# The Wheel of Death/Chapter 12

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.
Order began to manifest itself amid the excitement. The police stood in a little knot, talking with Mortimer Mack, who was meeting their arguments with a mixture of ridicule and indignation. From the ends of the passage, and at the entrance to the ballroom, guests and dusky chorus girls crowded and peered. But voices were now reduced to normal, and there was beginning to be heard little ripples of laughter. It was thought that some absurd mistake had been made by the police and that nothing of an alarming nature had happened.
Some began to drift back to the ballroom. Music commenced again. The night was still young at Mortimer Mack's weekly entertainment.
Nita stood with Wentworth and Ned Morris not far from the group of policemen who talked with Mortimer Mack. They could just hear their conversation, especially the words of the policemen.
"Geez!" exclaimed the detective again. "Of course I could recognize the voice. It was like a kid's voice, and he seemed scared to death. That's why I was so sure that something was wrong. He was too scared to be acting."
Ned nudged his friend, Wentworth. "Corking inside page story," he said. "Even the rumor of Buckley's murder is news in New York."
"And a corking front page story if the rumor is true," commented Wentworth dryly.
Ned Morris looked at his friend sharply and shrewdly. He was a good newspaper man, and he knew that Wentworth was not given to foolish imaginings.
"Surely," he said in surprise after a pause, "you do not think that this story is true?"
Indifferently, his face quite without expression, Wentworth opened his right hand, exposing his bloody fingers for Morris to see. "Some of Buckley's last blood," he said, watching the effect upon his slightly younger friend, while Nita raised her handkerchief and looked away, struggling to control her emotions.
"Good God, man!" exclaimed Ned in amazement. Then as his mind grasped the significance of what he had seen: "Dick, don't tell me that you did it!"
"Would I show you these fingers if I had done it?" Wentworth asked, smiling.
"You might!" Ned returned. "There is nothing on earth that you might not take it into your head to do."
"Except hurt somebody who shouldn't be hurt," Nita interrupted unexpectedly.
Ned nodded, agreeing with that statement, but still looking at Wentworth in amazement. "Why aren't you telling this to the police?" he asked. "Why are you telling me?"
"I am not telling the police," returned Wentworth, "because the thing is too hideous and too gigantic to be broken into yet. Premature disclosure would ruin things."
"Are you just telling me out of friendship?"
"No." Wentworth shook his head decisively. "I may be bumped off sometime in the next few hours, possibly even while I stand here talking to you. If so, I want you to use the information I am giving you. Buckley was shot to death about half an hour ago in the little room over there. I do not know who shot him. The bullet passed through his body and lodged among some book shelves. Some of his blood from my fingers is smeared upon page two hundred and five of a book entitled "City Government," which is upon the fourth shelf from the bottom. Analysis of the blood upon that page will show that the corpuscles are in the same proportion to the corpuscles in the blood of Buckley— if his body is ever found. As for me, Nita is a witness that I did not do it."
"And I suppose that this is in strict confidence until the dire event of your popping off?" asked Ned with a grin, under the urge of his newspaper complex for treating tragedy lightly.
"Absolute confidence," agreed Wentworth. "Ssh!" interrupted Nita before anything else could be said. She was looking toward Mortimer Mack and the policemen, who still stood in front of the room in which a murder was rumored to have been committed.
Mortimer Mack was smiling holding up his hands. "Just to be thorough," he stated good naturedly, "I wish one of you would search me to see if I have the rumored pistol with which the rumored murder was rumored to have been committed. I was discussing politics with my friend, Mr. Richard Wentworth, just a few minutes ago in the very room where the murder was said to have happened. I am sure that Mr. Wentworth would like to be searched also."
The attack upon Richard Wentworth had come even while he stood talking to Ned Morris, as he had suggested.
Wentworth realized that Mortimer Mack knew that he had recovered his pistol in the confusion just before the police reached the door. If the police found that weapon upon his person it would be a simple matter for somebody, probably anonymously, to give the information that it was the pistol which had fired one of the bullets in the two killings at Grogan's Restaurant. Comparison of the lands and grooves with the bullet markings, together with evidence brought from Molly Dennis under cross examination, would certainly damn him in the eyes of the law.
It was another one of those tight situations which Wentworth often sought for the thrill of the thing, and which sometimes came to him without any seeking by reason of the adventurous life which he led.
In full evening clothes there is only one place where so heavy and bulky an article as a pistol can be carried or concealed. This is in the pocket of the coat tails. But even in that pocket the weight of a pistol will somewhat disrupt the hang of the coat.
Now Wentworth felt the weight of his recovered pistol where it pulled down on one of the tails of his coat, and knew that it threatened his life.
The detective, rather hesitatingly, was making a perfunctory search of Mortimer Mack, patting him here and there and feeling his coat tails. Of course the net result of the search was nil.
Mortimer Mack bobbed his eyebrows and pursed his lips in his characteristic manner. He smiled toward Wentworth. "And now," he said, "my friend, Mr. Richard Wentworth, would surely like to be relieved of all odium in connection with rumored murder."
The detective, who was now sure that he had been the victim of a hoax, came slowly toward Wentworth, where he stood between Nita and Ned Morris. "I scarcely think it is necessary," he said.
"Oh, but I insist!" exclaimed Mortimer Mack, smiling. "I cannot allow a guest to leave here with the slightest suspicion of any stigma attached to him."
Wentworth laughed and, standing close between Nita and Ned, placed an arm suddenly upon the shoulder of each. His quick movement swung the heavy weight in his tail pocket forcibly against Nita's thigh. It was his only chance. Would she understand— and could she do anything?
The detective came on. Nita's hand, hanging by her side, slipped into the tail pocket behind Wentworth's back. It came out, bringing the pistol with it. She pressed the weapon close to her where it was shielded from view by Wentworth's body.
But the weapon was too big for her to conceal upon her person. What could she do with it when Wentworth moved away to be searched?
And Wentworth did move away, taking a step or two to meet the detective. He had felt the weight vanish from the tail of his coat and he moved so that his body shielded Nita from the eyes of the man who was about to search him.
During the second perfunctory search by the detective, Wentworth looked into the eyes of Mortimer Mack. Both sets of eyes seemed to be smiling. But Wentworth felt something venomous and ugly behind Mack's eyes, especially as the search again ended in failure. He saw the eyes of a man who could smile while he hated— who could probably kill while he laughed.
The police withdrew. The drums sounded again and the spectacular entertainment continued.
Ned Morris caught Wentworth by the arm as he was about to dance away with Nita toward the ballroom.
"Look here, old man," Ned half whispered, "Nita slipped something into my tail pocket. I don't know what it is, and I don't want to know what it is."
"You're a rotten reporter if there's something you don't want to know," remarked Wentworth jocularly.
"It's only because we grew up together that I'm acting this way, Dick."
"I know, old man," was Wentworth's quiet reply. "By the way, I want you to do me a favor."
From his vest pocket Wentworth took a small tablet with a gold pencil attached. For a few moments he scribbled on the top sheet before tearing it off and handing it to Ned, who could not help looking at the unfolded sheet.
"Holy smoke!" Ned exclaimed. "It looks like the scratchings of a hen."
"Hindustani characters," explained Wentworth. "Take it over to my place, like a good chap, and give it to my man, Ram Singh. I think you know him. He will give you something to bring back to me. Mind doing it?"
"Certainly not! I'll go at once, but what about this damned thing in my pocket?"
"Oh, I told Ram Singh to pick that out of your pocket when you weren't looking."
Without waiting for any reply, so well did he know and trust his friend, Wentworth placed his arm around Nita and swept her away, into and around the ballroom.
From one end of the ballroom to the other they danced, while Wentworth searched rapidly among the guests and chorus girls who had again abandoned themselves to dancing, drinking and laughter without any further thoughts of murders, rumored or otherwise. But among the dancers, and upon the white, pillow-covered benches, there were no persons whom he sought. Mortimer Mack was not present, and there was no trace of Cora nor of Jerry Stone. Of course Dan Grogan was not to be seen, and poor old Buckley would never dance again.
"And now for the halls, the passages and the weird entrance with the red fires by the elevator," said Wentworth as they came again to the end of the ballroom. "I am studying the layout of this place."
"And there's the gambling salon," added Nita. "You haven't seen that yet."
But Wentworth shook his head. He didn't want to see that until he had fixed the rest of the floor thoroughly in his mind and had arrived at a certain conclusion which was just beginning to dawn upon him. Through the passages and halls they sauntered, arm in arm, apparently talking innocently while he considered the arrangement of the various walls and even measured distances by counting his steps as he walked. It was a very large floor, occupying one entire wing of the huge apartment house, and undoubtedly had been especially designed for the man who had leased or bought it.
It was at last among the twelve red fires, which leaped from the twelve great braziers, that Wentworth came to a halt with Nita upon his arm. The golden lady and the silver lady had risen to attention upon their entrance, ready to express their sorrow upon the departure of two guests.
But Wentworth did not press the button for the elevator, and the metal-coated, female adornments stood at attention, waiting to see what the two guests, so distinguished in appearance, would decide to do. Surrounded by the many mirrors they stood among hundreds of red fires, hundreds of gold and silver female forms, reflected and otherwise.
"Cherie," said Wentworth to Nita, breaking into rapid French while he watched the faces of the two attendants until he was confident that they did not understand that language, "there is something very surprising in the arrangement of this place." He tapped one of the mirrors between two of the big braziers. "Do you know what lies on the other side of that mirror?"
She shook her head.
"On the other side of that," he stated, "is the ladies' dressing room, the room from which you heard the fatal shot fired."
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "I did not realize that the passage led back in this direction."
"And what is more important," he continued, "the little study, in which the killing was done, lies to the left of the dressing room as you know. Such being the case, it becomes necessary for one of the study walls to be adjacent to the elevator shaft!"
"Which means?" she asked, looking puzzled. He pointed at the red flame, leaping from one of the braziers near the elevator, as if he were commenting upon its beauty. "It means," he said, "that there is a secret entrance from the murder room to the elevator.
"Oh!" exclaimed Nita. "There is something diabolically clever about this place."
As she finished speaking the door of the elevator opened and Jerry Stone emerged, pale and looking very scared. He hurried across the room without looking at them and passed quickly through the entrance to the gambling salon, the entrance presided over by the woman who was covered with the plastic gold.
Neither of the women attendants paid any attention to him, and it would seem that he was an habitué of the place who escaped the ceremonies which were accorded to guests.
Wentworth tightened his grip upon Nita's arm. "There goes a young fool to his death," he said swiftly and quietly in the French language.
"But why, Dick?" asked Nita in horror. "Why?"
"Because," returned Wentworth, "Jerry Stone is the man who informed the police about the murder of Buckley. At first Mortimer Mack thought that I had done it— but now he must know. Jerry Stone will be dead very soon, unless— "
"Unless what, Dick?"
"Come on!" he answered. "It is just possible that I can save him— for Molly. Let's go!"
Arm in arm they passed out of the room of glaring fires into the gambling salon. The golden curtain parted for their passage. The golden woman writhed her supple body in an ecstasy of simulated joy because her entrance had been selected.
Behind them the red fires died down until the arrival of other guests....