The Hate Master полностью

“Drop the guy’s arm,” snarled a voice at the hall door. “And stand still. You and the dame.”

Cole whirled. In the doorway were two men, each with an automatic leveled at him. Behind the two crowded more. He couldn’t see how many, but from the noise he judged there were a lot.

He and Lila had been followed here. Or else someone at Bleek Street had notified the gang of their coming. But that was unlikely because there was no one in that category, save Packer; and Cole was sure Morel’s servant was O K. No, they had been followed. The followers had closed in. Now they were neatly trapped.

“Get Morel out of here,” snapped the man who had told Cole to stand where he was.

One of the men sidled to the scientist. Morel stood with dull eyes, his blind hatred seeming to have been burned out of him by his swift murder attempt of a moment before. The man led him out of the room. Lila sobbed. Another of the men laughed.

The one who had laughed drew a bottle from his pocket, opened the cheap liquor, took a swig, then set it on a table next to an open window.

“We’ll celebrate,” he said cheerfully. “There’s a nice price on this dame’s head. And we’ll get some extra for the guy. He’s with The Avenger.” There followed a string of curses showing what the man thought of Dick Benson.

“Got any last words?” said the leader of the gang of thugs to the white-faced girl and the blazing-eyed Wilson.

Wilson was getting ready for a leap at the man. It would be a leap straight into the jaws of death. He knew that. But better to die fighting than be shot down in cold blood.

However, the leap was never made.

There was a slight phhht of sound. And the leader’s gun sagged down in a limp hand. For an instant he stood there, eyes dulling, looking astonished. Then he fell. And on the exact top of his skull was a shallow gash, as if he had been clubbed.

But there was no one around to club him.

Another phhht! Another man sank. And then Wilson got it. The Avenger!

Dick Benson had two of the world’s most curious weapons. One was a hollow-handled throwing knife which he called, with grim affection, Ike. The other was a little .22 revolver, long-barreled, so streamlined that it looked more like a slim length of blued tubing than a gun. This he called Mike. It had a specially devised silencer on it, and with it he “creased” his opponents — knocked them out by glancing a bullet off their skulls. The Avenger never took human life.

Few but Dick Benson had that eighth-inch accuracy of marksmanship; and only Mike’s silenced muzzle made that deadly little sound.

But more than Cole got the meaning of the two men on the floor with the shallow gashes on their skulls. Three of the gang stared swiftly at each other and then at the open window.

No one showed there, now. But the three, without a word, tiptoed from the room.

“Chief! They’re after you!” yelled Cole.

But the warning was too late. On its heels came the snarled command outside: “All right, you! Drop the pea shooter and come along with us!”

Cole leaped for the window and Lila screamed. The next thing Cole knew, he was opening his eyes from a prone position on the floor. He had been clubbed from behind.

The Avenger was in the room, standing nearby with Lila beside him. Dick Benson quietly bent down and helped Cole to his feet. Dick’s face was as calm as ever, and his pale and icy eyes showed no emotion. Though, with eight men lined across the room with guns in their hands like an execution squad, there was plenty of occasion for emotion.

“Well!” said Wilson. “Looks like they’ve got us.”

“Just getting wise to that, huh?” sneered the man who had set the bottle on the table. “Boy, this is good! Who’d of dreamed we’d get the big boy himself up here!” He glared at Dick. “We’ll have another drink on this, eh, guys?”

Cole saw, then, that the opened bottle of liquor was half gone; and he saw it pass from hand to hand again, this time to be set down empty. Celebration? Or were the men getting Dutch courage to shoot down three helpless humans in cold blood? It didn’t matter.

What did matter, it seemed to Cole, was The Avenger’s utter calm in the face of what seemed sure death.

Wilson knew that Dick, far from fearing death, seemed at times almost to court it. Though he knew that those colorless, inhuman eyes never expressed much emotion, it did seem to him that they’d express at least a little agitation — unless the crime battler had some ace up his sleeve.

It seemed that the men were made uneasy by this inhuman calm, too. It wasn’t the first time that killers with the drop on The Avenger had been disconcerted by his air of being protected by an unseen army.

“Aw, take him!” snapped the owner of the rotgut whiskey.

“Take him yourself!” snarled the man he had spoken to.

“Why you—” howled the first one. “Who gives orders around here? Me or you?”

“Not you, you ape!” another man broke in. “You’re just a damned straw boss. I’ve got more right than you have to give orders.”