as dangerous as that.
Tom had brains enough. He would realize that. He would know that if he tried to walk out and give himself up, chances were he’d be shot down by an excited rookie before he took two steps.
That meant one thing: He’d have to shoot it out with the police like any seasoned crook.
Dead or alive!
No, there’d be no trouble locating that garage. Just cruise up Amsterdam till you saw crowds of people held back by patrolmen, cops and plain-clothesmen shooting at windows from behind barricades.
And how anyone could enter a mess like that and come out unseen and unscathed with the man a hundred police were after, would seem to be an unanswerable question.
The Avenger got out his make-up kit and began to work with swift fingers.
Man of a Thousand Faces.
His fingers molded and prodded and shaped. In a moment he had a heavy, phlegmatic face. He had on his habitual gray, one of the dozens of suits that made him inconspicuous in a crowd. He just kept that on; but from a cabinet he got out a derby, a little worn.
He cut a cigar in half, steely fingers flying at their task. He lit the cigar stub, let it die out; then he clamped the long butt in his jaws.
He was a heavy-featured, heavy-footed plain-clothes-man with cigar butt and derby in about three and a half minutes.
He raced to the basement of the Bleek Street building and got into a fast car. He went up the ramp and over the sidewalk to the street with siren screaming.
There was a police star on the car. The Avenger had enough influence with the police department to have plastered all his cars with similar stars, if he had cared to. That was because he had worked with them so effectually in the past.
Now—and a regretful glint appeared in the cold, pale eyes—he was going to have to work against the police. He didn’t like that at all. But it was necessary, if Tom’s life were to be saved.
He screamed uptown, with his police badge getting him the right of way, and went up Amsterdam Avenue. Very soon he saw the commotion he’d anticipated.
It was even worse than he’d thought.
A gun battle, in mid-morning! There must have been ten thousand spectators, at a safe distance behind a cordon of cops. And there must have been a brigade of police. Out of that melee, The Avenger had to pick Tom Crimm.
He braked his car, with a squeal of tires, and shouldered through the crowd. He was so typically detective that no cop even thought of stopping him. He went to a knot of detectives behind a truck, and stared at the garage—a three-story building with half the front windows out.
“Down, you chump!” hissed one of the detectives. And a bullet from a top floor window came close to his head.
Instead of ducking, Benson walked toward the yawning street door of the garage
“Hey! Come back!” cried one of his fellow detectives—as they deemed themselves. “The guy’s crazy, in there! He’ll drill you in a dozen spots! Besides, the joint’s full of tear gas—”
The Avenger didn’t seem to be moving fast. Which was what had drawn the most urgent of the yells of warning. But just the same he was in that doorway before more than one more slug could be sent down at him—at a narrow miss.
Not too hard to get to the door. The reason none of the others had was because of the tear gas. They couldn’t have stood it. But Benson simply reached into a vest pocket, got out two plain glass, tissue-thin cups to slip over his pale eyeballs, and put them on to protect his eyes from the stinging gas. Then he raised the lapel of his coat and breathed through that. The lapel was chemically treated and was as good as a gas mask.
He went through the clouds of tear gas as if it had been fresh air—up to the second floor. It was from those windows that Tom, caught in his own tragic foolishness, had been firing.
Tom was choking and his eyes were streaming. But he could see an advancing figure, and he fired at it frantically. Three bullets hit Benson’s
Tom had brains enough. He would realize that. He would know that if he tried to walk out and give himself up, chances were he’d be shot down by an excited rookie before he took two steps.
That meant one thing: He’d have to shoot it out with the police like any seasoned crook.
Dead or alive!
No, there’d be no trouble locating that garage. Just cruise up Amsterdam till you saw crowds of people held back by patrolmen, cops and plain-clothesmen shooting at windows from behind barricades.
And how anyone could enter a mess like that and come out unseen and unscathed with the man a hundred police were after, would seem to be an unanswerable question.
The Avenger got out his make-up kit and began to work with swift fingers.
Man of a Thousand Faces.
His fingers molded and prodded and shaped. In a moment he had a heavy, phlegmatic face. He had on his habitual gray, one of the dozens of suits that made him inconspicuous in a crowd. He just kept that on; but from a cabinet he got out a derby, a little worn.
He cut a cigar in half, steely fingers flying at their task. He lit the cigar stub, let it die out; then he clamped the long butt in his jaws.
He was a heavy-featured, heavy-footed plain-clothes-man with cigar butt and derby in about three and a half minutes.
He raced to the basement of the Bleek Street building and got into a fast car. He went up the ramp and over the sidewalk to the street with siren screaming.
There was a police star on the car. The Avenger had enough influence with the police department to have plastered all his cars with similar stars, if he had cared to. That was because he had worked with them so effectually in the past.
Now—and a regretful glint appeared in the cold, pale eyes—he was going to have to work against the police. He didn’t like that at all. But it was necessary, if Tom’s life were to be saved.
He screamed uptown, with his police badge getting him the right of way, and went up Amsterdam Avenue. Very soon he saw the commotion he’d anticipated.
It was even worse than he’d thought.
A gun battle, in mid-morning! There must have been ten thousand spectators, at a safe distance behind a cordon of cops. And there must have been a brigade of police. Out of that melee, The Avenger had to pick Tom Crimm.
He braked his car, with a squeal of tires, and shouldered through the crowd. He was so typically detective that no cop even thought of stopping him. He went to a knot of detectives behind a truck, and stared at the garage—a three-story building with half the front windows out.
“Down, you chump!” hissed one of the detectives. And a bullet from a top floor window came close to his head.
Instead of ducking, Benson walked toward the yawning street door of the garage
“Hey! Come back!” cried one of his fellow detectives—as they deemed themselves. “The guy’s crazy, in there! He’ll drill you in a dozen spots! Besides, the joint’s full of tear gas—”
The Avenger didn’t seem to be moving fast. Which was what had drawn the most urgent of the yells of warning. But just the same he was in that doorway before more than one more slug could be sent down at him—at a narrow miss.
Not too hard to get to the door. The reason none of the others had was because of the tear gas. They couldn’t have stood it. But Benson simply reached into a vest pocket, got out two plain glass, tissue-thin cups to slip over his pale eyeballs, and put them on to protect his eyes from the stinging gas. Then he raised the lapel of his coat and breathed through that. The lapel was chemically treated and was as good as a gas mask.
He went through the clouds of tear gas as if it had been fresh air—up to the second floor. It was from those windows that Tom, caught in his own tragic foolishness, had been firing.
Tom was choking and his eyes were streaming. But he could see an advancing figure, and he fired at it frantically. Three bullets hit Benson’s
Similar Books
