were a trusted friend, or someone highly unusual.
And that was why Benson had decided to come as Blandell.
Blandell had been a trusted friend of Cranlowe. Now he was dead—or reported so in the papers. His sudden appearance here, when he was supposed to be dead, ought to create such amazement and consternation that ordinary precautions of guards and servants would be relaxed.
Benson reached the heavy gate in the iron fence in his rented car. He got out of the car, walking like the dead banker. A guard with a sawed-off shotgun over his shoulder came to the inside of the gate, looked surlily at Blandell’s image—then glared with wide eyes and pale face.
“Mr. Blandell! But you’re dead! You’re shot! What the hell are you—a ghost?”
Blandell, Benson’s information had said, was an impatient, domineering man.
“Come, come!” Benson snapped peevishly. “Don’t keep me standing here. Let me in at once.”
“You—you are Mr. Blandell, aren’t you?”
“What do you think? Open that gate, instantly.”
The guard did so, with trembling fingers. And when Benson stepped inside, he felt furtive fingertips on his arm. The man was touching him to make sure he really had substance.
“You’ll have to stay here a minute while I phone,” the guard said.
“Of course,” Benson said crisply. “But hurry, please.”
There was a telephone on the gatepost. Benson saw the man pick it up, and ring. Meanwhile he looked around.
There were no trees inside the fence, either. There had been many; but they had recently been felled and taken away. The reason, of course, was Cranlowe’s invention. He had had to sacrifice beauty in order to be sure no daring thief entered his place under cover of trees or bushes. The grounds surrounding the house were bare, with no shelter anywhere.
The house itself was like a castle. Cranlowe had taken some castle on the Rhine as an architectural pattern; and here it stood, narrow slits in thick walls for windows, two turrets with flat tops on either end, a double, iron-studded door in front.
As Benson looked around, he saw three more men with shotguns patrolling; there were at least eight here, he concluded. And with them were eight or ten Great Dane dogs, the biggest and most ferocious-looking dogs Benson had ever seen. Cranlowe was guarding his formula, all right!
Benson could hear the conversation between the guard and the master of this house at the open phone.
“Blandell is there!” came a harsh, strong voice from the castlelike residence. “Blandell? Are you insane? He’s dead! He was murdered by Allen Wainwright.”
“Maybe Blandell’s dead,” said the guard, perspiring, though it was quite cool. “But he’s here at the gate just the same.”
“You’ve gone blind!”
“Nothing’s the matter with my eyes, Mr. Cranlowe. I’ve let Mr. Blandell in often enough to know him when I see him. And he’s here right now.”
“Let me talk to him.”
Benson took the receiver from the guard. Here was a shaky moment. When The Avenger impersonated someone, he usually had all knowledge of that person at his fingertips. He had a great deal of information on Blandell—but not all. He hadn’t had time or opportunity for that.
He did not know, for example, just what Blandell was in the habit of calling his old friend Cranlowe. So, to avoid calling him by an unused nickname or term, he didn’t mention the inventor’s name in any way.
“Tell this too-vigilant guard of yours to pass me to the house, will you?” Benson snapped into the phone. “I’ve been kept standing around long enough, I think.”
“Blandell!” Cranlowe gasped, at sound of the impatient, rather pompous voice. “You are— But how—”
“I’ll tell you about it when I get in and see you.”
“Get the guard on again,” said Cranlowe.
Benson gave the phone back to the man with the sawed-off shotgun.
A moment later he was walking to the great iron-studded front door. This opened as he neared
And that was why Benson had decided to come as Blandell.
Blandell had been a trusted friend of Cranlowe. Now he was dead—or reported so in the papers. His sudden appearance here, when he was supposed to be dead, ought to create such amazement and consternation that ordinary precautions of guards and servants would be relaxed.
Benson reached the heavy gate in the iron fence in his rented car. He got out of the car, walking like the dead banker. A guard with a sawed-off shotgun over his shoulder came to the inside of the gate, looked surlily at Blandell’s image—then glared with wide eyes and pale face.
“Mr. Blandell! But you’re dead! You’re shot! What the hell are you—a ghost?”
Blandell, Benson’s information had said, was an impatient, domineering man.
“Come, come!” Benson snapped peevishly. “Don’t keep me standing here. Let me in at once.”
“You—you are Mr. Blandell, aren’t you?”
“What do you think? Open that gate, instantly.”
The guard did so, with trembling fingers. And when Benson stepped inside, he felt furtive fingertips on his arm. The man was touching him to make sure he really had substance.
“You’ll have to stay here a minute while I phone,” the guard said.
“Of course,” Benson said crisply. “But hurry, please.”
There was a telephone on the gatepost. Benson saw the man pick it up, and ring. Meanwhile he looked around.
There were no trees inside the fence, either. There had been many; but they had recently been felled and taken away. The reason, of course, was Cranlowe’s invention. He had had to sacrifice beauty in order to be sure no daring thief entered his place under cover of trees or bushes. The grounds surrounding the house were bare, with no shelter anywhere.
The house itself was like a castle. Cranlowe had taken some castle on the Rhine as an architectural pattern; and here it stood, narrow slits in thick walls for windows, two turrets with flat tops on either end, a double, iron-studded door in front.
As Benson looked around, he saw three more men with shotguns patrolling; there were at least eight here, he concluded. And with them were eight or ten Great Dane dogs, the biggest and most ferocious-looking dogs Benson had ever seen. Cranlowe was guarding his formula, all right!
Benson could hear the conversation between the guard and the master of this house at the open phone.
“Blandell is there!” came a harsh, strong voice from the castlelike residence. “Blandell? Are you insane? He’s dead! He was murdered by Allen Wainwright.”
“Maybe Blandell’s dead,” said the guard, perspiring, though it was quite cool. “But he’s here at the gate just the same.”
“You’ve gone blind!”
“Nothing’s the matter with my eyes, Mr. Cranlowe. I’ve let Mr. Blandell in often enough to know him when I see him. And he’s here right now.”
“Let me talk to him.”
Benson took the receiver from the guard. Here was a shaky moment. When The Avenger impersonated someone, he usually had all knowledge of that person at his fingertips. He had a great deal of information on Blandell—but not all. He hadn’t had time or opportunity for that.
He did not know, for example, just what Blandell was in the habit of calling his old friend Cranlowe. So, to avoid calling him by an unused nickname or term, he didn’t mention the inventor’s name in any way.
“Tell this too-vigilant guard of yours to pass me to the house, will you?” Benson snapped into the phone. “I’ve been kept standing around long enough, I think.”
“Blandell!” Cranlowe gasped, at sound of the impatient, rather pompous voice. “You are— But how—”
“I’ll tell you about it when I get in and see you.”
“Get the guard on again,” said Cranlowe.
Benson gave the phone back to the man with the sawed-off shotgun.
A moment later he was walking to the great iron-studded front door. This opened as he neared
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