THE SPIDER-City of Doom (17 page)

He opened the window a little on Simpson's side and after ten minutes of cold wind, the man began to squirm in his seat, moaned jerkily. Suddenly he sat bolt upright. The abrupt motion made him moan again and attempt to raise his hands to his head. The handcuffs grated on the nickeled ring and he stared at them dazedly, then whipped his head around toward the driver. The
Spider
did not look at him. His hunched back beneath the black cape, his sallow face glowing in the dim light, made a sinister picture. O'Leary Simpson's breath came swiftly.

The
Spider
said nothing. He knew that uncertainty would work more damage on Simpson's morale than any threats he could make. And he must break Simpson's courage to make him talk. If he was involved, it should not be difficult. This man had gone to bed in the security of his home, an expensive home which his wealth had built. He awoke, apparently from that sleep, to find himself riding through a wild night, handcuffed, and seated beside a sinister, black-draped figure. He would think at first that it was a nightmare . . . .

"Who are you?" Simpson demanded in a voice that vainly strove to be angry. His voice gained strength. "Who are you and what the hell do you mean by this?" His handcuffs rattled.

The
Spider
turned his head slowly, looked with cold implacable hatred into Simpson's eyes, so that the man winced back into his corner. Then the
Spider
looked back to the road. He didn't say anything, and neither did Simpson for a long while. The car rattled its way to the end of the Bronx River Parkway, took the sharp grade to the right of Kensico dam at forty-five. The engine made only a slight hissing. The rain drummed.

"In God's name," Simpson asked hoarsely. "Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?"

This time the
Spider
did not even turn his head. Simpson began to stammer out more questions, to threaten and curse, and finally to plead, but Wentworth ignored him. Finally the man fell silent, made little low moaning sounds that went on and on while the car reeled off ten miles, left the broad winding concrete highway that bordered the Kensico reservoir for a lonelier strip of macadam where the coupe jarred and rattled. The dashlight was improperly shielded and it turned the inside of the windshield into a dim mirror. In it Wentworth studied Simpson's face.

It was a fat, flaccid face, but beneath the blubber were the outlines of a hard and ruthless jaw. Simpson's mouth was lipless. It would be a straight gash in anger, but now it was trembling with weakness. A nervous tic quivered in the right corner. Simpson had an egg-shaped, partly bald head, colorless eyebrows, and there was a dewlap beneath his double chin. The dewlap quivered also.

The
Spider's
earlier elation of the evening was growing. Simpson's behavior had not been that of a guiltless man. Wentworth braked to a halt, leaned forward, cut the switch. Windshield-wiper and engine died together. The windshield clouded instantly with lashing drops that drummed like bony fingers along the roof and hammered on the tiny hood. Simpson was shaking all over. He watched Wentworth with furtive eyes. Suddenly he squealed. "Good God!" he cried. "I know you! . . . You . . . you're the . . . ." his voice trailed off and the word "
Spider"
quaked from him in a quivering breath.

Wentworth turned his head slowly, his face expressionless. He slid a hand beneath his cape, a gesture of dread menace.

"Have you anything to say before . . . ." Wentworth drew his hand slowly into view, showing the dull gleaming muzzle of an automatic.

"In God's name,
Spider
, I swear to you . . . ." Simpson broke off, choking, as the muzzle of the gun swung slowly, centered on his body and lifted until he was staring with widening gaze down into the little black hole that was the eye of death. "I swear," he whimpered. "I'm getting nothing out of it at all."

The
Spider's
face did not change, but he knew now that he had guessed right, that O'Leary Simpson held a clue. He appeared to hesitate. His bitter blue-gray eyes stared along the barrel of his gun.

"My time is short," he said flatly. "You will have to talk fast, for if you fail to convince me by two o'clock . . . ." A jerk of his head indicated the clock set into the rear vision mirror. It stood at three minutes of two. Simpson's eyes jumped to it, flew back to the face of the
Spider.
He licked his lips, sucked in a deep breath and began talking.

"I swear to you I didn't know what was behind it," he said rapidly. "Two months ago, a man called me over the telephone and reminded me that there existed written proof of a crime that would send me to prison for years . . ."

"You were responsible for the collapse of that school," Wentworth said softly. "They couldn't find your private set of specifications which told your foreman to shave the cement mixture, to use wood instead of steel, but this man could. He had the specifications. Who was this man?"

"I don't know," Simpson said. He whimpered suddenly and shrank back in his corner, tried to pull his manacled hands around in front of him as in prayer. "I don't know,
Spider!
As God is my witness!"

Wentworth had made no movement unless there was a slightly increased hunch to his shoulders, unless the flame of his eyes had flared more brightly. He said, between his teeth: "Go ahead."

"This man called me and told me that," Simpson stammered on. "Then he hung up. Several days later he called again, and I was half crazy with fear by then. He said he would send me some money and that with it I was to buy stock in the Bessmo Corporation, that I was to pyramid the earnings until further orders." Simpson licked his lips; his eyes slid sideways to the clock and his words spilled out faster than ever. "I did that, thinking I was getting off easy. A while later, he told me to rent a safety-deposit box, put the shares in that and then to convert all dividends into cash and place that in the box, too. I did that, too, and thought that at last I had a way to find out who held the papers. The bank wouldn't tell me who shared my box, had orders not to. I . . . . I intended either to buy him off, or . . . . or . . . ."

"Kill him," the
Spider
supplied.

Simpson's stare at the gun was like the fascinated stare of a snake-charmed bird. "I hid and watched at the bank where I had rented the box and didn't see anyone. But the next night two men came to my house and beat me up terribly. I was in the hospital for ten days."

"But you went again?"

"I went again," Simpson admitted. "I had to, you see. I couldn't go on not knowing when the blow would fall, when the roof would be snatched from over the heads of my wife and daughter, when my disgrace would strike them down. I went again and saw a man I knew was a minor stockholder in Bessmo enter the bank vaults. Later, when I went to the box I shared with this blackmailer whom the bank was protecting, I found the money gone, found a note telling me to put no more money in the box and that later I would be told what to do with it. By this time the buildings were beginning to fall and I became terribly afraid. I . . . I felt that there was a connection, a reason why this man did not want his stock in Bessmo listed in his own name, and this seemed to explain it. I knew that Bessmo would resist whatever was causing buildings to collapse. I was afraid."

"This small stockholder," Wentworth said, and hesitated, his voice choking. He felt that he was on the brink of a discovery that would solve the whole case, that would bring to book the man behind all these killings and crashes, the Master himself. His heart thudded in his throat. "This small stockholder you saw entering the bank. He was . . . Alrecht?"

Simpson shivered. "You know everything," he said faintly. "It was Alrecht."

THE
SPIDER
flung back his head and laughed. It was derisive, self-mockery. Alrecht, of course, but Alrecht had disappeared. He was a will-o'-the-wisp, a shadow in the darkness. Simpson was babbling words, eyes darting from the gun to the clock which stood now at one minute past two.

"It's the truth," he was stammering. "
For God's sake, Spider, believe me!
"

Wentworth ceased his flat laughter. "I do," he said. "You deserve death for that other crime you committed, for the deaths of half a hundred school children, but you can purchase your way out of that. I want the key to the safety-deposit box, and I want your absolute silence about what has happened tonight. If you so much as breathe a word of it, I will know, and I will come for you. And next time, there will be nothing you can say to stave off my avenging bullet."

Simpson stammered in fear. The key, he said, had been stolen from him. Throughout the long drive back to his home he kept that up. Finally Wentworth was convinced he spoke the truth and the man sputtered his gratitude that he was allowed to live. Wentworth was confident now that he had a clue to the Master.

But the next day's investigation was a disappointment. The name on the bank's register card for the man who shared Simpson's safety deposit vault was "John Smith" and the man who had been accustomed to recognize the holders of boxes and admit them to the vaults could not describe "Smith." He was dead—had been crushed to death in the fall of a building two days before.

Signatures of Alrecht were not obtainable for comparison. His bachelor quarters were clean of any handwriting. His bank, the First National in Middleton, had been destroyed. Such friends as could be found had no letters, though one said vaguely that a photostat of the John Smith signature seemed familiar.

Nita and the others had set sail for New York on the
Britannia
and were due to arrive in two days. Wentworth, seated in Kirkpatrick's office, watched the reports come across the Commissioner's desk. They were like men in war time, these two.

When the carroty-haired cop who kept watch outside the Commissioner's door thrust in an excited head, both men looked up at him with a curious expectant tension.

"Eddie Blanton, of the
Press
," said carrot-top, and the two settled back into their seats wearily. Kirkpatrick raised an indifferent hand in consent of the man's admittance and Blanton came in briskly. Wentworth eyed him intently. Brisk movement in Blanton was a signal of excitement. Usually he lounged, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, the slouch gray hat on at any angle, the baggy topcoat soggy about his ankles. But now the coat swung out behind him, slapping quick-moving calves.

"Listen, Kirk," he said swiftly. "We got a hot tip on the
Britannia,
and the chief didn't even want me to talk to you over the 'phone about it."

Wentworth felt a slow, cold tension stiffen his back. He dropped the report he was scanning on his knees and his gray-blue eyes fixed on Blanton. There was a grin on the reporter's face and a tightness about his eyes that meant big news. But big news to him might mean disaster . . .

"What about the
Britannia!
" Kirkpatrick's voice was hard and quick.

"Is she or isn't she carrying five millions in gold?" Blanton demanded.

Wentworth's fears eased. He still sat rigidly, eyeing Blanton. Kirkpatrick frowned. "I can't say anything for publication on that, Eddie," he said slowly.

"Can you tell me whether you're planning a heavy police guard at the dock?"

"Don't start that business," Kirkpatrick growled. "You're not going to worm a damned thing out of me, and you know it."

Wentworth was leaning forward now. "I've got some friends on the
Britannia,
Blanton," he said slowly. "Somebody who could give you some good detail stuff."

Blanton spun toward him, shrewd brown eyes gleaming. "Where'd you get the tip from?" he demanded.

Wentworth was on his feet in an instant. "I thought so, damn it," he said. "Out with it, Blanton. What's happened on the
Britannia!
"

Kirkpatrick stared from one man to the other, leaning back in his chair. "What's this all about?"

***

Blanton grimaced. "Your friend, Wentworth, just tricked me," he said. "I guess I might as well spill it, but keep it under your hat until we can hit the street with an extra. I was really sent over to find out whether anybody else was in on it." He leaned over and picked up Kirkpatrick's 'phone. "Outside, darling," he told the main operator downstairs, dialed his paper and got hold of the city editor. "All clear, Gibby," he reported. "Naw, not a thing." He hung up.

"Yeah, you tricked me," Blanton told Wentworth, "but just the same I'm going to cash in on that promise of yours."

"Talk, damn you!" Kirkpatrick growled.

Blanton lipped another cigarette, held a burning match and looked over it. "The steel bunch tried to hijack the
Britannia
," he said casually, sucked the flame against the cigarette and blew the match out with smoke. "And dear little Briggsy, none other than our own W. Johnson Briggs, sank 'em with their own stuff."

"What!" Amazement showed on Wentworth's face.

"Uh-huh, that's just the way I feel," said Blanton, grinning. He told them with the concise efficiency of a man used to handling big news what had happened aboard the
Britannia. A
fast yacht had hailed the big British steamer in the midst of an Atlantic storm and ordered it to lay to and surrender its five million in gold. If the captain refused, the yacht's message read, the
Britannia
would be subjected to a whiff of gas that would make her steel plates break to pieces. In other words, the yacht would loose a load of the steel-eater and sink the
Britannia
without a trace.

Wentworth's fists were knotted at his side. He could see the picture that Blanton threw before them so vividly, the two ships heaving on the gale-swept Atlantic, giant and pygmy, and the giant at the mercy of the smaller boat. Stricken with the steel-eater, her plates would not hold together a minute in those waves. Instant dissolution. Two thousand persons plunged into wild waters from which there could be no rescue . . . .

"Little Briggsy romped up to the captain," Blanton went on. "The news had leaked out somehow. 'Listen, Cap,' he says. 'If we can make even a mild sort of demolition bomb we can beat them off.'"