Free The Avenger 1 - Justice, Inc. by Kenneth Robeson Page B

and feel like talking, go ahead. If you don’t, I don’t care. Get me?”
    “I don’t know a thing,” Pete said, relaxing stiffly. “That’s the truth.”
    “You don’t know the answer to all this stuff we’ve been doing?”
    “No. Snatch. That’s all I know. But—nobody’s had the bee put on ’em for money yet. It beats me.”
    “And you don’t know who’s behind it?”
    “No, and I don’t want to. It’s unhealthy. Anybody in the crowd gets a grand for opening up anybody else who gets too nosy. That’s a standing offer. When it’s like that—you think I’m going around investigating?”
    Pete lit a cigarette and drew deep.
    “Now, this white-haired guy who has been gettin’ so busy—” he began.
    His phone rang. He picked it up.
    “S404,” a voice said. All you could tell about the voice, so muffled and disguised was it, was that it was that of a man. But the code number—of a plane—was right.
    “O.K. shoot,” Pete said tersely.
    “Go to the home of Mrs. Martineau,” the muffled voice rapped out. “Others are going to the homes of the rest. You will do as they are ordered to do: Watch the place. Don’t be seen. Watch from a distance. Any man going there to investigate—see that he doesn’t get far alive. You understand?”
    “I understand. You want I should go alone?”
    “Take another with you. The man we’re beginning to want out of the way is clever. But two of you should be able to handle him.”
    “I’ll say we’ll be able to handle him!” Pete said, lips in a cold grin. “O.K., boss.”
    He hung up. The other man stared.
    “Say! Was that the boss? Was—”
    “I don’t know,” Pete snapped. “That’s the way we get all our orders. Just a guy over the phone. I don’t know who he is. Come on.”
    “Where to?”
    “The joint where the widow Martineau lives—or lived! The big shots are worried that Benson may get wind of what happened to her, and go snoopin’ around her place. If he does—”
    Pete took out his automatic, looked at the full clip, and slipped the safety off and then on again in answer.

    Back at the Hotel Ely, Benson was studying the latest editions of the newspapers. So was the giant, Smitty. But Benson was reading financial pages with his eyes like devouring gray flame, while Smitty was concentrating on the regular news.
    The giant laid down the last paper with a sigh.
    “There’s no mention of the cops being after one Algernon Heathcote Smith,” he said. “I believe it’s as you predicted it would be: Leon’s daughter stopped calling for the cops right after we left. She is now kept silent by the same fear that holds in all such cases. She’s afraid if she reports anybody to the police—me or anybody else—it will go hard with her father. I guess it will be all right for me to walk around loose for a while.”
    Benson simply nodded. He was studying the financial news that had been repeated in one form or another by all the papers.
    The news was local—and had to do with the Buffalo Tap and Die Works.
For the past twenty-four hours it has been impossible for anyone to get in touch with Mr. Stephen Vincent, secretary-treasurer to Buffalo Tap & Die. He has gone away “for a week’s rest,” according to members of his family and employees near to him. In the opinion of this humble correspondent, that seems highly unusual when you consider that for some time past, it has been impossible to get in touch with Mr. Lawrence Hickock, president of the same firm. The unexplained absence of two high officers of this concern seems to hint that perhaps an investigation of finances should be in order. Where is the much vaunted S.E.C. in this matter?
    And in another part of the same paper, under “Financial Transactions,” the following caught the pale-gray eyes:
The extensive holdings of Mrs. Robert Martineau, widow of Dollar Martineau, in Buffalo Tap & Die Works, were thrown on the falling market for that stock with the opening bell this