Read Online The Avenger 18 - Death in Slow Motion by Kenneth Robeson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kenneth Robeson
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caught the man on the law and knocked him out as surely and deftly as though he had been anaesthetized.
Men were pouring from the opened garage door. The Avenger caught a glimpse of a large, cavernous space with a truck or two in it. He caught that glimpse as he jerked the dead man away from the wheel and leaped over the back of the front seat to take his place.
He gunned the motor and the car started to roll.
Either these men were braver than most thugs, or they had heard of The Avenger’s cardinal trait: that he never, under any circumstances, took the life of a human. They jumped in front of the sedan which was roaring ahead like a juggernaut.
Benson jammed the brakes. If he hadn’t, bodies would have been tossed like broken wreckage in the car’s wake; and, quite possibly, sheer weight of dead human flesh would have stopped him, making violation of his principles fruitless, after all.
Before the car had entirely stopped going forward, there was a clash of gears, and it darted back on its own tracks.
The men who had been inside the building were all out here, now, making the place a good spot for Benson himself to be in.
He roared back over the sidewalk and into the garage, like a crab scuttling backward from attacking enemies. Before the sedan had quite screeched to a stop, Benson was out and hauling down the door.
Even for his lightning swiftness, there was barely time for the maneuver. As it was, the fleetest among the silent men reached the door, and his face grimaced death from a space about three feet wide from sidewalk threshold to the bottom of the steel sheet.
He drew back just in time to keep from having his neck broken. And Benson clicked the lock in place.
Calmly, he went to find a telephone. But before he found one, to dial police, he knew that his risk had been taken in vain.
This was no gang lair to raid. It was a legitimate place of business, “borrowed” by this gang just as they had borrowed the fire chief’s car and the chemical truck. Half a dozen bound truck drivers and warehouse men told that story wordlessly even before gags were removed and they sputtered forth the details of being slugged and tied.
Dick was to have been executed in here, at leisure and gang convenience, after which they would leave and never see the place again.
Once more The Avenger had drawn blank. But the glare in the pale, deathly eyes told that this defeat wasn’t going to stop him any more than men and machines could stop him.
CHAPTER IX
Creeping Death
The relationship between huge Smitty and petite, delicate-looking Nellie Gray defied analysis. To the eye, it might have looked as though they almost disliked each other. The little blond grenade was always ribbing the big fellow, and he was always snapping back.
But the rest of The Avenger’s little band had noticed long since that if little Nellie got into a jam, big Smitty acted like a frantic mother elephant till she had been rescued again. And if Smitty suffered reverses, little Nellie buzzed around like a frenzied, and quite dangerous, hornet till all was normal with the giant.
In fact, it looked as if these two liked each other very much, though steam winches couldn’t have drawn that admission from either of them.
Now, Nellie was just about going crazy because Smitty was in very serious trouble indeed.
Smitty was sick.
To say that Smitty was sick was equivalent to saying that the Washington Monument had just fallen over on its side or that the capitol dome had collapsed. Smitty just didn’t get sick. He was seemingly made out of scrap steel and old leather and well-seasoned rubber; he might get hurt but he never got sick.
But now he was ill, though still dragging around on his feet; and Nellie was almost going insane with worry.
Smitty’s sickness was precisely the same kind as that which had afflicted a lot of workmen in three rubber factories. And as far as was known, that sickness inevitably ended in death!
The affected rubber
Men were pouring from the opened garage door. The Avenger caught a glimpse of a large, cavernous space with a truck or two in it. He caught that glimpse as he jerked the dead man away from the wheel and leaped over the back of the front seat to take his place.
He gunned the motor and the car started to roll.
Either these men were braver than most thugs, or they had heard of The Avenger’s cardinal trait: that he never, under any circumstances, took the life of a human. They jumped in front of the sedan which was roaring ahead like a juggernaut.
Benson jammed the brakes. If he hadn’t, bodies would have been tossed like broken wreckage in the car’s wake; and, quite possibly, sheer weight of dead human flesh would have stopped him, making violation of his principles fruitless, after all.
Before the car had entirely stopped going forward, there was a clash of gears, and it darted back on its own tracks.
The men who had been inside the building were all out here, now, making the place a good spot for Benson himself to be in.
He roared back over the sidewalk and into the garage, like a crab scuttling backward from attacking enemies. Before the sedan had quite screeched to a stop, Benson was out and hauling down the door.
Even for his lightning swiftness, there was barely time for the maneuver. As it was, the fleetest among the silent men reached the door, and his face grimaced death from a space about three feet wide from sidewalk threshold to the bottom of the steel sheet.
He drew back just in time to keep from having his neck broken. And Benson clicked the lock in place.
Calmly, he went to find a telephone. But before he found one, to dial police, he knew that his risk had been taken in vain.
This was no gang lair to raid. It was a legitimate place of business, “borrowed” by this gang just as they had borrowed the fire chief’s car and the chemical truck. Half a dozen bound truck drivers and warehouse men told that story wordlessly even before gags were removed and they sputtered forth the details of being slugged and tied.
Dick was to have been executed in here, at leisure and gang convenience, after which they would leave and never see the place again.
Once more The Avenger had drawn blank. But the glare in the pale, deathly eyes told that this defeat wasn’t going to stop him any more than men and machines could stop him.
CHAPTER IX
Creeping Death
The relationship between huge Smitty and petite, delicate-looking Nellie Gray defied analysis. To the eye, it might have looked as though they almost disliked each other. The little blond grenade was always ribbing the big fellow, and he was always snapping back.
But the rest of The Avenger’s little band had noticed long since that if little Nellie got into a jam, big Smitty acted like a frantic mother elephant till she had been rescued again. And if Smitty suffered reverses, little Nellie buzzed around like a frenzied, and quite dangerous, hornet till all was normal with the giant.
In fact, it looked as if these two liked each other very much, though steam winches couldn’t have drawn that admission from either of them.
Now, Nellie was just about going crazy because Smitty was in very serious trouble indeed.
Smitty was sick.
To say that Smitty was sick was equivalent to saying that the Washington Monument had just fallen over on its side or that the capitol dome had collapsed. Smitty just didn’t get sick. He was seemingly made out of scrap steel and old leather and well-seasoned rubber; he might get hurt but he never got sick.
But now he was ill, though still dragging around on his feet; and Nellie was almost going insane with worry.
Smitty’s sickness was precisely the same kind as that which had afflicted a lot of workmen in three rubber factories. And as far as was known, that sickness inevitably ended in death!
The affected rubber
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