Read Online The Avenger 14 - Three Gold Crowns by Kenneth Robeson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kenneth Robeson
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ready to eavesdrop if anyone went in. But neither had happened.
The giant was sleepy. He had taken several cat naps in early morning, propped against a stair, trusting to his hearing to wake him if sounds of steps down the hall indicated movement at Salloway’s door. But that was all. Now, in the middle of the morning, he was having a hard time keeping his eyes open.
Throughout, he had stood ready to step into the four-teenth-floor corridor on the rare occasions when anyone used the stairs. He was pretty sure no one knew of his all-night vigil.
But he was so sleepy—
Smitty’s head jerked up on his drooping neck muscles. There had been a step outside the stair door, in the hall.
There had been frequent steps there as tenants of other apartments came and went. He opened the door a crack to see if this was just another.
He just caught the movement of a door closing down the line. And it was Salloway’s door.
Smitty went to the door. The mountain of a man moved as silently, almost, as the wraithlike Avenger himself.
Yet he moved fast. The door hadn’t been closed more than thirty seconds when he reached it.
He listened. He heard a voice call out something but couldn’t catch what was said. He tried the knob.
The door was not locked. It had not been closed tightly enough for the automatic latch to catch.
The giant’s eyes looked puzzled—and more than that. It didn’t take much of a slam to close doors of this type. The fact that the door had been closed so lightly that the catch hadn’t worked hinted that whoever had entered had tried very hard to avoid the slightest noise.
Smitty pushed open the door, ready to duck or fight. But he opened the door on an empty room.
It was a large living room, expensively furnished, bare of occupants. Smitty crossed the room toward another door, and midway he heard a groan!
It was more a hard exhalation of breath than an actual groan. But it acted like a knife stuck in him.
He crossed to the door in two long jumps, swung that open—and went to his knees as three men in a group slammed into him!
A fourth man lay on the floor.
A hard grin formed on Smitty’s lips. The giant had been framed into a jail sentence, once, by a crook. It was that episode which had made him devote his life to other criminals, working under the genius of The Avenger. Now he lived to get his hands on the rats in human form who make up the world’s underworld element.
And here were three of them confidently barging in to give him just such an opportunity. It was, Smitty decided, perfect.
He had been knocked to his knees. Gun butts and barrels were clubbing at him from all directions, it seemed. But they were only lighting glancingly on his ponderous left forearm, thrown up to protect head and face.
His right arm contracted and lashed forward.
His fist clubbed past the jaw of one of the three men glancingly, or it would have broken the neck behind the jaw. But that touch of power was enough. The jaw’s owner went back four steps and tripped over the body on the floor.
Then Smitty got a wrist behind a swinging gun. He twisted, not much, and the man dropped the gun and screamed. That was after there had been a muffled snap as bone gave way. The third man wanted to run, but there was no place to run. Smitty was in the doorway.
Smitty started for him—and a voice behind him said: “Put your hands up! And keep ’em up!”
Smitty turned, raging. He’d had things so completely his own way, till now.
A well-dressed man stood in the middle of the living room. He held a gun on Smitty, and the gun was trembling in his excited hands till the giant felt cold chills constrict his stomach.
“Who are you?” he rasped.
“The building manager,” said the man. “No, you don’t! Keep those hands up!”
“Turn your gun the other way,” said Smitty. “Keep it on these three men behind me. They broke in here and—”
The three men filed past him into the living room, with the manager
The giant was sleepy. He had taken several cat naps in early morning, propped against a stair, trusting to his hearing to wake him if sounds of steps down the hall indicated movement at Salloway’s door. But that was all. Now, in the middle of the morning, he was having a hard time keeping his eyes open.
Throughout, he had stood ready to step into the four-teenth-floor corridor on the rare occasions when anyone used the stairs. He was pretty sure no one knew of his all-night vigil.
But he was so sleepy—
Smitty’s head jerked up on his drooping neck muscles. There had been a step outside the stair door, in the hall.
There had been frequent steps there as tenants of other apartments came and went. He opened the door a crack to see if this was just another.
He just caught the movement of a door closing down the line. And it was Salloway’s door.
Smitty went to the door. The mountain of a man moved as silently, almost, as the wraithlike Avenger himself.
Yet he moved fast. The door hadn’t been closed more than thirty seconds when he reached it.
He listened. He heard a voice call out something but couldn’t catch what was said. He tried the knob.
The door was not locked. It had not been closed tightly enough for the automatic latch to catch.
The giant’s eyes looked puzzled—and more than that. It didn’t take much of a slam to close doors of this type. The fact that the door had been closed so lightly that the catch hadn’t worked hinted that whoever had entered had tried very hard to avoid the slightest noise.
Smitty pushed open the door, ready to duck or fight. But he opened the door on an empty room.
It was a large living room, expensively furnished, bare of occupants. Smitty crossed the room toward another door, and midway he heard a groan!
It was more a hard exhalation of breath than an actual groan. But it acted like a knife stuck in him.
He crossed to the door in two long jumps, swung that open—and went to his knees as three men in a group slammed into him!
A fourth man lay on the floor.
A hard grin formed on Smitty’s lips. The giant had been framed into a jail sentence, once, by a crook. It was that episode which had made him devote his life to other criminals, working under the genius of The Avenger. Now he lived to get his hands on the rats in human form who make up the world’s underworld element.
And here were three of them confidently barging in to give him just such an opportunity. It was, Smitty decided, perfect.
He had been knocked to his knees. Gun butts and barrels were clubbing at him from all directions, it seemed. But they were only lighting glancingly on his ponderous left forearm, thrown up to protect head and face.
His right arm contracted and lashed forward.
His fist clubbed past the jaw of one of the three men glancingly, or it would have broken the neck behind the jaw. But that touch of power was enough. The jaw’s owner went back four steps and tripped over the body on the floor.
Then Smitty got a wrist behind a swinging gun. He twisted, not much, and the man dropped the gun and screamed. That was after there had been a muffled snap as bone gave way. The third man wanted to run, but there was no place to run. Smitty was in the doorway.
Smitty started for him—and a voice behind him said: “Put your hands up! And keep ’em up!”
Smitty turned, raging. He’d had things so completely his own way, till now.
A well-dressed man stood in the middle of the living room. He held a gun on Smitty, and the gun was trembling in his excited hands till the giant felt cold chills constrict his stomach.
“Who are you?” he rasped.
“The building manager,” said the man. “No, you don’t! Keep those hands up!”
“Turn your gun the other way,” said Smitty. “Keep it on these three men behind me. They broke in here and—”
The three men filed past him into the living room, with the manager
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