lunchbox. “Says he’s investigating the death of the tramp a couple nights ago.”
“So?” The man’s voice changed subtly.
And so did Dick Benson’s manner.
These men were not road detectives. Three of them might have been mistaken for such. But the other two gave the lot of them away.
One of these two had the cold dull eyes of a lizard, sunning its torpid length on a wall. The other had the hot eyes of a maniac, with pupils standing in a manner suggesting dope.
Two types of eyes characteristic of killers!
“Newshawk, or cop?” snapped the spokesman for the five, edging a little closer to Benson. “Working on some paper, or for the city?”
“Neither,” said The Avenger quietly, face never showing his thoughts. “I’m a private investigator.”
“Got papers proving that?”
“Of course,” Dick said. And at the look in his pale, awesome eyes, the man seemed less arrogant.
“Come along, then,” the man growled. “We’ll take you into the shed and have a look—”
It was as if the words were a signal. Perhaps, indeed, they had been. Anyway, the five all jumped for him without warning of any kind.
And The Avenger leaped to the left and backward like the black panther he resembled. Five to one. But the men would not shoot unless they absolutely had to. For it would be embarrassing for them to be found here by the yard employees they were impersonating.
Dick leaned down. This was one time he would have to ignore his code.
Below his right knee was holstered the special silenced little .22, which he called Mike. The Avenger whipped out Mike and the unusual little weapon whispered once. With deadly accuracy, it spat its lethal slug into the neck of one of the gunmen. The phony yard detective screamed; then sickening gurgling sounds came from his blood-spattered lips. He fell to the ground. He was dead!
Given an opportunity, the man with the icy eyes and thick black hair could have made those odds of five to one look sick. But he wasn’t given the opportunity.
He had discounted the sixth man, the one in overalls and denim shirt. Faced with such odds, you have to take a chance somewhere. And this, it developed, was the wrong chance.
The sixth man had circled behind Dick and climbed into the open boxcar. From the doorway, directly above The Avenger, he struck with the rolled newspaper in his hand!
Inside that paper there was a length of pipe, making a most efficient blackjack which could stun without breaking skin or flesh. It landed on the back of Benson’s head.
Dick fell forward on his face. He writhed to get up again, in spite of the shock of the blow; so the man swung his deft club a second time. And after that, The Avenger lay still.
He came to with a kind of singing in his ears, and lay without attempted movement for a moment. From the way his head hurt, and from that whining drone in his head, he realized he must have been out for quite some time.
When the bursting lights in his skull died down a bit, he tried to move—and couldn’t. At the same time, he was aware that he was lying with something painfully obtrusive humping up under the back of his neck and the backs of his legs.
The two painful things were rails. He was bound to them! Tied on his back, across one of the railroad tracks.
At the same time, he made another discovery.
The singing in his ears was not inside his skull; it was not the result of that blow to the head.
It came from the tracks on which he lay—a steady, tremulous thrumming that made the roadbed under him seem to quiver.
A train was grinding down the track on which he lay!
On The Avenger’s forehead appeared slight drops of moisture. But otherwise his face didn’t show any more fear than it had before he made the discovery. He knew, of course, that he’d die someday in these perpetual brushes with supercrime. He was constantly ready for it. Maybe this was the time.
But a Richard Benson doesn’t die without trying to beat Death first. So Dick began
“So?” The man’s voice changed subtly.
And so did Dick Benson’s manner.
These men were not road detectives. Three of them might have been mistaken for such. But the other two gave the lot of them away.
One of these two had the cold dull eyes of a lizard, sunning its torpid length on a wall. The other had the hot eyes of a maniac, with pupils standing in a manner suggesting dope.
Two types of eyes characteristic of killers!
“Newshawk, or cop?” snapped the spokesman for the five, edging a little closer to Benson. “Working on some paper, or for the city?”
“Neither,” said The Avenger quietly, face never showing his thoughts. “I’m a private investigator.”
“Got papers proving that?”
“Of course,” Dick said. And at the look in his pale, awesome eyes, the man seemed less arrogant.
“Come along, then,” the man growled. “We’ll take you into the shed and have a look—”
It was as if the words were a signal. Perhaps, indeed, they had been. Anyway, the five all jumped for him without warning of any kind.
And The Avenger leaped to the left and backward like the black panther he resembled. Five to one. But the men would not shoot unless they absolutely had to. For it would be embarrassing for them to be found here by the yard employees they were impersonating.
Dick leaned down. This was one time he would have to ignore his code.
Below his right knee was holstered the special silenced little .22, which he called Mike. The Avenger whipped out Mike and the unusual little weapon whispered once. With deadly accuracy, it spat its lethal slug into the neck of one of the gunmen. The phony yard detective screamed; then sickening gurgling sounds came from his blood-spattered lips. He fell to the ground. He was dead!
Given an opportunity, the man with the icy eyes and thick black hair could have made those odds of five to one look sick. But he wasn’t given the opportunity.
He had discounted the sixth man, the one in overalls and denim shirt. Faced with such odds, you have to take a chance somewhere. And this, it developed, was the wrong chance.
The sixth man had circled behind Dick and climbed into the open boxcar. From the doorway, directly above The Avenger, he struck with the rolled newspaper in his hand!
Inside that paper there was a length of pipe, making a most efficient blackjack which could stun without breaking skin or flesh. It landed on the back of Benson’s head.
Dick fell forward on his face. He writhed to get up again, in spite of the shock of the blow; so the man swung his deft club a second time. And after that, The Avenger lay still.
He came to with a kind of singing in his ears, and lay without attempted movement for a moment. From the way his head hurt, and from that whining drone in his head, he realized he must have been out for quite some time.
When the bursting lights in his skull died down a bit, he tried to move—and couldn’t. At the same time, he was aware that he was lying with something painfully obtrusive humping up under the back of his neck and the backs of his legs.
The two painful things were rails. He was bound to them! Tied on his back, across one of the railroad tracks.
At the same time, he made another discovery.
The singing in his ears was not inside his skull; it was not the result of that blow to the head.
It came from the tracks on which he lay—a steady, tremulous thrumming that made the roadbed under him seem to quiver.
A train was grinding down the track on which he lay!
On The Avenger’s forehead appeared slight drops of moisture. But otherwise his face didn’t show any more fear than it had before he made the discovery. He knew, of course, that he’d die someday in these perpetual brushes with supercrime. He was constantly ready for it. Maybe this was the time.
But a Richard Benson doesn’t die without trying to beat Death first. So Dick began
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