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Authors: Kenneth Robeson
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celluglass, and the formula of which was known to him alone, it could turn anything up to a .50-caliber machine gun bullet.
But a .44 slug at close range kicks like a mule, even if it doesn’t penetrate. And both Benson and Smitty had been struck twice from less than five feet away.
“I think a rib’s gone,” complained the giant. “Why didn’t you let me take him, chief? I played dead because you did. But I didn’t want to.”
“If he had shot at our heads, the bullets would have hit no friendly shield,” Benson pointed out. “And head shots would have been next if we hadn’t let him think the first were successful. Besides, he got only what I wanted taken—in case we were attacked on leaving here—which was to be expected.”
“He got the tin of headache tablets,” said Smitty.
“I know what that would have yielded under analysis,” Benson said unemotionally. “Traces of the same thing we will find in the stomach contents of Sodolow. So the loss of the tin box means nothing.”
“But they got that vial, too!”
“They got the vial with ordinary wine in it,” said The Avenger. “The other, from the dead man’s stomach, is safe in my pocket. If he had started to take that, there would have been action! But he didn’t. So we now have it for laboratory analysis—though I doubt if any man alive can accurately analyze, part for part, the chemicals in it.”
CHAPTER VIII
Nitro on Tap!
Up along the Hudson there is an estate, several acres in extent, worth many hundreds of thousands of dollars. In the center of this show place, there is an appropriately palatial home. That is, there was a home there! It existed up until two days after a speed plane and a test car were destroyed in Utah. Then it disappeared much as the plane and car did.
The home was the property of Lorens Singer, which was a name to conjure with. A millionaire by stock market transactions before he was twenty-three, Singer had swelled his fortune ever since, up to his fifty-first year, by financial dealings, business promotion and factory ventures. He was mentioned in almost the same breath with the country’s leading financiers. Like them, he seemed very conscious of the great power of his wealth and endowed colleges and charity foundations with millions.
He was big-framed, still husky, with shrewd but kindly brown eyes. His manner was habitually courteous to all—servants and manual workers as well as his financial equals. He had business enemies, of course; but no personal enemies that anyone knew about.
That was what made the thing so inexplicable.
It happened, fortunately, at 5:30 in the afternoon. Fortunately, that is, for Singer. It was unfortunate from the standpoint of his servants.
At 4:30 on most afternoons, the servants were all in the house busy with preparations for the cocktail hour and dinner, at which Singer usually entertained at least half a dozen friends in his huge bachelor hall.
At that same hour, the financier himself was accustomed to looking over his famed formal garden. He was so engaged on this particular day, which saved his life.
The afternoon was still and tranquil. The blue Hudson flowed a hundred feet below the terrace wall with scarcely a ripple. The early summer air was hazy and windless.
The great house, of granite and marble and looking like a European castle rather than an American building, spired up into the blue with an appearance of eternal solidity.
Then—it wasn’t there any more!
There was the most peculiar sound Singer had ever heard. It was not exactly like an explosion. It was a soft roar, only on a tremendous scale. It was like the eruptive rumble deep in the heart of a volcano, or like the bellow of a landslide. It didn’t come from any one part of the big house. Lorens Singer could swear to that. It came from all over the building. And later investigation bore out his statement.
Anyhow, there was this soft but colossal roar, and then what had been a million-dollar
But a .44 slug at close range kicks like a mule, even if it doesn’t penetrate. And both Benson and Smitty had been struck twice from less than five feet away.
“I think a rib’s gone,” complained the giant. “Why didn’t you let me take him, chief? I played dead because you did. But I didn’t want to.”
“If he had shot at our heads, the bullets would have hit no friendly shield,” Benson pointed out. “And head shots would have been next if we hadn’t let him think the first were successful. Besides, he got only what I wanted taken—in case we were attacked on leaving here—which was to be expected.”
“He got the tin of headache tablets,” said Smitty.
“I know what that would have yielded under analysis,” Benson said unemotionally. “Traces of the same thing we will find in the stomach contents of Sodolow. So the loss of the tin box means nothing.”
“But they got that vial, too!”
“They got the vial with ordinary wine in it,” said The Avenger. “The other, from the dead man’s stomach, is safe in my pocket. If he had started to take that, there would have been action! But he didn’t. So we now have it for laboratory analysis—though I doubt if any man alive can accurately analyze, part for part, the chemicals in it.”
CHAPTER VIII
Nitro on Tap!
Up along the Hudson there is an estate, several acres in extent, worth many hundreds of thousands of dollars. In the center of this show place, there is an appropriately palatial home. That is, there was a home there! It existed up until two days after a speed plane and a test car were destroyed in Utah. Then it disappeared much as the plane and car did.
The home was the property of Lorens Singer, which was a name to conjure with. A millionaire by stock market transactions before he was twenty-three, Singer had swelled his fortune ever since, up to his fifty-first year, by financial dealings, business promotion and factory ventures. He was mentioned in almost the same breath with the country’s leading financiers. Like them, he seemed very conscious of the great power of his wealth and endowed colleges and charity foundations with millions.
He was big-framed, still husky, with shrewd but kindly brown eyes. His manner was habitually courteous to all—servants and manual workers as well as his financial equals. He had business enemies, of course; but no personal enemies that anyone knew about.
That was what made the thing so inexplicable.
It happened, fortunately, at 5:30 in the afternoon. Fortunately, that is, for Singer. It was unfortunate from the standpoint of his servants.
At 4:30 on most afternoons, the servants were all in the house busy with preparations for the cocktail hour and dinner, at which Singer usually entertained at least half a dozen friends in his huge bachelor hall.
At that same hour, the financier himself was accustomed to looking over his famed formal garden. He was so engaged on this particular day, which saved his life.
The afternoon was still and tranquil. The blue Hudson flowed a hundred feet below the terrace wall with scarcely a ripple. The early summer air was hazy and windless.
The great house, of granite and marble and looking like a European castle rather than an American building, spired up into the blue with an appearance of eternal solidity.
Then—it wasn’t there any more!
There was the most peculiar sound Singer had ever heard. It was not exactly like an explosion. It was a soft roar, only on a tremendous scale. It was like the eruptive rumble deep in the heart of a volcano, or like the bellow of a landslide. It didn’t come from any one part of the big house. Lorens Singer could swear to that. It came from all over the building. And later investigation bore out his statement.
Anyhow, there was this soft but colossal roar, and then what had been a million-dollar
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