Dennim. She was pretty, but so were a lot of girls he’d run into. There was something extra here. She was bright. Some guys maybe didn’t want a smart girl, couldn’t take the competition. To Early that was what made her especially attractive.
He wondered if he could risk taking her to dinner up in the St. Mark’s Skylight Room tonight. Sure, it was a tourist trap, but the view of the city was terrific. Maybe with Willis at another table it might work. He’d have to think . . .
There was the sign for the turnoff which led to the winery.
Ten minutes later Early pulled into the dusty front court of the Macri Brothers Winery. There were large walnut trees growing all around the three huge brick buildings. On the yellow hillside beyond he could see the vineyards.
There was a foxy wine smell in the air. Early took a deep breath as he got out of his car. There were no other cars there, even though a wooden sign hanging from a nearby post promised hourly tours of the establishment and free wine tasting every two hours.
“Help you?” asked a small plump man who appeared in the doorway of the building closest to the parking area. He was wiping a wine glass on his striped apron.
“Like to talk to whoever runs this place.”
“Everybody runs it,” said the plump man. “All the brothers, we’re equal.”
“Talk to you then.” Early approached him, taking out his identification. “I’m Don Early.”
“Giacomo Macri,” said the plump man, glancing briefly at Early’s ID. “We in trouble with the government? My brother Antonio, he keeps thinking you going to lock up the Italians in California the way you did the Japanese, but I tell him we got nothing to do with Mussolini.”
“Want some information about your trucks,” said Early.
“You’re in the government, could you see about getting us enough gas? I been down to the—”
“Don’t talk his arm and leg off, Giacomo,” said a tall bald man who appeared behind the plump man. “Ask Mr. Early to step inside, and we’ll see what we can do to help him. I am Giuseppe Macri.”
“Come on in, sure.” Giacomo stepped aside.
Early walked into a room with its walls lined with kegs of wine.
There was a third Macri brother in the room. And he held a .45 automatic pointed right at Early.
CHAPTER XIII
Dead Man’s Town
Smitty’s big fist hammered on the thick door, making the brass knocker dance. The sound seemed to fill the entire block of large homes.
“Maybe he’s already knocked himself off,” said the giant.
“More likely everyone is sound asleep,” suggested the Avenger. “It’s nearly one A.M. ”
Smitty delivered another series of hefty blows to the door of Dr. Dahler’s San Francisco home.
The porch light blossomed. The door opened a few inches. “Land sakes, what is it?”
“It’s important that we see Dr. Dahler at once,” Benson told the bathrobed housemaid.
“He’s not a medical doctor. You’ve probably got the—”
“We know who he is. We must see him.”
“He isn’t here anyhow.” She started to shut the door.
“Hey!” Smitty thrust a huge foot out in time to halt the door.
“He isn’t here,” repeated the maid. “And if you don’t mind get your—”
“This is very important,” said Benson, “or we wouldn’t have bothered you at this time of night. Is Mrs. Dahler at home?”
“She is, but I’m not going to disturb her at—”
“What is it, Neva?” asked a voice in the hall.
“Couple of crazy men, Mrs. Dahler.”
“I’m Richard Henry Benson,” said the Avenger. “I have reason to believe your husband is in danger.”
“Richard Henry . . . are you the man they call the Avenger?”
“He sure is, lady.”
“Please, come in.”
“You sure, Mrs. Dahler? They been acting awful strange and—”
“Yes, it’s all right, Neva.”
Mrs. Dahler was a tall grey-haired woman, wearing a pale blue housecoat. She took the two men into a large living room. “Now, Mr. Benson, what exactly
He wondered if he could risk taking her to dinner up in the St. Mark’s Skylight Room tonight. Sure, it was a tourist trap, but the view of the city was terrific. Maybe with Willis at another table it might work. He’d have to think . . .
There was the sign for the turnoff which led to the winery.
Ten minutes later Early pulled into the dusty front court of the Macri Brothers Winery. There were large walnut trees growing all around the three huge brick buildings. On the yellow hillside beyond he could see the vineyards.
There was a foxy wine smell in the air. Early took a deep breath as he got out of his car. There were no other cars there, even though a wooden sign hanging from a nearby post promised hourly tours of the establishment and free wine tasting every two hours.
“Help you?” asked a small plump man who appeared in the doorway of the building closest to the parking area. He was wiping a wine glass on his striped apron.
“Like to talk to whoever runs this place.”
“Everybody runs it,” said the plump man. “All the brothers, we’re equal.”
“Talk to you then.” Early approached him, taking out his identification. “I’m Don Early.”
“Giacomo Macri,” said the plump man, glancing briefly at Early’s ID. “We in trouble with the government? My brother Antonio, he keeps thinking you going to lock up the Italians in California the way you did the Japanese, but I tell him we got nothing to do with Mussolini.”
“Want some information about your trucks,” said Early.
“You’re in the government, could you see about getting us enough gas? I been down to the—”
“Don’t talk his arm and leg off, Giacomo,” said a tall bald man who appeared behind the plump man. “Ask Mr. Early to step inside, and we’ll see what we can do to help him. I am Giuseppe Macri.”
“Come on in, sure.” Giacomo stepped aside.
Early walked into a room with its walls lined with kegs of wine.
There was a third Macri brother in the room. And he held a .45 automatic pointed right at Early.
CHAPTER XIII
Dead Man’s Town
Smitty’s big fist hammered on the thick door, making the brass knocker dance. The sound seemed to fill the entire block of large homes.
“Maybe he’s already knocked himself off,” said the giant.
“More likely everyone is sound asleep,” suggested the Avenger. “It’s nearly one A.M. ”
Smitty delivered another series of hefty blows to the door of Dr. Dahler’s San Francisco home.
The porch light blossomed. The door opened a few inches. “Land sakes, what is it?”
“It’s important that we see Dr. Dahler at once,” Benson told the bathrobed housemaid.
“He’s not a medical doctor. You’ve probably got the—”
“We know who he is. We must see him.”
“He isn’t here anyhow.” She started to shut the door.
“Hey!” Smitty thrust a huge foot out in time to halt the door.
“He isn’t here,” repeated the maid. “And if you don’t mind get your—”
“This is very important,” said Benson, “or we wouldn’t have bothered you at this time of night. Is Mrs. Dahler at home?”
“She is, but I’m not going to disturb her at—”
“What is it, Neva?” asked a voice in the hall.
“Couple of crazy men, Mrs. Dahler.”
“I’m Richard Henry Benson,” said the Avenger. “I have reason to believe your husband is in danger.”
“Richard Henry . . . are you the man they call the Avenger?”
“He sure is, lady.”
“Please, come in.”
“You sure, Mrs. Dahler? They been acting awful strange and—”
“Yes, it’s all right, Neva.”
Mrs. Dahler was a tall grey-haired woman, wearing a pale blue housecoat. She took the two men into a large living room. “Now, Mr. Benson, what exactly
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