Empire of doom, p.4
EMPIRE OF DOOM, page 4
The girl dropped her head in pretended coquettishness “But, Mr. Wentworth, Nita told me of all the wonderful things you were doing. And I— I was in love with you!”
“Ah, a conquest,” said Wentworth, lightly. “Isn't it about time you told me your name?”
“Prepare to be impressed,” said the girl, mischievously. She flung up an arm in a stagey gesture. “I am Renee, the daughter of the great Jonathan Love!'' She held out her white hand. ‘You may kiss our hand,” she said.
Wentworth did so, admirably, straightened to catch a surprised, disquieted look in the girl's eyes. “Ooh,”
she said, “maybe I used the past tense too soon on that little affair of the picture.”
“I sincerely trust so,” said Wentworth seriously.
The good-looking young man with the wide muscular shoulders stalked in on him. “I say, hasn't this gone on quite long enough?” He was laughing. “Renee has forgotten her manners.” He held out his hand. “I am Tremaine Smith, and this,” he gestured towards the dark man with the monocle, “is Wilhelm Reuters, one of Love's able scientists.”
Reuters clicked his heels in a bow that was as precise as his clothing and his brisk mustache.
Tremaine Smith smiled as Wentworth executed an equally formal bow.
“I can see I'm running into heavy competition,” he said. “Before there were three of us, Reuters, myself and Jack DeIaney. And after the democratic manner of the great of our nation, Renee has rather favored Delaney, a mere foreman. . .”
Renee whirled on Smith, her eyes flashing. “What do you mean, mere? He's as good a man— ”
Tremaine Smith shook his head and laughed. “You see?” he said. “Delaney is the favored one.”
Renee whirled about as quickly again, turning her fur-covered back upon Smith, tossing her head, so that she spoke to him over her shoulder. The high color of her face was heightened by a rosy blush.
“I hate you,” she declared vehemently. “Hush, child,” said Smith. ‘Your elders are talking. I was about to add that now we have a fourth rival in you, Wentworth. My seconds will call on you this evening.”
Throughout the entire colloquy, the secretary had effaced himself. But now, as Wentworth bowed and moved to go, he stepped forward. Renee turned her large dark eyes upon him. “What is it, Crosswell?” “Pardon me, Miss Renee, but Mr. Love is very anxious to have Mr. Wentworth remain.”
“That is quite impossible,” Wentworth said. “I have explained that already.” He turned back to Renee, ignoring the secretary's interjected words. “I wonder if Mr. Delaney is by any chance in Elkhorn?”
The girl's eyes widened. “How did you know?”
Wentworth's smile was quiet. “I didn't know,” he said. “It's just a piece of luck. I'll remember you to Nita, shall I?” He bowed his farewell, clicked heels at Tremaine Smith and the dark- faced Reuters and walked on, followed by the ubiquitous secretary, Crosswell.
“I am afraid,” said the secretary, “that Mr. Love is going to be terribly upset about this.”
Wentworth raised his brows. “How distressing,” he murmured. “Would you mind having a taxi called?” The two men eyed each other. Crosswell's blue eyes fixed on Wentworth's cold direct gaze. Finally Crosswell smiled slightly.
“I'll be pleased to call you a taxi,” he said. Wentworth smiled curiously. Crosswell whirled his strangely active body about and crossed to a phone. Fifteen minutes later, back in town, Wentworth rented a car and sped toward Elkhorn, thirty miles away.
THE place was, as Love had said, a model town, squared out upon the plains of Michigan. Wentworth approached it down a broad, double- laned avenue. He spotted a sign, “Jonathan Boulevard” and smiled grimly. Everywhere were the Venus cars which Love manufactured and everywhere were small neatly made brick houses, each with its scrap of lawn and fenced-in yard. Children romped in the sun, bundled against the biting cold. Smoke hazed from the chimneys and everywhere was a pleasant hominess— peculiar to these model towns. Wentworth saw these things, and his eyes narrowed at the memory of the threat of the Green Hand, at the thought of the cruel, crawling gas that burned through flesh and bone, that tore gasping screams of agony from its victims before they died with green-hued faces. How it could desolate this entire city, lay these romping children horribly dead upon the ground!
There was white rage within him. Who was this Jonathan Love that, like a god, he waved five thousand souls into hell with a dignified hand? Not that Wentworth favored the payment of the ransom, but it would do no harm to temporize.
By appearing to compromise with the crooks, they could gain time— time to locate the men who had stolen the fearful horror gas and were using it in this fiendishly callous extortion plot. If Love had any doubt that these men would do precisely as they threatened, Wentworth could disabuse him of that illusion.
Wentworth sent the car droning straight along the main boulevard toward the steel plant that now poked tall chimneys like an ordered line of soldiers above the far edge of town. It was an extensive well-ordered factory, with buildings as neat as the brick houses of the workers. A high wire fence circled it, strands of
villainous barbs along its top. Here and there red-lettered signs shouted:
DANGER! THIS FENCE CHARGED WITH20,000 VOLTS!
Guards paced within, separated from its danger by other more moderately high fences. Wentworth smiled grimly. A formidable barrier, but it could not keep out the drifting green tentacles of death that the criminals would loose upon it. He whirled his car up to a gate. It remained closed and two men marched up arrogantly, eyes suspicious beneath visored caps.
“I want to see Jack Delaney,” Wentworth told them. “He's a foreman here.”
“No callers during working hours,” the guard growled.
“This is business,” Wentworth said sharply. “Business about what?”
Wentworth's eyes went cold. “That is exclusively between Mr. Delaney and myself. If you have any doubts about the matter or any further curiosity, you may phone Mr. Love. He's at his home now. I've no doubt he will be glad to know you are so zealous in your duties.”
The guard's sullenness dropped from him like a mask. “I'm sorry, sir. We have strict orders that the men are not to be interrupted at their work, except in emergency.”
“Very admirable,” said Wentworth, his tones biting. “Will you get Mr. Delaney at once? My business is urgent.”
The guard jerked out a military, “Yes, sir,” strode back to the guardhouse, touched levers and threw open the gate. Wentworth drove in and the man mounted the running board, directing him among the maze of buildings to a foundry on the far side of the enclosed area.
“If you'll wait just a moment, sir,” he said then, “I'll get Mr. Delaney directly,” and marched off.
IN a few moments a bulky, shouldery young man with good-natured blue eyes in a freckled face, a work cap set jauntily upon wiry red hair, strode up to Wentworth's car. “I'm Delaney,” he said.
Wentworth climbed deliberately to the ground, offered his hand. “My name is Wentworth.”
“You come from Love?” Delaney obviously was puzzled.
“Directly,” said Wentworth, “but I'm not here on his business.”
Delaney took that information in without a change of expression, but a slight hostility crept into his eyes. “I'm busy,” he said. “If you've got in here by a trick, it will do you no good.”
Wentworth looked the man over slowly. Delaney was even taller than his own five feet eleven, broad of shoulder, well built.
“Will you state your business?” Delaney snapped. “Or shall I summon the guard?”
Wentworth laughed. “I don't wonder Tremaine Smith and Reuters are worried. I think I should be too. You're a very fiery young man.”
“What the hell are you driving at?” There was belligerency in Delaney's manner. His hands were still unclenched at his sides, but his shoulders rolled forward.
Wentworth sobered. “Just this,” he said. “I want your cooperation. It is necessary that you trust me for me to have that. If you doubt me at all, I wish you would call Renee Love at once and ask her about Richard Wentworth.”
Delaney's puzzlement increased. “Renee,” he said slowly. “How do you happen to know her?”
Wentworth jerked a hand in a sharp negative gesture. “All this is beside the point. Do you want to check up on me further or are you willing to take me at face value?”
Delaney gave him as slow and careful an inspection as Wentworth had made of him. “If I knew what you were talking about, I could decide better,” he said. “But I'll take a chance. You look O.K.”
Wentworth nodded. “That's fine. Now listen. There's a plot to kill every man, woman and child in Elkhorn.” And Wentworth gave him the entire text of the letter, together with Jonathan Love's attitude. “I'm calling here to protect the plant and town,” he said. “I'm convinced in advance that this probably will prove futile. I want your help. Are you willing?”
Delaney's face was flushed with anger. “That sounds like Love,” he said. “That's just the sort of high and mighty stuff he'd pull. Doesn't give a damn that five or six thousand people may die to satisfy his vanity. Sometimes— ”
Wentworth gripped his arm sharply. “There's a detachment of guards,” he spoke swiftly, “marching this
way with guns ready. I have a hunch that means trouble to me. Where can I get in touch with you tonight?”
DELANEY snapped out a phone number and address. Wentworth nodded his head and taking the other's arm, strolled back toward the auto.
“What's this all about?” Delaney asked. “These guards, I mean.”
As if in answer, a gruff voice hailed, “Keep away from that car.”
Wentworth whirled then to face the guards, apparently seeing them for the first time. They had strung out so that they formed a semi-circle, penning him against the factory wall.
Delaney spun angrily. “What is the meaning of this, Simmons?”
The man he addressed held a revolver in his hand. It was leveled at Wentworth. The others in the group had guns leveled too.
“This man is wanted for murder,” said Simmons. “Mr. Love phoned to arrest him. Come away, sir. He's desperate and we may have to shoot.” The gun pointed purposefully. “Mr. Croswell phoned. Mr. Love said not to hesitate to kill him if necessary.”
Wentworth thought swiftly. A murder charge— it might be any one of a score of killings that, as the Spider, he had been forced to commit, each one wiping out some menace to society, eliminating some new threat to civilization. But only a few intimates knew Wentworth was the Spider, Nita van Sloan, his body servant, Ram Singh, Professor Brownlee. . . No, it must be one of the killings he had been forced to commit in the woods, defending himself against attack. But who had traced a connection between the bearded trapper, Joe Koch, and the suave man of wealth, Wentworth? Like a flash came the answer— George Scott!
Then the red-headed man he had overcome in the woods was on the scene, and was behind this ghastly extortion plot. He was seeking to eliminate Wentworth before the crucial attack. But he must not be eliminated! Even a few days in jail now might mean the loss of thousands of lives, that deadly green horror might be released on the capitals of the world! He must escape!
Wentworth glanced swiftly about: Six men with guns penned him against the wall. If he escaped them, there was that fence which to touch meant death. He faced the guards. Simmons and the five men where closing in with drawn guns!
CHAPTER SIX A Rugged Individualist
DELANEY stepped in front of Wentworth. “A murder charge? That's ridiculous.” He cut the air with the edge of his right hand. “This man is a friend of mine.”
The guards continued to advance, and the muzzles of their pistols did not waver. Delaney was angrily posed, shoulders hunched, head thrust forward pugnaciously. Wentworth touched him on the shoulder.
“Never mind, Delaney,” he said “There is obviously some mistake.” He turned toward the man called Simmons, inspected his alert set face. “I'll go with you, Simmons,” he said, “on one condition. When we reach the guardhouse, you must phone Crosswell and let me talk to him.”
Simmons' mouth was tight. “You'll come with us anyway,” he said shortly.
Wentworth smiled easily. “Doubtless, Simmons, doubtless. I just didn't want you to make a mistake. It might re-act against you. Misunderstandings are possible, you know.”
“Boloney! This is just a stall!” said Simmons. But there was no certainty in his voice, and the guards lost their tense readiness. They had come prepared to shoot it out with a desperate criminal and had found instead a poised gentleman. Though they still held their guns, three had lowered them. Simmons, himself, pointed his weapon less surely.
“Well, how about it?” Wentworth demanded. “Do we call Crosswell or are you going to risk your job?” The man frowned dubiously, his entire face wrinkling. “I don't see as it would do any harm to phone Crosswell,” he said. “Though he don't like being disturbed.”
Wentworth nodded and walked toward Simmons, submitted to a search which found no weapon. Then, with the guards about him, he went briskly back to the entrance gate, Delaney marching indignantly at his side.
The call to Crosswell went through swiftly, and Wentworth got him to the phone without difficulty. “Wentworth speaking,” he said. “The captain of your guard at the Elkhorn plant says you phoned him to arrest me for murder. It was a little strange,” Wentworth's tone grew bantering, “since I didn't remember committing any murders recently and I thought I'd like to satisfy my curiosity about the matter.”
Crosswell said, “What!” in an amazed tone and Wentworth repeated slowly.
Crosswell sputtered: “That's ridiculous. I've not made a phone call to him today.”
“I thought not,” said Wentworth softly. “Would you mind speaking to Simmons then?”
“Certainly,” Crosswell said. Wentworth turned to the grim-faced captain of the guard. He was a worried man now, his forehead ridged with anxiety. He took the telephone without a word, and said, ‘Yes, sir” and again, “Yes, sir,” and again. He tried vainly to edge in a protest. “I know, sir, but he. . . I hope, sir, that this won't be held against me. . . I was just. . . Yes, sir. . . Right away, sir. . .”
He hung up slowly and turned, removing his cap and sponging his forehead with a handkerchief. The handkerchief came away wet.
“I'm sorry about this, sir,” he said to Wentworth. “But somebody I would have sworn was Crosswell phoned me, gave me his secret identification and gave me the order that I started out to execute.” His face was pale. “Good God, sir, suppose you had resisted!”
“Then, Simmons,” said Wentworth slowly, “You'd have been in a devilish bad spot.” He turned to Delaney. “I'll see you later.”
Delaney nodded, scowled at the guard, then strode away.
WENTWORTH, having his car brought from within, drove rapidly back to Loveland. He registered at the Grandleigh and had scarcely entered his room before Crosswell's voice was on the wire again.
“Mr. Love is very anxious. . .” Crosswell began.
“I'm not,” Wentworth snapped. “I gave Love an opportunity to cooperate and he refused it pigheadedly.
I'm making my own plans now. And Love can conform with them or not as he sees fit.”
Crosswell's laughter over the phone was soft, but surprisingly genuine. “I think,” he said, “that you will have little difficulty about that. He has been talking with the Governor over long distance, and the Governor made the same sort of recommendation. I might say that I urged on him myself the necessity of appearing to
conform with the criminals in order to trap them.”
“That will do no good now,” Wentworth said bitterly. “The criminals know I am on the case. That call today to accomplish my arrest was their work. I'm sure of that.”
Crosswell's voice grew agitated. “You mean they'll know the offer to pay is a fake?”
Wentworth laughed grimly. “I doubt they expected to collect without striking a blow.”
“Just a minute, sir,” said Crosswell, and Wentworth heard over the wire the murmur of voices, Crosswell's and the incisive tones of Jonathan Love.
“Mr. Love requests;” Crosswell said finally, “that you become a guest at his home. So that he may cooperate more fully with you in arranging this defense.”
“I will come there tonight for a discussion of plans,” Wentworth said shortly, “but I consider it better to keep my headquarters here.”
He slapped up the receiver. Even the thought of Jonathan Love annoyed him, and he did not wish to have any dealings with him. But the man was powerful. He might help, if he would, in thwarting the criminals. Regardless of how Wentworth felt about it, he considered that he must at least try to cooperate with Love for the sake of the people of Elkhorn, for the sake of the world, threatened by that clutching, brutal Green Hand.
As always, when disturbed, Wentworth turned to his music for comfort, taking his rare violin from its case and drawing throbbing music from it. As first the music, reflecting his mood, was violent and angry. But gradually it changed, and dulcet notes trilled from it. Smiling then, he crossed to the phone again and called Nita van Sloan at her apartment high above the Hudson on Riverside Drive. Never was he long without calling or seeing her, and now he seized the first pause of this new crusade to hear her sweet voice. As always, it revived him, buoyed his spirits. He could close his eyes and see her lovely aristocratic face with its cluster brown curls about it, her blue eyes of mystery. . . Finally he asked her to give a message to Ram Singh, his body servant extraordinary and hung up.
He called Delaney into conference then and went over the terrain about Elkhorn which soon was to be the battleground for titanic forces. And he took Delaney with him when he went to the Love home.
