THE SPIDER-City of Doom (14 page)

"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!
"

HICKEY shoved and tugged at the false bald head that Ram Singh had fastened on Wentworth's scalp. It hurt, but it held. Ram Singh had done his work well. Hickey cursed and quit.

"I can't get it off," he said, "but this guy isn't Baldy. That's a fake head on there, and . . ."

McSwag stepped in close and his right fist swept up. It was aimed at the jaw, but Wentworth jerked his head, took the blow high up on his cheek. Nevertheless he went down hard and a great white burst of light smashed through his brain. Dully he felt shoes thud against his sides, felt the sharp heel of Beatrice Ross rake the side of his face.

Fumbling, he reached for his guns. There wasn't much feeling in his hands. Before they had moved six inches, fists pinioned his wrists to the floor. His guns were ripped from their holsters. More heels hit his sides. His stomach seemed caved in. Then he was aware of a big figure over him and fists flailing.

"Lay off!" McSwag bellowed. "You can have him in a minute. First I want to ask some questions. Lay off, I say!"

Wentworth felt himself dragged up and slammed into a chair. Whiskey burned down his throat. Water drenched him. He gasped, rolled his head and came foggily back to his senses. McSwag was holding Beatrice Ross away from him with an arm like a limb of oak. Behind him were four men and insane hatred glared from their eyes. Baldy hovered to one side, a smirking grin on his face. And Wentworth saw death in all those faces, even in the grim, hard face of McSwag who, he realized dimly, had saved him from being beaten to death a few moments before.

The
Spider
could expect no mercy here. Not a criminal in the entire country but had come to dread and hate his name as that of the one man who could strike terror into their hearts. Not a man in this group but who, some time, had been blocked and defeated in criminal endeavor by some crusade of the
Spider.
His lethal guns had burned down their companions. Now they had him a helpless prisoner! Jackson and the detective were equally useless.

"I just want to know who this
Spider
guy is," McSwag said, "then you can have him. Now lay off a minute, will you?"

"He killed Devil Hackerson," Beatrice Ross screeched, "and I'm going to kill him!"

"Sure, sure," McSwag soothed. "Now wait!"

The woman kept struggling to get past his arm and he drew back his hand and hit her hard with the heel. She spun up against the wall and struck it with her shoulders. Her head snapped back and she slid down slowly, a dazed look in her eyes.

"Let me kill him!" she moaned.

McSwag ignored her, turned back to Wentworth. The other men waited, tensely, leashed hounds at the kill, dogs beaten back after tasting blood. They licked their lips and fingered their weapons.

"Your number's up,
Spider,
" McSwag said slowly. "You were a damn fool to come here like this. And this is once you ain't going to wiggle out of it. Come on, who are you?"

Wentworth lifted his head from the back of the chair. He realized he was in the big arm seat that McSwag had occupied. It was an effective prison, for he was bedded so deeply in it that there was no chance for him to move any way but forward. McSwag and his four men hedged him in there. There was no chance to tip the chair over backward either. It was too heavy for that. Besides, that beating had done him up.

He dipped his hands into his vest pocket for his cigarette-case and McSwag knocked it from his hand. It snapped against the gas log with a silvery note. "I just wanted a smoke," Wentworth explained mildly.

"Okay," McSwag grunted, "but you'll smoke my cigarettes. Get the point?"

"Oh, quite," said Wentworth. He accepted one of McSwag's cigarettes and lighted it. "Quite," he said. "You seem to have me at a temporary disadvantage."

"Temporary is right," McSwag growled and a grudging admiration lighted his eyes. "It's going to last about two minutes and then the disadvantage is going to become permanent. Come on, now, who are you?"

"The Master knows," Beatrice Ross said suddenly. "He had him followed, and ordered a train wrecked to get him."

McSwag said, "That ain't helping. I wrecked the train and I don't know who he is. You know, Baldy?"

Baldy licked his lips. "I'll tell you," he said hoarsely, "if you'll let me kill him." McSwag looked at him in surprise.

"You?" he demanded.

There was a crazy gleam in Baldy's one good eye. He nodded his head. "Yeah, I want to blow off that funny-looking head."

Wentworth laughed. "Really, Baldy," he said, "it wasn't such a bad head until Hickey started mussing it up."

For the first time he saw a gleam of hope. Baldy was no hood, didn't know how to handle a gun. If he could goad the man into making an attempt he might stand a chance of snatching the weapon. It was certain Baldy would come close to use it. He glanced out of the corner of his masked eyes toward the cigarette case. It was beginning to melt a little with the gas-log's heat.