Read Online The Avenger 4 - The Devil’s Horns by Kenneth Robeson - Free Book Online Page B

looking around.
    Book-lined walls can sometimes conceal many unusual things. While he was searching around, Benson decided he’d better go over that, too.
    He took out every fifth book, on every shelf in the room. There was, behind them, nothing but solid wall. No safe, no concealed exit, nothing. But he did find one peculiar thing about the books themselves.
    In a lower shelf, under the barred and opaque street window, there were four books, new, on the same subject.
    That subject was paralysis.
    One title was: “Failure of the Motor Nerves, Cause and Effect.” Another: “Kephart’s Analysis of Thromboid Paralysis.” The other two were similar.
    Benson stared from the four books to the door of the old lion, Groman, a hulk waiting for death. He’d had warning of a probable stroke, it seemed, and had bought books on the subject to see what was in store for him.
    Well, he knew now, precisely, what paralysis meant!

CHAPTER VIII

Official Frameup!
    The cavernous loading platform of the White Transportation Corporation thundered with the motor of a big truck. There were six or seven giant trucks in there, ten-ton affairs, enclosed, big as boxcars. They performed the function of boxcars, too. They were designed to haul freight over long distances.
    The White Transportation Corporation had a lot of night runs. All trucking companies have. There are shipments that must be rushed to factory or consumer so as to get there first thing in the morning. Also, roads are clearer at night and better time can be made by the big vehicles.
    The White Corporation had lately abandoned all night runs made solely for their own convenience. The rush shipments, however, they could not refuse if they meant to stay in business. Though they’d have liked to refuse them. Odd and deadly things had been happening to their trucks at night.
    The foreman came up to one of the drivers. The foreman was big, but he was dwarfed by the driver. For the driver was Smitty, looking more vast than ever in dungarees and sheepskin winter coat.
    “There may be trouble, Smitty,” said the foreman. He chewed a worried lip. “This run to Youngstown takes you over a stretch of backroads detour where anything can happen.”
    That suited Smitty. The giant had joined the company looking for trouble. It was his reason for being there. If the trouble came right away—the first night—that would be fine. Save a lot of bothersome waiting.
    “You know your orders,” the foreman went on. “If anybody tries to stop you, duck, and jam the accelerator to the floor. There’s nine tons of stampings in the truck. We can’t afford to have them stolen or dumped in the river.”
    “With a couple guns pointed at your head, it might not be healthy to keep on going,” said Smitty.
    The foreman conceded that.
    “Yeah, we don’t want any funerals.”
    “You guys have got guts, to fight the racket like you’re doing,” Smitty said admiringly.
    The foreman sighed. “Maybe. The old man’s a fighter from way back. He’s lost four trucks, now. Maybe it’d be better just to join the association and pay the dues. You can’t fight all alone. And that’s the way you have to fight in Ashton City.”
    He swore.
    “If jobs weren’t so hard to find, I’d pack up and move my family to another city. I hate to have my kids grow up in such a rotten hole.”
    “Perhaps,” said Smitty, with The Avenger’s white, deadly face and the colorless, grim eyes, burning in his brain, “Ashton City will be a better place to live in, soon.”
    The foreman shrugged.
    The man who was to go with Smitty came from the lockers. The helper assigned him was a cheerful-looking red-headed youngster. He and Smitty climbed to the high cab of the monster truck.
    The motor thundered as Smitty gunned it. Then he tooled the big thing out to the street, and turned west, toward Youngstown.
    “You’re new, ain’t you?” the red-head said to Smitty.
    “Yeah!” Smitty said, huge arms moving the steering