The Avenger 1 - Justice, Inc. (18 page)

“A hole in the cliff!” said Benson, pale eyes blazing. “That’s their dock!”

MacMurdie nodded. The meaning was plain.

“And that’s our island dead ahead,” added Benson.

Even from that distance the two could see the tree resembling a setting hen.

Benson slid the clutch, and the motor started bearing the motor cruiser toward the island.

“Mon, mon!” expostulated MacMurdie. “ ’Tis broad daylight. We haven’t a chance of landing on that island, with no guessin’ how many of the murderous rats waiting to greet us. We ought to wait till night—”

“We go now,” said Benson. There was death in the pale eyes. “My . . . wife and daughter . . . may be on that island, Mac. And every passing hour might make it too late.”

“But the minute one of the skurlies sees us, the game is over,” said MacMurdie earnestly.

“I think not,” said Benson. “Bring Murdock into the light.”

Benson dug around and found a half of a cracked mirror. He propped Murdock on the floor, back against the wall, and sat beside the still-unconscious man. Mac held the mirror so that both faces, side by side, were reflected for comparison.

Man of a thousand facesl That was what Benson had become with the shock that killed the flesh of his countenance. Till now, he had used this odd phenomenon only incidentally. Now he utilized it to the full. And the result was something like magic. Anyhow, it left MacMurdie mumbling under his breath.

Murdock had a flat face. Benson massaged his own cheeks and forehead till some of that flat look was attained. It was mainly illusion, for the bony structure under the plastic flesh was unchangeable. But the illusion was startling, artistically good.

Murdock had high cheekbones. Benson massaged the flesh of his face up and forward a little. The flesh stayed where it was left—and he had high cheekbones.

Murdock had a faint cleft in his chin. Benson pressed the tip of his thumb against the gruesomely plastic flesh at the tip of his jaw—and a small cleft appeared.

When the miracle was done, Benson’s face resembled Murdock’s as a blurred carbon copy resembles an original letter. With the two faces side by side in the mirror there was, of course, no question of telling which was which. But separate the two, and the resemblance would hold!

“Mon, ye ought to go on the stage!”

Benson didn’t answer. He stripped the ancient pants and sweater from Murdock’s unconscious body and donned them. They were too big for him.

“Your height and your eyes,” said MacMurdie, “are what will give ye away.”

Murdock’s eyes were muddy brown. Benson narrowed his pale-gray eyes sleepily, to minimize the difference. Later, in a life destined to be perilous and active as the lives of few men ever are, he would have a dozen pairs of shell-thin eyeball glasses, with different-colored pupils, to slip over the telltale gray flames in his dead face. But he had no such thing now.

Later, he would have dozens of pairs of shoes, with varying thickness of soles or with no soles at all, to change his height. But he could only bear himself on tiptoe, now, to reach some of Murdock’s slouching stature.

“All we want is to land,” Benson said. “This ought to get us ashore. After that—”

He went aft, to the cockpit controls, and slipped the hook from the wheel. The boat, held on its course by the hook, was very near the island.

“Inside, Mac.”

MacMurdie hid in the cabin, beside Murdock’s still form. Benson sent the boat straight at the low cliff.

There was no hole in sight!

Benson’s pale eyes widened a little. There had to be a hole there! The chart showed it. Meanwhile, he didn’t dare slacken speed or show uncertainty. It might be noted from the shore and arouse suspicion.

It wasn’t until the prow of the fast boat was within fifty yards of the cliff that a rocky knob just off-shore was passed enough to reveal the water-edge cavern. Benson breathed a sigh and sent the boat into it at reduced speed.

Not far back in there was a roughly leveled rock ledge. There was a mooring ring in it. Benson brought the boat to a stop and moored it. There was a sound of steps.

He looked around and saw a crude stairway, cut in the rock, leading up. A man appeared at the foot of these, a bald-headed, paunchy fellow with a gash for a mouth.

“Took your time, didn’t you, Murdock?” snarled the man. “You know we want that insulin fast. And the other supplies.”

In the cabin, MacMurdie literally held his breath. Benson calmly straightened up from the mooring ring, and took a step toward the paunchy man.

The man stared pugnaciously at the flat face with the high cheekbones and the cleft chin. The face of Murdock.

“Farr wants to see you right away. He wants to work on Vincent some more, and you’re the boy for that, with your little tricks—” The man stopped, then stared, slack-jawed.

“Hey! You’re not Murdock—”

Size and eye color had given Benson away. But not till the resemblance had let him get near the man—which was all Benson had asked it to do.

Benson leaped. The man crashed back against the rock cave wall, with hands like a steel vice at his throat. He tore and twisted and turned, and could not break the pressure.

MacMurdie came from the cabin. Benson’s eyes held a reflection of Alicia and little Alice, victims of this man among others. The flaming pale orbs also, for an instant, held madness.

But before the purpling unconsciousness of the man could pass into the blackness of death, Benson forced his eager hands to relax their grip.

He laid the man down, and MacMurdie, with rope from the boat’s locker and swabs of waste from the same source, bound and gagged him and the still-unconscious Murdock.

Then the two went up the rock stairs.

The stone steps ended in a clump of bushes cleverly concealing them from any chance walker on the ground.

They peered from the bushes at an old house a hundred yards away.

The house was big and rambling. In its day it had been quite a summer estate. But it was boarded up now, with weeds where a lawn had been. A falling-down little sign announced the place as Thornacre Hall. Benson nodded.

“Thornacre. A Buffalo realtor. Died a few years ago, and his estate has been tied up in the courts ever since. This place among the rest of the things—evidently-closed and unused. Nice spot for a hideout.”

Benson was still in the old pants and sweater and still wore the amazingly good likeness of Murdock’s face instead of his own. MacMurdie shivered a little and looked away.

“House?” he said succinctly.

Benson nodded.

Mac sighed dolefully. “We’ll do no good there,” he said, pessimism blanketing him with gloom. “They’ll be three or four to one, with machine guns and all. We won’t get to first base, Muster Benson.”

Benson was beginning to understand this sail-eared, huge-footed assistant of his; was beginning to understand that before action the dour Scot was sure always of disaster, but in action was a devil on wheels and equally sure of success, no matter how improbable.

Benson’s pale-gray eyes almost smiled in the white, still mask of his face—or, rather, of Murdock’s face.

“Come along,” he said.

Bushes to tree to stack of underbrush piled long ago by a neat gardner to burn but never fired. Underbrush to low stone wall to the edge of the lawn. And there they paused a moment

“We’re stuck, mon. We could never cross that cleared space without being seen—”

“The weeds are shoulder-high,” Benson said quietly. “We’ll crawl.”

They started. Over their heads as they inched forward with toes and elbows the weeds waved sinuously, but there was a little breeze blowing to cover that.

And then the breeze suddenly stopped, and MacMurdie didn’t! The movement above him was a dead give-away if anybody was looking.

A shout from the house told that someone was. “Hey! What’s that out there in the weeds—” The wicked snout of a submachine gun poked in that direction. The gunner drew a careful bead—

In the basement of the rambling, boarded-up house, Smitty lay along the wall as well as his chains would permit, resting a little. Even his gigantic strength had been frayed a bit that night. For hours on end he had stood or sat in strained positions, rasping his arm irons against the wall behind him.

It had chewed on the nerves of the others.

“For Heaven’s sake!” Andrews had snapped raggedly. “Stop that infernal noise, will you?”

“What do you think you’re doing?” Vincent had put in. “You think you can wear through chains that size? Don’t be a fool, man!”

And toward the end, Mrs. Martineau had developed an excellent case of hysterics. But the noise had gone on.

After a little rest, Smitty stood up and turned to the wall. He held the metal band on his left wrist so it would not bite too deep into the flesh and pulled.

His vast back and shoulders knotted and rippled. His arms corded like tree trunks. His huge hands went milk-white with strain.

And the chain link welded to the iron wrist band snapped where the rubbing had worn it thin.

The right chain followed, and Smitty was held only by the leg irons. He stooped down.

Then he straightened in a hurry, grasped the broken ends of the chain and stood with his hands behind him as if he were still confined. He’d heard steps and seen the solid basement door start to open. The gang here had neglected him for a long time. Apparently they were ready to give him their attention now.

Through the basement door came three men. The one in the lead was a powerfully built fellow with a face a little less coarse than the faces of the other two, but even more cruel. He was dressed in a dapper, streamlined way. He came up to Smitty. The other two stood just behind him.

“So this is the guy you picked off the boat last night,” the dapper man said, looking at Smitty.

“Yeah, Farr,” said one of the other two. Smitty’s muscles tightened. This was the leader here.

“And you don’t know how he got on?”

“Nope.”

“Well,” said Farr, smiling evilly at the giant, “we’ll soon find out. Who are you?”

The question was addressed to Smitty. The giant said nothing.

“Not talking, eh?” said Farr. He turned to the other two. “He’ll be all right in those chains, big as he is. Beat it up and keep watch with the others. I don’t like this guy’s presence. There may be others around.”

The two men who had come as Farr’s bodyguard left. Smitty stared expressionlessly at Farr.

The dapper big man put his hand in his pocket and drew it out with a shiny object in it. The object was a pair of pliers.

Farr grinned. “See these? They’ll make you talk. Now—who are you? What are you doing here? How did you get here? Are there any of your pals around near the island?”

Smitty said nothing.

Farr leaned nearer. “You’d better speak up. You’ve no idea what an ordinary pair of pliers can do to a guy. Still not talking? O.K.—”

Farr reached for the giant’s cheek, with the pliers open and their toothed jaws parted.

On the other side of the basement, Mrs. Martineau screamed wildly. Farr paid no attention. The four men—Leon was on his feet now—shivered and turned away. Mrs. Martineau screamed again and collapsed.

The pliers almost touched Smitty’s flesh—and Smitty smiled and whipped his vast right hand around from behind him.

Farr, with sudden horror in his eyes, tried to leap back. He was too slow. The hand got his throat. Just one hand. But it was enough.

Farr was a strong man himself, in a normal way. But normal strength was a joke when stacked up against Smitty’s gigantic bulk. Farr beat at the iron wrist behind the huge hand—and didn’t weaken the grip in the least. He sagged with all his weight to tear loose—and was held firmly upright at the end of one rigid, tremendous arm.

When he really did collapse, Smitty held him up that way for another thirty seconds to make good and sure he was out. Then he opened his hand. Farr fell like a wet sack.

“Good heavens!” breathed Vincent.

“Young man,” said Old Ironsides, sideburns bristling, “that was miraculous. There was only one thing wrong. You shouldn’t have opened your hand so soon. If you knew what that fiend has put us through—”

Smitty paid no attention to them. He was sitting on the basement floor, face to the wall. He caught hold of the chain manacling his left foot, placed his feet against the wall, too, for a greater brace, and pulled on that chain.

The others watched him, scarcely breathing, knowing that they were seeing something they’d probably never see duplicated again. And the giant’s back arched and strained, and his hands went milk-white again.

The other chains had been weakened by the rasping of the end links against stone. But these had not been similarly weakened. But, on the other hand, with these Smitty was able to get the full purchase of arms and back, chest and legs.

Two hundred and eighty-five pounds of solid muscles heaved on the two-foot length of chain. And in the center, a link not brazed at the ends as solidly as the rest, abruptly straightened and let go.

The chain on his right leg pulled free from the wall, taking staple and some of the wall with it. And Smitty was free. He walked to the nearest basement window, trembling a little, for even his almost incalculable strength had been overstrained a bit. But the tremors soon subsided, and he went to work on the window bars.

The whole grating, four bars and an iron frame, ripped loose in its stone sill under his Gargantuan tugging. But before he could give it the final yank that would tear it completely out, there was a cry from one of the men at his back. Vincent.

“That man Farr! Watch out!”

Smitty whirled—and leaped. But he was too late. Farr had come to a little sooner than expected. He had crept to the door while everyone was breathlessly watching the giant’s incredible feat of strength. Now he had the door open.

“Everybody! Down here!” he shouted hoarsely, as loud as his bruised throat would permit. “Here! Quick! The big fella’s loose!”

Then he was outside and had slammed the door and bolted it, just as Smitty thudded against the panels to follow him. Smitty leaped for the window and completed tearing the bars out. He poked his head out—and instantly fell back in again.