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Authors: Kenneth Robeson
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forward with business that usually took precedence over everything else. Proofs of the next edition.
“Get out of here!” squalled the managing editor. “I’m busy! Can’t you see that?”
“But—” began the man, in wonder. “These gotta be back down right away or—”
“Beat it, I said! And take that stuff with you!”
But the boss was a little too late. Benson’s hand, with its long, steely fingers, was out in an imperative gesture. The pressman found himself handing over the proof sheets without quite knowing why.
Both the reporter and the editor tried to grab them from Benson’s hand. But he had already read the screaming headline:
LOOP BUILDING FALLS!
Benson snatched up a phone and got headquarters. He turned from a few brief words, and his eyes were flames as they flared at the editor.
“No Loop building has fallen, yet. But you get out this extra! That means that you have reason to believe a skyscraper will fall very soon. About the time this paper can get to the streets. What reason have you to believe such a thing?”
Both were still, like frightened animals in the face of the glare from the deadly, colorless eyes. Benson’s hand went out. It got the reporter’s collar. He hauled the man to him as if he had been a child, though the reporter was a bigger man.
“Tell me—or be indicted for murder that you might have prevented! For if a building falls—with your knowledge of it in advance—people will die.”
“There was nothing I could do!” bleated the reporter. “The guy told me a building would fall at about six thirty, to prove his story.” He straightened, and there was a certain dignity about him for a moment. He worked for a paper that was a bad smell among news mediums, but there were things he would not do.
“I was going to turn him over to the cops,” he said. “I swear it! But I guess he’d figured that out in advance. Anyhow, he belted me one with a sap or something. Knocked me out. When I came to, he was gone. Look.”
He pushed back hat and hair and showed a livid blue bruise above his right temple.
“What was I to do after that? If I told the cops, all the papers in town would have the story in ten minutes from the police blotter, and there’d go my scoop. Anyhow, the cops won’t be able to do anything, because the attack is coming from the air.”
“So you did nothing,” Benson said, voice brittle.
Again, for an instant, the reporter was not without dignity.
“I got in touch with Fort Sheridan. At any minute now, all the planes up there will be in the air, to circle over Chicago all night, if necessary, and keep the thing from happening—”
“They won’t be able to prevent it—as you’re very sure right now, or you wouldn’t have gotten out this extra,” Benson said. “Turn every effort to tracking down the man who calls himself Carlisle. Understand? Report to me at the Wheeler Hotel.”
He went out, not seeming to exert himself but moving with a speed that strained the eye to keep up with it.
Benson went to the hotel, to his topfloor headquarters. And there he learned for the first time that Nellie Gray had gone out with a man named Carlisle. Mac, who had come to the hotel before Benson, had already heard and was wild with anxiety.
Benson heard from Josh of the ruse that had been pulled. He, Benson, had supposedly sent word for her to bring concentrated sulphuric acid to the railroad station, so he could conduct a rough test on a rail. It was a simple, clever story that might have taken anyone in.
But Benson dared not take time to try to find her now.
“Mac,” he said, “go to the yacht club and get the plane from her moorings. Have her warmed up and ready for instant use.”
Mac went out. Benson took from one of the trunks, that formed a compact traveling laboratory, a small but beautifully complete recording device, equipped with radio amplifier, that would have amazed any of the big electrical-research laboratories.
The Avenger
“Get out of here!” squalled the managing editor. “I’m busy! Can’t you see that?”
“But—” began the man, in wonder. “These gotta be back down right away or—”
“Beat it, I said! And take that stuff with you!”
But the boss was a little too late. Benson’s hand, with its long, steely fingers, was out in an imperative gesture. The pressman found himself handing over the proof sheets without quite knowing why.
Both the reporter and the editor tried to grab them from Benson’s hand. But he had already read the screaming headline:
LOOP BUILDING FALLS!
Benson snatched up a phone and got headquarters. He turned from a few brief words, and his eyes were flames as they flared at the editor.
“No Loop building has fallen, yet. But you get out this extra! That means that you have reason to believe a skyscraper will fall very soon. About the time this paper can get to the streets. What reason have you to believe such a thing?”
Both were still, like frightened animals in the face of the glare from the deadly, colorless eyes. Benson’s hand went out. It got the reporter’s collar. He hauled the man to him as if he had been a child, though the reporter was a bigger man.
“Tell me—or be indicted for murder that you might have prevented! For if a building falls—with your knowledge of it in advance—people will die.”
“There was nothing I could do!” bleated the reporter. “The guy told me a building would fall at about six thirty, to prove his story.” He straightened, and there was a certain dignity about him for a moment. He worked for a paper that was a bad smell among news mediums, but there were things he would not do.
“I was going to turn him over to the cops,” he said. “I swear it! But I guess he’d figured that out in advance. Anyhow, he belted me one with a sap or something. Knocked me out. When I came to, he was gone. Look.”
He pushed back hat and hair and showed a livid blue bruise above his right temple.
“What was I to do after that? If I told the cops, all the papers in town would have the story in ten minutes from the police blotter, and there’d go my scoop. Anyhow, the cops won’t be able to do anything, because the attack is coming from the air.”
“So you did nothing,” Benson said, voice brittle.
Again, for an instant, the reporter was not without dignity.
“I got in touch with Fort Sheridan. At any minute now, all the planes up there will be in the air, to circle over Chicago all night, if necessary, and keep the thing from happening—”
“They won’t be able to prevent it—as you’re very sure right now, or you wouldn’t have gotten out this extra,” Benson said. “Turn every effort to tracking down the man who calls himself Carlisle. Understand? Report to me at the Wheeler Hotel.”
He went out, not seeming to exert himself but moving with a speed that strained the eye to keep up with it.
Benson went to the hotel, to his topfloor headquarters. And there he learned for the first time that Nellie Gray had gone out with a man named Carlisle. Mac, who had come to the hotel before Benson, had already heard and was wild with anxiety.
Benson heard from Josh of the ruse that had been pulled. He, Benson, had supposedly sent word for her to bring concentrated sulphuric acid to the railroad station, so he could conduct a rough test on a rail. It was a simple, clever story that might have taken anyone in.
But Benson dared not take time to try to find her now.
“Mac,” he said, “go to the yacht club and get the plane from her moorings. Have her warmed up and ready for instant use.”
Mac went out. Benson took from one of the trunks, that formed a compact traveling laboratory, a small but beautifully complete recording device, equipped with radio amplifier, that would have amazed any of the big electrical-research laboratories.
The Avenger
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