The Avenger 35 - The Iron Skull (9 page)

Benson gently eased him off the steering wheel. Swiftly he checked the man for serious injuries. Except for the gash on the forehead, the plump man was not hurt. “You’ll be all right,” Benson told him.

“Car just started skidding . . . roller coaster,” said Nevins, his eyes not quite focusing.

“How is he?” asked Nellie from the road. “This jalopy of his has breathed its last.”

“Nothing seriously wrong with him.”

“But there’s sure as heck something seriously wrong with this buggy of his.”

“. . . he’ll kill me for this . . .”

From his pocket the Avenger took a small glass capsule. He held it under the man’s nose and broke it open.

“. . . you a doctor?”

“More or less.”

“. . . this smelling salts?”

“Not quite.”

The capsule contained truth gas.

“Outrageous,” bellowed Dr. Steinbrunner. “What are you here for, you lumbering hulk? To rob us in our beds, to steal my silver, to raid my drug cabinets?”

“Do I have a choice?” asked Smitty as the belligerent doctor urged him out of the garage with a .38 revolver.

“Fine state of affairs, a fine how-do-you-do.” Steinbrunner was about fifty, wearing a red mackinaw over his white medical jacket. “I’m going to have the authorities down on your head, you hulking nonentity.”

“Naw, you ain’t about to do that, doc.”

Steinbrunner stopped on a cinder path that led to the rear door of his hospital. “Turn around and explain yourself.”

Smitty halted next to a tall snow-laden tree. Facing the fat doctor, he said, “You don’t want the cops nosing around. Not with the kind of company you been having of late.”

“I sense you’re making some kind of veiled threat, but I can’t, for the life of me, comprehend exactly what you’re driving at.”

“Maybe I’d have an easier time explaining it to one of the robots.”

“Aha,” said Dr. Steinbrunner. “Oho!”

“Practicing to play Santa for your patients?”

“I realize who you are now,” said the doctor, his bulk jiggling. “You must be none other than Algernon Heathcote Smith. Ah, yes, you are Algernon Heathcote Smith. I’ve heard all about you.”

“Call me Smitty.”

“Yes, indeed, I’ve captured Algernon Heathcote Smith himself, notorious cohort of the Avenger and longtime member of the so-called Justice, Inc.”

Smitty took a few steps back, until his wide shoulders were against the tree trunk. The branches up above were heavy with snow. “You got my number sure enough, doc,” he said.

“I most assuredly do, Mr. Algernon Heathcote Smith. And now if you will kind—”

“You ought not to call me that.” Smitty threw his backside, hard, into the tree trunk.

Snow came raining down off the tree branches.

A substantial quantity landed on Dr. Steinbrunner’s fat head. Another cloud of snow smacked his gun hand and caused him to let go the weapon.

Smitty jumped. He slugged the surprised doctor twice before he could even shake the snow off himself.

Steinbrunner fell.

Picking up the .38, Smitty said, “Now I think I’ll do a little nosing around myself.”

Josh was seated in a wing chair near the table lamp.

A door opened, and the Iron Skull came roiling into his parlor-like den, followed by Cole.

“Hi, Cole,” said the black man, “what’s going on exactly?”

Cole looked away, not replying.

The Iron Skull said, “Mr. Wilson has accepted my generous offer to work for me henceforward.”

“Oh, yeah?” said Josh. “And who the hell are you?”

“I am the Iron Skull.” From within the jacket of his military-cut suit he drew a .32 revolver. “This will be sufficient for the purpose, Wilson.” He handed him the gun.

“Stop me if I’m being uppity,” said Josh, “but I got a feeling things don’t look so good for me.”

Taking the gun, Cole said, “I . . . I’m sorry, Josh . . . but it’s either me . . . or you . . . and . . .”

The Negro said, “I get the picture, Cole. Can’t say I’d do the same thing myself, but then you ain’t me.”

“I’m sorry . . .”

“Enough sentimental slurp,” said the Iron Skull. “Kill him!”

Cole raised the pistol.

Josh stayed in his chair, hands folded, waiting.

“Too much light in here,” said Cole suddenly and aimed the pistol at the table lamp. He pulled the trigger.

The hammer clicked on an empty chamber.

A dry clacking sound came out of the Iron Skull’s throat. It was laughter. “Not quite the test you expected, eh, Wilson?” he said.

Cole broke the barrel and looked into the chambers. “No bullets,” he discovered.

“If you’d pretended to shoot him you might have fooled me,” said the Iron Skull. “Since you decided to try to shoot out the lights and make a break for it, you have betrayed yourself.”

“A miscalculation on my part.”

“And a shame, really,” said the Iron Skull. “I would very much like to work with one of your abilities, Wilson.”

“Well, maybe the next time you have a recruiting drive.”

Running his flesh fingers over the back of his metal hand, the Iron Skull said, “I may actually give you one more chance, Wilson. For now, I will return you to your apartments.” He went rolling over to pull the tasseled bell cord. “Nice to have met you, Mr. Newton.”

“Likewise, I’m sure,” said Josh.

“What is he?” said Josh in the darkness of his cell.

“You mean besides stark raving mad?” said Cole, who was close to the bars which separated him from his teammate’s cell.

“Yes, what . . . I mean, is he a robot?”

“Partly,” replied Cole in the dark. “It turns out the rumors of the death of Ulrich Blau-Montag, boy wizard of electronics and robotics, were greatly exaggerated.”

“That’s who he is, huh?”

“So he says,” said Cole. “Apparently there was a serious accident, which tore him apart. I have the idea it damaged his brain, too. At any rate, being a handy chap with the screwdriver and hacksaw, our hero rebuilt himself and replaced his missing parts with metal and wires. He’s as close to a self-made man as we’re likely to run into in our lifetimes, lad.”

“I sensed from his conversation that said lifetimes ain’t going to be noted for length.”

“We’re not on the Iron Skull’s best-friends list, no.”

Josh said, “He made them robots we saw out at the syrup works, didn’t he?”

“Right you are, with some aid from his staff, a clutch of all-thumbs buffoons, to hear him tell it.”

“Yeah, but they looked completely human, down to having very real-seeming skin,” said Josh. “How come he still looks like he got mixed up with the insides of a refrigerator and Aunt Minnie’s old hot-water heater?”

“I’m glad you asked me that,” said Cole, “since it gives me a chance to use my knowledge gained at Freud’s knee in Old Vienna. Freud himself wasn’t there at the time, but his knee was very helpful. Ah, but let’s get down to cases. I’d guess that Herr Iron Skull doesn’t want anyone to forget how badly he was hurt and how bravely he overcame his accident. The wheelchair is part of that, too. Obviously if he can make a pile of nuts and bolts walk, he could do the same for himself.”

“Yeah, could be that’s it,” agreed the Negro. “If he looked completely okay, people would maybe stop pitying him. And since he’s got a big need for pity, he keeps himself looking only half fixed.”

“Precisely, Watson,” said Cole. “Lots of people do the same thing . . . albeit not so flamboyantly.”

“What’d he want you to sign on for?”

“He offered me a job in the robot works,” answered Cole. “Also gave me a guided tour of some of the facilities.”

“The whole setup’s here?”

“Appears to be . . . and don’t ask me where
here
is. I couldn’t get that out of him.”

“Why’s he need you—doesn’t he have a crew of his own?”

“I’m offended, Joshua. Chaps of my excellence aren’t lurking behind every rosebush. And furthermore, he has a tendency to kill employees who don’t measure up.”

“Has the robot makers’ guild heard about this? What do you mean, kill them?”

“Kill them,” repeated Cole. “He staged one such dismissal for my benefit. Up in that cozy little parlor of his. That’s another charming thing about our host. He’s got weapons built into himself, in his fingers and even in his head. The old chap that he’d tired of he dispatched with some sort of death beam he shot out of his eye.”

“His eye, man?”

“I assume it’s a fake eye. I don’t quite know how he did it. The beam seemed to be some kind of highly concentrated light. It burned right through the unfortunate chap.”

“And you was going to try to go up against him with that little bitty revolver?”

“They don’t call me Hairbreadth Harry for nothing. I am a firm believer in taking chances,” explained Cole. “Had I been able to get the two lamps shot out, I figured we might be able to outfox the old boy in the dark. Although for all I know, he glows in the dark.”

“Well, since we ain’t going to outfox him in his parlor,” said Josh, “what are we going to do to get ourselves out of this dump?”

“It occurs to me that a chap as gadget-minded as Herr Skull may well have these cells wired for sound,” said Cole.

“Hey, I bet you’re right. Dumb of me not to think of that.”

“I’ve cleverly kept you from saying anything incriminating, Joshua,” said Cole. “Now I think I’ll have a moment of silence whilst I plot my next Houdini-type escape.”

Smitty went boldly through the front door of the hospital, with the unconscious Dr. Steinbrunner slung over his shoulder. The doctor’s .38 dangled from Smitty’s right forefinger.

As he’d surmised after making a circuit of the outside of the place, Steinbrunner’s Ear, Nose & Throat Hospital had few patients and was sparsely staffed. There was no one in the pale green foyer of the building as he came lumbering in.

The giant went to the office with the doctor’s name lettered on the door and went in. The office was empty, a gooseneck lamp burning on the clean desktop.

With a grunt, Smitty dumped his fat burden into the swivel chair. He went over and locked the door. Then he dug a truth gas capsule out of his pocket and crushed it under the doctor’s nose.

Steinbrunner sat up and had a few seconds of wide-awakeness before slumping into a gas-induced daze.

“I’m going to ask you a few questions, and you’re going to answer ’em,” Smitty told him.

“I will answer.”

“Who you working for?”

“I am an agent for the Homeland; my immediate superior is F.M. Nevins.”

“Is he the bird who makes the robots?”

“Nevins is an intermediary.”

“Would he be the pudgy guy who just left here?”

“That is he, pudgy.”

“Okay, so who’s the big shot?”

“I do not know his name,” answered the drugged doctor. “He is known only as the Iron Skull.”

“Iron Skull, huh? Fancy name.”

“It is said he Is half robot himself.”

“Oh, yeah?” said Smitty. “Where do I find this Iron Skull bozo?”

“That I do not know.”

“Is Nevins on his way to report to him?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, so we’ll find him okay,” said the giant with a nod. “Now, what about my pal Fergus MacMurdie? Where’s he being held?”

“The Iron Skull has him captive.”

“He’s still alive?”

“Yes, to the best of my knowledge.”

Smitty backed off, rubbing his head with his knuckles. “How many guys you got working here?”

“I have four assistants.”

“Those bums who tried to deck me in the warehouse, are they part of the quartet?”

“Yes, that would be Don Hutchison and Pete Harris, neither of whom is too bright.”

“Agreed,” agreed Smitty. “What about a couple of goons in red coats who tried to turn me into kindling out in the woods?”

“That would be my two other associates, Luther Norris and Dr. Cassiday.”

“And how many patients are there?”

“Well . . . none, actually.”

“Why’d you hesitate?”

“I must tell the truth. Nevins was at one time a patient of mine, though he is no longer. I could do nothing for his various allergies, poor fellow.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want a lot of old medical histories,” said Smitty. “Gimme some more stuff on this Iron Skull guy. What’s he aiming to do?”