Murder on Wheels

CHAPTER XVI Ashes Come to Life

Josh Newton had dug up a remarkably complete book of facts on the past life of Cole Wilson. So many, in fact, as to hint that Wilson didn’t try to hide his past in any way, and hence was perhaps a respectable citizen.

Wilson had gone to one of the best engineering schools in the country, where he had had a brilliant record. He had graduated directly into a job with Marcus Marr, where he had helped Phineas Jackson.

One reason for the job was that he was almost a member of Jackson’s family. Phineas, Josh had found out, had practically adopted Cole Wilson when Wilson was a homeless boy of twelve. Wilson had lived with the Jacksons ever since, till about a year ago when he had taken the apartment in the Shelton Arms.

The only dubious part of Wilson’s past was a repeated tendency to radical political ideas. Though even these were of no particular line. He didn’t seem to hold any particular political belief, but he was always popping off in radical ways.

“Kind of for the underdog,” Josh put in thoughtfully.

“If he heard of anybody working for practically nothing, he was apt to go hotly off and soap box around to help them get better wages. If Wilson heard of somebody in trouble through no fault of his own, even if he didn’t know the person, he’d go out and get into all kinds of a mess trying to help. Kind of a baby Robin Hood.”

Smitty shook his head.

“He seems to have gotten away from that, now! There’s murder in this Marr mess. And he’s mixed up in it as sure as there’s a sun in the West.”

“Go on,” was all The Avenger said, pale eyes like polished agate.

But it seemed that was all to report. Josh had been unable to trace Wilson’s moves for the past few weeks.

“It doesn’t seem to me I got hold of anything very helpful,” said Josh apologetically.

But The Avenger’s face, so newly able to express thoughts, showed that he considered some part of that report quite useful indeed. Though he didn’t talk about it.

And then Nellie phoned in. She had finally traced the call yesterday, and since then had been nosing around the neighborhood. Her tone of voice indicated that she’d found something pretty interesting.

“I’m talking from the booth Willis used yesterday,” she said. She didn’t know yet that Willis and Phineas Jackson were one and the same person. “You know, out on Jefferson Avenue. I’ve been looking and inquiring around again to see if anybody knew anything about Willis. And I got no answer to that. But I did get something else. Something about the mystery car.”

Blonde Nellie’s voice held a triumphant note.

“I was talking to a newsboy near here, and he said he saw a funny-looking car driven past, late last night. A very funny-looking car! And it had no lights and was going like the wind. Then it slowed up, right near the drugstore where this phone booth is, and he didn’t see it any more. After that, I tried a new angle of investigation. Instead of looking for traces of Willis, I tried to trace the car. And, chief, I did! It’s in a garage, a block west of here. I sneaked in and got a look at it. Almost got caught at it, too. It is the mystery Marr-Car, sure enough!”

“Great work,” said Benson. “Stay where you are, and we’ll be out at once — wait a minute!”

For Josh was motioning that Mac was on another phone with an urgent message for The Avenger.

Benson exchanged phones and after just a moment he said into Nellie’s wire:

“We won’t be out for a little while, at that, Nellie. Stay around there and see if the mystery car is driven out. It probably won’t be. They’d only try to move that, late at night. But if it is, trail it. I’ll get in touch with you quite soon.”

For what Mac had said, that which had decided The Avenger to go to join him first, concerned the fellow who had shut Benson in the ray box.

“I found which mon on the skeleton force in the stock room wasn’t home night before last, Muster Benson,” Mac had said. “I was hangin’ around his roomin’ house and saw him come out, awhile ago. I trailed him, thinkin’ he’d be goin’ to work at the plant. But he didn’t. He went to the Grosse Pointe home of Sigmund Ormsdale, and as far as I can tell he’s in there now.”

An ordinary workman — in working clothes that had led Mac to think he was going to the plant — had called on a multimillionaire and apparently had been admitted freely! Mechanics don’t call much on millionaires. Especially when the mechanic is employed by a rival manufacturer.

It was this inconsistency that had narrowed The Avenger’s colorless but brilliant eyes.

“We’ll be out as soon as we can make it, Mac. Stay where you are and see if the workman leaves.”

“O. K., chief,” said Mac. “But here’s somethin’ funny. It looks like the servants are all gone from the place. I guess Ormsdale, himself, must have let the mon in.”

That was funny. Benson looked very thoughtful about it, all the way out to Grosse Pointe.

Mac stepped from a doorway, sunk in a high stone wall, as they neared the Ormsdale place. Smitty parked the car, and they went on foot from there.

“He’s still in the house?” asked Benson. Smitty looked at the colorless, deadly eyes and found himself glad he was not the man who had locked Benson in the ray box. Not if The Avenger ever got his hands on him.

“As far as I know, he is,” said Mac. “But, of course, it’s hard to watch four sides of a place at once. I think, though, that only one mon came out. A chauffeur drove out in a town car a few minutes ago—”

Benson’s eyes flared. Mac said hastily:

“I think it was a chauffeur. The getup was all right. Should I have traced him?”

“You couldn’t have, Mac,” said Benson. “Not and watch the house at the same time. But I have a hunch we won’t find our man.”

Mac had been right about the servants. There were none in evidence. Benson and Mac and Smitty went to the rear door, where Benson opened the lock in short order. They went in.

Not only were there no servants there. Nobody at all was in the place, including Ormsdale. Yet, just before they had entered, Benson’s quick eyes had seen a trace of life.

A faint plume of smoke came from one of the chimneys.

He set out to find the source of that plume, searching through the basement. They found it by feel — one of several metal cases enclosing such things as furnace and air-conditioning unit and water heater and incinerator.

The one that was hot was the latter. Benson opened the incinerator door, and there still were sparks in its bed. Sparks and ashes and a couple of metallic things.

The ashes had a barely perceptible stripe through a few sections large enough to tell what the burned stuff had been. The thing burned had been striped fabric — such as material from which a shopman’s dungarees are made. And the metallic things were buttons.

“Well!” said Smitty, eyes bulging. “This would seem to tie Ormsdale into the thing! A man from Marr’s plant comes here like he’s an old friend, burns a suit of dungarees in Ormsdale’s furnace, and then takes Ormsdale’s car and drives away in Ormsdale’s chauffeur’s livery to safety.”

“Whoosh!” said Mac. “But Ormsdale’s a big mon.”

“What’s the burned clothes doing here if he isn’t part of it?” snapped Smitty.

But then both looked at Benson, who had said nothing. The Avenger’s eyes, like chromium chips in his face, were brooding, almost veiled.

“Say Ormsdale is mixed up in it,” he said slowly, at last. “Say he has that Marr man in his secret employ. It certainly wouldn’t be smart to let the man come here in broad daylight, and then to let him burn his disguise in his own furnace.”

“Maybe ’tis not smart,” said Mac, “but that’s what seems to have been done. The case is closed, I’d say. Ormsdale is our mon, and he ought to be jailed for life.”

Smitty started to agree, but didn’t get any words out.

The Avenger had suddenly taken the tiny earphone of his belt radio out and was holding it to his ear.

“Chief,” came Nellie’s voice again. “Chief, I just saw Robert Mantis. I was in a store near that garage, watching it like you said. I saw Mantis drive past, and stop down the street. He’s sitting in his car, now, as if waiting for someone. I can see him through the window— No, no! He’s going in.”

“In where?” snapped Benson.

Through the earphone came the answer.

“A grocery store. L. M. Monard is the name—”

“We’ll be there!” said Benson.