The Avenger 32 - The Death Machine (8 page)

“Want some information about your trucks,” said Early.

“You’re in the government, could you see about getting us enough gas? I been down to the—”

“Don’t talk his arm and leg off, Giacomo,” said a tall bald man who appeared behind the plump man. “Ask Mr. Early to step inside, and we’ll see what we can do to help him. I am Giuseppe Macri.”

“Come on in, sure.” Giacomo stepped aside.

Early walked into a room with its walls lined with kegs of wine.

There was a third Macri brother in the room. And he held a .45 automatic pointed right at Early.

Smitty’s big fist hammered on the thick door, making the brass knocker dance. The sound seemed to fill the entire block of large homes.

“Maybe he’s already knocked himself off,” said the giant.

“More likely everyone is sound asleep,” suggested the Avenger. “It’s nearly one
A.M.
”

Smitty delivered another series of hefty blows to the door of Dr. Dahler’s San Francisco home.

The porch light blossomed. The door opened a few inches. “Land sakes, what is it?”

“It’s important that we see Dr. Dahler at once,” Benson told the bathrobed housemaid.

“He’s not a medical doctor. You’ve probably got the—”

“We know who he is. We must see him.”

“He isn’t here anyhow.” She started to shut the door.

“Hey!” Smitty thrust a huge foot out in time to halt the door.

“He isn’t here,” repeated the maid. “And if you don’t mind get your—”

“This is very important,” said Benson, “or we wouldn’t have bothered you at this time of night. Is Mrs. Dahler at home?”

“She is, but I’m not going to disturb her at—”

“What is it, Neva?” asked a voice in the hall.

“Couple of crazy men, Mrs. Dahler.”

“I’m Richard Henry Benson,” said the Avenger. “I have reason to believe your husband is in danger.”

“Richard Henry . . . are you the man they call the Avenger?”

“He sure is, lady.”

“Please, come in.”

“You sure, Mrs. Dahler? They been acting awful strange and—”

“Yes, it’s all right, Neva.”

Mrs. Dahler was a tall grey-haired woman, wearing a pale blue housecoat. She took the two men into a large living room. “Now, Mr. Benson, what exactly is this all about?”

“Perhaps you’re aware, Mrs. Dahler, that several prominent scientists in the Bay Area have apparently committed suicide recently.”

“Yes,” she said, putting a hand on the arm of a chair to steady herself. “You don’t mean my husband has—”

“As far as I know nothing has happened to your husband . . . yet,” said the Avenger. “But we have information that he may be the next victim.”

“Victim? I don’t understand . . .”

“Somebody’s making these guys knock themselves off, Mrs. Dahler,” explained Smitty. “They got a machine that hypnotizes folks into suicide.”

“You mean . . . none of these others really did kill themselves?”

“That’s right,” said Benson. “Can you tell us where to find your husband?”

She touched her fingertips to her pale cheek. “Well, yes,” she said. “More or less, You see, he’s taken a few days off. It’s the first free time he’s had and I told him he really must go some place and relax. I’d have gone with him except I’ve had a touch of the flu and am really not up to the kind of rugged vacation he enjoys most. So he and Professor Markowitz have gone—”

“Holy cow!” said Smitty. “Both of them together.”

“What do you mean . . . ?”

“Professor Markowitz is also on the list of victims,” said the Avenger.

The woman sat down in the chair she’d been holding onto. “You know, I usually pride myself on being able to sense what’s coming . . . little hunches and premonitions. But this time I really had no hint of anything bad coming. I was pleased that they’d—”

“Where did they go?” asked Benson.

“My husband is fascinated by ghost towns, Mr. Benson. The deserted towns that are the lefovers of the various gold rushes. He and Professor Markowitz left yesterday morning for a town about two hundred miles north of us. It’s called Nolanville.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of that,” said Benson. “Now, is there any way you can reach your husband, get a message to him?”

She shook her head forlornly. “No, none. That was one of the advantages of this sort of vacation for him . . . no one would be able to reach him. He’s been working so very—”

“In case he should contact you, tell him to be very careful. We’ll be in Nolanville tomorrow sometime.”

“Is he . . . really in danger?”

“Yes,” said the Avenger.

Yawning, Smitty said, “They could use a couple skyscrapers around here to break the monotony.”

The country they were driving through was flat and yellow. Low, bare hills rose up along the horizon, and an occasional stunted tree grew nearer at hand. It was midday and hot.

“People don’t come out to these spots for the pleasures of civilization,” said Dick Benson.

“As long as we got a civilization, more or less, I figure we might as well use it.” Smitty drummed his fingertips on the steering wheel for a moment. “You don’t suppose Unc is on anybody’s list, do you?”

“Since he’s not involved in government work, it seems doubtful.”

“I still don’t get why he wasn’t hanging around my hotel room when I went back to grab a little shuteye last night.”

“You have been urging him to get a room of his own someplace or go back to his rented place in Berkeley.”

“He would have left some message if he was moving out,” said Smitty. “And I hope he didn’t go back to Berkeley. From what we heard from Cole and Nellie before taking off on this jaunt of ours, it ain’t too healthy over there. What with robust frat types dropping over dead and all.”

The Avenger leaned back in his seat, steepled his finger beneath his chin. “When we get back from Nolanville I’d like to look into the background of the boy who killed himself.”

Smitty asked, “What do you think about that clue Cole says he found when he was going through the kid’s stuff?”

“It’s worth following up.”

“Yeah, but those college kids nowadays drink a lot. Maybe that guy just saved the labels off his own wine bottles.”

“No, the half-dozen Macri Brothers Winery labels Cole found had never been affixed to anything,” said Benson. “Which indicates he got them where the bottling is done.”

“So maybe he took a tour of the wineries. I seen a guy with a funny hat out in front of the hotel selling bus rides and he was spieling about going through wineries and seeing the vats and all that.”

“Yes, that’s possible. But I think it’s worth a trip up to the winery on Cole’s part.”

“And Nellie,” added Smitty.

“That’s what’s bothering you, is it?”

“Naw, but I don’t like the idea of Cole taking her on a wild goose chase while everybody else is working.”

“We may be on a wild goose chase ourselves,” said Benson. “It all depends on how accurate Dr. Friessen’s information is.”

“I trust him more than I do a pocketful of labels,” said the giant. “Hey, there it is!”

They had come around a bend and there ahead of them was Nolanville, still about a mile away. There was not much to the ghost town. A few blocks of tumbledown wooden buildings, many of them boxlike with ornate false fronts.

“Looks like something out of a Gene Autry movie,” said Smitty.

“And there’s a car,” said Benson.

They could see a station wagon up ahead, parked in the dusty main street of the town. An old station wagon, with wooden sides.

Smitty stepped on the gas and a moment later they were parking next to the vehicle.

“There’s a campfire,” said Smitty, getting out into the street. “Or what’s left of one. So they must have camped here last night.”

The Avenger said, “You check the buildings on that side of the street and I’ll take this side. Give a yell when you find them. I’ll do the same.”

“Got you.” Smitty lumbered off. The first building he came to was the abandoned hotel. There was no longer a door. “Anybody home?” he said, crossing into the lobby.

A lizard, a big dark green one, went scurrying across the bare floor.

Cobwebs twisted around the oil lamps on the faded walls. Dust was thick on the registration desk and on the pigeonholes behind it.

“Looks like business has fallen off,” observed Smitty.

The floor was dusty, too, and except for the tracks of lizards and small rodents there were no footprints on the wood. He left the hotel and trudged along the rotted boardwalk to the next building. This was the one which had once been a saloon.

There was still a piano, a scratched upright, against the far wall. Half of the mirror behind the bar was there yet, streaked with dust and grime.

“I hope you guys are Dahler and Markowitz,” said Smitty to the two men who were leaning against the ancient bar.

They both turned to face him and the giant realized they were too young.

One of them held a pistol.

“No, but we’re very interested in them,” said the other young man. He was holding a black box.

Dr. Algernon Heathcote said, “Halfwits!” while he was falling down through darkness.

The small square of light up above, which indicated the trap door he’d just been dropped through, disappeared.

He hit rocky ground. “This is one of the least warm receptions I’ve had in many a moon,” he muttered. “Carted hither and yon in a gunny sack, pummeled by a bunch of surly louts and then tossed into a foul dungeon. It’s enough to—”

“Pardon me,” said a voice in the damp darkness.

“What? Do I have companionship in this uncalled-for incarceration?”

“I think, I recognize your voice. You’re Dr. Algernon Heathcote, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am, my boy,” replied the inventor. “You have me at a disadvantage, in that I don’t place your voice. Never have been much at voices, except for that foghorn fellow. Faces now I—”

“My name’s Don Early,” said his companion in the pitch black stone room. “I’m a government agent.”

“Ah, yes. I believe I’ve heard my 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.”