“Drove three rabbits off a terrier,” Mac went on, omitting the breed, “ ‘but not in time to save the dog, which had been slashed almost to ribbons by the maddened bunnies. The dog died shortly after, Patrolman Swinnerton said, and—’ ”
Mac snorted. “Some reporter’s havin’ fun kiddin’ the public,” he snapped.
“It’s true,” said Wilson. “I called the paper. The reporter handled the story lightly, of course. But it actually happened.”
“Three rabbits attacked a dog?”
“Attacked it and
“I think they’re all nuts,” observed Josh, getting back to his maple-nut sundae. But Smitty shook his head. His eyes were bland and china-blue, and he looked as dim-witted as he was huge. But the looks were deceptive; Smitty was a very shrewd guy.
Shrewd enough always to ask questions when something unnatural happened. And this was certainly not a natural occurrence!
“Could rabbits get rabies or go loco some way?” he asked Mac. As one of the world’s best chemists, and a wizard at pharmacology, Mac would know those things.
“It’s possible,” said Mac.
“These rabbits didn’t have rabies,” said Wilson. “The reporter asked that, too.”
“Ferocious rabbits,” mused Josh, grinning. “That’s about as rare as warlike doves.”
“So rare,” said Wilson, soberly, “that I thought I’d like to run out to Scarsdale and look at the dog and maybe look around the spot where he was killed. Anybody want to go with me?”
“Yeah, me,” said Smitty.
“Fine,” snorted Mac. “When ye get there, shoot a rabbit for me, if ye’re not frightened. I’ll mount its head on my library wall.”
But Josh, for one, had stopped grinning. It was the business of The Avenger and his aides to question things that didn’t seem to have normal explanations. Some very odd and deadly plans had been discovered more than once by such investigations.
Smitty and Wilson went out to Scarsdale to police headquarters — and went out fast.
The giant was getting well known as an aide of the mighty Avenger. The sergeant at the desk nodded a respectful greeting and talked freely when Smitty asked about the dog.
“Craziest thing you ever heard of,” the sergeant said. “Rabbits killing a dog! But I guess it happened, all right. The dog’s down at the morgue. Usually, we’d have it carted off, but we thought maybe we ought to keep this one awhile in case any highbrow wanted to investigate.”
“Has anyone done so?” said Smitty.
“One guy showed up half an hour ago and wanted the dog’s body. He said he was the owner; but he didn’t give a good description, so we chased him. He was pretty mad about it, too. Wanted the remains mighty badly.”
Smitty and Wilson quickly looked at each other, then chased to the morgue.
The giant whistled softly as he stared at the little corpse spread on a slab usually reserved for human remains.
“You kind of forget,” said Wilson, “that a rabbit has very big, very sharp teeth. This would remind you, though!”
It certainly would. The paper had said the dog was slashed to ribbons. That had not been literary exaggeration.
The dead dog was sliced as if it had been attacked by knives. Its throat was a red mass; its furry body looked as if a wild cat had had access to it, for a long time, without interruption.
“And
The man named a street. Smitty and Wilson went out there, with the picture of the mangled, furry body in their minds.
It was a quiet, residential street; distinctly not the sort of street where you’d expect this type of thing.
Wilson’s black eyes, alert and alive, found it first: a stained spot, near the curb in the middle of the block, where blood had been. The dog’s blood. The two ranged around, themselves a little like dogs on a scent. Smitty called; he had found several drops, fifty or sixty feet down the street.
Wilson joined the giant, but there were no more drops to trace. It was impossible to tell from which property the dog had come. And at police headquarters, they’d been told that the animal hadn’t been traced yet. There was no license on its collar.
That seemed the end as well as the beginning of their minor mystery. They went back to Mac’s drugstore.
They had just entered the store when Mac, at the iron door leading to the significant back room, called out:
“The chief! On the television set! Better hustle back in a hurry. When The Avenger calls, somethin’ important is usually up.”
It was in this case.
In the big rear room of the drugstore, at the end wall, were the two principal results of the chemical apparatus worked on by Mac and the electrical stuff manipulated by Smitty.
There, on Smitty’s side of the lab, was a big box with a three-foot-square screen over the front of it. This was the world’s finest television set, as far ahead of the best commercial sets as a powerful automobile is ahead of a buggy.
