# The Wheel of Death/Chapter 7

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.
It was just before dinner on the following evening that Ram Singh finally returned to Wentworth's Park Avenue apartment. His first act was to light some incense and place it before old Ganesh the elephant-headed god of India— the god which he had carefully brought away from the apartment which they had deserted. In his own room he squatted upon the floor while the incense burned and chanted a mantra in a low voice. Ganesh was a god who should be carefully cultivated if good luck were to remain with Ram Singh and with Ram Singh's master. And good luck was something to be greatly desired in the adventurous life they both led.
His next act was to clothe himself completely in white, even as he would have done in his native land. His feet were made bare, and a great, white turban was bound about his head. Although American custom was quite the reverse Ram Singh always honored his master, in his own household, by baring his feet and covering his head. And of course this was done after proper ablutions which, to the Hindu, are quite as religious as they are cleansing.
It was in Wentworth's own bedroom that the Hindu boy found his master.
"Sahib, boy come!" was the succinct greeting, spoken in a very matter-of-fact tone as though they had not separated under alarming circumstances.
"Good boy!" was the equally short acknowledgment of the greeting, spoken with warmth. But there was a frown upon his master's face.
Something was wrong. Ram Singh had long since learned to read his master's face, perhaps because his master trusted him so much that he never tried to hide things from him.
"Molly, missie sahib?" the boy suddenly asked. "She not get hurt?"
Wentworth's frown deepened and he walked out of the room in a deep study without replying.
Ram Singh waited in the bedroom to dress his master for dinner. He laid out the fresh shirt and clothes upon the bed so reverentially and methodically as almost to make it appear a rite. But Wentworth did not return.
Presently the boy heard his master's violin from the music room. The music was wild, tempestuous and angry. Ram Singh understood that music. He knew that it reflected the mind of the man who was playing the violin. He continued to wait and heard Jenkyns, the butler, pass along the corridor to announce dinner.
Ram Singh replaced his master's evening clothes with a solemn face. The angry tones of the violin were indication that something was wrong. The fact that his master did not dress for dinner indicated something very close to a tragedy. In all his experience Ram Singh could not remember an occasion when his master did not dress for dinner— when dressing was possible.
Back to his own bedroom went the Hindu servant to sharpen his long knife and to burn more incense before the squat figure of old Ganesh.
And in the big dining room at the huge, round table sat Wentworth alone. Jenkyns, too, was surprised that his master had not dressed for dinner, but he served with impassive face and careful attention which was the result of long training. In the middle of it he was called to the telephone and returned with a portable telephone which he plugged into the wall and handed to Wentworth where he sat.
It was Wentworth's old friend, Ned Morris, who was calling. "Hello, Dick old man!" he exclaimed. "I saw Mortimer Mack and he said he would be glad to have you come over tonight and by all means to bring any lady you wished."
"Thanks, old chap! I have heard something about Mortimer Mack's entertainments. What kind of a crowd will be there?"
"Oh, frightfully mixed, but there will be some nice people. By the way, you had better take your check book."
"Oh, is it that kind of a party?"
"Yes, but it's not what you think, and you will be surprised. It's a gorgeous entertainment. By all means go and have a look at it. I can't make the man out myself."
Wentworth handed the telephone back to Jenkyns and finished his dinner much more heartily than he had commenced it.
After dinner he telephoned Nita. "We are going out to take Mortimer Mack to pieces," he said. "Are you game? I'll call for you about eleven. Wear something smart to impress the old codger."
Nita laughed her rippling, throaty laugh. "How will a Chanel black satin dress with a pink satin yoke do?" she asked. "There are black ostrich cuffs and a tiny boa— quite a phantasy."
"Sounds all right," replied Wentworth, "and I'll bet that it will look all right— with you inside it."
After dinner Wentworth, when he was alone, usually spent some time in the library with coffee and liqueurs. But tonight he dispensed with the coffee and liqueurs and returned to the music room. Once more the sound of his violin was heard. But the music was no longer angry and tempestuous. It was spirited, but it was also romantic. There was some kind of action ahead of him— and he was going out with Nita.
Ram Singh heard the music again and noticed the change in it. He sensed action of some kind. Well, he was ready. The point of his knife was very sharp and enough incense had been burned before old Ganesh to ward off much danger. Later, although disappointed that he was to be left behind, he performed the rite of dressing his master with extreme care.
Tonight Wentworth was wearing full evening dress, and there was no blue cornflower for Ram Singh to adjust in the buttonhole as he always did when a dinner jacket was worn. Neither was there to be any white gardenia. Wentworth was wearing the rosette of the Legion of Honor, and he never wore a flower when he wore a decoration.
Ram Singh gazed in admiration when his work was done. But he noticed that his master was not taking with him any pistol or weapon of other description. As a matter of fact, a pistol cannot be carried in full evening dress without marring the effect of the clothes.
Nita Van Sloan dressed very carefully to go out with Richard Wentworth that night, for she regarded him above all other men. Their attachment was something complete; yet it might never reach culmination in marriage. A man should not marry if he is apt to meet sudden death at any moment. Certainly he should not marry if there is a chance that he may be sent to prison or the electric chair.
As Nita stood before her mirror, after dressing, she thought of this, and there was a wistful expression upon her face for a moment. But it was only for a moment. Tonight she was going out with Dick, and that was sufficient. She was very smart in the Chanel gown, one of her few extravagances. In her middle twenties she still possessed the abandon and charm of the subdeb and added to those qualities the attraction which can come only to a woman who has experienced life.
The war and the financial crash of 1929 had swept away Nita's family and almost all of her fortune, but she still remained a Van Sloan, a member of that family which had come to America so long ago and which had remained in the forefront of New York society ever since.
Nita and Apollo, the Great Dane, were standing by the window of her tower apartment on Riverside Drive, looking down on the misty Hudson River, when Wentworth arrived. Both the girl and the dog, in their different ways, welcomed him as only those who love can do.
"Let's sit here and look down at the river for a while," Nita suggested. "Dick, you are looking a little bit worried. Is it that Molly girl that you told me about over the telephone?"
Wentworth's face clouded perceptibly. "Yes," he admitted. "I may have been the cause of her death."
"You forget that they would have killed her if you had not interfered in the first place," Nita returned. "But I am sorry, and I wish we could do something."
"Sooner or later I shall do something," he answered emphatically. "If I fail to save her life, I can at least avenge her death."
"Do you really think that Mortimer Mack is mixed up in it?" she asked.
From his pocket Wentworth took a little, black book and handed it to her. It was the only thing of importance which he had found among the papers which he had so hastily crammed into his pockets when he had robbed Dan Grogan's iron safe just before he had rushed out of the restaurant with poor little Molly in his arms.
The first page of the book was headed "Mack's List." There followed a long list of names and addresses. Some of the names had crosses after them, and some names were marked O.K.
"You are looking at a list of names," explained Wentworth as Nita studied the book in puzzlement, "which includes all of the most important politicians of New York City."
"Well?" Nita was still puzzled.
"Notice the names which are marked with a cross," he continued. "Each of those men is dead, or is in a sanitarium, or has mysteriously vanished from sight! Those in sanitariums are there because they have become drug addicts. The dead are believed to have been murdered or to have committed suicide. I have made inquiries, and that is the astounding truth."
Nita stared in amazement at the list in her hand.
"Even I can see that there is something horrid going on," she said. "Whatever does it mean?"
He explained to her how he had come into possession of the little black book and he told her what he had learned from Molly about the secret connection between the notorious Dan Grogan and the Mack Syndicate.
In addition he had made inquiries through his banker and through his lawyer about Mortimer Mack and his wealthy syndicate. It was reported to him on good authority that Mortimer Mack was worth many millions and that he was becoming more and more wealthy by leaps and bounds, through city contracts which he seemed to win from all other competitors in some mysterious way.
"But I don't yet see just what is being done and how and why," Nita protested. "If this were a list of city officials, I would suppose that some kind of an attack were being made upon them to force them to favor the Mack Syndicate."
Wentworth smiled. "Don't you know," he asked, "that the politicians govern the city officials? Nita, the man who rules the politicians— rules New York City!"
"Oh!" she gasped. "And do you think that Mortimer Mack is actually trying to gain control of the great city of New York?"
"Yes," he answered quietly, "I do. I believe that Mortimer Mack, or someone above him, is to a large extent already in control of New York. I believe that he gets the politicians into his power by means of dope and women and, perhaps, by means of gambling. When he fails to control a politician I believe that he has that politician murdered or cause him to commit suicide by bringing ruin or disgrace to him."
"Dick, it's shocking!" Nita exclaimed "It's disgusting and horrible to think that such a man can enslave seven million people like that!"
Suddenly Wentworth grinned as if he had not a care in the world.
"But think what fun we'll have in taking old Mortimer Mack to pieces," he said. "Ready? Let's go!"