Free The Avenger 29 - The Nightwitch Devil by Kenneth Robeson Page A

called me. Same voice as always, the Devil.”
    The Avenger took over the questioning once more. “What about MacMurdie?”
    “Witches got him.”
    “Where?”
    “Don’t know.”
    “When are they meeting next?”
    “Tonight, I think.”
    “Where?”
    “They got a new location, in a big abandoned barn at a place called White Horse Hill,” said Straw-hat. “Going to have something special tonight, I heard.”
    “What?”
    “Sacrifice of somebody to Satan,” said the man.

    “Ah,” said Cole, “rain on a tin roof, nothing is cozier, is it, pixie?”
    “I can think of several things,” replied Nellie. “None of which include you.”
    The Avenger and the three members of the Justice, Inc., team were seated in the back of the panel truck. Their four prisoners were still inside the old stone building, securely bound. Before turning them over to the local police, the Avenger wished to hold a conference—hold it where the captives would have no chance of overhearing.
    “Do you think,” asked Nellie, “this gang of witches will go so far as to actually sacrifice someone?”
    “They don’t sound any too gentle,” said Cole.
    “We have to operate on the assumption that they will,” said Benson. “Therefore, I plan to attend their conclave this evening and see to it no violence is done to anyone.” He nodded in the direction of the crouching giant. “You’ll come along with me, Smitty.”
    “Okay,” said Smitty. “I’m still dunking about what that guy with the straw hat was saying. How he got a phone call telling him to expect us at the boatyard. Then, when we was driving out to see that mouthpiece, they knew about that, too.”
    “It begins to look as though,” said Cole, “Sam Hollis must have some connection with the witches. However, there is another possibility.”
    “Like what?”
    “I’ve noticed that the sweet lady who handles the phone service in Nightwitch has a habit of listening in on calls,” said Cole. “Granted, it’s a common practice in small towns . . . large towns, too, for all I know.”
    Smitty snapped his big fingers. It made an enormous popping sound. “Sure, she could have heard us set up that meeting with Gil Lunden.”
    “Another thing struck me as Straw-hat bared his soul,” continued Cole. “He implied that many of their nefarious deeds were openly discussed over the telephone. Indeed, the Devil himself called him on occasion. Seems to me that if our Mrs. Dolittle—which diligent inquiries revealed to be the good operator’s name—if she heard a chap saying, ‘Hello there, Straw-hat, this is your old pal Satan . . .’ Well, it might give her pause. And yet witches and warlocks are phoning hoodlums and heavies all over the place, and not a peep has popped out of Mrs. D.”
    “She’s certainly,” said the Avenger, “someone we’ll check up on.”
    “What about the house he mentioned?” asked the little blonde. “The McRobb place, where they left the girl. Do you think there’s any chance she’s still there?”
    “No, it was most likely only a drop,” said Benson. “But I want you and Cole to go there and search the house.”
    “Ah, splendid,” said the grinning Cole. “You realize that I have yet to meet the girl in the case. It’s not like me.”
    Smitty slapped his knees impatiently. “Okay, we got our jobs figured out,” he said. “We better start loading those bozos into the truck. I got a hunch Chief Storm’s not going to let us off without a lot of talk.”
    “He was rather voluble when we turned in that last batch of goons,” said Cole.
    Smitty glanced at the Avenger, got a nod, and rose up. He hopped out of the truck into the rain.

CHAPTER XVIII

Secret Places
    Chief Storm of the Nightwitch police searched through his desk drawers again. This time he found the pipe he was looking for, stuck it between his teeth. Rain pattered on the station windows; water gurgled through a drainpipe just outside. “Nothing,” said the chief,