"Their guns are useless, men!" Wentworth yelled. "Remember, two inches of steel in the guts!"
He hurtled forward at a dead run, his bayoneted gun at port across his body. Two more gangsters tried in their excitement to shoot and the weapons blew up and tore their hands with their explosions. The bolt smashed one man's face, then the whole group turned and ran. Thirty men turned and ran frenziedly from four. But they were weaponless, their morale had been shattered when their sure defense turned upon them and stripped them of guns. And the four attackers had long knives that would stab, two inches deep, into their guts. The underworld murderers turned and fled.
A soldier overtook Wentworth and the Spider snatched another grenade from the man, hurled it toward the fleeing gangsters. It smashed with the same oddly muffled blast, but flying fragments felled two men. The other soldier, charging from the opposite end of the block, snatched out a grenade and hurled it. Another gangster spun on his heels and went down. Then the leaders reached a subway kiosk.
"Down here!" one hood yelled. "They can't throw grenades down here!"
The gangsters funneled into the subway, rats scampering to cover. Wentworth caught a grenade from a soldier and whirled toward the kiosk on the opposite side of the street. Where the gangsters had entered, they could reach only downtown trains, trains that would shoot them back into the arms of the police from whom they fled. But, by climbing down and crossing the tracks, they could catch an uptown train. That was what Wentworth raced to prevent.
He darted down the stairs, sprang to the uptown platform as the gangsters streamed out on the opposite side. Wentworth trailed his bayoneted rifle in his left hand. In his right, he held the grenade. The leading gangster, plunging for the tracks, reeled back and his companions collided with him. Wentworth cursed viciously. The leader was McSwag! Somehow he had gathered a fresh mob and returned to the assault. The red Spider glimmered on his forehead and Wentworth had sworn to put a bullet on that spot the next time they met, yet he was helpless without arms; he raised the grenade.
"Surrender," he shouted, "or I'll blow the roof down on all of you."
McSwag's lips writhed, but what he said was drowned in the thunder of an approaching train. It was on the downtown side and it slid its steel sides between Wentworth and his prey. The gangsters streamed in as the doors opened and through the windows Wentworth saw the three soldiers charging toward the turnstiles with bayonets ready. He saw McSwag race toward the front car, knock the conductor aside and press the buttons that controlled the slide doors, operated by compressed air. The doors slid shut. The motorman, unaware that anything untoward had occurred, got the electric flash of the automatic signal indicating the doors were shut and the train slid forward. The soldiers hammered against the doors, too late. As the train gathered headway, Wentworth saw McSwag striding toward the motorman's cubicle in the first car.
He cursed, but lowered the grenade. There were a hundred innocent persons aboard that train. He could not wreck it, even to wipe out this gang of murderers. He felt the platform beneath him shaking to the vibration of the departing train, and suddenly his eyes flew wide. He swung about and slapped through the exit doors from the platform, yanked open the door of the station-agent's booth.
"Stop all trains," he shouted hoarsely.
The station agent gaped at him.
"Stop the trains, fool," Wentworth snarled at him. "The steel-eater has been spread all along the streets above the subway. The gas is heavy and will settle into the tubes; the vibration . . . ."
He choked, reeled, caught the side of the door and stood trembling while a rumbling, hollow concussion roared through the tunnel. The lights blinked out and for a moment, utter silence followed the echoes of the cave-in.
"Too late," Wentworth said hoarsely. "Too late!" He pushed himself away from the doors of the booth, made his way heavily up the steps to daylight. The soldiers boiled out of the opposite exit, stared down the street. Four blocks down Broadway, the pavement had dropped through. Thereafter, for five blocks, the street had become a great crater. The roof of the subway had fallen in.
The gangsters had carried another hundred persons with them to death, but it was a cosmic retribution that had been visited upon them.
The weapon that they had used against others had crushed them in turn!
Chapter Eighteen
Two Thousand Will Die!
WENTWORTH stood in the ruined street in his partial-uniform dress and rocked his knuckles across his forehead while the soldiers stood by with their bloody bayonets. McSwag! His presence here, his leadership of this new mob meant something, Wentworth knew, but what was it? The meaning was vital; he knew that from the sharp excitement that tingled through his veins.
Abruptly, a hoarse cry sounded in his throat, low and muffled, a hoarse cry that meant discovery and triumph. He broke into a headlong sprint, finally found a taxi. "Police headquarters, fast!" he barked.
The taxi driver took him literally, doing a fandango of speed among the pits in the streets, the blocks of roped-off debris. Wentworth sat on the edge of his seat with his fists clenched on his knees, his head thrust alertly forward. His body swayed to the jerks of the bucking cab. His face was white and eager. He knew now where to find the Master—not who he was, but where to find him! There would be around two thousand other persons at the same place, but there was a way to pick him out!
The Spider and the police had burned down gang after gang, only to have the terror of the Master rise phoenix-like from the ashes. Once more that feat would be performed, once more death and destruction would be scattered broadcast over the land. The Master was insatiable. There would be no end of peril until he died. Wentworth flung from the cab, tossing money at the driver, and went up the steps of the Centre Street station in giant bounds. The Master should die!
Wentworth punched open the door into Kirkpatrick's sanctum without announcement, sprang to the telephone and got hold of the hangar where his seaplane was kept.
"Bring it to the Battery dock at once," he ordered. "What the hell has rough water got to do with it? At once, I said!"
He slammed up, got hold of Professor Brownlee. "My weapon, is it ready?"
He nodded in satisfaction at the news that a courier was on the way with it, ordered a radio 'phone call for Nita on the Britannia, then straightened, barking words at the staring Kirkpatrick.
"The Master is aboard the Britannia!" he snapped. "I'm flying out. There'll be room for you if you want to go."
"If I want to?" Kirkpatrick was on his feet at once, striding to the wardrobe in the corner. "The murderer is still at work. An elevated train went through its tracks a half hour ago and killed more than twenty people."
Not curses, but savage laughter rose to Wentworth's lips. "He shall pay!" He went out the door with pounding heels and Kirkpatrick crowded behind him. His heavy sedan rocketed southward through the streets, passing rows of hearses and ambulances carrying the dead and injured from the scenes of the Master's latest atrocities, past the strewn bodies where the soldiers had fallen, past the cavern where the subway victims lay dead. But all that was a blurred picture of speed.
"How do you know the Master is on the Britannia?" Kirkpatrick demanded as the two of them swayed jerkily to the howling speed of the car.
"McSwag was the leader of the bank mob," Wentworth told him, his eyes fixed ahead, subconsciously picking the path for the car through the traffic. He nodded, turned his head. "Your driver is almost as good as my Jackson," he said.
Kirkpatrick swore. "What the hell has McSwag leading that mob got to do with the Master being on the Britannia?"
"It means that since the Spider wiped out McSwag's mob in Brooklyn, the night the bridge fell, Baldy has made no fresh contact with the gangsters." There was a curious smile on Wentworth's mouth. "If you will recall, none of your stoolies, nor all your police have been able to catch so much as a hint of Baldy being seen—Baldy is a conspicuous figure with his bald head and his cast eye!"
&nb
sp; "But Baldy and the Master are two different men," said Kirkpatrick doggedly, "and I'd like to know before I risk my life in this crazy flight just what is behind your deductions."
The Sedan braked roughly to a halt, its locked rear wheels dribbling over the concrete. Wentworth flung out and slammed into a dock house, grabbed a pay 'phone. "That call to the Britannia?" he demanded. He got the connection, got Nita.
"Darling," he said rapidly, "for the next six or seven hours I want you to become garrulous. I want you to tell everybody that your fiancé is in with the police and that he has found out the Master of the wreckers is abroad the Britannia. Also that he has a clue that will identify the Master definitely. You may go even farther, darling, and tell them your fiance's exact words: that he said he had the 'key to the situation.' Yes, darling, I know you don't know what I'm talking about, but the Master does. And here's something else to do. Have Anse organize the crew, with the captain's help, and keep watch on every American on board. You watch Butterworth yourself. What am I expecting? Why, the key to the situation will show itself. Honest, dearest, it's not a riddle. Not a word to anyone but Anse now, beautiful, or it might leak out to the Master before we're ready. First Anse, sweetheart, then turn gossip. And we'll see you soon. Yes, we're flying out."
Kirkpatrick glared at him. "Damn it, Dick," he said. "I trust you, but I wish you'd tell me what it's all about before I risk my neck in this fool hop."
Wentworth spun to face him. "It's a long chance, Kirk," he said. "A damn long one, but it may trap the Master. Until we do that, not a man or woman in this country is safe. We beat the gangsters today, but now that the steel-eater has demonstrated its ability to destroy guns, nothing will be immune to attack. They could strip the treasury itself. An enemy equipped with the secret of the steel-eater could sweep us off the earth."
Kirkpatrick agreed, still angry and plucking at his spike-ended mustache in irritation.
Wentworth strode out into the open, set his teeth as the bite of the fresh wind from the sea cut into him, and pushed his heavily-coated body into it until he stood by the stringpiece, staring grim-eyed at a small speck that showed above Governor's Island and winged rapidly toward them. A man strode to him with a package. "From Professor Brownlee, sir."
Wentworth nodded curtly, took the package in both hands. Kirkpatrick stood beside him with his fists rammed into his pockets. "All right," he said. "McSwag is the key. Now what?" He had to raise his voice to make it audible above the whip of the wind and the sullen boom of waves against the stone bulkhead.
"It proves," Wentworth said dryly, "that the Master has been abroad since McSwag was beaten the first time."
"But how do you know he's aboard the Britannia?"
Wentworth's lips twisted stiffly. "Because the Britannia was attacked," he said.
Kirkpatrick's oath was inarticulate, but he dropped his questioning. He saw that Wentworth did not intend to give the explanation yet and he stared at the seaplane, circling now to a landing on the rough waters.
"He can't make it!" Kirkpatrick muttered, the words sucked from his lips by the wind. But the pilot did make it, and seven hours later, Wentworth duplicated his feat on long sliding billows beside the Britannia, kept the plane taxiing there until a hoist boom dropped a hook that lifted them to the decks. He carefully unwrapped the package he had received from Brownlee and thrust the glittering gun it contained in his belt.
The British captain, dour-faced above a heavy white mustache, was stiffly indignant at this further delay to the Britannia's progress, already slowed by storm and the brush with the pirates. Nita and Anse Collins met Wentworth in the captain's private cabin, but to his eager questions they responded only with shakes of their heads.
"I reckon I don't know exactly what's up," Anse Collins said slowly, "but I didn't see a soul throw anything overboard." Wentworth nodded, keen eyes on the tall deputy's face.
"Alrecht is on board," he said, "but he's in disguise. Nita, I think we'd better hold a council of war in your suite. Anse, get Nancy and Briggs. Ram Singh's already down in the suite. Come on, Kirk."
Wentworth strode down to C deck where Nita had taken a cabin. His head was up, but inwardly he was worried. He had counted a great deal on trapping the Master by his talk of the "key" to the situation, a reference the Master would have understood meant the key to the safety deposit-box he had shared with O'Leary Simpson. He had hoped the Master would throw it overboard, but the Master had outguessed him, had figured that his feint was precisely that.
At the door of Nita's cabin, Wentworth was halted by a page boy in a neat short-jacketed uniform who proffered a small silver tray on which lay an envelope. Wentworth glanced down from it to the boy's face.
"Where did you get this?" he demanded swiftly.
"It was on the desk when I returned from a call, sir," the boy reported.
Wentworth nodded, thanked him, took the envelope carefully and slit it open. Within was a single sheet of paper. There was one sentence on it.
If you find me, this ship sinks
and two thousand people die.
—The Master
Wentworth grinned crookedly at the message and passed it over to Kirkpatrick. "Our bluff worked partly," he said. "We at least forced the Master to admit his presence. Do you believe me now?"
Kirkpatrick said quietly, "I always believe you, Dick."
As they entered Nita's suite, Ram Singh rose from beside a bunk where a motionless figure lay. His eyes glinted as they met his master's and he swept a salaam almost to the floor. He did not speak. Wentworth glanced only cursorily at the man on the bunk, who, face turned to the wall, seemed utterly indifferent to the visitors, but Kirkpatrick crossed and stared down at him. There was a tap at the door and Nancy came in with Briggs and Anse behind her. Briggs was carrying a thick portfolio of leather, puffing a black cigar. "Can't get away from my work," he spluttered. "Carrying it with me. Figuring on a new skyscraper. Take place of Sky Building."
Wentworth clasped his hand warmly. "That was splendid work you did wiping out that ship load of pirates."
Briggs' curiously contradictory face with its keen eyes above van Dyke and imperial wrinkled with good humor. "Did a bit of killing on your own what I hear."
Wentworth smiled, amazed that Briggs had been so interested in his activities. He waited until the small talk stopped, until the people in the room were watching him seriously.
"The Master is aboard," he said, and watched the smiles wash themselves off the faces of Briggs and Nancy, saw Anse Collins' sharp blue eyes flicker and chill. "He says that if I find him, he will destroy the ship."
Briggs puffed excitedly on his cigar. "Must find him," he barked out, his voice going loud. "Find the steel-eater gas."
"Quite so," agreed Kirkpatrick. "But how? Remember, if we fumble at all, we and two thousand others die."
Wentworth was standing erect, his hands idle at his sides, his head thrust forward aggressively. "We are not without a clue," he said briskly. "I had deduced that the Master was abroad, and other deductions led to that. His presence on this ship confirms them all. The Master was a cautious man. He covered every step of his work, protected himself behind a dozen shields." Wentworth described swiftly how he had got his money through O'Leary Simpson, how he spoke always through a mouthpiece whom he never saw personally.
"When a mob became too powerful for him to handle," Wentworth went on, "he dropped a clue to police or to the Spider and had it destroyed."
He paused, looked swiftly about the faces in the room. There was keen interest on the faces of the men. Nita was calmly confident, a slight smile on her full red lips, her blue eyes on his. Nancy Collins was frightened. She alone of those in the room seemed to sense the peril that overhung them . . . If you find me, the ship will sink . . . Wentworth knew that was no idle threat, knew that the Master was fully capable of fulfilling his threat, knew that he would have means at hand. He need only release his steel-eater, and not all the labor of the entire crew cou
ld save the Britannia from plunging downward through the black waters, her hull shattered fragments of gray powder that had been steel.
He turned toward Kirkpatrick, "Kirk, I had a talk with Beatrice Ross. She was thoroughly chastened after her imprisonment. But more than that, she was eager to get back at the Spider. She told me about his crashing in on McSwag's hideout that night. She said that the way Baldy proved his identity to the gangsters, when the Spider came there in Baldy's disguise, was to have one of the gangsters feel his bald head!"
Kirkpatrick's hard blue eyes were upon him. Anse Collins was breathing heavily through his mouth and Briggs' cigar had gone out again. Wentworth met Nita's eyes and shook his head slightly.
"Baldy really was bald. Otherwise, the fact that the Spider's apparently bald head was false would not have been a factor in determining which was the real Baldy.
"The Master never did a thing when he could get someone else to perform for him . . . that is if there was personal danger involved," Wentworth continued. "He tipped off McSwag's raid on the Funsdall bank!"
"The hell he did!" This from Kirkpatrick.
"Remember, an acid-burned body was found near the bank?" Wentworth asked. "That was the tip-off. The day before that, he had revealed through the attack on the Britannia that the weapon used was acid gas!"
Kirkpatrick's blue eyes were dubious. "But the Britannia might well have been destroyed without a trace, without a survivor to tell of the acid gas."
Wentworth shook his head slowly. "No Kirk," he said softly. "I think that if Briggs had not supplied the way out, the thing would have been accomplished in another way. I think the Master intended the destruction of the yacht and all aboard, just as he contrived McSwag's downfall. But these are minor points; what I am pointing out is the caution of the man. Invariably, he used some one else to destroy the hirelings for whom he no longer had any use." He paused and drew a deep breath, looked again over the six whose eyes were riveted to his face.
THE SPIDER-City of Doom Page 15