The Avenger 30 - Black Chariots (5 page)

“Well, if this ain’t an example of mass hysteria, we better stop.”

“It’s probably only an example of an overheated radiator,” said Dipper. “There’s her car off by the side of the road.”

“Yeah, and spouting steam like Old Faithful.”

The blonde in the polka-dot swimsuit waved hopefully as their car slowed to a stop. “I’m afraid I’m not used to driving in this kind of country,” she said, pointing at the steaming hood.

“Common occurrence in these parts, miss,” said Dipper. “I’ll take a look, but I think the best thing to do is going to be to let the car sit for a spell.”

“I don’t know,” said Jennifer. “I don’t really know much about machines.”

The two men alighted. Dipper gingerly lifted the hood. While he squinted at the radiator and engine block, Smitty said, “My name’s Smitty, and he’s Charles Willet.”

“Better known as Dipper.”

“I’m happy you came along,” said the girl, “my name is Jennifer Hamblin.”

Dipper turned his head away from the engine. “Had a visiting prof named Hamblin once in my college days.”

“At Cal Tech? It was probably my uncle, then.”

“Val Hamblin,” said Dipper, “a very smart guy.”

“Yes, that’s Uncle Val.” She lowered her head and kicked at the sand. “That’s why, in a way, I’m out here.”

“I’ve heard of this Val Hamblin guy, too,” said the giant. “If he’s staying in these parts, I’d like to meet him.”

“That’s just it,” Jennifer said. “I don’t know where he is. I came out to southern California hoping . . . well, it’s a long, dull story, really.”

Dipper shut the hood and wiped his hands on the side of his khaki trousers. “She’ll run again, after a little rest.”

“You in a hurry, miss?” Smitty asked her. “We could drop you somewhere.”

“No, not actually. I’ve been driving around most of the day to see if . . . well, it may sound silly. To see if I could spot any of these things they call black chariots. Have you heard any—”

“Say that again, miss.” Smitty took hold of her arm.

“I was asking if you’d heard of the black chariots. There was only one mention of them in the papers, and my calls to the local law haven’t produced one bit of—”

“You’re interested in these flying gizmos, too?” the big man asked her.

“Yes, I am.” She’d been looking up into his face, a frown on hers, as he questioned her. “You . . . I’ve seen you . . . no, your picture someplace.”

“Smitty’s somewhat of a celebrity,” said Dipper. “You must have heard of Justice, Inc.”

“Of course, that’s why you seemed familiar to me,” said Jennifer. She glanced at Dipper, then back at the giant. “There’s something I’d like to talk to you about, Mr. Smith.”

Smitty said, “You can say whatever you like in front of Dipper.”

Dipper pointed at the blazing sun. “We should be able to find a cooler spot,” he said. “I noticed a last-chance sort of café a mile or two back. Why don’t we adjourn there?”

“Okay,” said Smitty.

They called the little one Moron. The reason for that was . . .

He came in, adjusting his high-drape slacks, and crossed the windowless gray room. “Hey, did you hear about the little moron who took the ladder to the party because—”

“Shut up, Moron,” suggested the fat man in the chocolate-colored suit. His complexion was the same shade of gray as the walls.

“The trouble with you, Heinz, is you ain’t hep.” Moron dropped, with a clank, into one of the six metal folding chairs that made up the room’s only furniture.

“You’re fifteen minutes late,” pointed out the third man in the room. His name was Trumbull, and he looked like hundreds of other tired middle-aged men.

“I drove over to the Springs,” explained Moron. “I’m hunting for a Coleman Hawkins record that—”

“All right, enough,” said the fat Heinz.

“I picked up a good one from the guy who runs the disk shop,” said Moron. “Did you hear about the little moron who took the tape measure to bed because he—”

“They’re not happy,” said Heinz. The small folding chair was too small for his bulk; he kept shifting his weight uncomfortably. “We have to do better.”

“I’d like to meet these guys,” said Moron. “Who the hell do they—”

“They’re the people we work for,” said Trumbull. “They have a right to expect results.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t like being treated like a stooge,” said the little man. “Never see these birds, get orders handed down to me by you guys. It lacks—”

“I’ve never seen them, either,” said Trumbull. He took the display handkerchief from the pocket of his double-breasted blue suit and wiped his forehead. “They pay well, and on time. That’s all that need concern you.”

Sighing unhappily, Heinz jiggled up off his chair. “They may not continue to pay us,” he said. “They feel the last job was botched, very badly botched.”

“We almost got that big stoop,” said Moron. “We run him off the road good. It was just dumb luck that—”

“And dumb luck that he retaliated with some very unconventional weapons,” said Trumbull, “is that what you really think, Moron? Dumb luck that he caught Rudy?”

“So he caught him,” said Moron. “I notice Rudy ain’t doing no talking. That stray shot of yours, Heinz, that was lucky because it kept—”

“The shot wasn’t stray,” corrected the fat man in the chocolate-brown suit. “They don’t want any of us to fall into the hands of the opposition. I was merely acting on orders. Fortunately that pall of strange blackness was—”

“Hold your horses,” said Moron, bouncing out of his chair. “You mean to stand there with your face hanging out and tell me you iced Rudy on purpose?”

“Exactly,” replied Heinz. “Keep that in mind, Moron.”

The little man sat down again. “Cripes,” he muttered.

“Let’s get on to new business,” said Heinz, waddling slowly around the room. “They’re giving us another chance to eliminate this man Smith.”

“That’s generous of them,” said Moron, in a small voice.

Trumbull wiped his face again. “I’ve been doing some quiet digging,” he said. “It’s as we suspected. Smith
is
part of the Justice, Inc., organization. Meaning there’s a possibility more of his associates will be showing up.”

“One or a bunch, we can handle ’em,” said Moron. “What about that blond dame?”

“They have something else in mind for Miss Hamblin,” said Heinz. “We are to concentrate on taking care of Smith, and any of his associates who appear on the scene.”

“No sweat,” said Moron, whose confidence was returning. “We can take care of a dozen like that big ginzo.”

“With the proper plan,” said Heinz.

She saw him at twilight.

Jennifer was at the window of her second-floor room, idly watching the resort swimming pool below. A sun-baked old man climbed up the ladder at the shallow end, shivered into a white robe, and went paddling off across the sea-blue tiles. The entire pool area was empty now, the dozen round white tables unoccupied.

The girl was thinking about the conversation she’d just had with Smitty. “Justice, Inc.,” she said to herself. “They might be able to help me. Yes, especially the Avenger. I’ve heard—”

Then she saw her uncle.

He came walking down a pathway lined with palm trees. He walked along the side of the pool, with that loping gait of his.

“Uncle Val!” she cried.

The tall, tanned man did not turn, didn’t look up when she hailed him from her open window.

Jennifer leaned further out, calling again. “Uncle Val, up here!”

He passed the pool and turned down another pathway. This led toward the large building that housed the Oasis restaurant and ballroom.

The girl spun away from the window and ran across her room.

She ran down the empty corridor and hurried down the stairway. The first door she came to was marked Emergency Exit Only. She pushed through, out into the gathering dark.

“Uncle Val!”

He heeded her not at all. He went through a white door in the large building across the way.

Jennifer ran, with one fisted hand pressed against her throat. Pebbles of the white gravel flew up as she passed.

By the pool, then along the pathway. Into the other building.

There he was, turning down into that cross corridor.

“Uncle Val, don’t you hear me? Why don’t you wait for me?”

The long white hallway was quiet. Her heels seemed to set up an enormous clacking as she ran.

When she reached the next corridor, there was no sign of him.

The girl hesitated, staring ahead. Then she caught a flicker of movement.

“That next-to-the-last door on the left. It’s just closing.”

She began to run again.

This corridor, too, was empty. When Jennifer reached the door she’d seen easing shut, she stopped to catch her breath. She was positive the man she’d been following was her missing uncle. Why, then, hadn’t he paid her any attention at all?

“Even if it’s not Uncle Val, and I know it is,” she said to herself, “I don’t see why he didn’t stop. He must be aware of my following him.

She took hold of the doorknob. “I know this is the right door.” The door opened toward her.

The hall beyond was different. Not white like all the others, but a dim gray. Not much light, either, only a few small-watt bulbs in infrequent sockets along its length.

Taking another deep breath, Jennifer stepped across the threshold. The door closed silently behind her.

“Uncle Val,” she said aloud.

Only silence.

She moved ahead, but more slowly. There were no other doors, nothing but the blank gray walls.

At the end of the hall she came to another door. She opened it. A stairway, leading down.

Even less light down there, only that one small bulb way off there. Jennifer’s stubbornness took hold now. She’d come this far. She knew that was Uncle Val she’d seen.

She started down the wooden steps.

And after the next corridor there was another stairway. After that a winding, very narrow, passageway. All gray, dimly lit, and silent.

“Jenny, old girl,” she said to herself, “this is all getting very strange. Maybe you ought to head for fresh air. Wait until the Avenger arrives, and tell him about this.”

She turned back and went around the gray passage. The door she’d entered by would not open now. Jennifer turned the knob again and again, and rattled the door. It would not open.

“Well, that pretty much decides my direction,” she told herself. “Downward, ever downward.”

She retraced her steps and came again to the end of the winding passage way. This door opened.

And there was Uncle Val, standing against the far wall.

“Uncle Val!” she said, starting toward him.

The three other men in the room did not let her reach him.

The highway exploded.

Straight across its entire width. Great chunks of paving spewed up into the air, swirls of dust and smoke.

“Whoosh!” MacMurdie gave the steering wheel a violent twist. The nose of their car was not more than ten feet from the explosion.

Rock and asphalt pounded down on the machine as it went zigzagging toward the edge of the road.

“Up the boulder over there,” warned Smitty, who occupied the seat next to Mac. “I spotted somebody.”

“Get us behind that other spill of boulders,” ordered the Avenger from the back seat.

Mac guided the bucking auto across the gritty desert, dodging giant cactuses. “Do ye think we’re in the midst of a Western-style ambush?”

“It’s some kind of ambush, sure as hell,” said the giant.

“By the Sacred Waters of Loch MacQuarrie!” exclaimed Mac while their car sluiced around a large joshua tree and then skidded to a stop behind a pile of dusty-orange boulders.

“Scatter!” Benson dived out the back door before the engine even died.

Smitty, tugging out an automatic, trotted into a cleft between two mammoth rocks.

Mac took up a position nearby. “Mot these be the same lads who tried to send ye off to the sweet by and by?”

“The survivors of that bunch, anyhow.” Smitty ducked down.

An instant later, machine-gun slugs were zinging through the afternoon.

“ ’Tis nae the most cordial welcome I’ve ever had.”

Four members of the Justice, Inc., crime-fighting team had arrived in southern California an hour earlier. They had flown west in one of the Avenger’s own planes, landing at a small private field. Smitty met them, and was driving the Avenger and MacMurdie into Manzana. Cole and Nellie, the little blonde none too pleased at the prospect, were heading together in another direction to book accommodations at one of the desert resorts.

Two, possibly three, men were fortressed in a mound of boulders some twenty yards to the south. The man with the tommy gun, like some lethal jack-in-the-box, would pop up, fire off a chattering burst, and then disappear.

Smitty glanced around the late afternoon desert. He didn’t see the Avenger anywhere.

Another burst of machine-gun slugs spurted overhead.

The giant waited a second, stood up, fired two shots in the direction of the gunman, and dropped down again. Not with any expectation of hitting his man, but to provide a diversion. Benson was obviously up to something.