made deliveries to the Perseus Project. From his pocket he took a folded slip of paper.
Konrad had memorized all the codes, so he was able to translate the message without consulting a code book. “Ah, we have interesting days ahead of us,” he said as he crumpled the note.
“Meaning what?”
“Dr. Ccopersmith has learned that we can expect the Avenger himself to arrive here tomorrow,” answered Konrad. “It seems that the vanishing of his associate, who at the moment reposes in our basement, has goaded him into action.”
Waxman knuckled his negligible chin. “That’s not so good,” he said.
Konrad busied himself with pouring boiling water into a flowered teapot. “The Avenger can be taken care of,” he said. “We know where and when he’ll arrive.”
“Don’t underestimate him. I’ve heard that—”
“Propaganda. You mustn’t be taken in by it. We had very little trouble incapacitating his associate, Mr. Cole Wilson.”
“Luck. Wilson no doubt had his mind on that redhead. Otherwise—”
“Tut-tut, sonny.” Konrad used the Madame Rosay voice again. “Mustn’t be so gloomy. We’ll take care of the Avenger and whoever else he drags along with him.”
“What about those two down there?”
“I think we’d best move them,” said Konrad. “We want to question them, and this isn’t the ideal location for that. Now that you’re here, you can help us transport them to the place in the desert.”
“Wait, Konrad, I don’t want to get mixed up—”
Konrad gripped Waxman’s arm. “You’ll do exactly what I tell you,” he said.
“. . . and I’ve been the friend and confidant of many of the great magicians and escape artists of the century,” Cole was telling Jenny Keaton as he removed his shoe. “Such men as Houdini, Norgil, Walter Gibson . . .” He clicked his shoe heel aside and took a tiny lock-picking tool from the hollow compartment within the heel. Returning the heel to its original position and the shoe to his foot, he turned his attention to the lock on the metal door of their cell.
“Does that make you an escape artist, too?”
“The deepest, darkest secrets of the prestidigitators are mine,” he assured her. He concentrated on picking the lock.
Jenny Keaton said, “Let’s say we get through this door . . . what’s out there?”
“Could well be more locked doors,” said Cole. “But it’s a long-standing rule of the Wilson clan never to cross a metaphorical bridge until we come to it.”
“Think we’re down under the art gallery someplace?”
“That’s . . . oops, that was a little clumsy of you, old man.” He shook his head over the slip he’d made.
“Does my talking distract you?”
“Not at all.”
“I can keep quiet if you like.”
“On the contrary, your continual banter inspires me to greater heights.” He made a few further deft motions with the pick. “Voila!”
“Is it open?”
“Should well be.” He turned the handle and pushed the door slowly open outward.
A corridor showed through the gap, lit by a raw light bulb.
Cole signaled for silence and pushed the door further open. He stopped, listening. After a half minute he nodded his head and stepped across the threshold into the corridor.
Jenny Keaton caught hold of his hand and followed him.
This bend of the wood-walled corridor was empty. To their left it branched into two other corridors. They went that way.
Just before they reached the end Konrad, still in his Madame Rosay costume, came around the bend. From out of his knitting bag the actor yanked a pistol. “My, my, what have we here?”
“Thought we’d take a bit of a stroll,” said Cole, grinning at the man with the gun.
“No need to walk when you can ride,” said Konrad. “Now if you’ll kindly come along with me.”
CHAPTER XIV
“Your Turn to Die!”
The dog was angry. It barked gruffly, tugging and rattling the chain which held him to the garage.
Edwin Montez pointed a pudgy finger at the grass
Konrad had memorized all the codes, so he was able to translate the message without consulting a code book. “Ah, we have interesting days ahead of us,” he said as he crumpled the note.
“Meaning what?”
“Dr. Ccopersmith has learned that we can expect the Avenger himself to arrive here tomorrow,” answered Konrad. “It seems that the vanishing of his associate, who at the moment reposes in our basement, has goaded him into action.”
Waxman knuckled his negligible chin. “That’s not so good,” he said.
Konrad busied himself with pouring boiling water into a flowered teapot. “The Avenger can be taken care of,” he said. “We know where and when he’ll arrive.”
“Don’t underestimate him. I’ve heard that—”
“Propaganda. You mustn’t be taken in by it. We had very little trouble incapacitating his associate, Mr. Cole Wilson.”
“Luck. Wilson no doubt had his mind on that redhead. Otherwise—”
“Tut-tut, sonny.” Konrad used the Madame Rosay voice again. “Mustn’t be so gloomy. We’ll take care of the Avenger and whoever else he drags along with him.”
“What about those two down there?”
“I think we’d best move them,” said Konrad. “We want to question them, and this isn’t the ideal location for that. Now that you’re here, you can help us transport them to the place in the desert.”
“Wait, Konrad, I don’t want to get mixed up—”
Konrad gripped Waxman’s arm. “You’ll do exactly what I tell you,” he said.
“. . . and I’ve been the friend and confidant of many of the great magicians and escape artists of the century,” Cole was telling Jenny Keaton as he removed his shoe. “Such men as Houdini, Norgil, Walter Gibson . . .” He clicked his shoe heel aside and took a tiny lock-picking tool from the hollow compartment within the heel. Returning the heel to its original position and the shoe to his foot, he turned his attention to the lock on the metal door of their cell.
“Does that make you an escape artist, too?”
“The deepest, darkest secrets of the prestidigitators are mine,” he assured her. He concentrated on picking the lock.
Jenny Keaton said, “Let’s say we get through this door . . . what’s out there?”
“Could well be more locked doors,” said Cole. “But it’s a long-standing rule of the Wilson clan never to cross a metaphorical bridge until we come to it.”
“Think we’re down under the art gallery someplace?”
“That’s . . . oops, that was a little clumsy of you, old man.” He shook his head over the slip he’d made.
“Does my talking distract you?”
“Not at all.”
“I can keep quiet if you like.”
“On the contrary, your continual banter inspires me to greater heights.” He made a few further deft motions with the pick. “Voila!”
“Is it open?”
“Should well be.” He turned the handle and pushed the door slowly open outward.
A corridor showed through the gap, lit by a raw light bulb.
Cole signaled for silence and pushed the door further open. He stopped, listening. After a half minute he nodded his head and stepped across the threshold into the corridor.
Jenny Keaton caught hold of his hand and followed him.
This bend of the wood-walled corridor was empty. To their left it branched into two other corridors. They went that way.
Just before they reached the end Konrad, still in his Madame Rosay costume, came around the bend. From out of his knitting bag the actor yanked a pistol. “My, my, what have we here?”
“Thought we’d take a bit of a stroll,” said Cole, grinning at the man with the gun.
“No need to walk when you can ride,” said Konrad. “Now if you’ll kindly come along with me.”
CHAPTER XIV
“Your Turn to Die!”
The dog was angry. It barked gruffly, tugging and rattling the chain which held him to the garage.
Edwin Montez pointed a pudgy finger at the grass
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