Free The Avenger 24 - Midnight Murder by Kenneth Robeson Page B

the fat man asked my name, and I told him. Things changed at once.
    “Those crooks believed my brother died trying to steal that invention, too,” she said bitterly. “The fat man said, ‘So you are trying to pick up where your brother left off. You are after it, too. Well, so are we. And there are profits enough for all. You may be useful to us. Why don’t we throw in together?’ ”
    Molly shivered.
    “I had a sudden idea. A crazy one, I guess. I thought if I worked with this gang I might find out something that would clear my brother’s name. And if they got the invention, there was a chance that I could steal it from them and turn it over to the government—and turn them in, too.”
    “Young lady, you have more courage than sense,” said The Avenger. “They fell for your story?”
    “Yes. The fat man laughed a little and said, ‘Boys, Molly will take over. Do what she says. Between you, I expect you to get into that building and out again with what we want.’ Then he drove away. I went on with the rest, over the fence on a special ladder and into the grounds.”
    The Avenger shook his head.
    “You were committing suicide,” he said. “There was a slight chance that you could help, as the fat man was shrewd enough to see. For one thing, you might have gotten those in the laboratory to open the door where a man couldn’t. But if the raid had been successful, they’d have killed you at once.”
    “I guess I was crazy,” said Molly, humbly. “But—you believe me?”
    Dick Benson didn’t answer that. He said, “Did you gain admission, either before we got there or afterward?”
    “No,” said Molly.
    “Were you the one who unlocked the door for those prisoners and untied them?”
    “Why, no! I helped them get away but I didn’t turn them loose,” she said.
    The Avenger was silently thoughtful for a moment. Then he asked her: “What did you make of those crooks? Particularly the fat man? Is this the usual spy game?”
    “I don’t think so,” Molly said. “I think the fat man is just a clever crook, out to steal anything of value. The rest are just cheap gunmen.”
    “You don’t think they had anything to do with the plane crash?”
    “I’m quite sure they didn’t,” said Molly. “Mr. Benson, do you think my brother’s name can ever be cleared?”
    “Yes, if we can find out why that plane crashed. I am going to talk to the General Laboratories mechanic who checked the plane just before it took off. He may have something interesting to say. Would you like to come with me?”
    “Oh, yes! Very much!” Molly said: Then: “But if that gang didn’t make the plane crash—who did? And, if it wasn’t for the invention, why?”
    It was Dick Benson’s turn to say nothing in answer to a question. He led the way to the basement and got into a car with Molly. It was a big sedan, heavy with armorplate and equipment.

    The mechanic, Spade had said over the phone, was a widower. He lived alone in a small house on the Jersey side of the Hudson River, in a rather secluded and suburban spot.
    Dick stopped the car in front of the place. It was secluded, all right; the nearest house was fifty yards away. This neighboring house was untenanted. There were no others near, although the bulk of Newark lay in a crescent all around.
    It was obvious at a glance why this particular small section was practically deserted.
    It backed up to what had been a large, low hill. But the hill was sliced in two in the middle, now, with two-thirds of it carted away. For the hill was composed of excellent gravel. It had been worked a long time, from the evidence presented by its sheer, man-made face. Then it had been abandoned; small trees and bushes grew in a scraggly way right up to the foot of the unstable drop.
    Now, it seemed to be working again, in a small way. Several big gravel trucks could be seen up on the brink of the hill, and a lane wound down and around the side where trucks had passed to get to the main