think maybe it’s this Benson?” said Beanie. “You think maybe the Jackson dame got a chance to spill a little to him.”
“Maybe,” said the leader.
And as quick as a cobra he snapped a gun from his shoulder holster, turned and crouched and sent three shots roaring up at the figure on the beam!
Sometime during the last sixty seconds a casual glance had flicked up far enough for him to get a glimpse of Benson out of the corner of his eye. He had pretended not to have seen him, till he opened fire.
It was clever work. Probably any other man would have been taken in by it. But not the man with the paralyzed face and the icy, colorless eyes.
Those eyes had particularly noted the agitated squirming of that vein, indicating sudden mental activity. And with that as a guide, those eyes had caught the faint move of the right arm, preliminary to a fast grab for a gun.
So Benson was not caught unprepared.
A fraction of a second before the first shot, his body moved with a swiftness that made the mob leader’s fast moves seem like slow motion. Off the beam, down in a grim plunge like the leap of a jaguar from a tree.
He lit on the shoulders of a man called Beanie, who happened to be nearest. Beanie yelled and was bowled over—with The Avenger underneath! Benson had seen to that.
A fourth shot lanced from the leader’s gun. It was a cold gamble with the life of his own man at stake if he lost. And he did lose.
The bullet didn’t get the Avenger; it tore away half of Beanie’s throat instead!
There was a scream that registered something new in the way of bubbling horror. Beanie jerked, dying as he did so, not aware that he was still being used as a screen when Benson rose.
The Avenger hurled the jerking body toward the man with the leaping vein in his forehead. At the same time, he jumped to the right where the other two men stood with their guns poking uncertainly around as they tried to get a clear shot at the man with the thick white hair.
Now and then a person appears whose muscles seem to have twice the power, ounce for ounce, of average muscle. The Avenger was that type of person; as these men swiftly found out.
The two men fired as Benson twisted toward them. And missed. Then one was reeling back from a terrific blow to the jaw, and the other was trying to run.
The Avenger’s steel-strong hand got him by the neck. He was jerked back. At the same time, Benson’s foot arced out and forward; and the gun in the hand of the leader, who was working himself free from the hideous embrace of dying Beanie, flew from his hand and slammed against the plank wall of the hangar.
The man Benson had by the neck was over six feet in height and weighed well over two hundred pounds. In addition, the look of the cartilage of nose and ears told that he had been either a professional boxer or wrestler.
The Avenger was about sixty pounds lighter and six inches shorter.
Which meant that it took Benson about twenty seconds to subdue him instead of five or six. Which was lucky for the leader of this deadly crew. For it gave him just time to scramble to his feet, run like a scared rabbit to the door and escape, before The Avenger’s fingers could settle on the nerve centers in the back of his opponent’s neck and put him to sleep.
Benson dropped the third man and was after the fourth like a mongoose after a deadly snake. But the man was halfway across the weed-grown flying field by now; and before even Benson could get near him, he had burst into the fringing woods. Then there was the sound of a car motor started with frenzied speed.
The Avenger stopped his running, but kept on going—away from the field and across country to where his own coupé was parked. He had learned one thing anyhow. A thing he didn’t believe any of the men knew they had given away, so brief had been the mention of it.
The place where Smitty had been taken. Smitty and “the old crazy guy,” whoever that was.
Wyler’s farm and the boathouse
“Maybe,” said the leader.
And as quick as a cobra he snapped a gun from his shoulder holster, turned and crouched and sent three shots roaring up at the figure on the beam!
Sometime during the last sixty seconds a casual glance had flicked up far enough for him to get a glimpse of Benson out of the corner of his eye. He had pretended not to have seen him, till he opened fire.
It was clever work. Probably any other man would have been taken in by it. But not the man with the paralyzed face and the icy, colorless eyes.
Those eyes had particularly noted the agitated squirming of that vein, indicating sudden mental activity. And with that as a guide, those eyes had caught the faint move of the right arm, preliminary to a fast grab for a gun.
So Benson was not caught unprepared.
A fraction of a second before the first shot, his body moved with a swiftness that made the mob leader’s fast moves seem like slow motion. Off the beam, down in a grim plunge like the leap of a jaguar from a tree.
He lit on the shoulders of a man called Beanie, who happened to be nearest. Beanie yelled and was bowled over—with The Avenger underneath! Benson had seen to that.
A fourth shot lanced from the leader’s gun. It was a cold gamble with the life of his own man at stake if he lost. And he did lose.
The bullet didn’t get the Avenger; it tore away half of Beanie’s throat instead!
There was a scream that registered something new in the way of bubbling horror. Beanie jerked, dying as he did so, not aware that he was still being used as a screen when Benson rose.
The Avenger hurled the jerking body toward the man with the leaping vein in his forehead. At the same time, he jumped to the right where the other two men stood with their guns poking uncertainly around as they tried to get a clear shot at the man with the thick white hair.
Now and then a person appears whose muscles seem to have twice the power, ounce for ounce, of average muscle. The Avenger was that type of person; as these men swiftly found out.
The two men fired as Benson twisted toward them. And missed. Then one was reeling back from a terrific blow to the jaw, and the other was trying to run.
The Avenger’s steel-strong hand got him by the neck. He was jerked back. At the same time, Benson’s foot arced out and forward; and the gun in the hand of the leader, who was working himself free from the hideous embrace of dying Beanie, flew from his hand and slammed against the plank wall of the hangar.
The man Benson had by the neck was over six feet in height and weighed well over two hundred pounds. In addition, the look of the cartilage of nose and ears told that he had been either a professional boxer or wrestler.
The Avenger was about sixty pounds lighter and six inches shorter.
Which meant that it took Benson about twenty seconds to subdue him instead of five or six. Which was lucky for the leader of this deadly crew. For it gave him just time to scramble to his feet, run like a scared rabbit to the door and escape, before The Avenger’s fingers could settle on the nerve centers in the back of his opponent’s neck and put him to sleep.
Benson dropped the third man and was after the fourth like a mongoose after a deadly snake. But the man was halfway across the weed-grown flying field by now; and before even Benson could get near him, he had burst into the fringing woods. Then there was the sound of a car motor started with frenzied speed.
The Avenger stopped his running, but kept on going—away from the field and across country to where his own coupé was parked. He had learned one thing anyhow. A thing he didn’t believe any of the men knew they had given away, so brief had been the mention of it.
The place where Smitty had been taken. Smitty and “the old crazy guy,” whoever that was.
Wyler’s farm and the boathouse
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