Claudette.
“Mainly, I am morally certain now that your father is innocent of Targill’s murder.”
The words seemed to make ripples in the ensuing silence of the big room, like a heavy stone dropped in a mill pond.
Claudette almost collapsed again.
“You’re sure of that, Mr. Benson?”
“Dead sure!” said The Avenger.
“Why then everything’s all right, and we can go to the police—”
“Not yet,” Benson said regretfully. “I know he is innocent. I expect to prove it. But as yet—there is no scrap of evidence to take to headquarters.”
The girl slumped back in her chair. But her chin was up now, and her shoulders no longer drooped. The Avenger had that effect on people. Because he was such a driving, sure force himself, he made others feel sure.
“I am counting on you,” she said, getting up after a moment. “I must count on you! I have no one else in all the world to turn to.”
“You have no family save for your father?”
“That’s all,” she said, unsteadily. “Just dad. When . . . if . . . he dies, I’ll be all alone.”
“Keep your courage up,” Benson said. “I’ll hope to have something soon to tell you.”
She went out. And the Avenger’s icily flaring eyes followed her till the door was shut. Their almost colorless depths were strangely clouded for a moment. Something was trying to fight its way into his mind. Something that disturbed him very much.
It had to do with the meaning he had picked from the newspaper story of Sangaman’s guilt in the Taylor death. He knew that much. And something else. Something the girl had just said—
Benson could move almost faster than the eye could follow. Occasionally there are such men—with a co-ordination of mind and whipcord muscle that makes the motions of others seem slow. The Avenger was like that.
He got to the door almost before Nellie Gray was aware that he had left his chair.
“She mustn’t be allowed to go down this street alone!” he snapped, eyes like flashes of stainless steel. “Of course! I should have known it at once! She is in terrible danger.”
“You want me to—” Nellie began.
“Stay here!” he rapped out. “There may be phone calls—”
He was gone, racing down the stairs with more urgency than Nellie had ever seen him move.
He got to the street door, over which was the small Justice sign, just as Smitty was coming in. In fact they almost bumped.
“Smitty! With me!”
The giant turned and ran after Benson down the short block composing all there was to Bleek Street. He couldn’t quite keep up with the gray fox of a man with the dead face, but he did his best.
They got to the corner, where traffic was thick. Ahead, Benson saw the girl, walking toward a cab stand.
Probably there wasn’t another man in all the great city who could have seen the thing. But those colorless, keen eyes of The Avenger’s had telescopic power. He saw it, inconspicuous as it was.
Claudette was just raising her hand to call a cab from the line when it happened.
From some window near her, something flashed out and down. The Avenger couldn’t see what it was. It was too small. But he knew. The crystalline flash of it told him. He couldn’t see what window it came from, because he was looking down along the street at a thin angle. But he let that problem go till later.
The flashing downward arc of the little thing made Benson spurt forward with even greater speed. He was probably covering ground at a rate of nine seconds flat per hundred yards, when he got to the girl.
His steely arm swept around her before she knew he had approached. She cried out in surprise. As she did so, the little glass capsule whose flash Benson had seen, hit the sidewalk next to both of them.
There wasn’t anything dramatic about it. The thing hit with a soft, harmless-sounding littie plop and broke into a million pieces. That was all.
But that small plop was more terrible to discerning ears than any roar of a bomb explosion would
“Mainly, I am morally certain now that your father is innocent of Targill’s murder.”
The words seemed to make ripples in the ensuing silence of the big room, like a heavy stone dropped in a mill pond.
Claudette almost collapsed again.
“You’re sure of that, Mr. Benson?”
“Dead sure!” said The Avenger.
“Why then everything’s all right, and we can go to the police—”
“Not yet,” Benson said regretfully. “I know he is innocent. I expect to prove it. But as yet—there is no scrap of evidence to take to headquarters.”
The girl slumped back in her chair. But her chin was up now, and her shoulders no longer drooped. The Avenger had that effect on people. Because he was such a driving, sure force himself, he made others feel sure.
“I am counting on you,” she said, getting up after a moment. “I must count on you! I have no one else in all the world to turn to.”
“You have no family save for your father?”
“That’s all,” she said, unsteadily. “Just dad. When . . . if . . . he dies, I’ll be all alone.”
“Keep your courage up,” Benson said. “I’ll hope to have something soon to tell you.”
She went out. And the Avenger’s icily flaring eyes followed her till the door was shut. Their almost colorless depths were strangely clouded for a moment. Something was trying to fight its way into his mind. Something that disturbed him very much.
It had to do with the meaning he had picked from the newspaper story of Sangaman’s guilt in the Taylor death. He knew that much. And something else. Something the girl had just said—
Benson could move almost faster than the eye could follow. Occasionally there are such men—with a co-ordination of mind and whipcord muscle that makes the motions of others seem slow. The Avenger was like that.
He got to the door almost before Nellie Gray was aware that he had left his chair.
“She mustn’t be allowed to go down this street alone!” he snapped, eyes like flashes of stainless steel. “Of course! I should have known it at once! She is in terrible danger.”
“You want me to—” Nellie began.
“Stay here!” he rapped out. “There may be phone calls—”
He was gone, racing down the stairs with more urgency than Nellie had ever seen him move.
He got to the street door, over which was the small Justice sign, just as Smitty was coming in. In fact they almost bumped.
“Smitty! With me!”
The giant turned and ran after Benson down the short block composing all there was to Bleek Street. He couldn’t quite keep up with the gray fox of a man with the dead face, but he did his best.
They got to the corner, where traffic was thick. Ahead, Benson saw the girl, walking toward a cab stand.
Probably there wasn’t another man in all the great city who could have seen the thing. But those colorless, keen eyes of The Avenger’s had telescopic power. He saw it, inconspicuous as it was.
Claudette was just raising her hand to call a cab from the line when it happened.
From some window near her, something flashed out and down. The Avenger couldn’t see what it was. It was too small. But he knew. The crystalline flash of it told him. He couldn’t see what window it came from, because he was looking down along the street at a thin angle. But he let that problem go till later.
The flashing downward arc of the little thing made Benson spurt forward with even greater speed. He was probably covering ground at a rate of nine seconds flat per hundred yards, when he got to the girl.
His steely arm swept around her before she knew he had approached. She cried out in surprise. As she did so, the little glass capsule whose flash Benson had seen, hit the sidewalk next to both of them.
There wasn’t anything dramatic about it. The thing hit with a soft, harmless-sounding littie plop and broke into a million pieces. That was all.
But that small plop was more terrible to discerning ears than any roar of a bomb explosion would
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