Free The Avenger 12 - The Flame Breathers by Kenneth Robeson Page B

the third stories of the three buildings. Few people ever got past the anteroom into the big chamber.
    “I want to see Mr. Benson,” the man said, staring from Mac to Josh.
    The Negro spoke.
    “Mistuh Benson ain’t heah, jus’ now,” said Josh. “I’m ’spectin’ him soon, though.”
    Always with strangers, Josh Newton talked as folks expect a Negro to talk. It was protective coloration, he always said.
    “We’ll take a message for him,” said Mac.
    Their caller fidgeted a little and glanced nervously at his watch.
    “I can’t leave a message, and I haven’t time to wait. This is very important. You’re sure he isn’t in?”
    Mac nodded. Benson was at the wrecked home of Lorens Singer. The pale-eyed man might be back here in an hour—or not for several days.
    “This is very important,” mumbled the man. “And I can’t hang around, or come back again, because I’m sure I’m being watched, and—”
    He didn’t finish that, but switched off on another tack.
    “I wanted to see Mr. Benson about the Singer explosion,” he said.
    Behind Mac’s homely Scottish face and behind Josh’s sleepy-looking mask were tense reactions, but neither showed them.
    “Look here,” said the man, with the air of one making a quick decision, “you two are supposed to be close to Benson. And anybody close to that guy must be good. I’ll spill my song to you and maybe you can look into it.”
    “We’re listenin’, mon,” said Mac.
    “The song’s short, and sweet. I think there’s a hot lead to what happened at Singer’s place in a house in New Jersey, near Milford.”
    “What kind of lead?” snapped Mac.
    “I don’t know,” said the man, looking so honest that it was incredible he could be lying.
    “How did you find out there might be one?”
    “I can’t tell you that.”
    “Who are you?”
    “That doesn’t make any difference.”
    “I suppose you know,” said Mac, “that ye’re being kind of suspicious not wanting to tell us about yourself.”
    The man shrugged.
    “There’s your tip. Take it or leave it. In a house near Milford, New Jersey, called the old Carp place, you might find something that’ll tell a story on the Singer explosion.”
    “The directions are pretty vague but—”
    “Oh, I’ll go with you, if you decide to act on the tip,” said the man. “I’ll direct you to it.”
    Not even a glance passed between Josh and Mac. But with perfect teamwork, each knew the other’s decision.
    “Ah’ll get our hats, Mistuh MacMurdie.”
    “Are you going, too?” said the man, staring at Josh with impatience in his eyes. It was habitual for people to underestimate the Negro’s ability.
    “Yas, suh. I’se important aroun’ heah,” said Josh, managing to sound so vain and silly that the man underestimated him still more.
    “Suit yourself,” shrugged the man. His face tightened. “Easy on leaving this place. I think I might have been trailed here.”
    “And if you were? And if your trailers catch up with us?” said Mac.
    “Maybe none of us would stay on living’ much longer,” replied the man grimly.
    They went with the man to the basement. A dozen or more cars, each unique in its way, were garaged there for The Avenger and his aides to use on various purposes. Mac and Josh took a sedan that didn’t look like much but was armored like a tank. And it could do over a hundred an hour.
    They drove up a ramp that no one would ever see unless searching specifically for it and swung down Bleek Street.
    Behind the sedan came a car without lights. It was a cheap, shabby roadster. In it was a girl with ink-black hair. The girl had jet-black eyes that were beautiful but cold. Had either Mac or Smitty or Benson seen her, they’d have recognized her at once. They had seen her twice before—behind a .45 automatic that looked like a cannon in her small but steady hand.
    In this instance, Mac didn’t see her. Nor did Josh. The man leading them, however, did spot her. His hand moved in a