“Nope, Not a thing.” The gardener’s eyes became doubtful as he stared into the pale, icy orbs of the man who was questioning him.
“But mebbe I’m talking’ out of turn. Mebbe you better see the boss himself.”
Benson nodded and went toward the big front gate of the estate.
Lorens Singer was there, sitting in a deck chair that had seen far out on the lawn and hence had escaped the wreck. The chair had been dragged to the gate; and the millionaire was surrounded by police to guard him from intrusion by the curious.
He sat in the chair, puffing slowly on a thin brown cigar, staring with unblinking eyes at what had been his home. The unblinking eyes looked up to meet Benson’s dead face and flaring, pale eyes as The Avenger walked up to him. Singer’s eyebrows raised a little at the way this man could walk through a cordon of cops without a move to stop him; but that was all.
“A pretty complete disaster,” said Benson, standing easily beside the financier.
Singer nodded. “It is.” His voice was as steady as his hands. But it was harsh, and his eyes were as hard as brown crockery.
“My name is Richard Benson,” said Benson evenly. “You may know the name—”
“I know it well. Half my friends seem to be acquainted with you. And I got to know the name quite well, indeed, over an oil deal in Venezuela, years ago. You won some concessions there against me and several other men. But there’s no grudge.”
“I’m not dealing in oil now,” said Benson.
“I’ve heard about that, too. You tackle crime as a business, I hear. Laudable, but hardly understandable. You could be the richest man on earth if you’d stick to straight business.”
Benson’s pale eyes didn’t flicker. It was possible that he was already the richest man. Down in Mexico was the vast hoard of gold the Aztecs had hidden from the invading Spaniards. Benson knew where that was, and drew on it when he wished, as on a bank account. But no one outside his small circle dreamed of that.
“In connection with my new pursuit,” he said, “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“As many as you like, young man,” said Singer, whose straight gaze had at once noted that The Avenger’s snow-white hair had nothing whatever to do with age; that the gray steel figure of a man was very young, indeed.
“Have you any idea who did this?” asked Benson bluntly.
“None at all.”
A trace of bewilderment mingled with the cold rage in Singer’s rocky face. He was looking back at the great pile of debris, again, with flinty, unblinking eyes.
“You have enemies?”
“Certainly! But they’re on Wall Street. They’d cut my throat on the market, but they aren’t bomb throwers.”
“You can’t think of any personal enemies who might have done this?”
“I cannot.”
“You are usually in your gardens at that time of day — the time of this explosion?”
“Yes.”
“Is that fact widely known?”
“Well — I’d never thought of it before. But I guess it isn’t. There’s a pretty high wall around this place. All any spy would know is that I usually get here from my office at about four o’clock, and come in this gate. They’d probably think I went into the house and stayed there; they couldn’t see that I was in the garden.
“What do you intend to do about this, Mr. Singer?”
Singer’s agate-brown eyes moved slowly from the debris to Benson’s dead countenance again. His hands clenched and were no longer steady.
“Plenty, Mr. Benson!”
His voice was as still and even as calm water. He still drew small, deliberate, leisured puffs from his thin cigar.
“There are about fifty private detectives in and around New York City who are really good. They’re all hired, right now, to drop whatever they’re doing and concentrate on who blew up my house and why. I don’t care what they charge to begin immediately. Besides, I can swing a little authority with the police. A great many city detectives will work here for some time to come. If all this doesn’t do the trick, I’ll import the cream of Scotland Yard and the best of the Paris gendarmerie. The loss of my house isn’t much. But eighteen people, working for me, died in that stone pile.”
He showed how he had made his big success. Courteous and kindly in normal pursuits, Singer was as ruthless and grimly persistent when aroused.
It was obvious that he didn’t know how or why this had happened. The Avenger’s infallible eyes caught that. But it was equally obvious that he was going to make it his business to know — and damned soon.
Benson turned to go to his car and return to Bleek Street.
A car was just pulling away from the many parked by curiosity seekers. There was just one man in it, at the wheel. The man seemed rather small, though you couldn’t tell from his sitting posture. He was bareheaded and had a rather average face but curious ears. They were decidedly pointed, almost like the ears of a trimmed show dog.
The man drove away toward Manhattan Island. On his face, Benson saw, was a fleeting look of anger and apprehension. But those emotions might have been merely the expected ones of any honest citizen at the sight of such an outrage.
CHAPTER IX
The Curious House
In Fergus MaeMurdie’s drugstore was one of the few remarkable, large television sets designed by the giant, Smitty. In Bleek Street headquarters there were two. But one of them was for very local reception, indeed. Its activity was confined to the building housing Justice, Inc.
There was a large screen on the front of the cabinet, as on the other one. But this screen was active all the time because the set was constantly warmed up.
It caught activities in the tiny lobby of the place.
There was a soft buzzing sound now. Josh and Mac went at once to the second television cabinet. On the screen was reflected the doorway of the building, two floors below.
A man had just come in that doorway. Josh and Mac watched. No one had any business in that entire short block unless the business concerned The Avenger, because The Avenger was the block’s sole tenant.
The man in the vestibule was burly, dressed in good but ill cared for clothes that bulged at the armpit. He looked searchingly around him, aware that he was being watched, but unable to find anything to confirm the hunch.
He went to the inner door and pressed the bell set there over a small nameplate that repeated the inconspicuous slogan over the doorway:
JUSTICE, INC.
Mac looked at Josh, who shrugged and nodded.
The door downstairs swung silently open in front of the man. They saw his startled look, then saw him doggedly ascend the stairs.
Josh and Mac met him in the small anteroom between the stairs and the great top-floor room which took up the whole of the third stories of the three buildings. Few people ever got past the anteroom into the big chamber.
“I want to see Mr. Benson,” the man said, staring from Mac to Josh.
The Negro spoke.
“Mistuh Benson ain’t heah, jus’ now,” said Josh. “I’m ’spectin’ him soon, though.”
Always with strangers, Josh Newton talked as folks expect a Negro to talk. It was protective coloration, he always said.
“We’ll take a message for him,” said Mac.
Their caller fidgeted a little and glanced nervously at his watch.
“I can’t leave a message, and I haven’t time to wait. This is very important. You’re sure he isn’t in?”
Mac nodded. Benson was at the wrecked home of Lorens Singer. The pale-eyed man might be back here in an hour — or not for several days.
“This is very important,” mumbled the man. “And I can’t hang around, or come back again, because I’m sure I’m being watched, and—”