The Avenger 31 - The Cartoon Crimes Read Online Free PDF Page B

stairwell.
    Jocko kicked Josh in the chin as he twisted around. He got up and went padding to the stairs.
    “Leo, nobody is giving me a straight answer,” said the managing editor. “So I ask you, what is all this?”
    Leo took a deep breath. “Uh . . . it’s a little tough to explain exactly, Joel.”
    “You okay?” Josh asked Cole.
    “As good as one can be after having part of one’s head added to the flooring,” said Cole, sitting up. “Go after them.”
    Josh pointed a thumb back at the elevator they had ridden up in. “Watch the arrow. It’s going down, meaning our pistol-packing friends caught it down on the floor below and are now almost to the street level.”
    “What is going on here?” repeated Oppenheim. “Can any of you tell me? I thought I heard guns shooting.”
    “That’s exactly what you heard,” said Cole, getting to his feet.

CHAPTER VIII

Barging In
    The uniformed cop came flat-footing across the vast lawn. “Hey, what are you guys up to?”
    Smitty was down on one knee in the neat-clipped grass of the Walling estate, dangling a necktie in front of the snout end of an oval mechanism he clutched in his big fist. “It’s okay,” he said.
    “Here, lad.” MacMurdie reached inside his coat.
    “Take it easy now, bud,” warned the Long Island cop, fingers swinging toward his holster.
    “Hout, ’tis only a letter, mon,” said the sandy-haired Scot as he produced a folded sheet of bond paper.
    “We already flashed it to your buddy down at the estate gates.” The giant bunched up the tie, shoved it into his pocket, and stood up.
    The cop’s eyes left the letter for a few seconds to take in Smitty’s rising. “Which one are you?” he asked him.
    “Smith.”
    “And you must be MacMurdie,” deduced the cop. “Well, okay. I know the District Attorney’s signature when I see it. If he says you can nose around here, it’s okay by me.” He returned the letter. “The D.A. always plays golf on Sunday afternoon. How’d you get hold of him?”
    “On the links,” replied Mac.
    Shifting from foot to foot, the cop asked, “What’s that dingus?”
    The object in Smitty’s hand was about the size and shape of a healthy avocado. There were dials and knobs dotting its metallic surface. “Little thing I cooked up,” said the giant.
    “Yeah? For what?”
    “Oh, it does this and that.”
    The cop winked. “I get you. Some kind of top secret thingamajig. Okay, I’ll see you around.” He turned and walked back to his position at the rear of the murdered man’s mansion.
    “He wouldn’t have believed me, anyhow,” said Smitty.
    “ ’Tis a vast improvement over your other tracking devices, lad.”
    “Yeah, well, I decided we need something smaller and more compact.” He depressed a button on the tracker’s side. “Let’s hope she works.”
    The gadget began humming; a faint ticking could be heard.
    “A veritable mechanical bloodhound,” said Mac with admiration.
    “It got Gil Lewing’s scent off that necktie Nellie glommed for us. By the way, do you think she was looking a little under the weather?”
    “Nay, mon. I’ve ne’er seen a healthier lass.”
    Smitty nodded and got his mind back on the job at hand. “Now, if all goes well, this thing’ll pick up Lewing’s spoor and take us along the trail he made when he hightailed it out of here last night.”
    “The police have been beating the bush ta no avail.”
    “Yeah, but they didn’t have this thingamajig.” Smitty pointed toward the woods. “Come on, it wants us to go this way.”

    The wheelchair made deep ruts in the bright sand. “This is private property, gents.”
    Smitty clicked off his tracker and dropped it into his already overstuffed coat pocket. He put his hands behind his back and glanced up at the weathered sign hanging over the doorway of the white beach-front building to which his tracker had led them. “Ferman Point Yacht Club,” he read off the dangling sign. “Members only. This looks