Ritter just happens to be there at that time. Now, Ritter attends an important banquet, and the men attending it have a violent quarrel that bids fair to disrupt one of the nation’s biggest industries.”
He stared at the test tube. He hadn’t completed his latest test and didn’t want to leave it.
“We haven’t one thing, definite, against Ritter,” he resumed. “But wherever he is, there seems to be a sudden blossoming of trouble. Josh, you and Smitty take one of the planes and go to Detroit. Watch Ritter and note everything he does and every place he goes.”
“We keep out of sight?” said Smitty.
“First see Ritter,” said The Avenger. “See what he has to say about the banquet. After that, trail him so he doesn’t know he is being trailed.”
He turned back to the test tube, and Josh and Smitty went out of the laboratory and then out of the building.
If Dick Benson hadn’t been so immensely rich, his car-and-plane bill alone would have ruined him. He had a dozen planes, ranging from a little bullet of a thing, all wings and motor, which would go almost four hundred miles an hour, to a giant trimotored fortress which would have made the military eyes of any foreign warring power glisten with delight. In addition, he had over a score of cars of every size, designed for every conceivable transportation function.
Josh and Smitty took a low-wing monoplane that cruised at about two-sixty and hopped for Detroit.
It was a pretty short hop in that ship.
It was easy to locate Ritter. A presidential candidate isn’t hidden under a bushel—or in a large auditorium hall, usually, for that matter. The hotel where the banquet had been held, knew his whereabouts.
He was at the Grosse Point home of Horace Weyland, the truck and tractor baron. Weyland had gone west the morning after the banquet and had turned his home over to the politician.
“It simply doesn’t seem possible that Ritter could be mixed up in anything shady,” Josh repeated, as they sped toward the Weyland estate in a rented car. “He’s too prominent.”
“Have most of the guys we’ve fought been little fellows, or have they been prominent?” Smitty pointed out.
Josh had no answer for that one.
Justice, Inc., had been formed to fight supercrime, led by men so powerful that they were beyond the reaches of ordinary police efforts. It was hence the rule, and not the exception, that the men Justice, Inc., fought and vanquished should be wealthy and prominent, beyond all normal suspicions.
“Why,” asked Josh, “would Ritter break up a banquet held in his honor, assuming he has the power to and chose to use that power?”
Smitty shrugged vast shoulders.
“He wants to be elected president, doesn’t he? So, suppose he starts an argument in the automobile trade that looks like it’s going to bring trouble affecting, directly or indirectly, everybody in the country. Then suppose he patches up that trouble, with a lot of publicity. That would make him hot stuff as a pacifier, wouldn’t it?”
Josh admitted that it would. And Josh admitted to something like awe.
“Gee, Smitty. We’ve gone after crooks who had big stakes in mind. But we’ve never tackled anybody who actually dared to try to steal the presidency of the United States before. That is, if your guess is right.”
They were at Weyland’s place, now. Smitty tooled the car up a tree-lined drive and stopped in front of a home that looked like a movie set of an English castle. The giant rang the bell, then listened intently to something sounding out in back of the house. Anyway, it seemed to come from that source. Josh heard it, too.
It was an anguished screaming. Half a yelp and half a shriek. It seemed almost human, yet not quite human.
“Something’s being tortured pretty badly,” said Josh, soberly.
Then the door opened in answer to Smitty’s ring.
The servant in the doorway gave both of them a start. He was so different from the type of figure usually found
He stared at the test tube. He hadn’t completed his latest test and didn’t want to leave it.
“We haven’t one thing, definite, against Ritter,” he resumed. “But wherever he is, there seems to be a sudden blossoming of trouble. Josh, you and Smitty take one of the planes and go to Detroit. Watch Ritter and note everything he does and every place he goes.”
“We keep out of sight?” said Smitty.
“First see Ritter,” said The Avenger. “See what he has to say about the banquet. After that, trail him so he doesn’t know he is being trailed.”
He turned back to the test tube, and Josh and Smitty went out of the laboratory and then out of the building.
If Dick Benson hadn’t been so immensely rich, his car-and-plane bill alone would have ruined him. He had a dozen planes, ranging from a little bullet of a thing, all wings and motor, which would go almost four hundred miles an hour, to a giant trimotored fortress which would have made the military eyes of any foreign warring power glisten with delight. In addition, he had over a score of cars of every size, designed for every conceivable transportation function.
Josh and Smitty took a low-wing monoplane that cruised at about two-sixty and hopped for Detroit.
It was a pretty short hop in that ship.
It was easy to locate Ritter. A presidential candidate isn’t hidden under a bushel—or in a large auditorium hall, usually, for that matter. The hotel where the banquet had been held, knew his whereabouts.
He was at the Grosse Point home of Horace Weyland, the truck and tractor baron. Weyland had gone west the morning after the banquet and had turned his home over to the politician.
“It simply doesn’t seem possible that Ritter could be mixed up in anything shady,” Josh repeated, as they sped toward the Weyland estate in a rented car. “He’s too prominent.”
“Have most of the guys we’ve fought been little fellows, or have they been prominent?” Smitty pointed out.
Josh had no answer for that one.
Justice, Inc., had been formed to fight supercrime, led by men so powerful that they were beyond the reaches of ordinary police efforts. It was hence the rule, and not the exception, that the men Justice, Inc., fought and vanquished should be wealthy and prominent, beyond all normal suspicions.
“Why,” asked Josh, “would Ritter break up a banquet held in his honor, assuming he has the power to and chose to use that power?”
Smitty shrugged vast shoulders.
“He wants to be elected president, doesn’t he? So, suppose he starts an argument in the automobile trade that looks like it’s going to bring trouble affecting, directly or indirectly, everybody in the country. Then suppose he patches up that trouble, with a lot of publicity. That would make him hot stuff as a pacifier, wouldn’t it?”
Josh admitted that it would. And Josh admitted to something like awe.
“Gee, Smitty. We’ve gone after crooks who had big stakes in mind. But we’ve never tackled anybody who actually dared to try to steal the presidency of the United States before. That is, if your guess is right.”
They were at Weyland’s place, now. Smitty tooled the car up a tree-lined drive and stopped in front of a home that looked like a movie set of an English castle. The giant rang the bell, then listened intently to something sounding out in back of the house. Anyway, it seemed to come from that source. Josh heard it, too.
It was an anguished screaming. Half a yelp and half a shriek. It seemed almost human, yet not quite human.
“Something’s being tortured pretty badly,” said Josh, soberly.
Then the door opened in answer to Smitty’s ring.
The servant in the doorway gave both of them a start. He was so different from the type of figure usually found
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