The Spider Strikes

The Man Who Sought to Die

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"I believe that the Spider is on this ship," remarked a pompous little man, waving a bundle of newspaper clippings.

In the smoke-room of the trans-Atlantic liner conversation lowered at mention of the mysterious New York criminal who sealed his deeds with the tiny design of a particularly hideous Spider.

"And what makes you think that the Spider is on board?" somebody asked.

"These newspaper clippings," the little man exclaimed importantly. "A great criminal likes to keep a record of his crimes. I tell you that we might be murdered in our beds any night."

"Where did you find the clippings?" somebody else asked.

"Under a deck chair."

A young woman tittered as she raised her third before-dinner cocktail. "You shouldn't go poking under deck chairs," she remarked. "You might find things."

There were some smiles, but most faces were serious. The presence of the Spider was a most uncomfortable thought.

Richard Wentworth raised his well-built, lithe form from a chair and held out his hand. "The clippings are mine," he said quietly.

"And—and may I ask why you are so interested in the Spider?" the little man demanded, trying to maintain his importance amid his surprise.

"That is a little matter between the Spider and myself," explained Wentworth unconcernedly as he took the newspaper clippings and passed out to the deck for a constitutional before dressing for dinner. . .

Two days from New York on the great ocean liner, surrounded by all the comforts and luxury which human ingenuity could devise, a man stood aft on the promenade deck where the glass partition ended. He leaned against the railing and gazed blankly down at the angry swirling waters.

Darkness was falling, and the passengers had left the deck rather deserted. There was a touch of melancholy in the absence of laughter and conversation, in the departing daylight and in the droop of the man's shoulders as he leaned a little dangerously over the railing.

Circling the deck for the last time, Richard Wentworth came to a sudden halt as he rounded a corner and caught sight of the passenger who stood by the railing. Tall and strongly built, Wentworth's athletic stride ended with such abruptness as to indicate a man whose mind and body worked in perfect unison. Quite motionless, he stood and watched the man at the railing as though he read a message in the drooping shoulders— a message which might have to be answered very quickly.

The man at the railing leaned farther over the sea. He knew nothing of the one who watched him, and only a numbing anticipation of cold waters dwelt in his mind. He did not even feel the pressure of the palms of his hands upon the railing as he raised himself from the deck.

At that last critical second the silent watcher moved with lightning speed across the intervening deck. He grasped the would be suicide by the collar and jerked him roughly back upon his feet. There was no witness to the rescue.

Ram Singh, Richard Wentworth's Hindu servant, inserted a tiny cornflower in the lapel of his absent master's dinner coat. He performed the small act with a reverence which would almost indicate a ritual. The florist of every ocean liner carried a supply of these blue flowers when Wentworth crossed.

Ram Singh, expressionless except that his eyes were keen and glittering, surveyed the evening clothes upon the white bed. Everything was in place.

But Wentworth was a little late.

Ram Singh, bare footed and turbanned, in full Eastern dress, entered the sitting room of the two-room suite and inspected the bucket of ice which the steward always brought before dinner. The ice must be cracked to the right size so that it could be placed in the cocktail shaker at the last moment and a perfect drink produced as the crowning act of dressing his master.

A moment later Richard Wentworth entered with a companion. Ram Singh, inscrutable, stood to one side and noted that his master's companion seemed rather pale and that his collar was torn open in front as though it had been jerked very roughly from behind. At a few words in Hindustani from Wentworth, the servant vanished into the bedroom, leaving the two men alone in the sitting room.

Wentworth turned to the cocktail shaker and began to manipulate the ice and ingredients. "You might tell me about it, Parsons," he said with his back turned.

Parsons threw himself weakly into a chair and hesitated. Then he blurted out the whole story in a very few words. He seemed to be a decent enough man of middle age, but with a chin that was a trifle weak. He was the private secretary of a very wealthy passenger and he had lost, at cards during the voyage, a thousand dollars of his employer's money. Nothing remained for him to do except to go down into the sea and end it all.

"Married?" asked Wentworth, turning suddenly and extending a cocktail.

The wretched man nodded and accepted the glass in a trembling hand, while Wentworth raised his own glass and regarded the color of the liquid with the eyes of a connoisseur. There was a moment's silence.

"Picture?" The question came sharply from Wentworth and seemed to carry its full meaning by the actual power of thought.

Parsons took out his pocketbook and extracted a photograph which he handed to Wentworth. It was a snapshot of a sweet-faced woman who stood upon a lawn holding a small terrier in her arms.

Suddenly Wentworth looked more closely at the snapshot. "Hello!" he exclaimed. "What's the matter with the dog's leg?"

"Rather a bad cut," explained Parsons in surprise.

"And did a vet place the bandage?"

"No. As a matter of fact I put the bandage on the dog's leg."

Wentworth sipped his drink, placed it upon a table and the trace of a smile flashed upon his lean but rather handsome face as he gazed again at the terrier in the arms of the woman. "You made a pretty good job of it," he commented. "I think I shall repay the dog's debt to you by giving you back your thousand dollars."

"I— I don't understand."

"Dogs are my weakness. You helped a dog; I'll help you."

"You would actually give me a thousand dollars of your money because I placed a bandage on a dog's leg?" asked Parsons in amazement.

"Certainly not," was the quick reply, "but I shall find considerable pleasure in taking your thousand dollars away from the man who looked you."

Parsons was despondent. "It was fair play."

"No, it was not," contradicted Wentworth. "Not much happens on board a ship that I do not see. You were playing with a very large man named Blunton. He is an expert trans-Atlantic card-sharp. I have studied criminals for years and I know many who are unknown to the police. You had no more chance with Blunton than a child would have if it attempted to strangle a gorilla."

"What a fool I have been!" exclaimed Parsons in a low voice after a pause.

"Any man is a fool who plays cards with strangers," was the dry reply.

"But how can you get my money back?" asked Parsons dubiously. "After all, this man may not have cheated. I really think he won by superior play. You cannot prove that he cheated. How can you get my money back?"

Richard Wentworth's eyes became a little tense, and the pupils contracted slightly. There was a touch of exultation upon his face and a fleeting hint of animal ferocity before he spoke. "By right of might," he said in a low voice as if speaking more to himself than to Parsons. "It is a game I love."

He returned the photograph and rang the bell.

"Steward," Wentworth said, when the bell was answered, "give Mr. Blunton my compliments and tell him that I would like to see him."

"Very good, sir."

"This man, Blunton," said Wentworth to Parsons when the steward had left, "is one of the scourges of society. During his career he has undoubtedly wrecked the happiness of hundreds of families. Because of him, in all probability, a number of men have committed the act which you attempted. The ordinary man has no chance against him."

In a few minutes the steward returned. "Mr. Blunten says, sir, that he would be glad to see you if you will step over to his stateroom."

"Go back to Mr. Blunton," directed Wentworth, "and tell him that I shall wait here for ten minutes. If he does not arrive in that time, I shall telephone New York, ship to shore service, and discuss his case with the Commissioner of Police."

"Yes, sir," replied the steward, too well trained to show any surprise at the unusual message.

"But have you any legal evidence against the man?" asked Parsons nervously when the steward had departed for the second time.

"Not a shred of evidence," admitted Wentworth with complete indifference. "You see, my dear fellow, I am just making contact with the enemy, pushing a patrol up to his first line to feel him out. I shall come to grips with him a little later."

The steward was a trifle embarrassed when he returned and hesitated in the doorway.

"Begging your pardon, sir, but it's a little awkward."

Wentworth smiled. "Just what is awkward, steward?"

"The message, sir. I don't like to deliver it to you."

Wentworth's smile broadened. "Go ahead, steward. I can stand it if you can."

"Well, sir, Mr. Blunton says that you can go to hell."

"Thank you, steward. That will be all."

Wentworth rose and went into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. Ram Singh, sensing action, stood alert and waiting. Without any words he interpreted a gesture from his master and swiftly dragged forth a riding boot from where it stood beside its mate in a large wardrobe trunk.

"There is plenty of time, Ram Singh," said Wentworth quietly. "We have all night."

But Ram Singh was too earnest to slow his movements. Rapidly he extracted the boot-tree from the shining boot. His nimble fingers sought certain spots, and suddenly the wooden tree fell apart, exposing a considerable cavity. Another moment, and the Hindu picked a peculiar pistol from that cavity and handed it to his master.

Wentworth examined the pistol to make certain that the mechanism was in order. It was one of the most powerful and deadly air pistols that could be constructed and had been especially created for Wentworth by an exceedingly clever engineer— a master mechanic who owed his life to the strange man who now dropped the pistol into his right-hand coat pocket.

On top of the pistol Wentworth placed a handkerchief, allowing one corner to protrude slightly from the pocket.

Ram Singh followed his master back into the sitting room and stood beside Parsons.

There was cold determination in Wentworth's simple words before he stepped out into the passage. "I shall expect you both to wait until I return," he said.

Then he was gone.

Seal of the Spider

But Wentworth did not immediately call upon Blunton, the trans-atlantic gambler. He seldom did what he might be expected to do, something which often rendered him more dangerous to his enemies. For half an hour he stood upon the deck and looked across the dark water, feeling its mysterious influence while the face of a girl came into his mental vision.

It was a delicate face and so vibrant with life that it held the strength of a spring day. Deep blue eyes spoke poetry beneath masses of rich brown curls. Yet there was no lack of worldly experience in those eyes. They had seen life, understood it and were not afraid. In two days Wentworth would see those eyes in reality.

Reluctantly now he left the rail and turned his mind to the task in hand.

Blunton sat, comfortably bulked, in the largest chair of his suite. Outwardly he was a wealthy passenger who was accustomed to all the luxuries of life. But his face was very hard and displayed innate cruelty as he scowled at the cards which he dealt upon a small table in a game of solitaire.

A few minutes earlier Blunton had declined to enter a game of poker which might have been exceedingly profitable to him. He had declined because a steward had brought him a surprising message which included mention of the Commissioner of Police of New York. He did not like New York's Commissioner of Police, especially when he was about to arrive in New York, and did not wish to have anything to do with him.

Consequently he was playing very safe by remaining in his suite and amusing himself, or trying to amuse himself, by playing solitaire. Certainly there was no law against solitaire.

There was a knock upon the door. Blunton's right hand slipped beneath his dinner coat and paused for a moment beneath his left armpit. There was a slight click as the safety catch was thrown off. It was well to be prepared— in his profession.

"Come in."

The door opened and closed, and Richard Wentworth stood with his back to it as he looked across the little table at the big man with the merciless, poker face.

"And what may I do for you?"

"My name is Wentworth."

"Really?

One of the Wentworths of Chicago?"

"I see that your profession has familiarized you with the names of the leading families of America."

Blunton's face remained entirely expressionless as he leaned back in his chair. "Did you come here to insult me?" he asked coldly.

Richard Wentworth drew a handkerchief from the side pocket of his coat. Leisurely he touched it to his nose, partially replaced it in the same pocket and took a chair, uninvited, across the table from Blunton.

"This is serious, Blunton." Wentworth also was very calm, but his manner was easier, more adroit, than that of Blunton. "I came for the thousand dollars that you took away from Parsons. He couldn't afford to lose it."

"He should not play cards if he cannot afford to lose," returned Blunton indifferently.

"Quite right," agreed Wentworth. "Parsons, however, has a wife and she, too, is going to suffer."

Blunton laughed with the trace of a sneer. "If Parson's wife is unusually good looking , it is just possible that I might make a deal with her."

"Do you never do a kind act, Blunton?" The big man laughed sarcastically. "You amuse me."

"Well, I am being highly entertained myself," returned Wentworth.

There was a silence while the two men watched each other across the little table. Blunton's eyes had become a little tense. But his expression, if it could be called an expression, was one of determined waiting.

Wentworth's face, in contrast, held considerable mobility, but that mobility placed him at no disadvantage because it gave him the appearance of having nothing to conceal.

"You might as well know at once," said Blunton after the pause, "that I refuse to give you any money at all."

"Too bad!" snorted Wentworth as though he really meant it. "In that case I shall have to take the money away from you."

Blunton bent forward and regarded his opponent very keenly. Was it possible that his visitor was insane? But there was no insanity in those searching eyes which met his so easily.

"Mr. Wentworth, what is your real reason for interfering in my affairs?" he asked deliberately.

"Mere accident."

"Accident?"

"I happen to be on my way to New York, Blunton," explained Wentworth suavely, "to meet one of the greatest criminals of all times, a man whose nature is so cunning and, at the same time so brutal, that it is a delight to fight him. Compared to him you are a repulsive child, a contemptible card-sharp, who affords me some trifling excitement to break the monotony of this trip."

Blunton was becoming angry. He was losing his temper. "Get out of here before I smash you and throw you out!" he barked savagely.

Wentworth raised a finger from the edge of the table and regarded the spot upon which it had been pressing. Slowly his hand dropped to his right pocket and rose with the large handkerchief. He rubbed the spot carefully and regarded it again.

"You know, Blunton," he said as he again partially replaced the handkerchief in the same pocket, "I don't want any of my fingerprints around here in case I am forced to kill you."

Blunton's hand stole a little way beneath his dinner coat.

"I would advise you not to do it," warned Wentworth, "unless you wish to die sooner than may be necessary."

Blunton's hand stopped. He had the feeling of being slowly caught in a web, a sensation which he disliked exceedingly— although he had, himself, administered it to many of his victims. He resented the feeling so much that his anger increased.

"I shall ring for the steward," he stated slowly, not quite controlling his voice.

"By all means!" Wentworth agreed emphatically. "You will be surprised when you see who answers the bell."

This was pure bluff, but Blunton did not know it or, at least, could not be sure of it. He paused to think while Wentworth picked the cards from the table and arranged them into a pack.

"Cut you for a hundred."

With the gambler's instinct Blunton nodded and cut the cards, a five spot. Wentworth cut and exposed a seven spot. It was pure luck, Wentworth's luck perhaps.

Wentworth held out his right hand, and Blunton drew forth his pocketbook, bulging with money. Wentworth's left hand, the unexpected hand, shot forward and back with lightning speed, and Blunton was left without his pocketbook.

Momentarily stunned, Blunton saw Wentworth's right hand sink to his coat pocket and rise again so that his handkerchief was exposed just above the edge of the table. But Blunton was too hardened a man to be stunned for more than a moment. With incredible speed his hand flashed beneath his coat. His eyes blazed fury, and a black automatic seemed to leap into the air.

In one more second Wentworth would undoubtedly have been dead, but an almost inaudible cough sounded from beneath his handkerchief. The black automatic clattered upon the table. From a hole in Blunton's forehead two drops of blood emerged and struggled downward as far as an eyebrow before the heart ceased beating.

The gambler, who had baffled international police systems, had ended his career.

Wentworth retained his usual calmness, but he moved quickly. A steward, or somebody else, might come to the stateroom at any moment, and time was valuable. Quickly he bolted the door, first putting on thin, silk gloves so that no finger prints might remain. From the gambler's pocketbook he removed two five-hundred dollar bills and returned the rest of the money to the pocket of the dead man. He performed this act as though it were of very little consequence and instantly became intent upon something of greater importance.

With infinite care, but with incredible rapidity, he began a search of Blunton's clothing and baggage. His agile fingers, thinly covered as they were, touched, moved and left exactly as found everything that the gambler possessed. Not until the very last, when success seemed highly improbable, did he find anything that interested him. Then, returning to the body in the chair, he fingered the shoulder holster which had contained the automatic pistol that still lay upon the table. At the back of the holster was a small flap covering a tiny pocket in the leather, and from this pocket he drew a thin piece of oiled paper.

For a few moments Wentworth scrutinized the fine writing which appeared with a diagram upon the oiled paper. He was looking at the description of the strong room, or bunion room, of a great ocean steamship. The name of the liner appeared at the bottom of the description, and Wentworth knew that the ship in question was even then in mid-ocean with a huge foreign payment to the United States!

Wentworth pocketed the slip of paper and shrugged his shoulders. Blunton was now harmless, but he knew that Blunton had only been the tool of a criminal so dangerous that the police seemed helpless to combat him. That criminal, it would seem, was planning such a crime as would leave the entire world aghast!

Then it was that Wentworth did a dangerous thing. From a cunning artifice, secretly contrived at the bottom of his cigarette lighter, he withdrew a tiny seal and pressed it upon the forehead of the dead man. There, close to the small hole, was clearly depicted, in rich vermilion, the tiny outline of an ugly Spider— the mark of the mysterious killer who had shocked New York City at intervals throughout a number of years.

The act seemed more than dangerous. It seemed utterly reckless. Only a man like Richard Wentworth, if there were such another man, would have incurred such a risk.

In a few hours, perhaps in a few minutes, the ship would be agog with excitement. A murder had been committed, and the most baffling criminal of modern times would be known to be on the ship. The news would be flashed to shore and would be the sensation of the morning papers. "The Spider" was coming to New York! Hundreds of the best detectives would meet the boat, and the greatest minds of New York's great police force would study the lives and habits of every person who arrived on the boat.

Even as Wentworth replaced the tiny seal— his death seal if discovered in his possession— and dropped the cigarette lighter into his pocket, a knock sounded upon the door. Perhaps he had reached the closing scene of his adventurous life. He had only split seconds in which to think and to act.

But most of his life Wentworth had been accustomed to thinking and acting in split seconds. Quickly and silently he unbolted the door, again using his handkerchief to protect his fingers. Then he flattened himself against the wall close to the door and waited. The long fingers of his right hand delicately toyed with the blue flower in his lapel— ready, from that advantageous position, to curve into a fist if he should need to strike.

Again the knock sounded and, after a brief pause, a steward opened the door and took a few steps into the room. He halted abruptly upon catching sight of the seated man with head sagging gruesomely to one side. The steward's mouth opened in dismay.

Behind him he heard someone else knocking upon the door and turned to see Wentworth apparently entering the room.

"Something wrong?" asked Wentworth, pointing to the man in the chair.

But the steward, a young man, was so upset that he rushed wildly from the room to report his grisly discovery.

Unhurried, Wentworth also left the room, mingled with other passengers and walked out upon the deck where unnoticed, he dropped the deadly air pistol into the sea. A few minutes later he was at the wireless desk, writing a radiogram to the Commissioner of Police of New York:

ARRIVING WITH THE SPIDER, WHO HAS JUST PLACED HIS SEAL ON A PROFESSIONAL GAMBLER STOP FELLOW DESERVED TO BE KILLED BUT THIS IS YOUR CHANCE TO GET YOUR MAN STOP MEET THE BOAT WITH THE CREAM OF YOUR DETECTIVES STOP HOPE TO PLAY GOLF WITH YOU NEXT WEEK...

WENTWORTH

To Parsons, when he finally returned to his suite, Wentworth handed the two five-hundred dollar bills.

"I found the fellow dead," he explained, "and was able to take your money from his pocketbook. There will be an investigation of course, but there is no need for your employer to learn about your misconduct— if you do not talk."

The expression on Parson's face was pathetic as his eyes looked his gratitude. And it was plain to be seen that fear of disgrace would silence his tongue, even if he should believe that there was reason for him to talk.

Later that night, Wentworth, clad in black pajamas and propped up by pillows on his bed, held his muted violin to his chin and played low, throbbing music. Much of the music was improvised and seemed to express, a longing for something unobtainable in its mingled sadness and sweetness. Ram Singh squatted on the floor in the sitting room, his body slightly swaying with the rhythm of the music. Richard Wentworth could have been a great musician if he had taken up the violin professionally.

Abruptly the violinist placed his instrument by his side and took up the hand telephone from the little table by his bed.

"Ship to shore service," he requested and gave a New York City telephone number.

In a remarkably short time, such progress has science made, a feminine voice came across the expanse of ocean, a low, throaty voice, vibrant of life upon a spring day. For a few moments Wentworth spoke in French, the modern language of love, and in his voice was some of the longing of the music he had been playing.

Presently Ram Singh was summoned to the bedroom and, as he had done before on several occasions, held the telephone to his master's ear while the violin was again taken up. Softly Wentworth began to play Kreisler's Caprice Viennois. The sweet, haunting music fled from the great, ocean liner to the listening ear in New York. Few women, if any, had ever been wooed in such a way.

Suddenly the captain of the ship, unannounced, stood in the doorway of the bedroom. His face was stern and authoritative as he raised a hand to stop the music, perhaps not quite understanding what Wentworth was doing.

But Wentworth did not stop immediately. Abruptly the soft music changed to one of the most difficult of all violin compositions— The Devil's Trill by the immortal Tartini. With the back of his bow Wentworth knocked the mute from the bridge and sent the wild, impetuous music tumbling over itself in throbbing bars of angry, devilish rhythm.

Then the torrent of music ended as abruptly as it had begun. Wentworth handed the violin to Ram Singh and replaced the telephone without speaking a word.

"I have a wireless about you, Mr. Wentworth, from the Commissioner of Police in New York," stated the captain.

"Yes?" questioned Wentworth indifferently.

"He has asked me to do him the favor," the captain explained, "of having you and all your belongings minutely searched for the seal of the notorious ' Spider '."

"Yes?" repeated Wentworth with the same indifference. "Hand me my cigarettes and lighter, Ram Singh."

The Body on the Floor

High up in the tower of Riverside Mansions, in a tiny apartment overlooking the Hudson River, a girl dreamed and worked with a Great Dane for a companion. It was not an expensive apartment, since it could only be reached by climbing stairs from the level where the elevators ended. But it suited Nita Van Sloan very well. It suited her purse, and she liked to paint the Palisades at sun-set, and soft, morning lights over the great river.

Sometimes, when mists hung low, blotting out the night lights of Manhattan, she and the huge dog seemed to sleep among the stars.

Apollo, the Great Dane, had been given to Nita when a pup, but he had never forgotten the man who had brought him to the tower apartment and placed his leash in the girl's hand. Sometimes when the man and girl were together he was still sorely troubled to know upon whose knees he should lay his massive head.

"This is Apollo, the bringer of sudden death," Richard Wentworth had said when he brought the overgrown puppy to the tower apartment. . .

Now, on a night when mists hung low upon the river, Nita lay asleep in her cubicle among the stars. Stretched upon a window seat the Great Dane also slept, or seemed to sleep. The dog's eyes were closed, but if he slept, he dreamed and not too pleasantly. Deep rumblings, seemingly of disapproval, issued occasionally from him and culminated in a stentorian bark which banished all sleep, or appearance of sleep, from the room.

Nita Van Sloan slipped green pajama-clad legs from her bed and crossed the room to sit beside the dog with an arm around his neck. In the soft light of the night, she was extremely pretty, and the dog was very handsome as he lifted his huge head a little to look into her eyes.

"What is it, old boy?" she asked. "Is our Dick in trouble?"

The dog gave a short bark, something he always did at the mention of that name when they were alone together. He left the window seat and crossed the room to return with a riding crop in his mouth. It was Richard Wentworth's riding crop, and the dog placed it across Nita's green-clad knees.

The girl took the crop in her hands and held it tightly. Her deep, blue eyes stared down upon the rolling clouds of mist over the river as if she sought for something beyond human comprehension. Presently she began to speak her thoughts aloud.

"I can hear music," she said softly. "Somewhere out in the world, he is playing his violin. He may be in Africa or in India or he may even be in New York City. One never knows, Apollo."

For a long time she sat upon the window seat, as if listening, while Apollo placed his forelegs beside her and his head against her knees... They were interrupted by the ringing of the telephone on the small table beside her bed.

She sped across the room, and the dog followed her alertly as if he knew that things sometimes happened suddenly when that bell sound came very late at night.