first caught his attention, was the slight scrape of metal against metal. Someone was turning the doorknob. Then there was a slight period of soundlessness. The knob-turner had discovered that the door was locked. After that, there was another tiny, metallic sound as a key was thrust into the lock.
Benson stared grimly through the darkness. Three keys there were supposed to be to that door. Just three. One was owned by Groman’s son, Ted. Another by Terry, his daughter. A third by Groman himself.
Benson had Groman’s key in his pocket now; he had taken it following the old lion’s helplessness.
Who, then was furtively unlocking that door? Ted or Terry? It seemed unlikely that either of them would act that way. They had a right here. Groman’s night nurse had taken advantage of Benson’s presence to go to the kitchen and make herself coffee and a sandwich. Would she have borrowed one of the keys and be entering like this? That was even more unlikely.
The faint sound of metal stopped, and Benson heard the door start to open. The method of its opening answered his questions. Very slowly, an inch at a time, it was pushed in by some hand long practiced at illegal entry. A professional criminal was opening that door!
The Avenger bent down in his chair. He preserved the same body balance in spite of the move. A swivel chair is apt to squeak if it is tilted—so he didn’t tilt it.
His steel-strong hands went to the slim, concealed holster of Mike, the silenced little .22, and the slender sheath of Ike, the throwing-knife. He straightened with the knife in his left hand and the gun in his right. He could use both unique little weapons with either hand.
He heard a man’s breathing, now. It was very light. Then it deepened a little, grew curiously uneven.
Two men were there, Benson realized after a moment.
The slight rustling of fabric of their clothes as they moved, stopped. Benson heard only their breathing. Even that, somehow, sounded murderous, deadly. Then he heard a new kind of sound; an almost inaudible rasp as a finger felt along the wall.
They had come in, they had closed the door behind them, they had listened and heard nothing.
So now, as soon as that finger felt the light switch, they were calmly going to turn on the lights.
Benson sat in the chair with every steel-wire muscle ready for fast action. Those men would have drawn guns in their hands. They’d be ready for split-second shooting. The sight of a man at the desk, where they expected no one, would startle them for a second or two. That would be all the time Benson had for his own action.
There was a hesitation, then a little click. The lights flashed on.
Benson saw a heavy-set man in dark overcoat and cap, with his back to the closed door. And a smaller man with his left hand still next to the light switch set into the paneled wall. Both had automatics, and both were positively gaping at the sight of a person where none had been expected.
The two men saw an average-sized man sitting calmly at the big desk with a small knife in one hand and something that looked like a length of slim, blued pipe in the other. They also saw a shock of snow-white hair over a face as horrible to them as a nightmare. That was because the face, in spite of the circumstances, was as devoid of expression as a thing of wood. Only the man’s eyes had expression. Colorless, pale, they were flaming like ice under an arctic moon.
The Avenger’s left hand whipped forward before a full second had passed. The slim, unique knife left his fingers like a needle-shaped bullet. Almost with the same breath, the silenced little gun in his right hand whispered its deadly little spat.
The big man backed against the door tottered forward and fell on his face. The little man suddenly began yelling and wrenching to get away from the light switch.
He stopped after one agonizing move, however. The knife had pinned his hand squarely to the wood panel, and Ike’s edges were razor-sharp.
Benson stared grimly through the darkness. Three keys there were supposed to be to that door. Just three. One was owned by Groman’s son, Ted. Another by Terry, his daughter. A third by Groman himself.
Benson had Groman’s key in his pocket now; he had taken it following the old lion’s helplessness.
Who, then was furtively unlocking that door? Ted or Terry? It seemed unlikely that either of them would act that way. They had a right here. Groman’s night nurse had taken advantage of Benson’s presence to go to the kitchen and make herself coffee and a sandwich. Would she have borrowed one of the keys and be entering like this? That was even more unlikely.
The faint sound of metal stopped, and Benson heard the door start to open. The method of its opening answered his questions. Very slowly, an inch at a time, it was pushed in by some hand long practiced at illegal entry. A professional criminal was opening that door!
The Avenger bent down in his chair. He preserved the same body balance in spite of the move. A swivel chair is apt to squeak if it is tilted—so he didn’t tilt it.
His steel-strong hands went to the slim, concealed holster of Mike, the silenced little .22, and the slender sheath of Ike, the throwing-knife. He straightened with the knife in his left hand and the gun in his right. He could use both unique little weapons with either hand.
He heard a man’s breathing, now. It was very light. Then it deepened a little, grew curiously uneven.
Two men were there, Benson realized after a moment.
The slight rustling of fabric of their clothes as they moved, stopped. Benson heard only their breathing. Even that, somehow, sounded murderous, deadly. Then he heard a new kind of sound; an almost inaudible rasp as a finger felt along the wall.
They had come in, they had closed the door behind them, they had listened and heard nothing.
So now, as soon as that finger felt the light switch, they were calmly going to turn on the lights.
Benson sat in the chair with every steel-wire muscle ready for fast action. Those men would have drawn guns in their hands. They’d be ready for split-second shooting. The sight of a man at the desk, where they expected no one, would startle them for a second or two. That would be all the time Benson had for his own action.
There was a hesitation, then a little click. The lights flashed on.
Benson saw a heavy-set man in dark overcoat and cap, with his back to the closed door. And a smaller man with his left hand still next to the light switch set into the paneled wall. Both had automatics, and both were positively gaping at the sight of a person where none had been expected.
The two men saw an average-sized man sitting calmly at the big desk with a small knife in one hand and something that looked like a length of slim, blued pipe in the other. They also saw a shock of snow-white hair over a face as horrible to them as a nightmare. That was because the face, in spite of the circumstances, was as devoid of expression as a thing of wood. Only the man’s eyes had expression. Colorless, pale, they were flaming like ice under an arctic moon.
The Avenger’s left hand whipped forward before a full second had passed. The slim, unique knife left his fingers like a needle-shaped bullet. Almost with the same breath, the silenced little gun in his right hand whispered its deadly little spat.
The big man backed against the door tottered forward and fell on his face. The little man suddenly began yelling and wrenching to get away from the light switch.
He stopped after one agonizing move, however. The knife had pinned his hand squarely to the wood panel, and Ike’s edges were razor-sharp.
Similar Books
