RECALLING NITA'S warning three quarters of an hour later as he swung right off Manhattan Bridge, Wentworth's disguised lips twitched slightly. The rush and beat of the wind rocked the little coupe as he pushed it southward along the water front through the whip of the snow. In a few blocks now, he would be on the edge of what had been McSwag's "territory" during the great era of the rackets. That was finished now, but McSwag had turned to other criminal revenue. His mob of gunmen was the most ruthless and deadly in this post-repeal period. They robbed and killed and their immunity of prohibition days was still a shield and buckler to them.
The Master had done well to choose them—if he had a strong hand. Otherwise, McSwag might well take him over and make him serve his own ends. Wentworth would need to be more than careful to play the game he planned tonight and come out with his life. He would have to be bold and swift. His keen mind must not fail him for a second.
He gassed around a corner into Water Street. Out of the side window, he could see the far end of Brooklyn Bridge, hazed by snow, the swoop of its cables picked out by dim lights. He would be directly under it in another block. Two blocks beyond that was the pool-room-saloon where McSwag's mob usually hung out. Wentworth held down his impatience and let the coupe jounce along over the cobbles at a slow speed. There was no reason for Baldy to hurry, however much the Spider might yearn to join battle.
The neon-light sign before the restaurant spilled a bloody trail across the sidewalk, sent a crimson glow-out against the haze of falling snow. Wentworth spun the coupe around in a U curve and parked on the edge of that glow, eased out and shuffled to the doors, his shoulders hunched against the flail of wind and cold. He paused a moment, tugged once at the peak of his greasy cap and edged inside.
Four moth-eaten pool tables were picked out by the strong white light that funneled down from low-swung lamps. Two tables were busy. A stout man in a brown sweater was leaning his elbows on a grimy glass tobacco-counter beside the door. He lifted his eyes and grunted:
"Hello, Baldy."
Wentworth sneezed, dragged a limp handkerchief from his pocket. "'Lo," he snuffled. He was counting on the faked cold to turn aside any suspicions of his voice. "Where's McSwag?"
The man's eyes showed the whites under the irises as he looked up again. "Back room," he said slowly.
Wentworth shuffled that way. The men at the tables had stopped playing and were watching him with unshifting eyes. The Spider knew their faces, killers all. His shoulders seemed to cringe even more. He snuffled and bobbed the big dome of his head.
"Hello," he said.
Not one of them spoke. Wentworth's mind was racing behind the half-frightened mask of his disguise. Was it possible there had been some split between McSwag and the Master that he didn't know about? Was he betraying his masquerade by coming here? But that seemed unlikely. The man at the door had addressed him as Baldy, and that indicated his identity at least was accepted. Something was wrong, though. He knew that. The place was too quiet and too noisy by turns. The rough laughter that burst out now and then from the restaurant seemed to have an edge.
Wentworth snuffled and eased into the back room. All his movements had the frightened air that went with the character of Baldy. Ram Singh had noticed that the man was at once cringing and insolent in his dealings with Hackerson. As if he feared the man personally and yet knew that somehow he held a whip hand. Such was Wentworth's air tonight as he went into the back room and looked about for McSwag. He knew the Irishman by sight, a roundly solid mountain of strength, with a craggy head that might have set upon the shoulders of some ancient Iberian king. And McSwag was a king in his own territory. Politicians hastened to do him favors and police wore a worried look when something came up that involved his powerful mob.
McSwag was not visible in the back room and Wentworth slipped around a battered table where men played monosyllabic poker. The four looked up as the supposed Baldy went by and the dealer stopped flipping cards to lift his eyes beneath a green shade. A white cone of light burned down and left their faces mostly in shadow.
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!"