The Avenger 19 - Pictures of Death by Kenneth Robeson Read Free Book Online Page A

here?”
    “Yes, sir. I don’t think it had ever been opened. You see, Vaughan died of shock caused by the torture. That’s what the medical examiner said. There was nothing to kill him, but he died from fright and pain. His heart couldn’t stand it—which makes it just as much murder as if he’d been shot.”
    “Of course,” nodded Benson. And though his voice was quite even and calm, Parsons almost shivered when he looked into the pale, glacial eyes.
    Benson had seen many cruel things in his work of avenging cruelty, but he could still be profoundly, icily enraged at such things.
    “Have you gone over Vaughan’s record of purchases yet?” he asked.
    Parsons nodded. “His regular ones, anyway. But his senior clerk thinks there have been purchases lately that aren’t entered in the books. Private stuff, maybe.” The lieutenant looked speculatively at The Avenger. “Such private records, and maybe more stuff we want to see, may be in that vault. Can you open it?”
    “I think so,” said Benson.
    He went to it.
    “Have you photographed for fingerprints?” he asked.
    “Yes,” said Parsons. “Go right ahead. You won’t disturb anything.”
    The Avenger’s fingers touched the combination knob of the vault. As strong as tool steel, those fingers were; as sensitive as the strings of a violin; as clever as if each fingertip held a tiny brain.
    In about three minutes the vault door swung back.
    The lieutenant shook his head. “I’m glad you work with the cops instead of against them,” he said. “Do you want to look around a little before we plow things up?”
    “I would like to. Thanks.”
    The Avenger found the little brown book almost at once. It was the main thing he had wanted to see. It recorded transactions in pictures which, for some reason, Vaughan did not want to keep in his regular books.
    The last such transaction told why the secrecy was desired. The last entry read:
    Dubois’ “Diabolo” _________ $94,500.00
    The Avenger’s almost colorless eyes glinted like ice. The painting, “Diabolo,” by Dubois, had been in the Louvre in Paris, last he had heard of it. It was owned by the French government. If Vaughan had bought it here in New York, it was stolen property, looted from the museum during the war disturbance and smuggled into this country. No wonder its purchase was in a private-account book.
    In the vault, along with office and gallery records, were a dozen paintings which were obviously too valuable to leave in the regular storeroom. Each was a masterpiece, worth many thousands of dollars.
    But Dubois’ “Diabolo” was not among them!
    “You’re sure the killers hadn’t gotten into this vault?” Benson asked.
    “I can’t be sure, of course,” Parsons said slowly. “But I am almost sure. You see, there were a lot of prints on the combination knob. But none of them belonged to Vaughan. And his prints would have almost had to be there if the vault had been opened. Not many could walk in here, strange, like you, and open it up.”
    “You have a theory, then?”
    “Yes. As far as it goes. I think several men walked in here off the street—there was only one clerk in the place because it was lunch time—came into this office by surprise and shut and locked the soundproof door before Vaughan could yell for help. I think they wanted something that they were sure was in the vault. So they set about making Vaughan open it. Vaughan took a lot of torture without breaking. Then he up and died of shock on them. They went away without having found what they came for.”
    “It sounds likely,” Dick said.
    Parsons grinned with the commendation. This would be something to tell the boys about for a long time.
    “Could I see the clerk who found Vaughan’s body?” Benson asked.
    Parsons called him.

    His name was Wendell, and he looked like a tired professor. He was Vaughan’s senior clerk and had been here for thirty years. He was a little pale, now, as he wondered what would happen