authenticity of the amulets and the Ring of Power?”
The Avenger’s icy eyes remained as cold and emotionless as his paralyzed, death-mask face.
“I am fairly well versed in crime procedures,” he said quietly. “The time to fight crime is before it has been committed. The Taros relics are a tempting morsel to a certain kind of criminal. I am trying to plug possible loopholes before they are opened up.”
Moen stared, then shrugged.
“Loopholes? Such as what?”
“One is represented by such collectors as Farnum Shaw.”
Moen looked less impatient at that.
“Yes, Shaw would do things for rare Egyptian items that he wouldn’t dream of doing in ordinary business. But I guess he hasn’t a chance here. The relics are perfectly all right, aren’t they?”
Benson still felt obligated to keep the loss of the priceless amulets secret, for Gunther Caine’s sake.
“They are being duly cherished,” he said smoothly. “Have you seen Shaw recently?”
“You can forget about Shaw,” said Moen brusquely. “After all, it’s fantastic that the man, a distinguished lawyer, would stoop to anything really criminal to get the Taros charms.”
That was all Benson could draw from the man.
Spencer, tall and fat, with his kewpie-doll face more severe than usual, whitewashed Shaw, too. And he showed no suspicion that anything might already have happened to the relics. But he presented another angle that made time pressing.
“Gunther had better turn those things over to the board, really,” he said peevishly. “I told you a while ago that he was so trusted by us that he could keep the things around to gloat over. But I meant any amount of time within reason. And this is beginning to be unreasonable. After all, the Taros charms were acquired for exhibition to the public, not just for Gunther’s private pleasure.”
“I’ll tell him what you said,” Benson assured the director evenly.
Spencer backed down a bit, chewing his upper lip in indecision.
“No—” he said slowly. “No, you needn’t do that. Gunther is a wealthy man. And a powerful man, I wouldn’t care to annoy him. And after all, I suppose it is all right—”
Evans, short and chubby, rubbed his hand over the fringe of hair around his monkish bald spot. He seemed completely neutral, about everything. Shaw was a good fellow and wouldn’t harm a fly, even for rare Egyptian objects. Gunther Caine was a prince and a saint, and could keep the relics as long as he chose, as far as Evans was concerned.
The Avenger stepped from Evans’ house, seeming to have drawn a blank all around—and the slight buzz of his belt radio made itself apparent. It was picked up by vibration, by the steely muscles of his abdomen, more than as actual sound.
Benson put tiny ear phones to his keen ears.
“Mac talkin’, Muster Benson. I’m at Senator Blessing’s house, as you orrrdered. I’ve been watchin’ the place closely, but I’ve a bad feelin’ that he has given me the slip.”
“What makes you think that?” said Benson, icy eyes narrowed to pale slits in his dead face.
“I’ve seen him at this and that window, from eight in the evening till about an hour ago. An’ after that—nothin’ at all. But the thing is, the last time I saw him was at a downstairs window with a dark shade drawn so I got only a silhouette. Either the senator was wearin’ a funny kind of dressin’ gown—or somethin’ like a priest’s robe.”
The Avenger reflected a moment.
“Stay there, Mac. If he is gone, we have no idea where, so there’s no way for you to follow him. If he isn’t, well, I still want him watched.”
“If he went out in the skurlie’s costume, there may be bad trouble brewin’,” argued Mac.
“True! But stay there.”
The Avenger’s face was as dead as ever, but his eyes expressed concern. His aides commanded everything he had in the way of loyalty.
He dialed Nellie and Josh, and got no answer. The giant Smitty was at the wheel of the car
The Avenger’s icy eyes remained as cold and emotionless as his paralyzed, death-mask face.
“I am fairly well versed in crime procedures,” he said quietly. “The time to fight crime is before it has been committed. The Taros relics are a tempting morsel to a certain kind of criminal. I am trying to plug possible loopholes before they are opened up.”
Moen stared, then shrugged.
“Loopholes? Such as what?”
“One is represented by such collectors as Farnum Shaw.”
Moen looked less impatient at that.
“Yes, Shaw would do things for rare Egyptian items that he wouldn’t dream of doing in ordinary business. But I guess he hasn’t a chance here. The relics are perfectly all right, aren’t they?”
Benson still felt obligated to keep the loss of the priceless amulets secret, for Gunther Caine’s sake.
“They are being duly cherished,” he said smoothly. “Have you seen Shaw recently?”
“You can forget about Shaw,” said Moen brusquely. “After all, it’s fantastic that the man, a distinguished lawyer, would stoop to anything really criminal to get the Taros charms.”
That was all Benson could draw from the man.
Spencer, tall and fat, with his kewpie-doll face more severe than usual, whitewashed Shaw, too. And he showed no suspicion that anything might already have happened to the relics. But he presented another angle that made time pressing.
“Gunther had better turn those things over to the board, really,” he said peevishly. “I told you a while ago that he was so trusted by us that he could keep the things around to gloat over. But I meant any amount of time within reason. And this is beginning to be unreasonable. After all, the Taros charms were acquired for exhibition to the public, not just for Gunther’s private pleasure.”
“I’ll tell him what you said,” Benson assured the director evenly.
Spencer backed down a bit, chewing his upper lip in indecision.
“No—” he said slowly. “No, you needn’t do that. Gunther is a wealthy man. And a powerful man, I wouldn’t care to annoy him. And after all, I suppose it is all right—”
Evans, short and chubby, rubbed his hand over the fringe of hair around his monkish bald spot. He seemed completely neutral, about everything. Shaw was a good fellow and wouldn’t harm a fly, even for rare Egyptian objects. Gunther Caine was a prince and a saint, and could keep the relics as long as he chose, as far as Evans was concerned.
The Avenger stepped from Evans’ house, seeming to have drawn a blank all around—and the slight buzz of his belt radio made itself apparent. It was picked up by vibration, by the steely muscles of his abdomen, more than as actual sound.
Benson put tiny ear phones to his keen ears.
“Mac talkin’, Muster Benson. I’m at Senator Blessing’s house, as you orrrdered. I’ve been watchin’ the place closely, but I’ve a bad feelin’ that he has given me the slip.”
“What makes you think that?” said Benson, icy eyes narrowed to pale slits in his dead face.
“I’ve seen him at this and that window, from eight in the evening till about an hour ago. An’ after that—nothin’ at all. But the thing is, the last time I saw him was at a downstairs window with a dark shade drawn so I got only a silhouette. Either the senator was wearin’ a funny kind of dressin’ gown—or somethin’ like a priest’s robe.”
The Avenger reflected a moment.
“Stay there, Mac. If he is gone, we have no idea where, so there’s no way for you to follow him. If he isn’t, well, I still want him watched.”
“If he went out in the skurlie’s costume, there may be bad trouble brewin’,” argued Mac.
“True! But stay there.”
The Avenger’s face was as dead as ever, but his eyes expressed concern. His aides commanded everything he had in the way of loyalty.
He dialed Nellie and Josh, and got no answer. The giant Smitty was at the wheel of the car
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