THE SPIDER-City of Doom (8 page)

"What about Baldy?" Wentworth asked and Hackerson's eyes widened in surprise. "How do you reach Baldy?"

"I don't," Hackerson protested hoarsely, and winced. Wentworth had made no move, but cold lights flamed in the
Spider's
eyes "I don't get in touch with him," Hackerson spoke hurriedly. "He always seems to know where to reach me whether I'm at home or in a restaurant or wherever I am. He brings the stuff and he brings the money, and that's all I know."

"What's the stuff like?" Wentworth was disappointed, blocked in this lead through which he had hoped to trace the man Baldy and his Master. But he believed Hackerson told the truth. It confirmed what Ram Singh's story had indicated, the anonymity of the Master.

"Jeez,
Spider,
" Hackerson whined, "he'll rub me out if I spill all this to you . . . ."

Wentworth cursed, and Hackerson broke off, a yelp of fear in his throat as Wentworth stepped forward.

He took only a single stride toward Hackerson, then seemed to trip and go flat down on the floor. He rolled on his right side and flame leaped from both guns toward the window. A black figure there reeled to its feet, mouth opened in a soundless scream. Butts, Wentworth saw, was accounted for. He hurled upward to his knees, caught Hackerson as the man pulled his gun clear. He saw Beatrice Ross on her feet plunging toward him and dodged as his left gun spat. He failed to get clear and the woman's charge sprawled him sideways to the floor. She fell upon him, sobbing and fighting. Fingernails tore at his face, knees drummed his side. He swept his right arm in a swishing semi-circle and the woman slapped down hard on the floor, her feet thrashing. She was up like a cat, leaping toward him with fingers clawing.

Wentworth cursed angrily. A fragmentary glance showed him that Hackerson was out of the fight at least for a time, slumped down on the davenport, but Muggsie would crash in at any moment, drawn by the shots. A short upward jar of his gun and Beatrice Ross sat down again. Her legs were straddled out, her arms braced sideways on the floor. Her mouth sagged.

Wentworth whirled, his quick glance sweeping the room. He saw the door whip open, saw Muggsie charge in with his revolver leaping at his side, spewing lead. A bullet jerked at Wentworth's hat, a second nipped the lobe of his ear, then Muggsie reeled against the doorjamb and went down under a blast of
Spider
lead. Wentworth jerked back to Hackerson, cursed violently.

Hackerson was dead, a bullet through the base of his throat. The
Spider's
sure aim had been directed at the right shoulder, intended only to cripple the man so that he still could reveal the secrets of the Master or be used as bait for Baldy. The woman's attack had jerked his gun in the instant of discharge—and killed Hackerson.

Excited shouts were ringing through the corridors. A woman shrieked for police in a high, frightened voice. Wentworth bounded to the door, yanked Muggsie's body inside, stooped to print his seal on the man's forehead. A moment he paused also beside each of the other bodies to leave his crimson sinister signature. The woman had reeled to her feet now, stood swaying.

"By God,
Spider
" she swore. "I'll get you for this, you . . . ." Her voice spewed filthy abuse. She staggered toward him, tears streaming down her face, wetting the cheek that still bore the crimson imprint of Hackerson's blow. Wentworth pushed her aside, held her off with a hand on her shoulder while she leaned forward, swiping at him futilely.

"You can give a message to Baldy," the
Spider
said, slowly. "You tell him this is just a token payment. Tell him I shall kill every hireling of his Master, himself included, on sight. The
Spider
will show no more mercy. From now on, he will kill!
Kill! KILL!
"

He thrust Beatrice Ross away and she reeled with arms swinging wildly. Wentworth stepped to the fire-escape, swung rapidly downward. He heard the Ross woman screeching from the window. Flame lanced from her hand and gun-noise racketed in the narrow areaway. But her bullets only clanged off the steel framework of the fire-escape and splatted against the concrete floor of the areaway.

As he dashed through the hallways of another of the colony buildings, a white-faced man stepped into his path with a gun in a trembling hand. A swift blow sent the gun scaling along the floor and the
Spider
went out into the street. The eerie shriek of police sirens was close at hand, but he reached his car before the first of the radio patrol-cars skated into the street. His eyes, as he drove quietly away, were burning points of flame. His only accomplishment had been to wipe out the one tangible clue he had to the Master. There remained—Beatrice Ross.

AS WENTWORTH drove on, a cold smile touched his lips. The fiery action had cooled his rage, left only the steel-like bite of avenging anger. He swerved to the curb, called police headquarters and got Ram Singh on the telephone.

"Have you had any success, Ram Singh?" he queried.

The Hindu's voice was expressionless, but there was weariness behind it. "There is not a picture in the Rogue's gallery like the man I saw."

"Very well, I have another task for thee, Ram Singh," Wentworth lapsed into staccato Hindustani, for he did not know who might be listening upon the wire. "Devil Hackerson is dead with the seal of the
Spider
upon his forehead. Police will bring in presently a woman known as Beatrice Ross. When she is freed, follow her and before many hours, you should meet again your friend, Baldy. When you do, drop the woman and trail the man. Report through Jenkyns."

He parked his car and speedily stripped off the disguise of the
Spider,
becoming then a blond young man with full cheeks and a bristling, reddish mustache. He exaggerated his customary erect stride as he entered the Kennillworth Hotel on Forty-Sixth Street. He walked with an accentuated tap of heels, a slight sway of the left hip that cavalrymen everywhere would recognize, the stride of an officer accustomed to wearing spurs and swaying the dangling sabre out of the way of his booted calves.

At the desk, his incisive question revealed that Anse Collins' room was on the eleventh floor. Wentworth crossed to a house 'phone to talk with him, and the clerk scowled after him. These army men were all like that, so used to service by others that they never had a courteous word for anyone.

"Collins," Wentworth said softly as the man answered the 'phone, "this is the man you have been expecting. I'll be right up."

"Good!" Collins snapped. "I was getting ready to go out on my own. I'm thinking that the same thing that was used to break that safe caused these buildings to fall today."

Wentworth found that Nancy Collins had a room down the hall from her brother-in-law. "If you don't mind," the deputy said, "I reckon we don't need to bother Nancy any. She's had a powerful tough time of it lately." His eyes were keenly studying Wentworth's face, skipped over the brownish tweeds he had donned. "I reckon I wouldn't know you."

A broad smile curved Wentworth's lips. "Probably not," he agreed. There were few persons in the world more adept at disguise than the
Spider.
It was not that he changed his face radically. It was simply that with each new identity went an entirely new personality. He spoke differently, walked with a distinct stride, carried head and shoulders as would the man whose character he had assumed. He pushed on without a pause in his conversation.

"There's work to be done, Collins, if you want to get the man who was responsible for your brother's death."

"You mean Hackerson?" The deputy's words were slow, but there was a thin white line around his compressed mouth.

Wentworth shook his head shortly. "Not Hackerson. I killed him less than a half-hour ago."

Collins' eyes jerked wide, then narrowed. "You're pretty open about it, Mr.
Spider
," he said slowly. "How do you know I'm not going to turn you over to the police?"

"That would be a poor way to repay a friend's help," Wentworth smiled at him quietly. "And down where you come from, men usually stick by their friends."

"That's right, by God!" Collins' voice took on a rough edge. "And we remember our enemies, too!"

Wentworth glanced down at the man's fists. They were small in proportion to his size, but they would carry the enormous powers of those shoulders, that deep chest. He took in the strong face and the rumpled brown hair. Apparently, it was always like that, tousled as if from sleeping. A comb wouldn't do much to it. A woman would love to run her fingers through it . . . .

"Here's the job," Wentworth said swiftly. "I want you to offer yourself as bait to an attack by the criminals. It's pretty clear that they think you have information about the chemicals your brother devised. We'll go to Middleton together and see if we can draw their fire. Frankly, I haven't a clue to the identities of the men behind this business. I didn't want to kill Hackerson until after he had answered some questions, but he went for his gun and I had to."

Collins nodded, frowning. "That listens good to me, but I don't like to hear you say you've got no clue. As sure as you're a foot high, that guy DeHaven Alrecht has got something to do with this."

"That's one of the reasons I'm going to Middleton," Wentworth told him. "I want to have a little private conversation with that gentlemen and also with this Bill Butterworth who worked with your brother."

"Butterworth has gone away somewhere," Collins said. His eyes were thoughtful. He pulled aside the left half of his vest and tugged out a smooth-worn forty-four.

"She's a mite short," he said, spinning the chamber, "but I find she comes out quicker like this." He shoved the gun back, patted the butt. "When do we start?"

"In the morning," Wentworth told him. "In the meantime, I'd like you to identify yourself to Police Commissioner Kirkpatrick. It's possible you might be able to help him some."

Collins snapped his fingers. "By golly, I knew there was something we had to tell you," he said. "Before you busted in at Middleton, there was another guy there. You had to leave so quickly we couldn't tell you. This guy asked some questions, then seemed to get scared when Hackerson was talking about hurting us if we didn't talk. He beat it then."

Wentworth's eyes keened. "A bald man?" he asked quickly, "with a cast in his left eye?"

Collins nodded slowly, his eyes wonderingly on Wentworth's face. "I reckon you know everything, Mr.
Spider
," he said slowly. "That's the guy."

"Good," Wentworth's head came up joyfully. "You and Mrs. Collins go down to the police and give them the best description you can of that man. This is the first time witnesses have been found against him. I'll come by for you in the morning and we'll go to Middleton. Maybe we'll have luck."

"Maybe," Collins agreed. He was grinning. "Say, man, I'd like to shake hands with you. You're my sort of folks, Mr.
Spider.
"

Wentworth gripped Collins' hand firmly. "Just call me
Spider
" he laughed. "Your mister sounds too formal."

Collins laughed also, strode down the hall with Wentworth. The
Spider
didn't wait to see Nancy. He wanted to be at police headquarters when they got there and he had to rid himself of the disguise in the meantime. He had to find this man, Baldy, and make him talk. Wentworth's face set hard. He'd make the man talk, or kill him. Then, perhaps, he could force the Master to show his hand, to battle in the open. So far it had all been movements of pawns. The Master had delivered several telling strokes, but he still had not revealed the purposes behind his attack. Wentworth felt that if he could learn that motive, he might have a better chance of reaching the Master himself.

The criminal leader was undoubtedly very clever. He had not appeared at all himself—had worked only through this strange, timid mouthpiece, Baldy. He used gangs of known criminals with whom he never came in contact. From Ram Singh's account of Hackerson's conversation with Baldy, it seemed that even the mouthpiece did not know the Master. It was a damned clever organization. It meant that the man had all the underworld at his service without himself being identified with it in any way. No matter how many of his hirelings Wentworth wiped out, there would always be more on tap. The Master himself would have to be found before these wholesale slaughterings could be stopped.

It was the old alert Wentworth who strode into police headquarters, buoyant of step, a stiff, slightly arrogant poise to his shapely head, an erect athletic swing of shoulders that bespoke the muscular strength beneath the superb tailoring of his clothing. Kirkpatrick saw him at once. A small alert man sat beside his desk, smoking a big cigar that seemed incongruous with his van Dyke and imperial mustaches. He bounded to his feet, pumped Wentworth's hand energetically as Kirkpatrick introduced them.

"W. Johnson Briggs?" Wentworth inquired and the man nodded, bit out a quick assent. "Yes, yes, of course. W. Johnson Briggs. And you're Richard Wentworth, of course." He laughed, jabbed the wet end of his fuming cigar at Kirkpatrick, shoved it back in his mouth again. "This man wants to know how you can stop steel from caving in. How you can save buildings even if steel crystallizes. Damned nonsense, of course. There isn't any way."

Wentworth smiled at the machine gun chatter of the little man. The cigar was locked between his teeth, billowing smoke up in front of his face. There were four chewed butts on the desk. W. Johnson Briggs was one of the country's biggest consultant architects on skyscrapers. Kirkpatrick had done well to call in a man who knew his craft so thoroughly. Wentworth scrutinized him curiously. The man had an aesthetic face, wore his hair long and swept back over his ears. He chewed and puffed his cigar at the same time.

Kirkpatrick said grimly, "We've got to find a way, Mr. Briggs. Got to! We can't keep the city crippled as it is now. We've got guards to prevent anyone entering the skyscrapers and even the Mayor is howling at me about it. Inspectors are going over the buildings as fast as they can, but it's slow work."