happening to the door they were to flee through.
It sprang into living flame.
Door and jamb were suddenly a fierce red glow. It was as if that whole section were a great match which had been struck and had spontaneously ignited.
Yells of astonishment, and then of growing fear, came from Louie Fiume’s gang. Now that they were all together near the front door, it could be seen that over a dozen were here.
Several sprang for the door, blazing though it was. They clawed at it to get it open, fell back squalling with burned hands.
And behind the gang, the hall suddenly became an inferno, too.
They were trapped between a portal too fiery to flee out of, and a roaring flame in the center of the hall that leaped higher even as they watched.
Fiume’s gang was normally disciplined. But it lost all that, now. It was every man for himself.
Some burned their hands again trying to get near the front door and open it. Some raced to the front room and yanked at iron bars placed there long ago to render the first floor burglar-proof. Only about half the crew had sense enough to take the one possible way out:
Over the roofs.
These jammed the staircase in the dark, looking like figures out of hell with the reflected red light of fire licking at them.
They scrambled up those stairs to the roof.
“Lam! Everybody! The fire department’ll be here in a second, and the cops, too—”
That was Fiume’s voice. Seven of his men were going to be charred sticks in the ashes of that fire. But the leader, himself, at least, had gotten clear.
The scattered members of the gang streaked to the left, down the pitch of the roof to the flat one next door.
But a compact group also moved more methodically to the right, to the opposite roof. The group took a fire escape to the ground, three buildings down the line.
The Avenger’s car was at the curb. They all piled into it. Nellie and Mac, Josh and Smitty—and a man who appeared to be the bank director, Frederick Birch.
But “Birch” reached to his face and took thin glass eyecups from blazing, colorless eyes. Those eyecups had pupils painted on them resembling in color the pupils of Birch’s eyes. And the face, with flesh as dead and pliant as any plastic, had been shaped to resemble Birch’s face.
The Avenger became himself, again, with all but Smitty staring at him in a kind of awe. Smitty was driving, fast, to get away from the scene of the fire and couldn’t stare at anything but the traffic.
“One of that gang fired at me from the warehouse roof in Bleek Street,” Benson said, voice and eyes as cold and emotionless as if he were merely remarking on what a nice, starry night it was. “I trailed him to the tenement. Then”—he raised his voice so that the giant at the wheel could hear—“your latest invention came in handy, Smitty.”
Smitty listened. That latest invention was something the utility companies would have paid a fabulous sum for. It was a radio-telephonic hookup. The Avenger’s phone was wired to a radio transmitter on a constant wavelength. When the phone rang, his radio buzzed. With a power signal activating an induction coil near the phone, he shorted the instrument, in a sense, and listened to the phone message, and could answer the speaker, over his own radio transmitter, even though he was miles away.
“I trailed the men to the tenement and then I saw Birch coming down the street,” said the Avenger quietly. “I don’t know what he was coming for. We’ll never know. I slugged him, and made up to resemble him. Then I took his watch and wallet and let him lay. I figured he’d think he had been attacked by a common thief, when he regained consciousness, and go on with whatever business he had in mind. Which he did.”
Mac’s bleak blue eyes were very somber.
“Then the man who fell into the basement—”
“Was Birch,” nodded Benson, pale eyes flaming. “One of the bank men, at least, has paid for his crimes. I came first, was mistaken
It sprang into living flame.
Door and jamb were suddenly a fierce red glow. It was as if that whole section were a great match which had been struck and had spontaneously ignited.
Yells of astonishment, and then of growing fear, came from Louie Fiume’s gang. Now that they were all together near the front door, it could be seen that over a dozen were here.
Several sprang for the door, blazing though it was. They clawed at it to get it open, fell back squalling with burned hands.
And behind the gang, the hall suddenly became an inferno, too.
They were trapped between a portal too fiery to flee out of, and a roaring flame in the center of the hall that leaped higher even as they watched.
Fiume’s gang was normally disciplined. But it lost all that, now. It was every man for himself.
Some burned their hands again trying to get near the front door and open it. Some raced to the front room and yanked at iron bars placed there long ago to render the first floor burglar-proof. Only about half the crew had sense enough to take the one possible way out:
Over the roofs.
These jammed the staircase in the dark, looking like figures out of hell with the reflected red light of fire licking at them.
They scrambled up those stairs to the roof.
“Lam! Everybody! The fire department’ll be here in a second, and the cops, too—”
That was Fiume’s voice. Seven of his men were going to be charred sticks in the ashes of that fire. But the leader, himself, at least, had gotten clear.
The scattered members of the gang streaked to the left, down the pitch of the roof to the flat one next door.
But a compact group also moved more methodically to the right, to the opposite roof. The group took a fire escape to the ground, three buildings down the line.
The Avenger’s car was at the curb. They all piled into it. Nellie and Mac, Josh and Smitty—and a man who appeared to be the bank director, Frederick Birch.
But “Birch” reached to his face and took thin glass eyecups from blazing, colorless eyes. Those eyecups had pupils painted on them resembling in color the pupils of Birch’s eyes. And the face, with flesh as dead and pliant as any plastic, had been shaped to resemble Birch’s face.
The Avenger became himself, again, with all but Smitty staring at him in a kind of awe. Smitty was driving, fast, to get away from the scene of the fire and couldn’t stare at anything but the traffic.
“One of that gang fired at me from the warehouse roof in Bleek Street,” Benson said, voice and eyes as cold and emotionless as if he were merely remarking on what a nice, starry night it was. “I trailed him to the tenement. Then”—he raised his voice so that the giant at the wheel could hear—“your latest invention came in handy, Smitty.”
Smitty listened. That latest invention was something the utility companies would have paid a fabulous sum for. It was a radio-telephonic hookup. The Avenger’s phone was wired to a radio transmitter on a constant wavelength. When the phone rang, his radio buzzed. With a power signal activating an induction coil near the phone, he shorted the instrument, in a sense, and listened to the phone message, and could answer the speaker, over his own radio transmitter, even though he was miles away.
“I trailed the men to the tenement and then I saw Birch coming down the street,” said the Avenger quietly. “I don’t know what he was coming for. We’ll never know. I slugged him, and made up to resemble him. Then I took his watch and wallet and let him lay. I figured he’d think he had been attacked by a common thief, when he regained consciousness, and go on with whatever business he had in mind. Which he did.”
Mac’s bleak blue eyes were very somber.
“Then the man who fell into the basement—”
“Was Birch,” nodded Benson, pale eyes flaming. “One of the bank men, at least, has paid for his crimes. I came first, was mistaken
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