The Avenger 33 - The Blood Countess (6 page)

“They’re true.”

Erika came over to her and took hold of her shoulders. “Liz, listen to me. You have had absolutely nothing to do with any of the killings. Absolutely nothing, do you understand?”

“Again last night,” said the dark-haired girl in the quiet voice. “I was out again last night, wasn’t I?”

“No, you were not.”

“You can’t be sure, Erika. You were asleep. You were asleep, and I sneaked out again. Yes, I’m sure I did.”

“Liz, I’m right in the next room to yours,” Erika told her. “Don’t you think I’d know if you were wandering around at night?”

The cloak was muddy this morning, and so were the shoes,” said Elizabeth. “It’s getting worse, don’t you see that? I’m blacking out . . . blacking out every night, almost. And doing these terrible things.” She brought both hands up and pressed them against her face. “My God, Erika . . .”

“What is it.”

“Maybe I did something to him last night.”

“You mean to—”

“Maybe I killed Dick Benson,” said Elizabeth.

The giant held up a tiny black box in his huge hand, “Now, is that portable, or isn’t it?”

“Aye,” agreed Fergus MacMurdie, “ ’tis indeed portable. But what is it?”

“A radio, for crying out loud,” said Smitty. “It’s a portable radio I just now invented.”

“ ’Tis a wee thing, for certain,” observed the Scot.

“We got to get ready for the postwar world, Mac,” said Smitty. “What we are going to need in the future is small things.”

“That doesn’t bode well for a chap like you.” Cole Wilson had just come sauntering into the Manhattan headquarters of Justice, Inc. “Or have you also worked out a means of shrinking people?”

“When I do, you can be one of the guinea pigs, if you like.”

Cole glanced toward Richard Henry Benson’s empty desk. “Still no word from Richard?”

“Ye dinna expect a picture postcard, did ye?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, my collection does lack any tinted views of Panazuela,” said Cole as he lounged into a chair. “I had hoped we’d hear from Richard by now, some little word.”

“ ’Tis nae his style.”

Smitty said, “I know what’s eating on you, Cole. You know there’s a dame involved, and it burns you up you ain’t even going to meet up with her.”

Grinning, Cole said, “I have to admit a case with a damsel in distress in it does exercise a strong pull on me.”

“Dames.” Smitty returned to fiddling with the tiny dials of his radio.

Sad organ music came roaring out of the little speaker. “And once again it’s time for the heartaches and triumphs of
The Romance of Mary Joyce, M.D.
The everyday story of a lovely surgeon who must—”

“Spare us any more heartaches,” said Cole.

“Naw, I like this particular soap opera.” The giant moved his radio closer to his ear. “It’s got a real complicated plot. See, this dame is a doctor at a vast metropolitan hospital and—”

A red light over the door flashed on.

“A visitor down below,” said Cole, rising and walking to the television screen that gave him a view of the lobby of their building.

“ ’Tis that Government laddie,” said Mac, who was looking over Cole’s shoulder at the view-screen. “Yes, none other than Don Early.”

The young Government agent, tan raincoat over his arm, looked very anxious.

Cole activated the mechanism that would admit him up here to the Justice, Inc., headquarters. “I venture to guess it’s not a social call.”

“. . . Lord Plaut’s motive for inviting Mary to his ski lodge turns out to have been far from medical. And so while Mary summons all her wits to fend off the ill-favored nobleman, little Jerry, unknown to Mary, lies unconscious in the snow behind the old Bails mansion . . .”

“Little Jerry?” said Smitty. “I didn’t know he was unconscious. What could have happened?”

“Someone, perhaps the unexplained man in the brown overcoat, had tampered with the runners of little Jerry’s sled, and so when the boy left his wheelchair, against the orders of old Dr. Beanfield . . .”

The office door opened, admitting Don Early.

Smitty, with a reluctant grunt, turned off the radio, muttering, “That guy in the brown overcoat is a rat.”

“What brings you to our little hideaway, Donald?” Cole inquired.

Agent Early was frowning. “Thought I’d better tell you,” he said. “People in Washington didn’t want me to. Since we’re more or less friends, I felt I should.”

The sandy-haired Scot took hold of Early’s arm. “Is Richard in trouble?”

“We don’t know for sure, but it’s a good possibility.”

Mac, pulling the agent toward a chair, said, “Sit yourself doon an tell us, mon.”

“Know something about what the Avenger went to Panazuela about,” said Early, dropping into the chair. “Our office is in contact with Colonel Heberden, the man Benson’s working with down there. As of this morning, nobody’s heard from Benson for three days.”

Smitty tossed his little radio onto an empty sofa chair. “That don’t mean nothing. He ain’t the kind of guy to sign in and out, or punch a clock. Not when he’s on a case.”

“Know that,” said Early. “This is a little different. Benson was due three days ago to check in with the consul in Mostarda. He didn’t. Granted, a man like the Avenger might stand up an American diplomat. But he was also supposed to see Elizabeth Bentin. Didn’t get to her, either. On top of which, the car he was using was found abandoned out on a road in the jungle.”

“Whoosh,” said Mac. “Any signs of violence?”

“Nope, car was okay, had been parked in a clearing off the road.”

“And there’s been no word at all since?” asked Cole.

“Nothing.”

“Three days ain’t all that long,” mused the giant. “I mean, down there in South America, it probably takes longer to get around.”

“That doesna explain the car, Smitty.”

Early said, “Couple more things you ought to know. There’ve been several murders in the vicinity of Mostarda.”

“Local stuff, from what we heard,” said Smitty. “Nothing to do with Dick, probably.”

“The last victim was the guy who was our consul there.”

“As I recall,” said Cole, “the killings we heard about were somewhat bizarre. In fact, they had all the trappings of your traditional vampire murder.”

“Right,” said Early.

“Aw,” said Smitty, “there ain’t no such thing as vampires.”

“Not saying there is,” Early said.

“ ’Tis implied in what ye say that perhaps Richard was set upon by some creetur.”

“Don’t know. We’ve no evidence.”

Cole was running his thumb over his chin. “Nellie is digging into that black-market hijacking business out on Long Island, and Josh’ll be tied up with Rosabel and the twins for a couple of days,” he said. “That leaves us, the unholy three, to do something.”

“You think we ought to poke our noses into this mess?” asked Smitty. “Could be Dick’s got a good reason for lying low.”

Mac rubbed his chest. “We’ll go,” he announced. “I make no claim to second sight, but I’ve a feeling something’s happened to Richard.”

Smitty said slowly, “You don’t think he’s . . . dead?”

MacMurdie did not answer.

The airliner’s wheels squealed as it sat down on the field. It went bouncing, wobbling, toward the row of palm trees at the far end of the capital city airport.

“Little Jerry is still probably sprawled out there in the snow,” said Smitty as the propellers began slowing.

“Mon, we’ve other things on our minds.”

“That’s what a soap opera is for,” remarked Cole from across the aisle. “It takes one’s mind off his real troubles.”

“Hout,” said the Scot.

“If they don’t find little Jerry soon,” said Cole, “he’ll probably get frostbite and lose his leg.”

“He already lost a leg, when he and Mary Joyce, M.D., was snowbound last year,” the giant told him.

Unfastening his seatbelt, Cole stood up. “I believe we can now disembark.”

The plane’s other dozen passengers were already moving toward the exit door.

Smitty, as he stretched his bulk out of the seat, chanced to look out into the hazy afternoon. “Huh,” he said.

“What do ye see?” asked Mac.

“Couple cars chasing each other all over the field,” replied Smitty. “Long black job and a big blue sedan.”

The exit door was open now. One of the women passengers cried out, “They’re shooting!”

“Tommy guns, no less.” Snatching a revolver from under his coat, Smitty went jogging down the aisle.

“Hold on, mon!” Mac sprinted after him. “ ’Tis no concern of ours. Most likely the local police chasing some skurlies.”

Cole had pushed his way through the frightened passengers and was looking out at the careening cars. “Chaps in the black vehicle are sporting an American embassy flag,” he said to his two teammates. “Makes one wonder if they’re not the fellows sent to meet us.”

“Excuse me, lady. Pardon me, buddy. Oops, did I mangle your lid, lady? Those are really pretty cherries on top of it.” Smitty nudged his way to Cole’s side. “This ain’t my idea of a quiet unobtrusive arrival in Panazuela.”

There was a long-drawn-out screech of brakes, then a thumping, rattling crash as the embassy car ran smack into a metal support pole of the field’s hurricane fence. The blue sedan swerved and came to a stop a few feet from it.

“Note yon luggage truck, Smitty.” Cole nodded to his right. “From behind it we can get in a few apt shots at the blue-car crowd.”

“Yeah, let’s go.” Suiting his actions to his words, the giant went barreling down the stairs that had been rolled up to the plane door a few moments earlier.

Cole went after him.

They got the cab of the yellow truck between them and the two cars, which were some fifteen feet away. “I think the embassy driver conked his noggin on the windshield when they hit.”

“He does look somewhat slumped, but the two chaps in back are still among the conscious.”

The front passenger door of the blue sedan swung open to let a thickset man with a submachine gun leap to the ground. He sent a spray of slugs at the wrecked embassy car.

The men inside it ducked rapidly down.

“That ain’t nice.” Smitty jammed a big hand in his coat pocket and brought out a small glass capsule. After a windup that would have done credit to Bob Feller, he tossed the capsule.

It sailed through the humid afternoon, landed at the gunman’s feet, and smashed.

The man started to turn his attention to the luggage truck. He got halfway turned before he dropped his gun to the ground and followed it.

“Nice toss,” said Cole. “Pick out a Betty Boop doll for yourself.”

“That knockout gas of Mac’s is really something.”

There were still two more men in the blue sedan. One hopped out to see what had befallen his comrade. There was still enough of the special gas lingering in the air to make him woozy. He began staggering, then toppled over on the body of his associate.

The third man was at the wheel. He ground the car’s gears into reverse.

Before he could back more than a few feet, Smitty had sent three slugs into his rear tire.

It went
pow!

The sedan clumped and bumped, traveling in a zigzag course.

Smitty charged the car.

Cole, observing, was reminded of a rhino charging an elephant.

The giant caught hold of the driver’s door, jerked it open, and pulled the man out.

The car petered out like a dying balloon, smacked into the luggage truck, and conked off.

“What’s the big idea, huh?” Smitty asked the driver, who was dangling in his grip. “Was you trying to kill somebody?”

“We meant to kill you,
senhor,”
snarled the driver. “I may get my chance yet.”

“Naw, your killing days are over.” Smitty gave him a poke on the chin which knocked him unconscious.

Cole had meanwhile run to the embassy car. “Any of you chaps get potted?”

A heavyset young man struggled out of the black car. “No, we’re all in fair shape, except for poor Collins. He’s still out from the bump he took when we crashed.”

“I’ll take a look at the lad,” offered MacMurdie, who had joined them.

While Mac slipped into the front seat, a gray-haired man emerged from the rear seat. “You’d be Cole Wilson, wouldn’t you?” he asked, extending his hand. “I’m Ralph Estling, with the embassy here.”

“Yes, I’m the inimitable Cole Wilson. My car-eating friend is Smitty, and the ministering angel is Fergus MacMurdie himself.”

“I’m James Perry Willis,” said the heavyset young man. “We really appreciate your lending a hand.”

“All in a day’s work,” said Cole. “Any idea who those slumbering louts are?”

Estling shook his head. “I imagine they were hired for the occasion,” he said. “We’d noticed they were following us, and when poor Collins slowed so we could get a better look, they broke out the heavy artillery. You saw the rest.”

“We feel a little silly,” said Willis, “since we came to look after you.”

“Think nothing of it,” said Cole, with a grin, “you can shoot the tires out of someone’s car for us sometime.”

“This lad is nae seriously hurt,” announced Mac from within the embassy car. “He’ll be coming around shortly.”

“This guy says he don’t know from nothing.” Smitty had carried the still dangling driver of the blue sedan over.

“I know one thing,
senhor,”
said the man. “None of you will leave this country alive.”

Whistling, hands in his pockets, wearing a white Palm Beach suit, Cole Wilson came strolling into the lobby of the inn. The midday sunlight streamed in through the windows, catching motes of dust and making them sparkle, brightening the floral pattern of the floor tiles, illuminating the one bare foot that showed on the registration counter.

“Bom dia,”
Cole said to the foot.

The foot dropped below the counter, like a Punch and Judy puppet, and was replaced by the head of the curly-haired clerk. “Good morning,
senhor,”
he said. “You are obviously a well-to-do American tourist. For you I will make available our best suite, in which you will enjoy the best of everything.”