concussion from the bullet’s crease; but his life was in no danger.
Benson went to the edge of the roof. There was a heavy rainpipe there; and it was up this that the two men had climbed in the first place. The Avenger went down the pipe and along the areaway to the street on which the garage fronted.
Two men promptly wheeled toward him from across the street, unconsciously marching in exact unison. Two more came toward him from down beyond the garage. It was so precisely and mechanically done that it was like the changing of the guard.
Benson was so good at judging men that he was almost psychic about it. At a glance he picked the one of the four with the most authority in the set of his jaw. This one he approached at once.
“Brocker!” the man said. “Why do you leave your post? Do you not know—”
The Avenger knew a dozen languages, and knew them so well that he had no accent in any. The knowledge was advantageous, now; the man spoke in the tongue of north Europe.
“There has been trouble,” Benson replied in the same language. He had had no chance to hear the real Brocker speak; so he could only guess at the proper, guttural intonation. “The man with the white hair—I believe he has gotten away.”
“Impossible!” snapped the authoritative-looking man. “All have been in place in front. And if you and Vogg have been properly on duty in the rear—”
Benson had only been waiting to learn the name of the other man.
“Vogg has been hurt.”
“Hurt! There was a fight?”
“No! I don’t know what happened. I turned, to see that Vogg was down. I ran to the areaway and looked down. There was a sound that I could hardly hear. I leaped back from the edge with these holes in my hat.” He pointed at the bullet holes. “Some one had shot me.”
“You saw no one?”
“I was not sure. I leaped back with my own gun out. I thought I saw a man running this way. A man, it seemed, with white hair showing under the rim of his hat.”
“No one, of any color hair, has come into this street. I am positive. But this is serious!”
“What shall I do now? Return to my post?”
“Of what use?” said the man bitterly. “If you and Vogg were attacked, it must have been that during the distraction our enemy did, indeed, manage to slip away. Is Vogg badly hurt?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then leave him to look after himself. You—report to our superiors immediately. I shall get the rest, and we will comb the neighborhood before we accept, as fact, the white-haired man’s escape.”
He turned away, and Benson, walking with a stiff and military gait on his high-lift shoes, went down the street.
Report to our superiors!
He had intended only to get away from his headquarters. But with a glance at the men on this street, he had had a swift change of plan. It had seemed like an excellent time to find out a bit about this foreign, efficient corps on United States soil.
Klammer Importing Co., Fifth Avenue.
That might or might not be the headquarters for this ruthless crew. He could only chance it.
The Klammer office building was old, part apartments and part offices. The Klammer Co. was on the fourth floor, walk-up. Benson opened the door there.
He could not make his face express agitation—or anything else. So he did it by the swift pace of his entrance and his hurried tone to the young lady at a desk near the door.
“I must report at once! Important!”
“To whom?” asked the girl, in the same European tongue.
“To whom do you suppose, stupid?” Benson snapped. “Be quick—”
An inner door opened. A man with a paunch and a square-looking head stepped out.
“Very well, Brocker. Make your report.”
“The man with the white hair,” The Avenger said, making his voice urgent and wishing he could do the same with his moveless face, floridly made up in another man’s image. “He has gotten away from us.”
“Fool!” rasped the paunchy man. “Do you know how serious that is?” He
Benson went to the edge of the roof. There was a heavy rainpipe there; and it was up this that the two men had climbed in the first place. The Avenger went down the pipe and along the areaway to the street on which the garage fronted.
Two men promptly wheeled toward him from across the street, unconsciously marching in exact unison. Two more came toward him from down beyond the garage. It was so precisely and mechanically done that it was like the changing of the guard.
Benson was so good at judging men that he was almost psychic about it. At a glance he picked the one of the four with the most authority in the set of his jaw. This one he approached at once.
“Brocker!” the man said. “Why do you leave your post? Do you not know—”
The Avenger knew a dozen languages, and knew them so well that he had no accent in any. The knowledge was advantageous, now; the man spoke in the tongue of north Europe.
“There has been trouble,” Benson replied in the same language. He had had no chance to hear the real Brocker speak; so he could only guess at the proper, guttural intonation. “The man with the white hair—I believe he has gotten away.”
“Impossible!” snapped the authoritative-looking man. “All have been in place in front. And if you and Vogg have been properly on duty in the rear—”
Benson had only been waiting to learn the name of the other man.
“Vogg has been hurt.”
“Hurt! There was a fight?”
“No! I don’t know what happened. I turned, to see that Vogg was down. I ran to the areaway and looked down. There was a sound that I could hardly hear. I leaped back from the edge with these holes in my hat.” He pointed at the bullet holes. “Some one had shot me.”
“You saw no one?”
“I was not sure. I leaped back with my own gun out. I thought I saw a man running this way. A man, it seemed, with white hair showing under the rim of his hat.”
“No one, of any color hair, has come into this street. I am positive. But this is serious!”
“What shall I do now? Return to my post?”
“Of what use?” said the man bitterly. “If you and Vogg were attacked, it must have been that during the distraction our enemy did, indeed, manage to slip away. Is Vogg badly hurt?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then leave him to look after himself. You—report to our superiors immediately. I shall get the rest, and we will comb the neighborhood before we accept, as fact, the white-haired man’s escape.”
He turned away, and Benson, walking with a stiff and military gait on his high-lift shoes, went down the street.
Report to our superiors!
He had intended only to get away from his headquarters. But with a glance at the men on this street, he had had a swift change of plan. It had seemed like an excellent time to find out a bit about this foreign, efficient corps on United States soil.
Klammer Importing Co., Fifth Avenue.
That might or might not be the headquarters for this ruthless crew. He could only chance it.
The Klammer office building was old, part apartments and part offices. The Klammer Co. was on the fourth floor, walk-up. Benson opened the door there.
He could not make his face express agitation—or anything else. So he did it by the swift pace of his entrance and his hurried tone to the young lady at a desk near the door.
“I must report at once! Important!”
“To whom?” asked the girl, in the same European tongue.
“To whom do you suppose, stupid?” Benson snapped. “Be quick—”
An inner door opened. A man with a paunch and a square-looking head stepped out.
“Very well, Brocker. Make your report.”
“The man with the white hair,” The Avenger said, making his voice urgent and wishing he could do the same with his moveless face, floridly made up in another man’s image. “He has gotten away from us.”
“Fool!” rasped the paunchy man. “Do you know how serious that is?” He
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