The Avenger 20 - The Green Killer (10 page)

There were a lot of men in the transport, but there wouldn’t be more than three at the most on the gasoline launch.

There were two. And in the darkness, intent as they were on approaching the plane that wanted refueling, they were ridiculously easy to handle. They were aware of nothing at all wrong as Dick and Mac pulled themselves up and into the boat and padded toward them.

The Avenger’s hands shot out. His steellike fingers encircled a throat and felt for the nerve center at the back. As he did so, Mac’s fist looped forward.

The Scot had a fist like a bone mallet. It clicked against a jaw, now, with a heavy, muted thump, and the man went down. An instant later Benson’s man went down, too. He would be out for many minutes from that nerve pressure. But it takes many minutes to fuel a plane. So Mac tied and gagged the men and carried them to the tiny cabin amidships.

“Okay?” said The Avenger into the night, in a low, guttural tone.

“Okay at this end,” came the equally guarded response from the plane. “Pass along the hose.”

Men were on the wings, ready to fill the tanks there. You could see them as dark blobs only. Which was good, because that meant that Mac and Benson could only be seen as dark blobs, too.

The Avenger had passed the gasoline hose to the end man on the near wing. There was a moment’s fumbling.

“Let ’er go.”

The Avenger started the fuel pump. The stream would keep everyone occupied for several minutes before that tank was filled. Benson touched Mac, and they slid onto the wingtip.

They walked toward the open port, not fast, not slow, quite as if they belonged there. They were just two dark blobs among other dark blobs. They stepped inside.

Here they couldn’t see at all. Even The Avenger’s marvelous eyes couldn’t penetrate the blackness. But they could sense a lot of men in the cavernous cabin. Then one spoke.

“I don’t see why we couldn’t have just one small light,” came an irritable voice. “You can’t see your hand in front of your face.”

Mac stiffened and felt a slight tensing of the body beside him as The Avenger caught it, too.

It was Heber who had spoken. The man they were after. Benson started slowly toward him.

“Pipe down,” somebody said to Heber. “Why show even one small light for somebody to come and investigate? It’s a wonder we haven’t had ten yaps in canoes gawking around, anyhow, after the splash we made landing.”

“But just for a minute—”

Mac nodded. Heber, the captive, was trying to reveal the presence of the plane to anyone on shore who might be alert. That might result in an investigation and a chance for him to get free from the gang.

“No!”

“I—” Heber began.

That was all he said. There was silence. Then a slight flurry of feet. Mac began to sweat blood. The anesthetizing nerve pressure on the back of the neck was all right, but it didn’t work instantly. As plainly as though he could see, Mac knew what had happened.

Benson, not trying to communicate with Heber in the midst of this mob, had found his throat and pressed to put him to sleep. But in the meantime, Heber was managing to wiggle around a little in spite of the iron vise of The Avenger’s hands.

“Hey, what’re you making such a noise for?” came a suspicious voice.

Mac said instantly, “I’m only scratchin’. Can’t a guy scratch his back?”

“Sounds like you were scratching it with a boat hook.”

The flurry of sound had ceased. A hand touched his wrist, pressed it. The pressure told Mac that The Avenger had Heber and they could go now.

He edged toward the door.

Somebody said, “Maybe we better have a light, at that, for a second.”

And a flashlight winked on.

In that cramped space it could hardly fail to show what was happening. The ray, however, didn’t just hint at something wrong; it lit squarely on Benson, showing him with the limp Heber in his arms and edging toward the door.

There was stunned silence for half a second. Mac’s flying foot caught the hand holding the flashlight, and it winked out. And after that, about six platoons of men seemingly swarmed all over Mac and Benson.

The bony Scot uttered a war whoop and began to hit out with deadly fists. There couldn’t be any shooting or knifing in those cramped quarters. It was fists or clubs alone. His fists were as good as any club.

Beside him, Mac felt a one-man hurricane, which was The Avenger in action. And he heard a couple of shrieks as those iron hands fastened on someone. Then the Scot felt Benson’s steely fingers on his own wrist.

He was urged forward and down, cramped between a couple of the transport’s seats. But behind him, he heard the fight rage on just the same.

“Chief?” he whispered doubtfully to the man beside him, lips to ear.

Another pressure reassured him. This was Benson, all right. The Avenger had attacked several men from right and left angles that had drawn each to the other. They were now viciously and industriously fighting themselves.

“I’ve got one of ’em,” a voice ground out. “Club—”

The voice stopped with a thwack of something on bone.

“Get Heber! We got to have Heber.”

The voices were sounding a little behind them, now, for the reason that Mac and Benson were crawling over seats toward the rear of the cabin. They made it as the sounds of battle were diminishing.

The scrambling, striking men were beginning to wonder if everything was as it should be.

“Get that light, somebody,” bawled a man. “Maybe we’ve knocked ’em out. Or maybe—”

Mac felt the rear cabin door, leading into the baggage space in the tail, under his fingers. He opened it and stepped through with Benson, who had Heber effortlessly over his shoulder.

Mac shut the metal door and felt a slide bolt. The transport had been a passenger plane. The men’s lounge was back here, with a fastening bolt. They were safe in here for a moment. Nobody had a way to get in till they’d knocked that sturdy panel down.

But there was no way to get out, either. That is, there was no way till The Avenger reminded Mac of something.

“Got your little torch with you, Mac?”

“Whoosh!” said the Scot. “Of course.”

The thing he took from his pocket looked like a perfume atomizer that might have been found in a boudoir. Only in the belly of the little thing was not perfume, but acetylene. This, in special pellets, produced a flame equal to the best a large blowtorch could produce.

Mac lighted it and began applying the intense blue pinpoint of flame to the metal wall between ribs of the tail.

Duralumin will take a lot of punishment, but not too much heat. The little flame sliced along like a knife through butter. A section fell out, and cool night air came in. But Mac wasn’t quite through.

There was a furious hammering at the door, and thuds which told that any minute it would go down. But Mac had seen a cable in the light of the tiny flame. An exposed control cable. So he took time to play the flame on that.

The cable fell limply apart after a few seconds like a wet piece of spaghetti. And then he and The Avenger, carrying Heber, went through the uneven opening to the lake.

“The boat,” whispered Benson.

They paddled to it. There were shouts. “They cut out of here. They’re in the water. Light up! Get ’em!”

A flashlight began to dart around over the water. Mac and Benson hauled Heber into the boat. Heber was still out. The flash lit on them.

They ducked as shots began to splash around. Mac jumped to the engine and started it, and The Avenger shot into reverse. The gas hose was still trailing over the side to the transport wing, hooking boat and plane together for the moment. Benson severed the hose with a flashing stroke of a fire ax, kept handy on the gasoline launch.

Then they were gone with Heber. Luck is apt to favor those who have courage, strength, and wit, and once again luck had thrown her weight heavily in the balance in favor of The Avenger.

Dick, face as calm as if they’d just returned from a small fishing trip, said to Mac:

“Take the wheel, will you? Just circle the lake, slowly, out of range of those on the transport.”

“They can taxi after us,” remonstrated Mac. “They can’t take off with that control cable cut, but they can taxi over the water far faster than this tub can—”

“They won’t taxi anywhere,” said Benson evenly. “Before starting the gasoline pump to refuel them, I detached the hose from pump to boat tank and trailed the end over the side.”

Mac gaped. The hose was still trailing, from fuel pump to lake. The harder the pump had turned, the more plain, ordinary lake water had shot into a fuel tank.

The Scot laughed. “So ye filled them up with lake water! I’ll say they’ll not follow us.”

He began cruising in wide circles, and Dick took from its waterproof case the tiny microphone belonging with his belt radio.

“Smitty. Benson calling. Smitty.”

Instantly came the response. The giant was pretty near, too, from the volume.

“Okay. Go ahead.”

“We’re ready to be picked up, Smitty,” said Benson evenly. “I’m afraid you’ll have to land on this lake. There isn’t another landing place for too many miles for Mac and me to walk to. Watch out for the transport.”

There was a slight hesitation, then Smitty’s steady voice. “Right. Here we come.”

There was no sound from the sky, so he was gliding her down. Eighteen or twenty miles away, perhaps. From high enough, he could do that with ease.

Benson saw it first. Mac didn’t see a thing, though he was looking right at the plane. He didn’t have the powerful vision that belonged to the pale, infallible eyes of The Avenger.

“Hope the big fellow doesn’t hit that transporrt,” the Scot burred uneasily.

The Avenger said nothing. Seeing the approaching plane, he also saw that it was headed pretty directly for the dark transport where shots and yells had stilled, unfortunately, some minutes ago.

The plane could be heard, now, whistling through the air. And it was ruinously headed! It would hit surely!

Benson grabbed up a five-gallon can of gasoline from a stack of similar cans, smashed in the top with the ax, then touched a match to it. He tossed it over the side.

The flare came just in time. The plane lifted like a startled water bird, just cleared the transport—from which shots and yells began to sound again—and then settled.

Benson brought the boat to it, then hauled Heber aboard. Smitty took off again. And that was that.

“My golly, you got him!” said Nellie, staring at Heber.

Smitty stared at nothing. His voice was shaky. “Boy, I almost rammed that crate of theirs!”

“Why not?” commented Nellie. “As a pilot, you’re a good mechanic. When I’ve had time to give you a few more lessons, you won’t do so badly.”

“You? Me? Lessons?” bellowed Smitty, enraged.

While they were squabbling, Heber snapped out of it.

“Hey!” he said, looking up into the glacial, colorless eyes of The Avenger. Not an emotion was in those eyes, not a hint of whatever thoughts were in the marvelous, cold brain behind them. “Hey!”

Heber sat up and looked wildly around.

“Take it easy, mon,” said Mac. “Ye’re safe. We rescued ye from the skurlies.”

“Oh!” Heber relaxed. “Oh, that’s swell!” He closed his eyes.

The change in Heber in this short time was incredible. He didn’t look at all like an ape—his legs were pretty well straightened out; the low forehead was not so low because he seemed to have shed a fringe of hair.

Suddenly he struggled upright again as the plane winged along south.

“That antitoxin!” he said in anguish. “They took it. And my hypodermic needle!”

“That’s all right.” Benson’s basilisk eyes never left Heber’s agonized face. “You won’t need any more of it.”

“You mean I’m cured already? That’s pretty quick-acting stuff.”

“You’ll be perfectly well,” Dick said.

Heber sighed and once more closed his eyes. After a moment, the evenness of his breathing indicated that he was asleep after the strain he’d been through.

Smitty called from the controls, “Better have a little gas, chief.”

The Avenger knew approximately how much was left in the tanks without consulting the gauges. There was plenty for them to cross the Gulf.

“We’ll get it at Cayenne,” he said.

They took turns napping, then, taking turns also at the controls, and heading for French Guiana in the meantime.

The day was just being born as they got there. Benson took over in the pink dawn and headed for a spot near Cayenne where there was a dock with gas tanks on it. The Avenger had friends everywhere, in all stations of life, from prime ministers to stevedores. Among this motley and vast array was the proprietor of this maritime gas station.

They all stretched and rubbed their eyes as Dick scaled past a rusty tramp freighter and taxied up to a rotting wharf on the other side of which was moored an odorous banana boat.

“Welcome to South America,” said Nellie sleepily.

But it was the devil of a welcome South America was going to give to them!

Benson awakened his friend. The man had a shack on the land end of the wharf, where he apparently lived as well as worked. He was a big, greasy chap with a wide smile and eyes that were doglike in their honesty.