He was within feet of them before they tore their eyes away from the death they had wrought. Their wild screams and upflung guns attempted to stem the rush of the steel monster whose driver had become an avenging demon. Their bullets were as futile as their screams. The car struck two of them down, slammed them savagely to the concrete, ground another against the wall, charged on to carry two more through the plate glass window of the restaurant.
One of them tore loose. He clapped his hands to his back and ran screaming down the street. Blood flowed from his back in a torrent. He did not run far. Wentworth threw back his head and laughed—a sound of blood-curdling merriment . . . .
Chapter Fourteen
Mcswag Pays
WENTWORTH was numb with horror at the slaughter these men had wrought; he was choked with rage that his swift retribution had not calmed. He smothered his wild laughter, flung from the coupe and swiftly snatched two guns from among the crushed corpses on the pavement. One still-moaning victim spotted Wentworth and lifted a heavy gun. Without compunction, the Spider smashed a bullet through his head. He busied himself a moment, pressing his crimson seals upon the foreheads of his prey, then, automatic in either fist, he slipped back into the pool-room. Once more his lips were snarling his bitter hatred.
From the adjoining restaurant, people had poured in a noisy, frightened flood. The gangsters from the poolroom were either dead in the street or smashed down by Wentworth's bullets upstairs. But McSwag and Baldy were still in the battle and Jackson remained to be rescued. The Spider was a silent shadow flitting through the pool-room, up those dark back stairs. Excited voices and McSwag's coldly venomous tones floated down to him. He went past the sweatered man he had slain and upon him, too, he left his seal.
"Damn it," McSwag's raging voice came to him as he stooped beside the corpse. "Get me out of here and get the girl out, too. Police can't hold off on this. There's been too much shooting. We'll gain some time because that Brooklyn Bridge smash will pull most of the cops away . . . ."
Wentworth drifted to a spot where he could peer into the room, saw Beatrice Ross and a gangster supporting McSwag. Baldy had vanished. The Spider's eyes tightened. His lips were stiff with rage. This was the man who had wrecked the train, who had wrecked the bridge, plunging a thousand innocents to death, maiming thousands more. The Spider went in behind his guns. Beatrice Ross screamed—a long shrill cry—and sprang back. The gangster reeled away from McSwag's side, hand darting for his gun. With his eyes still on McSwag, the Spider sped a single bullet that smashed the hood to the floor. He did it as a man might swat an annoying fly.
McSwag staggered when the two sprang from his side, but he braced himself on his wounded leg. "I haven't any gun," he stammered.
"I know it," said Wentworth. He shot McSwag's other leg out from under him, dropped the man cursing to the floor.
Beatrice Ross was spread-eagled against the wall, her palms beating in frenzy. She was too terrified to make a sound. The Spider's face was a mask of avenging fury. His automatic's muzzle was centered now on McSwag's stomach.
"Don't, for God's sake!" McSwag screamed. "You wouldn't kill a helpless man!"
The Spider laughed again and McSwag stammered into blood-chilled silence. McSwag knew that he had given those men and women on the train and bridge no chance. They had been struck down in helpless impotence. Why should he . . . ? Wentworth's finger tightened slowly on the trigger. A thought stopped him. This man alone among the living knew where Betty Briggs was held prisoner.
"Lift your hands above your head, Jackson," Wentworth said, forcing words between his tight lips.
Jackson stretched out his bound hands, the wrists straining apart and the Spider fired twice carefully. Jackson strained and his bullet-burned bonds parted. He went to work on his feet, then began to untie the detective.
"McSwag," Wentworth's voice sounded rusty. "I'll give you one chance. Tell me where Betty Briggs is and instead of killing you, I'll turn you over to the police."
Hope flared in McSwag's eyes. "She's upstairs," he said swiftly, "in the room at the end of the hall."
At a nod from Wentworth, Jackson stumbled, feet numb from the bonds, out into the hall. The others waited. Beatrice Ross had ceased to beat the wall. She was crouched, her hennaed hair asprawl on her shoulders. Her too-full lips looked bloody with their carmine. McSwag breathed heavily through his mouth, his eyes fixed with fearful fascination on the hard, unyielding face of the Spider. The detective was untying his feet with numb fingers and he, too, watched Wentworth warily. He was not quite sure what to expect from this killer who single-handed had smashed the most dangerous mob of the city, but at least his intentions seemed friendly. His fellow prisoner had been released and had immediately unbound his hands for him. He stopped to flex his fingers, began to work again on the ropes and Jackson came back to the doorway, a girl's quick-heeled patter beside him.
He did not look toward her. "Jackson, take Miss Briggs to the street. I'll join you in a moment."
McSwag's face was gray. "You promised! You promised!" he stammered.
Wentworth took two long strides toward him and the gang leader flung his arms over his face protectingly. The Spider's gun lashed down and McSwag's arms dropped. The sounds that came from his throat no longer formed words. They were scarcely human. There was a swift gleam of metal and Wentworth retreated quick steps, a mocking smile twisted his lips. McSwag's trembling hands lifted to his forehead in bewilderment.
"He's branded you, Mickey!" Beatrice Ross gasped hoarsely. "Branded you with his seal!"
McSwag's hands whipped away from his forehead. The seal was a bloody smear on his pallid face.
"The next time I see you," the Spider said softly, "I'm going to put a bullet right through the center of my seal."
He backed toward the door, flicked a glance toward the detective and saw the man lurch to his feet.
"Okay, officer?" he asked him.
"Okay," the man nodded.
"Catch!" Wentworth tossed him an automatic. The detective's hands and eyes flew toward it. When he looked up, the gun tight in his fist, the doorway was empty. Mocking flat laughter drifted back through the darkness. Seated on the floor, his two legs in a widening pool of blood, McSwag began to curse with a terrible, rasp-throated vehemence. His mob was killed off. He was wounded and in the hands of police, and that brand on his forehead would make him forever a mockery and a butt of gangster laughter.
In the street outside, Jackson had backed the coupe clear of the bodies on the walk and had the motor running. Wentworth crowded in beside the girl without a word and the car swung in a U-curve and buffered the wind at an inconspicuous speed. Wentworth was feeling the reaction of his burning anger now. He was limp, empty, inside. He turned his head heavily toward Betty Briggs and found her curious eyes on his face. The eyes were green and wanted to be merry; her bare head was a tangle of dark red curls.
"I'd like to call Daddums," she said, "as soon as you can let me, Spider."
"He knows already that you're safe," he assured her. "It will be tomorrow before you can call him. Jackson, take Miss Briggs to the hideout you know of. Don't let anyone see you go in. Stay there and wait for word from me. Drop me at the next subway station."
He descended and caught a loafing local train, sank back in a corner with his eyes closed. Kirkpatrick would be at the scene of the bridge wreck, of course. He glanced at his watch and saw that the Berengaria had sailed an hour before. Nita, at least, was out of harm's way. Within a few days there should be some word of this mysterious Butterworth. He wondered if Alrecht had been captured, and his mind switched to McSwag. Twice now, he had shattered the gangs that obeyed the Master's orders. Would he organize again? Or would he deem the work of popularizing Bessmo steel complete, and rest content on his achievements?
A hard smile twisted Wentworth's mouth. The answer to that lay in the destruction of Brooklyn Bridge. The Master was not yet through! More thousands were to die and other thousands go through
life as cripples to fill his pockets. Wentworth discarded his disguise in a washroom, went to his apartment for clothing, gave some instructions, then hurried to police headquarters. Kirkpatrick had just returned wearily from the wreckage of Brooklyn Bridge. Pounds seemed to have been stripped from his lean body, years added to his shoulders. He dropped behind his desk without waiting to remove coat or derby. He looked beaten.
"Briggs got off all right," he said heavily. "Didn't want to go, but I think it was wise to get him out of the country before we make the announcement about Bessmo steel. The president of Bessmo convinced me it would do what it's supposed to."
Wentworth reached for a 'phone and put in a call to Professor Brownlee.
"Where'd you send Briggs?" he asked Kirkpatrick.
"Put him on the Berengaria." The Commissioner was fingering through some reports distractedly and frowned at Wentworth's laughter. "What's the matter?" he demanded.
"Nothing at all," Wentworth said. "I sent Nita abroad on the same boat."
Kirkpatrick smiled warily. "There were a number of last minute passengers. Briggs wouldn't go unless Nancy Collins went along as his secretary. Nancy wouldn't go unless her brother-in-law, Anse, was with her. Luckily, Anse called us here to report he hadn't been able to find Alrecht and we got hold of him. He tried to dissuade Nancy, but finally went." Wentworth frowned. He had counted on Anse Collins' help in his activities of the next few days, but it couldn't be helped now.
"Damn it," he swore. "Everything is going haywire. Still no trace of Baldy, I suppose?"
The 'phone rang. Professor Brownlee agreed to call the newspapers and give them the information on Bessmo steel. "I haven't been able to find a way to make steel impervious to crystallizing," he said, "but gold-plating might prevent any external attack."
Wentworth had scarcely hung up when the 'phone buzzed again. He frowned, picking up the receiver, then handed the instrument to Kirkpatrick with a quizzical grimace. "For you," he said and watched Kirkpatrick's face grow in turns angry and puzzled as he listened.
"You turn that girl loose," Kirkpatrick barked. "Do you hear . . . ." He jiggled the hook up and down in vain, roared out an order to trace the call. He hung up, turned baffled eyes to Wentworth.
"That was the Spider," he said slowly. "I'll swear it was. He had the same mocking laugh, the same flat expressionless voice and the slightly pedantic manner of speech. Damn it, Dick, quit playing tricks on me. I'm in no gay mood."
Wentworth raised questioning eyebrows. "Aside from the matter of tricks, which I'm not playing," he said, "what in the hell are you talking about?"
"The Spider . . . ." said Kirkpatrick, then hesitated, "the Spider informs me that he has freed Betty Briggs, that when I need her to testify against McSwag he'll produce her, but in the meantime he's keeping her safe himself.
"I didn't know McSwag had been arrested," he said slowly. "I see the Spider has stolen the march on me once more. He killed nine gangsters. He desired me to know, over the 'phone, that the reason we hadn't been able to trace Betty's 'phone call was that it had come over a tapped-in phone."
He stared at Wentworth, but his friend's face gave no hint of the amusement be felt. He had instructed Jackson to make the call and imitate the Spider's voice, no difficult trick since the voice was a false tone to begin with, a deliberately disguised chest voice whose chief characteristic was its mockery and its monotone. Although Kirkpatrick believed that he was the Spider, it was just as well to shake that belief on occasion—to give him reason to deny to his superiors and his men that Wentworth and the Spider were one and be able to cite proof of it.
"It's fantastic, Dick," Kirkpatrick said. He shrugged. "I think I'll resign in favor of . . . . the Spider!" He grinned.
Suddenly the teletype machine in the corner of the office which brought in reports from other boroughs and states began to clatter. There was excitement in its swift, rattling clicks, so much so that Kirkpatrick's eyes jerked to the instrument and Wentworth twisted about to stare. Both men sprang to their feet and raced to the instrument. It ticked out:
U.S.S. CRUISER PENNSYNAPOLIS SUNK . . . ALL ABOARD BELIEVED LOST . . . STEEL SIDES BROKE IN WHEN CURRENT SLAMMED SHIP AGAINST PIER.
Wentworth went rigid, his hands clenched. Kirkpatrick's hoarse voice rasped out oaths in an unrecognizable tone. "By God!" he swore, and his voice became solemn. "If I catch the Master, I shall torture him to death!"
Wentworth stared at his friend's pale, drawn face and knew that Kirkpatrick had pronounced a solemn pledge he would never fulfill—not if the Spider could fulfill it first!
Chapter Fifteen
A Strong Man Falters
IN THE DAYS that followed, Wentworth fought a battle that was strange for the Spider. Instead of fighting in the night against the Master's men, he devoted himself to devising safety measures that would cut down the fearful toll of lives, directing the efforts of a hundred detectives whom Kirkpatrick placed under his personal direction. This was no time for smashing through lines of gangsters. Twice now, the Spider had wiped out mobs, and still the slaughter of the innocents went on. He must, in this case, run down the leader and eliminate him. When that was done, the gangs could be wiped out to some purpose.
The slaughter went on relentlessly. Bridges were smashed. Buildings tumbled into the streets. Ships shook their plates to pieces in the battering of the Atlantic gales. Trains found rails dissolving under their swift wheels and spilled pitiful dead across the countryside, but gradually the number of deaths diminished, though the wreckage continued. The rigid regulations set up in New York under Wentworth's administration and copied throughout the East began to take effect.
Still buildings continued to crash to the streets and bridges collapsed beneath puny loads. Cities were deserted by every man and woman who could possibly escape, fleeing to the rural areas where steel was not used for building. Men who had to remain sent their wives and children away. Going to work, they walked in the middle of the street with fearful eyes continually alert for the first hint of a building's collapse. On windy days, all shops and offices closed.
Such was the city that New York had become—in which the Spider fought to save human lives. When he had done all that he possibly could to check the mounting toll of the steel-eater, Wentworth pushed on with his investigations. He heard from Nita that though Butterworth had been traced to England through his passport, his family had seen nothing of him. Alrecht had not been found. Briggs was clamoring for permission to come home and petition the Spider for the return of his daughter. Finally, he declared he would defy Kirkpatrick's advice and start on the Britannia, England's newest and swiftest ship.
The police had checked the list of Bessmo stock holders without finding anyone suspicious save Alrecht, but Wentworth was not satisfied. He went over the list himself and looked up the private history of each man. Then he paid each a personal visit and in that way finally came to O'Leary Simpson. That man, newspaper clippings had told him, had built a school building ten years before that had collapsed and killed half a hundred children. He had been cleared of blame by an inquiry. Furthermore, Wentworth's interview with him had yielded nothing. He went from the man's office to a newspaper and went to the clipping files, the Morgue as it is called.
Wentworth frowned over the clipping about O'Leary Simpson. It was foolish to suppose there was any connection between that happening so long ago and these modern tragedies. Yet the man was in a position to profit largely by the mounting sale of Bessmo steel, which was being turned out by carloads in a triple-shift factory. Hundreds of other steel factories all over the country were paying for the privilege of installing the Bessmo process in their mills. And O'Leary Simpson was next to the largest holder of stock in the Bessmo corporation, which Wentworth was sure was the key to this whole tragic enigma. He got up slowly from the table where he had been reading the clippings and his jaw tensed in resolve.
Wentworth would pay O'Leary Simpson another visit, but this time it would be the Spider w
ho called.
* * *
The heavy twilight was thick as Wentworth pushed his way out into a windy, rain-swept street. Men walked behind wind-buffeted umbrellas in the middle of the street. Asphalt glistened with the watery trail of the few moving headlights. A bit early for the Spider's call . . . . He turned up his coat collar, thrust his head into the whipping drops. He could not recall a single war with the underworld's master minds that had defied him so many weeks. There had been some in which, on the verge of conquering, he had been laid low by wounds. There had been times when a prison cell had kept him from the battle. But it was none of these in the present case. He simply had been unable to run the Master to earth.
Alrecht, upon whom his suspicions centered, had disappeared as utterly as if his body had been pulped in the crash of one of the skyscrapers, ground into a bloody unrecognizable slime as had been so many thousands of the population of the East. Baldy had not been sighted again, but the evidences of his work were everywhere.
Wentworth turned his heavy footsteps toward home, let Jenkyns take his soggy coat and hat. With an effort he braced his shoulders, lifted his head. The Spider was not beaten, could not be beaten, he told himself. For the sake of suffering humanity to which he long ago had dedicated his life and service, he must succeed.
The 'phone rang and Wentworth was electrified at Nita's first words. She said breathlessly: "We have found Butterworth, but he refuses to return with us."
Wentworth threw back his head and laughed, feeling new life within him. "Then kidnap him!" he said. "Bring him back on the Britannia, sailing tomorrow noon. Here's how you can do it." He swiftly outlined a simple plan in which Ram Singh's make-up ability would figure. Butterworth would seem a helpless invalid, in care of the Hindu and Nita.
"I have evidence," said Nita, "that Butterworth has been in constant communication with America. He has made some heavy deposits in banks, all in the name of Alrecht."
THE SPIDER-City of Doom Page 12