The Plague, Pestilence & Apocalypse MEGAPACK™

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The Plague, Pestilence & Apocalypse MEGAPACK™ Page 21

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

 

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