The Avenger 34 - The Glass Man (10 page)

“Hope these retreads hold up.”

He went squeeling onto the road after Lamont.

His middle boy had souped up the engine of the official car right before going into the Army. The sheriff knew he could do at least eighty if he had to.

“Looks as though I’m going to have to.”

Lamont’s car was not slowing. It was rocketing along the shimmering road.

Giving the siren another shot, the sheriff fed the car more gas.

The distance between the two speeding cars was narrowing.

Despite the circumstances, the sheriff smiled. That middle boy of his had done a darn good job.

It was spooky. He knew the driver was invisible, but still couldn’t get used to being able to look clean through the car ahead.

He was getting ever closer.

Suddenly a tire exploded.

A flash of adrenalin rushed through the sheriff’s body. But it wasn’t one of his prewar tires.

Lamont’s left rear tire had blown. The speeding car went sluicing across the road, spinning and bucking. It jumped from the roadway altogether, tilted to one side, then slammed into the ground. Its doors popped open.

The sheriff pulled up and swung his car to the side of the road away from the wreck.

He stepped out of the car, then dropped to the ground.

Lamont’s car turned into a spire of flame. It made a series of tremendous whomping sounds. It rose into the air, then fell, turning black.

The sheriff stood up. He very slowly crossed the road. “That’s got to be the end of that poor fellow,” he said.

He took off his hat and rubbed a palm across his perspiring forehead.

He was still watching the flaming car when a heavy rock floated up off the ground and slammed against the side of his head.

A delivery truck came rolling along not ten minutes after Lamont got to the gates. He ditched the sheriff’s car a half mile from here. If he was lucky he might be able to reclaim it and use it to get away from here again.

He sprinted, still invisible, limping slightly, across the hot tar road and caught hold of the tailgate of the Army truck.

Chemical supplies, it looked like. Couldn’t really tell with all that canvas. Maybe it was only chocolate bars. Several of the researchers were candy fiends.

Everything seemed relatively normal. No extra guards in view, no unusual activity.

Apparently no one had gotten a warning through to the facility yet.

Hurrying, but not so fast that his breathing might betray him, Lamont headed for his cottage.

Through the huts and barracks and onto the dull road which led to the cottage row. Yes, there was his. Nobody around.

He went carefully around to the back and let himself in through the kitchen door.

Everything felt okay. There was no trap waiting to be sprang.

He went quickly to his bedroom.

As he opened the door a sack of flour dropped, covering him with a film of white.

“Good morning, Alan,” said Dr. Coopersmith. She was seated on his bed, a Luger pistol pointed at his now visible chest.

Cole steadied his gun hand with his left and sent another shot out of the window of the now closed-up garage. “Don’t much fancy these huge weapons,” he observed, backing away with the automatic’s recoil.

From outside came another burst of machine-gun fire. It cut a wavy line across the bottom of the wide, wooden garage doors.

Cole dashed back to the window for another shot. “The fabled Machine-Gun Kelly was said to have been able to write his name in bullets,” he said, dodging away again. “Could Herr Konrad be attempting to autograph yon portals for us?”

“I think it’s us ourselves he wants to scribble on,” said Jenny Keaton from the rear of the garage.

Glancing around, Cole said, “Take these keys I swiped from the slumbering lad in the truck, Jen, and see if you can fit one into the ignition of that sturdy touring car there.”

The redhead caught the jingling ring of keys and ran to the big black sedan which shared the shadowy garage with them.

Another design was etched across the garage doors by Konrad’s submachine gun.

“Suppose none of ’em fit?” asked Jenny Keaton as she slid into the front seat of the heavy car.

“Then I shall have to, in the jargon of the back streets, hot-wire it.”

“This one’ll do it.” She tried the key in the ignition and stepped gently on the gas as the engine came to life.

Cole hurried to the car. “Scoot over and stay down,” he said, taking over the wheel.

“Listen, I drove a jeep through—”

“No time for war memoirs now, Jen. I don’t want you shot. Hence, keep down.” He shifted into gear, took a deep breath, and released the brake. “Hold on, this next bump’s going to be a darb.”

The big closed car went shooting toward the wooden doors.

It hit, ripped away the already weakened wood, and careened out into the sun-filled day amid a confusion of splintered wood.

Konrad tried his machine gun once more, but it didn’t phase the big car or even dent the windshield.

“Praise Allah,” remarked Cole, “they’ve got bulletproof glass in this crate.”

He bore down on the Nazi agent.

Konrad turned and ran. He circled the panel truck and jumped into the front-seat. Seconds later the truck was heading for the roadway.

“Ah, the game’s afoot,” said Cole, “or rather awheel.”

“May I emerge now?”

“Yes, it’s relatively safe.”

The girl, shaking her head and brushing a hand at her hair, said, “Looks like it’s going to be a real chase finish.”

Their heavy car hit the road. Konrad’s truck was already about a quarter of a mile ahead of them.

“He has somewhat of an advantage on us,” said Cole. “That jalopy of his is lighter and faster than this rolling mausoleum of ours.”

“We’ll catch him.”

“Let us hope.”

The truck was a half a mile in front and growing smaller.

Smitty spotted the truck first. “Hey, there’s a panel job up there at the side of the road,” he said. “Like those two Nazi rats said they were hauling Cole around in.”

Hugo and Fritzi they’d left, sufficiently tied, back at the mesa. The authorities would be told where to pick them up.

The Avenger slowed their car. “Might as well take a look,” he decided.

“Seems like we’ll have company at it,” observed Josh.

A grizzled old desert rat was standing at the road side, wiping his face with a red bandana and squinting at the panel truck, which had come to a stop against a scatter of rocks.

“Dangedest thing I ever seen,” he said.

Benson, Smitty, and Josh piled out of their own vehicle and approached the stalled truck.

“What happened, gramps?” asked Smitty.

“Well, sir, this old lady come shooting along the road like a bat out of hell, as the saying goes,” the old man said in his rusty voice. “All of a sudden she pulls up, hops out of the car, and goes hightailing it off that a-way.” He pointed at the empty desert. A half mile away stood a craggy mesa. “Went right up into them rocks off there.”

“An old dame?”

“Well, sir, I ain’t right sure. See, when she started trotting away she hitched up her skirts and danged iffen she didn’t have men’s suit pants on under there.” He scratched at his grizzled beard. “Course, with all these young girls working in defense plants and all, well, sir, you see all sorts of funny things.”

“How long ago was this?” asked Josh.

“Few minutes,” said the old prospector.

“Was there anyone else in the truck?” the. Avenger asked.

“Nope, just this old girl,” answered the desert rat. “Well, sir, I got to get going. Been nice chatting with you fellers.” He touched the floppy brim of his ancient hat and started along the road in the direction from which they’d come.

“Bet he was figuring to steal a few things out of the truck,” said Smitty. “And we spoiled his fun.”

Frowning, Benson walked around the back of the truck. He was sniffing, eyes narrowed. He reached up and grabbed the door handle, tugged it open. “I thought so,” he said.

Smitty and Josh came running to join him.

Smitty smelled it too. “Somebody just shot off a gun back there,” he realized. “Don’t tell me they got Cole and—”

“It’s a young man,” said the Avenger, hopping into the back of the truck. “Not Cole. Been shot twice in the head, with a fairly heavy gun.”

“And look here,” said Josh, who’d climbed in after him, “a bundle of clothes . . . man’s suit and—Hey!”

“What’s that stuff?” Smitty asked from outside.

The black man had picked up a small wad of gray fluff from beside the abandoned suit. “It’s what they call crepe hair. And it’s the same shade as . . . that old guy’s beard.” He jumped out of the truck.

“You mean that old guy—”

When they reached the road they saw their car committing a U-turn. The old desert rat was driving it rapidly away from them.

“That old skunk,” said Smitty. “He hot-wired us.”

“Well, Werner Konrad’s as good as they say. Boy, he even smelled like an old coot who’s spent years out in the desert.”

“Geez, though,” said the giant, “it makes me feel like a jerk. We better pile into this truck and take off after—”

“Not in this thing.” Josh had leaned into the front seat to check the gas gauge. “He ran out of gas, that’s why he pulled that dodge. Probably figured to con the first car that came by.”

“Did he know it was us, do you think?”

“I imagine so,” said Josh.

Benson joined them. “The dead man is Waxman,” he said. “He’s only been dead a few minutes. Konrad must have killed him, though I’m not sure of his reasons.”

“Wanted to keep him quiet, for one thing,” said Smitty.

“Anyone care to sign up for a guided tour of the scenic high spots of the desert?” called a familiar voice.

The big touring car was stopped out on the road. Cole, grinning, was peering out at them.

“You’re alive,” exclaimed Smitty.

“Rather than get into a metaphysical discussion, I’ll have to answer yes,” he said. “The ravishing young lady at my side is none other than Jenny Keaton, leading contender for the next Pulitzer Prize.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Smitty.

“Although I’ve been criticized for my untimely levity,” said Cole, “I will now offer you a ride without making one reference to the fact that a middle-aged retired German character actor has apparently flimflammed you out of your car.”

“Why you?” asked Lamont. “Are you working with security?”

“Not at all, Alan,” replied Dr. Coopersmith with a shake of her head. “I’m working for my homeland.”

Lamont laughed. “You’re a spy, Pearl? Oh, that’s terrific.”

“We haven’t much time, Alan. I want the secret, the Dean formula.”

“Guess I can’t very well deny that I know it.”

“I’ve been suspicious of you for several days, Alan,” said Dr. Coopersmith. “And last night I did some further investigating. That convinced me I ought to wait for your return.”

“I really must finish what I started,” said Lamont. “I’ve taken care of two of them and I’d have gotten that fool Montez last night if he hadn’t . . . But he’s still going to be next, don’t worry.”

“I want the formula, the completed version,” said the woman, “and all the fluid you’ve made up.”

“Don’t you understand, Pearl, that I have something I must finish?” He took a few steps toward her.

“Stay right there. I’m not interested in your plans. I want the formula. Get it for me.”

“See, they killed my brother,” Lamont went on. “It was murder, but none of them ever had to pay for it then. And I was too young to do anything about it. Now, though, now they’re paying. Every damn one of them. And Montez will be next.”

She stood up, gesturing at him with the Luger. “Enough talk, get the formula.”

“At first I hardly thought about it at all, not after the first few months. After Rusty was dead and buried. Then, gradually, it was all I did think about. Bringing justice to them. I’m going to do that, Pearl. I’m going to succeed.”

“I’ll give you a chance to get away if you hurry and hand everything over,” she said. “Otherwise I’ll kill you and search this place myself again.”