“Good work, kid,” said the man at the thin fellow’s right, directing his words to the girl with her purse jammed against Benson’s back.
The thin, snaky fellow nodded.
“As easy as that,” he murmured.
“Yes,” said the girl triumphantly. “As easy as that. I let him see me with a worried look on my face, and he came right after me — in the planted cab. I don’t think he’s so very smart.”
Benson stared at the men. They all had guns out. He couldn’t make a move, now.
However, he could have, either in the cab or on the way across the sidewalk.
The Avenger knew a trap a mile away. He spotted them infallibly.
And he usually walked right into them.
It was an axiom of Benson’s that in traps you often learn valuable things. Therefore, he rather sought traps than avoided them. Of course, it was a foregone conclusion that some day he was going to get into one he couldn’t get out of. Some day a trap would kill him.
It looked as if this might be that day!
The warehouse wall would cut off the sound of shots from people in the street. There were twelve or thirteen guns covering him. There’d be a chance if they left him Mike and Ike. But if they didn’t—
“Stand facing the wall,” said the thin, snaky thug. “Back to the room.”
Benson did as directed. Steps sounded behind him. Then a hand felt over him.
Out of the corners of his pale, deadly eyes, The Avenger saw men moving to right and left to cover him at all angles, so that the person searching him could not be held suddenly as a shield.
The searching hand covered body, throat, thighs — and kept on going down. And they found Mike and Ike!
Benson had two of the world’s oddest weapons.
One was a small throwing knife of his own design, with a point like a needle and an edge that could shame a razor for sharpness. It had a hollow tube for a handle so that it hurtled point-first like an arrow when he threw it. This was Ike.
The other was a little special .22 revolver, silenced, so streamlined that it looked like a slim bent length of blued pipe rather than a gun. The handle was the bend. The cylinder held only four cartridges. This was Mike.
He kept the two little weapons holstered at the calves of his legs, for the reasons that few searchers ever felt for guns below a man’s knees.
But this man had; and he had found the two.
“A pea-shooter, and a knittin’ needle!” the man said, staring at Mike and Ike. “What’s this guy think he could do with those, in a real battle?”
He’d have been surprised could he have seen some of the things The Avenger had done with Mike and Ike. But naturally Benson didn’t choose to enlighten him.
“So now what?” said the man who had searched.
“Toss him into the tank and leave him there till the big shot comes and tells us what to do with him,” said the man who, in his dark suit, looked like a particularly vicious black snake.
Every large storage building has a disinfecting tank. It is a steel chamber usually about six feet by twelve, with a hermetically sealed steel door. Into this are put pieces of furniture that are upholstered. Then poison gas is shot into the tank under great pressure, to kill moths and other vermin.
“That’s airtight,” pointed out the man who stood with Mike and Ike in his hands. “He’ll croak, without air.”
The black snake actually seemed to hiss it.
“So what? Maybe that’s what the boss intends. Maybe he’ll fill him full of chlorine under sixty pounds pressure. Who knows? And who cares?”
The safe-like door of the disinfecting tank was opened. Benson was thrust in. The door clanged, and he heard half a dozen big wingnuts screwed down hard on heavy bolts.
You learn a lot in a trap, sometimes. But there is always the chance that a trap will beat you, some day—
Benson’s slim, steel-strong hands went to his belt.
Smitty, radio electrical engineer par excellence had designed tiny radio receiving-and-transmitting set for The Avenger and his aides.
They were in thin, curved cases that fitted the waist.
The most observant eye could not discern them under normal clothing.
But a searching hand would be sure to feel one.
The man who had searched Benson had been astute enough to cull Mike and Ike from their hiding places. Yet he had not investigated the curved metal length under Benson’s belt. It seemed odd. You’d have thought he would at least have investigated it.
To The Avenger, the answer seemed plain enough, however. The gang wanted him to retain possession of the radio. They wanted him to call for help.
It would be an excellent way to trap not only The Avenger, but all his helpers!
CHAPTER XIV
S O S — Stay Away!
In the Bleek Street headquarters of Justice, Inc., the giant Smitty suddenly began fumbling at his belt.
“What’s wrong with ye, mon?” said Mac dourly. “Is it wee wild life ye’re entertainin’ now on that overgrown carcass of yours?”
“Wild life, nothin’!” snapped Smitty. “There’s a radio call. From the chief, most likely.”
He tuned in the ingenious little belt set.
“Smitty talking.”
The voice that came was as calm and cold as glacier water.
“This is Benson, Smitty. Listen carefully and get everything right the first time, for I may not have a chance to talk long or to repeat. I’m in the disinfecting tank of a storage warehouse on Second Avenue near Thirty-fourth Street. A white stone-front building next to a wholesale paper office—”
“You’re in what?” yelled Smitty, quick brain taking in at once the dreadful possibilities of such a prison. Then he bellowed, “We’re practically on our way. We’ll be there in ten minutes, chief — all of us—”
“No!” The voice of The Avenger seemed to crackle like an electric arc. “That is precisely what I do not want you to do. I believe the gang here has planned just such a move. Instead, you are to go to the hotel where Lorens Singer is temporarily located. You are to find a man I have reason to believe lurks around there a lot. The man is small, has peculiarly pointed ears. When I saw him last, he wore a dark-brown suit, light-brown felt hat and dark-tan shoes. His tie is wine-colored, with a slightly larger knot than most. Get that man and bring him to the warehouse. Keeping him covered, but keeping out of sight yourself, make him command the men here to leave. Then — and not before — open the tank and let me out. Understand?”
“Sure, I understand,” said Smitty breathlessly. “But who is the little guy with the sharp ears?”
“I don’t know his name.”
“Is he in with this crew? Would a command of his make them obey?”
“I think so.”
“But you’re not sure?”
“Not entirely,” came the quiet, emotionless voice.
“Sweet Samuel, chief! If I show up there with my gun on a guy that gang never even saw before and try to make the stranger tell them what to do—”
“It will be unfortunate,” said Benson crisply. “But it is a chance we must take. My calculations indicate that this man can make the gang do as he says. If my calculations are wrong… Bring him here as swiftly as you can, Smitty. And Smitty — bring my kit.”
The clever little radio went dead.
“My kit,” Benson had said. There had been no need for further explanation, such was the swift coordination between The Avenger and his aides. Smitty went into Benson’s office and grabbed what seemed to be an ordinary overnight bag.