The Avenger 32 - The Death Machine (4 page)

“You get by that window over there, ducked down safe, and wait a minute.”

“What are you . . . ?”

She’d left him.

He heard no further sound from her for nearly two minutes.

Then she said, quite close to him, “Ready, set, go!”

Something went whistling out the next window over. It wooshed up into the now clear night sky and popped. Yellow-white light from the slowly falling flare lit up the entire half acre the cottage sat on.

Lit up two men with very surprised expressions on their faces and automatics in their hands.

Early squeezed off a shot.

One of the men howled with pain, dropped his weapon to swat at his wounded arm.

The second man raised his weapon, thought better of it and pivoted around. He went running up toward the woods beyond.

Early fired at him, aiming for a leg.

“Damn, missed,” he said.

“Let me try.” Emmy Lou used her. 38 revolver.

The second man dropped.

The flare, still sputtering light, was nearly to earth.

“Got another one of those things?”

“Half dozen,” replied the girl. “The guy who lived here before the war was a boating enthusiast.” As she spoke she set off another flare.

“Stick right here,” said Early. “I’m going out and grab those two fellows.”

“Careful.”

The young agent ran through the dark living room and out onto the porch. “Keep away from it,” he shouted.

The man he’d shot was bending to retrieve his gun.

“That’s right, straighten up and back off,” Early instructed. “Now walk over and help your pal to—”

“Look out!” It was Emmy Lou, calling a warning from the cottage.

There was a third man.

Early should have considered that possibility.

The third gunman had been pressed close against the side of the cottage. Now he was stalking toward Early.

The girl’s warning caused Early to spin around to face the man.

As Early turned, the third gunman fired his revolver. Early threw himself to the side. He tripped on a scatter of rocks, fell to one knee.

The third man swung his gun down across Early’s neck.

“Leave him alone!”

That was the last thing Early heard for awhile, the girl’s voice.

The gun butt connected with his skull, tipped him over into unconsciousness.

Only seconds later, or so it seemed to him, Emmy Lou was helping him to his feet.

“Doesn’t feel like anything serious,” she was saying.

“What?”

“Lump on your head,” the girl replied.

Early blinked, shook his head, yawned. “Where are they?”

“Gone,” she said. “I managed to scare them off from doing you any more harm, but I couldn’t keep them here. I was worried about you and—”

“That’s okay.” Early put a hand on her shoulder to steady himself. “Tell you what . . . Do you feel up to driving my car?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, this idyllic cottage of yours doesn’t seem too safe a spot,” he told her. “I’d like to get you checked into a hotel over in San Francisco, someplace where it’ll be harder to get at you and easier to keep tabs on you. Is that all right with you?”

The girl shrugged. “Sure, let me toss a few things into a suitcase,” she said, walking alongside him back toward the porch. “Any particular hotel you have in mind?”

“I always like the St. Mark,” said Early.

The Avenger said, “Now we may have the reason.”

“Hout,” said Fergus MacMurdie, still a bit pale from what had befallen him while working on the cartoon crimes case, “ ’tis a wild tale Smitty spins.”

“The eternal skeptic, Mac,” said Cole Wilson. He was sitting in one chair with his feet up on another. “Have we not recently encountered zombies, werewolves, and—”

“Aye, ’tis true, lad,” said the Scot. “Still I prefer ta remain skeptical till ye show me proof.”

“Got to go out to San Francisco for that,” said Josh.

“Ah, the City by the Golden Gate,” said Cole with an exaggerated sigh. “Many and warm are my fond memories of that fair place.”

Richard Henry Benson said, “I have already been asked to look into this wave of suicides. At that time there had been only three, and I thought perhaps it was only a coincidence. Now, with the death of Dr. Hershman, the count has risen to eight. We can rule out coincidence.”

“I’ve never met Smitty’s uncle,” said little blond Nellie Gray. “Impression I got from Smitty is the old boy is goofy.”

“Most great men are goofy, pixie,” Cole, grinning, told her.

“Who else besides you and Uncle Algernon?”

Josh said, “Dr. Heathcote actually is a brilliant guy, Nellie. He’s got a whole slew of inventions to his credit. He is . . . well, quirky. Which is why he’s never settled down to teach at one university or work with one corporation.”

“Then you think he really could have invented a machine that’ll make people jump off rooftops?”

The black man answered, “It ain’t impossible.”

“From what Smitty told me when he phoned Justice, Inc. this morning,” said Benson, “his uncle’s invention utilizes high-frequency sound.”

“Like a dog whistle?” asked Cole.

“Much more sophisticated, but the principle is somewhat the same,” said the Avenger. “You’re aware people can be affected by sounds they can’t even hear. Dr. Goedewaagen, for instance, did some fascinating work in that area in Holland before the war.”

“About this fatal box,” put in Mac. “It takes more than being exposed to these high frequency noises to make a mon kill hisself, does it not?”

“There has to be an order given,” said the Avenger.

Josh shifted his lanky frame. “There’s another interesting angle to all this,” he said. “All eight of the folks who’ve killed themselves have been associated with something known as the Vermillion Project. Now we know this because you told us . . . and you know it, Dick, because your government contact told you. But how do the guys with the death machine know it?”

“ ’Tis a most profound question ye’ve asked.”

“With a simple answer,” said Cole. “There’s a spy working on the project.”

“That’s a pretty frightening thought.” Nellie turned toward Dick Benson. “Even though you haven’t told us, you do know what this particular project involves, don’t you?”

The Avenger replied, “I have a very good notion. Which is why we’re leaving for San Francisco in two hours.”

“Two hours?” Josh sat up. “Hey, that means I got to postpone the christening of the twins.”

Cole said, “Don’t tell me you’ve at long last decided on names for the poor tykes.”

“Yeah, we’re going to name the boy . . . well, this isn’t no time for domestic gossip.”

The Avenger said, “You’ll remain in New York this time, Josh. You haven’t had any time off since the twins were born.”

“Well, okay. Rosabel’ll like that. Though I wouldn’t mind going—”

“Mon, yer place is with them bairns.”

Benson said, “I’d like you to remain in Manhattan, too, Mac.”

“Whoosh,” exclaimed MacMurdie. “Is it on the bench I am?”

“I think you need a little more time to recuperate.”

“By the sainted whiskers of the Ettrick Shepherd, I’m fit as a fiddle,” insisted Mac.

Cole leaned toward Nellie. “Do you realize what this means, princess? You and I will be partners on this excursion. We’ll follow in the footsteps of such famed teams as Nick and Nora Charles, Pam and Jerry North, Billy and Betty Fairfield-—”

“Jiggs and Maggie,” said Nellie.

The Avenger said, “I’ve ordered one of our airships to be ready for the flight West at noon. That should give you time to pack.”

“Can you stuff all your snoods, fruit-laden turbans, wedgies, and diaphanous ballgowns into a trunk in such a short time, Nell?”

Nellie smiled sweetly. “Nerts.”

“Should ye,” MacMurdie said to Benson, “change yer mind, Richard, I can pop out to San Francisco at a moment’s notice.”

“We’ll see, Mac.”

“You might utilize the time we’re gone to brighten up that pharmacy of yours, Mac,” suggested Cole. “I’d like to see more imagination used on the window displays. For instance, that plaster bust which depicts Dr. Felsenthal holding up all six kinds of his patented footpads is outmoded. I envision a nice cardboard cutout of a girl in a polka dot bathing suit with—”

“It’s time to get ready for our flight,” said the Avenger.

Cole nodded, strode toward the office door. “Oh, say, Josh. What did you finally decide to name the twins?”

“Tell you when you get back.”

Dr. Heathcote gave the hotplate, which he’d produced out of his satchel, a kick with his right foot. The saucepan atop the coils hopped, splashing milk on the hotel room rug.

Smitty frowned at him. “Why don’t you just call room service, Unc?”

“Have you ever encountered a hotel kitchen that could make an eggnog as well as I can?” He was leaning, hands in pockets, against the wall. The hotplate sat on the floor next to him.

“Is there anything else you can tell us, Dr. Heathcote?” asked the recently arrived Avenger.

“Use allspice rather than nutmeg,” replied Smitty’s uncle.

“He don’t mean about eggnogs, Unc.” the impatient giant told him. “They want to know about the machine you dreamed up.”

Uncle Algernon scratched at his standup hair. “I really believe I’ve told you everything. I explained the ultrasonic factors, drew you a diagram of the intricate inner workings of the device . . .” He gestured at the paper napkin on which he’d scrawled the diagram in pencil. “. . . given you the benefit of my lengthy cogitations on who might have made off with the Heathcote Ultrasonic Brain Control Box.”

“You have no recollection of any, shall we say, suspicious chaps lurking about?” asked Cole, who was sitting on the window sill with his back to the foggy San Francisco night outside.

Dr. Heathcote dropped to his knees. “Ah, it’s come to a boil at last. The boiling point of milk is, if memory serves—”

“He asked you a question, Unc.”

“Hum? Oh, about suspicious lurkers.” He watched the ceiling briefly. “No, nothing stands out in the fabric of my memory. You must understand, Mr. Wilson, that a man of my prominence and reputation is often the object of curiosity. One grows immune to the stares of the multitude.”

“Did you call the cops when you found your invention gone?” asked Nellie.

Dr. Heathcote was concentrating on pouring the steaming eggnog into the bathroom drinking glass. “I did not, Miss Gray. Not wishing to have the knowledge of the nature of the box become widespread, I refrained from utilizing the police.”

“Might be worthwhile poking around your Berkeley residence,” suggested Cole, “in hope of unearthing a clue or two.”

“Trail’s cold by now,” Nellie said.

“One never knows, pixie.”

Benson asked, pointing at the sketchy diagram which sat on the coffee table before him, “Have you given any thought to constructing a counterbox? A device which would be a defense against this one.”

“Ah,” said Dr. Heathcote after taking a slurping swallow of his eggnog, “indeed I have, Mr. Benson. Unfortunately, my recent lecture commitments have been so heavy . . .” He shrugged sadly.

“Cole,” said the Avenger, “I’d like you and Nellie to go over to Berkeley and look over the doctor’s house. If you don’t object, Dr. Heathcote?”

“Not at all, not at all.” He began poking the forefinger of his free hand into the various pockets of his wrinkled suit. “I’ll turn the latch key over to the personable Mr. Wilson. I’d accompany you, but I must stay in San Francisco in order to fulfill . . . no, that’s not the key.”

“What about us? Smitty asked.

“I have another strand for us to follow,” said the Avenger.

“Excelsior!” said Uncle Algernon. “Here’s the key.”

“This certainly carries me back to my carefree youth,” remarked Cole. He and Nellie were walking up a winding stone stairway which climbed up the side of a wooded hill. “Those cherubic fraternity boys in the frat house we just passed, sitting on the stoop of an evening and strumming a guitar as they sip their ale.”

“They’re probably all wondering,” said Nellie, “when they’re going to be drafted.”

The pair was a mile above the large sprawling campus of the University of Berkeley. The houses on this particular steep, hilly street were few.

“Wonder how the culprits managed it,” said Cole. “These stairs look to be the only way to reach Uncle Heathcote’s domicile. Puts one rather out in the open, as well as ruling out the use of an automobile.”

“Middle of the night,” said the little blonde. “Head up here then and nobody’d probably notice you.”

“Mayhap.”

Nellie asked, “Do you believe in any of this?”

“In Uncle H’s magic box, do you mean?”

“After seeing him, I have the impression he couldn’t construct a Soap Box Derby entry, let alone anything as sophisticated as this box.”

“You’ve been spending too much time in proximity to me, princess. Some of the notorious Wilson cynicism has rubbed off on you.”

“Being objective isn’t being cynical.”

“Could it be that what is really bothering you is the heredity question?”

“Heredity?”