The Avenger 32 - The Death Machine (5 page)

“It perhaps has occurred to you that Smitty may have inherited some of Uncle Heathcote’s eccentricity. Granted, nothing has showed up as yet. When a girl is contemplating wedlock, however, she must—”

“I’m not contemplating marriage with Smitty . . . or with anybody else.” She increased her pace, reaching the crest of the hill far ahead of him.

“Yon shingled villa must be the one we’re seeking,” said Cole when he reached her side.

Three houses, several acres apart, sat on the wooded plateau. Of the three, only the one Cole had indicated was dark.

“Yes, it even seems to have taken on some of Dr. Heathcote’s rackety packety look.”

Taking the girl’s arm, Cole escorted her up the flagstone path to the front door.

“Weeds,” observed Nellie.

The lawn was wild and overgrown.

“I come from a line of eager lawn mowers myself.” He fitted the key into the lock and turned it. The door opened silently. “Darn, no Inner Sanctum squeak.”

Nellie sniffed the musty air of the hallway. “Nutmeg,” she decided. Finding the light switch, she flicked it on.

A faded earth-brown carpet, with a dim flower and vine pattern, covered the hardwood floor. Several mismatched chairs and tables stood, like a lopsided row of sentries, along the left hand wall. Crack-surfaced oil paintings of the former owner’s nineteenth Century relatives dotted the same wall, providing oval breaks in the wide-stripe design of the wall paper.

“Let us assume Uncle H took the place furnished,” said Cole. “I’d hate to think those blokes are hanging on some remote branches of Smitty’s family tree.”

Nellie was following her nose. “His workshop must be back here.” She walked to the hall’s end and through a curtained door.

Dawdling along, Cole studied one or two of the oil portraits. “Here’s an imposing chap. A beard like that might add something to my already impressive appearance,” he said. “Though perhaps this beard on this fellow is the more striking. Yes, I do believe the little scarlet bows tied in it are—

Something crashed over in the room Nellie had gone into. Rattling metal, smashing glass.

“Nell?”

Cole dashed down the hall, dived for the curtains.

“Blackjack!” warned Nellie from inside.

Cole executed a sudden stop, almost a movie cartoon stop, raveling the carpet underfoot. Instead of plunging through the doorway, he grabbed at the curtains and pulled them, pole and all, down.

A crewcut young man in a blue and gold team sweater was standing there, awkwardly, with a blackjack raised above his head.

Behind him, in a room cluttered with work tables and scientific equipment, Nellie was struggling with another similarly clad young man.

“Some sort of initiation prank, my lad?” Cole asked the surprised youth.

“I’ll initiate you, buddy.” The wide-shouldered young man jumped at Cole, swinging the blackjack.

“Didn’t know they gave letters in sapping.” Cole dodged, thrust out a foot.

The boy tripped, tumbled out into the hall and fell into the tangle of pulled-down curtains.

Abandoning him for the moment, Cole went to the aid of the girl. “Wonderman to the rescue,” he announced as he threw himself at the back of the young man who was trying to throttle Nellie.

Cole got a full nelson on the youth, then ran him toward the nearest wall. The burly young man’s head thunked into the knotty pine.

“Crying out loud,” he muttered, weaving as Cole let him go. “I’m dizzy as a . . .” He suddenly straightened and tackled Cole.

“For shame, trying to play on my sympathies.” The grinning Cole brought up a knee in time to render the tackle unsuccessful.

This time the youth was really dizzy. He went stumbling backwards, flapping his arms.

He backed into a workbench, knocked a flask to the floor and then sat down on the resultant shards of broken glass. “Yow!” he exclaimed and jumped up.

Cole had turned his attention to Nellie. “You okay, pixie?”

Swallowing a few times, the girl nodded. “Yes,” she managed to say. “He got hold of my throat the minute I stepped over the threshhold.”

“Looks like we ran into an ambush.” Cole patted her on the shoulder and glanced out into the hallway. “Oops. Our other bird has flown.”

“Cole, this boy—”

“Hey there, don’t!” Cole sprinted toward the remaining young man.

The college boy had just taken a capsule from his pocket. Before Cole reached him he’d swallowed it. “You learn nothing from me, my friend.”

Thirty seconds later he lay dead on the floor.

Shaking his head, Cole stepped away from the body. “Whoever we’re up against this time around . . . they play for high stakes.”

Carrying a bunch of roses wrapped in green paper, Agent Early walked up the broad marble steps of the St. Mark Hotel. He stepped out of the misty night and into the huge, pleasant lobby. Crossing the thick carpet, he nodded, very quickly, at a young man who sat in one of the plush chairs reading a two-week-old copy of
Collier’s.

Early continued on toward the gilt-caged elevators. One of them landed, swished open. The government agent took one more step before stopping dead.

“What . . .” he said aloud. “What are you doing here?”

“Hiya, Early,” said Smitty, holding out a big paw. “Them petunias for us?”

“In San Francisco on a case?” asked Early. “Is that it?”

“Good evening, Don,” said the Avenger.

“Nice of you to trot over here and welcome us,” said the giant.

“What are you doing in this particular hotel?” Early asked.

“Rooming here,” answered Smitty. “I come out for a conference.”

“And is that the reason you’re here, Benson?”

The Avenger said, “What better place than San Francisco to spend a quiet week?”

“If you two are . . . wait. Are there more of you Justice, Inc. people in town?”

“As a matter of fact, Cole and Nellie decided they needed a vacation, too,” said Smitty. “Ain’t that a coincidence?”

Early watched them for a few seconds in silence. “No use trying to get a straight story out of you,” he said. “Okay, may the best man win.” He continued on around them, stepped into an elevator and was whisked up to the tenth floor.

As he walked down the corridor the catch phrase of one of his favorite radio comedians popped up in his head. “What a revolting development this is,” he muttered.

“Beg pardon, sir?”

A trim young man in a dark suit was standing near a hotel room door. “Nothing, Willis,” said Early. “Everything all right?”

“No problems of any kind, sir.”

“I’ve just learned,” said Early, “that the Avenger and several of his crew are in town.”

Willis shook his head. “You’re not too fond of them, as I recall, sir.”

“It isn’t that. I suppose if I was picking friends for myself, I could do a lot worse,” Early said. “But whenever they show up . . . well, inevitably they end up cracking the very case I’m working on. Now I know that in terms of the good of the country, that’s fine. I really don’t, though, enjoy coming in second all the time.”

“You still have an excellent reputation in Washington sir.”

“Maybe,” said Early. “At any rate, Willis, be even more alert. I don’t want Benson and his bunch to find out about Miss Dennim.”

“Very good, sir.”

Early knocked on the door of Emmy Lou’s room, a prearranged knock.

“Yes?” said the girl after a moment.

“It’s Don Early, Emmy Lou.”

The door was opened a fraction. “Oh, hi. Come on in.” After he was inside and the door was closed, the girl said, “You look sort of glum tonight, Don? Anything to do with me?”

Early said, “Not exactly, no. I happened to run into . . . no, never mind. There’s not any reason to trouble you with that.”

“Does it,” the girl asked as she crossed to the sofa, “have something to do with me?”

Early watched her seat herself. “Not exactly,” he said. “How have you been getting along here?”

“As well as can be expected. It’s very posh, this suite. When you have to spend every minute here, though . . . I tried to listen to the soap operas on the radio this morning, but I find myself laughing at the problems of Ma Perkins and Helen Trent instead of sympathizing with them.”

“Eventually you’ll be able to go back to work.”

“Yes, I’d like to.”

“Right now it doesn’t seem safe to try.” Pulling a straight chair out from the wall, Early straddled it. “Have you been able to remember anything else about your visitor?”

The blond girl picked up a yellow tablet from the lamp table. “I think, Don, that I’m starting to see some of what happened to me, to remember details. Anyway, I’ve been making some notes. Helps fill the time.” She turned the first few pages of the tablet back. “I remember a truck . . . what do they call a truck that’s not a pickup, one that’s all closed in?”

“Panel truck.”

“Yes a panel truck. I think . . . I’m fairly certain the man who came to my cottage was driving one of those.” She held up the page, tapped a drawing of a bunch of daisies. “There was a design something like this on the side of the truck. I’m positive . . . though I can’t figure how I could have seen it. What with the porch light out and the night so foggy.”

“Maybe you went outside, close to the truck.”

She let the notes fall to her lap. “Yes, you’re right. I did. I remember now.”

“What did the guy use? To convince you to go out and kill yourself.”

“It was . . . No, I still can’t get any more on that. He was carrying something . . . I can’t remember what.”

“We’ve got a few more facts. I’ll try to track down the truck with the flowers on the side.”

Emmy Lou tore out the page, handed it to him. “I was going to order dinner. Can you stay and join me?”

“Ought to be getting back to . . . Sure, I’d like to.”

Richard Henry Benson held out the spurious identification. “I’m Charles Fritch of
Week
magazine, Mrs. Nichols,” he said to the frail old woman in the doorway. “We’re doing one of our in-depth background articles on the strange San Francisco suicides.”

The frail old woman tilted her head back to take in Smitty’s height. “My, and who is this young man?”

Smitty rattled the camera case he was carrying. “I’m ‘Flashgun’ Smith, the noted photog.”

“My, and you want to talk to me?”

Benson said, “You live next door to one of the recent suicides and we—”

“Oh, but poor Professor Sullivan didn’t take his life here.” She gestured at the foggy night. “He drove out to the Cliff House and threw himself into the Bay. My, so much strain in—”

“You were at home on that unfortunate night, weren’t you?”

“Yes, I rarely go out now, with the gas shortage and all. And I can’t seem to get used to how dark the streets are these—”

“Did you see anything unusual that night, Mrs. Nichols?”

“Why don’t you two nice young men come in? It’s so damp out there on the porch.”

The Avenger and Smitty accepted her invitation, stepping into a small, dimly lit parlor.

“Would either of you like some cookies? I don’t often bake anymore, what with sugar so scarce, but I felt tonight—”

“That’d be swell,” said Smitty as he tried to fit his bulk into one of the small parlor armchairs.

When old Mrs. Nichols returned with a plate of toll house cookies, she said, “I’ve already talked to the
Chronicle
and
News,
and the police and the FBI and a very pleasant-looking young man named . . . Early, I believe. I’m afraid I really didn’t see or hear anything.” She held the plate of cookies out to Smitty, who took a fistful. “What I mean is, I have no idea why poor Professor Sullivan did what he did. We weren’t close, you understand, though he always was friendly whenever we ran into each other.”

Benson said, “According to the police accounts the professor was at his home, next door to you here, the night of his death. Did you notice anything he did that night?”

“No . . . as I told that nice Mr. Early,” the old woman said. “You know, I don’t quite understand why there’s so much interest in his death. I mean, people are almost acting like it wasn’t a suicide at all. All these questions and everything.”

After swallowing a mouthful of cookies, Smitty asked, “You didn’t see nothing strange at all that night?”

“Not at Professor Sullivan’s house.”

The Avenger asked, “Perhaps you saw something odd elsewhere Mrs. Nichols?”

“Well, it did just now occur to me . . . I did notice something funny that night, though it involves the folks on the other side of me and not the professor.”

“What did you notice?”

“I happened to be glancing out the window and I saw a hearse parked down by the corner.”

“A hearse?” said Smitty.

“Not a hearse for people really, but one for pets,” Mrs. Nichols said. “I don’t see much sense in making such a fuss over a pet once it’s dead and gone, though I know a good many lonely old ladies get some pretty foolish ideas about their animals and—”

“A truck from a pet cemetery,” cut in Benson. “Is that what you saw?”

“My, and it had the strangest name. Puppy Paradise.” Picking up the cookie plate, she held it out to Smitty again. “Do help yourself to some more, Mr. Smith.”