Free The Avenger 12 - The Flame Breathers by Kenneth Robeson

O’Shawn,” said Benson.
    There was going to be a swift promotion here. A word from Benson would take O’Shawn out of harness for his quick wit and keen eye.
    The Avenger sought out the gardener who had been with Singer at the time of the explosion.
    The gardener was foreign born, but had evidently been in the country long enough to master perfect English.
    “Nope, there wasn’t a thing to warn a guy of what was goin’ to happen. It just goes up in dust and smoke. See? Not a very loud boom. Mr. Singer was about twenty feet from me, lookin’ at delphinium sprouts. See? We both got knocked flat.”
    “You and Mr. Singer were pretty scared?” said Benson.
    “I’ll say! I know I was. And I never saw a guy look more scared than Mr. Singer. He was white as chalk and shakin’ all over. And then he got mad. ‘The servants,’ he says. ‘My heavens, the servants!’ And, running toward the rockpile with me, he says, ‘It’s murder. Murder of eighteen people. If I ever find out who did this I’ll kill him with my own hands, so help me.’ And Mr. Singer could still do it, too. He’s got muscle in that frame of his.”
    “There was no hint of how the building went up?”
    “Nope, Not a thing.” The gardener’s eyes became doubtful as he stared into the pale, icy orbs of the man who was questioning him.
    “But mebbe I’m talking’ out of turn. Mebbe you better see the boss himself.”
    Benson nodded and went toward the big front gate of the estate.
    Lorens Singer was there, sitting in a deck chair that had seen far out on the lawn and hence had escaped the wreck. The chair had been dragged to the gate; and the millionaire was surrounded by police to guard him from intrusion by the curious.
    He sat in the chair, puffing slowly on a thin brown cigar, staring with unblinking eyes at what had been his home. The unblinking eyes looked up to meet Benson’s dead face and flaring, pale eyes as The Avenger walked up to him. Singer’s eyebrows raised a little at the way this man could walk through a cordon of cops without a move to stop him; but that was all.
    “A pretty complete disaster,” said Benson, standing easily beside the financier.
    Singer nodded. “It is.” His voice was as steady as his hands. But it was harsh, and his eyes were as hard as brown crockery.
    “My name is Richard Benson,” said Benson evenly. “You may know the name—”
    “I know it well. Half my friends seem to be acquainted with you. And I got to know the name quite well, indeed, over an oil deal in Venezuela, years ago. You won some concessions there against me and several other men. But there’s no grudge.”
    “I’m not dealing in oil now,” said Benson.
    “I’ve heard about that, too. You tackle crime as a business, I hear. Laudable, but hardly understandable. You could be the richest man on earth if you’d stick to straight business.”
    Benson’s pale eyes didn’t flicker. It was possible that he was already the richest man. Down in Mexico was the vast hoard of gold the Aztecs had hidden from the invading Spaniards. Benson knew where that was, and drew on it when he wished, as on a bank account. But no one outside his small circle dreamed of that.
    “In connection with my new pursuit,” he said, “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
    “As many as you like, young man,” said Singer, whose straight gaze had at once noted that The Avenger’s snow-white hair had nothing whatever to do with age; that the gray steel figure of a man was very young, indeed.
    “Have you any idea who did this?” asked Benson bluntly.
    “None at all.”
    A trace of bewilderment mingled with the cold rage in Singer’s rocky face. He was looking back at the great pile of debris, again, with flinty, unblinking eyes.
    “You have enemies?”
    “Certainly! But they’re on Wall Street. They’d cut my throat on the market, but they aren’t bomb throwers.”
    “You can’t think of any personal enemies who might have done