“Trouble?” said Dick Benson, the instant Cole and Smitty put in an appearance.
“How did you know that?” demanded Smitty.
Benson didn’t even bother to shrug. His almost colorless eyes dwelt on the giant.
“You went out with a hat; you came back without one.”
“Well, you’re right,” said Smitty. “I left it in the street because it’s not the fashion to wear hats with bullet holes in them.”
“Bullet holes!” gasped Nellie.
The diminutive blonde always kidded the giant, but the rest of the little band knew that she had a large regard for him. The report of bullets coming close enough to him to drill holes in his hat made her pale a little.
Smitty told what had happened, and The Avenger got up from behind his desk and walked abstractedly to the nearest window.
Even that move, not intended to be particularly fast, spoke volumes about the man’s great physical power and miraculously fast coordination of thought and action. Movement was a swift, smooth flow with him.
He looked out between slats of nickel-steel, tinted to look like ordinary Venetian blinds, but more bulletproof than blinds. And as he looked out the window, Smitty stared at him.
Not so long ago Dick Benson, who was only in his twenties, though few men of middle age had done the things he had, had appeared to be almost elderly. That was because his hair had been white and his face paralyzed.
A great personal loss through the machinations of crime had turned Benson into a cold, crime-fighting machine. That same loss, by a tremendous nerve shock, had whitened his hair and paralyzed his facial muscles into a sort of white wax death mask.
Then recently, a nerve shock of a different sort had tingled the facial flesh back to life and had caused all his thick white hair to fall out. And when the hair had grown back in, it had taken its first color — black.
“We’ll have a visitor pretty soon,” Dick Benson prophesied.
The rest looked at him — a man so youthful, who was known in financial, crime, and professional circles throughout the nation.
“But there wasn’t any sense in anyone’s trying to kill Cole and me,” protested Smitty.
“That’s just it.” Dick’s gray eyes, so pale as to seem like holes in his straight-featured, dominant face, still were staring down between the slanted nickel-steel slats at the street. “There was no reason for it. Yet there must be one, even if we don’t know it. Murders aren’t attempted for no reason at all. It must be, therefore, that someone is coming to us for help, and somebody else knows that and wants to warn us off.”
The pale eyes narrowed as they focused on something down in the street. Dick walked back to the big desk and sat down.
“And here,” he said, as a pinpoint of light glowed red in the wall beside the door, “is our visitor. Show him up, Smitty.”
The pinpoint of red light had resulted when a finger pressed the bell in the downstairs lobby — the bell over the small but mighty legend “Justice, Inc.,” which was the official name of The Avenger’s crime-fighting band.
In a moment the man who had pressed the bell was on the threshold. He looked around from face to face, but almost at once his gaze centered on the countenance of Dick Benson. Dick was obviously the leader here; he would have looked like the leader in whatever group he might be seen.
“Mr. Benson? My name is Markham Farquar. I’m a lawyer.”
Farquar was a man of fifty, with a direct gaze that was pleasing in its openness. He had thick gray hair and gray eyes and looked more youthful and fit than his years would warrant. He was nearly six feet tall and had a commanding presence.
“I’ve heard of your firm, Mr. Markham,” replied Dick Benson with a nod.
Markham permitted himself a wan smile.
“It’s fairly well known. And I’ve handled the troubles of clients fairly well for some years. Now I’m in trouble myself. I decided finally to come here because I’ve heard of the miracles Justice, Inc., has performed in helping people who were beyond the aid of the police.”
They all looked at him, Nellie and Smitty, Cole and Mac, Josh and Rosabel. But the coldest eyes in the room were those of The Avenger. Dick’s face was also the calmest. Only that face had been expressionless because it was paralyzed. Now, though able to express emotion as any other man’s face could, it seldom did. Dick held it immobile to guard against betraying his thoughts.
“I am being blackmailed,” said Markham Farquar, with a slight break in his voice, though he kept his countenance fairly well under control. “That’s why I came here.”
“The police are equipped to handle that,” said Dick quietly.
“Not this type of blackmail,” said Farquar bitterly. “You see, the blackmailers are too powerful. They are rich, respected, with fine business backgrounds and not a shadow against their names. The police can’t fight that type of criminal. Only you, as far as I know, can fight that kind.”
Dick said nothing. His colorless, infallible eyes were like drills on the troubled gray eyes of the lawyer.
“You’ve heard perhaps of Robert Beall, owner of the Beall Paper Manufacturing Company?”
Dick nodded.
“And Fredrick Salloway, of Salloway and Burke Contracting Corporation?”
“Yes.”
“And Iando Cleeves, the art collector?”
“Yes. I have met all three. You mean to say those men are blackmailing you?”
“Yes.” Farquar smiled crookedly. “You see what chance I’d have of help if I went to the police. The mention of blackmail in connection with three such respected men makes even you look questioning.”
“Go on,” was all Dick said. “What’s the foundation for their blackmail?”
“Murder!” said Farquar.
The pale diamond drills grew sharper yet.
“I have — or had — a clerk by the name of Smathers in my employ,” said Farquar. “A trusted man. He has been with me for over twenty years. Three nights ago he disappeared. He ran off, or wandered off; perhaps he died somewhere of a heart attack or an accident. I don’t know. There has been no news of him since. And Salloway, Beall, and Cleeves claim I murdered him.”
“They must have something to back up such a claim,” said Dick Benson.
Farquar nodded. “They have. At least, they claim they have. Each of the three claims to have a clue that will nail the murder of my clerk to me and send me to the chair. I don’t know what trumped-up evidence they have, but I am afraid it might be something pretty serious. Otherwise, three such men would have never made it the basis for blackmail for such a large sum.”
“A large sum, Mr. Farquar?” said Dick.
“One million dollars,” said the lawyer, with a great sigh. “I haven’t quite that much, but I could raise that amount if I had to. And I’ll have to if you can’t help me.”
“You don’t know the nature of the fake clues they have?”
“No,” said Farquar. “I do know this, though. Beall keeps his in a jewel case that belonged to his wife. Salloway has his in a cigar case that never leaves his person. And Cleeves keeps his in a small dispatch box. Which means that the clues are pretty small objects. I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you.”
“And you want us to get these things from the three men for you?”
“Yes,” said Farquar, with a quiver in his voice. “Yes! If only you could get the phony clues away from them — I’d be saved. And I’d be almost willing to pay you the sum of the blackmail demanded.”
“We don’t work for money, Mr. Farquar,” said Dick crisply. He didn’t bother to add that they didn’t have to work for money because the great gold hoard of the ancient Aztecs, in a secret spot in Mexico, was theirs to draw on any time they needed funds.
“Will you help me?” pleaded Farquar.