The Avenger 21 - The Happy Killers (17 page)

Benson shook his head. The lights flicked on all over as Smitty found the switch.

“Xenan wouldn’t have told them the exact nature of the thing he was after,” The Avenger said. “That would be leaving himself too wide open to blackmail in case there was a slip-up in his final plan to liquidate them all.”

They were safely on their way to shore; they had a boatload of crooks to give to the police; Xenan had unwittingly tried, condemned and executed himself. The case, it seemed, was closed.

But then Tate decided to give vent to outraged feelings.

“You’ve got a nerve,” he shrilled. “You knew this was a trap. Two to one everybody in it would die. Yet you bring me along and make me take the same risk. Me—an innocent man!”

Slowly the deadly, pale eyes turned to meet his own. He repeated, unsteadily, “Me—an innocent, m-man—” Then he seemed to run down.

The Avenger held out his hand. “Give me the confession,” he said evenly.

“What? What are you talking about?” blustered Tate.

“You have the confession. Brown didn’t have it; Beak Nailen didn’t have it; I do not have it. There’s no one to point to but you—with your frequent access to Brown’s safe for your ridiculous formula.”

“You’re crazy!
Crazy!”

“You took that confession, days, weeks ago, didn’t you? And as luck would have it, the safe was cleaned out and you thought you were forever cleared. Neither Brown nor Xenan knew it, at first. Brown asked you to slip away from the house, afraid under police questioning, or mine, that you’d break and admit the nitrous-oxide pills weren’t the real reason for his anxiety. You obligingly went, and Brown suspected nothing. Xenan asked you for more of the mixture. You obligingly made it for him. He seized it and actually held you prisoner. But it was still only to keep you silent; he didn’t suspect, even then.”

“Y-you’re guessing,” shrilled Tate. He looked as if he would have turned and fled from the colorless, awful eyes. But there was no place to run to.

“Am I?” said Benson. “Well, Xenan wasn’t guessing, at the end. He
knew
you had it. That’s why he said, ‘How convenient!’ when he saw we’d brought you here. He thought he’d kill you with the rest of us and be free of threat for the rest of his life.”

“I didn’t—I haven’t—”

The Avenger’s hand was stretched out, waiting. Tate reached into his coat pocket and drew out a heavily taped envelope.

“It was for the good of humanity,” he whined. “I wanted a big new laboratory. I didn’t want money for myself. And you can’t get me for blackmail. I never blackmailed Xenan.”

“Only because you didn’t have time,” said Benson. He put the envelope into his own pocket. “This goes back to Brown. And
you”
—he finished, voice like a whip—“will be careful to walk a very straight path from this night on. You understand?”

He turned and went to the prow. He stood there, looking toward land, like a figurehead of steel. The affair of the laughing killers was over, and justice, he thought, had been done. But there was no satisfaction on his immobile face at a task accomplished. No single accomplishment would ever bring that emotion to his face.

Only the war as a
whole
against the underworld counted with him—not any single battle. He would go on and on in that war, till eventually a bullet or knife blade found his heart. Then, and then only, there might be a look of quiet satisfaction on his face. Then, and then only, there might be relief for his lonely, indomitable soul. Till then, he was less a human than a crime-fighting machine. He was The Avenger!

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