# The Wheel of Death/Chapter 13

The second Spider novel and the last by R. T. M. Scott. First printed in vol. 1, no. 2 of the The Spider, dated November 1933, a pulp magazine in the "Hero Pulp" subgenre starring the titular vigilante.
They came into a large room which was brilliantly lighted. The walls were richly hung with gold, but not otherwise ornamented. Down the center of the room was an unusually large roulette table, a full thirty feet long, and seated around it were as many guests, men and women, as could find room. Behind the players other guests stood, watching the game and waiting a chance to join in.
"Rein ne va plus!"
The croupier's voice was authoritative and professional, as he announced in French that no more stakes would be accepted. The little ball was coming to rest, and conversation died down as the players waited to learn if they had won or lost.
"Treize, rouge, impair, manque," called the croupier, as the ball came to rest and the players knew that they had won if they had staked upon number thirteen, upon red numbers, upon odd numbers or upon numbers from one to eighteen inclusive.
There were four croupiers who shot their little rakes expertly over the green cloth to gather in the stakes of those who had lost, while some exclamations of pleasure or of disappointment escaped from the players according to their fortune.
"By Jove!" exclaimed Wentworth to Nita as they halted a little distance from the table. "It sounds like a professional game. Those croupiers are certainly imported from France."
"Do you suppose the game is on the level?" asked Nita in a whisper.
"Of course it's on the level," returned Wentworth. "In the long run the bank always wins. Roulette doesn't need to be crooked."
"But how can he get away with such open gambling week after week in New York City?" Nita asked.
"Political influence, my dear, will do anything in New York City," was the dry response.
"But it seems absurd that so wealthy and important a business man as Mortimer Mack should descend to professional gambling," she persisted.
Wentworth smiled. "Nita," he said, "I do not think that Mortimer Mack is giving New York such excellent roulette for the purpose of making money. Suppose that a politician should lose more than he could afford. Suppose that he gave an I.O.U. that he could not meet, or wrote a check without sufficient funds in the bank. Gambling has placed many a man in another man's power."
"Look!" exclaimed Nita "There is Jerry Stone standing beside Mortimer Mack on the other side of the table behind the two croupiers."
"Yes, I have been watching them," said Wentworth. "And do you see that elderly man seated before the manqué space at Mack's right? That is old David Bannister, owner of a string of newspapers and, incidentally, the employer of Ned Morris. He is a power in the state."
"I certainly am surprised to see such a man as that at a roulette table in defiance of the law," said Nita.
"Has it occurred to you," asked Wentworth, "that David Bannister may be conducting an investigation of his own?"
Suddenly Nita nudged her companion. "There goes Jerry Stone," she said. "Mortimer Mack just spoke to him, and he's going toward the passage which leads to that terrible room where they ended poor Buckley."
Wentworth nodded, adding: "He'll never come back alive."
Nita turned pale. "Oh, Dick!" she exclaimed. "Can't you do something before it's too late?"
"If only Ned Morris had come back with what I sent him for!" complained Wentworth in a low voice.
But he left her and went swiftly across the room toward the exit which young Stone was approaching. He had not really needed Nita's urging, but had simply been waiting for the right moment to start into action.
They met, the unsophisticated youngster in the poorly fitting dinner jacket and the more experienced man, exactly at the exit. They seemed to meet by accident— very much by accident since Wentworth bumped rather violently into young Stone.
Polished and fluent expressions of apology flowed from Wentworth. He seized the younger man by the arm and again remembered him as the man he had met at Monte Carlo. Or was it Nice? Now that they had met again, it didn't matter. They would have a drink together and then they would risk a little money at roulette just as they had done at Monte Carlo. Or was it Marseilles?
Before Jerry Stone quite knew what was happening to him, he was dragged half way back into the room. But Jerry was one of those men who are a trifle weak from lack of worldly experience. He became flustered and, when such a man becomes flustered, he sometimes becomes stubborn. Jerry became stubborn in an endeavor to offset his lack of composure. He had started out to do something and he insisted upon doing it, after which he was willing enough to have a drink but could not afford to play roulette.
Wentworth, still holding Jerry with friendly firmness by the arm, glimpsed Mortimer Mack approaching them. Nita, too, was advancing toward them, to be of assistance if that were possible. A hush seemed to have fallen upon the room. The guests seemed to be waiting for something.
Then Wentworth saw that Mack held a check in his hand.
"Mr. Wentworth," said the little man, extending the check, "you are a new guest at our roulette table, and I should be happy if you would do us a little favor."
Mortimer Mack's manner was very friendly, and it was difficult to believe that he had so recently confronted Wentworth over the body of a murdered man. His face was twitching a little, but there was a smile upon it.
"Yes?" questioned Wentworth easily. "What may I do for you?"
"My croupiers report to me that the bank has a profit of five thousand dollars," explained Mack. "All our profits are given to charity and, each night, I ask a different guest to name the charity to which the profits shall he paid. Tonight, Mr. Wentworth, I should be happy if you would name the charity so that I may write it upon this check and give it to you to deliver."
"The Salvation Army is a good charity," answered Wentworth quickly.
"Excellent!" exclaimed Mack. He fumbled in his pocket as if for a pen with which to write the name upon the check. "Ah, Mr. Stone, would you mind stepping to my study and bringing me a pen? You will find one upon the desk, I think."
"And Jerry, old man," said Wentworth quickly, "hurry back for that drink, or I'll send the whole police force of New York City after you!"
Wentworth had released his grip on Jerry Stone's arm and was looking straight into Mortimer Mack's eyes as he spoke of the New York police force. Although the words were lightly spoken, they were really a very dire threat to Mortimer Mack.
"Do you really think the New York police force would be of much assistance, Mr. Wentworth?" asked Mortimer Mack with equal lightness. "They are so busy looking for the Spider, that strange New York killer, you know."
Mack's words were a return threat to Wentworth. Between the two men there was now war which could only end in the death of one of them.
It was at that moment that a voice sounded behind Wentworth, and turning he beheld David Bannister, the great newspaper publisher, holding out a pen to Mortimer Mack. It seemed incredible that so powerful and important a man as Bannister should act the handmaid to Mortimer Mack, or to any man. Yet he had given up his seat at the roulette table and crossed the floor to extend his pen rather than allow Mack to wait a few minutes for Jerry Stone to return.
Bannister did not look like a man who would allow himself to be caught by the wiles of a woman such as Cora. His clear eyes and steady hand as he held the pen gave no indication of the dope victim, and he was worth so many millions that it would appear impossible for him to have been ruined by gambling.
Yet Mortimer Mack took the pen from him without any evidence of surprise. He filled in the blank on the check and handed it to Wentworth, who tucked it carelessly in a vest pocket, then turned to look for Nita.
But Nita was not there!
Instantly Wentworth knew what had happened. Nita had followed Jerry Stone, thinking that she might in some way save him when Wentworth seemed to be delayed. The question filled his mind: Had she entered the room in which the murder occurred? He hoped that she had not done so, that she had induced Jerry to stay away from it. But he knew that it was in her character to be daring.
When he turned again, Mortimer Mack was still smiling. But the smile now seemed to have additional meaning— to have taken on a tinge of triumph.
"Rien ne va plus," called the croupier. The words, "Nothing more goes," seemed to have a portentous meaning, as though a direful end had come. The clicking of the little ball died away and, in the brilliantly lighted room, voices hushed while the players waited for the announcement.
"Well, here are your bally cigars."
Wentworth turned quickly to receive a leather case from his friend, Ned Morris, who had just arrived. It was a trifle longer than is used for perfectos and perhaps a little thicker, but it dropped easily into the tail pocket of Wentworth's coat.
Then, as David Bannister and Mortimer Mack, shoulder to shoulder very confidentially, walked slowly back to the roulette table, Wentworth felt another tug upon one of the tails of his coat. Ned, standing very close to him, had dropped something else into the same pocket, something quite heavy.
"That surprising Indian servant of yours," explained Ned in a low voice, "insisted upon my bringing you a funny looking piece of artillery. He said, 'Him no want, you bring back.' Seemed to think I was a nice messenger boy."
"Thanks, old man," returned Wentworth warmly if briefly. "Do as much for you some time."
In another moment he had turned upon his heel and was walking swiftly toward the exit to the passage which led to the study where Mortimer Mack kept his flat-topped desk and steel safe. There was more lightness in his heart. The "funny looking piece of artillery" was, as he knew, his powerful air pistol which had been made for him by one of the cleverest of mechanicians, a man he had once saved from ruin.
There were few things that Wentworth would not attempt with that pistol in his pocket, with his bunch of curious keys and with the contents of the leather folder which so much resembled a large cigar case.
In the long passage, which led past Mortimer Mack's study, he met no one. The door of the study was open, and the room appeared to be empty. He hurried on and turned into the side entrance to the ballroom, where heavy curtains hung.
For a moment he glanced into the ballroom. It was much the same scene as before except that some guests had gone home and those who remained were not quite so sober. Drawing the curtains partly aside, he looked back at the study door. It was still open, and he glanced beyond it back along the passage toward the side entrance of the gambling salon. He expected to be followed, and he was waiting to see by whom.
He had not long to wait. He was expecting Mortimer Mack, and he received a surprise. Out from the entrance of the gambling salon came Nita. She was walking quickly but, as he watched, she stopped at the open door of the study and looked in. Wentworth, fearful that she might enter that dangerous room, was on the point of stepping out into the passage to meet her, when a long arm shot out and Nita was gone, dragged roughly into the room.
Wentworth sprang into the passage, almost tearing down one of the curtains in his rush. It was only a matter of seconds before he was at the door of the study with his hand on the knob. But the door was locked. It was a stout door, and he knew that he could tease the lock open with one of his strange keys before he could break it down.
Rapidly he selected a key, fitted it into the lock and gently nursed it this way and that until the lock moved. In less than half a minute from the time Nita had disappeared, he flung open the door and leaped into the room, ready to kill any man who resisted him.
But the study, with its shelves of books, its flat-topped desk and its big steel safe, was quite empty.... There was no sign of Nita Van Sloan within the room!