THE SPIDER-City of Doom (15 page)

"Let me!" Baldy pleaded.

"No!" Beatrice Ross said violently. "I'm going to." She stopped suddenly, snatched up her skirt and yanked a small gun from a thigh holster. Before she could use it, McSwag had wrenched it from her hand.

McSwag weighed Beatrice's gun on his hand and eyed Baldy. "I think that might be a good idea," he said softly. There was a gleam in his eyes. Wentworth could read his thoughts. If he had a murder he could hold over Baldy's head, he might twist him to his own ends, use him against the Master. The
Spider
blew another smoke ring and was thankful that the Zeiss lenses hid the mounting hope in his eyes.

"Shoot him in the belly, Baldy," Hickey urged hoarsely. "I want to put lead in him, too. He smashed out Trigger Skinner, and . . . ."

"Now, boys, boys," McSwag urged jovially. "I see no reason why all of you shouldn't have a shot. The
Spider
isn't going to run away, are you,
Spider?"

Wentworth smiled and carefully blew another ring. "Oh, no!" he said calmly. "I wouldn't cheat you out of your fun."

It was an effort to keep his face twisted into that mocking smile. His heart was a hard thing beating against the wall of his ribs, trying to knock its way out. In his right temple, the thin scar was throbbing. He knew that never before had he been so near death as now. He knew that never had he needed more to live, not only for his own sake, but for the sake of the thousands these men would kill if he died.

Despite all his battling, he still did not know the Master. And ten thousand lives might well hinge on his escape . . . .

"I think Baldy ought to have first shot," McSwag said, "because the
Spider
came here disguised as him."

He held the gun out to Baldy butt first. Baldy snatched for it and at the same instant, Beatrice Ross catapulted upward from the floor, hands clawing for the weapon. McSwag roared out with anger, stepped forward to interfere, and his bulk spun Baldy aside. The little windbag had the gun and he clutched it in both hands reeling back. Wentworth dived out of the chair and his shoulder caught him in the side.

Baldy spun, felt the heat of the gas log and screamed. Wentworth snatched the gun away from him, blasted one slug from it at Hickey, who alone was in the clear, and a second later made the protection of the heavy chair. Hickey took the bullet between the eyes and slammed down onto the floor, clawing the rug. His gun skated along and Wentworth snatched it from behind the chair. Deliberately he shot down another hood, then smacked out the light with two more bullets.

McSwag had dropped to the floor with the first shot and the big chair was between him and Wentworth. His heavy gun roared and lead plunked through the back of the chair—within an inch of the
Spider's
head! Wentworth lay flat on the floor and burned lead along the level of the boards. McSwag swore painfully and more bullets smacked into the chair. Two came through.

A small, muffled blast whooshed near the gas log as his cigarette case exploded and Wentworth laughed. It was the mocking monotone of the
Spider's
mirth.

"Death!" he cackled. "
Death! The Spider brings you death!
"

Beatrice Ross was screaming with pain now. "Tear gas!" she shrieked. "Tear gas!"

Wentworth caught a movement in the flickering light of the gas log and fired into it twice. A man groaned and thudded to the floor. Wentworth was edging along the wall toward the door. Somewhere in this room, Baldy still crouched. There was still another gunman, Beatrice Ross and McSwag. McSwag was wounded, but Wentworth doubted that he was dead. Also, there was a pounding of feet on the stairway as the men downstairs rushed upward to the rescue. Wentworth reached the door, yanked it open. From the darkness of the room, a gun blazed wildly, and the
Spider's
own eyes, even protected as they were by the Zeiss lenses, were smarting with the tear gas his cigarette case had released, but the bullet did not come anywhere near him. He must free Jackson, but to do that he must empty the room.

He plunged out into the hall, squealing wildly as he ran toward the stairs. "
The Spider! The Spider!
" he squeaked. And once more it was Baldy's voice.

A rush of men whirled him sidewise against the wall. The man who had stood behind the counter pinned him there by his coat collar, peering at him in the dim light from the hall's single bulb. Other men dashed by. The man cursed.

"You ain't the real Baldy," he growled and his gun jerked upward at his side. Wentworth fired upward and the bullet smashed under the man's chin, thrust his head back between his shoulder blades. He went back two heavy steps on his heels, already dead, then fell limply. Wentworth crouched low, leaped the entire flight of steps, landed sprawling and rolled as a hurricane of flying lead ploughed the floor where he had landed.

Wentworth emptied the light gun up the stairs, then darted out of the store. He reached his car in a bound, flung into it and kicked the starter. A mighty creaking sound, a Titan in agony, suddenly filled all the world. There was a whang of steel as if a great wire cable had been cut by a bullet. With an abrupt stab of dread, Wentworth ducked forward over the wheel, stared upward.

The spidery span of Brooklyn Bridge, with its myriad tiny lights, was sagging. A splotch of glaring white headlights stabbed wildly downward, then spun dizzily, whirling through space toward the black waters. An automobile was plunging from the bridge. But it was not alone. An entire string of elevated cars tumbled like a child's toy train down after it.

Brooklyn Bridge was falling . . . !

Good God! The Master and his steel-eater had destroyed the Brooklyn Bridge!

Even as the thought materialized into words, a bunch of men hurtled out the front door of the restaurant, guns in hands. They froze there. Their heads twisted, too, toward that catastrophe of the bridge.

His lips grinning back from his teeth, Wentworth realized that the engine of his coupe was racing. With a snarl of fury, he yanked the car into gear, deliberately charged the six men on the walk.

He was within feet of them before they tore their eyes away from the death they had wrought. Their wild screams and upflung guns attempted to stem the rush of the steel monster whose driver had become an avenging demon. Their bullets were as futile as their screams. The car struck two of them down, slammed them savagely to the concrete, ground another against the wall, charged on to carry two more through the plate glass window of the restaurant.

One of them tore loose. He clapped his hands to his back and ran screaming down the street. Blood flowed from his back in a torrent. He did not run far. Wentworth threw back his head and laughed—a sound of blood-curdling merriment . . . .

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?