expected to learn, neither could have put into definite words. But one of those men back there, one who had gotten away least harmed by the fracas, had been the fellow Old Mitch had sullenly admitted was his no-good son. Both Mac and Smitty were positive of that. There was a chance in a thousand that the son might have gone to the father’s hovel to hide, or that the father, angered finally beyond all parental protective instincts, might give some information about him.
But nothing like that happened.
This time Old Mitch was there when they knocked. His feeble voice called: “Come in.”
It was the first time the two had been in that room. And their pity for Old Mitch grew.
The outside of the shack was bad enough. The inside was infinitely worse. This room showed cracked plaster and lath, and paper years old was half peeled from the walls. There was a broken chair, a propped-up table, a pallet of rags, and that was all in the way of furnishings. The one bit of working equipment was the rusted, cracked, ancient stove for which the old man gathered the wood scraps.
Old Mitch lay on the pallet, now. He blinked up at the giant Smitty and the Scotchman with surly dislike in his rheumy eyes.
“Back again, eh?” he snarled. “I thought I told you I needed no help from anybody.”
“I’d say ye were somethin’ more than mistaken,” Mac retorted, staring at the shivering old body and the green-gray face—where the straggly whiskers showed a face. “Mon, ye’re sick again. Verrra sick. Ye should be in a hospital—”
“I’ll thank you to keep your nose out of my affairs,” barked the old bum. Then his tone softened a shade. “I know these attacks. They go away without doctors. So you can just forget what seems to be my illness. Why did you come here?”
“Because of your no-good son,” Smitty said bluntly. “You were in the yard of the Manhattan Gasket Company this afternoon, weren’t you?”
“Yes,” said the old man sullenly. “I get wood and other scraps there. The guards are kind.”
“Well, your son was there, too, as you know very well. And shortly after you left and he left, there was the devil to pay.”
He told of the catastrophe at the factory, of the slow deaths sure to result, some indeed having already resulted. And the old man listened with glazed horror mounting in his pain-filled eyes.
“Your son caused all that,” said Smitty quietly. “The police and Secret Service, every law officer in the land is now hunting for him. I think what he has done releases you from any parental obligation. If you know where we can find him, I think you had better tell us.”
“He wasn’t there,” panted Old Mitch.
“Look,” said Smitty patiently, “half a dozen people saw him. The guard saw you slink away from him as if you were afraid of him. We know he was there.”
“He wasn’t!” Old Mitch’s voice was hoarse, gasping, but determined. Above everything else, his tone and manner said, he was protecting the individual who happened to be his flesh and blood. “I’ll swear in court, anywhere, that I didn’t see him in or anywhere near that yard.”
“Doesn’t it mean anything to you. that he’s the murderer of innocent people?” flamed Smitty.
“You’re lying!” panted Old Mitch, with a stubbornness worthy of a better cause. “He wouldn’t . . . he couldn’t have! He wasn’t there!”
The old man wouldn’t talk, and neither Smitty nor Mac felt like turning him in for his pathetic loyalties.
So that was that!
CHAPTER VIII
Phony Firemen
The Avenger had returned to the room of the boarding house with no intention whatever of just sacrificing himself with the dying man and the frightened doctor. And he returned, incidentally, just in time to keep the doctor from jumping hysterically from the window and probably killing himself.
“Wait a minute!”
The Avenger’s voice was as calm as cold water.
Benson whipped open vest and shirt. Meanwhile, the flames below were
But nothing like that happened.
This time Old Mitch was there when they knocked. His feeble voice called: “Come in.”
It was the first time the two had been in that room. And their pity for Old Mitch grew.
The outside of the shack was bad enough. The inside was infinitely worse. This room showed cracked plaster and lath, and paper years old was half peeled from the walls. There was a broken chair, a propped-up table, a pallet of rags, and that was all in the way of furnishings. The one bit of working equipment was the rusted, cracked, ancient stove for which the old man gathered the wood scraps.
Old Mitch lay on the pallet, now. He blinked up at the giant Smitty and the Scotchman with surly dislike in his rheumy eyes.
“Back again, eh?” he snarled. “I thought I told you I needed no help from anybody.”
“I’d say ye were somethin’ more than mistaken,” Mac retorted, staring at the shivering old body and the green-gray face—where the straggly whiskers showed a face. “Mon, ye’re sick again. Verrra sick. Ye should be in a hospital—”
“I’ll thank you to keep your nose out of my affairs,” barked the old bum. Then his tone softened a shade. “I know these attacks. They go away without doctors. So you can just forget what seems to be my illness. Why did you come here?”
“Because of your no-good son,” Smitty said bluntly. “You were in the yard of the Manhattan Gasket Company this afternoon, weren’t you?”
“Yes,” said the old man sullenly. “I get wood and other scraps there. The guards are kind.”
“Well, your son was there, too, as you know very well. And shortly after you left and he left, there was the devil to pay.”
He told of the catastrophe at the factory, of the slow deaths sure to result, some indeed having already resulted. And the old man listened with glazed horror mounting in his pain-filled eyes.
“Your son caused all that,” said Smitty quietly. “The police and Secret Service, every law officer in the land is now hunting for him. I think what he has done releases you from any parental obligation. If you know where we can find him, I think you had better tell us.”
“He wasn’t there,” panted Old Mitch.
“Look,” said Smitty patiently, “half a dozen people saw him. The guard saw you slink away from him as if you were afraid of him. We know he was there.”
“He wasn’t!” Old Mitch’s voice was hoarse, gasping, but determined. Above everything else, his tone and manner said, he was protecting the individual who happened to be his flesh and blood. “I’ll swear in court, anywhere, that I didn’t see him in or anywhere near that yard.”
“Doesn’t it mean anything to you. that he’s the murderer of innocent people?” flamed Smitty.
“You’re lying!” panted Old Mitch, with a stubbornness worthy of a better cause. “He wouldn’t . . . he couldn’t have! He wasn’t there!”
The old man wouldn’t talk, and neither Smitty nor Mac felt like turning him in for his pathetic loyalties.
So that was that!
CHAPTER VIII
Phony Firemen
The Avenger had returned to the room of the boarding house with no intention whatever of just sacrificing himself with the dying man and the frightened doctor. And he returned, incidentally, just in time to keep the doctor from jumping hysterically from the window and probably killing himself.
“Wait a minute!”
The Avenger’s voice was as calm as cold water.
Benson whipped open vest and shirt. Meanwhile, the flames below were
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