THE SPIDER-City of Doom (12 page)

"We'll bring in some more of the injured," Wentworth told the clerk. "See what you can do for this poor fellow."

He caught Collins by the arm and pulled him out. The crowd parted at the doorway.

"You better make yourself scarce," Wentworth said, looking several in turn straight in the eye. "That cop is going to be madder than hell when be finds his gun gone and knows that somebody slugged him."

He pushed through the crowd, Collins behind him and they hurried down the street. An excited boy followed them for three blocks, pointing at them and saying they had killed a policeman, but they lost him finally in the rush of people to the scene of the disaster.

"We've got to get back to New York quickly," Wentworth told Collins. "I don't know whether the collapse of that building back there was aimed at us or not, but it damned near caught us. And this camera contains valuable evidence. I'm sure of that. It may even have a picture of the Master himself. You go directly to those lawyers' offices as soon as we hit the city. Get on Alrecht's tail and don't lose him. I think I'll have a warrant for his arrest pretty soon after we get there."

Collins said quietly, "I won't lose him,
Spider.
"

Wentworth hired a car and shoved the accelerator to the floor as they swept out of the end of Main Street onto the highway. The rush of air, the drone of the motor drowned all other sounds. The cold bite of the wind was like a knife through Wentworth's temples, sent his blood racing through his body, stimulated his brain.

He knew that as soon as the policeman regained consciousness, he would give detailed descriptions of himself and Collins to the state's wide police broadcast. They would be named as suspects in all the fearful tragedies that had paralyzed the world in recent days—Wentworth realized with a shock that it had been only forty-eight hours since collapse of the Sky Building had heralded this era of terror.

With brief words, tossed out the corner of his mouth, he told Collins what threatened. "This car will be identified right off," he said, "for those police can move fast when anything as important as this is involved. We would do better separate. You take my coat and hat. I'll alter your eyebrows and put a mustache on you. I'll shed my clothes and make a few other changes, then we'll drop this car."

He whirled it off the road into a lane between trees. The narrow way dipped sharply and they were soon hidden from the highway. He made the changes in Collins' appearance swiftly, sent him on the way in the car.

"Junk it in the first town," he ordered. "Hire a taxi to take you to New York. Got money?"

"I reckon I can make out all right," Collins drawled. There was excitement behind his voice. "This is the first time, though, I ever run away from a fight."

Wentworth laughed brittlely. "You'll get your full dose of fighting before this is over, fellow," he said. "We're closing in on the Master. He's trying too hard to kill us for me to think anything else. And another thing—I don't fight the police."

"I'd noticed," Collins said dryly.

Wentworth finished his work on Collins, eyed him a second and nodded. "You'll do," he said, "but if I were you I'd put a pebble in one of your shoes. That will make you limp and change the way you carry yourself."

Collins' eyes were still amused. "I reckon you're pretty good,
Spider,
" he said, stooping to thrust a pebble into his shoe. He got in the car. "If they spot this boat, they're going to have a swell chase before they catch me."

The engine roared in reverse; the car jounced rapidly about and spurted up the hill with gravel flying from under the tires. Wentworth watched it out of sight, then stripped off mustache and wig, shrugged his shoulders into Collins' coat. It was a bit loose, but not conspicuously so. He had spotted a farmhouse a half mile back from the road and he made his way toward it. He traveled at a pace that would have been impossible for a man inexperienced in woodcraft.

The windows of the house on the hill were boarded tight. Apparently it was a summer residence. There was a two-story garage back of it and an open-faced shed strung out behind that. In front of the shed was an old Buick truck, resting on flat tires. Wentworth smiled cheerfully and went to work. There was a five gallon gasoline-can in the garage and it was half full. A pump got some air into the tires. There was almost no life in the battery, but by dint of much sweating and pushing, he got the truck to the head of a long hill and started it down. It backfired twice after a fifty-yard roll. Twenty-five more yards and it caught and died. At the foot of the hill, it spluttered and died again. Wentworth spun the loosened motor with a crank and finally it rattled noisily to life.

The next town was almost fifteen miles away and it took Wentworth an hour to make it in the truck. He left the truck on the street and had no trouble hiring a car to take him to New York. In the city, he drove through the early dusk directly to Kirkpatrick's office, gave him the infra-red camera with information as to where it had been installed and asked that he set technicians to work at once to develop it. Beatrice Ross was still a prisoner, but her lawyer had begun a habeas corpus fight and might free her at any time. Wentworth left the room to 'phone that information to Ram Singh and warn the Hindu once more of the importance of trailing the woman and Baldy. Then he called Nita, had her return to her apartment and pack clothing for a trip which he did not explain.

The commissioner's face had grown haggard and lined with fatigue, and despite his meticulous dress, he had an unpressed look about him.

"These disasters are fearful, Dick," he said heavily. "And it's one case I can't crack at all. I can't understand the motive behind it. The train wreck and the bank and armored car holdups are simple enough, but why the destruction of those buildings?"

"I still have no clue to that," Wentworth admitted, "but I have found some suspicious circumstances." And he told him about Alrecht and the man's sudden, but apparently explicable departure for New York City—the fact that Collins was trailing him. "When we get that photograph developed," Wentworth said, "I think we may have something that will make Alrecht talk. Even if he is not the Master, I think he has guilty knowledge."

The door opened and Nancy Collins walked in. There was a flush to her cheeks and her eyes were bright. Behind her, Briggs, the consultant architect, came short-legged into the room. His movements were quick as always, but there was a heaviness about him.

"Mr. Briggs has something to tell you, Mr. Kirkpatrick," Nancy said.

She nodded to Wentworth, remembering his name from their previous introduction in the commissioner's office. It was apparent that Briggs was acutely miserable. He had the butt of a cold cigar clamped between his teeth and his long hair was rumpled. He laid a soft black felt hat on the desk.

"Damned fool," Briggs muttered and glanced up, half sheepishly at Kirkpatrick. "Only one excuse," he went on in his queer staccato speech. "My daughter. I'm damn fond of Betty."

Kirkpatrick was frowning. "What the hell are you talking about, Briggs?"

Briggs looked up at Nancy Collins under his brows, then seemed to shrug off his lethargy. "Mrs. Collins made me talk," he said. He took the cigar out of his mouth, jabbed its wet end at Kirkpatrick. "There is a way to stop this business of buildings collapsing."

"
What?
" Kirkpatrick snapped forward, hands hard on the desk. He was abruptly red with anger, cords swelled in his throat. "A way to stop it! You knew and didn't tell us ?" He came around the desk fast, caught Briggs by the collar and jerked the little man almost off his feet. "What the hell do you mean?"

Wentworth had never seen Kirkpatrick so angry, he thought, as he stepped calmly forward, touched his friend on the shoulder.

"Let's hear what he's got to say, Kirk," he urged quietly.

Kirkpatrick whipped his head about, eyes flashing, then visibly fought down his anger. He took his hand off Briggs' collar, stepped back a half-pace although his eyes still glared.

"Out with it!" he ordered.

"Not sure of it," Briggs muttered. "Don't blame you for being that way. Feel that way myself. But, Mr. Kirkpatrick," he drew himself up to his full short height, met the commissioner's glare directly. "They kidnapped my daughter—kidnapped Betty. Told me that if I told, they'd send her back—
a
little piece at a time!
"

His face was twisted. "But Nancy—Mrs. Collins—made me talk. After today and all those others that have been killed."

"The process, man!" Kirkpatrick roared. "What will stop the steel-eater?"

Briggs shook his head. "It isn't that," he said. "It's a different steel. Steel-eater won't hurt it. My belief it won't. Bessmo process stuff. They claim it won't crystallize. From what analysis shows, this steel-eater won't hurt it."

Kirkpatrick frowned. He shook his head. "That would mean bracing all the buildings, replacing girders, everything with this different type of steel?" he asked slowly.

"Practically that," Briggs nodded. "You see, it isn't really feasible." The man was pleading for forgiveness for not having spoken before. Nancy Collins' eyes were bright upon him. He looked sidewise at her again, back to Kirkpatrick. "For God's sake," he said suddenly, hoarsely. "Let somebody else make the discovery. My Betty . . . . All I've got in the world . . . ."

He turned and stumbled blindly and Wentworth shoved a chair in his path. He gripped its back and stood breathing heavily. Kirkpatrick was staring down at the floor. "It's worth trying," he said finally. "Dick, would Professor Brownlee stand for the announcement coming from him?"

"Probably," Wentworth said. "If he believed it was true."

"We'll find out," Kirkpatrick said grimly. He spun to the telephone, began barking orders. The president of the Bessmo concern was to be located and hailed to New York. Wentworth stood in the background and a light flamed in his eyes. When Kirkpatrick paused for a moment, he asked quietly if there was a directory of directors of corporations in the place. Kirkpatrick nodded impatiently and Wentworth strode, eager-eyed, from the office. He found the book, ran over the list of stockholders in the Bessmo. One of them was Alrecht.

A man wearing thick-lensed glasses, his blond hair rumpled, hurried into the outer office with a strip of wet paper in his hands. He headed straight for Kirkpatrick's office, went in after a brief knock. Wentworth strode after him, saw the man lay the paper on Kirkpatrick's desk.

"Here's the film from the infra-red camera, sir," the man said, speaking in a high, flustered voice. "It's not perfect, sir, but with the short time allowed me . . ."

Wentworth spun past him and gazed down at the strip of paper. The photograph, all intense blacks and whites with no grays, showed a masked man standing in the middle of a disordered room. He had a long pair of scissors in one hand and was peering about him. His lips were pursed and worried. Wentworth laughed shortly.

"Kirk, the case seems to be solved," he said excitedly. "The motive for the destruction of the buildings was the popularization of Bessmo steel. On the list of directors, the big stockholders, is that man there." He pointed at the masked man in the photograph. "
Alrecht!
"

KIRKPATRICK snatched his 'phone, ordered Alrecht's immediate arrest, but he was frowning as he leaned back in his chair, staring doubtfully at the photograph.

"But, damn it, man," he said. "If they wanted to popularize Bessmo steel, why kidnap Briggs' daughter and hold her as a price for Briggs' silence?"

"To avert suspicion," Wentworth said swiftly. "The steel must be well enough known for the truth to come out sooner or later. They must have known that Briggs would talk after a while and that the story of his daughter's kidnapping would come out. That would still leave us in the dark as to the motive behind the entire case."

Kirkpatrick shook his head. "I'm not satisfied," he said.

Wentworth grinned. "I'm not, either," he admitted. "But I still think that Alrecht can give us some interesting information about the case. I suggest that we check all the stockholders of that Bessmo company at once, check on the lives of the men . . ."

"But," Briggs came forward timidly, but doggedly. "My daughter, Betty, what about her?"

"We'll find her," Kirkpatrick said emphatically. "Got a picture?" Briggs fumbled in his pocket, brought out a kodak picture. "Men who stole her tore up every picture in the house," he said painfully. "Mrs. Collins found this one. Old album."

Kirkpatrick took the picture. It showed a smallish girl with a merry Irish face. She had on a man's hat, a large one and she was gripping it with both hands, pulling it down over her ears. It was sizes too big for her.

"We took that one day on a picnic," Briggs said. "Always made fun of my long hair. Big hats . . . ." He struck a match and lit the cold stump between his teeth. His hand trembled and he puffed furiously at the cigar, sent out billows of smoke.

"Tell me about your daughter's kidnapping," Kirkpatrick said. He spoke gruffly. He was not unsympathetic with Briggs. As the little man said, the truth about Bessmo was important, but its peculiar power to resist crystallization was not of overwhelming immediate value. In time it might protect the people. It might be used to brace buildings against future attacks of the steel-eater, but the information was useless in the present crisis.

The story of the kidnapping was soon told. Betty was a madcap girl with a bright temper, and on a certain evening she had quarreled with her escort while at a friend's home—she had coolly taken his car and driven away, returning to her own home alone. Apparently the kidnappers had been waiting for some time for an opportunity to strike. This had been the occasion. They had seized her, used her keys to enter the house and destroy the pictures—apparently to hinder police in any possible search—then carried her away. Once every day she was permitted to talk to Briggs over the 'phone, a set formula: "Hello, daddums, I'm all okay."