den or lair. It made the chill touch her spine again.
“You might untie me,” said Cole. “I don’t think it would help any, but it would at least be more comfortable. The reason I don’t think it would help is that our friends—whoever they are—wouldn’t have left you in here unbound if they thought being loose would help us any.”
Nellie worked at his wire. She kept sniffing.
“I think maybe we’re going to be a meal for something,” said Cole.
The Avenger had said he was going to the public library. Evidently, Clarence Beck had thought he meant the big New York one on Fifth Avenue at Forty-second Street, for the blond youth looked surprised when Benson stopped his car in front of one of the small public libraries.
“Think they’ll have what you want here?” Beck said, in a naïve invitation for The Avenger to put into words just what he was after.
“I think so,” Benson said expressionlessly. “I want some local history. Probably there is more of it here in the locality than there would be downtown.”
Beck skipped alongside him as he went up the wide steps.
“If I can help you,” he said; “if I can look up anything for you—”
The Avenger said nothing.
It was quite a neat and sizeable library. There was a main room, two-storied, with books going up to the top and reached by narrow iron ramps to many shelves. It was patterned after the main library in that all around this big room were tiers of balconies, each a low floor crammed with books.
The book desk was in the center. The Avenger went to this with his smooth, catlike walk.
“I would like whatever books you have on history, typography or real-estate transactions of this immediate section,” he said. “Any books written before 1900.”
“All of them?” asked the librarian.
“All of them.”
Dick went to a long table, with the irrepressibly youthful Beck beside him.
In about ten minutes, an attendant came wheeling a book bin on silent rubber tires. There were several score books, all old. The Avenger looked these over rapidly, took out three, and began skimming through them.
As he did so, some curious things began
Somebody dragged her half a dozen yards and let her drop with a thump. Then, when she hit out, her hands found only empty air.
She heard a heavy door, or something, bang tight. And then she heard a voice say, “Nellie!”
She looked toward the voice.
She was inside the small chamber she’d seen through the crack in the door. Apparently, caves of various sizes were strung along here, like beads on a chain. This was one of the smaller ones. It was lit by a candle stuck in a bottleneck.
The owner of the voice was Cole Wilson. He was bound with so much phone wire that he looked like a mummy.
“Always nice to see you,” he said, “but this time it’s a pleasure I’d like to forego.” He was obviously having trouble keeping the light tone. His face was paler than usual. He shook his dark head a bit. “It’s not a nice place, Nellie.”
“Oh!” said Nellie. She went to the door which had just admitted her. She shook at it. It was so massive that she doubted if Smitty himself could have done anything about it.
“Did you phone me awhile ago, Cole?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“I was afraid not,” said Nellie.
“I haven’t phoned anyone or done anything,” Cole said. “A block from headquarters, I saw a woman in a taxi having a fainting spell or something. I jumped to the door and opened it, to help her, and a gun was stuck in my face. The ‘woman’ was a man in a dress. One of the oldest tricks in the world—and I fell for it.”
His voice was full of disgust.
“The gun slugged me. When I woke up, I was here, like this. In this animal house.”
“Animal house?” repeated Nellie.
“Use your nose,” said Cole.
Nellie sniffed. And now, with her mind on it, she caught it. An odor of something living, but not human. The smell of a den or lair. It made the chill touch her spine again.
“You might untie me,” said Cole. “I don’t think it would help any, but it would at least be more comfortable. The reason I don’t think it would help is that our friends—whoever they are—wouldn’t have left you in here unbound if they thought being loose would help us any.”
Nellie worked at his wire. She kept sniffing.
“I think maybe we’re going to be a meal for something,” said Cole.
The Avenger had said he was going to the public library. Evidently, Clarence Beck had thought he meant the big New York one on Fifth Avenue at Forty-second Street, for the blond youth looked surprised when Benson stopped his car in front of one of the small public libraries.
“Think they’ll have what you want here?” Beck said, in a naïve invitation for The Avenger to put into words just what he was after.
“I think so,” Benson said expressionlessly. “I want some local history. Probably there is more of it here in the locality than there would be downtown.”
Beck skipped alongside him as he went up the wide steps.
“If I can help you,” he said; “if I can look up anything for you—”
The Avenger said nothing.
It was quite a neat and sizeable library. There was a main room, two-storied, with books going up to the top and reached by narrow iron ramps to many shelves. It was patterned after the main library in that all around this big room were tiers of balconies, each a low floor crammed with books.
The book desk was in the center. The Avenger went to this with his smooth, catlike walk.
“I would like whatever books you have on history, typography or real-estate transactions of this immediate section,” he said. “Any books written before 1900.”
“All of them?” asked the librarian.
“All of them.”
Dick went to a long table, with the irrepressibly youthful Beck beside him.
In about ten minutes, an attendant came wheeling a book bin on silent rubber tires. There were several score books, all old. The Avenger looked these over rapidly, took out three, and began skimming through them.
As he did so, some curious things began
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