not across the tracks, but along the fence.
There were lights all through the freight yards on poles. But he managed to elude most of the rays by hugging the fence. And this precaution also gave him a break. For next to the fence, some fifty yards from where he had climbed over, he came across something for which he might have hunted deliberately for hours and never have found.
A glint of light from the ground caught his colorless, infallible eyes. He bent down and picked up the thing that glinted.
At first glance it looked like a pair of pliers, dropped from some careless mechanic’s pocket. But a second look told that they were very odd-looking pliers; in fact, that they were not pliers at all.
They were dentist’s forceps.
Shiny, nickel-plated forceps of the type used for yanking molars while the man in the white coat says: “Now this isn’t going to hurt a bit.”
If a dentist had sneaked into the freight yard with one of the tools of his trade in his pocket, at just this point, the tool might have slipped out when he dropped to the ground.
But what would a dentist be doing in a railroad freight yard?
The Avenger slipped the forceps into his pocket and went on toward the place on the tracks where the mangled body had been found. The tracks thrummed and a glare split the half-darkness of the yard. He sank down behind a pile of ties. A switch engine jerked past, bunting freight cars into a side track.
Then Dick Benson went on, pale eyes alert. He had an idea he had already found the most important thing he was apt to pick up in here. But it was the course of method to go on and cover the rest of the ground. There might be some slight clue that the police had not found when the tramp’s death was reported.
Suddenly Dick stiffened and stood still, face as emotionless as ever, but with all his compact body tensed for instant and powerful action if necessary.
A man had appeared behind him so suddenly that it seemed that he must have materialized out of thin air.
The man made no effort to keep from being heard. He walked along a line of sidetracked boxcars toward Benson with normal steps, feet scraping on the cinders and gravel. Dick turned.
The man wore blue overalls and a blue shirt of denim. He had a striped railroader’s cap on his head and there was a red handkerchief loosely tied around his throat. He looked like an engineer walking through to report for the midnight shift. He was swinging a lunchbox in his left hand. In his right was a rolled newspaper.
“Well!” said Dick evenly. “Where did you spring from?”
The man looked friendly but curious.
“I didn’t spring from anywhere,” he said. “I was cutting across the yards and came out from behind that string of empties, and here you were.”
His face got a little less friendly.
“What’re you doing in here? Trespassers in the yards get pinched if the railroad dicks catch ’em.”
“I’m investigating the death of that tramp three nights ago,” said Dick, truthfully enough.
“Got credentials to show you have a right to do that?”
“You want to see credentials?” countered The Avenger, colorless eyes like ice in moonlight.
“Me? No. I’m no road cop. But if any show, you’ll have to—” He broke off and looked up the track. “Get out the credentials, pal. Here they come.”
“Who?” said Dick.
“Four—no, five cops. They’ve been heavy since that tramp got in here.”
Dick had seen the five men before the man beside him. And he had surmised that they must be yard detectives: A lot of valuable stuff was in these hundreds of freight cars waiting to be shunted onto private sidings. But just to play it safe he’d acted a little dumb with the man beside him.
He waited for the five to come up to him. They did in a hurry, flashing lights into his face and with their right hands near either hip pockets or armpits.
“Who you got here, Fulton?” one of the men asked harshly.
“I don’t know,” said the man with the
There were lights all through the freight yards on poles. But he managed to elude most of the rays by hugging the fence. And this precaution also gave him a break. For next to the fence, some fifty yards from where he had climbed over, he came across something for which he might have hunted deliberately for hours and never have found.
A glint of light from the ground caught his colorless, infallible eyes. He bent down and picked up the thing that glinted.
At first glance it looked like a pair of pliers, dropped from some careless mechanic’s pocket. But a second look told that they were very odd-looking pliers; in fact, that they were not pliers at all.
They were dentist’s forceps.
Shiny, nickel-plated forceps of the type used for yanking molars while the man in the white coat says: “Now this isn’t going to hurt a bit.”
If a dentist had sneaked into the freight yard with one of the tools of his trade in his pocket, at just this point, the tool might have slipped out when he dropped to the ground.
But what would a dentist be doing in a railroad freight yard?
The Avenger slipped the forceps into his pocket and went on toward the place on the tracks where the mangled body had been found. The tracks thrummed and a glare split the half-darkness of the yard. He sank down behind a pile of ties. A switch engine jerked past, bunting freight cars into a side track.
Then Dick Benson went on, pale eyes alert. He had an idea he had already found the most important thing he was apt to pick up in here. But it was the course of method to go on and cover the rest of the ground. There might be some slight clue that the police had not found when the tramp’s death was reported.
Suddenly Dick stiffened and stood still, face as emotionless as ever, but with all his compact body tensed for instant and powerful action if necessary.
A man had appeared behind him so suddenly that it seemed that he must have materialized out of thin air.
The man made no effort to keep from being heard. He walked along a line of sidetracked boxcars toward Benson with normal steps, feet scraping on the cinders and gravel. Dick turned.
The man wore blue overalls and a blue shirt of denim. He had a striped railroader’s cap on his head and there was a red handkerchief loosely tied around his throat. He looked like an engineer walking through to report for the midnight shift. He was swinging a lunchbox in his left hand. In his right was a rolled newspaper.
“Well!” said Dick evenly. “Where did you spring from?”
The man looked friendly but curious.
“I didn’t spring from anywhere,” he said. “I was cutting across the yards and came out from behind that string of empties, and here you were.”
His face got a little less friendly.
“What’re you doing in here? Trespassers in the yards get pinched if the railroad dicks catch ’em.”
“I’m investigating the death of that tramp three nights ago,” said Dick, truthfully enough.
“Got credentials to show you have a right to do that?”
“You want to see credentials?” countered The Avenger, colorless eyes like ice in moonlight.
“Me? No. I’m no road cop. But if any show, you’ll have to—” He broke off and looked up the track. “Get out the credentials, pal. Here they come.”
“Who?” said Dick.
“Four—no, five cops. They’ve been heavy since that tramp got in here.”
Dick had seen the five men before the man beside him. And he had surmised that they must be yard detectives: A lot of valuable stuff was in these hundreds of freight cars waiting to be shunted onto private sidings. But just to play it safe he’d acted a little dumb with the man beside him.
He waited for the five to come up to him. They did in a hurry, flashing lights into his face and with their right hands near either hip pockets or armpits.
“Who you got here, Fulton?” one of the men asked harshly.
“I don’t know,” said the man with the
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