stepped forward. “Where did he go? Did you follow? Have you any idea?”
“We didn’t have the chance to follow. He was too swift.”
The paunchy man paced up and down, hands twisting behind his back.
“Who can say where he has gone, now! Who can tell what harm he can work! We have just gotten the last of our reports on the meddler, Benson. They are most disquieting. You pack of fools!”
“We admit it, sir,” said Benson meekly, timidly. “And now—your orders?”
“Be at ease. Go where you like, you—” he searched for expletives and couldn’t seem to find any strong enough. “You and the others shall pay for this when we get back to the homeland. You know how you will pay.”
Brocker gave the salute of the land whose language he was talking and started for the door. He didn’t appear to do so, but he moved a little more slowly than he might have. Before he had gotten the door open, the paunchy man whirled to the girl.
“The telephone!” he rapped out. “They must be warned up on the coast—”
Benson went out.
“They must be warned up on the coast.” It told him a lot.
The ultimate use for the frosted death had become increasingly obvious, in the last twenty-four hours. It was to be a ghastly war weapon, to be shipped abroad. To the country from which had come these heavy-shouldered, phlegmatic-looking men who worked like a military machine rather than a gang.
Very well, but to be used by that country, it would have to be shipped there first. That meant two things.
The terrible white stuff was being cultivated somewhere in large quantities, and packaged somehow for handling.
It could not be shipped openly. Nor would anyone even try to smuggle it, on a large scale, on regular ships. Too much chance of its being discovered.
What craft could bear it most secretly? An undersea boat. Where would it head in to an obscure port?
“Up the coast,” the paunchy man had said.
Somewhere north of New York a submarine would be stealing in—if it had not anchored already. Almost certainly near there, some kind of hidden plant would be located, turning out the shipment for the sub.
But Benson shelved this valuable thought for the moment. At the time, that day, that Claudette Sangaman had almost been killed, a chemist at the Sangaman-Veshnir Corp. named Mickelson had been absent. He might have been the one to toss the glass capsule at her—though this would have upset considerably, the theories Benson had formulated. Or his absence might be a coincidence meaning nothing—or a lot.
Benson set out to discover what it did mean.
CHAPTER XIV
Death Sentence!
Andrew Mickelson, of the Sangaman-Veshnir laboratory, had had nothing to do with the glass capsule tossed at the feet of Claudette Sangaman. He hadn’t even been in New York at that moment. From an early lunch hour on, Mickelson had traveled, all afternoon and evening, on train, bus, hired car and finally afoot, to get where he was, now.
That place was the forest hide-out of Thomas Sangaman. And Mickelson grinned insolently, menacingly, as he sat on the rustic divan in the pine-wailed living room.
Sangaman hadn’t met Mickelson with a gun. Veshnir, as far as Sangaman knew, was still around. He had only gone out of here a half hour before. He had thought it was Veshnir coming back, when Mickelson knocked.
However, Sangaman didn’t think of it, now, as Mickelson’s tap at the door that he had heard. It was the knock of doom itself. That much had come out in a short time.
“So!” Mickelson said, grinning at the lined old face of his former employer, and then grinning at the rustic room. “This is the hide-away! And that puts Veshnir in cahoots with you! I had an idea it would be like that. I’d have bet you were up here.”
“How did you know of this place?” asked Sangaman wearily. He wasn’t particularly curious about the answer. He felt completely beaten down. “I thought Veshnir had kept it a close secret—”
“Sure! So close
“We didn’t have the chance to follow. He was too swift.”
The paunchy man paced up and down, hands twisting behind his back.
“Who can say where he has gone, now! Who can tell what harm he can work! We have just gotten the last of our reports on the meddler, Benson. They are most disquieting. You pack of fools!”
“We admit it, sir,” said Benson meekly, timidly. “And now—your orders?”
“Be at ease. Go where you like, you—” he searched for expletives and couldn’t seem to find any strong enough. “You and the others shall pay for this when we get back to the homeland. You know how you will pay.”
Brocker gave the salute of the land whose language he was talking and started for the door. He didn’t appear to do so, but he moved a little more slowly than he might have. Before he had gotten the door open, the paunchy man whirled to the girl.
“The telephone!” he rapped out. “They must be warned up on the coast—”
Benson went out.
“They must be warned up on the coast.” It told him a lot.
The ultimate use for the frosted death had become increasingly obvious, in the last twenty-four hours. It was to be a ghastly war weapon, to be shipped abroad. To the country from which had come these heavy-shouldered, phlegmatic-looking men who worked like a military machine rather than a gang.
Very well, but to be used by that country, it would have to be shipped there first. That meant two things.
The terrible white stuff was being cultivated somewhere in large quantities, and packaged somehow for handling.
It could not be shipped openly. Nor would anyone even try to smuggle it, on a large scale, on regular ships. Too much chance of its being discovered.
What craft could bear it most secretly? An undersea boat. Where would it head in to an obscure port?
“Up the coast,” the paunchy man had said.
Somewhere north of New York a submarine would be stealing in—if it had not anchored already. Almost certainly near there, some kind of hidden plant would be located, turning out the shipment for the sub.
But Benson shelved this valuable thought for the moment. At the time, that day, that Claudette Sangaman had almost been killed, a chemist at the Sangaman-Veshnir Corp. named Mickelson had been absent. He might have been the one to toss the glass capsule at her—though this would have upset considerably, the theories Benson had formulated. Or his absence might be a coincidence meaning nothing—or a lot.
Benson set out to discover what it did mean.
CHAPTER XIV
Death Sentence!
Andrew Mickelson, of the Sangaman-Veshnir laboratory, had had nothing to do with the glass capsule tossed at the feet of Claudette Sangaman. He hadn’t even been in New York at that moment. From an early lunch hour on, Mickelson had traveled, all afternoon and evening, on train, bus, hired car and finally afoot, to get where he was, now.
That place was the forest hide-out of Thomas Sangaman. And Mickelson grinned insolently, menacingly, as he sat on the rustic divan in the pine-wailed living room.
Sangaman hadn’t met Mickelson with a gun. Veshnir, as far as Sangaman knew, was still around. He had only gone out of here a half hour before. He had thought it was Veshnir coming back, when Mickelson knocked.
However, Sangaman didn’t think of it, now, as Mickelson’s tap at the door that he had heard. It was the knock of doom itself. That much had come out in a short time.
“So!” Mickelson said, grinning at the lined old face of his former employer, and then grinning at the rustic room. “This is the hide-away! And that puts Veshnir in cahoots with you! I had an idea it would be like that. I’d have bet you were up here.”
“How did you know of this place?” asked Sangaman wearily. He wasn’t particularly curious about the answer. He felt completely beaten down. “I thought Veshnir had kept it a close secret—”
“Sure! So close
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