Frank herbert, p.5
The Spider: The Hangman from Hell (The Wild Adventures of The Spider Book 4), page 5
But he could not take direct action while being shadowed so blatantly….
Wentworth decided to return to Sutton Place. The fortified mansion was a warren of rooms and secret passages, and many secret exits. Once he garaged the roadster, it would be child’s play to slip out the back and take the power boat onto the East River, from there to claim one of his many secret coupés garaged throughout the city.
Yes, that would be the ticket. Let this nondescript fellow loiter outside his home all night, if he must. Richard Wentworth needed to take action. But not as himself. Yes, The Spider must walk tonight… even if he did not know where he was bound….
Redirecting his machine, Wentworth wormed his way back to Sutton Place, and actuated the sonic device that caused electrical relays to lift the segmented garage door.
But before he could advance his paused machine into its cavernous confines, a blaze of headlights came from across the dead-end street.
Wentworth looked with the reflexive speed of a man who forever walked the paths of peril.
Someone had parked a car between two apartment buildings, and the dull clap of a door told Wentworth that the driver had stepped out.
Blinded by the headlights, he could not see the man. But he could hear him. Steady, ponderous footsteps approached. This man was heavyset. Perhaps more than heavyset….
That more than anything else decided him. He could have accelerated into the safety of the garage, but that was not the way of Richard Wentworth… nor was it The Spider’s way….
Stepping out with his cane in hand, Wentworth shielded his eyes with his free hand, and endeavored to make out the approaching figure. All he saw was a looming hulk of a man with a curiously shapeless head.
The hairs on the back of his neck rose instinctually….
There came a swish!
With instinct borne of long practice, Wentworth lifted his cane and sought to defend himself.
Something powerful struck the barrel, shattering the fine wood and exposing the blade. It gleamed in the streetlight glow.
Stepping back, Wentworth saw that his blade was intact.
Another swish, and the narrow steel rapier caught and blocked a second attack. The blade was nearly knocked out of his stung hand.
“Is that you, Mr. Hangman?” he growled.
The looming shadow laughed heartily. It was a bestial laugh. The laugh of a conscienceless killer.
As his eyes were adjusting to the headlamp glare, imperfectly he saw a giant with a shapeless head grasping a heavy length of rope. At one end of which gleamed a steel hook.
No, not a hook—a sickle!
The brute was gathering up his terrible weapon to strike once more.
Wentworth fully understood the might of the man wielding the heavy weapon. His sword cane could not stand up against that sickle. But it might cleave the rope to which it was attached.
The fellow began swinging the sickle around his head, and his features became visible. The fellow was cowled and hooded. The hood appeared to be made of bone-grey leather. But in the eyeholes gleamed a red fury. The eyes were protected by red lenses. He could see that now. He could also discern that the fellow stood nearly seven feet tall and he was as broad as an automobile grille. More improbably, the rogue was caparisoned with a booted costume that combined the most outlandish features of a medieval executioner and a court jester!
Richard Wentworth did not flinch as the sickle spun over that hooded head. For he was no longer the millionaire criminologist celebrated throughout the city. Although there was no alteration in his features, he was now deeply and fully… The Spider!
The single spinning circle abruptly shifted downward, and Wentworth, sensing a greater impetus than before, sidestepped it. The hook buried itself in the long hood of the roadster, and the sound of it told Wentworth that he would not have survived the strike had he stood his ground.
Tossing the sword aside, he reached into his coat for the automatic in a spring-clip holster.
This matter could be settled only by the death of one of them.
During this decision, Fate moved its unseeable hand.
Another set of headlamps came scooting up and a car braked sharply.
Of course, thought Wentworth. His anonymous shadow! Well, he would see a fine show, if nothing else.
The clap of a door slamming shut told Wentworth that the Intelligence man, if that was indeed who it was, had stepped from his vehicle.
A voice cried out sharply. “Stop! I have a gun.”
But the giant with the ghost-grey-hooded head paid that command no heed. He casually gathered up the heavy rope and, holding it by the noose end, commenced spinning the steel sickle in a horizontal circle.
The sound of it was increasingly threatening. It started to sound like a bull-roarer. The centrifugal force building up grew deadly.
Scalp tightening, Wentworth leveled his automatic at the man. “Drop the weapon or I will be obliged to shoot you,” he said evenly.
Again came that gigantic laugh. Abruptly, the Hangman let fly.
Wentworth fired coolly, staggering the fellow. But it was too late. The hook, trailed by the short, heavy rope and hangman’s noose, flew past Wentworth and struck the new arrival in the chest.
The man was hurtled backward, his trigger finger causing his weapon to discharge. The searing bullet went astray.
He did not get up again….
Wentworth tore his gaze away from the fallen fellow, to see what his bullet had accomplished.
To his astonishment, the hulking giant, whom he now knew to be the Hangman, simply stood there. He brought both of his heavy hands to his throat, and as Wentworth watched in horror, he lifted a second noose off his neck and then above his hooded head, and was soon holding a duplicate noose-and-hook weapon.
Casually, methodically, he began spinning the weapon in place. Wentworth’s bullet seemed not to have fazed him. Was it possible the man was bulletproof? On his forehead, an old battle scar burned in livid anger….
Stealing himself, Wentworth fired again. His automatic made a convulsive jump as it spat flame and metal. There was no missing the broad chest. And in the darkness, he saw the Hangman stagger back one step, and then two. Then the brute resumed his rearranging of his deadly weapon in order to try again.
“You will die next,” the ogre growled.
Wentworth emptied his automatic, which staggered the other back several paces. But he did not fall. He refused to fall.
Soon the steel sickle was swinging in the light, making its roar-devil moan.
Unexpectedly, the Hangman charged.
Recognizing the unstoppable power of that charge, Wentworth dived behind the driver’s wheel of his automobile and slammed the door shut.
The steel hook came down on the roof, piercing the bulletproof metal.
The Hangman wrenched it free, and began flailing about with his ropey weapon. The hook smashed the bulletproof glass of the windshield, causing it to frost over.
Howling in a kind of maniacal fury, the Hangman continued attacking the Hispano-Suiza. But he could not do any more than injure the metal. Wentworth remained safe in the interior.
Reaching for a switch on the dashboard, he flipped it upward. From a tank affixed to the chassis came billows of pale vapor.
Soon this creeping ground cloud enveloped the roadster, and the Hangman started hacking, coughing, and cursing in guttural tones.
Wentworth smiled bitterly. Tear gas had a satisfyingly deleterious effect on his enemies. This is why he had the tank installed.
Unable to withstand the overpowering chemical vapor, the Hangman turned on his heel and stamped back to his own machine. Climbing behind the wheel, he engaged the engine, then went racing off.
Secure in his vehicle, which was sealed against the tear gas, Wentworth dared not exit until the noxious cloud had dissipated fully. But he could follow.
Unfortunately, after he had backed out and positioned his automobile for pursuit, he realized that the road was blocked by the body of the shadowing Intelligence man.
He could not go around it. There was no room. And he would not run over the man. But from the shape of the fellow’s head, it appeared that the Hangman had no such qualms….
No doubt, the poor fellow was dead. Richard Wentworth could not afford to run the distinctive tread of his tires over the deceased man’s body. It would only implicate him in something for which he was not responsible.
Killing the motor, Richard Wentworth sat, tending to the resentful fire of his baffled fury. The Hangman was escaping. And there was nothing he could do about it….
Chapter 7
Tense Talk
The acute stink of tear gas still lingered in the air when Police Commissioner Stanley Kirkpatrick’s long official limousine rolled up. Two prowl cars had already taken up positions. A grim-faced coroner was examining the body of the dead man who lay in the street.
Kirkpatrick came rolling up, dressed in a Chesterfield coat, his expression grim.
“I did not expect to see you again so soon, Dick. I see you have another body for me to look over. Would you mind telling me who this is?”
“I haven’t the foggiest idea, Kirk. He had the misfortune of pulling up just as I was tangling with the Hangman himself.”
“You found him?”
“No, he found me. He was waiting in ambush for my return home. Unfortunately, he escaped after injuring this poor unfortunate fellow with his terrible weapon. Then he did him the indignity of running over his body as he made his escape. Not that I am certain that the man was dead at that point.”
The coroner overheard this and said, “Well, he’s definitely dead now.”
Kirkpatrick looked to Wentworth. “This is a private street. What was he doing here?”
“Perhaps he was lost. I do not know.”
The police commissioner scrutinized his friend suspiciously, then he turned to the coroner. “Has this man any identification?”
“His wallet says that his name is George Brown. There is a home address, but nothing else about him.”
“I will have my detectives look into him,” Kirkpatrick told Wentworth. “He may have gotten lost, but the fact that he blundered into a fight to the death on this very street suggests there is more to him than meets the eye.”
Jaw set, Wentworth said nothing. Before calling the police, he had confiscated the man’s automatic, as well as the spent shell casing that resulted from its futile discharge. It would only raise more questions….
Addressing Wentworth, Kirkpatrick asked, “Tell me about the Hangman. What did he look like?”
“A broad brute of fellow. He wore a grey hood over his head. Red lenses were set in the eye holes. I emptied an entire magazine into his chest, but it did no good. I suspect he wore chain mail under his jersey.”
“I assume that this is the man you saw disembarking from the Teutonic?”
“He had the correct build. Not many men stand close to seven feet tall and boast shoulders like those of a bull elephant.”
Kirkpatrick noticed the condition of the Hispano-Suiza roadster, and said, “I gather you were overwhelmed and took refuge in your machine.”
“Yes, if it wasn’t for the tear gas I deployed, I’m not sure how this scuffle would have ended up.”
“It’s clear to me that the Hangman is not finished with you.”
Wentworth was in the act of lighting a cigarette. He inserted this into his mouth, inhaled, and blew out a cloud of expensive Egyptian tobacco. “Nor I, with him….”
Kirkpatrick frowned. “I’ll remind you that this is a police matter, Dick. I will give you a certain leeway, owing to the matter of Ram Singh and now this personal attack. But I would greatly appreciate it if you do not escalate developments any more than they presently are. I can see that you were correct that the Hangman is not likely to return to Europe. He obviously has business in Manhattan. He sees you as part of that business. I suspect there may be more to it, however.”
Frowning, Wentworth allowed, “I suspect that you are correct, Kirk.”
“Why don’t you drive up to that hunting lodge of yours? You’ll be safe there.”
“No doubt. But will any intended victims of the Hangman be safe in my absence? I think not! Listen, Kirk, you may deputize the entire police force into hunting this man-monster. But he is such a threat and his motives so unclear that every man’s effort might count toward his destruction.”
“I intend to apprehend him alive, if possible. It is important to interrogate him and find out what his plans are.”
“That may be more difficult than you think, old fellow. I pride myself on my fighting ability, but his vicious weapon, wielded by muscles that would be the envy of a circus strongman, is patently overwhelming.”
Wentworth glanced toward the fallen man, over whom the coroner was spreading a sheet. “I suspect that the blow delivered by his strange flail, which he launched at that unfortunate man lying in the street, simply stopped the poor fellow’s heart. I doubt that he felt a thing when he was being run over. “
“Can you describe the automobile?” asked Kirkpatrick.
“It was a grey sedan. I did not get the license number. I was dazzled by the headlights when he turned them on, and during his escape, the air surrounding me was obscured by tear gas. It was unfortunate. The machine looked to have been a Ford.”
“It will be doubly unfortunate if this human monster is permitted to run unchecked.”
“There’s no doubt on that score,” said Wentworth heavily. And his blue-grey eyes were dark with worry. He could not tell Kirkpatrick about Jackson’s efforts to ingratiate himself into the Purple Legion, or the threat to Operator 5. These were not matters to which the police should be privy. And besides that, the trail of the Hangman, as understood by his true motives, belonged to one man and one man alone.
That man was The Spider!
Chapter 8
Fatal Word
At the brownstone building address in the East Forties known to the Intelligence Service as Address Y, James Christopher sat sharing his thoughts with his father, the former Intelligence agent known as Q-6, and his twin sister, Nan.
“While it’s safe here,” he was saying, “if matters change, I will have to find another place to sleep.”
Old John Christopher eyed his son with restrained pride and remarked, “There can’t be any danger here. This Hangman monster would have no way of knowing the true identity of Operator 5. It is one of America’s deepest secrets.”
“And that is why Z-7 wishes that I lie low, Dad. But I can’t remain in hiding.”
Nan Christopher spoke up. “Dad is correct. You are safer here than anywhere else. Even if your secret is not known to the Purple Shirts and their assassin.”
John Christopher added, “You are too valuable to America to risk your life unnecessarily. Let others deal with the Hangman. After he is disposed of, you’ll be free to resume your undercover activities.”
“I can no longer be Huntley Walsh or Carleton Victor. I will have to invent another cover identity.”
The old man nodded somberly. “There is time enough to develop a new false personality after this crisis has passed.”
The telephone rang. It was not the house phone, but a secret line that stood in an unused dumbwaiter. The ring was unusual. It sounded like Morse code. Intermittent. Slightly buzzing.
Christopher walked to the dumbwaiter, opened the cupboard-style door, and answered the telephone. It was the direct line to NY-MT headquarters and was equipped with a frequency distorter device so that no wiretapper could eavesdrop on the conversation.
“Operator 5 speaking,” he said.
“This is Z-7. T-2, who was assigned the task of shadowing Richard Wentworth, has not checked in by telephone, and it is two hours past the mandatory reporting time.”
“That does not like sound like T-2. He is quite conscientious.”
“I agree. Since you are on speaking terms with Richard Wentworth, I suggest you call him. Use the distorter telephone. See if he knows anything about the matter.”
“I will get back to you directly,” said Operator 5, hanging up.
Turning, he told the others, “The man following Richard Wentworth has failed to check in.”
Taking Richard Wentworth’s card from his wallet, James Christopher consulted it, and then dialed the number inscribed thereon.
At length, a formal voice answered, “Wentworth residence.”
“May I speak with Mr. Wentworth?”
“Whom shall I say is calling?”
“Tell him Señor Cinco is calling.”
“Very good. One moment.”
There came the sound of the instrument being placed on a hard surface, followed by brisk footsteps. Presently, the unmistakable vibrant voice of Richard Wentworth came on the line.
“Hello, Mr. Five,” said Wentworth guardedly. “I assume you are calling about a certain anonymous individual.”
“I know him only by his number, not his true name,” returned Christopher.
“In that case, I regret to inform you that he was found dead outside my residence this evening.”
“What befell him?”
“He had the misfortune of pulling up to my private street when I was engaged in a life-or-death battle with another anonymous individual whom I will refer to as Herr Henker.”
“I understand fully,” acknowledged Christopher. “What became of Henker?”
“The battle was brutal, but brief. To preserve my life, I had to resort to tear gas. The other man got away. But during the battle, your compatriot challenged him to drop his weapon and received a fatal blow in return.”
James Christopher said nothing in response to this information.
“Commissioner Kirkpatrick left these premises not an hour ago,” continued Wentworth. “The coroner has possession of the man’s body. They believe that he is a fellow named George Brown. They are suspicious of his presence. I tried to convince them that he was simply a driver who had gotten lost and wandered into a disturbance that was not his own.”
“Thank you for that information, Wentworth.” said Christopher crisply. “I will inform my superiors. The body will be claimed and buried in an anonymous grave.”
