course, that some emergency had arisen calling for instant action on his part—trailing someone to some distant part, perhaps. But this was not probable because he would almost certainly have reported the fact. And there had been no radio or any other kind of message from him.
So Benson thought it was high time to try to find out what had happened.
The brain behind the colorless eyes was like a filing cabinet, in which maps were stored as well as facts. Dick Benson knew the section of the country around the abandoned airfield so well that he was able to pull into a back road a mile from it without hesitation, though he had never chanced to set foot on the field before. And he made his way over open fields and through woods to the spot without a moment’s uncertainty.
There were woods around the field, which does not make a landing spot ideal, even when the field is large, as this one was. Perhaps it was one of the reasons why it had been abandoned: crack-ups by amateurs in those fringing trees.
The weeds were eyed by Benson with approval. Through them, he started for the desolate-looking small hangar at the side of the field.
Looking directly down on the spot, from a low plane, perhaps, you could have seen The Avenger’s body slowly advancing. But from the eye level of a man standing, he couldn’t be seen at all. He was a past master at traveling through such cover, as many a jungle head-hunter could have testified. He slid through the tall weeds and grass with scarcely a ripple betraying the fact that anyone was approaching the building.
At the door, he paused, then went to the side instead of risking the opening of the big portal. The hangar was of wooden planking.
He took a thing like an atomizer from his pocket, put a couple of grayish pellets in it, and screwed on a tiny nozzle. The pellets were an invention of MacMurdie. They held more than acetylene heat; made the little atomizer contraption a tiny but marvelous blowtorch.
With a thin needle of flame, The Avenger traced an oblong in the wood planks, still under the level of the weeds. The oblong fell out, and Benson crawled in.
So far, his precautions had been unnecessary. There was no one in the hangar. But there was always the chance that somebody might be watching the place from a distance. If so, the watcher wouldn’t dream that a person had crossed the field and entered the hangar, due to Dick Benson’s methodical care.
It was such careful methods that had kept The Avenger alive through adventures that might have done for a score of less coldly thoughtful men.
The big hangar was gloomily dark, save for the space by the one window, Benson’s powerful little flash clicked on, sent a white beam through the gloom.
He found it several minutes later, in a corner of the hangar not quite tucked out of sight under some rubbish; a section of rope with broken ends.
The cold eyes glinted. This was evidence of Smitty’s presence here at sometime in the past. The Avenger knew of no other man who could have snapped a new half-inch rope like that. It was more of a feat than the snapping of iron chains as circus strong men do with chest expansion.
Benson left the rope where it was, started to look around some more and heard voices.
There were at least four men coming across the field to the hangar; he had counted four voices! Then the big sliding door quivered as somebody laid a hand on it to slide it open.
With the opening of the big door, the hangar would be bathed with light. Even a cat couldn’t have remained unseen! And there was nothing in the empty building to hide behind.
Fifteen feet up, were the crossbeams bracing the tin-sheathed roof. Dick Benson leaped to the window sill, up from that, caught a beam and drew his body onto it in one long move.
And then the door opened, and was left open, with sunlight streaming in.
Four men entered. The one in the lead, Benson saw, was quite an average-looking person. The Avenger’s keen eyes picked up, at
So Benson thought it was high time to try to find out what had happened.
The brain behind the colorless eyes was like a filing cabinet, in which maps were stored as well as facts. Dick Benson knew the section of the country around the abandoned airfield so well that he was able to pull into a back road a mile from it without hesitation, though he had never chanced to set foot on the field before. And he made his way over open fields and through woods to the spot without a moment’s uncertainty.
There were woods around the field, which does not make a landing spot ideal, even when the field is large, as this one was. Perhaps it was one of the reasons why it had been abandoned: crack-ups by amateurs in those fringing trees.
The weeds were eyed by Benson with approval. Through them, he started for the desolate-looking small hangar at the side of the field.
Looking directly down on the spot, from a low plane, perhaps, you could have seen The Avenger’s body slowly advancing. But from the eye level of a man standing, he couldn’t be seen at all. He was a past master at traveling through such cover, as many a jungle head-hunter could have testified. He slid through the tall weeds and grass with scarcely a ripple betraying the fact that anyone was approaching the building.
At the door, he paused, then went to the side instead of risking the opening of the big portal. The hangar was of wooden planking.
He took a thing like an atomizer from his pocket, put a couple of grayish pellets in it, and screwed on a tiny nozzle. The pellets were an invention of MacMurdie. They held more than acetylene heat; made the little atomizer contraption a tiny but marvelous blowtorch.
With a thin needle of flame, The Avenger traced an oblong in the wood planks, still under the level of the weeds. The oblong fell out, and Benson crawled in.
So far, his precautions had been unnecessary. There was no one in the hangar. But there was always the chance that somebody might be watching the place from a distance. If so, the watcher wouldn’t dream that a person had crossed the field and entered the hangar, due to Dick Benson’s methodical care.
It was such careful methods that had kept The Avenger alive through adventures that might have done for a score of less coldly thoughtful men.
The big hangar was gloomily dark, save for the space by the one window, Benson’s powerful little flash clicked on, sent a white beam through the gloom.
He found it several minutes later, in a corner of the hangar not quite tucked out of sight under some rubbish; a section of rope with broken ends.
The cold eyes glinted. This was evidence of Smitty’s presence here at sometime in the past. The Avenger knew of no other man who could have snapped a new half-inch rope like that. It was more of a feat than the snapping of iron chains as circus strong men do with chest expansion.
Benson left the rope where it was, started to look around some more and heard voices.
There were at least four men coming across the field to the hangar; he had counted four voices! Then the big sliding door quivered as somebody laid a hand on it to slide it open.
With the opening of the big door, the hangar would be bathed with light. Even a cat couldn’t have remained unseen! And there was nothing in the empty building to hide behind.
Fifteen feet up, were the crossbeams bracing the tin-sheathed roof. Dick Benson leaped to the window sill, up from that, caught a beam and drew his body onto it in one long move.
And then the door opened, and was left open, with sunlight streaming in.
Four men entered. The one in the lead, Benson saw, was quite an average-looking person. The Avenger’s keen eyes picked up, at
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