The thin but glaring beam flitted around the cold-room, came to rest at last on several cakes of ice. From the cakes a perceptible vapor was rising. The things had been slid silently into the room before the door was closed. “ ’Tis dry ice!” Mac said. “Of course! There’d be plenty of it in a place like this. That doesn’t look so good, chief.”
Benson nodded agreement that it did not look at all good. Smitty was puzzled. “Seems to me the rats who went to the trouble of locking us in here could do something more dangerous than just freeze us a little with dry ice.”
“It isn’t a question of freezin’, you brainless mountain of suet,” said Mac. “ ’Tis the fumes. The vapor from meltin’ dry ice can knock you off into eternity as slick as anything you’ve ever inhaled.”
Smitty coughed a little. “This would be scientifically airtight, of course,” he said quite calmly. “And that door couldn’t be broken down by an army.” He picked up the bench. The thing was very heavy, made of wood nearly three inches thick, with massive legs. But the giant whirled it around like a top. Whirled it around and smashed it against one of the glass block walls.
Smashed was right! Nothing could withstand the impact of that tremendous blow. Either wall or bench had to go. And, unfortunately, it was the bench. Smitty was left with two legs of the bench in his hands, looking kind of surprised and sheepish. And the wall wasn’t damaged in the least. Glass in thick blocks is not fragile like it is in thin panes or sheets.
“Ye’ll be gettin’ out that way about the time ye sprout a long white beard,” coughed Mac. The fumes were getting very noticeable indeed, by now.
“Looks like we’re hooked,” said Smitty. He said it resignedly, regretfully, but with little fear in his voice. The Avenger and his aides knew that some day their number would be up. They lived with death, literally, in their constant war against the underworld. And they knew that no man could go on risking death, forever, without sometime catching it in the neck.
Thus, they were half ready for death in any serious trap. And that this was serious was apparent enough. By the simple process of getting themselves locked in a refrigerating room, they were in a worse spot, really, than they had been the night before, with six stories of masonry and mortar falling toward their sedan. In this spot, both men looked toward The Avenger. He was the type of leader to whom men instinctively look when their own minds are baffled.
Benson was staring at one of the glass-block walls, with the glass seeming no paler, no colder than his eyes. At length, he nodded. “Keep your coat lapels over your mouths and nostrils,” he said.
As regular precaution against gas, the aides of The Avenger kept the lapels of their coats saturated with a gas resisting chemical of Benson’s invention. They held their collars tighter to their faces now.
“I’m afraid we’re going to disappoint our captors,” said The Avenger, steel-white fingers dipping into two of the many pockets of his specially made vest. He drew out two pieces of glass and fit them together. The result looked like an atomizer. But it was not an atomizer; it was the world’s smallest blow torch. Into the body of the tiny torch, Benson dropped two grayish pellets. These were the work of MacMurdie, chemist extraordinary. Moistened, they gave off a concentrate of acetylene gas.
Benson wet the pellets, and touched a match to the glass tip of the protruding tube. Tiny, but intensely hot flame lanced out. “Some of that dry ice, Smitty,” said Benson, pale eyes intent on a section of the glass-block wall between this and the next cold-room. He was playing the thin lance of fire over a large section. Smitty came with a cake of the dry ice, protecting his hands from burning by his folded coat.
“Against the heated part of the wall,” said Benson. Smitty pressed the intensely cold cake against the heated glass. There was a thin shriek, and a crack appeared. The thick glass could hardly be broken with a sledge hammer, and the three had no sledge hammer. But it could crack with quick alternates of heat and cold, like an ordinary milk bottle.
Benson was continuing to play the torch over the glass. “Again.” First the torch, and then the ice. The partition began to look like a sheet of rotten, cracking ice. And when Benson finally pushed against it, a large section fell to the floor in bits, revealing the next room. They stepped into it, holding aside quarters of hung beef as they might have brushed aside jungle undergrowth to make a path. The door of this room had an inside handle, for the very precaution of keeping someone from being accidentally trapped. Smitty pushed up the lock-lever, and they jumped out into the narrow corridor.
There were men out there, six of them. They were clustered around the next door, the one with no inner handle, the one that had been shut to trap Benson and Mac and Smitty. They were watching that door as terriers watch a rat hole, to be sure the three inside didn’t pull a fast one and escape.
When the three intended victims suddenly came out of the next door, the six men gaped at them in a bewilderment that would have been funny if it hadn’t been instantly succeeded by such furious deadliness. The six leaped toward the three!
These men were in the whites worn by the workers around here. But the whites were too clean. They weren’t spotted with the labor of handling sides of meat. And the faces of the six were not the faces of honest workers. Corny, mob leader, would have known those faces; the manager of the warehouse would not.
“Come and get it!” rumbled Smitty. This was something the giant liked — a good, open fight. Much better than a furtive door-closing which was supposed to lock them in a death chamber of dry-ice fumes. Two of the men jumped at Smitty, one from each side. The giant struck twice! He got one of the charging men with a blow to the side of the head that must certainly have dislocated his neck. Perhaps it broke it: the man fell, singularly still.
The second man was fortunate. He managed to duck a bit so that Smitty’s hamlike left hand only glanced from the top of his head. He received just a little blow. Only enough to whirl him around twice, slam him against the side of the narrow corridor and leave him shaking as he clawed at the smooth wall for support.
Mac had a man who was becoming very sorry he had attacked. The Scot was working the fellow over with fists that were like bone mallets at the end of his stringy but amazingly strong arms. Mac was having fun where it showed the most — on the man’s face. MacMurdie had suffered from crime as much as Benson himself. So he was having a good time now — first smashing a nose flat, then splitting a mouth into a bloody ruin, then blackening an eye.
Benson had already accounted for one man and was turning to another. The Avenger’s fist flicked out with the delicate skill of a surgeon’s scalpel and struck a jaw just hard enough to send the owner into sleep for a half-hour.
The sixth man, discreetly hanging around just outside the range of ruinous fists, drew a revolver. “Gun ’em down!” he yelled. “The hell with the noise. They’re gettin’ away!”
Benson was way ahead of the man. He had been expecting some such move, even sooner than this. His right hand drove into his coat pocket. Through the fabric of the pocket thrust a needle point. But this needle was hollow, like the needle of a hypodermic syringe. From it came a tiny stream of greenish liquid. The thin stream instantly expanded into a thick one, and kept on expanding into a black and nauseous cloud. Before the man could fire, or the others fumble for their guns, half the corridor was enveloped in a thick, dense pall. You couldn’t see your hand before your eyes.
Mac and Smitty said nothing. There was no need to call orders. They went for the staircase, getting to it so close together that their bodies touched. Six steps down and they were out of the black pall vaporized from MacMurdie’s chemical discovery which had been shot out through the hypolike needle.