The Avenger 13 - Murder on Wheels
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Authors: Kenneth Robeson
Also In This Series
By Kenneth Robeson
#1: J
USTICE
, I
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#2: T
HE
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ELLOW
H
OARD
#3: T
HE
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KY
W
ALKER
#4: T
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EVIL
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ORNS
#5: T
HE
F
ROSTED
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EATH
#6: T
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B
LOOD
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#7: S
TOCKHOLDERS
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EATH
#8: T
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LASS
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OUNTAIN
#9: T
UNED
F
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#10: T
HE
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MILING
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#11: R
IVER
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#12: T
HE
F
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B
REATHERS
WARNER PAPERBACK LIBRARY
WARNER PAPERBACK LIBRARY EDITION
F
IRST
P
RINTING
: J
UNE
, 1973
C
OPYRIGHT
© 1940
BY
S
TREET
& S
MITH
P
UBLICATIONS
, I
NC
.
C
OPYRIGHT
R
ENEWED
1969
BY
T
HE
C
ONDÉ
N
EST
P
UBLICATIONS
, I
NC
.
A
LL
R
IGHTS
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ESERVED
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ARNER
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APERBACK
L
IBRARY
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DITION
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UBLISHED
BY
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W
ITH
T
HE
C
ONDÉ
N
EST
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UBLICATIONS
. I
NC
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C
OVER
I
LLUSTRATION
BY
G
EORGE
G
ROSS
W
ARNER
P
APERBACK
L
IBRARY
IS A
D
IVISION
OF
W
ARNER
B
OOKS,
75 R
OCKERFELLER
P
LAZA
, N.Y. 10019.
A Warner Communications Company
ISBN: 0-446-74-254-6
Printed in the United States of America
CHAPTER III: Headquarters for Trouble
CHAPTER XIV: The Warning Voice
CHAPTER XV: The Man With the Pencil
CHAPTER XVI: Ashes Come to Life
CHAPTER XVIII: The Trap Locks Shut!
MURDER
ON WHEELS
Death at Dawn
The girl shivered as she stepped out into the dawn. Dawn is a time for executions. But she didn’t think of that at the time. It was only later that she realized that it must have been this dread thought that had made her shiver.
At the moment all she had in mind was danger and the premonition of some fantastic thing about to happen; but death was not within her comprehension.
She had stepped from a train running up along the Michigan shore of Lake Michigan. The train puffed and started on north. She looked around.
The station was all hers; she had it to herself. Not that possession of the station meant much. It was a shack about as big as a boxcar with a small platform sagging between it and the single tracking. No soul was around, save herself.
She left the station and began walking up a road with bare sand dunes on either side. Wild desolation. It was like being alone in the Sahara, instead of in western Michigan. And it was almost as cold as it gets in the Sahara at dawn.
The dirty-gray light changed to pink as the sun began to rise. The pink helped the pink in the girl’s cheeks. It showed that she was a very beautiful girl, indeed—tall, dark-blonde, with deep-blue eyes and a figure to write home about. A very beautiful girl and a very scared girl—for some reason.
She was walking along a narrow dirt road. She was not familiar with the district. This was shown because she kept looking at a road map.
Pretty soon she came to a larger road, two lanes of concrete. The road was like that station had been—completely deserted. It was an old road, heaved at the joints with winter cold and moisture, and it looked practically abandoned. Indeed, the road map showed that it was. There was a big four-lane highway paralleling it, a mile to the east; so this one was probably used very little, now.
The girl figured she had gone far enough. There was a big tree, the only one for some distance around. She stopped beside it and leaned against the massive trunk. She might have been just leaning there to rest—or she might have been hiding from possible eyes. In any event, whether she thought of concealment or not, the tree trunk offered it to her.
She got out her pocketbook. On the side were the two metal letters: D. J. They stood for Doris Jackson. She had a small automatic in the bag, and she took this out and held it in the folds of her dress, in her right hand. It made her feel better.
Sound carried a long way in the still air. She heard a sound, now. It was a deep-throated rumble, far down the deserted road. The rumble was the low growl of an extra-heavy-duty truck motor. And in a moment she could see the truck, itself, with pink from the sun shining on its squat hood.
The truck was mammoth. Even a mile away, she could see that. Its purr of power lowered, and the truck stopped. It had swung a little sideways on the road just before it stopped, as if to block the highway from the south, where traffic was most apt to come.
The girl had slid around the tree when she saw the truck, so that she could not be seen by anyone in that direction. She stood there, the gun convulsively clenched in her hand.
From the back of the truck was slid a sort of runway that slanted down like the runways over which elephants come from circus cars. And like an elephant, a bulk lowered itself cautiously from the great body of the closed truck.
The bulk was that of an automobile—a car within a car. But it was an automobile such as is seldom seen on the public highways.
Then that car, brought here in such concealment in a closed van, began to do the most extraordinary things.
Such were the hummocks on the old road that it was unsafe to drive more than twenty-five miles an hour. But the car began coming toward the tree behind which the girl stood, at a pace far beyond that.
It must have been doing eighty when it passed her. The car seemed to take off and fly at each of the treacherous humps. It was knocked sometimes as high as six feet when it struck one. Impossible treatment for a car to take; but this thing took it.
It streaked out of sight beyond the girl. Then in a moment, it appeared as a fast-growing dot. It had been turned and was coming back at an even higher speed. Then she clapped her hand over her lips to hold back a scream.
One of the bumps had finally thrown even this car. Its superstreamlined body turned sideways in midair. It smashed on its side, rolled over and over and finally stopped right side up, again. It was still under heavy momentum; so it jumped the ditch and crashed into a telegraph pole.
The pole splintered up four feet, and then broke off like a matchstick. The girl peered fearfully at the now inert bulk of the car. Every one in it must be jelly—
A man stepped out, took a step or two as if dizzy, and shook his head. But he was certainly not jelly; he was shaken up but all right. His hat had been knocked off and his hair showed, dark-brown and rumpled.
Doris Jackson stared at the man’s hair with large disappointment in her blue eyes. She sighed, and turned to go. It was as if all she had come here for, in the pink dawn, was to learn the color of the man’s hair.
“Good morning.”
She jumped and stared to her right.
The tree was the only one for a long way around. But the dunes were everywhere, and behind these sand barricades, a person could hide very easily.
Doris didn’t know whether this man had lain hidden behind the dune to her right and watched her while she watched the weird automobile, or whether he had walked openly toward the tree and only this moment topped the dune and come into sight.
“Cole!” she said.
“In person,” said the man.
He was a young fellow, and rather striking-looking. In fact he was handsome, with straight brown hair, high off his forehead, and with the alert black eyes and a heavy jaw. He came slowly toward her, and even that slow pace showed beautiful coordination of muscle and great power.
Doris Jackson, however, didn’t look as if his handsomeness was a treat to her.
“What in the world are you doing here, Cole?” she gasped.
“What are you doing here?” he countered.
She bit her lips and did not answer.
“Don’t you know this place is dangerous, just now?” the man said, nodding down the road toward the car which was incredibly undamaged by the rough treatment it had just had.
“Is that why you’re here?” she demanded.
The man hesitated. His face gave away nothing. It was the face of a man with a razor-keen brain, but it gave away no thought.
