Free THE SPIDER-City of Doom by Norvell W. Page Page B

had to rid himself of the disguise in the meantime. He had to find this man, Baldy, and make him talk. Wentworth's face set hard. He'd make the man talk, or kill him. Then, perhaps, he could force the Master to show his hand, to battle in the open. So far it had all been movements of pawns. The Master had delivered several telling strokes, but he still had not revealed the purposes behind his attack. Wentworth felt that if he could learn that motive, he might have a better chance of reaching the Master himself.
     
    The criminal leader was undoubtedly very clever. He had not appeared at all himself—had worked only through this strange, timid mouthpiece, Baldy. He used gangs of known criminals with whom he never came in contact. From Ram Singh's account of Hackerson's conversation with Baldy, it seemed that even the mouthpiece did not know the Master. It was a damned clever organization. It meant that the man had all the underworld at his service without himself being identified with it in any way. No matter how many of his hirelings Wentworth wiped out, there would always be more on tap. The Master himself would have to be found before these wholesale slaughterings could be stopped.
    It was the old alert Wentworth who strode into police headquarters, buoyant of step, a stiff, slightly arrogant poise to his shapely head, an erect athletic swing of shoulders that bespoke the muscular strength beneath the superb tailoring of his clothing. Kirkpatrick saw him at once. A small alert man sat beside his desk, smoking a big cigar that seemed incongruous with his van Dyke and imperial mustaches. He bounded to his feet, pumped Wentworth's hand energetically as Kirkpatrick introduced them.
    "W. Johnson Briggs?" Wentworth inquired and the man nodded, bit out a quick assent. "Yes, yes, of course. W. Johnson Briggs. And you're Richard Wentworth, of course." He laughed, jabbed the wet end of his fuming cigar at Kirkpatrick, shoved it back in his mouth again. "This man wants to know how you can stop steel from caving in. How you can save buildings even if steel crystallizes. Damned nonsense, of course. There isn't any way."
    Wentworth smiled at the machine gun chatter of the little man. The cigar was locked between his teeth, billowing smoke up in front of his face. There were four chewed butts on the desk. W. Johnson Briggs was one of the country's biggest consultant architects on skyscrapers. Kirkpatrick had done well to call in a man who knew his craft so thoroughly. Wentworth scrutinized him curiously. The man had an aesthetic face, wore his hair long and swept back over his ears. He chewed and puffed his cigar at the same time.
    Kirkpatrick said grimly, "We've got to find a way, Mr. Briggs. Got to! We can't keep the city crippled as it is now. We've got guards to prevent anyone entering the skyscrapers and even the Mayor is howling at me about it. Inspectors are going over the buildings as fast as they can, but it's slow work."
    They all three looked up quickly as a policeman opened the door, thrust in a head of carroty bristles. "Guy named Collins out here, Commissioner," he said. "Says he's got some evidence for you. Got a lady with him."
    Kirkpatrick's face was interested. "That must be those people from Middleton," he told Wentworth. "Show them in at once."
    Collins' face was flushed when he came through the door behind Nancy Collins. He glared at the policeman who shut the door. Wentworth hid a smile behind the lighting of a cigarette. It was hard to get through to Kirkpatrick if the police didn't know you. The big deputy strode forward purposefully.
    "I'm Anse Collins, sir," he said to Kirkpatrick, half-turned as Nancy came forward. "And this is my brother's . . . . my brother's widow."
    Kirkpatrick bowed gravely, came around the desk to place a chair for Mrs. Collins, and introduced Wentworth and Briggs. There was a tightness upon Nancy's pretty face that did not belong there and the smudges beneath her eyes were purple