Read Online The Avenger 32 - The Death Machine by Kenneth Robeson - Free Book Online Page A

nephew Algy speak fondly of you.”
    “Algy? Oh, you mean Smitty.”
    “Yes, that’s what he persists in calling himself. I can’t imagine why anyone with a name as delightful as Algernon Heathcote Smith would prefer to be known as Smitty. It sounds like something out of the funny papers. And what brings you here, Mr. Early?”
    “Stupidity,” answered Early. “I made the mistake of walking in here alone.”
    “Ah, we share that fault.”
    “Why’d you come to this winery?”
    “I had no choice.” Uncle Algernon began to make his way across the stone floor. “I had a sudden insight into the case, and it led me to rush into one of these rascals’ strongholds.”
    “Another location, you mean?”
    “Yes, a once flourishing restaurant called the Pirate Castle.”
    “Heard of it.”
    “I’d barely had an opportunity to case the joint when I was sapped. I awoke inside a sack, bound and gagged. You, I take it, came directly here.”
    “Yeah, I was following up a different clue. They got the drop on me, though,” Early admitted. “Listen, Dr. Heathcote, did you tell your nephew where you were going?”
    “Alas, no.”
    “My men don’t know where I am exactly either,” said the young agent. “Well, it could be worse.”
    “In what way?” asked Uncle Algernon.

    “You wouldn’t make an exception even for honeymooners?” asked Cole, grinning persuasively at Giacomo Macri.
    The plump man shook his head. He was standing in the shade of a tree at the edge of the parking area. “We had to call off all the winery tours for a week, on account of illness in the family.”
    “Darn it,” said Nellie, who was holding onto Cole’s arm with every appearance of affection. “We did so want to tour your establishment. It would be a real feather in our cap when we get back to Rocky Point, Long Island. That’s where we hail from, Rocky Point, New York.”
    “And that’s where we’ve built our little dream house, as we call it, Mr. Macri.”
    “Yeah, you make me feel bad, but no dice.”
    “One moment, brother,” said the tall bald Giuseppe as he stepped forth from the brick building. “I’m sure we can waive the rules this once.”
    “What you mean? You told me—”
    “Now, now, Giacomo, we can surely make an exception for such a pleasant couple as this. Your names are . . . ?”
    “Mr. and Mrs. Henry Kingsley,” said Cole, “of Rocky Point, Long Island.”
    “I’m happy to meet you. Now if you’ll follow me, I’ll be pleased to personally escort you around.” He turned, made his way along a flagstone path which wound round the nearest building and to the entrance of the next one over.
    “And are you one of the brothers, too?” asked Nellie.
    “Forgive me, Mrs. Kingsley. Yes, I am Giuseppe Macri, the eldest.” He reached out to push open a red wooden door. “We can begin our tour here, although it’s one of the final steps.”
    A large chuffing and rattling bottling machine was in operation in the lofty room he escorted them into. The empty green bottles came marching in at one end of the room and then, after being filled, went curving around on a conveyor.
    “Looks like a Fortune cover come to life,” observed Cole.
    “We’re running our vin blanc at the moment,” said the bald man. “An undistinguished wine, if you’ll pardon my frankness. Since the war, and the resultant difficulty in obtaining French wines, our blanc has become quite popular.”
    “That’s a very distinctive label you have,” said Cole. “With that almost art nouveau drawing of daisies.”
    “That,” said Giuseppe, his lips curling. “My late father was quite fond of the drawing, a bit of amateur artwork he had done late in the last century. Unfortunately it’s become so identified with us that getting rid of it now would be quite impossible.”
    “Print your labels here, do you?” asked Nellie as she watched the bottles go rattling by.
    “Yes, we have a small press back this way. If you’ve seen