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

to him. Such jobs as his are not plentiful. Where would he get another?
    At least, that seemed to be all that bothered him. He certainly didn’t act like a guilty man.
    “You didn’t see anyone go into the office?” Benson asked Wendell.
    “No, sir.” Wendell paused, then added: “I was quite busy with two important patrons. It would be easy for anyone to pass from street door to back room unseen, while we were discussing pictures in one of the small alcoves.”
    “Mr. Vaughan’s private-account book indicates that he recently bought the ‘Diabolo,’ by Dubois. Have you seen it?”
    “ ‘Diabolo!’ ” Wendell exclaimed, aghast. “How on earth could anyone get hold of— No, sir, I haven’t seen it here. And I didn’t know of its purchase, though I’ve had an idea for several days that Mr. Vaughan got hold of something exciting. It has showed in his manner. Quite buoyant, he has been.”
    The Avenger’s eyes were like steel drills. This struck him as important.
    “Since when has his manner been excited, buoyant?”
    “Since Monday, four days ago,” said Wendell.
    “Can you remember any incident that might have been responsible for his elated manner?”
    “I’m not sure.” Wendell’s hand caressed his long, thin jaw. “It seems to me, though, that it began right after a strange fat man came in here to see him.”
    “A fat man?” snapped Benson.
    “Oh, very fat. I think he weighed around three hundred pounds. He had a very heavy beard. The kind that needs shaving twice as often as an ordinary growth. I think his name was Timbu, or Tarbo, or some such—”
    “Was it Teebo?”
    “Yes, that was it.”

    Benson and MacMurdie left the shop. Mac looked questioningly at The Avenger.
    “Vaughan bought the ‘Diabolo,’ all right, from Teebo. But it isn’t on these premises. I’d like a look at that, to see if it, too, is a fake.”
    “Maybe he put it in his safe-deposit box,” said the canny Scot. “Some of those boxes are as big as trunks. One would take the ‘Diabolo,’ if ’twas rolled up like ‘The Dock.’ ”
    “I don’t think he’d choose a bank box as a hiding place,” Benson said. “He has a home in Connecticut, I happen to know. The picture may be concealed there, or it may be in his New York apartment. He has a penthouse on Seventy-fourth Street.”
    He went to the nearest phone booth and called Bleek Street.
    “Nellie? Locate the Connecticut home of Durban Vaughan. Go there with Smitty and see if you can find the picture by Dubois called ‘Diabolo.’ It will probably be well hidden.”
    “Right, chief,” came the little blonde’s clear voice through the receiver.
    Dick turned from the phone to MacMurdie. “We’ll take the penthouse, Mac. Come along.”

CHAPTER VII

Beautiful Menace
    Meanwhile, Cole Wilson had reached the Long Island mansion of Clay Marsden, retired oil magnate and purchaser of museum pieces of art.
    The Marsden house was big but not especially elaborate when you remembered all the millions of dollars Marsden was supposed to own. It was set in a half block of lawn, with thick shrubbery. There was a high iron fence and a gate.
    The gate was closed. Cole got out of his car and went to it. There was a buzzer in the stone pillar to the right. He pressed this and heard a click. He tried the gate, found it open and walked into the place.
    The path led among well-kept bushes and cone-shaped evergreens. All beautiful enough. But Cole was like a trained soldier who does not look at landscape for beauty but for possible ambushes. He looked around here, and he didn’t like what he saw.
    A dozen men could be hidden, even in daylight, in the thick clumps of shrubbery. Another dozen could keep the boles of thick trees between them and him. And the house itself, under shade of more trees, loomed dark and somehow mysterious. Its walls were thick—so thick that Cole’s first thought was how easy it would be to shoot a man and never have the shot heard