A man had opened the door so silently that not one sound betrayed him. The man came easily into the room, with a sawed-off shotgun pointing straight at Dick Benson’s head.
Even at that moment, the man had what seemed to be a slight smile on his lips, and an almost kindly light in his eyes. Even at such a moment he handled his body in an almost obsequious way, as if he could never get over his training — which was that of a perfect servant.
“I happen to know about your bulletproof underwear, or whatever it is,” the man said. “Please observe that the gun is leveled at your face, not at your body.”
The man was Knarlie, the servant in Ritter’s home.
Behind Knarlie, seven men filed into the room, all with guns pointed at the two men. As The Avenger had once said, professional gunmen are a dime a dozen. A ruthless man can always go out and hire murderous stooges if he needs them.
“I expected you to show up here,” said Dick, evenly. “In fact, I planned the whole thing to get you here. But—”
“But you didn’t expect me to get here so fast, or to get in so quietly, eh?” said Knarlie. The little man looked like a figure out of hell. His brown eyes, which had seemed so benevolent and so distressed at the cruelties of his “employer,” Ritter, now glittered with ambition for power and with ruthlessness against anyone standing in his way.
The Avenger’s eyes were lambent moonstones on him. He said nothing.
“Your place,” said Knarlie, “is like most fortresses. It is designed to be impregnable from the outside. But in the design it was forgotten that, if ever any enemy did get in, the fine fortress would become a terrible prison. As this has now become your prison.”
“You seem to have studied military terms and tactics,” murmured Benson.
“Of course,” said Knarlie. “A dictator needs such knowledge. And I shall be dictator — when Ritter is in the White House. I couldn’t run for president, myself. My damned ugliness makes it impossible for me to be a public figure. But I could — and did — take promising material like Ritter to put in the limelight, while I really ran things from behind the throne. It is hard to pretend to be a servant, as I have done, when you are really the master. But that’s ended now — or will be with the next elections.”
“You’re going ahead with your plan?”
“Of course,” said Knarlie. His voice was as calm as The Avenger’s own. The most dangerous killer is he whose voice is never lifted, whose nerves never quiver.
“You are the only one who can stop me,” he said. “And you are as good as dead, right now! I said a fortress could be a terrible trap. Yours has become so. You know the thick steel doors that shut off this floor from all the rest? Those are closed and bolted now, save for one out of which we shall go. Then I’ll jam that so no one can open it. Ritter and I will get out of here quickly and speed away from the building. My men” — he nodded at the hired thugs, who nodded almost indifferently back — “will mop up your helpers, and Morel’s daughter, on the floors below. And that will be that!”
“You seem very sure,” shrugged The Avenger. “How about Ritter? You can’t keep a man, even a president, injected constantly with a drug for four years.”
“I don’t have to,” said Knarlie, smiling silkily and looking more physically hideous than ever. “Morel’s serum, used for a long period, leaves a man permanently affected. Ritter hasn’t had an injection for a long time now. He hasn’t needed one; have you, Ritter?”
“No,” said Ritter docilely.
“And you’re glad I gave you the drug, aren’t you, Ritter?”
“Yes, I’m glad,” snarled Ritter. He seemed to come alive, eyes green-glazed with hate. “It has made me more powerful than any other man in public life. Hatel That is the strongest of all emotions. Without it, men become soft. I have hate, so I am strong. Yes, Knarlie, I’m glad you gave me the serum.”
“You, Knarlie,” said The Avenger, “didn’t seem to need any of the serum.”
“Hardly,” said the ugly little man. Then his face twisted. “I’m deformed, unattractive; so from the time I was a child, the world has either pitied me or showed contempt for me. For
“There will be scores to settle,” snarled Ritter. “Yes, we’ll see— Enough of this, Knarlie! Kill this man! Then, after we’ve gotten away, you men kill everybody on the floors below. Kill, kill,
His voice rose to a shriek.
“Now, Ritter,” said Knarlie, like an indulgent parent to a spoiled child. “We’ll have to disguise our power in public, won’t we?”
Instantly Ritter’s face was transformed. It became sly, cunning. Then it was bland, kindly, the perfect picture of the kind of countenance a great executive should have.
“You needn’t worry, Knarlie,” he said. “Not till after we have won will I show my feelings.”
