Wings of the Black Death/Chapter 15

Wentworth whirled back, staring into Stanley Kirkpatrick's wooden face. The man looked like a sleep-walker, his eyes staring straight ahead, as if they were looking into infinity.

Wentworth started forward, and strong hands gripped his arms.

“In God's name, Stanley, hear me first! Hear me—”

“Take him away.”

“—hear me, Stanley!”

“Take—him—away—” Kirkpatrick's voice rose to a shriek.

“Stanley, those pigeons—”

“Shut up!” snarled a voice in Wentworth's ear. He was lifted forcibly, dragged backward.

“Stanley!” he cried.

But the doors slammed between them, and a heavy fist thudded against the base of his skull. Lights danced in his brain, his head sagged, and only half conscious he was dragged with feet that thumped on every stair up a long flight of steps. A cell door clanged metallically and Wentworth was flung inside. He tripped, collapsed upon the concrete floor.

Once more the steel rang. Wentworth thrust his body up from the floor, head dangling. “Stanley,” he called. “Stanley!” He caught the bars, dragged himself to his feet. “Stanley!” he cried again, and his voice rang down the steel-barred alleys. He beat upon the iron, shouted, but only the echoes answered him. And from the next cell a man snarled, “Fer cripes sake, dry up and go to sleep.”

And another man muttered, “Youse damned dopes give me a pain. Yuh can't take it.”

Wentworth took his hands from the bars, clenched them at his sides until the nails bit into the palms, and forced himself to calmness. In some way he must force Stanley Kirkpatrick to listen to him.

Swiftly he stripped off his belt, climbed upon the iron bed that constituted the cell's sole furniture. He fastened one end to the bars, put the loop about his throat, and let himself sag upon it, sustaining his weight with his hands on the bars so that he could still breathe. Then he beat against the steel as if he kicked in his death agony.

The man in the next cell rolled over and cursed, saw the dangling body and shrieked. “Hey, the damned dope's killing himself!”

“God Almighty!” another man cried.

The entire cell block suddenly went mad, cursed, screamed, shouted, beat upon the bars, cried out like a menagerie in a blasting thunder storm. Guards came running, and lights flashed into the cells. Wentworth still hung on by his hands, waiting until the light bathed him. Then he released his hold and dangled in the noose.

Now he actually choked. His tongue thrust up in his throat. His eyes seemed to be starting from their sockets. Blood drummed in his ears. The guard cursed, keys rattled and the door swung open. Powerful hands grabbed Wentworth. He felt himself lifted, the noose jerked free, and he slumped to the floor, almost unconscious.

And now Kirkpatrick came striding, long-legged and somber alone the echoing tiles. He came into the cell where Wentworth lay upon his back on the cot.

Kirkpatrick's face was more drawn than ever. His eyes had a haunted look. “In God's name, Dick,” he said, “why have you done this thing?”

Wentworth could not speak above a whisper. His throat had been torn by the metal of his belt buckle. “I must talk to you,” he articulated. “Those pigeons—”

Abruptly Kirkpatrick straightened above Wentworth's prostrate body. “Carry this man to my office,” he ordered harshly. And Wentworth was lifted bodily and borne away through the still clamoring cells.

In Kirkpatrick's office he was allowed to slump into a chair and the Commissioner stood before him, a gaunt skeleton of his former self, with eyes that glared in near madness.

“Outside,” he said abruptly, gesturing to the officers who had brought Wentworth into the room.

One of the men ventured a protest.

“Outside!” Kirkpatrick roared, and the men bolted for the door. Kirkpatrick's eyes still had not left Wentworth's. “Now speak,” he croaked hoarsely.

“In God's name, Stanley,” Wentworth whispered, his words wide-spaced and painful. “In God's name let me out. I'm the only one in the world who can keep this plague from killing every mortal soul in the city.”

The Commissioner's face went pale as death.

“Is that—is that—a confession?” he asked, and his voice sank to a whisper that was as rasping, as painful, as Wentworth's own.

Wentworth, slumped in the chair, stared up at him with sick eyes and with mouth twisted awry in a bitter smile.

“Is that a confession?” Kirkpatrick rasped again, and his voice rose. Suddenly his hand darted beneath his coat. A long-barreled revolver gleamed. Wentworth's eyes did not waver, nor did the twisted smile leave his lips. He continued to stare into Kirkpatrick's face.

But the Commissioner made no move to shoot. He reversed the gun, thrust it toward Wentworth.

“Either kill me or kill yourself,” he said. “For, God help me, if you are guilty! But how could you be guilty? I can't believe it.” He broke off, panting. “If you are guilty,” he said again, “I have failed in my duty to the city.” And once more he thrust the gun toward Wentworth.

Slowly his prisoner shook his head. “No man can accuse you of that, Stanley.” Wentworth's mind was racing swiftly. He realized now that he could not tell Kirkpatrick the information he had; that he dared not tell him what he had discovered, since to the man's now distraught mind it would seem an additional link in the evidence against him. And Wentworth knew he must get free.

True, he had a clue—but it was a clue that no one but himself could follow to its end; that no one but himself could turn into a weapon against the sinister master of the plague. He must take a long chance—one that would involve his own possible death and that of Stanley Kirkpatrick. But that chance alone would give him his liberty; would in the end enable him to save the city. And he knew that no other hand than his could triumph.

Wentworth stared into Kirkpatrick's eyes. “Take me out of here,” he said, “and I will lead you and your men to the master of the plague.”

Kirkpatrick shook his head heavily. He turned his back on Wentworth and strode across the room and back again, pressing his temples with his palms, but no words squeezed from his lips.

“The master of the plague,” Wentworth whispered, “I'll take you to him!”

Kirkpatrick's hands dropped. His eyes were dull. “The city is under martial law,” he said. “Troops patrol the streets. Any person who leaves his house after dark is shot on sight. Mobs howl about the doors to the City Hall, pound at the doors of the banks, demanding that the Black Death's ransom be paid. And you—you confess at least to complicity in these things, and I let you live!”

He raised a clenched, shaking hand above his head.

“It isn't so, Wentworth,” his eyes were pleading. “Dick, it isn't so. You're not guilty! I know you're not guilty! You can't be. Why, man—”

For moments the men's eyes met, then abruptly Kirkpatrick crossed to his desk and touched a button. A man sprang into the room. Kirkpatrick looked at him as if he were some strange apparition, but presently he got out words:

“Order out my car. Get a squad of men. Take charge of this prisoner and wait for me. If he tries to escape—kill him.”

The man saluted. Others entered the room. Obviously they had been listening. They caught up Wentworth, dragged him from the office. Actually he had recovered most of his strength, but he feigned weakness, let the men carry him.

He had lied to Kirkpatrick. He did not know the hiding place of the Black Death. But a reckless smile twisted his lips. All his money on one spin of the wheel. His life was forfeit anyway. He must gamble the lives of these men, the life of his dearest friend, for the salvation of the city.

Surrounded by police, he was roughed out of the building into the Commissioner's car. He was placed on one of the small, collapsible seats in the tonneau with a man on either side, and two more behind. The Commissioner climbed stiffly into the forward seat. He twisted and stared into Wentworth's face.

“Well?” It was a question.

Wentworth apparently was scarcely able to hold himself erect. “Over Brooklyn Bridge,” he whispered. “And hurry. In God's name, hurry!”

The car sprang forward, its deep-throated motor roaring. Its siren began to wail, and it ripped through city traffic at forty, fifty, fifty-five miles an hour. Ahead of them police whistles skirled, traffic cops sprang forward to block traffic, and the Commissioner's car slammed through, spun on to Brooklyn Bridge, and wove a rapid way among other, slower moving cars.

Wentworth sagged forward, his arms upon the back of the seat ahead, his head upon his arms. They raced out into the middle of the span. Ahead of them the roadway was clear. Suddenly Wentworth lunged forward, both his hands grasped the right hand side of the steering wheel and with a savage wrench he sent the car crashing through the rail, hurtling out into space, somersaulting to the river far below.

The top ripped off with the force of the plunge, but Wentworth gripped the wheel and hung on.

Then the car struck and plunged beneath the surface of the East River.

In falling they had just missed the stern of a tug. Men shouted on its decks, ropes snaked out, and one by one the Commissioner and all of his men were hauled to safety. They stared out over the roiled waters of the river. Not a head bobbed in the swift current. Not a ripple except the wash of the boat broke the surface.

Wentworth, the Spider, had vanished.