The Avenger 12 - The Flame Breathers Read Online Free Page B

There was nothing whatever that should make it explode as it seemingly had when the water tumbler hit the wall. In conclusion, the testing chemist drank some of it, with a shrug, to prove his point. It harmed him not at all.
    Benson had watched every test. He knew the verdict was right. The water was—just water.
    “I guess I have no charge against you or your friends, Mr. Benson,” said the chief reluctantly. “Or even against the man with the big ears. Since there’s nothing in the water, he couldn’t have put anything there as he passed it. I suppose he ran because he knew he’d be suspected when the explosion occurred.”
    The Avenger only nodded. But his eyes were flaring in their colorless depths with thoughts and conclusions known only to himself.

CHAPTER IV

Demon Speed
    Only a few hours after the strange explosion in the Montreal hospital and the death of the plainclothesman, a driver warmed up a car on one of the big Utah salt flats where speed runs are so often made.
    These salt flats are a favorite place for speed runs. Level as floors in all directions, extending for miles, the ancient shallow lake bottoms seem to have been designed by a tolerant Nature just to let speed demons have their precarious way.
    To the eye, the run about to be made, so soon after The Avenger had dashed a glass of water from a dying man’s lips, didn’t look as if it would be an epochal event. The car being warmed up was of the best commercial make but was still standard. It was no special job, weighing many tons, with enormous tires and wheels, and streamlined to the last possible gasp. It was merely a big sedan. It had been tuned to the finest point of efficiency, and its tires were brand new and of the best racing variety. But these things weren’t noticeable.
    A man, goggled and crash-helmeted, stood next to the car with the door open. With him was another man with a rifle slung in the hollow of his arm.
    “I don’t get the idea of the gun,” said the driver.
    “To keep any guys with long noses from buttin’ in and watchin’ this run,” said the man with the rifle.
    “You guys are all nuts,” snorted the driver. “You have a gun. The two guys roaming around here in the old truck have guns. ‘To keep anybody from watching the run,’ you say. But who wants to sneak in and risk his life to see a stock car go maybe a hundred and ten over a salt flat?”
    “You’d be surprised,” said the man.
    “I don’t think you’d really shoot,” the driver said. He was a youngster with a reckless grin and a happy eye. He made his living by courting death—and showed it.
    “Maybe we wouldn’t,” shrugged the man with the gun. “Start the run, will you?”
    “O.K. Though what you expect is more than I can figure out. You get me because I’m supposed to be the best driver in the West. You pay me double what anybody else has ever paid me. And for what? To test out an ordinary stock job. I know to a fraction what these boats’ll do. A hundred and five is theoretically possible, but I’ll bet half the dough you’re to pay me that this buggy won’t hit a hundred.”
    “Motor’s geared up,” said the man phlegmatically.
    “So the motor’s geared up,” shrugged the driver. “So maybe it’ll do thirty an hour better than that. So what? When you gear up a car you lose power, and at high wind resistance the motor won’t take it any more. Your top speed isn’t much higher with a geared-up job than with ordinary ratio, unless there’s a special motor. And there’s no special in this crate. I got a flash at it when you raised the hood awhile ago.”
    “You saw—” began the other.
    There was a sharp, hard bark of sound off in the distance.
    “Hey!” exclaimed the driver. “That was a shot! If you guys have killed anybody—”
    “Keep your shirt on,” said the man with the rifle. “Just because you heard a shot don’t mean somebody got hurt.”
    “I’m not working for anybody that might be a