the street. It ended in a big north-and-south avenue, in the heart of Thornton Heights. The name of this central avenue of the subdivision was Wilder Avenue.
Here, you could go two ways, and Dick Benson paused. He stopped beside a newsstand. The boy there, a sharp-eyed youngster of about fourteen, came promptly to the car, scenting a customer. Then he saw who was at the wheel, and his eyes got big.
He knew The Avenger, all right. Every newsie for miles around the big city knew him. In fact, they were all banded into a sort of informal young army, taking orders from The Avenger; and, many times, their sharp eyes and habits of observance had helped Justice, Inc.
The boy snapped to attention.
“Orders?” he said eagerly.
Benson’s masklike face almost relaxed in a smile. He had a tremendous sympathy for these kids, and a respect for them, too.
“No orders,” he said, voice more human than usual. “Did you see a moving van turn this corner within the past hour?”
“Yes, sir,” said the boy.
“Can you give a description?”
“Yes, sir. It was pretty big, but not as big as some of the new, special jobs. Dull-red, as if it was about five years old and hadn’t been painted. It was going kind of fast for a van. When the driver went around the corner he rode up over the curb as if he wasn’t used to wheeling such big jobs. That’s how I happened to notice it.”
“Good work,” said Benson. “Which way did it go?”
“North,” said the boy.
The Avenger put his hand out to shake the boy’s, which was far more reward for the kid than the folded bill that was left in his fingers.
“Swell work,” bubbled Clarence Beck enthusiastically. “I didn’t think you could get to first base following a van after so much time had elapsed. Of course, you won’t get any farther on its trail than this, but it’s wonderful you’ve tracked it even this far. You’d be a swell guy to have on the home team’s side—and a bad one to have for an enemy.”
Smitty glared at him. The big fellow was chewing his lips. He rather agreed with Beck about its being impossible to follow such a cold scent much farther. But he didn’t want to put it into words.
Then the trail extended itself a few more steps, due to the ingenuity of the two men somewhere ahead in that van.
There was a corner drugstore. Around the front of this a dozen people were standing, trying to look in the window. There was a cop at the door.
The Avenger stopped and got out. The patrolman was as quick as the newsboy to recognize the masklike face and the pale, cold eyes. He said, “Mr. Benson! You wanta go in the store?”
“What’s in there?” said Benson evenly. “What’s the excitement about?”
“Fella fainted,” said the patrolman. “Anyhow, I thought he’d fainted when I carried him in here, a while ago. He keeled over on the street, half a block ahead of me, and I ran and got him. But the druggist says it ain’t a regular fainting spell. He says it looks to him as if the man was drugged. Or maybe gassed.”
The cop scratched his jaw reflectively.
“I think maybe the druggist is right,” he added. “When I picked the guy up and started away with him, I felt a little wobbly for a minute, as if I’d whiffed something. But when I went back, I didn’t. Guess the stuff floated away.”
“Thanks,” said Benson.
He got back in the car and resumed the northward trip.
Smitty had heard the talk, and knew as well as Benson why that man had “fainted.”
“Mac!” he said.
The Avenger nodded and put on speed. The trail was not so cold now. Beck stared at both, mystified.
CHAPTER VII
Trail of Slumber
There was no mystery to it. Fergus MacMurdie, one of the world’s top-ranking chemists, had devised many concoctions for crime fighting. The chemical to nullify effects of gas, used by The Avenger’s aides to saturate their coat lapels and handkerchiefs, was one of them.
A special anesthetic gas was another.
Mac turned out little,
Here, you could go two ways, and Dick Benson paused. He stopped beside a newsstand. The boy there, a sharp-eyed youngster of about fourteen, came promptly to the car, scenting a customer. Then he saw who was at the wheel, and his eyes got big.
He knew The Avenger, all right. Every newsie for miles around the big city knew him. In fact, they were all banded into a sort of informal young army, taking orders from The Avenger; and, many times, their sharp eyes and habits of observance had helped Justice, Inc.
The boy snapped to attention.
“Orders?” he said eagerly.
Benson’s masklike face almost relaxed in a smile. He had a tremendous sympathy for these kids, and a respect for them, too.
“No orders,” he said, voice more human than usual. “Did you see a moving van turn this corner within the past hour?”
“Yes, sir,” said the boy.
“Can you give a description?”
“Yes, sir. It was pretty big, but not as big as some of the new, special jobs. Dull-red, as if it was about five years old and hadn’t been painted. It was going kind of fast for a van. When the driver went around the corner he rode up over the curb as if he wasn’t used to wheeling such big jobs. That’s how I happened to notice it.”
“Good work,” said Benson. “Which way did it go?”
“North,” said the boy.
The Avenger put his hand out to shake the boy’s, which was far more reward for the kid than the folded bill that was left in his fingers.
“Swell work,” bubbled Clarence Beck enthusiastically. “I didn’t think you could get to first base following a van after so much time had elapsed. Of course, you won’t get any farther on its trail than this, but it’s wonderful you’ve tracked it even this far. You’d be a swell guy to have on the home team’s side—and a bad one to have for an enemy.”
Smitty glared at him. The big fellow was chewing his lips. He rather agreed with Beck about its being impossible to follow such a cold scent much farther. But he didn’t want to put it into words.
Then the trail extended itself a few more steps, due to the ingenuity of the two men somewhere ahead in that van.
There was a corner drugstore. Around the front of this a dozen people were standing, trying to look in the window. There was a cop at the door.
The Avenger stopped and got out. The patrolman was as quick as the newsboy to recognize the masklike face and the pale, cold eyes. He said, “Mr. Benson! You wanta go in the store?”
“What’s in there?” said Benson evenly. “What’s the excitement about?”
“Fella fainted,” said the patrolman. “Anyhow, I thought he’d fainted when I carried him in here, a while ago. He keeled over on the street, half a block ahead of me, and I ran and got him. But the druggist says it ain’t a regular fainting spell. He says it looks to him as if the man was drugged. Or maybe gassed.”
The cop scratched his jaw reflectively.
“I think maybe the druggist is right,” he added. “When I picked the guy up and started away with him, I felt a little wobbly for a minute, as if I’d whiffed something. But when I went back, I didn’t. Guess the stuff floated away.”
“Thanks,” said Benson.
He got back in the car and resumed the northward trip.
Smitty had heard the talk, and knew as well as Benson why that man had “fainted.”
“Mac!” he said.
The Avenger nodded and put on speed. The trail was not so cold now. Beck stared at both, mystified.
CHAPTER VII
Trail of Slumber
There was no mystery to it. Fergus MacMurdie, one of the world’s top-ranking chemists, had devised many concoctions for crime fighting. The chemical to nullify effects of gas, used by The Avenger’s aides to saturate their coat lapels and handkerchiefs, was one of them.
A special anesthetic gas was another.
Mac turned out little,
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