# The Wheel of Death/Chapter 3

The second Spider novel and the last by R. T. M. Scott. First printed in vol. 1, no. 2 of the The Spider, dated October 1933, a pulp magazine in the "Hero Pulp" subgenre starring the titular vigilante.
The blue car, backing toward the stationary taxi, had arrived within about thirty paces and was slowing to a stop preparatory, no doubt, to spurting away after riddling the taxi with bullets. From its rear window could plainly be seen the barrel of what must be a machine gun. But there was no light in the tonneau and the men behind the gun were invisible.
It would have been possible for Wentworth to shoot into the blue car as it approached. But he could not see the men in that car, and a burst of machine gun bullets would probably have wiped him out before he had found his target. It was necessary for him to do something else — and to do it instantly!
The escaping taxi driver had left his door open and his engine running. Wentworth took advantage of both conditions. He had scarcely dropped Molly's hand before he had opened his own door, stepped upon the running board and had slipped into the driver's seat.
Richard Wentworth could drive any make of car more easily than most men can work a gum- slot machine. He released the brakes, threw in the clutch and gave the engine all the gas that is possible in starting. The heavy taxi lurched into motion violently. It gathered speed in a way that is only possible when an expert handles the controls. Even so, no taxi can run away from a machine gun.
But running away was not in Wentworth's mind. To attempt to flee would be what any murderers would expect him to do under the circumstances. And much of Wentworth's success was attributable to the fact that he seldom did what he was expected to do.
The heavy taxi rushed forward, gathering speed. It did not swerve to the right or left, but headed straight for the murder car which had now stopped!
A collision was inevitable. Machine gun bullets might possibly kill the driver of the taxi. But no bullets could stop the rushing taxi before the rear end collision took place. A machine gunner is unnerved by such a condition. He is like a sniper who tries to pick off the pilot of a tank while lying in the direct course of oncoming destruction.
He may get the pilot, but the tank will get him.
Wentworth, calculating on the psychological effect upon the machine gunner, took the only course which permitted him to attack. And his ruse was successful in that the crash came before the machine gun opened fire.
Although the collision was severe it was not too severe for the bumpers to withstand. The heavy taxi bunted the lighter car violently forward. The barrel of the machine gun was tilted upward by the heavy jar, and a burst of bullets, fired probably by accident, traveled high toward Columbus Square.
Wentworth sprang out of the taxi and thrust a hand under his coat for a pistol, as he ran forward to come to grips with his enemy before they could recover from the demoralization of the collision. "Once on the run, keep 'em on the run," was Wentworth's idea of good tactics in any fight.
But Wentworth had two surprises. The blue car leaped forward and vanished around a bend in the park road and— his hand found an empty holster under his coat!
The escape of his enemy was probably a good thing for him under the circumstances, but the empty holster caused him to frown. The pistol which it had held was registered with the New York Police Department in his name. Had he dropped it in Grogan's Restaurant while bending down beside the iron safe? He could not be sure, but the loss of the pistol might prove serious. If it came into the hands of the police, it might conceivably send him to the electric chair.
Wentworth patted his other holster, which was still filled and returned to the taxi.
Molly Dennis was waiting for him. She was not crying, and seemed to be calmer. No outcry had come from her at the time of the collision with the murder car.
"You are not afraid of me?" asked Wentworth, more to judge her condition by the tone of her voice than for any answer she might give.
She shook her head. "I'm not afraid of anything in the world except for my father." Her voice was firm, though it broke a trifle on the last few words.
He slipped into the driver's seat. "I'll do the best I can for you," he said and looked back at her through the open window behind him. "Remember, Molly, if you work with me, you must know that there is no such thing as defeat. Now I'll show you how a taxi should not be driven in New York City."
He slipped in the clutch and the taxi moved swiftly along the shadowy road of the great park. Once more he was launched upon a grim battle against the powers of the underworld, with a man's life the stakes of victory or defeat. To win he must play a desperate game. In that game he held a certain ace which he hated to play. But, for Molly's sake, he would play it if it became necessary to do so.
Rapidly the taxi swept northward and turned out of the park at the first exit to Fifth Avenue. Not once did Wentworth see any sign of the blue car with the murderous machine gun, and he believed that Dan Grogan had probably abandoned the chase. He felt certain, however, that he and Grogan had not ended their fight. There was no doubt that it would be renewed and that death would come to one of them. But Grogan, dangerous as he was, was only an underling. In the battle that was to follow there would be enemies far more important and powerful than Grogan for Wentworth to encounter.
As they turned into Fifth Avenue and joined the southbound traffic, Molly reached forward and touched Wentworth back through the open window.
"The blue car!" she called to him. "It's right behind us."
Wentworth glanced back. It was quite true. She had seen what he had not seen. He could not see into the car, but he recognized it without any doubt and he knew that Grogan had not been shaken off for the evening. It might be that Grogan intended to attack him again, even on Fifth Avenue. And it might be that Grogan was following him only to discover his identity.
Wentworth shot the cab ahead of car after car in the traffic, dodging in and out with the greatest skill and audacity. Behind him the blue car followed with equal skill. He caught a traffic light just as it turned to red, but the blue car followed him against the light and the traffic officer failed to blow his whistle.
At the next corner Wentworth drew up at the curb and lifted his hood, pretending to examine his engine. The blue car shot by and stopped at the curb a hundred yards farther on, ready to turn and go back if Wentworth tried to escape by turning abruptly northward.
Wentworth looked at his watch. It was nine o'clock. In one hour Molly's father would die, burned to death in the electric chair at Sing Sing. Dangerous as it was for him to allow Dan Grogan, or any other man for that matter, to discover his real identity, Wentworth decided that there was no time for him to shake off his pursuer if he was to fight for the happiness of the girl behind him in the taxi. It was necessary, he realized, for him to sacrifice his own interests and his own safety for another.
Wentworth slammed the hood into place over the engine and climbed back into the driver's seat. As he had stopped at a corner, he turned east and raced across town. But at Lexington Avenue, where he turned south again, the blue car was only half a block behind him.
After some fast driving, several times almost drawing the attention of a traffic officer, he stopped before a cheap apartment house close to the East River and hurried with Molly into the narrow entrance just as the blue car drew up behind the taxi.
It was a "walk up" building, and Wentworth almost lifted Molly as he rushed her up the stairs. Footsteps sounded behind them on the first stairs as they turned into the second flight. But Wentworth felt that he dare not stop to fight while he had the girl in his care. Besides, it was vitally necessary for him to reach the Governor of New York State immediately, if Molly's father were to see another dawn.
On the second landing Wentworth opened a door with a key which he had ready in his hand and shoved Molly ahead of him into a small two- room apartment. As he entered himself and closed the door, he heard heavy footsteps of their pursuers in the hall outside.
Before them in the living room of the small apartment, a tan Hindu rose from the floor where he had been squatting before the elephant headed god of luck, Ganesh. Ram Singh was devoted to Richard Wentworth and believed that his master was omnipotent in all things. But Ram Singh also believed in propitiating the gods and, when his master used strange disguises and mixed with the wicked people of the world, Ram Singh burned incense before old Ganesh. In this way the Hindu servant believed that his master would gain the god's protection and become invulnerable amid the dangers which might surround him.
Molly had started in surprise, a little alarmed at sight of the Hindu, but Ram Singh showed no surprise at all upon beholding the slip of a girl accompanying his master. Although many of his countrymen believed that a woman had no soul, he had been taught by his master that all women must be respected. In addition, for all he knew, this little girl might be a princess in disguise. Was not his master dressed in the clothes of a loafer and bad man of the street?
"This is Ram Singh, Molly," Wentworth said upon entering. And to Ram Singh: "Dennis, missie sahib, Ram Singh."
As the Hindu lifted his hands to his forehead in silent salutations, Wentworth picked up the telephone, perhaps the only private telephone in that cheap apartment building, and asked to be connected with the Governor's personal secretary at Albany.
Molly Dennis seated herself upon a chair in the sparsely furnished room. She was tense and nervous. So much depended upon the telephone call which this strange man was making. Her father's life hung in the balance. Her eyes wandered restlessly from the man at the telephone to the incense burning in the little saucer before the strange image of something with an elephant's head and four arms. It seemed impossible that such a man, living in such a place, could have any influence with so important a man as the Governor of New York.
But Molly did not know that Wentworth maintained the meager little apartment under a fictitious name for the sole purpose of assuming his disguises when he secretly penetrated the underworld of New York City. She did not know that a large closet in the bedroom was crammed with clothing, some of which would fit almost any character which Wentworth might wish to assume. Nor did she know that Ram Singh was a master of make-up and that he could alter a man's face astonishingly in a very few minutes.
Minutes passed and Wentworth kept his eyes on his watch. But he held it so that Molly did not know that he was watching it. There was only half an hour left. The chaplain was probably with the doomed man in the death cell.
Then Wentworth was talking with the Governor's secretary. The call had gone through. But of course the secretary could do nothing. Wentworth merely gave his name and asked to be connected with the Governor as quickly as possible. The secretary replied that the Governor was attending an important conference and could not be disturbed for some little time.
"I know him well," Wentworth insisted. "Tell him that it is a matter of life and death and that I must speak to him at once."
He was afraid to say more. Governors are guarded against importuners just before an execution.
Molly sat rigidly upon her chair, her face becoming tense with apprehension. She had been buoyed up more than she had realized, and now she began to feel that she had been clinging to a straw.
Wentworth glanced at her and back to his watch. He, too, was under a strain, but he did not show it except that an old battle scar was showing white under the skin of his forehead. Usually quite invisible, it sometimes showed white at moments of great stress.
The secretary was speaking again. The Governor, he said, would come to the telephone in two or three minutes. Wentworth thanked the secretary and looked again at his watch.
"How much more time is there?" asked Molly tremulously. This time she had noticed the direction of Wentworth's eyes.
"Plenty of time," he answered calmly, but he did not look at her. "We will win. Don't fear!"
There was a knock upon the door of the apartment. Ram Singh came out of the bedroom and moved across the living room toward the front door, but stopped at a word from his master.
Wentworth began speaking Hindustani to his servant, while he continued to hold the receiver of the telephone to his ear. The tall native threw back his shoulders, and an indignant rage showed in his glittering, black eyes. He spoke gutturally in reply to what he had heard. If a bad man wished to disturb his master while he was telephoning, he, Ram Singh, would go out into the hall and cut that bad man into small pieces.
But Wentworth shook his head and spoke more words of direction in the servant's language.
Ram Singh drew a long knife from the sleeve of his coat and squatted upon the floor facing the door, the knife in his hand. It was a beautiful knife with a heavy, carved handle. The blade was sharp and pointed. It could be used equally well for both cutting and stabbing, and it was perfectly balanced for throwing.
In the room there was brief silence, broken presently by a crashing sound at the door. Someone had thrown his shoulder against the panel. Perhaps several men were trying to force it. The door was not strong, and could not, Wentworth knew, resist a great deal of force.
Wentworth, perfectly calm, continued to hold the receiver of the telephone to his ear. With his free hand he drew his remaining pistol from its holster and held it lightly on his knee. He sat so still that he seemed scarcely to be breathing, but his blue-gray, calculating eyes wandered from Molly to Ram Singh and from Ram Singh to the watch on his wrist.
There came another crash against the door. "Go in the bedroom, Molly!" Wentworth suddenly ordered.
"No!" she refused emphatically. "I'll stay and fight with you."
"Do you want me to hang up this telephone?" he asked quietly, his eyes on the door.
Even as she fled through the door, terror stricken at the possibility of his breaking the telephone connection, he was talking again, this time over the telephone. The Governor was on the other end of the wire and Wentworth was speaking in short, sharp sentences to conserve time as his eyes watched the creeping hand of his watch.
The Governor was obdurate. He could not reprieve Arnold Dennis, even for a week, without legal evidence of the convicted man's innocence.
Again came a terrific shock on the apartment door, which was plainly upon the point of giving way. Ram Singh rose from the floor and stood in a crouching position, knife in hand.
Molly came to the bedroom door and stood with her knees shaking while she listened to the words of the man at the telephone.
"Governor," Wentworth said, pistol raised and watching the door for the next shock upon it, "for my own sake I would never say what I am going to say; but I once saved your daughter's life when she fell off your yacht at Oyster Bay. I am fighting for the happiness of the daughter of Arnold Dennis. In return for what I did at Oyster Bay, I want you to give me one week in which to prove that Arnold Dennis is innocent."
Wentworth spoke only one more word over the telephone.
"Thanks" he said as he replaced the receiver.
Molly Dennis flung herself across the room at Wentworth's feet. But he picked her up, carried her to the bedroom and playfully tossed her half way across the room onto the bed.
Then he turned back to the living room. "Open the door, Ram Singh," he said, "and let our friends come in."