The Avenger 22 - The Black Death
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Authors: Kenneth Robeson
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By Kenneth Robeson
#1: J
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#3: T
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#5: T
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#7: S
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#9: T
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#10: T
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#11: R
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#12: T
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#13: M
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#14: T
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#16: T
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#20: T
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WARNER PAPERBACK LIBRARY
WARNER PAPERBACK LIBRARY EDITION
F
IRST
P
RINTING
: M
ARCH
, 1974
C
OPYRIGHT
© 1942
BY
S
TREET
& S
MITH
P
UBLICATIONS
, I
NC
.
C
OPYRIGHT
R
ENEWED
1969
BY
T
HE
C
ONDÉ
N
EST
P
UBLICATIONS
, I
NC
.
A
LL
R
IGHTS
R
ESERVED
T
HIS
W
ARNER
P
APERBACK
L
IBRARY
E
DITION
IS
P
UBLISHED
BY
A
RRANGEMENT
W
ITH
T
HE
C
ONDÉ
N
EST
P
UBLICATIONS
. I
NC
.
C
OVER
I
LLUSTRATION
BY
G
EORGE
G
ROSS
W
ARNER
P
APERBACK
L
IBRARY
IS A
D
IVISION
OF
W
ARNER
B
OOKS,
75 R
OCKERFELLER
P
LAZA
, N.Y. 10019.
A Warner Communications Company
ISBN: 0-446-75-481-1
Printed in the United States of America
CHAPTER VIII: Another Man’s Face
CHAPTER XI: The Four Electricians
CHAPTER XIV: The Death Sentence
CHAPTER XVI: The Hooded Killer
THE
BLACK DEATH
Death in Sable
Three things seemed perfectly normal and ordinary on that spring afternoon. The three things were a building, a car parked in front of the building, and a man. The man’s destination, from the course he was following, might have been the building.
They
seemed
perfectly normal and ordinary, but they were not normal at all.
The building was in the center of a street that was only one short block long. The little avenue was called Bleek Street. The building in the center was really three old red-brick buildings thrown into one, though you couldn’t see that unity from the street. All you could see was that the center entrance was the only one used.
Over this center entrance was a small sign in gilt letters, which made the building unusual. The sign said, “Justice, Inc.” The building was the headquarters of the world’s most unique crime fighter, Richard Benson, more commonly known as The Avenger.
The car at the curb in front of this important structure seemed to be an ordinary sedan. It was about three or four years old, from the dullness of its paint. It was large, but of a common, medium-priced make. Only the most trained eye would have noticed how it sagged a bit on its oversized tires. This was caused by the weight of bulletproof steel sides and glass, and by many unexpected gadgets concealed under the car’s sedate exterior. For this was one of The Avenger’s cars, which meant that it was a combination traveling arsenal and laboratory.
The man just approaching the entrance of Bleek Street seemed the most ordinary-looking specimen of all.
He was middle-aged, rather slight in build, and was one of those individuals who walks with a stoop and wears his hat meekly on the exact center of his head. He had an indoor look and might have been one of a million clerks, except that he was dressed in quite expensive, though inconspicuous, clothes.
He was walking fast. And now it could be seen that he was breathing even faster. He was puffing as if he had been running hard, though actually he had not been running at all.
A still closer look revealed a gigantic fear in his eyes. A fear of imminent death! And yet it seemed even more than this. It was more horror than fear, as if the death about to strike was far more ghastly than death should ever be!
In his hand the middle-aged little man carried something that at first glance looked to be a half-crumpled handful of black tissue paper. Only the stuff was even more limp than thin tissue. It flopped around with the agitation of his hurried walk.
He carried it obliviously, stupidly, as if he didn’t really know he held it at all; as if he would have thrown it far from him in a gesture of terror if he’d realized he was carrying it.
In the midst of crowded New York, Bleek Street was an oasis of quiet. Dick Benson leased or owned all the buildings on one side of the street; the other side was entirely taken up by the blank wall of a vast warehouse. So, in effect, The Avenger owned the street. And no one went in there who hadn’t business with him.
The man with the horror-stricken eyes walked hastily. And there now seemed to be a slight change in his general coloring. It had been pallid, grayish.
Now it was darker.
Probably a score of passersby from the busy avenue at the corner saw the younger man catch up to the middle-aged one. None of them paid any attention. It looked as if one friend had caught up to another. That was all.
The younger man was about twenty-eight, quite tall, a little slouched, but with broad shoulders, and dressed in careless but excellent English tweeds. The playboy type it seemed.
He put out a long-fingered, uncalloused hand and got the older man by the shoulder.
At first the older man didn’t even seem to feel, though the grip of the long fingers crumpled his coat hard. He went right along, breathing hard, seeming darker than he had the moment before. It was a very queer darkness. It was a sort of very faint purple-black, far under the skin. Then the younger man stopped him.
The older man said something in violent protest and wrenched at the detaining hand. The fingers clamped harder. Still no one paid any attention.
The older man’s shoulder drooped, as if he were giving up whatever it was he wanted to do against the other’s protest. The grip of the long fingers must have loosened at the trick, for an instant later the older man had torn loose and was running as hard as he could down Bleek Street, toward the center building with the sign, “Justice, Inc.”
The younger man took after him.
The older man got almost to the building. Then his legs buckled, almost pitching him forward on his face. He recovered and went on. He screamed.
It was a terrible sound. It was harsh, hoarse, suffocated. He grasped his collar and tore it loose, so that it flapped at his neck, as if the thing had had a strangling tightness. In the move he dropped the floppy, flimsy black stuff he’d unconsciously held.