The Avenger 21 - The Happy Killers Read Online Free PDF Page A

to break Benson in two; but he had another idea, after another look into the icy eyes, that it would not be wise to try.
    “They were all out in their quarters over the garage,” he said. “Each can alibi the others, so they’re out. The valet, Peter Sheeley, was the only one in the house. We don’t know why he was in there, at midnight. He was the one who got bumped off.”
    “Harry Tate?”
    The plainclothesman shook his head. “Cracked, if you ask me. Want to talk to him?”
    The Avenger did want to talk to him. The man got him.
    Harry Tate, described by Brown as “a young cousin of mine,” was about twenty-six. He was slender, slow in movement, dreamy-eyed. His every action was that of a man half out of this world, though he seemed intelligent enough.
    He shook The Avenger’s hand admiringly. “As a chemist,” he said, “I’m familiar with some of your work. You would be the world’s best-known research worker if only you didn’t spend your time chasing after . . . er . . . criminals.”
    “Sometimes that is more valuable work than chemical research,” Benson said quietly. “You were here last night, Mr. Tate?”
    Tate nodded and into his eyes came a guarded look.
    “You heard nothing during the night?”
    “Nothing,” said Tate.
    “Mr. Brown told me that he thought he heard a noise downstairs at about midnight. Then he heard you laughing. Rather, he believed it was you. Why were you laughing?”
    Tate’s eyes became more guarded. He glanced furtively at the plainclothesman down the hall. Evidently, the man hadn’t been told about the laughter.
    “I was working on a certain experiment,” Tate said. “I . . . it turned out wrong, and I laughed.”
    “You weren’t, perhaps, using yourself as an experimental subject? You didn’t swallow something that made you laugh?”
    Tate said nothing. He bit his lips and looked most uncomfortable.
    “Won’t the loss of your formula, stolen with the rest of the things from the safe, be a serious blow to you?”
    Tate answered very reluctantly: “No. I . . . I can reproduce it from memory.”
    The Avenger saw that he’d get nothing more out of Tate, so he turned with Mac to the room of the crime. The body of the valet was at the undertaking chamber, so they could not examine it at the moment. It had told little, anyway, except that the death had been caused by a blow with a blunt instrument, probably a clubbed automatic.
    The wall safe didn’t tell much either.
    No prints had been found on the knob; it had been carefully wiped. Someone knowing the combination had opened it, because there was no sign of violent entry. Brown’s own prints were on the metal around the knob. That was all.
    The house had a good burglar-alarm protection but this had been switched off by someone inside, probably that maid. The outer gate and the front door had been easily opened, so probably they had been left not quite shut by the same person, the girl—
    “Hello,” muttered Mac. “Who’s this girrrl?”
    Mac wasn’t particularly susceptible to feminine charms, but there was a glint in his eyes as he stared at the figure that had suddenly appeared in the library doorway. Benson turned to look and saw why.
    On the threshold was a girl in a maroon wool dress who could have stepped into the front line of a chorus. She was tall and slender. Her hair was ash-blond, and her eyes were light amber, like candy. She came into the room, looking at The Avenger.
    “You’re Mr. Benson, aren’t you?” she said in a voice as charming as the rest of her. “I’m Edna Brown. I just came today to visit my father, and stepped into this mess. Isn’t it dreadful?”
    “Quite,” The Avenger said evenly. His eyes went like drills into the amber orbs of the girl. “You say you just got here?”
    “About an hour ago,” she said. “I have a job in the city. Librarian. But I was down in Washington visiting a friend, during a week off, when I heard from Dad. I came up by