Frank herbert, p.10
The Spider: The Hangman from Hell (The Wild Adventures of The Spider Book 4), page 10
The men deployed around the circumference of the fallen net, then dragged hooks attached to rope lines to its cabled rim.
Wentworth struggled to move, seeking his fallen automatic. He spotted it, but the weapon had fallen beyond the circumference of the net. He strained toward it but found that he could barely move.
Perhaps Christopher’s weapon was closer at hand.
Turning his head as best he could, Wentworth attempted to locate it with his eyes. But it was nowhere to be seen. And he could not move his body about to achieve a better vantage point. It might be far away or very close by, but there was no way to ascertain where it had landed.
If only he had a weapon…. If only he had entered as The Spider, who carried two automatics as a matter of habit…. But it was too late for recriminations. He looked toward his captors.
Once the Purple Shirt ruffians had placed their hooks, they took hold of the lines and began dragging the from where it had fallen.
It was difficult work, and they took turns doing it, with two men sometimes struggling at each line.
Wentworth and Christopher were dragged across the dust and grit of the concrete work floor toward the center of the building, helpless to resist.
Presently, the men stopped and reset the hooks. The best that Wentworth could follow their activities, they were resetting the hooks in order to hoist the bundled net off the floor.
It was difficult work, but they stepped back when they were satisfied, and a man climbed aboard a Hi-Lo truck. Soon, the engine started and coughed rumbling smoke.
The tractor came in, its twin forks low to the ground. The driver manipulated the controls, causing them to grind upward. These blunt fangs were pushed into the top of the bundle of netting, directly over Wentworth and Christopher’s trapped forms. Then the forks commenced lifting upward on its vertical track.
Slowly, laboriously, the net was drawn tighter and tighter, and Wentworth found himself being pulled off the floor, along with James Christopher, entirely enveloped by the entanglement of cables.
More than twenty feet off the floor they dangled. The Hi-Lo truck ceased operating.
From somewhere, the voice of Ronald Jackson came.
“Major! Are you all right?”
“I live,” said Wentworth. “But I am in difficulties.”
Ronald Jackson’s groan of despair rolled around the rafters, and then trailed away.
Although bundled together with the unconscious form of the husky Intelligence agent, Richard Wentworth refused to despair. He was now nearly upright, and he used his hands to test the strength of the cables. They were beyond him. There was no way of breaking these obdurate bonds.
There was nothing to do other than to conserve his strength while awaiting developments.
One of the Purple Legion had spoken of the head man being summoned. Would that be Nordman Zink? Or the Hangman?
The answer came within the hour.
A large man stepped onto the floor.
Looking down, Richard Wentworth saw a bulky fellow with a bullet head, wearing a sleepy expression and a purple necktie. He could not clearly make out the design on the tie clasp, but did not doubt that it was the deformed cross of the Purple Shirt organization.
This, no doubt, was Nordman Zink himself.
Wentworth studied him, paying special attention to his large hands.
The thought again intruded that perhaps this man might be the Hangman himself.
In his general lines, it was plausible. But not definite. Many men are large. This one, attired in a suit and coat which concealed the definition of his muscles, made him look fat, and not burly.
Not for nothing was he known as the Fat One. But many large men who appear to be fat are, in fact, tremendously strong. It would be a mistake to dismiss him as soft. He did not wear the flabby facial features of a soft man….
Zink called up. “Who are you two? What are you doing in my factory?”
“I cannot speak for my friend here, who is unfortunately senseless,” returned Richard Wentworth without rancor. “I’ve come for my chauffeur, who is a prisoner of the Purple Legion. Perhaps you know something about that.”
“What makes you say such a preposterous thing?”
“I heard his voice in this very building, calling my name. I do not think this is a fact you can deny.”
“Anyone who breaks into my building is, in my opinion, a criminal. It does not matter who you are, or what you are—Wentworth!”
“I do not deny my identity. But I demand that you release me at once. I will remind you if you do not know, I am a close friend of the police commissioner of New York City.”
“Never mind that!” returned Zink. “Who is that with you?”
Wentworth considered his answer briefly.
“Another of my employees. His name doesn’t matter. And I repeat that you had best release me, or there will be more trouble than you can conceivably manage.”
Nordman Zink stared up without a change in his expression. His hands sat firmly on his hips, and he acted as if he placed no great store in Richard Wentworth’s threats.
But he said nothing, merely glowered with eyes that were strikingly green.
Turning away, he consulted with the four adherents of the twisted cross of the Purple Shirts.
Wentworth watched them carefully as they spoke. He could hear nothing of their conversation. Their gesticulations, however, suggested they were discussing what to do with the prisoners.
Finally, Zink turned away. Without a backward glance, he walked from the building.
A coldness settled over Richard Wentworth’s soul. This man was washing his hands of their fate. There was no question in his mind that the myrmidons of the Purple Legion had been given orders to do away with them.
And yet, nothing happened for another hour. It was peculiar. What were they waiting for?
During this period, James Christopher shook his head and came awake in stages. He groaned once.
Wentworth hissed, “I regret to inform you that we have been captured.”
Christopher took stock of the situation, and the truth slowly sank in. It was clear to Wentworth that the government man was still somewhat dazed.
“Nordman Zink was here,” he undertoned. “I believe he has ordered our disposal.”
“Is there no way out?”
“I can see none unless you have a weapon I know nothing about.”
“My belt blade is useless,” Christopher said frankly. “But there is my watch charm.”
“The little gold skull,” Wentworth returned savagely. “Of what use is that?”
“It conceals a quantity of Diphenylchloroarsine, one of the most potent poison gases ever formulated. If I remove the tiny sphere nestled in the crown and crush it, it will kill everyone in this building without sparing a soul.”
“Suicide can avail us nothing,” returned Wentworth.
“Since we may be doomed, we are expendable,” said Christopher without emotion. “If we can destroy the Purple Shirts, we can bring an end to their plot, and the sacrifice of our lives will not matter.”
“I would not disagree with that plan,” said Wentworth. “But I must point out that only four of the Purple Shirts are present, and Nordman Zink has departed. And there is still the problem of the Hangman, and the plot these men are hatching. I strongly suggest you put all thoughts of suicide aside, at least until the last ditch.”
Looking down at the Purple Shirts waiting impatiently below, Christopher murmured, “What are they waiting for?”
The answer soon came, announced in advance by the heavy tread of booted feet.
The two men turned in their awkward confinement, their tense faces expectant.
For onto the floor came a hulking figure that Richard Wentworth expected. He wore a leather hood, and the glare of its red lenses was weird in the fluorescent lights.
Straightening up, the giant came to a halt and tilted back his head. He regarded them with his glassy red eyes.
“Oh, ho!” he bellowed. “What is this I see? The Spider—caught in a web that is not his own?”
“I am afraid that you are mistaken,” returned Wentworth with a trace of insouciance. “I am not the person you think I am. But I acknowledge that we meet again.”
“And who is this with you?”
“An associate of mine.”
Placing his meaty hands on his hips, the Hangman tilted his head this way and that, moving around so he could see James Christopher’s features more clearly. The entwined cables blocked his view to some degree.
“This is not your chauffeur. We have him here. Nor is it your other man, the Hindu.”
“Ram Singh is a Sikh, not a Hindu. I would advise you not to ever call him that, should you encounter him again.”
The Hangman laughed roughly at that remark. He continued to stare at James Christopher, and then his eyes went to the forbidding watch charm dangling from the gold chain of his vest.
“What is this? What is this? Has fate favored me so strongly this night?”
Christopher said nothing.
“This man does not look like a servant. He looks more like his own man, and the watch charm that I see is one known to be worn by no one less than Operator 5 himself!”
Christopher kept his silence.
“Do you deny this, Operator 5?”
“I do not. And it will interest you to know that concealed in this tiny gold skull is enough poison to kill us all. I suggest you free us before I release the gas.”
The Hangman stood immobile, evidently thinking hard.
“We cannot have that. It would ruin the great celebration scheduled for Maximilian’s birthday. No, we cannot have that at all.”
Turning, he conferred with the waiting Purple Shirts.
The huddled conference was short.
“We have agreed to lower you to the ground,” announced the Hangman.
“That is very wise,” said Wentworth.
Christopher whispered in his ear, “I do not trust him.”
“Nor I. Let us see what he does.”
A Purple Shirt leapt aboard the Hi-Lo truck below and began to engage the mechanism. The bundled net started to lower in jerks, then the tractor engine was engaged, and the machine began to rattle along the floor.
It moved inexorably toward a great round vat—one of several set about the vast space. Before long, the bundled net was hanging over its wide-open mouth.
Richard Wentworth and James Christopher looked downward.
Below them was an unlovely solution of chemicals. The smell coming up from it was difficult to inhale. They were forced to pinch their noses shut and cover their mouths with their sleeves. It was not lost on the two men that the liquid below them was a deep purple color… nor that the hue was that of the Purple Shirts’ jerseys.
Then came the Hangman’s loud voice.
“You may lower them into the vat. But do not be in a hurry. I want to hear their cries of despair before they are drowned like helpless kittens in a sack….”
The Hi-Lo truck began lowering the imprisoning net in a series of jerks that caused the two men to twist and sway helplessly in its unbreakable coils.
Chapter 16
The Stand-Off
Staring down at the swirling purple solution below, James Christopher’s face grew stiff with resolve. His blue eyes darkened.
Pitching his voice low while reaching for the golden skull dangling from his vest front, he said, “Sorry, Wentworth. If I have to go, at least I will drag the Hangman with me.”
“I’ll not argue with that logic,” said Wentworth, eyes searching about frantically.
The Intelligence man was no doubt correct. They were utterly trapped. With every jerking lurch of the Hi-Lo truck mechanism, they were inching closer and closer to being drowned in the noxious purple solution.
Nevertheless, Richard Wentworth refused to give up. He struggled in place, even suspended helplessly as he was. And in that struggle, the heel of one of his gum soles came into contact with something hard.
Looking down, he saw what it was.
A miracle!
It was Christopher’s fallen automatic. It had been gathered up with the two men.
Struggling with every muscle, Wentworth attempted to reposition his body so that he could grab it. But it was out of reach. He strained mightily. But he could not manage it.
Another jerk and they were a foot closer to doom.
Meanwhile, Christopher had found the tiny golden skull and had lifted the cap on its crown, exposing a tiny black sphere.
“Do not be in a rush,” Wentworth hissed.
“I would rather die on my own terms….”
“We are not yet dead,” Wentworth bit out.
Using his foot, he tried to hook the automatic and bring it up closer. It was a difficult maneuver. The weapon fell away the first time, and then the second time. And a third. It was maddening.
Another jerk, and they were dangling less than ten feet over the noxious vat of chemicals.
Refusing to give up, Wentworth tried a fourth time.
This time, he hooked and kicked the weapon before it could slide off the insole of a shoe. That was enough to bring it within reach.
Grasping the weapon, he wormed his way around, and then pointed the muzzle at the operator of the Hi-Lo truck. He had only, he assumed, seven shots. He must make them count.
The first blast drove a lead pellet through the skull of the operator. He keeled over in his leather seat, his square-fingered hands falling free from the controls.
Pandemonium arose among the Purple Shirts. At first, they did not comprehend what had happened. Then they saw their fallen man slide out from the Hi-Lo truck and onto the concrete floor.
The Hangman howled, “One of you take those controls! Finish the task.”
But Wentworth turned the automatic with difficulty toward the Hangman and sighted briefly, loosing a single shot.
The bullet struck the man in the chest, and he went staggering back, no doubt bruised but unwounded, thanks to his chain-mail undergarment.
Curse the luck! He was aiming for the pale leather hood. But the shot was difficult to make.
Twisting, Wentworth turned his attention to a Purple Shirt running for the Hi-Lo truck. The automatic spoke once. The man went tumbling down, then slid along the floor, leaving a blurred trail of crimson in his wake.
Evidently none of the Purple Shirts were armed. Shouting, they sought cover.
His guns bucking madly, Wentworth drove bullet after bullet at the group, driving them away. One thug was hurled backward, his nose suddenly gone, giving him the grisly countenance of a death’s head….
Then The Spider turned his attention back to the Hangman. The big fellow was picking himself up off the floor.
Wentworth fired anew, the unleashed slug causing his bulky foe to twist about, and then fall again.
Like an automaton, the Hangman shrugged off the bullet impact, climbed to his feet, and resumed his staggering march for the Hi-Lo truck. His aim was crystal clear. He intended to finish the job of his fallen Purple Shirts.
Wentworth shifted around as well as he could, poking the smoking muzzle through one of the narrow interstices of the drooping net.
If he could just get a clear shot, he could bring the Hangman down….
While he was aiming, James Christopher’s voice came urgently to his ears.
“Wentworth!” he hissed. “Hold your fire.”
“Hold my fire? One more shot and I will have him!”
“If you jostle me again, we will both die. Look!”
Wentworth tore his gaze away from his enemy, and saw that James Christopher was holding a small black sphere between the forefinger and thumb of one hand. He had lifted it free from the cavity at the top of the golden skull watch-chain charm.
“I must replace this before it is crushed,” Christopher said tightly, “for it is extremely delicate.”
Groaning, Wentworth said urgently, “Hurry, man!”
Carefully, due to the awkwardness of his position, James Christopher shifted the tiny black sphere, charged with Diphenylchloroarsine, into the top of the skull and then closed the crown.
“Now,” he said.
Wentworth redirected his gaze at the Hangman. The giant had crammed his bulky body into the tiny cab of the Hi-Lo truck. He could barely squeeze in, and struggled to position himself so he could seize the controls.
Wentworth laid his sights on that bone-grey leather hood, which he knew to be the most vulnerable spot on the man’s swashbuckling attire. He had, he believed, two rounds remaining. He could not afford to waste a single one. He must fire a killing shot the first time.
Slowly, carefully, he squeezed the trigger.
Some brutish instinct caused the Hangman to look up at that moment. In that instant, he saw the round black aperture in the automatic’s muzzle. And recognized the imminence of his peril.
Throwing himself from the seat, he beat the speeding bullet, while feeling its hot breath. It snatched the cowl from his leather-hooded head.
Wentworth cursed. He hadn’t quite missed. But he failed to score a direct hit.
“Hangman!” he called down. “You cannot leave the shelter of that machine or I will drill you in the head the moment it pops up.”
The Hangman did not dignify that threat with a response.
But James Christopher did.
“I counted your shots,” he whispered. “The bullet you just fired was your last….”
“He doesn’t have to know that,” undertoned Wentworth.
“And then we have a stalemate. One that can’t last forever.”
Richard Wentworth considered. “Our position was untenable. But so is that of the Hangman. The other two seem to have retreated to safety. If they had weapons, they were not bringing them out to battle.”
Then inspiration seized Wentworth.
“Hangman! We appear to have a Mexican stand-off. Listen to me. We might both survive to fight another day.”
It did not appear that the Hangman cared to respond. But finally, his guttural voice lifted in the great vaulted confines of the factory.
“I am listening.”
“If I give you my word not to shoot, will you lower us back onto the floor?”
