The wind moaned as if to confirm him. Kirkpatrick’s coattails flapped against his legs. He eyed Wentworth steadily a moment, began talking monotonously.

  “One of my men punctured a tire of the lead gang car. They abandoned it around the corner and got away in the other two. They left two of my motorcycle men there dead. That makes eighteen tonight. Eighteen of my men and twelve others. They looted a bank on Fourteenth Street, burned through doors and vault like so much butter. God knows how many millions were stolen.”

  His words had come out slowly, like the report of an automaton. Now he spoke with a forceful directness that told he had made a decision.

  “It is queer, Dick,” he said, “that you always manage to be on hand when this gang gets busy.”

  Wentworth’s alert eyes took in the police commissioner’s forward thrust shoulders, his suspicious glance.

  “Yes, it is queer,” Wentworth said. “Scarcely seems it could be coincidence, does it?”

  “That was what I was thinking.” Kirkpatrick’s voice was soft. “There is another thing, that I should like to have explained. The watchman at the bank was stabbed in the back, and in the wound I found this.”

  He held out his hand and across it lay a thin blade of steel, perhaps twelve inches long, jagged at the end.

  “This is obviously,” said Kirkpatrick, “the end of a sword, broken off in the wound. It is a queer weapon for a criminal.”

  The commissioner took a step nearer.

  “Dick,” he said, “you are one of the few men I know who carries a sword cane. That is it in your hand now, isn’t it? Let me see it.”

  And he reached out his hand for the cane that Wentworth carried.

  CHAPTER SEVEN Reardon’s Son

  Wentworth looked down at his stick as if he were seeing it for the first time. It was of simple dark wood with a slender amber handle that fitted as neatly as a foil’s hilt across the palm. Where the amber ended, a jerk would separate hilt from scabbard and a thin blade of fine steel would be instantly ready for offense or protection.

  As Kirkpatrick had said, a strange weapon, but one that Wentworth, skilled in fence, had found tremendously effective. Yet Wentworth, so familiar with its excellence, stared at it strangely. He felt as if he had grasped a venomous snake in the dark. Until now he scarcely had been conscious he carried the stick, had picked it up as a matter of habit when he left the house. But now he knew suddenly that this well-loved weapon had become a thing of peril.

  He knew, just as surely as if he held that blade bared in his hands, that its tip was broken off and that the jagged steel would match this murderous fragment that Kirkpatrick held in one hand while the other reached out for the cane.

  Wentworth remembered with a sense of shock the shadow who had ordered him back to the apartment. Of course, the Tarantula could not have known he would carry the cane, would want him at home to receive Kirkpatrick when the police commissioner came. He knew—even as he smiled suavely and told Kirkpatrick, “Of course,”—that the Tarantula had planted this trap for the Spider, was seeking to involve him in his own crimes and tighten his strangle hold.

  “Of course,” Wentworth said again to Kirkpatrick. “My stick.”

  He lifted it from the ground, but in the act of surrendering it, hesitated, looking at the commissioner sorrowfully. “Why do you distrust me so, Kirkpatrick? Do you think I am the sort to stab an innocent man in the back?” There was bitterness in Wentworth’s voice.

  He was stalling for time, thinking furiously to find some way out. Short of running away, a thing that would condemn him more surely than the broken point of his sword, how could he escape this trap of the Tarantula?

  Kirkpatrick’s eyes did not falter; his hand outstretched for the cane was not less demanding.

  “Eighteen police were killed tonight and twelve bystanders,” he said heavily. “That’s thirty lives, thirty wiped out by this gang of criminals. I cannot do less than investigate every possible clue. Even if it pointed to myself, I would feel compelled to demand that my men investigate it.”

  Wentworth laughed aloud, and again there was a bitter note in his voice. But his eyes were sparkling…. He had glimpsed the shadow of a man beside the adjoining building. “Friendship,” he said, “the golden love. There is a proverb about that.” His words were harsh, unnaturally loud as he quoted in Hindustani. He finished the phrase and said, “Since you demand it, here’s my cane, Kirkpatrick,” and once more he lifted the stick.

  There was a sharp, muffled sound of a blow and, without warning, Wentworth pitched forward on his face, the cane beneath his body. Kirkpatrick cursed once, staring down in bewilderment. On the ground beside his fallen friend a knife gleamed. In the darkness at the corner, a shadowed form showed an instant, then fled. Police guns banged. Kirkpatrick pounded after that fleeting shadow. Wentworth’s eyes opened carefully. From beneath his body he whisked the sword cane, sent it slithering along the gutter into a sewer opening.

  He pulled his hand back beneath him and lay as before.

  Presently feet pounded back beside him and Kirkpatrick dropped his prostrate friend over into his arms. His breath was short.

  “Dick!” he called urgently. “Dick!”

  Wentworth flickered his eyelids, opened them slowly. He muttered, rolled his head.

  “What—what happened?” he asked weakly. “Someone threw a knife,” Kirkpatrick said. “Luckily it turned. The hilt knocked you out.”

  Wentworth sat up heavily and squeezed his temples between his palms, propped elbows on his knees. His voice was muffled.

  “Now, in the name of heaven,” he mumbled, “why do you suppose anyone did that?”

  “I’m trying to figure that myself,” said Kirkpatrick, his voice sharpened. “Where is your sword cane?”

  “Sword—cane?” said Wentworth slowly. He took one hand from his head and groped about on the ground, turned heavily and looked on the pavement. “Got a light?” he mumbled. A detective splashed the beam of a hand torch.

  Wentworth scrambled to his feet, stared around.

  “The damned thing’s gone,” he exclaimed. “Now I see why that knife was thrown!”

  He whirled toward Kirkpatrick.

  “Don’t you see?” he demanded. “Someone is trying to throw suspicion on me. A sword is broken off in a man’s back. When I’m about to clear myself by giving you my sword, unbroken, they knock me unconscious and steal the sword cane so that I can’t prove my innocence.”

  Kirkpatrick stared directly into Wentworth’s eyes.

  “A very clever trick,” he said.

  “You’re dealing with a very clever criminal,” Wentworth told him.

  Kirkpatrick nodded slowly, his gaze still on Wentworth’s.

  “A very clever criminal,” he agreed. “That should make you the more anxious, Dick, to help me capture him.”

  Wentworth rubbed the back of his head gingerly. His voice was regretful.

  “Yes, it should,” he said, “but unfortunately I’ve promised my artist friend to sail Thursday.” He sighed. “It’s too bad. This case does seem quite interesting.”

  Kirkpatrick’s voice was harsh. “I never thought,” he said bitterly, “I’d live to see the day Richard Wentworth would run from danger.”

  Wentworth allowed his hand to fall to his side. “Neither did I,” he said quietly. “Do you want me any longer? As I pointed out before, it’s chilly.”

  Kirkpatrick’s gray-blue eyes were scornful. “No,” he said shortly. “I want you no longer.” Wentworth nodded, picked up his hat from the pavement and walked slowly up the avenue to his apartment house. He strode in jubilantly. Ram Singh bowed impassively, eyes glittering beneath the spotless white of his house turban.

  Wentworth grinned boyishly. “The next time I tell you to throw a knife at me, Ram Singh,” he said, “don’t throw it so confounded hard!”

  There was very little sleep for Wentworth that night. He and Ram Singh packed. They threw together two compact theatrical make-up kits, then flung themselves down for a nap. At ten o’clock, Wentworth roused, found Ram Singh had prepared a simple breakfast. He ate hurriedly.

  “You have on two suits of clothing, Ram Singh?” he asked.

  “Han, Sahib!” the Hindu bowed.

  Wentworth nodded. “Good. Now have the florist make up some flowers, order a big basket of fruit and have Jackson bring the Lancia around at once.”

  “Han Sahib!” Ram Singh was gone.

  Ten minutes later, Wentworth descended and entered the Lancia.

  “The hospital of St. Vincent de Paul,” he told the chauffeur and Jackson, tanned, square-cut face smiling, saluted and sped the Lancia on its way.

  A bespectacled, stout nurse directed him to Jenkyns’ room and he went directly there with Ram Singh carrying the baskets of fruit and flowers. Jenkyns was conscious, but white and weak. His head was swathed in bandages.

  He told Wentworth in whispers that he had not seen the assailants who had knocked at the door and struck him down when he answered.

  Wentworth glanced over Jenkyns’ chart with a practiced eye.

  “You’ll be up and about soon,” he assured him.

  Behind Wentworth, Ram Singh was rapidly unpacking the basket of fruit. He deposited half on Jenkyns’ dresser, then together Wentworth and Ram Singh left the room, signaled a nurse.

  “Jenkyns has asked me,” Wentworth told her, “to give part of his fruit to the son of an old friend who, he says, is in the hospital. Jack Reardon is the name. Will you find out where he is, please. I want to deliver it personally.”

  The nurse hurried off, came back in a few moments and led them to another wing of the hospital, to a public solarium where a gaunt young man sat in a wheel chair. Ram Singh deposited the fruit on a table beside him, and the nurse left.

  Young Reardon stared curiously at the two. His identity was apparent in the modeling of face and head, but his forehead was more intelligent than his father’s.

  Wentworth looked him over slowly, nodded in approval. He pulled up a chair.

  “I’m Richard Wentworrth,” he said. “I promised your father I’d look you up to see if I could help—”

  Reardon continued to study him, hostility creeping into his gaze.

  “My father wrote me about some one who had promised help, but didn’t identify him. Elsie— that’s my fiancée—doesn’t…. ”

  Wentworth nodded. “She doesn’t believe my intentions are good, eh? I gathered as much when she tried to shoot me the other night.”

  Reardon frowned, eyes wide.

  “Elsie tried—Oh, I don’t believe that!” Wentworth smiled quietly. “Can you stand?” he asked.

  Reardon’s surprise was still large upon his face.

  “Elsie wouldn’t do a thing like that,” he said stubbornly.

  Wentworth waved a hand.

  “Let’s not quarrel over it,” he urged. “I haven’t filed any charge against her and won’t. But she is in danger from another source, the people who have deceived her about me. Right now, I want to do something for you. Can you stand?”

  Reardon stared fixedly at Wentworth. The Spider’s keen, vital countenance was the sort to inspire confidence. After a few moments of study, Reardon nodded slowly.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m leaving the hospital tomorrow.”

  Wentworth looked him over slowly. Despite his recent illness and the poorly-fitting hospital pajamas, it was apparent that Reardon was well-built. He and Wentworth were of about the same size.

  Wentworth nodded. “I think a sea trip would do you a world of good,” he said. “You’re sailing tomorrow.”

  The youth stared at him, his eyes, as gray as Wentworth’s, going wide. “Gee, that’s swell of you, Mr. Wentworth!” he said. “But I got to get to work and send Dad some money. He ain’t making much these days, and…. ”

  Wentworth measured the boy with his eyes again, took in the firm line of the jaw.

  “Your father doesn’t need your help,” he said slowly.

  The boy’s chin got stubborn. “It’s kind of you, of course, but I can take care of him. I don’t want him to have to depend on charity.”

  Wentworth shook his head slowly, his eyes kind.

  “He’s not on charity,” he said. “But he doesn’t need your help.”

  Wentworth’s sympathetic tone penetrated the boy’s consciousness. He stared into the older man’s face and his eyes got wider. He put a hand on the chair arm to steady himself.

  “You mean something,” he got out with difficulty. “You mean something you’re not saying.”

  Wentworth nodded slowly. “Your father is dead,” he said gently.

  The words did not seem to register with young Reardon. He shook his head, pressed his right palm to his forehead, looked up quickly at Wentworth as if he suspected some joke, realized then what had been said and slumped back into the chair.

  “Dead,” he said. “Dad’s dead. But how? What?”

  Wentworth’s face went grim. “How much guts have you got?” he demanded.

  Reardon’s questioning eyes narrowed slowly. His jaw clenched.

  “I’m no kid,” he said quietly. “I can take it.” Wentworth inspected him closely. “I think you can,” he said. “You’ll have to. Your father was murdered by a gang of criminals.”

  The boy’s posture did not change. But the pallor of his face deepened and an ugly light glinted in his eyes.

  “You know who did it?” the words rasped. Wentworth shook his head slowly. “I know the gang that did it, but I don’t know its identity, its whereabouts, or its leaders. I need your help to find out.”

  Reardon said slowly, “Will you tell me about it?”

  And Wentworth did, sparing the youth nothing.

  “You can help me catch those criminals if you will,” he said. “But it will require courage and fortitude.”

  The boy struck a clenched fist upon his knee. “Try me,” he demanded.

  Wentworth had been studying the youth throughout their conversation, and he was satisfied. He nodded.

  “You will take a sea trip, disguised as myself. This will permit me to work against the gang unhampered by shadowers.”

  “But …” Reardon began.

  “Yes, I know,” said Wentworth, “You want to come to grips with the gang yourself. I said this would require fortitude.”

  “It seems more like running away,” the boy said, and the stubbornness of his jaw became more emphatic.

  Wentworth locked gaze with him. Reardon was no youth to be browbeaten, but Wentworth willed to dominate—and the Spider was Master of Men! Reardon’s eyes dropped.

  “You’re right, sir, of course,” he said. “It is foolish of me to attempt to butt into a thing like this. I’ll—I’ll do as you say.”

  “Fine!” said Wentworth. “Let’s go to your room.”

  Reardon got up and moved steadily to a nearby door.

  Wentworth gestured to Ram Singh. The Hindu entered, began to unwind his sash. He seated the boy on a chair, took a make-up kit from the fruit basket and rapidly tinted Reardon’s face the same hue as his own. He reshaped the nose with wax, built the cheekbones higher, gave Reardon one of the two suits he wore, took shoes also from the basket. In ten minutes there were two Ram Singhs. Wentworth looked Reardon over carefully.

  “Fold your arms,” he instructed.

  Reardon did so.

  “Now bow slowly and say Han, Sahib!” Reardon did as bidden, and Ram Singh’s white teeth showed in the flash of a smile. Wentworth spoke rapidly to the true Ram Singh in Hindustani, then he and the false Ram Singh went down the stairs, out past an unsuspicious nurse. In the Lancia they sped to Wentworth’s apartment. Much later, the true Ram Singh returned.

  “You were not seen?” Wentworth asked. Ram Singh’s smile was proud. “I was not seen, sahib.”

  “Good,” Wentworth nodded. Immediately he set about instructing Reardon in posing as Wentworth, imitating his voice, gestures and posture. The make-up would do the rest. There was a day and a half in which to prepare him.

  He had a struggle with Reardon over the impossibility of notifying Elsie, but finally prevailed. “I promise to restore Elsie to you unharmed,” Wentworth pledged. “And what I promise, I fulfill.”

  He had Ram Singh keep watch for her at the hospital, to follow her and perhaps obtain a clue to the Tarantula’s whereabouts. But Reardon’s disappearance from the hospital had been in the papers and apparently she had taken alarm. She did not show up.

  Finally, an hour before sailing time, on the second day, Wentworth made up Reardon as himself. Then, giving final instructions to Ram Singh, which he made the Hindu repeat after him, he watched as the two of them left the building and entered the taxi that would take them to the Europa.

  Each day he had been allowed to talk for a few moments with Nita. She was unharmed and fairly comfortable except for her close confinement, but over her head always hung the threat of death. Once she had tried to beg Wentworth not to go, to sacrifice her and fight the criminals, and the connection had been broken abruptly. Later the Tarantula had telephoned a warning.

  Using the marvelous distaphone that Professor Brownlee had invented for him, Wentworth had made records of his love making, of his violin, enough to last a full month of daily conversations with Nita. These Reardon had taken with him. Wentworth knew he could count on Nita’s ready wit to fill in any gaps.

  Late that night the Spider, in slouch hat and worn clothes, left his apartment building by the tradesmen’s entrance. He took a cab, left it at midtown and took another. Left the second cab at Ninety-sixth street and took a downtown Seventh Avenue local to Brooklyn. There he hired a Ford at a self-drive station and headed, along night-darkened roads, toward his Long Island estate, secure in the knowledge that the Tarantula thought him miles at sea on the Europa bound for England.

  A man darted from the shadowed porch, as Wentworth brought the hired car to a stop in his own driveway and stepped out.

  “Put the car up, Jackson, and have my large cruiser ready in twenty minutes.”

  The man’s tanned, square-cut face was smiling. He had firm lips, trustworthy eyes. “Yes, sir,” he said. “In ten minutes, Mr. Richard.”

 

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