the byplay stopped.
“All of you,” said The Avenger, “be on the alert as you never have before. We don’t know yet who our enemies are, but we do know they are as clever as Satan himself. Any one of us who relaxes his guard for a moment, will probably die for it.”
CHAPTER VIII
Cranlowe Heights
Benson had said that Smitty’s was the most dangerous job. It wasn’t. The task The Avenger had in mind to tackle was far more dangerous. But always he excluded himself when talking of peril.
Benson wanted to talk, at once, with Cranlowe. Which meant that he would have to get into a heavily guarded fastness to see a man who, after that defiant ultimatum to a warlike world, would shoot on sight any person he was not acquainted with or sure of.
To accomplish this, The Avenger had thought up a typically fantastic and clever plan.
He would go to see Cranlowe in a dead man’s shoes!
When Benson had come up from the sunken sedan, he had carefully taken along a small case which was nearly always with him. He turned to that, now.
It was about the size of a small overnight bag; but when he opened it, it revealed equipment not usually found in such bags.
There was a top tray filled with tissue-thin glass shells, to fit over his eyeballs. Each pair had a slightly different color. Then there were wigs, the face tints and plastic for building up features. But this latter was seldom used, for the very curious reason that Benson’s face, itself, seemed to be made of a living plastic.
Because of this fact, Benson could mold his face into the likeness of almost any person he chose; and it accounted for the nickname whispered in fear in the underworld, Man of a Thousand Faces.
In the lid of the little case was a mirror. Beside this, Benson pinned a photograph of—John Blandell.
The steely, white fingers prodded at the dead white face, and a miracle was wrought.
Blandell’s face had been heavy, pudgy-featured. With a great deal of manipulation and the use of a very little plastic, Benson’s face became the same way. Blandell’s eyes were brown; Benson slipped two of the ingenious little eye-shells over his eyeballs, and had brown eyes. Blandell’s hair was brown, streaked with gray. There was a wig like that in the case. Blandell’s body was burly, sagging with middle age. Benson’s body became that way with the use of artful rubber forms that could be inflated at waist and thigh, hips and upper arms.
The Avenger went to the corridor door of the empty office suite, and he was not Benson. He even walked like Blandell; in his careful gleaning of information concerning the banker, he had learned all his mannerisms.
The Avenger was not Benson—he was a man shot dead and at that moment in a funeral parlor being prepared for the grave.
He went out of the building, head down to keep from rousing incredulous recognition among chance acquaintances of Blandell, and climbed into a hired car. He drove to the country place of Jesse Cranlowe.
It had seemed insanely foolhardy for any man to dare to announce with all possible publicity that he was the possessor of a secret worth millions to any supercrook who could steal it. But a look at his place showed that he had quite a chance of protecting that secret, at that.
Cranlowe Heights was on a bare hilltop about eighteen miles out of Garfield City. The hilltop had been made bare. There was nothing but close-cropped grass for five hundred yards around the knoll, giving no possible cover for anyone trying to sneak up on it.
Around the base of the hill was an iron fence at least twelve feet high. Along the top ran a single heavy wire; and that wire was charged with voltage enough to kill a man at a touch. Along the top of the fence, floodlights were studded to play over the close-cut grass outside at night.
There was no chance at all of sneaking into the place, as Benson had guessed beforehand; so he had decided to come in openly. And there was no chance of entering openly unless you
“All of you,” said The Avenger, “be on the alert as you never have before. We don’t know yet who our enemies are, but we do know they are as clever as Satan himself. Any one of us who relaxes his guard for a moment, will probably die for it.”
CHAPTER VIII
Cranlowe Heights
Benson had said that Smitty’s was the most dangerous job. It wasn’t. The task The Avenger had in mind to tackle was far more dangerous. But always he excluded himself when talking of peril.
Benson wanted to talk, at once, with Cranlowe. Which meant that he would have to get into a heavily guarded fastness to see a man who, after that defiant ultimatum to a warlike world, would shoot on sight any person he was not acquainted with or sure of.
To accomplish this, The Avenger had thought up a typically fantastic and clever plan.
He would go to see Cranlowe in a dead man’s shoes!
When Benson had come up from the sunken sedan, he had carefully taken along a small case which was nearly always with him. He turned to that, now.
It was about the size of a small overnight bag; but when he opened it, it revealed equipment not usually found in such bags.
There was a top tray filled with tissue-thin glass shells, to fit over his eyeballs. Each pair had a slightly different color. Then there were wigs, the face tints and plastic for building up features. But this latter was seldom used, for the very curious reason that Benson’s face, itself, seemed to be made of a living plastic.
Because of this fact, Benson could mold his face into the likeness of almost any person he chose; and it accounted for the nickname whispered in fear in the underworld, Man of a Thousand Faces.
In the lid of the little case was a mirror. Beside this, Benson pinned a photograph of—John Blandell.
The steely, white fingers prodded at the dead white face, and a miracle was wrought.
Blandell’s face had been heavy, pudgy-featured. With a great deal of manipulation and the use of a very little plastic, Benson’s face became the same way. Blandell’s eyes were brown; Benson slipped two of the ingenious little eye-shells over his eyeballs, and had brown eyes. Blandell’s hair was brown, streaked with gray. There was a wig like that in the case. Blandell’s body was burly, sagging with middle age. Benson’s body became that way with the use of artful rubber forms that could be inflated at waist and thigh, hips and upper arms.
The Avenger went to the corridor door of the empty office suite, and he was not Benson. He even walked like Blandell; in his careful gleaning of information concerning the banker, he had learned all his mannerisms.
The Avenger was not Benson—he was a man shot dead and at that moment in a funeral parlor being prepared for the grave.
He went out of the building, head down to keep from rousing incredulous recognition among chance acquaintances of Blandell, and climbed into a hired car. He drove to the country place of Jesse Cranlowe.
It had seemed insanely foolhardy for any man to dare to announce with all possible publicity that he was the possessor of a secret worth millions to any supercrook who could steal it. But a look at his place showed that he had quite a chance of protecting that secret, at that.
Cranlowe Heights was on a bare hilltop about eighteen miles out of Garfield City. The hilltop had been made bare. There was nothing but close-cropped grass for five hundred yards around the knoll, giving no possible cover for anyone trying to sneak up on it.
Around the base of the hill was an iron fence at least twelve feet high. Along the top ran a single heavy wire; and that wire was charged with voltage enough to kill a man at a touch. Along the top of the fence, floodlights were studded to play over the close-cut grass outside at night.
There was no chance at all of sneaking into the place, as Benson had guessed beforehand; so he had decided to come in openly. And there was no chance of entering openly unless you
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