victim to sleep almost immediately.
“I suppose you came here to sell us a vacuum cleaner,” said Jessica, hefting the gun. “I suppose you get your signatures on the dotted line by the use of a revolver.”
“That’s not a real gun,” said Cole. “Here, I’ll show you how it works—”
“Keep your hands still!” Cole was abruptly silent as he felt the steel prod deeper into his neck. “Come on. We’ll go and see Dad. You wanted to see him, didn’t you?”
“Well—” mumbled Cole, still keeping up the guilty act.
He was marched to the stairs, up them and to a front bedroom. There he was confronted by a middle-aged man in a dressing gown who didn’t look well.
“Jess!” the man said. His similarity of features told that he was Marsden, her father. “What in the world—”
“Another of them, Dad,” said the girl bitterly. “So I thought we’d entertain this one. Show him real hospitality.”
Marsden’s dark eyes turned coldly on Cole. “You’ll never get it,” he said. “You understand? You and your band of cutthroats might as well understand that right now.”
“Get what?” fished Cole, keeping up the play by looking sullen.
“I think you know. ‘The Princess.’ Even if your gang overpowered my daughter and me and had this house to yourselves, you wouldn’t get it.”
Now Cole was arriving somewhere. So Marsden had bought a masterpiece, too. And he had been bothered after the purchase. Also, the painting—Cole had an idea that it might be Veriner’s portrait of the Russian Katrina, now known simply as Veriner’s “Princess”—was not in this house. Marsden had told him in so many words that it was concealed elsewhere.
Jessica seemed to realize that slip, too. She looked at her father sideways and said, “Careful, Dad.”
Marsden bit his lip. Then he looked inquiringly at his daughter. “Now that you have this bandit, what do you intend to do with him?”
“Keep him here,” said the girl.
“Keep him?”
“Yes. Here’s our position: We can’t go to the police about these attempted burglaries. We can’t shut ourselves in this house forever. So we’ll keep this man as hostage. If anything happens to either of us, or to the picture, it will be very, very bad for him.”
“Hey, that’s breaking the law,” said Cole.
“And what are you racketeers doing, I’d like to know?” demanded Jessica.
Cole thought it was time to quit the pretense. He smiled as ingratiatingly as possible, and said, “Look here, I’m no thug. I’m a member of Justice, Inc.,”
“Never heard of it,” said Jessica. But Marsden looked thoughtful.
“Justice, Inc.,” explained Cole, “is a small band that tries to help people who are in trouble in such a way that the normal police help is cut off from them. The man at the head of it is Richard Benson, often called The Avenger.”
“Never heard of him, either,” said Jessica indifferently.
But now Marsden stopped looking thoughtful and looked enraged.
“That settles it,” he ground out. “I’ve heard of Benson and of Justice, Inc. The Avenger heads a fine body of public-spirited citizens. When a hired killer like you tries to identify himself with a band like that, he deserves anything he gets. Take him to the wine cellar, Jess. He’ll not get out of there in a hurry.”
“Wait a minute!” said Cole. “I’m not kidding. I really am—”
“Shut up!” said the girl. “Turn around and go down the stairs again.”
“Look—that gun’ll go off if you don’t stop—”
“I’ll say it will go off. March!”
The wine cellar looked to Cole’s eyes like something designed to hold another Prisoner of Zenda. It was a basement room, concrete-walled, with one tiny barred window and with a door that would have resisted the battering of a tank. The lock could have ornamented a bank vault.
It was maddeningly humiliating. Cole was going to have to call for help on his tiny belt radio. Trapped by a girl and a
“I suppose you came here to sell us a vacuum cleaner,” said Jessica, hefting the gun. “I suppose you get your signatures on the dotted line by the use of a revolver.”
“That’s not a real gun,” said Cole. “Here, I’ll show you how it works—”
“Keep your hands still!” Cole was abruptly silent as he felt the steel prod deeper into his neck. “Come on. We’ll go and see Dad. You wanted to see him, didn’t you?”
“Well—” mumbled Cole, still keeping up the guilty act.
He was marched to the stairs, up them and to a front bedroom. There he was confronted by a middle-aged man in a dressing gown who didn’t look well.
“Jess!” the man said. His similarity of features told that he was Marsden, her father. “What in the world—”
“Another of them, Dad,” said the girl bitterly. “So I thought we’d entertain this one. Show him real hospitality.”
Marsden’s dark eyes turned coldly on Cole. “You’ll never get it,” he said. “You understand? You and your band of cutthroats might as well understand that right now.”
“Get what?” fished Cole, keeping up the play by looking sullen.
“I think you know. ‘The Princess.’ Even if your gang overpowered my daughter and me and had this house to yourselves, you wouldn’t get it.”
Now Cole was arriving somewhere. So Marsden had bought a masterpiece, too. And he had been bothered after the purchase. Also, the painting—Cole had an idea that it might be Veriner’s portrait of the Russian Katrina, now known simply as Veriner’s “Princess”—was not in this house. Marsden had told him in so many words that it was concealed elsewhere.
Jessica seemed to realize that slip, too. She looked at her father sideways and said, “Careful, Dad.”
Marsden bit his lip. Then he looked inquiringly at his daughter. “Now that you have this bandit, what do you intend to do with him?”
“Keep him here,” said the girl.
“Keep him?”
“Yes. Here’s our position: We can’t go to the police about these attempted burglaries. We can’t shut ourselves in this house forever. So we’ll keep this man as hostage. If anything happens to either of us, or to the picture, it will be very, very bad for him.”
“Hey, that’s breaking the law,” said Cole.
“And what are you racketeers doing, I’d like to know?” demanded Jessica.
Cole thought it was time to quit the pretense. He smiled as ingratiatingly as possible, and said, “Look here, I’m no thug. I’m a member of Justice, Inc.,”
“Never heard of it,” said Jessica. But Marsden looked thoughtful.
“Justice, Inc.,” explained Cole, “is a small band that tries to help people who are in trouble in such a way that the normal police help is cut off from them. The man at the head of it is Richard Benson, often called The Avenger.”
“Never heard of him, either,” said Jessica indifferently.
But now Marsden stopped looking thoughtful and looked enraged.
“That settles it,” he ground out. “I’ve heard of Benson and of Justice, Inc. The Avenger heads a fine body of public-spirited citizens. When a hired killer like you tries to identify himself with a band like that, he deserves anything he gets. Take him to the wine cellar, Jess. He’ll not get out of there in a hurry.”
“Wait a minute!” said Cole. “I’m not kidding. I really am—”
“Shut up!” said the girl. “Turn around and go down the stairs again.”
“Look—that gun’ll go off if you don’t stop—”
“I’ll say it will go off. March!”
The wine cellar looked to Cole’s eyes like something designed to hold another Prisoner of Zenda. It was a basement room, concrete-walled, with one tiny barred window and with a door that would have resisted the battering of a tank. The lock could have ornamented a bank vault.
It was maddeningly humiliating. Cole was going to have to call for help on his tiny belt radio. Trapped by a girl and a
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