death!”
“Frosted death?” repeated Veshnir. Then he nodded. “Oh, yes. The thing the papers have been hinting at. But—what is it, precisely, Mr. Benson?”
In a few words, Benson told him what it was. Veshnir’s face paled.
“But why do you connect that dreadful thing with this place? Surely you don’t mean—”
“It is almost certain that it originated here. In your laboratories.”
“Good heavens! But what makes you think that? What proof have you?”
The Avenger told him that, too, eyes like drills on Veshnir’s benevolent face.
“It simply doesn’t seem believable,” Veshnir breathed, after a moment of silence.
“You know nothing of such experiments, then?” Benson said quietly. “I had hoped you could shed some light on the white mold.”
Veshnir spread his hands. “I never even heard of it before. But that’s not so odd. I am in the sales and personal-contact end of the company. I have little to do with the laboratory—sometimes don’t go into the place for months at a time, even though it is right next door. So I wouldn’t necessarily know of their experiments. Sangaman—”
He stopped abruptly and looked confused.
“Your partner?” said Benson. “What about him?”
Veshnir slowly took a cigar out of a box, lit it, and exhaled a thin puff of smoke.
“I was about to say that Sangaman was in and out of the laboratory all the time. He did quite a bit of work in there himself, personally. He came up from the ranks—was a fine pharmacist. But I can’t believe he had anything to do with the horror you describe.”
“Could the murdered man, Targill, have perfected such a thing without its being known by you or Sangaman?”
“All things are possible, of course,” Veshnir said oracularly. “But I doubt it.”
“It is conceivable, wouldn’t you say, that Sangaman suddenly found out the terrible nature of Targill’s latest experiment, and killed him to prevent its ever leaving the laboratory—but killed him too late?”
Veshnir swung his chair till he was looking out the window. He stared out at the sky, smoking thoughtfully. Then he stared into the icy, dangerous eyes again.
“I have never believed that my partner murdered Targill,” he said firmly. “I don’t believe it now. But if he did it—and I say if —it would only have been for some such compelling motive as that.”
“Sangaman’s reputation in business circles is good,” Benson said evenly. “How is it with you—his partner?”
“I don’t like to say anything about that,” Veshnir replied, with a look of distress on his kindly face.
“I would much appreciate an answer.”
Few people could defy that tone in The Avenger’s voice. Veshnir didn’t try to.
“Well,” he said reluctantly, “Sangaman has always been inclined to practice . . . er . . . sharp dealing. I’ve covered for him several times. Nothing illegal, you understand. Just things that are slightly unethical. I’ve been going over the books since all this stuff has come out, and I’ve found quite a few traces of such dealings. There was one item about ‘crude drugs’ to a foreign power that can only have meant the shipment of war goods to that nation. I hadn’t known about that before.”
He shook his head a little.
“But when it comes to murder—and to a guilty knowledge of an experiment as destructive and awful as this frosted-death thing—I simply can’t believe it of him!”
Veshnir, it seemed, was outside the whole affair. There appeared to be nothing to get from him. The Avenger thanked him, in his even, quiet voice, and left.
Late papers were on the street as he came out of the building. The three-o’clock edition, with streaming headlines, announced:
MURDER ON LONG ISLAND
FROSTED DEATH APPEARS AGAIN
Benson got a paper and skimmed the account with about three glances of his photographic eyes.
The newspapers, it seemed, did not share Veshnir’s firm refusal to believe in Sangaman’s guilt.
The police, in
“Frosted death?” repeated Veshnir. Then he nodded. “Oh, yes. The thing the papers have been hinting at. But—what is it, precisely, Mr. Benson?”
In a few words, Benson told him what it was. Veshnir’s face paled.
“But why do you connect that dreadful thing with this place? Surely you don’t mean—”
“It is almost certain that it originated here. In your laboratories.”
“Good heavens! But what makes you think that? What proof have you?”
The Avenger told him that, too, eyes like drills on Veshnir’s benevolent face.
“It simply doesn’t seem believable,” Veshnir breathed, after a moment of silence.
“You know nothing of such experiments, then?” Benson said quietly. “I had hoped you could shed some light on the white mold.”
Veshnir spread his hands. “I never even heard of it before. But that’s not so odd. I am in the sales and personal-contact end of the company. I have little to do with the laboratory—sometimes don’t go into the place for months at a time, even though it is right next door. So I wouldn’t necessarily know of their experiments. Sangaman—”
He stopped abruptly and looked confused.
“Your partner?” said Benson. “What about him?”
Veshnir slowly took a cigar out of a box, lit it, and exhaled a thin puff of smoke.
“I was about to say that Sangaman was in and out of the laboratory all the time. He did quite a bit of work in there himself, personally. He came up from the ranks—was a fine pharmacist. But I can’t believe he had anything to do with the horror you describe.”
“Could the murdered man, Targill, have perfected such a thing without its being known by you or Sangaman?”
“All things are possible, of course,” Veshnir said oracularly. “But I doubt it.”
“It is conceivable, wouldn’t you say, that Sangaman suddenly found out the terrible nature of Targill’s latest experiment, and killed him to prevent its ever leaving the laboratory—but killed him too late?”
Veshnir swung his chair till he was looking out the window. He stared out at the sky, smoking thoughtfully. Then he stared into the icy, dangerous eyes again.
“I have never believed that my partner murdered Targill,” he said firmly. “I don’t believe it now. But if he did it—and I say if —it would only have been for some such compelling motive as that.”
“Sangaman’s reputation in business circles is good,” Benson said evenly. “How is it with you—his partner?”
“I don’t like to say anything about that,” Veshnir replied, with a look of distress on his kindly face.
“I would much appreciate an answer.”
Few people could defy that tone in The Avenger’s voice. Veshnir didn’t try to.
“Well,” he said reluctantly, “Sangaman has always been inclined to practice . . . er . . . sharp dealing. I’ve covered for him several times. Nothing illegal, you understand. Just things that are slightly unethical. I’ve been going over the books since all this stuff has come out, and I’ve found quite a few traces of such dealings. There was one item about ‘crude drugs’ to a foreign power that can only have meant the shipment of war goods to that nation. I hadn’t known about that before.”
He shook his head a little.
“But when it comes to murder—and to a guilty knowledge of an experiment as destructive and awful as this frosted-death thing—I simply can’t believe it of him!”
Veshnir, it seemed, was outside the whole affair. There appeared to be nothing to get from him. The Avenger thanked him, in his even, quiet voice, and left.
Late papers were on the street as he came out of the building. The three-o’clock edition, with streaming headlines, announced:
MURDER ON LONG ISLAND
FROSTED DEATH APPEARS AGAIN
Benson got a paper and skimmed the account with about three glances of his photographic eyes.
The newspapers, it seemed, did not share Veshnir’s firm refusal to believe in Sangaman’s guilt.
The police, in
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