The Avenger 32 - The Death Machine (7 page)

He didn’t actually have any plan in mind. And the thought crossed his mind that he should perhaps have left a note for Smitty.

“Faint heart never won fair maiden,” he decided, stopping a dozen yards from the wide front porch of the house.

There was a new sign hanging over the arch of the porch. It was not quite complete and read Pirate Cast.

“Amazing how a person such as myself, not overly familiar with woodlore, can approach through a forest and make not a sound,” Uncle Algernon told himself. Hidden from the house by a tree trunk, he watched it. “That would indicate to me that ones brilliance in other areas can be transferred to a new—”

The thought was never completed.

Something had cracked against the back of his skull.

Dr. Heathcote fell over into the brush and thought no more.

The Avenger and Smitty both moved at once, in opposite directions.

This caused Dr. Friessen to hesitate a few seconds before firing his newly produced revolver.

An unfortunate hesitation.

As Benson threw himself toward the cottage door, the unique .22 pistol he called Mike appeared in his hand.

Friessen’s first shot zinged through empty air to thunk into the far wall.

Smitty had dived toward the sofa. He was behind it now, clutching his own revolver.

The Avenger’s gun spoke next.

The doctor screamed. His fingers let go of the butt of the revolver and he staggered backwards, thudding into a shelf of urns. Three of the urns hopped from the shelf, bounced on Friessen’s head and shoulders, scattering a powdery ash.

Dr. Friessen sucked at the bleeding rut Benson’s shot had made across the back of his hand. “Oh, the poor doggies,” he lamented. “Just look what you’ve made me do to their last earthly remains.” He made a shimmying motion, trying to shake off the ashes that clung to him.

Out behind the cottage a motor started up.

“Somebody trying to lam.” Smitty went bounding for the back door.

There was a big garage out back. A hearse came roaring out of it and went squealing around a driveway toward the road out.

“Hey, you jerks!” Smitty bellowed. “Stop right there.”

The escaping hearse paid him no mind.

Smitty held up his gun, steadied it with his other hand and fired twice.

Two whomping explosions followed.

The giant hit both the front and rear tires on this side of the vehicle.

The hearse went wobbling along the road, climbed up into the burying ground and came to a smashing stop against a dog tomb.

Nobody climbed out of the halted machine.

Gun ready, Smitty moved through the night fog.

He was up among the tombstones and grave markers when the rear door of the hearse swung open. A lean young man armed with a submachine gun leaped down and commenced firing.

Smitty hit the dirt.

Chips off the wide marble tombstone that stood between Smitty and the gunman went spinning into the misty air. The stone had the name Spot carved on its face.

“ ‘Faithful friend & obedient companion—1930–1938,’ ” Smitty read to himself. “Must have been some dog.”

The tommy gun chattered again.

In the silence that followed the lean young man called, “We got you pinned down, big boy. Toss out your gun!”

“In a pig’s eye,” replied Smitty.

“Okay, then I’m going to finish—”

The young man yelled and the machine gun rattled against a gravestone. He howled, danced around on the grassy graves.

The giant took a look.

The Avenger was a few feet from the gunman. He moved nearer, delivered a stunning blow to the chin.

As the gunman fell, Benson pulled his throwing knife out of the young man’s right arm.

“Other guy’s out cold,” announced Smitty. He’d come up to examine the front seat of the dog hearse. “Hit his noggin against the steering wheel when they crashed.”

“You were a little impetuous,” said the Avenger, wiping and resheathing the knife.

“Aw . . . well, maybe so. But we got these bozos.”

“Yes, and now we’ll ask them a few questions,” said the Avenger.

Dr. Friessen swayed slightly in the straightback chair. “I know nothing about that,” he said in a droning voice.

The Avenger had broken a vial of the highly effective truth gas MacMurdie had perfected under the nose of the blond doctor. The other two cemetery employees, bound and gagged, were in the garage awaiting their turns to be questioned.

“You don’t know what the murdered men have in common?”

“No, I do not,” replied the drugged doctor. “I merely serve the homeland as best I can.”

“Were you involved in the killing of all eight?”

“I killed no one.”

“Your truck was used in the murder of Professor Sullivan.”

“Yes, we were asked to assist in that assignment.”

“Who made the request?”

“He has no name. He is known to me only as 72SBR.”

“What does he look like?”

“I don’t know. All my orders come by phone. He has a very raspy voice, though that may be an affectation.”

“The machine which was used on Sullivan. What does it look like?”

“It is black, about the size of a small suitcase. I’ve never seen it, but Neddy described it to me.”

“Who is Neddy?”

“My assistant, the poor boy you so brutally stabbed.”

“He went along on the night of the killing?”

“Yes, Neddy drove the hearse.”

“Who handled the death machine?”

“A young fellow. I didn’t see him, since I didn’t go along. Neddy was instructed to pick him up on a certain street corner in San Francisco.”

“Where?”

“Corner of Sacramento and Laurel.”

The Avenger leaned closer to him. “Do you know who else is on the list of victims?”

“I’m not supposed to.”

“But do you?”

“The young man let some names slip to Neddy. I know the next three targets.”

“Tell me.”

“Professor Hershman, Dr. Dahler and Professor Markowitz.”

“It’s too late for Hershman,” said the Avenger. “But we’ll save Dahler and Markowitz.”

The man with the bullfrog voice said, “Things are going very well, exactly as my horoscope predicted.” He was dragging a heavy sack across a leaf-strewn stretch of yard behind the Pirate Castle.

A squat man in a pinstripe suit was opening the back doors of a panel truck. On the truck’s side a bunch of daisies was painted. “A horoscope you get out of the newspaper, what can it know?”

“Take that end of the sack, Windus.”

Windus obliged and the two of them heaved Uncle Algernon into the back of the truck. “The only way you can get anything valid from a horoscope is by having a competent astrologer cast one for you, Benninger.”

“Yes, but what did the horoscope in today’s paper say?” croaked Benninger. “ ‘Your plans will move closer to fruition.’ Now—”

“I’ve heard better predictions come out of fortune cookies.”

“Yes, but that prediction this morning and then this evening Heathcote walks right into our lair.”

Windus glanced around at the night before he climbed into the driver’s seat. “Yes, with probably a dozen members of Justice, Inc. close behind him.”

After taking the seat next to him, Benninger said, “They don’t even have a dozen members.”

“However many they have.” Windus shifted into reverse and backed down the sharply slanting driveway to the road. “You can be sure Heathcote told them he was coming here to the restaurant.”

“He’s not a member of the Avenger’s coterie,” Benninger reminded him in his rasping voice. “It’s quite possible he’s working alone.”

“A man as voluble as Dr. Algernon Heathcote?” Windus’ eyes checked the rear view mirror. “No, once he realized that you were involved in the theft of his machine, he most likely confided the fact to everyone within earshot.”

“We don’t know he linked me with the taking of the box at all.” Benninger watched the wooded street they were traveling down.

“There’s no sign of anyone following us.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that.”

“Then we can safely take Heathcote to our main headquarters and ask him some questions.”

“So it would seem,” said Windus cautiously.

North of San Francisco, inland, lies wine country. An area dotted with vineyards and with wineries large and small.

That’s where Agent Early was heading this bright and sunfilled morning. He whistled some as he drove. He regretted Emmy Lou couldn’t come along, but she couldn’t be effectively guarded out in the open like this.

Even so, although missing the girl, he felt in a good mood this morning.

He’d been able to trace the truck that Emmy Lou remembered seeing the night they tried to make her kill herself. The cluster of yellow daisies was the trade mark of the Macri Brothers Winery, located in the Napa Valley near the town of San Janeiro.

According to the state Motor Vehicle people and the highway patrol, there had been no complaints from the Macri Brothers about a stolen or borrowed truck. It would be interesting to see what they had to say.

He relaxed back in the driver’s seat. There was still a good deal of green all around, even though the colors of autumn had begun to touch the trees and the fields. There were rolling fields on either side of the road. And far off white farm houses and silos. A few cows lolled in one field, looking calm and patient. Some kind of hawk was circling high up in the morning, a chicken hawk maybe. Probably so. Even in an idyllic setting there was always somebody thinking about killing.

“He’s only doing his job,” said Early to himself. “Don’t be so hard on the poor bird.”

He felt pretty good today. Of course he was pleased that he seemed to be so far ahead of the Avenger on this case. Granted, from what he’d heard from the Berkeley police, Cole Wilson and that aggressive Gray girl had apparently captured a foreign agent. Still, the poor guy had killed himself before telling them anything. That was unfortunate, but Early had to admit it kept him in the lead on this case. He’d always taken pride in his work, but until he’d met the Avenger back when they were both working on what the newspapers called the Man from Atlantis case he’d never been so anxious about hurrying a case to its conclusion.

This time, though, he was certain he had this particular clue all to himself. That was good.

There was a ruin of a barn with a chewing tobacco ad painted on its decaying side. Did people still chew tobacco? The sign looked a lot fresher than the barn.

There was another reason Early was in a good mood. He was really getting interested in Emmy Lou Dennim. She was pretty, but so were a lot of girls he’d run into. There was something extra here. She was bright. Some guys maybe didn’t want a smart girl, couldn’t take the competition. To Early that was what made her especially attractive.

He wondered if he could risk taking her to dinner up in the St. Mark’s Skylight Room tonight. Sure, it was a tourist trap, but the view of the city was terrific. Maybe with Willis at another table it might work. He’d have to think . . .

There was the sign for the turnoff which led to the winery.

Ten minutes later Early pulled into the dusty front court of the Macri Brothers Winery. There were large walnut trees growing all around the three huge brick buildings. On the yellow hillside beyond he could see the vineyards.

There was a foxy wine smell in the air. Early took a deep breath as he got out of his car. There were no other cars there, even though a wooden sign hanging from a nearby post promised hourly tours of the establishment and free wine tasting every two hours.

“Help you?” asked a small plump man who appeared in the doorway of the building closest to the parking area. He was wiping a wine glass on his striped apron.

“Like to talk to whoever runs this place.”

“Everybody runs it,” said the plump man. “All the brothers, we’re equal.”

“Talk to you then.” Early approached him, taking out his identification. “I’m Don Early.”

“Giacomo Macri,” said the plump man, glancing briefly at Early’s ID. “We in trouble with the government? My brother Antonio, he keeps thinking you going to lock up the Italians in California the way you did the Japanese, but I tell him we got nothing to do with Mussolini.”