Read Online The Avenger 15 - House of Death by Kenneth Robeson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kenneth Robeson
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fighting two, a hand came slowly up over the rail at the bow. It was not a large hand, but it gave an impression of being made of pale steel. Just the hand would have identified the owner to a great many people who had been unfortunate enough to feel its strength.
The Avenger had slid into the water and started swimming silently out to the cruiser the moment Shan handed his suitcase down, back at the dock.
The riding lights of the boat were the only ones around.
The cruiser was bound to be Shan’s destination; so Benson had decided to share with him his ride out to sea.
From the water he had stared back, with the pale eyes that could see so much better in darkness than those of most men, and he had caught glimpses of the fight. That was all right, too. There were few things that left The Avenger more indifferent than the murderous fighting of crooks among themselves. The more they killed each other off, the better he liked it. And regardless of the outcome, the survivors would almost certainly wind up in the cruiser.
Benson had reached slowly up and caught the flanges of the anchor at the bow, after the crew had raised it when the small boat was swung up. He had hung there while the cruiser made for the open sea, taking a good long time, so that his clothes would dry a bit and not betray him by dripping too much when finally he did come aboard.
Then the fight had broken out, and the sounds indicated a disturbance in which he should be able to get aboard without being observed.
Over the low rail his face could be seen, calm, crowded by the thick, black hair. His eyes were like narrowed chips of stainless steel. Then he was lying on the forward deck with the low front of the cabin hiding his lithe body.
On the afterdeck, the fight was, of course, once more going against Shan. He wanted to fight the leader alone, but naturally the gang wasn’t permitting that. And no man can face, bare-handed, odds of eleven to one.
Shan was bare-handed, now. A man with a broken nose and only half an ear had kicked the blade from Shan’s fingers when he overreached the leader and stabbed only empty air beyond the other’s shoulder.
The knife lay along the rail near the stern, glittering neglectedly as the men circled to get Shan without accidentally getting their chief first.
It was at this moment that the light rayed on.
The thing could not have been timed worse for The Avenger. He was crouched on the top of the cabin, making his way toward a boat swung between its davits. The boat had been covered with taut canvas, and he intended to get in it and lie hidden till the cruise, whatever its destination, was over.
But now this searchlight glared out, and squarely in its blazing white circle was Dick Benson.
He crouched there, frozen into immobility. And two of the men on the rear deck yelled. At the same time, still another dark-skinned, grinning murderer came from the cabin itself.
There had been a man at the wheel during all this. He had seen the figure rise over the bow, had watched through a darkened pane while Dick climbed to the cabin’s top, and then had switched on the searchlight. With the wheel hooked to keep the boat on its course, he joined the others.
Half the gang turned toward Benson. But then Benson wasn’t there any more.
One swift leap had taken him back where he came from, on the foredeck, where just his pale, deadly eyes showed over the cabin’s top. He took out Mike, the little silenced .22. And into his left hand slid Ike, the tiny gun’s companion in war.
Ike had been holstered below The Avenger’s left knee. It was a small throwing knife, blade-heavy, with a hollow tube for a handle. The point could have compared with the point of any needle, and you could shave with either razor edge. With it Benson could pin a fly to a wall twenty feet away.
The Avenger leveled Mike for a shot. And the leader’s voice cracked out.
“Wait! Let the man alone. It is only this one we fight.” The words ended in
The Avenger had slid into the water and started swimming silently out to the cruiser the moment Shan handed his suitcase down, back at the dock.
The riding lights of the boat were the only ones around.
The cruiser was bound to be Shan’s destination; so Benson had decided to share with him his ride out to sea.
From the water he had stared back, with the pale eyes that could see so much better in darkness than those of most men, and he had caught glimpses of the fight. That was all right, too. There were few things that left The Avenger more indifferent than the murderous fighting of crooks among themselves. The more they killed each other off, the better he liked it. And regardless of the outcome, the survivors would almost certainly wind up in the cruiser.
Benson had reached slowly up and caught the flanges of the anchor at the bow, after the crew had raised it when the small boat was swung up. He had hung there while the cruiser made for the open sea, taking a good long time, so that his clothes would dry a bit and not betray him by dripping too much when finally he did come aboard.
Then the fight had broken out, and the sounds indicated a disturbance in which he should be able to get aboard without being observed.
Over the low rail his face could be seen, calm, crowded by the thick, black hair. His eyes were like narrowed chips of stainless steel. Then he was lying on the forward deck with the low front of the cabin hiding his lithe body.
On the afterdeck, the fight was, of course, once more going against Shan. He wanted to fight the leader alone, but naturally the gang wasn’t permitting that. And no man can face, bare-handed, odds of eleven to one.
Shan was bare-handed, now. A man with a broken nose and only half an ear had kicked the blade from Shan’s fingers when he overreached the leader and stabbed only empty air beyond the other’s shoulder.
The knife lay along the rail near the stern, glittering neglectedly as the men circled to get Shan without accidentally getting their chief first.
It was at this moment that the light rayed on.
The thing could not have been timed worse for The Avenger. He was crouched on the top of the cabin, making his way toward a boat swung between its davits. The boat had been covered with taut canvas, and he intended to get in it and lie hidden till the cruise, whatever its destination, was over.
But now this searchlight glared out, and squarely in its blazing white circle was Dick Benson.
He crouched there, frozen into immobility. And two of the men on the rear deck yelled. At the same time, still another dark-skinned, grinning murderer came from the cabin itself.
There had been a man at the wheel during all this. He had seen the figure rise over the bow, had watched through a darkened pane while Dick climbed to the cabin’s top, and then had switched on the searchlight. With the wheel hooked to keep the boat on its course, he joined the others.
Half the gang turned toward Benson. But then Benson wasn’t there any more.
One swift leap had taken him back where he came from, on the foredeck, where just his pale, deadly eyes showed over the cabin’s top. He took out Mike, the little silenced .22. And into his left hand slid Ike, the tiny gun’s companion in war.
Ike had been holstered below The Avenger’s left knee. It was a small throwing knife, blade-heavy, with a hollow tube for a handle. The point could have compared with the point of any needle, and you could shave with either razor edge. With it Benson could pin a fly to a wall twenty feet away.
The Avenger leveled Mike for a shot. And the leader’s voice cracked out.
“Wait! Let the man alone. It is only this one we fight.” The words ended in
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