Justice, Inc.

CHAPTER XII Smitty Takes the Risk

A trip in a big transport plane, particularly at night, is not very exciting. The motion is smooth, there is nothing to see out of the windows, and the subdued roar of the motors is lulling. Passengers feel more like dozing than anything else.

The seven in the Montreal plane acted as dull and sleepy as any normal passengers would. Now and then, the big fellow with the hairy hands would lean forward and say something to the man who was always smiling with his lips but not the rest of his face. But that was about the only sign of life any of them gave.

Only the tremendous fellow with the hump on his back seemed excited. He looked as if this were his first plane trip. He stared out the window and down, trying to see something in the June dark, and then grinned at his fellow passengers. He looked like a huge kid with a new red sled. But it wasn’t fooling the fellow with the perpetual, meaningless smile.

“I make the guy now,” this man said to the big fellow across the aisle from him, voice low enough to be drowned from other ears by the motor hum. “He drove Leon’s car.”

The big fellow whistled soundlessly.

“So he’s not the dope he looks to be! Leon’s chauffeur, huh? I suppose he thinks he’s disguised, with that hump on his back. Might as well try to disguise Pikes Peak!”

“He must be hired by this Benson guy,” said the smiling man. But his smile was a little worried. “So now what?”

The other shrugged. “You know what. It woudn’t make any difference if he was as harmless as he’s tryin’ to look. Any way it lays, he goes out the trapdoor just the same.”

“He’s awful big. And did you see him lift the monkey at the field in one hand?”

“The bigger they are, the harder they fall. Got that stuff in your suitcase?”

“Sure.”

“Go and get it.”

The smiling man got up, after a moment, and went to the tail of the plane. The stewardess, the same rather pretty girl with the slightly shifty eyes who was always on these runs, got him his bag. The man took from it an innocent-looking handkerchief, and blew his nose loudly. But when he shut the bag, and put the handkerchief in his pocket, there was a small vial of colorless stuff in the linen folds.

The man came back, stared out the window of his side, and then crossed over to Smitty’s side. With an apologetic look, he sat in the seat just ahead of Smitty’s, and stared out the window there, as though searching for some spot not to be seen from his own seat.

Smitty settled more comfortably against the hump on his back — and waited.

He had told Benson he had an idea how they could find the criminals’ headquarters. He had explained in eight words:

“I’ll force my way into the plane, too.”

Then after he had deliberately placed himself in the position which had spelled such tragedy for his boss, a month ago, Smitty would wait and see what happened. If he could out-smart the gang and stay alive!

The first part of the scheme had worked all right. He was aboard the plane, and they were getting close to the Thousand Islands region. But that first part was a cinch compared to the second — staying alive.

Smitty grinned like a pleased kid and watched every move of the others. Particularly he kept his eyes on the man who had just sat in front of him, and who had gone to the rear and gotten a handkerchief from his bag. It was from this source that Smitty expected danger.

Because he was looking ahead so hard, he didn’t hear or sense the man behind him move a little. This one, a slim, dapper fellow with no chin, stealthily reached to his armpit and got out a gun. He leaned suddenly forward.

Smitty, with all his attention on the man ahead, felt a gun muzzle bore into the back of his neck. He froze. One small move, and he’d have his head nearly blown off. He didn’t try to make a move. With one easy maneuver, they had him cold. It might have been expected where the odds were seven to one.

No one said anything. No one moved hastily, now that the huge fellow with the futile hump on his back was caught.

Very leisurely, the smiling man in front of Smitty turned with the handkerchief in his clenched fist. The girl with the hard line around her mouth looked on with wide eyes, but with no protest. The other man just grinned.

The smiling man squeezed hard. The vial in the handkerchief broke, and the sickish smell of chloroform filled the cabin.

“Pilot!” yelled Smitty suddenly. Yelling was all he could do. He could no more disregard the gun at the base of his skull by a physical move than he could fly without wings. “Somebody! Help—”

The chloroform-soaked handkerchief was jammed over his mouth and nose. He did struggle then. But the struggle rapidly grew weaker, then died. The handkerchief was jammed tighter.

The giant slumped in the seat.

Two of the other men were opening the trapdoor. Cool air breezed up from the vacuum formed. They slanted the limp giant toward the oblong.

Two thousand feet below, the ebony-black water of Lake Ontario presented a pavement-hard surface to anything dropped from such a height. Hitting water from there is like hitting granite.

They dropped the big man through. He slid down the backward-slanting door like coal down a chute, and was gone.

The big plane roared steadily on.

The gray fox of a man for whom Smitty had made this supreme sacrifice — in vain, as these killers could have testified — had left the hotel only a few minutes after the giant’s departure.

He went to the brokerage firm of Carney & Buell, who handled Buffalo Tap & Die locally and whose New York affiliate had floated the stock issue in the first place. Smitty had said that Leon had had him drive here just before his visit to John Lansing’s deserted house.

When the flesh of Benson’s countenance had gone dead, it had removed him at a stroke from the world of normal men. But it had done something else, too. It had made him a man of a thousand faces.

A few touches of his steely, sensitive fingers — and he was someone else, with the flesh staying in the place into which it was prodded.

He walked into Carney & Buell’s place with his countenance sober and squarish and his hat on the exact center of his head. He was an impressive figure. When he asked to see one of the partners, Wallace Buell came out at once.

“I am Mrs. Martineau’s legal adviser,” Benson said. “I came to inquire a little about her financial affairs.”

Buell’s gimlet black eyes widened a little.

“I don’t understand. We know Mrs. Martineau, and have had direct dealings with her. But I was not aware that she had retained a legal adviser.”

“She hasn’t, exactly,” Benson said, the perfect picture of a sober, humorless corporation lawyer. “I did work for Robert Martineau before he died. When I read of his widow disposing of her Buffalo Tap & Die stock, which I regard as sound, I decided to investigate a little on my own. Why did she sell that stock, do you suppose, Mr. Buell?”

Buell looked harrassed.

“A dozen people, mainly reporters, have asked me that. Good Heavens, I don’t know why! We’re only Mrs. Martineau’s brokers, not her guardians. Why don’t you ask her?”

“I’ve tried to. I can’t get in touch with her.” Benson’s pale and icy eyes were studying this man, turning him inside out. Was the agitation that of anyone hounded by reporters, or was it caused by fear?

“We have been unable to get in touch with Mrs. Martineau, either,” Buell admitted. “Perhaps she has taken a trip without telling anyone. In any event, it’s none of our business.”

“You won’t tell me why she sold?”

“I can’t. We got ‘sell’ orders. That’s all I know. And if I did know more, I wouldn’t tell you or anybody else,” the broker snapped. “I’ve been questioned too much. Good day to you.”

It was about what Benson had expected, but it had been worth making a try, at least, for information from this source.

He went out — to a phone booth, where he dialed a number and placed a handful of change on the phone-booth counter for a long conversation.

Benson, as adventurer, had met thousands of men in positions ranging from that of water-front bum to governors of States. As rich man and business promoter, he had met more thousands, bankers, accountants, stock salesmen. Few men in the world had as varied and prodigious an acquaintanceship as his. He had lines of friendships leading into all sorts of places. And he utilized one of these lines now, as a short cut.

“Carter,” he said, when an important voice said “Hello” after the intervention of a switchboard girl and three secretaries, “this is Dick Benson talking.”

The man was Benjamin Carter, vice president of the Buffalo National Bank. He chuckled with delight.

“Dick! You old sawhorse! I didn’t know you were in this part of the world. We’ll have to get together—”

“Not just now,” said Benson. “I called for a little financial information. In rather a hurry—”

“Any financial information I can give you, you could put in your eye. You can beat the traders at their own game. But how are things? I heard you got married. Is the wife with you?”

“Yes,” said Benson steadily, eyes pale flames. “Yes. I got married. My wife… is not with me. I called about the stock of Buffalo Tap & Die, Carter. You probably have the last annual report lying around the bank. Dig it up and give me the dope, will you?”

There was a long pause. Benson dropped coins in the phone box. Carter came back on.

“I got one. Funny thing, though. There was no report in the regular files. I just happened to have this extra one in my desk. Finally remembered about it.”

He read down the sheet, and Benson listened with eyes intent but face dead and forever expressionless. Outstanding shares of stock, five hundred thousand, par one hundred. Plant and equipment — current debts — current liabilities — good will—

“Cash reserve on hand, fourteen million two hundred thousand dollars,” the banker finished.

“The size of the reserve,” said Benson, “puts the firm in a fine, sound spot, I’d say. Why is the stock so low, Carter?”

“It got started down with all the others listed on the board in the current recession,” the banker said. “No sense to it, any more than to the drop in other sound stocks. But it has been hammered down even lower by the French leave that seems to have been taken by some of the executives. I’d like to know something about that myself. Everybody in-money circles would.”

“There’s been a lot of the stock dumped at distress prices,” said Benson.

“Yes. But no one with sense should sell at the current quotations.”

“Mrs. Robert Martineau did.”

“Hysterical widow,” grunted Carter. “She probably got stampeded into selling by the continual dropping of the stock.”

“One more thing,” said Benson. “Could you tell me the names of the heaviest stockholders?”

“One of our customers’ men was with Carney & Buell for a while,” mused Carter. “I think he might know. Just a minute—”

Benson dropped more coins, and then Carter picked it up again:

“There are six, Dick. Lawrence Hickock, Mrs. Martineau, Stephen Vincent, John Lansing, Arnold Leon and Harry Andrews. But why all the curiosity? Have you some stock, too?”

“Just asking around,” said Benson expressionlessly.

“You fox! I’ll bet you plan to buy a lot low, and wait for a rise. If I had your money — When am I going to see you for a reunion?”

“Soon, I hope,” Benson said. “Thanks for the information, Carter. You’ll never know how much it has helped.”

He hung up. Six principal stockholders. Of the six, four were mysteriously missing — Hickock, Leon, Mrs. Martineau, and Vincent. That left two. A man named Harry Andrews — and John Lansing.

It was to Lansing’s home that Leon had been lured, just before his disappearance. It was to Lansing’s home that Hickock had gone, after a phone call from therein spite of the fact that Lansing was supposed to be in Florida at the moment.

Benson called the hotel. MacMurdie’s Scotch burr sounded.

“Mac, go to the home of Harry M. Andrews. See if he is there. I have reason to believe he’s on our mystery list, so he probably won’t be. But check and make sure.”

“Right,” said MacMurdie. “And then?”

“Report back to the hotel. I’m going there after I make a call myself.”

Benson’s call was at the Lansing home. Queer how that name had bobbed up so often. Benson had heard the name before ever this sinister mixed-up affair started. He had placed it now.

Lansing owned the Upstate Tool & Machinery Co., a company competing with Buffalo Tap & Die.

At the Lansing house, the repaired door told that the owner had gotten back home. And a moment later, in the vast library of the place, Lansing himself confirmed it.

“Wasn’t coming up from Florida all summer. I like the summers down there. But I had to come and see what all this silly business was about. Tap & Die? I own a lot of stock in that — but where do you come in on this?”

“You can just call me — a questioner,” Benson said evenly.

Lansing, a portly old gentleman with vague brown eyes, stared with a wary gaze.

“Investigator? Private detective?”

“You might call it that,” said Benson.

“You’re being confounded vague. Why should I answer any of your infernal questions?”

“Because it would look odd if you refused,” Benson rapped back. “Some queer things have happened at your house, Mr. Lansing. Are you thinking of selling your Tap & Die stock?”

Something — fear suspicion, alertness, what? — leaped into the man’s eyes.

“I may be,” he said evasively. “It’s down low, and seems to be going lower. No use losing more money than you have to.”

“What part of Florida were you in during the past six weeks?”

“West Palm Beach,” snapped Lansing. “You can check on that, if you like.”

There was a subtle wall going up between him and Benson. The gray-steel man with the pale-gray eyes knew he was done questioning. That is, he could keep on questioning, if he wanted to, but he wouldn’t get any more answers. At least, he had found out one thing.

Here was one, at least, of Tap & Die’s big stockholders who had not mysteriously vanished.

He went back to his hotel. At the entrance, an enterprising newsie was crying the latest edition. And this time a financial item had strayed from the rear of the paper to a small box on the front page.

Buffalo Tap & Die had dropped in the face of an otherwise rising market. Another large block of stock had been sold on the decline. It was rumored that Mr. John Lansing, just home from a sojourn in Florida, had sold.

Benson’s pale eyes glittered. Lansing had already disposed of his stock, at the very moment when he was telling him that he “might sell.”

The gray fox of a man went up to the suite — and the phone was ringing. A voice, in a whisper, greeted him.

“Thank Heaven, ye’re there.”

“Mac!” said Benson. “What’s wrong? Why are you talking so low? I can hardly hear you.”

“Trouble, mon,” whispered the Scot, over the miles of wire. “They’ve got me. Andrews’—”

The fine went dead, after Benson had heard a sort of gasp — and then a moan.