Stockholders in Death

CHAPTER II The Search

The two brothers, even after they reached home with their sad burden, took a little while to realize just what they’d been told.

They had heard what had been done to their father’s fortune, but it took a while for it to sink in. Banks, on the whole, are as ethical as any other form of business. Now and then, a banking group does arise which is ruthless and shady in its dealings, just as in any other business endeavor. But it’s alway harder to believe it of banks.

At first Tom and Wayne didn’t really believe a bank had stolen over two million dollars of their father’s securities. Then they began to accept this monstrous thing as a fact, and go into action.

“One thing,” said Wayne. “Dad wasn’t in the least out of his head. His mind was clear as a bell at the last. If he said that happened, it happened.”

Tom nodded.

“Far as that goes, I remember Dad mentioning, once, that a bunch of highbinders were after Ballandale Glass, and that he felt like stepping in and blocking the play. So he did it, after all.”

“All that stock,” said Wayne. “Over two million dollars. Surely there’s some sign that it belonged to Dad, even if it was bought secretly and not yet signed over to him.”

“There must be notes on it among his papers,” agreed Tom. “We’ll look.”

They went over the house, particularly Joseph Crimm’s library and home office and his bedroom. But they found no scrap of paper mentioning a transaction in Ballandale stock.

They went to his office, arriving there at gray dawn. And there they found signs that someone had come before them — and had searched for something, too.

The vault was closed; but when they opened it, the contents were found to be disarranged. The desk drawers were in a jumble, unlike the orderliness with which their father usually kept things.

There was no way of telling who had searched that place before them, nor what the mysterious searcher had found. But there was one clear fact:

No hint of Ballandale stock purchases was anywhere among their father’s papers.

Tom’s face was a dark, frozen mask. Wayne’s was openly furious, and his blue eyes flamed.

“All right,” Tom said in a low, trembling voice. “They’ve gotten away with it, so far. They got the stock, and made sure there wasn’t a thing left behind to trace ownership. They killed Dad to shut him up. But, by heaven, we’ll get them for it!”

Wayne nodded.

“We’ll report this right away. Now! The police—”

“The police!” echoed Tom bitterly.

Wayne stared at him, frowning a little.

“Why, yes! Why not the police? This is crime. You call in the police in a criminal matter.”

“Sure, it’s a crime. But on a big scale. On thefts involving millions of dollars, my small brother, the police are about as much good as an air rifle against elephants.”

“But—”

“You know who the Town Bank directors are, don’t you?” said Tom harshly.

“Yes! We’ve met most of them at Dad’s at one time or another. There’s Lucius Grand, Robert Rath, Louis Wallach and Frederick Birch.”

“And Theodore Maisley, president of the bank,” added Tom. “You know their caliber — all powerful, wealthy, influential men. And you’d call the cops against a bunch like that! Why, men of that stripe own the police.”

Wayne chewed his upper lip. He had often been rubbed the wrong way by his older brother’s cynicism. He was now. But he had to admit there was some slight justification for it. It’s hard for the police to get a handle against such men.

Wayne suddenly banged his right fist in his left palm.

“Of course!” he exclaimed. “Just the thing!”

“What’s just the thing?” snapped Tom sourly.

“We’re not the first people to find ourselves in such a predicament. Others, besides ourselves, have been pitted against men too powerful, too subtle, for the regular police. And they’ve still managed to do something about it. They’ve gone to Justice, Inc., to The Avenger, for help.”

“Avenger?” said Tom, scowling. “Who’s that?”

“Don’t you ever read?” said Wayne. “There’s a man named Richard Henry Benson, who mixes in just such cases. He’s young, and tremendously rich. Some time ago his family was lost in a crooked deal, and ever since he has made it his business to fight crime — in revenge!”

“Baloney!”

“It’s true! I’ve heard Dad speak of him.” Wayne’s eyes were shining with a light of hero worship. “He has his headquarters in Bleek Street, in lower Manhattan. He has some helpers, and they all call themselves Justice, Inc. That’s because they see to it that justice is done, no matter how smart the crooks—”

“For how much?” Tom’s voice was a stream of cold water across his brother’s enthusiasm.

“What?” said Wayne, jerked back to earth.

“He sees that justice is done — for how much?”

“He doesn’t work for money,” Wayne protested. “He has all any man needs—”

“Hooey! Show me a man who doesn’t work for money, and you’ll be showing me a corpse. Of course he gets something out of it.”

Wayne’s jaw set. It seemed to have gotten much more mature in the last few hours.

“It’s my vote that we go and see The Avenger and ask him to help us,” he declared quietly.

“Sure! And have him chisel half of Dad’s fortune, if he recovers the stock! Nothing doing.”

“All right, what’s your idea on this?”

“Town Bank stole that stock and killed Dad,” said Tom grimly. “So that makes them thieves and murderers. Yet they are too high for the police to tackle. There’s only one thing to do. That is — get even tougher thieves and murderers after them!”

The puzzled crease deepened between Wayne’s blond brows.

“There is a lad in New York named Nicky Luckow,” Tom said. “A nice boy. Rackets, gang murders, dope, all the rest of it. He’d bump off the mayor for a thousand dollars. That’s the man I want help from, in a case like this.”

“You’re crazy!” gasped Wayne. “Luckow is the most notorious gangster in the East.”

“Right! I’m going to him and tell him about this. I’m going to offer him a quarter of the value of the Ballandale stock — if he and his gang can recover it, and find out which Town Bank official is directly responsible for Dad’s death.”

“But if you did locate the murderer, you couldn’t turn him over to the law when you’d rounded him up with such a crew.”

“There’s no law against it. When Luckow and his crew find our man, he’ll be dealt with at no bother to the courts.”

“Tom!”

“Bunch of racketeers at that bank, huh?” raged Tom. “We’ll see how they like being stacked up against professionals for a change.”

Wayne stared at his brother. Lumps of muscle quivered at the corners of his mouth. Tom’s eyes were cold points of resolve.

“I’m going to The Avenger,” said Wayne.

“I’m going to Nicky Luckow,” grated Tom.

“You damn fool,” said Wayne, glaring.

“You trusting babe in the woods,” sneered Tom. “Go to your chiseling Avenger and see how much he tries to gyp out of you!”

In lower Manhattan there is a street only a short block long. One whole side is taken up with the windowless back of a great storage building. The other side has several stores, vacant, a vacant warehouse and, in the middle, three old brick apartment buildings.

The street is named Bleek Street. In effect the block is owned by one man, since he has the stores and warehouse across from the storage building under long lease, and owns the three old brick buildings.

That owner is Richard Henry Benson, known to police and underworld, alike, as — The Avenger.

The three old three-story buildings, behind the shabby facade, are thrown into one; and the interior is furnished with a quiet splendor possible only to a very rich man.

The entire top floors of the three buildings are one enormous room; and in that room, when they are not at work on some dangerous case, are to be found the little crew calling itself, Justice, Inc.

Four of them were up there now: Nellie Gray, Josh Newton and his wife Rosabel, and Smitty, whose full and much-hated name was Algernon Heathcote Smith.

Smitty looked at the clock. It was a quarter of nine.

“Where’s the chief?” he asked.

“In the lab,” said Nellie. There was a reverent tone in their voices. Almost an awed tone. You didn’t speak lightly of The Avenger. “As far as I know he’s been there all night.”

“He doesn’t seem to need sleep or anything,” said Josh. “I sometimes think he isn’t human—”

There was a soft buzz and they all were silent.

Down on the street, in the center of the three converted buildings, was the entrance and vestibule under the small sign which simply read:

The buzz had indicated that someone, down there, wanted to get in. And when that happened, it was usually important.

Smitty switched on a small television radio. The giant, with his moon-face and not-too-intelligent-looking china-blue eyes was an electrical engineer of superb capability. He had designed the gadget. It showed whoever was in the vestibule.

On the screen, now, flashed the image of a young fellow with hurt blue eyes and blond hair.

“Yes?”

They saw the young fellow start when Smitty’s voice sounded out of nowhere in the vestibule downstairs.

“I am Wayne Crimm,” he said, looking around, not knowing in what direction to pitch his voice. “I would like to see Mr. Benson.”

Crimm? At that name, they all looked at each other.

In the corner was a teletype that continually flashed the news of the world before the eyes of The Avenger and his aides. It had flashed a message concerning that name, early in the morning.

Joseph Crimm, well-known lawyer, had dropped dead of heart failure a block from his home in the late night.

Now his son was here to see Dick Benson.

Smitty stared at Nellie, who nodded.

“I’ll get the chief from the lab,” she said. “You let Wayne Crimm up. I’m pretty sure the chief will want to see him. And I’m pretty sure that when he does, there will be some sparks flying, somewhere!”