Wentworth laughed again, and jubilance crept into his voice, "It looks, my beloved, as if you have gone the Spider one better this time," he told her, "and are solving this mystery all by yourself. By the way, Briggs is coming back on the Britannia, and that means Nancy Collins and Anse. You won't lack company."
Hanging up the 'phone, Wentworth strode across the music room to the organ, stepped up until he could reach the vents of two treble pipes. He tapped their edges with a rhythmic, alternate cadence and they made dim echoes of notes. He paused, went through the cadence again, then stepped down. A tapestry-covered panel in the side wall pivoted soundlessly outward, a yellow glow sprang up within.
He Strode into the yellow glow and with a dim click the panel revolved again and closed behind him. Within the narrow room beyond, Wentworth swiftly assumed the disguise of the Spider, lank hair and beak nose, cape and black hat and hunched back. This room was a recent installation, necessitated by the increasing frequency with which public suspicion centered upon himself as the Spider—by the occasional forays of police. He had bought the entire apartment building, had the suite below his vacated and Professor Brownlee and himself had made the necessary changes in the walls.
When they finished their work, his apartment would become an impregnable fortress, but so far there was only this dressing room and a hidden exit into the service-stairs by way of a porter's closet in the hall. Within ten minutes, Wentworth was stealing down the stairs, letting himself out into the dark street where the rain still bounced shattered drops from glistening pavements. It was turning colder. Wentworth drew the cape tightly about him and entered a battered old coupe whose disreputable hood masked a powerful engine. This, too, was a camouflage that had been forced upon him.
He fought the cold engine to life and sped northward, swinging presently into Central Park, crossing the 155th street bridge over the Harlem ship canal and taking the Grand Concourse with its row on row of white-faced apartment houses. O'Leary Simpson lived in Bronxville, a small, exclusive suburb within ten miles of the city limits. As Wentworth had planned it, he would arrive there shortly after midnight. Unless the Simpsons had guests, they should be in bed then, which suited the Spider's plans excellently.
The house was a sprawling Spanish style dwelling, smooth white walls and roof of tile. Wentworth coasted past it and saw no lights, whirled a corner and parked. His approach was as silent as his shadow. He searched for and found the burglar alarm on a window and attached to its two plates a length of wire. The alarm was of the type that sounded a gong when a plate on the window and another on the frame were separated, thus breaking a circuit. By means of the wire, he prevented that happening. He shut the window soundlessly behind him, unlocked a side door with the same caution, then crept up broad marble stairs to the second floor. Silently, he visited every door along the hall, located persons sleeping behind three of them: one, the daughter; another, the wife; the third, O'Leary Simpson.
At that door, he listened longest, and satisfied that the man slept, he entered. The connecting door between the rooms of the man and his wife was open and this the Spider shut; then he crossed to Simpson's side. He weighed a black-jack upon his palm and then struck lightly just behind the sleeping man's ear. The rhythm of Simpson's breathing broke for a moment, his muscles jerked, then relaxed. His breathing continued, a little more shallow and roughened, that was all. Wentworth whipped back the covers, rolled a blanket about the unconscious man and heaved him up to his shoulder with a smooth ease that spoke volumes for the strength of those broad, athletic shoulders. As silently as he had entered, he descended, slid out the door he had prepared below and went rapidly to his car. He handcuffed Simpson to a nickeled ring beside the seat, installed for just that purpose, and drove quietly away.
He opened the window a little on Simpson's side and after ten minutes of cold wind, the man began to squirm in his seat, moaned jerkily. Suddenly he sat bolt upright. The abrupt motion made him moan again and attempt to raise his hands to his head. The handcuffs grated on the nickeled ring and he stared at them dazedly, then whipped his head around toward the driver. The Spider did not look at him. His hunched back beneath the black cape, his sallow face glowing in the dim light, made a sinister picture. O'Leary Simpson's breath came swiftly.
The Spider said nothing. He knew that uncertainty would work more damage on Simpson's morale than any threats he could make. And he must break Simpson's courage to make him talk. If he was involved, it should not be difficult. This man had gone to bed in the security of his home, an expensive home which his wealth had built. He awoke, apparently from that sleep, to find himself riding through a wild night, handcuffed, and seated beside a sinister, black-draped figure. He would think at first that it was a nightmare . . . .
"Who are you?" Simpson demanded in a voice that vainly strove to be angry. His voice gained strength. "Who are you and what the hell do you mean by this?" His handcuffs rattled.
The Spider turned his head slowly, looked with cold implacable hatred into Simpson's eyes, so that the man winced back into his corner. Then the Spider looked back to the road. He didn't say anything, and neither did Simpson for a long while. The car rattled its way to the end of the Bronx River Parkway, took the sharp grade to the right of Kensico dam at forty-five. The engine made only a slight hissing. The rain drummed.
"In God's name," Simpson asked hoarsely. "Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?"
This time the Spider did not even turn his head. Simpson began to stammer out more questions, to threaten and curse, and finally to plead, but Wentworth ignored him. Finally the man fell silent, made little low moaning sounds that went on and on while the car reeled off ten miles, left the broad winding concrete highway that bordered the Kensico reservoir for a lonelier strip of macadam where the coupe jarred and rattled. The dashlight was improperly shielded and it turned the inside of the windshield into a dim mirror. In it Wentworth studied Simpson's face.
It was a fat, flaccid face, but beneath the blubber were the outlines of a hard and ruthless jaw. Simpson's mouth was lipless. It would be a straight gash in anger, but now it was trembling with weakness. A nervous tic quivered in the right corner. Simpson had an egg-shaped, partly bald head, colorless eyebrows, and there was a dewlap beneath his double chin. The dewlap quivered also.
The Spider's earlier elation of the evening was growing. Simpson's behavior had not been that of a guiltless man. Wentworth braked to a halt, leaned forward, cut the switch. Windshield-wiper and engine died together. The windshield clouded instantly with lashing drops that drummed like bony fingers along the roof and hammered on the tiny hood. Simpson was shaking all over. He watched Wentworth with furtive eyes. Suddenly he squealed. "Good God!" he cried. "I know you! . . . You . . . you're the . . . ." his voice trailed off and the word "Spider" quaked from him in a quivering breath.
Wentworth turned his head slowly, his face expressionless. He slid a hand beneath his cape, a gesture of dread menace.
"Have you anything to say before . . . ." Wentworth drew his hand slowly into view, showing the dull gleaming muzzle of an automatic.
"In God's name, Spider, I swear to you . . . ." Simpson broke off, choking, as the muzzle of the gun swung slowly, centered on his body and lifted until he was staring with widening gaze down into the little black hole that was the eye of death. "I swear," he whimpered. "I'm getting nothing out of it at all."
The Spider's face did not change, but he knew now that he had guessed right, that O'Leary Simpson held a clue. He appeared to hesitate. His bitter blue-gray eyes stared along the barrel of his gun.
"My time is short," he said flatly. "You will have to talk fast, for if you fail to convince me by two o'clock . . . ." A jerk of his head indicated the clock set into the rear vision mirror. It stood at three minutes of two. Simpson's eyes jumped to it, flew back to the face of the Spider. He licked his lips, sucked in a deep breath and began talking.
"I swear to you I didn't know what was behind it," he said
rapidly. "Two months ago, a man called me over the telephone and reminded me that there existed written proof of a crime that would send me to prison for years . . ."
"You were responsible for the collapse of that school," Wentworth said softly. "They couldn't find your private set of specifications which told your foreman to shave the cement mixture, to use wood instead of steel, but this man could. He had the specifications. Who was this man?"
"I don't know," Simpson said. He whimpered suddenly and shrank back in his corner, tried to pull his manacled hands around in front of him as in prayer. "I don't know, Spider! As God is my witness!"
Wentworth had made no movement unless there was a slightly increased hunch to his shoulders, unless the flame of his eyes had flared more brightly. He said, between his teeth: "Go ahead."
"This man called me and told me that," Simpson stammered on. "Then he hung up. Several days later he called again, and I was half crazy with fear by then. He said he would send me some money and that with it I was to buy stock in the Bessmo Corporation, that I was to pyramid the earnings until further orders." Simpson licked his lips; his eyes slid sideways to the clock and his words spilled out faster than ever. "I did that, thinking I was getting off easy. A while later, he told me to rent a safety-deposit box, put the shares in that and then to convert all dividends into cash and place that in the box, too. I did that, too, and thought that at last I had a way to find out who held the papers. The bank wouldn't tell me who shared my box, had orders not to. I . . . . I intended either to buy him off, or . . . . or . . . ."
"Kill him," the Spider supplied.
Simpson's stare at the gun was like the fascinated stare of a snake-charmed bird. "I hid and watched at the bank where I had rented the box and didn't see anyone. But the next night two men came to my house and beat me up terribly. I was in the hospital for ten days."
"But you went again?"
"I went again," Simpson admitted. "I had to, you see. I couldn't go on not knowing when the blow would fall, when the roof would be snatched from over the heads of my wife and daughter, when my disgrace would strike them down. I went again and saw a man I knew was a minor stockholder in Bessmo enter the bank vaults. Later, when I went to the box I shared with this blackmailer whom the bank was protecting, I found the money gone, found a note telling me to put no more money in the box and that later I would be told what to do with it. By this time the buildings were beginning to fall and I became terribly afraid. I . . . I felt that there was a connection, a reason why this man did not want his stock in Bessmo listed in his own name, and this seemed to explain it. I knew that Bessmo would resist whatever was causing buildings to collapse. I was afraid."
"This small stockholder," Wentworth said, and hesitated, his voice choking. He felt that he was on the brink of a discovery that would solve the whole case, that would bring to book the man behind all these killings and crashes, the Master himself. His heart thudded in his throat. "This small stockholder you saw entering the bank. He was . . . Alrecht?"
Simpson shivered. "You know everything," he said faintly. "It was Alrecht."
Chapter Sixteen
Briggs the Hero
THE SPIDER flung back his head and laughed. It was derisive, self-mockery. Alrecht, of course, but Alrecht had disappeared. He was a will-o'-the-wisp, a shadow in the darkness. Simpson was babbling words, eyes darting from the gun to the clock which stood now at one minute past two.
"It's the truth," he was stammering. "For God's sake, Spider, believe me!"
Wentworth ceased his flat laughter. "I do," he said. "You deserve death for that other crime you committed, for the deaths of half a hundred school children, but you can purchase your way out of that. I want the key to the safety-deposit box, and I want your absolute silence about what has happened tonight. If you so much as breathe a word of it, I will know, and I will come for you. And next time, there will be nothing you can say to stave off my avenging bullet."
Simpson stammered in fear. The key, he said, had been stolen from him. Throughout the long drive back to his home he kept that up. Finally Wentworth was convinced he spoke the truth and the man sputtered his gratitude that he was allowed to live. Wentworth was confident now that he had a clue to the Master.
But the next day's investigation was a disappointment. The name on the bank's register card for the man who shared Simpson's safety deposit vault was "John Smith" and the man who had been accustomed to recognize the holders of boxes and admit them to the vaults could not describe "Smith." He was dead—had been crushed to death in the fall of a building two days before.
Signatures of Alrecht were not obtainable for comparison. His bachelor quarters were clean of any handwriting. His bank, the First National in Middleton, had been destroyed. Such friends as could be found had no letters, though one said vaguely that a photostat of the John Smith signature seemed familiar.
Nita and the others had set sail for New York on the Britannia and were due to arrive in two days. Wentworth, seated in Kirkpatrick's office, watched the reports come across the Commissioner's desk. They were like men in war time, these two.
When the carroty-haired cop who kept watch outside the Commissioner's door thrust in an excited head, both men looked up at him with a curious expectant tension.
"Eddie Blanton, of the Press," said carrot-top, and the two settled back into their seats wearily. Kirkpatrick raised an indifferent hand in consent of the man's admittance and Blanton came in briskly. Wentworth eyed him intently. Brisk movement in Blanton was a signal of excitement. Usually he lounged, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, the slouch gray hat on at any angle, the baggy topcoat soggy about his ankles. But now the coat swung out behind him, slapping quick-moving calves.
"Listen, Kirk," he said swiftly. "We got a hot tip on the Britannia, and the chief didn't even want me to talk to you over the 'phone about it."
Wentworth felt a slow, cold tension stiffen his back. He dropped the report he was scanning on his knees and his gray-blue eyes fixed on Blanton. There was a grin on the reporter's face and a tightness about his eyes that meant big news. But big news to him might mean disaster . . .
"What about the Britannia!" Kirkpatrick's voice was hard and quick.
"Is she or isn't she carrying five millions in gold?" Blanton demanded.
Wentworth's fears eased. He still sat rigidly, eyeing Blanton. Kirkpatrick frowned. "I can't say anything for publication on that, Eddie," he said slowly.
"Can you tell me whether you're planning a heavy police guard at the dock?"
"Don't start that business," Kirkpatrick growled. "You're not going to worm a damned thing out of me, and you know it."
Wentworth was leaning forward now. "I've got some friends on the Britannia, Blanton," he said slowly. "Somebody who could give you some good detail stuff."
Blanton spun toward him, shrewd brown eyes gleaming. "Where'd you get the tip from?" he demanded.
Wentworth was on his feet in an instant. "I thought so, damn it," he said. "Out with it, Blanton. What's happened on the Britannia!"
Kirkpatrick stared from one man to the other, leaning back in his chair. "What's this all about?"
***
Blanton grimaced. "Your friend, Wentworth, just tricked me," he said. "I guess I might as well spill it, but keep it under your hat until we can hit the street with an extra. I was really sent over to find out whether anybody else was in on it." He leaned over and picked up Kirkpatrick's 'phone. "Outside, darling," he told the main operator downstairs, dialed his paper and got hold of the city editor. "All clear, Gibby," he reported. "Naw, not a thing." He hung up.
"Yeah, you tricked me," Blanton told Wentworth, "but just the same I'm going to cash in on that promise of yours."
"Talk, damn you!" Kirkpatrick growled.
Blanton lipped another cigarette, held a burning match and looked over it. "The steel bunch tried to hijack the Britannia," he said casually, sucked the flame against the cigarette and blew the match out with smoke. "And dear
little Briggsy, none other than our own W. Johnson Briggs, sank 'em with their own stuff."
"What!" Amazement showed on Wentworth's face.
"Uh-huh, that's just the way I feel," said Blanton, grinning. He told them with the concise efficiency of a man used to handling big news what had happened aboard the Britannia. A fast yacht had hailed the big British steamer in the midst of an Atlantic storm and ordered it to lay to and surrender its five million in gold. If the captain refused, the yacht's message read, the Britannia would be subjected to a whiff of gas that would make her steel plates break to pieces. In other words, the yacht would loose a load of the steel-eater and sink the Britannia without a trace.
Wentworth's fists were knotted at his side. He could see the picture that Blanton threw before them so vividly, the two ships heaving on the gale-swept Atlantic, giant and pygmy, and the giant at the mercy of the smaller boat. Stricken with the steel-eater, her plates would not hold together a minute in those waves. Instant dissolution. Two thousand persons plunged into wild waters from which there could be no rescue . . . .
"Little Briggsy romped up to the captain," Blanton went on. "The news had leaked out somehow. 'Listen, Cap,' he says. 'If we can make even a mild sort of demolition bomb we can beat them off.'"
The captain had heeded Briggs. While they stalled and parleyed with the yacht, powder from pistol bullets was rigged up into a weak bomb, the plane that hopped ashore with the mail from twelve hours at sea was hitched to the catapult and the pilot took off. At the same time the Britannia spun about and headed to windward of the yacht. There was a big yell from the yacht, then the mail pilot swooped over it and dropped his bomb. It was weak, so he didn't have to worry about being blown up while flying too close. He split a gas tank on the deck just as Briggs had recommended, and before he had got a hundred yards away, the yacht went to pieces.
THE SPIDER-City of Doom Page 13