searching through the home of the dead man, August Taylor, had found one thing that did not belong there. That was a pair of rubber gloves. They had turned the gloves carefully inside out and found prints of the extreme tips of the fingers last in them.
The prints were those of Thomas Sangaman!
So there the authorities had it cold. Sure evidence on a human being who was beginning to show up as a fiend from hell.
He had been only a murderer with the first crime: for he had killed Targill more or less normally. But when he murdered Taylor, the accounts ran on, he revealed himself as a demon. Because he killed deliberately with the frosted death as a weapon!
These things were now clear:
Thomas Sangaman had killed Targill. There could no longer be doubt about that.
Sangaman had killed him, almost certainly, to get hold of the result of an experiment—the deadly whitish stuff.
With that as a lethal weapon, Sangaman had sneaked into Taylor’s home. Handling the stuff with rubber gloves, he had put some of it on the old man, and then fled.
Why?
The motive was crystal-clear, too.
August Taylor was a silent partner in the firm of Sangaman-Veshnir. That corporation, it had recently been revealed, was on the verge of bankruptcy. A partnership insurance policy of Taylor’s would now save the firm. That was why Sangaman had committed the second murder. It proved him to be either mad or stupid, as well as criminal. For if the murder could be proved against him, of course, the policy would never be paid out.
More significant than the news content, was the tone of the account. Never had Benson read in a newspaper such bitter, cold fury. Sangaman was a monster! He had helped invent a thing that might turn into an epidemic such as had never been seen in modern times. He had murdered to get sole possession of the secret of it. Then, with it, he had committed a second murder.
Sangaman was a cold-blooded beast. He didn’t even deserve the formality of a court trial. If he were ever caught, he should be taken out and lynched.
Looking at that account, The Avenger knew that everybody reading it would be infuriated to the point of insanity. If Sangaman ever were found, he would be torn to pieces by the first people who saw and recognized him.
Benson rolled the newspaper and tapped it reflectively as he went toward Bleek Street. In the lurid columns he had read one very significant thing. It gave meaning and clarity to the whole bizarre performance. It told him almost everything he needed to know.
CHAPTER IX
The Clouds of Death
Claudette Sangaman was at Bleek Street when Benson got there. She was in one of the big leather chairs in that enormous top-floor room. She was crying hysterically, and Nellie Gray was trying to give her the comfort that only another woman can give to a woman in despair.
When Benson came in, Claudette made a heroic effort and calmed herself a little. But the calm was perhaps worse than the hysterics. White-lipped, she pointed to a copy of the latest paper at her feet. It was this, evidently, that had brought her here.
“Have you read that, Mr. Benson?”
The Avenger nodded, colorless eyes like ice in his white, dead face.
“The lies! The dreadful lies! Why, that paper makes my father out as more than a murderer. If he is ever found now, he will be shot on sight! Oh, what are we going to do?”
Benson’s face, white, terrifying, still, could never express emotion. Only his eyes could show that. The glints in their colorless depths became more pronounced now, in sympathy, as he stared at the stricken girl.
“Has anything been accomplished, yet?” she pleaded. “Anything at all?”
The Avenger nodded, dead face like a wax mask.
“Much has been accomplished,” he said.
Nellie Gray stared quickly at him. She hadn’t known anything important had turned up, yet. For of course she knew nothing of the message Benson had picked out of the recent, bitter newspaper account.
“What?” asked
The prints were those of Thomas Sangaman!
So there the authorities had it cold. Sure evidence on a human being who was beginning to show up as a fiend from hell.
He had been only a murderer with the first crime: for he had killed Targill more or less normally. But when he murdered Taylor, the accounts ran on, he revealed himself as a demon. Because he killed deliberately with the frosted death as a weapon!
These things were now clear:
Thomas Sangaman had killed Targill. There could no longer be doubt about that.
Sangaman had killed him, almost certainly, to get hold of the result of an experiment—the deadly whitish stuff.
With that as a lethal weapon, Sangaman had sneaked into Taylor’s home. Handling the stuff with rubber gloves, he had put some of it on the old man, and then fled.
Why?
The motive was crystal-clear, too.
August Taylor was a silent partner in the firm of Sangaman-Veshnir. That corporation, it had recently been revealed, was on the verge of bankruptcy. A partnership insurance policy of Taylor’s would now save the firm. That was why Sangaman had committed the second murder. It proved him to be either mad or stupid, as well as criminal. For if the murder could be proved against him, of course, the policy would never be paid out.
More significant than the news content, was the tone of the account. Never had Benson read in a newspaper such bitter, cold fury. Sangaman was a monster! He had helped invent a thing that might turn into an epidemic such as had never been seen in modern times. He had murdered to get sole possession of the secret of it. Then, with it, he had committed a second murder.
Sangaman was a cold-blooded beast. He didn’t even deserve the formality of a court trial. If he were ever caught, he should be taken out and lynched.
Looking at that account, The Avenger knew that everybody reading it would be infuriated to the point of insanity. If Sangaman ever were found, he would be torn to pieces by the first people who saw and recognized him.
Benson rolled the newspaper and tapped it reflectively as he went toward Bleek Street. In the lurid columns he had read one very significant thing. It gave meaning and clarity to the whole bizarre performance. It told him almost everything he needed to know.
CHAPTER IX
The Clouds of Death
Claudette Sangaman was at Bleek Street when Benson got there. She was in one of the big leather chairs in that enormous top-floor room. She was crying hysterically, and Nellie Gray was trying to give her the comfort that only another woman can give to a woman in despair.
When Benson came in, Claudette made a heroic effort and calmed herself a little. But the calm was perhaps worse than the hysterics. White-lipped, she pointed to a copy of the latest paper at her feet. It was this, evidently, that had brought her here.
“Have you read that, Mr. Benson?”
The Avenger nodded, colorless eyes like ice in his white, dead face.
“The lies! The dreadful lies! Why, that paper makes my father out as more than a murderer. If he is ever found now, he will be shot on sight! Oh, what are we going to do?”
Benson’s face, white, terrifying, still, could never express emotion. Only his eyes could show that. The glints in their colorless depths became more pronounced now, in sympathy, as he stared at the stricken girl.
“Has anything been accomplished, yet?” she pleaded. “Anything at all?”
The Avenger nodded, dead face like a wax mask.
“Much has been accomplished,” he said.
Nellie Gray stared quickly at him. She hadn’t known anything important had turned up, yet. For of course she knew nothing of the message Benson had picked out of the recent, bitter newspaper account.
“What?” asked
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