Benson flashed that picture off the screen and studied the first one.
This showed no person at all; was simply a shot of the front of the automobile in which Wallach — and someone else — had come to find out why Rath hadn’t left this building.
Into Benson’s colorless, deadly eyes, as he stared at this shot, came the cold brilliance that told that he now knew almost all that was necessary to be known about the case in hand.
And yet the front of the car looked ordinary enough.
There was a New York license plate, standard headlights, twin foglights underneath the headlights and a grilled radiator protector.
Benson’s eyes, like pale diamond drills, were on those fog lights.
In spite of the steep angle of the picture, it could be seen that the lights were on a bar just under the headlights, and that the bar, at the near end, was thickened in a sort of hinge arrangement.
“That would do it,” he said, voice low-pitched but vibrant.
What it was that would do it and what “it” was, his aides were not to find out. For at that moment a sound of shots came to them from the street outside. So many shots, so quickly spaced, that it indicated that quiet Bleek Street had suddenly turned into a battlefield.
CHAPTER XVII
Police Slaughtered
Louie Fiume was a hard, smart killer. Benson could testify to that, after the various clever attempts on his life by the imported gangster. And The Avenger got another indication of it a moment after he looked out a window, with the rest, to see what the shooting was about.
There were two squad cars in Bleek Street. Behind each, police were crouching while they shot at various slinking forms that kept up a running fire in return.
The street was lighted better than most; Benson had seen to that. The lights revealed all The Avenger needed to know.
They revealed men that looked familiar to him.
First he saw two who had been in the car that had tried to bomb his own machine. He had later found who they worked for.
“Fiume’s gunmen,” he said.
Then he saw another pair, working side by side with the first.
“Luckow’s men!”
After that—
Mac rubbed his eyes as he stared out and down, and wondered if he were going crazy.
He saw a man with a white, still face and thick white hair. This man had a little, long-barreled .22 that from this distance, at least, looked remarkably like Mike. Then Mac saw a big fellow. Smitty! Finally he saw a bony, red-haired guy. Himself!
“What in the worrrld,” burred the bewildered Scot.
The Avenger’s eyes were suddenly frosty, grim.
“Fiume wants to get us. Luckow wants Tom Crimm — and would benefit by our deaths, also. So the two gangs have teamed up on us. And either Luckow or Fiume had the bright idea of drawing police here and, made up as members of Justice, they’re doing all too good a job. In the street lights, anyone would swear that Benson, MacMurdie and Smitty were out there shooting down the police. The whole New York force will be after us for this.”
“We’ve got to go out there!” blurted Smitty. “Those cops — they’re in a spot. We’ve got to help—”
He broke for the door, with Josh and Mac after him. The Avenger stayed at the window. For just then the scene outside had gone dark.
Someone down the block had shorted the street-light cable, plunging everything into blackness.
Benson sped for the door, and down the stairs after his aides, like a flying shadow. His swift mind had grasped the plan with the instant of the light failure.
Smitty was just opening the street door, with Josh and Mac close behind, when Benson got to the bottom of the stairs.
“Shut that door! Down! Fast!” he cracked out.
Almost with his words, came the sound of shots — and the splintering of bullets as they crashed around the three at the doorway.
At the same moment one of the squad cars wheeled so that its headlights arrowed across the street and played on the entrance.
Smitty had the door shut, then. The door was of steel so the death missiles outside were blocked. The giant stared at Benson.
“The lights went out so that the men in the street could slip away from the cops,” said The Avenger. “That way, the police will think the gunmen merely came in here, led by the three made up as us. They’ll be over here to arrest us as fast as they can make it.”
“But, chief,” said Mac. “We’ve got worrrk to do — and it’ll take us days to talk our way out of this, if indeed we can do it at all.”
“That’s their idea,” said Benson. “Fiume and Luckow have worked it quite cleverly. We have the police after us, now, as well as the gangs. And, yet, we haven’t an hour to lose in fruitless attempts to explain—”
There was an enraged banging on the door.
“Benson! Open this door in the name of the law!”
The Avenger nodded toward the basement stairs. There were ways out of Bleek Street that even the police didn’t know. And it was time to use one, now. And it was explained later about the killers disguised as Justice, Inc. — if, as Mac had said, you ever could explain such a thing.
There was a beautifully concealed opening from one end of the basement into the street tunnel in which ran electric cables and public utility steampipes. Benson herded everyone from the place and into it — Tom with his arm in a sling from his brother’s misguided bullet; Nellie Gray, Rosabel and Josh; Mac, Smitty and Wayne.
The tunnel led to another concealed opening a block and a half away. Through this opening they all emerged into a three-car garage that seemed to belong to the apartment building beside which it rested, but actually had no part in that building’s existence.
“Take the big car,” said Benson. “That will hold the lot of you. Go to the Minerva, up at the north dock. I’ll join you there soon.”
“Ye’re not going with us, now?” said Mac anxiously. The Scot was always more worried about The Avenger’s safety than his own.
“No,” said Benson, eyes like ice chips in his dead, white face. “I have another place or two to visit. But I will be with you on the steamer soon.”
He slid off into the night, a gray fox of a man who moved as soundlessly as a shadow over the street.
The Minerva, referred to by Benson, was the old freighter he owned, docked at the moment far up the Hudson for repairs. It would be an excellent place to stay under cover for a while.
Smitty drove the lot of them to a small boathouse down near the Battery. The boathouse belonged to Benson, though it was held in another name. The boat in the shed was The Avenger’s too.
It was a low, powerful craft. But the giant didn’t open her up. He might have attracted the attention of the river patrol if he had.
He sent the craft at a decorous pace up the river to the dock at which lay the Minerva.
Dock and freighter were in darkness save for one light where Benson’s watchman stayed. Smitty whistled twice, three times more. It was the signal to the watchman that he was to pick up his dinner pail and go home; that his boss wanted to do a few things around the dock that needed no witnessing.
Smitty saw the light go out. He gave the man five minutes to get away.
“All out and on board,” he said to the rest, in a low tone.
Wayne and Tom went first, with Wayne helping his older brother and flushing every time he saw the bullet-plugged arm Tom carried in a sling. Wayne’s own bullet.
Rosabel and Josh followed. Then Nellie and Mac climbed to the dock and went up the gangplank to the deck of the Minerva.
Smitty was left alone in the boat.
The giant lifted aside the grating in front of the engines and opened the low, flat hull. His big hand found the sea cock. Searchlights on the police boats might hit on the first launch moored beside the Minerva and give away the fact that someone was on board the old freighter. So he would sink the little craft to hide it. It could be raised later and cleaned out.