# The Wheel of Death/Chapter 10

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.
Just before the elevator reached the floor above Wentworth unexpectedly pressed the stop button and brought it to a halt. He placed a hand familiarly upon his companion's shoulder and spun him around.
"Ned," he asked, "as one old friend to another, what the devil are you doing at a show like this?"
Ned Morris grinned. "I might ask you the same question," he returned, "but, as a matter of fact, I'm working."
"Working?"
"Yes. You know I've been a reporter on The Evening Star ever since the family fortune went blooey in 1929."
"Surely you are not society reporting?"
Ned shook his head, his grin increasing. "There's a sprinkling of the old crowd here," he said, "but I wouldn't call this society." Suddenly he became serious. "Dick, there is something under the surface here, something rotten. Old Bannister, who owns my paper and a string of others, must be onto it. I'm reporting to him confidentially on what I can pick up. By the way, he is here himself tonight."
"Bannister? I haven't seen him."
"You probably will in a few minutes," returned Morris, pressing the secret button once more and shooting the car up again.
As the elevator came to rest at the next floor, soft music could be heard. It was low, throbbing music with an undertone of drums— drums which beat a rhythm that set the blood racing.
As the door of the elevator opened there was a burst of red, fiery light. A circular room, walled with mirrors, seemed to be on fire. It was illuminated entirely by means of twelve great braziers, from which tongues of red fire rose and fell flaringly to be multiplied a hundred-fold by the many surrounding mirrors. The low, savage beating of the drums became louder and shocked the ears, while the eyes were shocked by the glare of light.
And there was still more to shock the senses. Before two exits from this surprising room stood two women, chosen for their superb figures. One of the women was entirely incrusted with gold and the other with silver. And neither wore any clothing at all. Amid the flickering red fire they beckoned invitingly, each to her exit.
The drums, the red flare and the female forms were well calculated to shock and stimulate the new arrival.
"Hm!" ejaculated Wentworth, appraisingly. "Not bad, but I have seen better in Vienna."
Ned led the way toward the exit which was guarded by the woman in silver. Behind them the elevator door closed of itself and, itself a mirror, was lost amid the mirrors of the wall. Before them the silver woman threw up her arms in simulated joy because her exit had been chosen, while the woman in gold expressed anger at having been forsaken.
"Never mind, Goldie," called Ned jocularly to the angry woman, "we're only off the gold standard for a few minutes. Keep your coat of paint on."
As they passed through the silver-guarded entrance, the flaring fires died down behind them, leaving the room almost in gloom and the female figures shrouded within it.
It was evidently a little play enacted for each new arrival to whet the appetite for what was to come.
And what was to come spread itself before them as they parted heavy, silver portieres and entered a great, oval room.
The drums were louder now, almost drowning the notes of barbaric instruments of African origin. Upon a floor of ebony black, which reflected those who stood upon it, the chorus of a popular hit was concluding an African dance. The skins of the women were dark, and their clothing consisted of very little more than the conventional strings of beads.
Around the oval wall, hung with thick, black velvet, were ranged broad, snow-white benches which were piled high with cushions of every conceivable color. Upon these pillowed benches reclined or sprawled, each to his or her alcoholic state of mind, the privileged guests who had been admitted to this super entertainment. Among them, treading carefully upon the smooth, black floor, waiters carried trays of champagne.
"Well, oh arbiter," asked Morris mockingly as they stood by the entrance for a moment, "are there enough unadorned women present to impress you?"
Richard Wentworth seemed more bored than surprised as he looked upon the scene. "I am of the opinion of Petronius," he remarked dryly, When he advised Caesar that ten thousand nude maidens make less impression than one."
As he spoke, the chorus ensemble ended, but the music of the drums did not cease. The continuous sound, with its tantalizingly missing beats, kept up its hammer-blows upon the brain. Here and there guests arose from the white benches and commenced to dance with their partners. Men, who had come alone, reached for the nearest "African" chorus girl and found her a willing partner in her string of beads.
Suddenly, through the throng upon the floor, Wentworth caught sight of the green, clinging dress of Cora. She was dancing with the same politician to whom he had abandoned her upon the floor below. He drew Ned's attention to the couple.
"That's Buckley, the politician," Ned commented. "He's a bit drunk. Might get a good story from him in his present condition. But he's nuts on Cora and no man could pry him loose from her."
"Suppose I pry her loose from him," suggested Wentworth indifferently.
"Well, you would be doing his wife a favor," returned Ned. "Hello! There's Jerry Stone butting in on them. Surely that poor little chap doesn't think he can split that pair!"
"And who is Jerry Stone!" asked Wentworth rather indifferently.
"He is a bit of a puzzle to me," admitted Ned. "He seems to be a cross between a favored employee and a poor relative of Mortimer Mack— runs errands and does odd jobs in return for a glass of fizz water and a dance with the ladies."
Among the crowd of dancers Jerry Stone seemed to be having a hard time of it to attract Buckley's attention. He was no expert in cutting in on dancing couples, and his first tap on the politician's shoulder was quite unnoticed. The second was shaken off irritably, Buckley not even looking around to see who had annoyed him.
Wentworth, watching sharply, suddenly became aware of two interesting facts. The first was that Cora was leading a little in her dancing and quite evidently influencing her partner so that he would shortly come face to face with Jerry Stone. The second fact was that Mortimer Mack, himself, was standing behind a palm on the far side of the room and was watching Buckley keenly.
It seemed plain that Cora was working in cooperation with Jerry, and that Mortimer Mack was watching the outcome of what was about to happen.
Then it was that Richard Wentworth also took a part, unexpectedly, in the little drama. Leaving his surprised friend suddenly, he threaded his way through the guests and dusky maidens of the chorus with that expert ease which can only come through long ballroom practice. He arrived at Cora's side just as Jerry once more laid his hand upon Buckley's shoulder, a hand in which there was a slip of paper.
It all happened so quickly as to be quite inexplicable to all save Wentworth. This time Jerry placed his hand, the hand with the paper, quite forcibly upon Buckleys' shoulder.
The politician withdrew his right arm from around Cora's waist, probably with the intention of smiting the man who had interfered with him.
But at that moment Wentworth removed Cora's left arm from Buckley's shoulder and plucked the slip of paper from Jerry's hand.
Without a pause he spun Cora around with her back to Buckley and danced away with her into the throng before even she quite knew what was happening.
Behind them they left Buckley almost trembling with fury. Jerry Stone was looking on the floor for something he seemed to think he had dropped.
Most women like to be snatched away by a handsome man who knows how to wear evening clothes.
Cora was no exception.
"You devil!" she exclaimed. "But you'll get me into trouble."
"Then we'll mount our little sea horse and gallop away to Bermuda," Wentworth answered banteringly.
She drew her head back and looked at him hard. "Say, you aren't drunk any more," she said.
"Can't stay drunk when I'm away from you," he returned lightly.
She seemed puzzled and, while they danced, he worked the slip of paper in his left hand so that he could read it without her knowledge. It was a short, typewritten sentence:
Photostat copies of your letters to Cora will be mailed to your wife and to the press if the city does not vote a certain contract tomorrow.
Deftly Wentworth crumpled the little slip of paper into a ball and managed to hold it in the palm of his hand while he danced. Although no name appeared in the message, he had obtained definite indication that blackmail was being used to steal the city's money!
Cora, of course, was a professional manipulator of men, working, probably, upon salary and doing as she was told. Jerry Stone was a blundering tool, but did not quite seem to be either a fool or a knave. As for the master villain, who else could he be than Mortimer Mack?
The thought of Mack caused Wentworth to steer Cora toward the palm behind which he had seen the financier standing when Jerry Stone had been trying to deliver the anonymous, blackmailing note to Buckley. Mack was no longer there.
Slowly Wentworth circled the ballroom, talking glibly to Cora while he searched among the dancers. Mortimer Mack was no longer in the room. Buckley and Jerry Stone seemed also to have disappeared, and Ned Morris was not to be seen.
Then Wentworth saw Nita. She was standing in the entrance, looking around the ballroom, and he knew instinctively that she was looking for him. She seemed, even at that distance, to be pale and a little unsteady. Wentworth hurriedly excused himself.
As he approached her, Nita saw him and came quickly to meet him, visibly pale and upset. "Oh, Dick!" she exclaimed in a low voice. "It is too terrible for words. They have just killed him."
"Killed him? Who has been killed?"
"That politician," she answered quickly. "The man who was dancing with the woman in green downstairs when we first came in!"
He drew her to one side out of the crowd, snatched a glass of wine for her from a passing servant, and listened to her story.
Just a few minutes ago she had gone to a ladies' dressing room near the great gambling salon which Wentworth had not yet seen. At the entrance to the dressing room she had seen the politician and Jerry Stone entering an adjacent room. The politician appeared to be very much upset about something, and Jerry Stone had seemed frightened.
In the dressing room Nita had been able to hear voices from the adjacent room into which the two men had entered. Alone for a few minutes, she had pressed her ear against the intervening wall and had heard the politician pleading with somebody not to do something.
"Dick, it was pitiful," Nita said. "That wretched man had some good in him. He was pleading for his wife and kids, pleading with all his heart. He said that he would do anything that he could, but that he couldn't do what they wanted— said he didn't have the power. When he talked about his wife and his children, they just laughed at him."
"Wait a minute," interrupted Wentworth. "Who laughed? Did Jerry Stone laugh?"
Nita shook her head and frowned, trying to remember. She did not think that Jerry Stone had laughed. She did not think that she had heard his voice through the wall at all. The laugh was in a deep, coarse, bellowing voice.
"His last word was his wife's name, Dick!" Nita shuddered. "Then came the shot and a groan and something falling, tumbling onto the floor."
"What happened when the shot was fired?" he asked quickly. "Didn't people come running?"
"No," she answered. "There was too much noise— laughter and drums! I am the only person who heard the shot."
"Can you find this murder room again?" he asked.
She nodded and led the way through a side door which led them out of the ballroom without passing through the reception room of red fire. A few steps along a passage brought them to the door of the ladies' dressing room, and Nita pointed to the door of the room next to it.
"In there," she whispered. "Oh, Dick! What are you going to do?"
"I am going to proceed with the taking apart of Mortimer Mack," was his quiet reply. "Is Ned Morris in the gambling salon, and can you find your way back there?"
"Yes, yes."
"Then go back there and tell Ned that I say he is not to leave you until I return."
There was nobody else in the passage, and as she walked slowly down its length, Wentworth stepped to the door which she had indicated, leaned his back against it. His hand, behind him, felt the knob and turned it. The door was locked. Quickly he took a bunch of curious keys from his pocket, selected one and inserted it in the lock. Quietly and expertly he turned the key. Then moving very swiftly, he faced the door, opened it and entered the room. Behind him he closed the door and locked it again.
The room was empty save for the silent form of Buckley upon the floor, where he lay with blood staining his shirt front. Book shelves lined the walls, and the furniture consisted of a flat desk, a chair and a steel safe, which appeared to be very efficient.
Wentworth knelt beside the still form and pulled open the shirt, bloodying his fingers a bit.
As he did so, the man moved a little. Buckley was still alive, but the wound was bad and he was going fast. He was trying to speak, but his voice had almost failed him.
"Nellie!" he whispered. "Nellie mustn't know. Nellie and the kids mustn't— "
The whisper ceased— for Buckley was dead. Behind him Wentworth, kneeling beside the dead man, heard a very slight click and the sound of a very soft footstep. He was certain that nobody had entered the door which he had locked behind him. There was only that one door, yet the room now held someone else in addition to himself— and the dead man.
He was unarmed and he had just penetrated a second secret of the iniquitous abode of Mortimer Mack— a ghastly secret, the discovery of which would probably bring vengeance dire and swift. And he knew that any sudden move on his part would bring that vengeance immediately.