Read Online The Avenger 23 - The Wilder Curse by Kenneth Robeson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kenneth Robeson
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shakily trying to shoot The Avenger through the windshield. Benson pressed hard down on the accelerator, motor shrieking in first gear.
The man at the front gave up, too, unnerved by the onrushing juggernaut. He jumped for his life. The van crashed the steel front door, then rolled through, taking bent door and most of the frame with it.
There was an ear-shattering bang behind the van, then the roar of flames.
The Avenger stopped the truck calmly by the curb, face and deadly eyes as expressionless as though he had just strolled out of a restaurant.
“Phew!” said Cole shakily.
“Ditto,” said Mac.
Smitty looked at his big hands, laughed wryly at their tremor, then untied the two. When he looked up, The Avenger was gone.
Dick Benson came back as the three climbed out of the van. In the distance, fire sirens were shrieking. Dick started to the corner, around which he had left his car.
He was not alone. Dragged with him was the gangster who had been at the front door. The explosion had knocked him out, and Benson had gone back and neatly scooped him up. Now, with one bar-steel arm around the unconscious shoulders, The Avenger was walking along as effortlessly as though he were carrying a sawdust doll that weighed about two and a half pounds.
At the corner, Smitty suddenly exclaimed aloud and stared at a doorway.
Beck had stood in that doorway when they left him to go into the garage. Beck had been told to call the police if The Avenger and the others weren’t out in ten minutes.
Nearly twenty minutes had passed, and Beck had not done so. At least, there weren’t any police coming here, now, save those on the local beat in answer to the fire call.
And Beck himself was gone. He was nowhere around the place.
Back at Bleek Street, The Avenger took his prisoner to a small second-floor room instead of to the huge top-floor room.
The man was a perfect specimen of his ratlike kind. He had a gash for a mouth, a rat’s chin and forehead, a stringy, unmuscular body, and couldn’t have looked you squarely in the eye to save his life. He was the kind that is dangerous only when armed with a couple of guns. Then, with guns against unarmed people, he could be as brave as a lion!
The man kept wailing, “You lemme go. I want to be put in the coop. I wanna be arrested. Where’re the cops?”
He was not the first crook taken prisoner by The Avenger who, after one look into the glacial, pale eyes, bleated in terror to be arrested.
Benson paid no attention to the man. He was mixing a small beaker full of some red stuff that looked like blood. The thug’s eyes kept riveted to this, in fearful fascination.
“What’s that stuff? What’re you gonna do to me? I won’t swallow that stuff, if that’s the idea you got in your bonnet.”
The Avenger walked toward the man, holding the sinister-looking beaker. The man backed from him till the edge of a chair caught the backs of his legs.
He fell into it and leaned way back, still staring at the red liquid.
“This won’t taste bad at all,” came The Avenger’s voice, on a strange dead level.
Mac looked at Smitty with a grin just twitching the edge of his dour Scotch mouth. Smitty nodded, ever so little, as he got the significance of it.
“I won’t swallow that! I won’t, I tell you!” The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. He licked dry lips, staring—staring at the vial. “You turn me over to the cops.”
“Not bad at all,” said The Avenger in the level monotonous tone. “Come, now. Not—bad—at—all”
“You got no right,” the man began. His eyes had a glassy look. “You got no—”
He stopped talking. He was sitting as still as if dead, eyes wide and unblinking, like a mechanical thing rather than a human being.
It had been as simple as it was ingenious.
The Avenger, with those glittering, colorless eyes of his, was one of the world’s greatest hypnotists. But you can hypnotize a person by having him stare at an inanimate object, if
The man at the front gave up, too, unnerved by the onrushing juggernaut. He jumped for his life. The van crashed the steel front door, then rolled through, taking bent door and most of the frame with it.
There was an ear-shattering bang behind the van, then the roar of flames.
The Avenger stopped the truck calmly by the curb, face and deadly eyes as expressionless as though he had just strolled out of a restaurant.
“Phew!” said Cole shakily.
“Ditto,” said Mac.
Smitty looked at his big hands, laughed wryly at their tremor, then untied the two. When he looked up, The Avenger was gone.
Dick Benson came back as the three climbed out of the van. In the distance, fire sirens were shrieking. Dick started to the corner, around which he had left his car.
He was not alone. Dragged with him was the gangster who had been at the front door. The explosion had knocked him out, and Benson had gone back and neatly scooped him up. Now, with one bar-steel arm around the unconscious shoulders, The Avenger was walking along as effortlessly as though he were carrying a sawdust doll that weighed about two and a half pounds.
At the corner, Smitty suddenly exclaimed aloud and stared at a doorway.
Beck had stood in that doorway when they left him to go into the garage. Beck had been told to call the police if The Avenger and the others weren’t out in ten minutes.
Nearly twenty minutes had passed, and Beck had not done so. At least, there weren’t any police coming here, now, save those on the local beat in answer to the fire call.
And Beck himself was gone. He was nowhere around the place.
Back at Bleek Street, The Avenger took his prisoner to a small second-floor room instead of to the huge top-floor room.
The man was a perfect specimen of his ratlike kind. He had a gash for a mouth, a rat’s chin and forehead, a stringy, unmuscular body, and couldn’t have looked you squarely in the eye to save his life. He was the kind that is dangerous only when armed with a couple of guns. Then, with guns against unarmed people, he could be as brave as a lion!
The man kept wailing, “You lemme go. I want to be put in the coop. I wanna be arrested. Where’re the cops?”
He was not the first crook taken prisoner by The Avenger who, after one look into the glacial, pale eyes, bleated in terror to be arrested.
Benson paid no attention to the man. He was mixing a small beaker full of some red stuff that looked like blood. The thug’s eyes kept riveted to this, in fearful fascination.
“What’s that stuff? What’re you gonna do to me? I won’t swallow that stuff, if that’s the idea you got in your bonnet.”
The Avenger walked toward the man, holding the sinister-looking beaker. The man backed from him till the edge of a chair caught the backs of his legs.
He fell into it and leaned way back, still staring at the red liquid.
“This won’t taste bad at all,” came The Avenger’s voice, on a strange dead level.
Mac looked at Smitty with a grin just twitching the edge of his dour Scotch mouth. Smitty nodded, ever so little, as he got the significance of it.
“I won’t swallow that! I won’t, I tell you!” The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. He licked dry lips, staring—staring at the vial. “You turn me over to the cops.”
“Not bad at all,” said The Avenger in the level monotonous tone. “Come, now. Not—bad—at—all”
“You got no right,” the man began. His eyes had a glassy look. “You got no—”
He stopped talking. He was sitting as still as if dead, eyes wide and unblinking, like a mechanical thing rather than a human being.
It had been as simple as it was ingenious.
The Avenger, with those glittering, colorless eyes of his, was one of the world’s greatest hypnotists. But you can hypnotize a person by having him stare at an inanimate object, if
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