had hardly gotten down the ramp at Bleek Street and into the basement garage when Smitty ran up to him.
“Chief! I’ve been waiting for you. We just got a call that you were to be held for murder. The tip came from Sergeant Marcy at headquarters.”
The Avenger’s pale eyes were as expressionless as glacial ice, and with much the same sheen.
“Mark Marcy down for compensation,” he said quietly. “A friend with such implicit faith as Marcy seems to have in me is worth rewarding.”
“But what’s this goofy murder charge about?” insisted Smitty.
“The man Shan Haygar and I went to call on is dead,” said Benson. “Shot through the head.”
“So you’re accused of it! But that’s ridiculous. It just doesn’t make sense.”
“Yes, it does,” said Benson, colorless eyes glinting. “Just a minute. I saw Shan fumbling at the pocket of the car—”
His hand, not large but powerful as steel, dipped into the pocket. It came out with a glove. One glove.
“I see,” said The Avenger.
“Where’s the other glove?” demanded the giant anxiously.
“Probably,” said The Avenger calmly, “it is near the corpse of Harlik Haygar. I was a little puzzled by the actions of Shan, but it becomes clearer, now.”
The pale eyes regarded the glove.
“Shan wanted us to help him get a gold medallion that was not his—”
“How do you know that?”
“The gold disk Carmella has is lettered F H. Probably for Francisco Haygar, her father. Shan said the disk he wanted back had H H on it. He insisted that the letters had no meaning. But it seems they have. A very simple one. They’re the initials of the person who really owns the disk in question. H H would stand for Harlik Haygar—not Shan Haygar. So the man came here to get us to help him lay his hands on property not belonging to him. Then it developed that his victim was dead and the coin already taken when we got there.”
“So Shan tried to play you for a sucker,” snapped the giant. “But why try to frame you on top of it?”
“To keep me out of the rest of the play. He must have figured—which was correct—that I wouldn’t drop the matter there, but would try to follow it up. I couldn’t follow it very far in a jail cell.”
“Oh, well,” shrugged Smitty, “it won’t get far. Just a glove. The way you’re known at headquarters, that’s pretty unimportant—”
“There will be more than a glove to incriminate me,” said Benson. “Just what, I don’t know yet. In addition, the name of Haygar is still one to make news. When it comes out that a Harlik Haygar, ostensibly of that famous family, has been murdered, it will be on the front pages of all the papers. There will be heavy pressure on the police to arrest somebody.”
“It won’t be you,” said Smitty. “I’ll just take this glove and put it where no one will ever find it—”
“You will leave it in the coupé for the police to find when they come,” contradicted Benson.
“But they’ll pick you up!” protested the giant. “They might hold you for days!”
“I won’t wait to be picked up.” The Avenger’s pale eyes had lambent glints in them. “I’ll go down to headquarters myself.”
“For heaven’s sake—why?”
“Shan wants me in a jail cell out of the way. All right. When Benson is behind bars, and Shan is perfectly free to come and go as he pleases, he may do something very interesting.”
“You want Mac or me to trail him—”
“No! I’ll take care of that.”
It was beyond Smitty. He shook his big head helplessly when The Avenger went back out, in another car. That glove connection with murder wasn’t so good. Now if something else, even more incriminating, turned up to link Benson with the murder, even the chief might find himself in very hot water, indeed.
And he was going right to headquarters instead of lying low for a few days! Well, perhaps he had an ace in the hole somewhere that Smitty didn’t know about . . .
But it would seem
“Chief! I’ve been waiting for you. We just got a call that you were to be held for murder. The tip came from Sergeant Marcy at headquarters.”
The Avenger’s pale eyes were as expressionless as glacial ice, and with much the same sheen.
“Mark Marcy down for compensation,” he said quietly. “A friend with such implicit faith as Marcy seems to have in me is worth rewarding.”
“But what’s this goofy murder charge about?” insisted Smitty.
“The man Shan Haygar and I went to call on is dead,” said Benson. “Shot through the head.”
“So you’re accused of it! But that’s ridiculous. It just doesn’t make sense.”
“Yes, it does,” said Benson, colorless eyes glinting. “Just a minute. I saw Shan fumbling at the pocket of the car—”
His hand, not large but powerful as steel, dipped into the pocket. It came out with a glove. One glove.
“I see,” said The Avenger.
“Where’s the other glove?” demanded the giant anxiously.
“Probably,” said The Avenger calmly, “it is near the corpse of Harlik Haygar. I was a little puzzled by the actions of Shan, but it becomes clearer, now.”
The pale eyes regarded the glove.
“Shan wanted us to help him get a gold medallion that was not his—”
“How do you know that?”
“The gold disk Carmella has is lettered F H. Probably for Francisco Haygar, her father. Shan said the disk he wanted back had H H on it. He insisted that the letters had no meaning. But it seems they have. A very simple one. They’re the initials of the person who really owns the disk in question. H H would stand for Harlik Haygar—not Shan Haygar. So the man came here to get us to help him lay his hands on property not belonging to him. Then it developed that his victim was dead and the coin already taken when we got there.”
“So Shan tried to play you for a sucker,” snapped the giant. “But why try to frame you on top of it?”
“To keep me out of the rest of the play. He must have figured—which was correct—that I wouldn’t drop the matter there, but would try to follow it up. I couldn’t follow it very far in a jail cell.”
“Oh, well,” shrugged Smitty, “it won’t get far. Just a glove. The way you’re known at headquarters, that’s pretty unimportant—”
“There will be more than a glove to incriminate me,” said Benson. “Just what, I don’t know yet. In addition, the name of Haygar is still one to make news. When it comes out that a Harlik Haygar, ostensibly of that famous family, has been murdered, it will be on the front pages of all the papers. There will be heavy pressure on the police to arrest somebody.”
“It won’t be you,” said Smitty. “I’ll just take this glove and put it where no one will ever find it—”
“You will leave it in the coupé for the police to find when they come,” contradicted Benson.
“But they’ll pick you up!” protested the giant. “They might hold you for days!”
“I won’t wait to be picked up.” The Avenger’s pale eyes had lambent glints in them. “I’ll go down to headquarters myself.”
“For heaven’s sake—why?”
“Shan wants me in a jail cell out of the way. All right. When Benson is behind bars, and Shan is perfectly free to come and go as he pleases, he may do something very interesting.”
“You want Mac or me to trail him—”
“No! I’ll take care of that.”
It was beyond Smitty. He shook his big head helplessly when The Avenger went back out, in another car. That glove connection with murder wasn’t so good. Now if something else, even more incriminating, turned up to link Benson with the murder, even the chief might find himself in very hot water, indeed.
And he was going right to headquarters instead of lying low for a few days! Well, perhaps he had an ace in the hole somewhere that Smitty didn’t know about . . .
But it would seem
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