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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!

 

 

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