by Robert Reed
days, what with the NRA and Mr . Roosevelt’s so-called controlled
inflation.”
Wentworth waved a hand negligently, tossing his cigarette into a
smoking stand. “You business men,” he sighed. “I wish I could find
something in life that was half so interesting . Sure you can’t make
it, Mac?”
Pugh shook his bald head regretfully, smiling up from beneath
those white brows . “No can do . But if you’re out at your estate over
Sunday, and decide finally not to go fishing, you might drop over.
Bring Nita along . When the ticker stops Saturday noon, I have until
the Stock Exchange opens Monday before I — ”
A strangled cry rang through the office. Wentworth whirled, star-
ing with narrowed eyes past Pugh to the door of an office marked
“Private .” The door swung haltingly open and a man staggered out,
clutching at his throat .
“The Black Death!” he gasped . “I’ve got it!” His hand ripped his
collar open, and on the corpse-like yellowness of his throat Went-
worth saw the purple flower of the dread plague!
WINGS OF THE BLACK DEATH, by Norvell Page | 164
The man was Theodore Works, Pugh’s partner, and there could
be no doubt that he was dying . His stumbling entry had thrown the
room into a panic . Stenographers sprang screaming from their tasks,
and pale-faced men raced in panic for the street .
Even Pugh, with one terrified glance, joined in the pell-mell rush.
And only Wentworth, jaw clenched and eyes aglint, remained .
The man collapsed into a seat, flung his arms across a desk top
and leaned his chest against its edge, his breath coming hoarsely .
“You have been blackmailed?” Wentworth demanded .
The man stared at him unseeingly . Wentworth moved a step
nearer and demanded again, “Were you blackmailed?”
This time the man’s head nodded heavily . “Yes . And I paid .”
His hoarse voice was scarcely human, the words mere mouth-
ings. “I paid. And now — oh, God — I’m dying anyhow! Dying — the
Black Plague — ”
“Whom did you pay?” Wentworth snapped at him . Sympathy for
the dying man touched him, but more than sympathy was at stake .
Here was a man who had actually had contact with the dread master
of the plague, had paid him blackmail . If he could obtain from him
with his dying breath a clue that might save the countless millions
of the city—
Works’ head sagged forward . Breath rasped more harshly in his
throat. He belched. Blood poured from his jaws. It tore a muffled
scream of agony from him .
“Quick, man!” Wentworth shot at him . “Do you know who the
blackmailer was?”
The sagging head raised an Inch, wobbled slowly in negation .
“No — ” Works got out, “but — voice on wire — thought I knew
it .”Wentworth advanced two swift strides . Here was the Black Death
in all its horror . Its contagion might strike him down . But here, too,
might be the one clue that the Spider must have to track the plague
master .
Suddenly Works convulsed, reared back in his chair with clutch-
ing hands digging into his throat .
WINGS OF THE BLACK DEATH, by Norvell Page | 165
“Speak, man, speak!” Wentworth cried . The purple lips opened,
suffocation blackened his face . Blood gushed out . Sound issued
from that ghastly mouth . But it was sound that was translatable into
no word . It was the death rattle . And Works slumped forward upon
the desk, his face dyed by the loathsome blush of the Black Death .
For an instant longer Wentworth stared at the body, his heart torn
with compassion at the cruelty he had been forced to exert upon this
dying man . Then he whirled and strode from the room with hard-
pounding heels .
Gone was the airy nonchalance with which he had met MacDon-
ald Pugh; gone the smile from his lips, and in its place was grim
purpose .
From his path a man fled, running with a wobbling unaccustomed
gait, a sloppy unpressed coat flapping in the wind, a dilapidated gray
felt jammed down about his ears .
For an instant Wentworth pursued . But after two swift strides he
checked himself . A grim twist that was only half a smile came to his
lips .He should know by now the earmarks of the gentlemen of the
press, should know that no one but a careless, keen reporter would
dare, as this man had, the curse of the Black Death for the compara-
tively trivial accomplishment of spreading first the news of a major
story upon the front page of his paper .
Wentworth strode on to the curb and hailed a taxi, cried sharply,
“Police headquarters!” Then he settled back upon the cushions and
toyed with the head of his cane, looking down at its carved ivory
handle with eyes that for once were unappreciative of its artistry .
It was time the news was spread abroad, time that the city learned
that this Black Death was the work of a human agency . Then in-
deed would the whole world rise up to wipe out the sinister masked
shadow that crouched with bloody hands over New York’s millions .
But before his cab could traverse the mile between Wall Street
and the headquarters of police, men were screaming extras on the
streets, and black headlines blazoned forth the news that the Black
Death was a blackmailer’s plot .
WINGS OF THE BLACK DEATH, by Norvell Page | 166
Perhaps, Wentworth thought, that news would help bring in in-
formation from others that had been blackmailed; perhaps it would
bring out a clue to the plague master himself . But though he doubted
that the police would be able to find the man, there was a way in
which they could help if they would . They could, in all probability,
locate James Handley . If they would search in earnest for that man,
putting their best men upon the case, it was at least possible that
some definite lead might be uncovered.
But Wentworth entered the office of the Commissioner with a
feeling of futility . How could he convince Kirkpatrick of the neces-
sity for that search, unless he revealed not only what Wentworth
knew, but what the Spider had learned?
Kirkpatrick’s face brought Wentworth to a stop just inside the
door . It was the face of a living man who was dead, the face of
a man haunted by a tragic fear, or tortured by a secret grief . He
stared at Wentworth with eyes that were unblinking and utterly cold,
deep-sunk beneath frowning brows . And for once, his mustache was
untidy and unpointed, and his clothes, usually immaculate, were
unpressed .
“Why do you come here?” he demanded harshly .
Wentworth stared at him without speech, and once more the
Commissioner rasped:
“Why do you come here?”
Wentworth was unprepared for the attack. His lips moved stiffly
in a smile that was without mirth. “I came to help — ”
“I don’t want your help,” thundered Kirkpatrick . He smacked his
fist on the desk and crouched over it like a m
an about to spring. His
eyes were burning .
“In heaven’s name, Stanley, what is the matter with you?” Wen-
tworth demanded .
There was a sternness in his face and his eyes did not waver be-
fore the assault of Kirkpatrick’s glare . For two full minutes the men
stared so into each other’s eyes, and then Kirkpatrick straightened
slowly from his tense crouch, dragged a heavy hand across his fur-
rowed brow .
WINGS OF THE BLACK DEATH, by Norvell Page | 167
He sank limply back into his chair, and Wentworth came forward
until he stood just across the desk from the Commissioner . He was
smiling easily now, and offered his cigarette case to Kirkpatrick .
“You gave me quite a start, Stan,” he said . “You must be under a
terrific strain.”
Kirkpatrick made no move to accept the proffered cigarette . He
seemed infinitely tired, sagging in his seat like a man almost without
life . But his hands upon the arms of the chair were white with the
tension of his gripping fingers.
“Wentworth,” he said slowly, in a voice that was as dull and
empty as his eyes . “I have long suspected that you were the Spider . I
have had no proof of it . God knows I didn’t want proof of it, except
as my duty drove me on . For the Spider to me was an admirable
man, despite his crimes against the law . He struck down criminals
that I could not touch because of the rigid regulations of that law .
And he avenged the innocent . For that I revered him, respected him
as I respected you .”
Wentworth opened his mouth to speak, but Kirkpatrick’s eyes
stopped him . “I say respected,” he went on, “but that is past now .
And I’m warning you that any other Commissioner of Police, know-
ing what I know, would believe the Spider, believe you, guilty of the
Black Death!”
Kirkpatrick stopped speaking and his chin sagged upon his chest .
But still his burning eyes held those of his friend . He leaned toward
him across the desk .
“This is — ” Wentworth began. But once more the Commissioner
stopped him, this time with a tired lift of his hand .
“Knowing you, Wentworth,” he said, “knowing the Spider of
days past, I cannot believe a man of those humanitarian instincts
could inflict the Black Death upon the city… If I did believe you
capable of that — ” Suddenly the Commissioner snapped to his feet,
stood rigidly, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. “If I believed that
Wentworth, I’d shoot you down this minute in cold blood! ”
WINGS OF THE BLACK DEATH, by Norvell Page | 168
Chapter 13
A Shot in the Dark
Kirkpatrick’s intensity startled Wentworth for a moment, drove
all thoughts of protest from him . The patent distress of his friend
touched him .
He tried to smile, failed, tried again, and achieved a stiff travesty
of mirth .
“And so you should, Stanley,” he said, “shoot me down if I were
the Spider — and if the Spider were guilty of the Black Death .”
Kirkpatrick’s saturnine face did not lighten . “I think it wise that
you go now,” he said dully, “and do not return .”
“But this is foolish,” Wentworth protested. And now for the first
time a thin smile lifted Kirkpatrick’s lips .
“The foolish part of it,” he said, “is that I do not arrest you, as my
inspectors urge me to .”
An almost perceptible start jerked at Wentworth’s muscles . So
Kirkpatrick was not alone in his suspicion! This was a thing that he
had not realized before. He had thought the whole thing a figment
of Kirkpatrick’s tortured imagination . This revelation increased the
seriousness of the situation .
“For God’s sake, go!” Kirkpatrick ground out, and the strain
showed in the thinness of his voice . “Can’t you understand?”
And now at last Wentworth did understand . He bowed with grave
formality . “Very well,” he said, turned on his heel and stalked to the
door . And even while he was closing it he heard the Commissioner’s
cracked voice rise madly:
“And — don’t — come back!”
The uniformed clerk who stood outside the door stared at Wen-
tworth with narrowed, suspicious eyes . But for once the glance
remained unseen . Wentworth’s keen senses were dulled by the enor-
mity of the rift between him and his warmest friend .
He could see how Kirkpatrick was torn between duty and af-
fection; between what his office urged and what his heart believed.
WINGS OF THE BLACK DEATH, by Norvell Page | 169
Even the monstrous threat of the plague paled before this personal
grief . It seemed like some nightmarish thing that could not actually
exist .
Half dazed, Wentworth entered a taxi and gave his home address,
hoping desperately that Nita would be there . He needed her warm
understanding now, needed the consolation of her confidence and
belief in him .
The taxi seemed to crawl. He was on fire to get home. He leaned
forward and rapped on the glass . “Hurry, man, hurry!” he snapped .
“Speed .”
Tell a taxi driver to hurry in New York and you get the wild-
est ride that can be achieved by human ingenuity and mechanical
power . Fender-brushing, brake-slamming, tire squealing speed!
Off slammed the taxi, weaving through traffic like a rabbit run-
ning through brambles . It whirled a corner on dry-skidding tires,
dodged a head-on collision by a fraction of an inch, spurted between
two encroaching trucks .
Wentworth, feverish-eyed, tense-muscled, leaned forward and
rapped on the glass . “Faster,” he cried, “Faster!”
The taxi driver whipped a frightened glance over his shoulder,
the whites of his eyes showing, and suddenly Wentworth laughed .
The man must think him utterly mad .
But the driver was trying desperately to fulfill the demand of this
grim-faced passenger behind him, for when a passenger asks favors
it means big tips . And even in taxi-riding New York big tips are
scarce nowadays .
He locked tires and skidded the last twenty-five feet to the curb
before Wentworth’s apartment house, and the violence of the stop
almost flung his passenger forward upon his shoulders. Wentworth
dropped to the pavement, tossed the man a twenty-dollar bill and,
laughing with a cracked strain in his voice, went pounding into the
house .
Behind him the taxi driver looked from the twenty dollar bill to
his retreating back, shook his head and muttered, “Jeez, the guy’s
nuts!”
WINGS OF THE BLACK DEATH, by Norvell Page | 170
Wentworth slammed into the elevator, and its express speed
seemed infinitely slow. Key in the lock, he thrust open the door vio-
lently, strode into the center of the drawing room before he paused
and stood stock still, staring about him . Nita wasn’t there .
Wentworth’s broad shoulders slumped. Jenkyns’ staid old figure
plodded into the room, took
his master’s hat and cane from listless
hands . Twice he opened his mouth to speak, and twice thought better
of it . Finally he turned and plodded out again, his white old head
shaking .
Wentworth moved on stumbling feet into the music room beyond,
his fumbling hands brought out his violin case, picked up the instru-
ment and thumbed slowly over the resonant strings . Their notes rang
sweet and true, and he tucked the violin beneath his chin, touched
bow to the strings .
Dirge-like the music rolled, funereal and slow . But as he played
new animation seemed to come into his drooping figure, his fingers
flicked more rapidly over the strings, his bow surged — and the mu-
sic’s tempo changed, became furious and wild .
It was mad, that music, as if all the devils of hell leaped in those
flicking fingers. Jenkyns’ frightened face showed in the doorway. He
knew his master’s habit of playing out his moods, but never before
had he heard such wild notes torn from the straining strings .
The music spoke of a mind on the verge — the verge of…
Ram Singh appeared behind him, his dark face like carven stone
with eyes glittering to the pulse of the music . But Wentworth was
utterly unaware of the two faithful servitors at his back . All his being
was centered on the vibrating instrument beneath his chin .
Gradually the wildness died, and in its place came a slow, limpid
melody . But it was two hours after he had picked up the violin that
he replaced it in its case and, exhausted, weary in every fiber, turned
to find Ram Singh and Jenkyns standing transfixed in the doorway.
He smiled at them quickly . “My dinner clothes, Ram Singh . Jen-
kyns, phone Miss Nita that I shall call for her in half an hour .”
WINGS OF THE BLACK DEATH, by Norvell Page | 171
“Yes, sir!” Jenkyns bobbed with bows, his ruddy face wreathed
in smiles, and ducked away as fast as his old legs would carry him
to perform his master’s will…
Nita and Wentworth went forth gaily to dinner . And not until the
meal was well under way did he mention, and then only casually, the
afternoon scene with Kirkpatrick . He was callous about it, as if the
friendship lost meant less than nothing, and Nita’s quick blue eyes
went to his face and searched it carefully .
She was a lovely girl, and in evening dress she was surprisingly
beautiful . The low-cut gown of simple white left bare the exquisite