Plymouth building and the Grand Central station destroyed! Grand Central station where thousands poured into the city daily! More blocks of the city laid to waste, pulverized by tons of steel and masonry piling down from incredible heights.
A thousand had died in the crash of the Sky Building despite police warning and frantic efforts to clear the surrounding area. And up there in the Plymouth building, there had been no warning!
Imagination reeled beneath the shock. There would be thousands, literally thousands who would never again be heard from, whose families would never know their fate. And it would be better so. Wentworth thought of that pit in the street with its dark, viscous pool. A shudder swept him. He was trembling all over, his muscles jerking and quivering. Slowly he fought himself to calmness. Kirkpatrick had gasped a few orders that had sent police to the scene of disaster.
Slowly, a cold rage swept the horror from Wentworth's breast. He turned a graven, bitter face to Kirkpatrick.
"Better clear the whole area of skyscrapers of people," he said, and he could scarcely recognize his own voice. "Keep it clear until inspections can be finished. Better call on some expert in skyscraper mechanics to help."
Kirkpatrick nodded. "Good God in heaven," he whispered. "I hope the Spider and not myself gets these fiends. The Spider won't have to use civilized methods of punishment."
Wentworth nodded. He slowly took out his cigarette case and offered it to Kirkpatrick and the Police Commissioner's fingers shook. Wentworth's hand was like rock. He felt that his heart was like that, too, cold and hard. He lighted a cigarette.
"I think, Kirk," he said calmly, "that you can count on that."
Resolutely, Wentworth drove all shock and horror from his brain as he strode back up Fifth Avenue to where Nita waited for him, huddled in furs in her small coupe. A glance at his face told her that he knew what had happened, that he was intent on plans, and she drove southward without a word, circling to the west around the area of shattered buildings and streets. The traffic congestion stalled them for long minutes and they deserted the car for an elevated train, walked across town to Wentworth's apartment.
The private elevator to his penthouse shot them upward fifteen floors, and the door swung open as they crossed the hall. The ruddy face of old Jenkyns, the butler, was creased with smiles as he ducked his crown of white hair in a profound bow. He always greeted Nita thus. It was his fondest hope that some day his master would marry and cease these mad adventures of his—these quixotic tilts with crime.
Wentworth did not speak. He stalked past his butler, across the living room with its stone fireplace and smoky beams into the music-room beyond. Within the door, he stopped. He heard Nita behind him and turned to face her, a slow, grave smile moving his lips. Nita came close into his arms, pressed her bronze curls against his breast. In her heart was sadness, too. She knew that Wentworth had pledged himself ever to battle the underworld, ever to right the crooked wrongs that afflicted humanity. Right now, she was not sorry. This was a crusade she would not have the Spider shirk.
But there was sadness within her, too. She knew how both of them had fought their love because the Spider could never marry—how could the Spider marry and build a home, have a family, when he knew not what day the police would clap vengeful hands upon his shoulders and send him to his death as a common murderer?—but their love had proved stronger than even the Spider's grim power.
In the end, Nita, too, had taken the pledge of service with which Wentworth had bound himself. It was their only pleasure that they fought side by side through death and horror. Something of all this was flitting through Wentworth's brain as he clasped her close in his arms, smiling grimly above her head into the empty blackness beyond his windows which formerly had
A thousand had died in the crash of the Sky Building despite police warning and frantic efforts to clear the surrounding area. And up there in the Plymouth building, there had been no warning!
Imagination reeled beneath the shock. There would be thousands, literally thousands who would never again be heard from, whose families would never know their fate. And it would be better so. Wentworth thought of that pit in the street with its dark, viscous pool. A shudder swept him. He was trembling all over, his muscles jerking and quivering. Slowly he fought himself to calmness. Kirkpatrick had gasped a few orders that had sent police to the scene of disaster.
Slowly, a cold rage swept the horror from Wentworth's breast. He turned a graven, bitter face to Kirkpatrick.
"Better clear the whole area of skyscrapers of people," he said, and he could scarcely recognize his own voice. "Keep it clear until inspections can be finished. Better call on some expert in skyscraper mechanics to help."
Kirkpatrick nodded. "Good God in heaven," he whispered. "I hope the Spider and not myself gets these fiends. The Spider won't have to use civilized methods of punishment."
Wentworth nodded. He slowly took out his cigarette case and offered it to Kirkpatrick and the Police Commissioner's fingers shook. Wentworth's hand was like rock. He felt that his heart was like that, too, cold and hard. He lighted a cigarette.
"I think, Kirk," he said calmly, "that you can count on that."
Resolutely, Wentworth drove all shock and horror from his brain as he strode back up Fifth Avenue to where Nita waited for him, huddled in furs in her small coupe. A glance at his face told her that he knew what had happened, that he was intent on plans, and she drove southward without a word, circling to the west around the area of shattered buildings and streets. The traffic congestion stalled them for long minutes and they deserted the car for an elevated train, walked across town to Wentworth's apartment.
The private elevator to his penthouse shot them upward fifteen floors, and the door swung open as they crossed the hall. The ruddy face of old Jenkyns, the butler, was creased with smiles as he ducked his crown of white hair in a profound bow. He always greeted Nita thus. It was his fondest hope that some day his master would marry and cease these mad adventures of his—these quixotic tilts with crime.
Wentworth did not speak. He stalked past his butler, across the living room with its stone fireplace and smoky beams into the music-room beyond. Within the door, he stopped. He heard Nita behind him and turned to face her, a slow, grave smile moving his lips. Nita came close into his arms, pressed her bronze curls against his breast. In her heart was sadness, too. She knew that Wentworth had pledged himself ever to battle the underworld, ever to right the crooked wrongs that afflicted humanity. Right now, she was not sorry. This was a crusade she would not have the Spider shirk.
But there was sadness within her, too. She knew how both of them had fought their love because the Spider could never marry—how could the Spider marry and build a home, have a family, when he knew not what day the police would clap vengeful hands upon his shoulders and send him to his death as a common murderer?—but their love had proved stronger than even the Spider's grim power.
In the end, Nita, too, had taken the pledge of service with which Wentworth had bound himself. It was their only pleasure that they fought side by side through death and horror. Something of all this was flitting through Wentworth's brain as he clasped her close in his arms, smiling grimly above her head into the empty blackness beyond his windows which formerly had
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