THE SPIDER-City of Doom

by Norvell W. Page

  Wentworth sneezed twice violently. "Where's McSwag?" he asked.

  The dealer said nastily, "What do you care?"

  Wentworth seemed to shrink by inches, but his pinched mouth tightened a little. "I'll tell McSwag that," he whined. "And don't get ideas in your head, Hickey, that just because I'm not a hood . . . ."

  Hickey slammed his chair back and came around the table with long strides. Wentworth did not cringe any longer. He stood still and the tight mouth grinned slightly. Hickey stopped two feet short of him uncertainly and Wentworth sniggered.

  "Go on, hit me," he said.

  Hickey cursed and spun back to his chair. "I'll let McSwag tend to you," he growled. "Go on and see him."

  "Where is he?" Wentworth insisted.

  "Up on Brooklyn Bridge, waiting for it to fall," Hickey flung at him. He picked up the cards and started to deal again. The other men were grinning.

  Wentworth turned toward the door he had entered. "It's okay by me," he said. "You can tell McSwag I was here with a message and you ran me away."

  "Aw, for the love of Pete, Baldy," Hickey growled. "You know damned well McSwag is upstairs in his office. What's the idea of the gag?" The statement was accompanied by a sideways jerk of the head and Wentworth saw a black doorway in the dark shadows of a corner.

  Wentworth sneezed, cursed and shuffled toward the stairs. His confidence was mounting. All these men held Baldy in contempt, but they were a little afraid of him, a little uncertain just what he could command in the way of protection. He stumbled up the dark stairs, found a door under which a thread of light glowed. Voices were mumbled inside. He knocked and pushed in.

  A skinny man jumped up from a chair against the wall, a gun flashed in his hand.

  "Why in hell don't you wait till you're asked in?" he snarled.

  "Go count bugs!" Wentworth cursed at him, even while his shoulders cringed.

  He flashed a glance over the room and barely caught the start that jerked at his muscles. Jackson and a man who looked like a detective were seated, bound hand and foot, against the wall. The detective's face was bloody, and the muscles sat out in knots along Jackson's wide Gascon jaws. Wentworth turned his surprise into a sneer and turned confidently toward the man who sat unmoved across the room, ensconced in a big easy chair before a gas log that filled the room with a sweetly-sickening heat. The man was McSwag and his little blue eyes, like small hard marbles under the low bushing of his brows, were on Wentworth. Seated beside him, twisted toward him with her hand arrested, apparently in the middle of an emphatic gesture, was Beatrice Ross, the girl friend of the man Wentworth had killed, Devil Hackerson.

  Her face was dead white except for the vivid gash of her mouth. A mink coat was tossed across the back of her chair and her crossed legs caught the fire gleam on their silk. Two empty whiskey glasses and a bottle sat on a taborette between the man and woman.

  Gang etiquette demanded that Wentworth ask no questions about the prisoners and he ignored them. It was clear enough that they had been caught trailing the Ross woman. The detective doubtless was Kirkpatrick's man.

  "Where's the dough?" McSwag demanded coldly. He looked as solid as Gibraltar in the chair and there was an impression of leashed ferocity about the man. He didn't move, just sat there staring at Wentworth.

  "The Master says . . . ." Wentworth began with a whine.

  "He ain't got no dough," the man by the door said shrilly.

  McSwag's eyes swung toward him a moment and the voice died. He looked back to Wentworth.

  "It'll be ready tomorrow," Wentworth went on, stopped to sneeze. "The Master says to turn the girl loose."

  "You may tell this bozo you call the Master," said McSwag, "to go to hell!"

  The slouched shoulders of the false Baldy jerked in a little shrug. "I'll tell him if you says so." He cringed. "But if I do there ain't going to be no more of the 'stuff' for youse."

  McSwag was abruptly on his feet. There was no preliminary tightening of muscles that Wentworth could perceive—no hands thrusting against the chair arms. He simply straightened his legs and was on his feet. It was proof of the heavy strength of his mountainous body. He reached Wentworth in a stride and seized his shoulder.

  "You little rat," he snarled.

  Beatrice Ross got slowly to her feet. Her pink tongue touched the burning red of her lips. "Hit him, Mickey," she urged eagerly.

  For a moment, McSwag seemed about to obey, his eyes glaring down at Wentworth. But though the Spider's body seemed to shrivel in fear, his eyes met those of the gangster chieftain directly. McSwag thrust him abruptly back, strode to his chair. He did not seat himself again, however.

  "I ain't got nothing to do with it, McSwag," Wentworth protested. "I'm just a lobbygow, a windbag for the guy what calls himself the Master. I ain't even seen him and I'm just telling you what he says. He says turn the girl loose or you don't get any more of the 'stuff'."

  McSwag swore violently. "So he's going to get hard, is he? Okay, that's a game I can deal cards in, too. You tell him . . . ."

  Beatrice Ross sidled forward and plucked at his sleeve. McSwag moved his arm impatiently, but she persisted.

  "Listen, Mickey," she said tightly. "This guy ain't Baldy."

  Wentworth put a puzzled look on his face, sneezed in the middle of it. McSwag said, "What the hell?"

  "I'm telling you," said the woman vehemently. "Baldy is short'n this guy, and Baldy ain't had a cold all winter. I think this guy is faking that cold to hide his voice."

  McSwag said, "So!" His voice was soft and his eyes became round. He came forward on the balls of his feet and Wentworth felt a gun gouge suddenly into his back.

  "You're nuts," he protested shrilly. "I say you're nuts!"

  The door banged open suddenly and McSwag jerked up his head and stared past Wentworth. He tried to twist around also, but the man jabbed harder with the gun muzzle and he stopped trying. He heard startled exclamations behind him, then a squeaky voice a whole lot like the one he had assumed.

  "So you got him already, have you, McSwag?" the voice said.

  Shuffling footsteps approached and a face peered into his own, a face with a cast in one eye, a face smoking a cigarette and shadowed by the peak of a greasy cap. Beneath that cap-edge no hair showed. It was Baldy.

  Wentworth still look puzzled. "Who the hell are you?" he growled. "Watcha doing made up to look like me?" Baldy dragged off his cap.

  "Okay, Hickey," he sniggered. "You tell which is the real Baldy."

  Wentworth's cap was dragged off and a rough hand ran over his head. The poker player of the green eye-shade stepped to his side and put the other hand on Baldy's head, gripped with his fingers. Wentworth felt the man's fingers denting the false scalp on his head, knew that it was only a matter of seconds before it was ripped from his head and his real identity was revealed. The gun gouged harder into his back, McSwag's marble eyes were fixed on him with flat, cold menace and behind him there were at least three other men. Beatrice Ross stared at him and slowly her eyes widened.

  "I know who this guy is," she gasped. "It's . . . My God! It's the Spider!"

  Chapter Thirteen

  "Let Me Kill Him!"

  HICKEY shoved and tugged at the false bald head that Ram Singh had fastened on Wentworth's scalp. It hurt, but it held. Ram Singh had done his work well. Hickey cursed and quit.

  "I can't get it off," he said, "but this guy isn't Baldy. That's a fake head on there, and . . ."

  McSwag stepped in close and his right fist swept up. It was aimed at the jaw, but Wentworth jerked his head, took the blow high up on his cheek. Nevertheless he went down hard and a great white burst of light smashed through his brain. Dully he felt shoes thud against his sides, felt the sharp heel of Beatrice Ross rake the side of his face.

  Fumbling, he reached for his guns. There wasn't much feeling in his hands. Before they had moved six inches, fists pinioned his wrists to the floor. His guns were ripped from their holsters. More heels hit his sides. Hi
s stomach seemed caved in. Then he was aware of a big figure over him and fists flailing.

  "Lay off!" McSwag bellowed. "You can have him in a minute. First I want to ask some questions. Lay off, I say!"

  Wentworth felt himself dragged up and slammed into a chair. Whiskey burned down his throat. Water drenched him. He gasped, rolled his head and came foggily back to his senses. McSwag was holding Beatrice Ross away from him with an arm like a limb of oak. Behind him were four men and insane hatred glared from their eyes. Baldy hovered to one side, a smirking grin on his face. And Wentworth saw death in all those faces, even in the grim, hard face of McSwag who, he realized dimly, had saved him from being beaten to death a few moments before.

  The Spider could expect no mercy here. Not a criminal in the entire country but had come to dread and hate his name as that of the one man who could strike terror into their hearts. Not a man in this group but who, some time, had been blocked and defeated in criminal endeavor by some crusade of the Spider. His lethal guns had burned down their companions. Now they had him a helpless prisoner! Jackson and the detective were equally useless.

  "I just want to know who this Spider guy is," McSwag said, "then you can have him. Now lay off a minute, will you?"

  "He killed Devil Hackerson," Beatrice Ross screeched, "and I'm going to kill him!"

  "Sure, sure," McSwag soothed. "Now wait!"

  The woman kept struggling to get past his arm and he drew back his hand and hit her hard with the heel. She spun up against the wall and struck it with her shoulders. Her head snapped back and she slid down slowly, a dazed look in her eyes.

  "Let me kill him!" she moaned.

  McSwag ignored her, turned back to Wentworth. The other men waited, tensely, leashed hounds at the kill, dogs beaten back after tasting blood. They licked their lips and fingered their weapons.

  "Your number's up, Spider," McSwag said slowly. "You were a damn fool to come here like this. And this is once you ain't going to wiggle out of it. Come on, who are you?"

  Wentworth lifted his head from the back of the chair. He realized he was in the big arm seat that McSwag had occupied. It was an effective prison, for he was bedded so deeply in it that there was no chance for him to move any way but forward. McSwag and his four men hedged him in there. There was no chance to tip the chair over backward either. It was too heavy for that. Besides, that beating had done him up.

  He dipped his hands into his vest pocket for his cigarette-case and McSwag knocked it from his hand. It snapped against the gas log with a silvery note. "I just wanted a smoke," Wentworth explained mildly.

  "Okay," McSwag grunted, "but you'll smoke my cigarettes. Get the point?"

  "Oh, quite," said Wentworth. He accepted one of McSwag's cigarettes and lighted it. "Quite," he said. "You seem to have me at a temporary disadvantage."

  "Temporary is right," McSwag growled and a grudging admiration lighted his eyes. "It's going to last about two minutes and then the disadvantage is going to become permanent. Come on, now, who are you?"

  "The Master knows," Beatrice Ross said suddenly. "He had him followed, and ordered a train wrecked to get him."

  McSwag said, "That ain't helping. I wrecked the train and I don't know who he is. You know, Baldy?"

  Baldy licked his lips. "I'll tell you," he said hoarsely, "if you'll let me kill him." McSwag looked at him in surprise.

  "You?" he demanded.

  There was a crazy gleam in Baldy's one good eye. He nodded his head. "Yeah, I want to blow off that funny-looking head."

  Wentworth laughed. "Really, Baldy," he said, "it wasn't such a bad head until Hickey started mussing it up."

  For the first time he saw a gleam of hope. Baldy was no hood, didn't know how to handle a gun. If he could goad the man into making an attempt he might stand a chance of snatching the weapon. It was certain Baldy would come close to use it. He glanced out of the corner of his masked eyes toward the cigarette case. It was beginning to melt a little with the gas-log's heat.

  "Let me!" Baldy pleaded.

  "No!" Beatrice Ross said violently. "I'm going to." She stopped suddenly, snatched up her skirt and yanked a small gun from a thigh holster. Before she could use it, McSwag had wrenched it from her hand.

  McSwag weighed Beatrice's gun on his hand and eyed Baldy. "I think that might be a good idea," he said softly. There was a gleam in his eyes. Wentworth could read his thoughts. If he had a murder he could hold over Baldy's head, he might twist him to his own ends, use him against the Master. The Spider blew another smoke ring and was thankful that the Zeiss lenses hid the mounting hope in his eyes.

  "Shoot him in the belly, Baldy," Hickey urged hoarsely. "I want to put lead in him, too. He smashed out Trigger Skinner, and . . . ."

  "Now, boys, boys," McSwag urged jovially. "I see no reason why all of you shouldn't have a shot. The Spider isn't going to run away, are you, Spider?"

  Wentworth smiled and carefully blew another ring. "Oh, no!" he said calmly. "I wouldn't cheat you out of your fun."

  It was an effort to keep his face twisted into that mocking smile. His heart was a hard thing beating against the wall of his ribs, trying to knock its way out. In his right temple, the thin scar was throbbing. He knew that never before had he been so near death as now. He knew that never had he needed more to live, not only for his own sake, but for the sake of the thousands these men would kill if he died.

  Despite all his battling, he still did not know the Master. And ten thousand lives might well hinge on his escape . . . .

  "I think Baldy ought to have first shot," McSwag said, "because the Spider came here disguised as him."

  He held the gun out to Baldy butt first. Baldy snatched for it and at the same instant, Beatrice Ross catapulted upward from the floor, hands clawing for the weapon. McSwag roared out with anger, stepped forward to interfere, and his bulk spun Baldy aside. The little windbag had the gun and he clutched it in both hands reeling back. Wentworth dived out of the chair and his shoulder caught him in the side.

  Baldy spun, felt the heat of the gas log and screamed. Wentworth snatched the gun away from him, blasted one slug from it at Hickey, who alone was in the clear, and a second later made the protection of the heavy chair. Hickey took the bullet between the eyes and slammed down onto the floor, clawing the rug. His gun skated along and Wentworth snatched it from behind the chair. Deliberately he shot down another hood, then smacked out the light with two more bullets.

  McSwag had dropped to the floor with the first shot and the big chair was between him and Wentworth. His heavy gun roared and lead plunked through the back of the chair—within an inch of the Spider's head! Wentworth lay flat on the floor and burned lead along the level of the boards. McSwag swore painfully and more bullets smacked into the chair. Two came through.

  A small, muffled blast whooshed near the gas log as his cigarette case exploded and Wentworth laughed. It was the mocking monotone of the Spider's mirth.

  "Death!" he cackled. "Death! The Spider brings you death!"

  Beatrice Ross was screaming with pain now. "Tear gas!" she shrieked. "Tear gas!"

  Wentworth caught a movement in the flickering light of the gas log and fired into it twice. A man groaned and thudded to the floor. Wentworth was edging along the wall toward the door. Somewhere in this room, Baldy still crouched. There was still another gunman, Beatrice Ross and McSwag. McSwag was wounded, but Wentworth doubted that he was dead. Also, there was a pounding of feet on the stairway as the men downstairs rushed upward to the rescue. Wentworth reached the door, yanked it open. From the darkness of the room, a gun blazed wildly, and the Spider's own eyes, even protected as they were by the Zeiss lenses, were smarting with the tear gas his cigarette case had released, but the bullet did not come anywhere near him. He must free Jackson, but to do that he must empty the room.

  He plunged out into the hall, squealing wildly as he ran toward the stairs. "The Spider! The Spider!" he squeaked. And once more it was Baldy's voice.

  A ru
sh of men whirled him sidewise against the wall. The man who had stood behind the counter pinned him there by his coat collar, peering at him in the dim light from the hall's single bulb. Other men dashed by. The man cursed.

  "You ain't the real Baldy," he growled and his gun jerked upward at his side. Wentworth fired upward and the bullet smashed under the man's chin, thrust his head back between his shoulder blades. He went back two heavy steps on his heels, already dead, then fell limply. Wentworth crouched low, leaped the entire flight of steps, landed sprawling and rolled as a hurricane of flying lead ploughed the floor where he had landed.

  * * *

  Wentworth emptied the light gun up the stairs, then darted out of the store. He reached his car in a bound, flung into it and kicked the starter. A mighty creaking sound, a Titan in agony, suddenly filled all the world. There was a whang of steel as if a great wire cable had been cut by a bullet. With an abrupt stab of dread, Wentworth ducked forward over the wheel, stared upward.

  The spidery span of Brooklyn Bridge, with its myriad tiny lights, was sagging. A splotch of glaring white headlights stabbed wildly downward, then spun dizzily, whirling through space toward the black waters. An automobile was plunging from the bridge. But it was not alone. An entire string of elevated cars tumbled like a child's toy train down after it.

  Brooklyn Bridge was falling . . . !

  Good God! The Master and his steel-eater had destroyed the Brooklyn Bridge!

  Even as the thought materialized into words, a bunch of men hurtled out the front door of the restaurant, guns in hands. They froze there. Their heads twisted, too, toward that catastrophe of the bridge.

  His lips grinning back from his teeth, Wentworth realized that the engine of his coupe was racing. With a snarl of fury, he yanked the car into gear, deliberately charged the six men on the walk.