together.
Dick Benson, in the course of an adventurous career, had made thousands of friends all over the world. He had set some of his friends to work on this.
From Warsaw, Poland, had come the report that Veck and Wencilau and Shewski were old friends and coworkers. From Berlin had come the news that just before the death of Shewski, a little man, with ears so flat to his head that it didn’t seem as if he had any ears, had visited him. The man, it was thought, was an old employee of Shewski’s.
From Paris, The Avenger had gleaned the news that a small man of about the same description had tried to get into Wencilau’s room the day before the murder. He had told the concierge he was Wencilau’s laboratory helper at one time.
And from Montreal, after exhaustive investigation and questioning, a chambermaid had been found who swore she saw a little man with outstanding ears talking to Veck, through his shut door, on the day of Veck’s death. That, it would seem, would be Xisco, who had said he once worked in a laboratory with Veck.
Three men, close friends, dead. And, in each case, a former laboratory helper had been around shortly before death struck.
Then from Warsaw had come a final report that was the most vital to date.
There had been four close friends and scientific co-workers. Four Polish scientists, scattered and hiding from something.
The fourth, a man named Sodolow, had come to the United States with the other three, and from there had gone to Algiers, North Africa. Miracles of tracing had been necessary to establish that fact, because Sodolow had made it a business to move there without leaving any clues behind him.
Algiers. But he wasn’t there now. A salesman of farm machinery whose life Benson had once saved in Fez, had reported that the man named Sodolow—using an alias at his hotel—had left the Mediterranean city. A hundred dollars had brought the guarded information that he was en route to New York.
There the trail had stopped, till Benson had talked to a stevedore who knew a steward who had smuggled a man ashore who looked much like this Sodolow. That had been four days ago.
Benson’s private exchange telephone had emitted a discreet buzz. When that phone rang, it was important.
The Avenger picked up the instrument in his slim but steel-strong hand. His face, as always, was as emotionless as a wax mold. But his eyes took on their chill glitter as he listened to brief words from one of his countless friends who were only too glad to act as agents for him, when circumstances compelled Benson to ask their help.
Benson nodded and hung up.
“They’ve found Sodolow,” he said. “He’s at a Polish boarding house near Third Street, plainly hiding out as the others did.”
“The fourth Pole,” said Mac somberly.
“Yes. The fourth of the little squad of scientists who came here to the United States for a while, and then scattered in far places to hide as if the devil himself were after them.”
The Avenger hadn’t seemed to move fast. But in an incredibly short time he was at the door.
‘‘Smitty,” he said, “come with me. And bring a stomach pump.”
“Stomach pump?” repeated the giant, perplexed.
“Three men have died of something like poisoning,” said Benson quietly. “Quite possibly, this fourth man may have a similar attack while you’re guarding him.”
“Guarding him?”
“ ’Tis parrot blood he has in him,” observed Mac dourly.
“You’ll stay with this man, Sodolow, constantly,” said Benson to the giant. “He is in deadly danger. But even with constant vigilance, he may suffer the same fate as the other three. In which case you will use the pump on him instantly.”
Smitty nodded. It was one more indication of the method and foresight The Avenger used in his work.
The obscure boarding house in the shadow of the El tracks, where Sodolow was hiding, looked innocent enough. But Smitty felt a prickle of foreboding, like goose flesh all around him,
Dick Benson, in the course of an adventurous career, had made thousands of friends all over the world. He had set some of his friends to work on this.
From Warsaw, Poland, had come the report that Veck and Wencilau and Shewski were old friends and coworkers. From Berlin had come the news that just before the death of Shewski, a little man, with ears so flat to his head that it didn’t seem as if he had any ears, had visited him. The man, it was thought, was an old employee of Shewski’s.
From Paris, The Avenger had gleaned the news that a small man of about the same description had tried to get into Wencilau’s room the day before the murder. He had told the concierge he was Wencilau’s laboratory helper at one time.
And from Montreal, after exhaustive investigation and questioning, a chambermaid had been found who swore she saw a little man with outstanding ears talking to Veck, through his shut door, on the day of Veck’s death. That, it would seem, would be Xisco, who had said he once worked in a laboratory with Veck.
Three men, close friends, dead. And, in each case, a former laboratory helper had been around shortly before death struck.
Then from Warsaw had come a final report that was the most vital to date.
There had been four close friends and scientific co-workers. Four Polish scientists, scattered and hiding from something.
The fourth, a man named Sodolow, had come to the United States with the other three, and from there had gone to Algiers, North Africa. Miracles of tracing had been necessary to establish that fact, because Sodolow had made it a business to move there without leaving any clues behind him.
Algiers. But he wasn’t there now. A salesman of farm machinery whose life Benson had once saved in Fez, had reported that the man named Sodolow—using an alias at his hotel—had left the Mediterranean city. A hundred dollars had brought the guarded information that he was en route to New York.
There the trail had stopped, till Benson had talked to a stevedore who knew a steward who had smuggled a man ashore who looked much like this Sodolow. That had been four days ago.
Benson’s private exchange telephone had emitted a discreet buzz. When that phone rang, it was important.
The Avenger picked up the instrument in his slim but steel-strong hand. His face, as always, was as emotionless as a wax mold. But his eyes took on their chill glitter as he listened to brief words from one of his countless friends who were only too glad to act as agents for him, when circumstances compelled Benson to ask their help.
Benson nodded and hung up.
“They’ve found Sodolow,” he said. “He’s at a Polish boarding house near Third Street, plainly hiding out as the others did.”
“The fourth Pole,” said Mac somberly.
“Yes. The fourth of the little squad of scientists who came here to the United States for a while, and then scattered in far places to hide as if the devil himself were after them.”
The Avenger hadn’t seemed to move fast. But in an incredibly short time he was at the door.
‘‘Smitty,” he said, “come with me. And bring a stomach pump.”
“Stomach pump?” repeated the giant, perplexed.
“Three men have died of something like poisoning,” said Benson quietly. “Quite possibly, this fourth man may have a similar attack while you’re guarding him.”
“Guarding him?”
“ ’Tis parrot blood he has in him,” observed Mac dourly.
“You’ll stay with this man, Sodolow, constantly,” said Benson to the giant. “He is in deadly danger. But even with constant vigilance, he may suffer the same fate as the other three. In which case you will use the pump on him instantly.”
Smitty nodded. It was one more indication of the method and foresight The Avenger used in his work.
The obscure boarding house in the shadow of the El tracks, where Sodolow was hiding, looked innocent enough. But Smitty felt a prickle of foreboding, like goose flesh all around him,
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