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Originally published in the May, 1935 issue of The SpiderTM

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Copyright 1935 by Popular Publications Inc.Copyright renewed © 1963 and assigned to Argosy Communications, Inc.

All rights reserved. Licensed to Vintage New MediaThe Spider is a trademark of Argosy Communications, Inc.

REIGN OF THE DEATH FIDDLERBy Grant Stockbridge

Exactly at eleven-thirty each Thursday night the Death Fiddler conductedhis unholy orchestra in a symphony of murder which sounded the doom ofsome marked victim. A master of the grotesque, he held an entire city inthe strangle-hold of a helpless terror; even the forces of the Law stood inshuddery, superstitious fear of this new destroyer. And then the SPIDER,Master of Men, modern knight-errant of mankind, rose up against him!But the SPIDER, too, was baffled; not all Richard Wentworth's effortsseemed enough to destroy this new, this ugliest of all Hydra-headsrearing out of the noxious slime of the Underworld. . . .

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The SpiderTM REIGN OF THE DEATH FIDDLER May, 1935_______________________________________________________________________________________________

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A production of Vintage New Media™www.vintagelibrary.com

2

CHAPTER ONEBrand of Death

BRAKES squealed viciously just besideWentworth and he whirled toward the sound withhis cane poised like a sword. A handsomelimousine had been crowded to the curb by asmaller sedan. Even as Wentworth watched,three men with guns in their fists boiled out of thesedan and converged on the other car.

Anger swept over Wentworth like a wave.Every night now a score of such robberies werebeing perpetrated. And he, in three months ofeffort, had been unable to run to earth the newcriminal leader who was responsible—a leaderwho had bred such a contempt for the law in hisfollowers that they dared to strike within a fewhundred feet of Police Headquarters itself—asthese men were striking now.

Wentworth cursed under his breath. He waswithout weapons—his permits having beenrecently revoked at the insistence of the Mayor—and even now he was on his way to a newlyestablished hideout near the Bowery, where hehoped to obtain a valuable clue to the identity ofthis new criminal leader.

Yet he could not stand idly by, now. Even ashe stepped lithely forward, a bandit's automaticblasted and the chauffeur, who had attempted adefense of the limousine, slumped forward overthe steering wheel, his own gun thumping to thefloor.

The limousine's one passenger, a womanwrapped in white furs, began to scream—shrillexplosive shrieks that hurt the ears. The banditsdeployed, one on each side with an eye on thechauffeur while one stepped briskly toward therear to rob the woman. He had seized the doorhandle when Wentworth tapped him on theshoulder with his cane.

"Just a minute, my dear fellow." With aneffort he masked anger beneath a suave exterior."I don't believe the young lady wants to make youracquaintance."

The bandit whirled with a snarl, andWentworth's cane broke his knuckles. The man'sautomatic dropped to the pavement.

"Thank you," Wentworth said, and stoopedfor the gun.

The other two bandits had ignoredWentworth's presence—no doubt expecting himto take to his heels at the first threat of violence.His nonchalant interruption took them by surprise.Now, as he felt for the fallen gun—withoutsuccess—the nearest of the pair threw down onhim.

Wentworth caught the coat of the injuredcrook and jerked him forward off balance—just intime to have him take his companion's bullet inthe ribs. Before the gunman could shoot again,Wentworth pulled the head loose from his cane.It separated with a shrill whisper of steel and hecame up from his crouch with a rush, the short-bladed sword his cane had concealed burying halfits length in the breast of the killer.

The man stood perfectly straight for a countof three. Then his head went back with astrangled cough, and he slumped to thepavement.

Wentworth smiled grimly as he stooped tosnatch for the second crook's gun. ForWentworth was the Spider. And to the Spider,champion of oppressed humanity, crusaderagainst crime, there was a joy in any righteousbattle for mankind. Even now the fighting bloodwas singing through his veins.

IF THE man on the other side of thelimousine had ideas of staying to fight, theSpider’s grim chuckle changed his mind. He tookto his heels precipitately as Wentworth, capturedgun in hand, leaped clear of the tangle of bodies.But the Spider flung up the gun, came down tosight as calmly as on the target range, and firedtwice.

The bullets caught the gunman in the backas he was twisting away. His body spun aboutand he hit the pavement with his shoulders. Hislegs flew high, and the momentum of his dashrolled his body over on its face.

Wentworth looked down at the gun inhis hand and, weighing it on his palm, nodded. Itwas a very satisfactory weapon.

He turned toward the limousine. Thechauffeur's terrified face was peering whitely athim through the windshield. A dark splotchshowed on the man's left shoulder—notwithstanding which he wrenched the carbackward suddenly, kept the motor roaring at fullspeed until it backed around a corner half a blockaway, then spurted ahead, northward.

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Wentworth whipped a silken handkerchieffrom his breast pocket, polished the automaticclean of fingerprints and tossed it ringingly to thepavement. He caught up his sword, wiped itsblade on his victim's clothing, and sheathed itonce more in his cane. Then his hand dropped tohis vest pocket and came away with a platinumcigarette lighter. Somewhere off to the west apolice whistle began burbling frantically, butWentworth still stood looking down at the bodies.

He was a handsome, lithe figure, withsquared, confident shoulders and an arrogantpoise to his head. Yet, despite the nonchalanceof his stance—as he stood there leaning upon hiscane his thin-jawed face was hard and there werecold lights in his gray-blue eyes. He was thinkingthat, for the healthful example it would impart tothe rest of the underworld, these men should befound with the Spider’s scarlet seal upon theirforeheads.

Yet he had promised himself never again touse that dread symbol while in his own identity. Itwas too dangerous to him personally and—amore cogent reason still to him—his mereidentification with the seal, even if he escapedcapture, would destroy his friend, StanleyKirkpatrick, Commissioner of Police.

There were still echoes of the gossip thathad followed Kirkpatrick's failure to shoot theSpider when he had had a conspicuousopportunity to do so. Afterward the Spider hadshot the Commissioner through the shoulder. Thathad settled the gossip as it had been meant todo—but a very little of the wrong kind of activitywould start all that again.

No, he mustn't do it. That police whistle, too,was piping nearer now.

But despite his thoughts, Wentworth did notpocket the cigarette lighter which contained theseals. There were powerful reasons for imprintingthe brand. Since the new underworld brain hadtaken control, criminals had lost all respect andfear of the law. A series of bold and carefullyplanned robberies had been perpetrated; manywitnesses had been murdered. A bank had beenlooted of half a million, a rich jewelry storestripped. And the bandits grew increasingly bold.

It was obvious that if the new underworldleader continued unchecked, the criminal elementwould soon throw off all restraint. A major factor inits higher daring was the fact that no one paid thepenalty for any of his crimes. Many had beenarrested, but few had come to trial. And when

they did, the witnesses disappearedmysteriously—sometimes even terribly.

It was not the fault of the police. More thantwenty of them had been killed lately in pursuit ofbandits. But once the criminals escaped from thescene of the crime, they were virtually sure ofsafety. Thus the morale of the force was breaking.

Wentworth knew the reasons for all this:political protection of the underworld. There wasan unholy alliance of criminals and politicians.That, in fact, was what had blocked him in all hisefforts to trace out this new crime leader; thatwas why, after weeks of failure, he had quit hislife of luxury and ease and come to theunderworld to live under the assumed identity ofone Limpy Magee, owner and operator of asecond hand shop. That was why, too forreasons of personal safety—he should not implanthis dread seal now.

Personal safety! Wentworth laughed. Slowly,grimly, he stooped above the bodies of the dead.To the paling forehead of each, he pressed hissinister scarlet seal—the emblem of hisvengeance—a red Spider with sprawled hairylegs and venomous fangs.

He must take this risk in order to strike moresurely at that criminal chief. It was time theunderworld felt again the fear of the Spider,merciless killer of the night who wreaked uponthem the one vengeance which could chill theirblood—the same penalty they meted out toothers.

THE seals imprinted, Wentworth strodebriskly away.

His cane tapped the walk lightly. He movedwith a deceptively easy swing, but coveredground rapidly. He could hear the beat of policefeet now. The whistling had ended, but that onlymeant the policeman's call for help had beenanswered.

Before he had imprinted the seal, Wentworthcould have faced down the law. He had killedcriminals only—had prevented a holdup. Thatmight have been difficult to prove after the flight ofthe victims, but probably he could have made itconvincing.

Now, however, with the seal of the Spider onthe men's foreheads, he would be doomed. Hehad to get away fast, now. Just had to turn thecorner just ahead . . .

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He was hastening toward that corner whenaround it, with a whistling moan of tires, came apolice roadster without lights!

Wentworth jerked his head about. A footpoliceman pounded into view behind him. Thecorner street light glinted on a gun in his hand.

A sharp curse rose in Wentworth's throat.Caught! Surrounded by police. And back there theseal branding him as the Spider already markedhis kills!

Even as this flashed through his mind, hewas darting away from the police roadster, backtoward the lone officer. The cop raced to meethim, shouting as he ran.

"Halt! Halt, or I'll fire!"His gun belched flame. But the lead

screamed overhead as Wentworth ducked. Hehurtled into a doorway, ran along the dim hallbehind, then crouched beneath the stairs. Thepoliceman's heavy feet pelted toward him.Outside, the patrol car squealed to a halt.

Wentworth's lips were hard against his teeth.He did not fight police. He helped them byrounding up criminals they could not touch. Yet intheir eyes the Spider was a wanton murderer! Itwas not their business to analyze the reasonsbehind his kills. So they hunted him as furiouslyas did the underworld upon which he preyed.

Still, Wentworth could not permit himself tobe captured. Even if he escaped later, the delaywould ruin all his plans for the night. Already hemight be too late to keep his rendezvous withDanny Dawson, master cracksman.

Not that Danny knew he had a rendezvouswith the Spider—or that through him the Spiderhoped to gain a clue to the new underworld chiefhimself! Danny had merely stated to a friendlybarkeep that he wasn't drinking because he had ajob that night. Wentworth, in his disguise as LimpyMagee, had overheard. He planned to trail Dannyto the job and thus gain the clue that, during threemonths of increasing criminal activity, he hadfailed to find.

PAST the Spider’s hiding place the copstormed, panting, gun in hand. Wentworth's canelicked out. The rubber-tipped ferrule caught thepoliceman behind the ear and spilled him heavilyto the floor. His gun skated along the hall,

bumped the wall, and discharged with a slammedroar.

The two policemen from the car had plungedinto the doorway, but with the shot they ducked tocover. And while they did so, Wentworth ran onsoundless feet to the back door, and out into theprotective darkness of the night.

Five minutes later, after threading a deviousway among debris-piled yards and across twoempty streets, he entered a back entrance to thebasement of a slatternly frame house.

In the darkness he threw on the light of apocket flash. It showed the way to a brick which,as he pressed it, opened a door in the apparentlysolid foundation wall. He stepped inside, andminutes later an entirely different figure emerged.Wentworth was now Limpy Magee, owner of thesecond-hand shop beneath which he had effectedthis transformation.

His left leg held stiff by a contrivance of steeland rubber-padded straps, he limped heavily upthe cellar steps. His shoulders were slouched, hishair was a tousled, mouse-colored mop above alumpy, grimed forehead.

He had scarcely stumped into the shop andunlocked the door when a policeman with a drawngun stalked belligerently into his shop.

"I'm frisking this dump," he said harshly."What d'yah want me to do, cheer about it?"

snarled Limpy Magee, alias Wentworth.When the cop had searched the shop, the

cellar, even the living quarters above a narrowflight of creaking stairs—and found nothing—heconfronted Wentworth once more in the clutteredstore. Other police were marching by in patrols,entering every doorway and vacant lot.

"What's the big idea?" Wentworth demanded."A kid been snatched?"

The cop grinned crookedly."Better wash your forehead, Limpy. The

Spider’s somewhere around this block. Maybehe's coming to stick a seal on you."

Wentworth began to curse in the best LimpyMagee manner. He shook his clenched fists overhis head at the jeering policeman and, when theofficer was gone, stumped about in angry circles.But inwardly he was chuckling. The cop's warninggave him a good reason for leaving his shop. Andin a very few minutes now he must be ready tofollow Danny Dawson when Danny went on his"job."

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Hobbling to the door, Wentworth shoutedacross the street. Presently a thin, worn girl oftwenty or so came to the shop. She wasshivering beneath the thin shawl which was heronly wrap.

"You want me, Mr. Magee?" she askedtimidly.

"What d'yah suppose I called you for?" heasked gruffly. "Keep shop till I come back."

The girl smiled up at him. "Yes, Mr. Magee."His gruffness did not frighten her. He paid

her well for keeping the shop during his manyalliances. Much too well, in fact.

Hastily Wentworth limped out and up thestreet. His lumpy forehead was hidden under agreasy cap, his unpressed suit lay like a bagabout him. He was lucky: Danny was just leavinghis own frowzy quarters and walking furtively upthe street. Inconspicuously, Wentworth trailedhim in a battered old coupe he had stolen for thenight's work. He would pay the owner well. . . .

THE Spider had no trouble in followingDanny to the house he intended burglarizing. Afew minutes after the yegg entered, Wentworthput in a call for police. Then he went in behindDanny. He found the cracksman, frightened butvenomous, behind a leveled gun, ready to kill.

"Cheez . . . wait!" Wentworth exploded thewords in a scared whisper, and was going on toexplain how he had just happened to try for thesame jewels this same night—when a police sirensounded.

"God, let's get outta here!" he cried then.They fled, together, out to the stolen coupe.

Once in it and moving, however, its motorproved feeble. Police guns were still bangingbehind as they neared the vicinity of theirrespective hangouts on the Bowery.

Danny Dawson was terrified. "We're gone,"he whined. "Oh God, we're caught!"

Wentworth crouched lower over the wheel,tried to jockey another half mile of speed out ofthe bellowing motor. He laughed softly. To theSpider this night was well worth its risks if,through it, he gained Danny's confidence, or aclue to this newly arisen master of crime. . . .

Danny screamed as a bullet smashed therear window of the coupe, stinging his neck withflying fragments. Wentworth crouched still lower

and, narrow-eyed and tense, peered along thenight-darkened street.

Black steel pillars of the elevated railwaythrew shadows across the path. Close walls flungback the racket of the motors and banging guns.If the police would just keep on missing for threeblocks more . . . .

A hissing blast rocked the coupe. A rear tirehad been shot off. The car veered wildly, racedhead-on for a steel elevated pillar. Wentworththrew all his weight into a wrench upon thesteering wheel. The coupe lifted on two wheels,wavered, then bounced off the pillar, skated intothe left-hand lane of traffic. For frantic moments,Wentworth fought to prevent the car fromcapsizing. Then he reached a corner and yawedaround it.

"Get ready to jump, Danny!" he shouted."We've got to. . . .”

The coupe rammed against a lamp post, andsteam jetted from the radiator. The windshieldcollapsed inward. Flinging out to the streetWentworth plunged head down for the blackmouth of an alley farther along the block.

The race was no longer on even terms.Police could easily overtake men on foot. YetWentworth's laughter lingered on his lips in a stiffsmile.

If he and Danny both came through this, hewould have Danny's confidence all right, perhapsa clue to the underworld chief! Damn thisartificially stiff leg. It hampered his movements.

A screech of skidding tires swept his mindclean of all thought except escape. The police carhad rocketed around the corner behind them.Guns spoke eagerly.

"The alley, Danny!" Wentworth yelled. "Duckinto the alley!"

Danny was zigzagging down the pavement,frantic shrieks jerking from his lips. He was withintwenty feet of the alley's safety when, with a shrillbleat of terror, he flopped crushingly upon hisface.

CHAPTER TWOThe Master's Warning

WENTWORTH cursed as he raced toDanny's side and dragged him toward the alley.

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Bullets whined closer now, and despair grippedhim. He had risked much to win the confidence ofthe safecracker, only to have a police bullet. . . .

Well, he would play his cards to the limit. Heknew this territory as only a man who must bealert for assassins at every breath could know it.

Lead clipped the bricks inches away from hishead as he dragged Danny into the alley. Hedropped to the ground, wriggled through awarehouse window, still dragging the other afterhim. He shouldered the unconscious yegg, gropedacross the basement. The gray light of anotherwindow showed on the opposite side. Throughthat he crawled, and into a dark street, where hemoved in a jolting trot with his burden. Reaching adark doorway a hundred feet up another alley, hepounded on it insistently. Three knocks—twoknocks—three knocks.

Often, crouched in this dark alley, he hadheard the signal for admittance to Collins' backroom. He knew the place was barred to all savethe criminally elite—Danny Dawson being amongthem. Here, if anywhere, he could get informationabout the chief of the underworld . . . And evendead, Danny could help him, could gain LimpyMagee an entrance here.

A slot in the door opened and a beam of lightslid out. Wentworth held Danny so that the lighthit the crackman's face.

"Quick! It's Danny Dawson!" he gasped. "Acop drilled him!"

The door jerked open and Wentworthstaggered in with his burden. He was led rapidlyup a steep flight of stairs, into a room where hewas able to lay Danny down on a cot and look athim. And then his eyes brightened with joy. Thewound was only a crease across the scalp.

It took fifteen minutes to revive Danny,during which time Wentworth was helped by threeobviously hostile men. Danny finally looked upwith a sickly grin and held out a shaking slenderhand.

"You're a pal, Limpy Magee," he saidweakly. "I was a goner and you snatched me outof it."

As he told the three hard faced hoods whathad happened, their hostility faded.

"I vouch for Limpy, see," Danny told them."He's my pard." A half hour later he was feelingwell enough to lead Wentworth downstairs intothe crowded backroom of Collins' saloon.

IT WAS a ratty little place with smoke-greased walls, shut off from a bar to the front by awooden partition. Round wooden tables werejammed into it, with men and women crowdedabout them. Against the street wall was a tinycleared space for dancing, partly occupied by apiano which, as Wentworth entered, was beingthumped tinnily by a thin man who wore a derby.

The story of his rescue of Danny had gonebefore, so that men and women, whose facesadorned the rogue's galleries of half the continent,greeted him as Limpy Magee with easy familiarity.A dark girl in a tight red dress jumped up andsqueezed his rock-hard bicep.

"Think you could carry me, Limpy?" shecooed.

Wentworth caught her by the waist andhoisted her to a seat on his left shoulder. Herheels drummed his chest and, laughing hesnatched a neat automatic from a garter holsterinside her right knee.

"Damn you, Limpy!” She twisted both handsinto his mouse-colored hair and he set her downquickly lest she pull off his wig.

The girl snatched back her gun and, for amoment, seemed on the point of shooting him.Then she laughed, caught his ears with bothhands, kissed him, and swaggered back to herseat.

A pretty little creature, Wentworth thought tohimself. But he had instantly identified her. Shewas suspected of having shot two men to death ina jewelry store holdup. Snakey Annie, they calledher. She had that kind of eyes.

Her gesture to Wentworth was the finalaccolade of the underworld. From now on, LimpyMagee belonged. He limped heavily, on his stiffleg, toward a table. Contemptuously Dannypalmed a lesser crook from a chair and a broad-beamed waiter slopped liquor between them.

"You're a pal, Limpy," said Danny lifting hisglass. "Here's to you."

They tossed that one off and Wentworth lethis eyes stray slowly over the tobacco foggedroom. The place was rife with the odor of stalebeer and whisky, and under-washed humanity.

He saw that Snakey Annie was glowering athim over her whisky glass. She pushed to herfeet and began to weave her way toward him.Danny laughed softly, a shrill whinny.

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"It's just too bad if you've got another goil,Limpy," he said. "Snakey Annie's got her eye onya."

Wentworth grunted disdainfully as heinspected others in the rowdy, dangerous crowd.He was an unprepossessing figure in LimpyMagee's greasy, unpressed suit. The mouse-colored hair sprawled across a lumpy foreheadand a two-day beard glistened on his jowls. Witha bulbous nose and hard eyes squeezed bywrinkled flesh, Lumpy Magee looked to be a dour,disgruntled fellow of forty-odd. His second-handshop on Clancy was a good "front" where, it waswhispered, he had been known to buy up plentyof stolen jewelry.

But even though the underworld had heardthis, even though his supposed Chicagobackground had been carefully synthesized, hehad arrived too recently to be fully trusted.

Snakey Annie dropped into a seat across thetable and Wentworth resolutely kept his eyesscanning the room. Quite aside from the fact thatall his love was given to a woman of his owncultured, well-to-do class—Nita van Sloan—hewanted no entanglements with underworldwomen. Women were dangerous, in such rolesas he played.

AS HE glanced about, a hush dropped overthe room. Hoarse laughter died and the tinnypiano fell quiet with a discordant crash whichlingered as if uneasily in the thick air.

It was a moment before Wentworth found thereason. Then he saw a man, a newcomer,standing at the foot of the steep stairs whichslanted across the back part of the room. Theman had a fine sweep of white hair across a highforehead, a thin, severe nose upon which pince-nez glasses sat firmly.

But it was not that which opened the loose-lipped mouth of Limpy Magee in a gasp. Acrossthe formal white bosom of the man's dress shirtwas a stitching of bullet holes, and from them thinstreams of red had trickled.

There were four bullet holes in the man'schest, and yet he stood there smiling, nodding tothe crooks crowded into the room!

It was Snakey Annie who first recoveredfrom the shock of surprise that gripped the room.

"Nerts," she said, "that guy makes me sick."

Wentworth met the glittering gaze of the girl."What is that?"

"It's the big cheese, the chief high mucky-de-muck," Annie sneered, twisting her full lips. "He'sthe boy who's running things these days."

And then Wentworth gulped for anotherreason. "Cheez!" he cried. "That's Judge Scott!The guy who's so honest he held a cop-killer lastweek even when he was told he'd get the fingerput on him for it!"

Annie laughed throatily. "Naw that's not theJudge. That's just this guy's way of bragging.He's fixed himself up this way so's to tell the worldhe's going to murder Judge Scott tonight."

Wentworth looked back to the man again.So this was the new leader, the man he hadhunted for weeks to kill!

His fingers ached for the automatic nestlingunder his left arm. With one shot, he coulddestroy this man. It was even possible that in theexcitement he himself could escape.

But he made no move to draw. After all, thiswas only the first move in a major battle. He hadat last won a chance to come in contact with theunderworld's new chief. But he knew nothing ofthe other's organization, nothing of how he ruledthe criminals and controlled the politicians of thecity.

Wentworth had learned one thing. The manhad intelligence, a gift for sardonic humor, and areal feeling for the dramatic. Easy to see asmuch in his present gesture of parading in thegarb of the man he intended to kill. He had evenindicated how the victim would die!

"He done this for twelve weeks," DannyDawson whispered admiringly, "and he's calledthe turn every time."

For twelve weeks. Yes, there had been thatmany murders. Every Thursday night at eleventhirty—it was as if this criminal master scornedanything so obvious as a midnight murder—aman or woman had been killed. Rarely was it thesame means of death, or the same class ofperson. A crook had been tossed from a window;a woman clubbed; a millionaire strangled in hissleep. And tonight—Judge Scott was to be shotto death.

WENTWORTH'S muscles jerked as herealized that this was undoubtedly retribution forthe judge's refusal this day to dismiss a criminal

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charged with the murder of a policeman. It wasthe first time it had been possible to make anarrest stick. The police force, even the businessorganizations of the city, were becomingdemoralized. Since there had been no retributionfor crimes, bandits were running wild. There wasa score of holdups a day. . .Judge Scott's actionhad promised improvement, and now theunderworld chief would remove him.

Wentworth calculated swiftly. It was nowabout ten o'clock. In an hour and a half JudgeScott would be murdered—unless he could begiven warning. Yet, Wentworth knew, he himselfhadn't a chance of leaving. Danny would cling tohim for hours yet. And Snakey Annie. . . .

A heavy slip on the swinging doors which ledto the bar room jerked Wentworth's eyes thatway. Then he stiffened in his chair.

A policeman had entered Collins' back room.Swift thoughts raced through Wentworth's

mind. Had the policeman traced him and Dannyhere? A slow chill crept over his arms—not offear, but of apprehension. Blood drops might wellhave left a trail. His own artificially stiff leg madehim easily identifiable. . . .

The policeman looked slowly over the foggyroom. When his eyes reached Wentworth, theystopped.

Wentworth's muscles were tight and hard,but he returned the policeman's gaze withexcellently assumed indifference, his facewrinkled in frowning hostility. He knew thatDanny's hand had dropped to a gun. He saw toothat Snakey Annie's left hand hovered close to thehem of her skirt, where her automatic was hidden.Blood throbbed in Wentworth's temples and heswallowed, slowly.

Whether or not the policeman had come forhim, this officer was doomed. He would see theman in the garb of Judge Scott. . . .

Murder was in the silent tenseness of theroom, in the glittering eyes of the criminals.Wentworth realized the policeman's doom and herealized something else: the Spider could donothing to prevent it. If he moved to protect thepoliceman, even to warn him of what threatened,all Limpy Magee's hard-won prestige would bewiped out.

Damn the young fool, Wentworth thought, lethim die! One life was less important than thecapture of the underworld chief and the smashing

of his machine—less important than thepreservation of his own identity as Limpy Magee.

The policeman started as his eyes caughtsight of the blood-smeared figure across theroom. But as the false Judge Scott strolledcasually toward him, he apparently did notrecognize the imposture; merely suspected sometrick.

A barrel-chested bouncer, matted hair curlingfrom the open neck of his shirt, halted before theofficer, glowering.

"Git out," he ordered contemptuously.The cop's straight lips lifted a little at the

corners."Polite to strangers, aren't you?” He pushed

past the bouncer, toward a table where a manand a blonde girl sat with heads close together,watching him.

WENTWORTH'S eyes followed, and he feltthe throbbing, silent menace of the room. Everyface was turned intently toward the man in blueand brass; every face showed lip-lickingeagerness for the kill.

The bouncer stood glowering as thepoliceman bent and spoke in an undertone to thetwo at the table. One of them, the girl, jumped toher feet the next instant and her chair caromedagainst an adjacent table.

"I'll do what I damned well please," she criedshrilly.

The man with her got to his feet more slowly.He was small and dark, younger than thepoliceman.

"I think you'd better get out," he said heavily.Wentworth made his sly, Limpy Magee

features look as eager as any when he saw thebouncer reinforced by two dirty-aproned waiters.They blocked the door. At any moment, from thefog of tobacco smoke, might come the shot thatwould spill the young policeman dying to the floor.

The cop straightened, meeting the eyes ofthe two at the table, the slight smile still twistinghis lips. He glanced about the room, and for thefirst time seemed to become aware of his danger.The smile tightened on his lips, but the stickcontinued to twirl in his hand.

A bitter smile twisted Wentworth's own lips.That officer might be foolhardy, but he hadcourage. He knew suddenly that, regardless of

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the peril to himself and to his efforts to trap theunderworld leader he could not stand by and seecrooks butcher this fine young officer. The Spiderwould have to go to his defense.

Wentworth tossed off his drink, leanedacross the table toward Danny.

"Watch me have some fun with the copper,"he whispered.

Danny's eyes widened, but Wentworthshoved back his chair and a score of headsswung his way. Snakey Annie started to her feet,eyes glistening in admiration. Wentworthswaggered with his stiff-legged limp toward thedoomed policeman.

"Stand back," the cop ordered quietly."Aw, don't get sore," Wentworth smirked.

His voice insolent, he kept limping forward.Jeering laughter rippled over the room.

Wentworth was already a hero and hisswaggering pleased them. Wentworth's blue-graygaze locked with that of the policeman, whoseindignant face was slightly flushed. His wideshoulders were braced and he carried his headwith a certain erect pride.

Wentworth walked up close and poked outhis chin. "Did you say something to me?" hedemanded.

THE policeman put a hand in Wentworth'sface and shoved him back two paces. Jeeringlaughter started—and stopped as Wentworth'shand flashed across his chest and snatched out ashining blue automatic. The policeman's mouthopened, color drained from his face. He pawedfrantically beneath the tail of his coat.

Wentworth heard a cry he guessed camefrom the gang leader. He laughed shortly andfired. The policeman's cap was bullet-jolted fromhis forehead, which was divided by a streak ofblood. Then his head sagged, his knees hit thefloor and he pitched forward on his face.

Wentworth nodded slowly. Deliberately hethumbed on the safety of his automatic before hethrust it back into the holster. He turned towardthe crowd and grinned slowly.

"Sorry to steal all the fun," he said thickly. "Idon't like cops who push me in the face."

There was a moment of stunned silence,then a burst of violent laughter. The underworldleader with his falsely blooded breast looked atWentworth with still eyes.

"Hot stuff, Limpy!" a man yelled. "You're allright."

The small dark man to whom the policemanhad spoken snarled a curse. His face wassuffused with anger. He caught up a bottle andflung it at Wentworth's head, then rushed in afterit. Behind him, the blonde girl stood stiffly, staringat the policeman on the floor. Wentworth caughtthe bottle in mid-air and smacked its base on theman's head. The gangster crumpled, his facestriking Wentworth's shoes.

The girl screamed and went around thetable, toward the policeman, Wentworth steppedinto her path, caught her by the arm, jerked herclose to his sneering disguised face.

"Wait a minute, honey," he drawled, "justwhat are you aimin' to do?"

The girl pummeled at his face with her fistsand Wentworth yanked her wrists down behindher, pulled her closer, so that he looked down intolarge, panic-stricken blue eyes. Her tip-tilted hathad slid off and hair like spun silver cascadedover her shoulders.

"You beast!" she sobbed. "You beast! Youkilled Billy and now you've killed Jerry. Youwait...."

Wentworth lifted a puzzled face and shookhis head at the grinning crowd.

"What the hell is it all about?" he asked inbewilderment. "I kill a cop and a guy and a damegets sore at me!"

The girl went limp in Wentworth's arms andhe eased her into a chair, then stumbled assomething hard thumped behind his ear. Hewhirled in a crouch and stared into the funguseyes of Snakey Annie.

"You keep your hands off that girl, see," shesaid, her voice low and hard. "I'm not going tostand for any two-timing. . . . "

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10

Wentworth's eyes widened in amazement,then tightened in simulated anger. DannyDawson hadn't exaggerated. Snakey Annie hadchosen him for her own and because he hadwrestled with the other girl... Wentworth steppedforward sharply, twisted away the gun with whichshe had hit him and slapped her face—hard.

"Listen, baby," he said roughly, "I pick myown women, see? Now lay off before you gethurt."

Snakey Annie was sucking in dry sobbingbreaths. There were no tears in her eyes, but hergaze was bewildered.

Wentworth's blood was singing in his veins.Now he could warn the police to guard JudgeScott. He could return and follow the underworldchief in his macabre disguise when he left. Helooked sharply about the room. . . .The gang chiefhad vanished!

CHAPTER THREEThe Gang Chief's Triumph

WENTWORTH choked down a curse,whirled toward the swing doors that opened to thefront. Even now, he could have overtaken thechief—except for this policeman at his feet. Hestill had to carry the young fool from saloon, tosafety. . . .

A heavy hand topped each half of the swingdoors and they folded in to show a squat, heavy-set man with harsh black hair and a bearded face.He frowned down at the policeman, and thebouncer gave a hurried explanation. Wentworthknew the man. It was Collins, owner of thesaloon.

"That's okay,'' Collins said in a surprisinglylight, thin voice, "but Limpy will have to get thecorpse out of here. I don't mind a bit of goodclean fun, but . . ."

A gust of laughter swept the room andWentworth grinned. "Okay," he said. "I'll get himout."

He went down on a knee, pulled the cop'sarms across his shoulders, gruntingly heaved theman up in a fireman's lift. As he stood with theblue-coated figure curled across his shoulders,the bouncer peered at him with bulging eyes.

"Cheez, Limpy," he gulped. "I never knewyouse had it in ya."

Wentworth still frowned. "You don't knownothing," he grunted at the bouncer. "Open themdoors."

The barrel-chested bouncer hopped to holdopen the doors and Wentworth limped out throughthe front room where two bartenders stared inamazement. Danny came after him, butWentworth drove him back.

"I'll see you after I get rid of this."It was a monstrous commentary of the crime

wave bred by the new chief, that the Bowery wasvirtually deserted and that no policeman hadcome to investigate the shot. Wentworthshouldered the cop into a battered old sedan atthe curb—Limpy Magee's own car, which he hadparked there earlier in the day for use in switchingcars after his escape from the police withDanny—and drove off while a crowd watchedopen-mouthed from the doorway.

A pleasant smile was on Wentworth's lipswhen, after stopping long enough to phone

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Commissioner Kirkpatrick from a corner drugstore, he stopped before his shop in ClancyStreet. He had rescued the policeman fromcertain death and got away in time to phone thewarning about Judge Scott. By now police guardswould be thrown about the judge's home.Moreover, if he had not been able to follow theunderworld leader, he had at least performed anexploit which would attract the man's furtherattention.

Unlocking the door of his shop with its dust-smeared glass panel, he carried the policemanthrough a clutter of second-hand stuff up thecreaking flight of stairs. On the second floor, hehandcuffed the other to the bed, and beganbathing the wound on his forehead.

THAT shot had been dangerous. It had beennecessary to aim at precisely the right angle, orthe glancing bullet which creased the policeman'sskull might very well have broken the bone.

The policeman regained consciousness witha groan and a toss of his head. It was severalminutes before he could glare up at Wentworthwith pain-filled eyes.

"Listen, guy," he said harshly, "you turn meloose damned quick."

Wentworth nodded mildly. "Okay. But listen,ya wanta know why I did what I did? Well, I hatedto see a young cop killed. So I took this way ofsnatching you out of bigger danger, see?"

The cop glared his unbelief. "Boloney," hesnarled.

Wentworth shrugged. "Then figger out why Ididn't drill you through the belly, and why Imissed up close like that.”

"Look," said Wentworth, still in the role ofLimpy Magee. "I want to show you sump'n." Hewalked across the room to the wall twenty feetaway and set three dimes on their edges on thetop of a table against the wall. Then he returnedto the policeman's bedside and snapped out hisautomatic. He fired three times, and where thedimes had been were three holes in the wall. Thetop of the table was not scarred.

The policeman's face was white withsomething besides pain.

"That was shooting," he said slowly.Wentworth nodded dourly at the man's

forehead. "So was that, if you asks me. Nowlisten. I want some dope from you. I found out

from some letters that you're William R. Horace ofthe Clinton Street precinct. But who was the guyand the dame you was talking to?"

The policeman closed his eyes as if they hurthim and talked that way. "I owe you considerablefor not killing me back there in Collins'," he saidslowly. "The man was my brother, Jerry, and thegirl was Tony Musette who Jerry's engaged to.Jerry's kind of foolish—" he opened his eyes,looked up earnestly—"but he's not really wild. Hedeals faro for Big Mike Gallagan and thinks he'stough. He took Tony to Collins' to show off, and Iwas just telling him it was not a good idea."

Wentworth's lips curved. “You walked intoCollins' to tell him it wasn't a good idea, huh?"

The policeman smiled back. "Crooks areyellow," he said firmly.

“Not with forty-to-one odds behind 'em, theyain't," Wentworth corrected. "Now listen. You'regoing to kick, but I got to leave you here for anhour. Promise not to yell and I won't gag you. I'llturn you loose when I gets back."

"Okay, Limpy," Patrolman Bill Horaceagreed. "There's a lot about this that I don't get,but I guess I still owe you something. I won't yell."

IT was a vastly different figure than LimpyMagee's which emerged presently from Limpy'sshop, to move carefully through the debris-heaped yards to a side street, there to stride offenergetically. In body and carriage, the figurewas once more Richard Wentworth, clad in theperfectly tailored dark tweeds that suited him sowell, a brown borsalino jauntily across his brows,came swinging. He still, however, wore a wig,and certain disguising things had been done to hisface.

He stiffened abruptly, halted in his walk.From ahead came the sounds of raucous laughterand an old woman's shrill protests. Figures wovein and out darkly against a distant street light.Wentworth quickened his pace, jaw tightening.This was part of the wholesale criminality that hadbeen running rampant in the city. An unescortedwoman was not safe on the streets after dark.

As he came closer he saw that the womanhad a shawl about her head and had backed upagainst the wall of a building while a half dozenyoung toughs bedeviled her. They had alreadydumped her peddler's basket on the street.

"Aw, cut her throat," one growled, "she'smaking too much noise."

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A knife gleamed in the man's hand.Wentworth tapped him on the shoulder.

"Let me have a light, will you please?" heasked gently.

The young tough whirled, the knife held lowto strike. Wentworth smiled at him and indicatedagain the cigarette between his lips. His canewas held lightly in his left hand, its ferrule clear ofthe pavement and pointed slightly forward. Hewas conscious that two of the men were sidlingaway to encircle him. The old woman, forgotten,braced her shoulders against the wall and waited.She was bent far forward.

Wentworth's eyes narrowed and his heart'sbeats quickened. There was youth in the tensionof that woman's body, despite the shawl and theold woman's dress. The gleam of those eyes . . .

"Come, come," said Wentworth to the youthsharply. "I asked you for a match."

The youth with the knife snarled an oath andleaped forward, Wentworth's cane whippedacross and steel rang, flew against the wall andrang again. The tough reeled back, clutching hiswrist. Wentworth sprang after him. The head ofhis cane smashed upward against the fellow'sjaw, slammed him unconscious to the pavement.Then Wentworth had his back to the wall besidethe woman.

"I told you not to do this, Nita," he said softly."It's dangerous enough for one of us . . ."

"To your left, Dick," the woman said coolly.Her voice was not old. It was a soft and huskycontralto and there was a joyous note in it. Therewas no doubt now. It was Nita, Nita van Sloan,the Spider’s sweetheart, who had come to helphim in his underworld crusade!

WENTWORTH'S cane slid out in a rapierthrust and clicked against the forehead of a mancreeping in upon him. The fellow staggered back,shouldered the wall and rolled down it to thepavement. Another sprang forward, with ablackjack. The cane swung in a swift arc, crackedagainst the man's ear, and at the same instant thewoman fired a pistol, twice. The two men whoremained on their feet fled in wild disorder, theirfeet slapping the pavements hard, their bodiescrouched far forward.

"Get a taxi, Nita!" Wentworth snapped thewords as he jerked his automatic from its holster.He'd give these rowdies something to remember.He heard Nita's feet beat hurriedly away, then he

fired twice in quick succession toward the men.Even as he pulled the trigger, sending screaminglead after the men, two spurts of ruddy flamelanced from a dark doorway across the street.His automatic swung toward the spot, but he heldhis fire. The shots had not been aimed at himself.

The two fleeing men whose heels he hadmeant to burn with bullets pitched forward to thepavement. They hit heavily and rolled together,Into a dark, formless bundle. They had been thetargets of those mysterious shots. Wentworthknew that one of his bullets, aimed low, hadploughed into a falling body . . .

As he stared toward the doorway, a statelyfigure stepped from the dark, a man in a tall silkhat. Wentworth started forward with ready gun,then checked, sucked his breath.

The man was—the underworld leaderhimself!

The man paid no attention to Wentworth, butwalked on until he stood over the bodies of thetwo dead men. He pressed the ferrule of his caneto the cheek of one. A sizzling sound reachedWentworth's ears and as he advanced closely, hisnostrils quivered with the stench of burning flesh!

Wentworth cursed, sprang forward, and theother lifted the ferrule of his cane. He wore stillthe disguise of Judge Scott, but he had drawn acape about his shoulders so that the gory chestwas hidden.

"The other kill is yours," he said smoothly, inhis deep, grave voice. "I can't abide these streettoughs who molest women."

A strange anger sent a wave of heat overWentworth's body. The gang chief—a super-criminal and sponsor of a dozen deliberatemurders—had shot down toughs, and Wentworthfound himself enraged at the action. But he madeno move to shoot. He tucked his cane under hisarm and spilled the diffused rays of a small pocketflashlight on the dead. His light revealed a smallbrownish burn on the face of the slain man, Itwas in the shape of a small violin!

WENTWORTH jerked his shoulders. Herealized abruptly that this man could just as easilyhave killed him also. That he had chosen, instead,to strike down these other men.

A stiff smile lifted Wentworth's lips. Hepocketed his flashlight and drew out a smallplatinum cigarette lighter which he pressed to theforehead of the other dead man.

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As he straightened, the gang leader droppedhis gaze to the spot Wentworth had touched andslowly, he, too, smiled.

On the paling flesh of the dead crook'sforehead glowed the seal of the Spider.

"Ah," said the underworld leader gently, "theSpider."

"Yes," said Wentworth softly. "Can you thinkof any reason why I shouldn't kill you?"

The other still smiled. "Not a single one."Wentworth's smile gave way to a frown. He

jerked his head impatiently. The man had a validplea and he did not make it. He had stoodpassively by when he might have shot Wentworthand Nita, had entered the battle in their behalf atthe first moment he could be sure his bulletswould not fell the wrong person. He knew that,yet he said nothing.

And Wentworth knew that, quite aside fromthe fact that he still had no clue to the man'sorganization, he could not shoot him down in coldblood, as he deserved.

"Those were your men?" Wentworth saidharshly.

"Yes, they were.""But you helped me instead of them!"The gang chief shrugged. "As I said, I do not

approve of street toughs who molest women.""But that gives you a very definite claim upon

me not to harm you," Wentworth said sharply."You deliberately spared my life."

The false face of the chief opened in a laugh."I tell you frankly that if I had known who youwere, I would not have spared you."

Wentworth looked into the man's eyes and agrim smile twisted his lips. He hated all criminalswith a bitter and undimmed hatred, yet this manmerited respect. He was a fair and courageousenemy.

Clearly he was a gentleman. Once more, aman of strength and power had run amok. Butbecause of these very qualities he was the moredangerous to humanity.

Slowly Wentworth lifted his automatic until itbore on the heart of the other. The chief's gunwas in its holster, hidden beneath his buttonedcoat. But he still smiled steadily into Wentworth'seyes.

There were reasons for not killing the man, ofcourse. His personality was the only clue to the

machine which was throttling the city with itsdemoralizing grip upon the police and the courts.If this man died, there would be no trail to follow.On the other hand, his death would remove anintelligence of incalculable value to theunderworld, menace to the upper . . .

"Thanks, Spider," the man laughed. "I'llremember that you spared my life. Some day Imay reciprocate."

He started forward, lifting his hat in mark ofextreme respect, swinging his cane. BeforeWentworth had been fully aware of it himself, theman had read in his eyes the decision not to kill!

“Wait!”The other halted, turned, his head bowed

attentively."While we are being strictly honest,"

Wentworth said sharply, "let me tell you—it's onlythe fact that I believe your death would hindermore than help me in eliminating yourorganization, which saves you."

"Nice of you to say that," the otherresponded in his gentle, suave voice. "Iappreciate your attempting to release me from theobligation. But, Spider, the truth is this: you aretoo much of a gentleman to shoot anothergentleman in cold blood."

Wentworth took a brisk step forward. "Youmay be right, but I'm going to have a look at yourface!"

He lifted his hand to rip off the disguise, andheard a sharp footfall behind him. He sprungaside, jerking up his gun.

Too late. One of the men he had knockedout was already upon him with a club. Wentworthsqueezed the trigger, but the club caught hisforearm in the same instant. His gun clanked tothe pavement, the bullet went wild. A secondblow caught him on the forehead. His memorywent dead as the dark pavement rose to meethim.

CHAPTER FOURThe Spider’s Visit

WENTWORTH recovered consciousnesswith his head in Nita's lap, cold wind whipping hisface from the forward rush of the taxi. When he

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14

had recovered fully, they left that taxi, walkedwestward several blocks before they caughtanother. They did that twice more, before Nita leftWentworth to enter an old rooming house.

As he waited at the mouth of an alley, hefrowned at the pounding ache in his head. If heclosed his right hand, red-hot pincers tore at themuscles of his forearm. There was an ugly bluishlump on his forehead. It was pain even to think,but he must.

Nita had trouble locating a taxi, she had toldWentworth, and had returned just as the manclubbed him to the pavement. She had chargedforward, shooting, but the tough and the gangchief had ducked into a dark doorway. She hadthen persuaded the taxi driver to help her withWentworth.

"Persuaded?" Wentworth had askedcuriously. Her answer had been to expose anautomatic in her palm.

Wentworth reviewed these things as hewaited for her now.

Within ten minutes, she emerged from theblack mouth of the alley. She was as vastlychanged as Wentworth had been when he haddiscarded the disguise of Limpy Magee.

Her furred suit was modeled exquisitely toher slender figure and a jaunty Pied Piper's hatsat upon her curly hair. Now at last she washerself, Nita van Sloan, whose face and namewere well known in the highest circles of the city'ssociety and who, alone among women, knew theSpider's secret.

Wentworth ordered the new cab driver tohurry to Police Headquarters. He stripped off alldisguise and leaned back, eyes closed, on thecushions. Nita sat erectly beside him, holding hishand in both of hers while he told her with concisephrases what had happened in Collins' saloon.

As always, when he was with Nita there wasa strange mixture of joy and sorrow in his heart.Joy in her presence, sorrow that they could neverbe more to each other than this. For the Spidercould not marry, not while death and disgracemight drop a halter about his neck at any hour ofday or night. Not while underworld and policehunted him with drawn guns.

Both underworld and forces of the law hatedhim with an equal fervor. The criminal hate wasborn of his untiring efforts to purge their ranks.The police hated him for his uncanny speed ofaction, for his solution of gigantic crimes that put

to shame their most furious efforts. He made amockery of their best men by his ability to seizetheir prey before they even suspected who thatprey might be. Technically, the Spider was amurderer who boasted of his kills by printing aglowing red spider-shaped seal upon theforeheads of his prey. It did not matter that hekilled only those who deserved to die.

These things were a barrier to the love ofNita and Wentworth and he had struggleddesperately to put her from his mind and heart.But love had proved stronger than his will. Hehad told Nita of his work, and, far from turning herfrom him, the altruism of his thankless anduntiring labor for humanity had drawn her into hisarms. They had pledged, together, an undyingfight against the criminal foes of mankind.

BUT Wentworth had forbidden Nita to followhim into the underworld on his latest crusade.The underworld had turned too brutal, toofearless. Robbery, murder, rape were rife. Theseries of brutal murders that had been committedduring the last thirteen weeks, regularly everyThursday night at eleven-thirty, was anotherphase of the criminal revolt. Then there were theamazingly spectacular and successful robberies,with a loot totaling well over a million. The hellishpart of it all was the utter collapse of legalmachinery—the all-powerful political protectionafforded for the offenders.

No, Wentworth did not want Nita to enter theunderworld. But she had persisted, assuming thedisguise of an old peddler woman, to seekinformation that would help the Spider in his fight.As Wentworth finished his recital, Nita squeezedhis hand.

"I, too, have learned something," she saidquietly. "This new leader of the underworld callshimself the Death Fiddler."

Wentworth frowned, then smiled tightly. That,then, explained the violin brand that he used. . . .

Without warning, Nita was thrown againsthim. The taxi whirled unexpectedly to the left, tiresshrilling. The driver twisted a white face about.

"Gang had the street blocked," he calledback in explanation. "Saw 'em just in time."

Wentworth nodded, his lips grim. This wasthe sort of thing that went on all the time. Policeapparently helpless. Insurance companies raisingtheir premiums for robbery insurance.

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"It's damnable that police can't stop this sortof thing," Wentworth said to Nita thinly. He shookhis head, shrugged. "You didn't learn thesignificance of that man being called the DeathFiddler?"

Nita shook her head. "I think it hassomething to do with a symbol that is used amongmembers of his band."

Woolworth smiled mirthlessly. "The DeathFiddler and his band," he murmured. "They'remaking the city dance to their music. Rightenough. Murder music!"

The taxi squealed to a halt before the CenterStreet Headquarters and Wentworth escorted Nitaup the steps. In the light of the doorway, the twohad an aura of vitality and well-being. It wassomething more than the perfection of theirclothing, the jauntiness of their carriage.

Nita's gaze was quiet and unafraid despitethe perils they had been through. She was apoised woman of the world; her head of clusteredchestnut curls was carried high and proudly; therewas dignity as well as beauty in her face. Herbrow bespoken wisdom, and clear courage was inthe modeled firmness of her red lips.

Wentworth was lithely built, powerful withoutbulk. Ready strength was in the swing of hisbroad, perfectly tailored shoulders; a touch ofarrogance lay in the poise of the well-shapedhead. His face was vital, and indisputable charmlurked in the direct gray-blue eyes as well as themouth, with its hint of quiet humor. There was aset to the lean jaw that meant his lips could bethin and bitter, too.

A carrot-topped policeman jumped to openthe door of the Commissioner's private office andWentworth acknowledged the service with a brief;"Hello Cassidy."

The Commissioner, Stanley Kirkpatrick, roseto greet them with a grave smile. The room waslarge and square, high ceilinged, sparselyfurnished, the carpet soft underfoot.

Kirkpatrick retired behind his desk againwhen he had seated-the two. He leaned back,and his keen blue eyes had a frosty sparkle. If henoticed the welt on Wentworth's forehead, hegave no sign.

"When did you two get back from Canada?"he asked. His lips, beneath the spike-pointed,military mustache, were sardonic.

WENTWORTH returned the smile blankly.That was the story he had given out when he hadquit his Fifth Avenue apartment for theunderworld, and Kirkpatrick knew the story was afalsehood. Kirkpatrick knew beyond any questionthat Wentworth was the Spider, had told him soto his face. But there never had been any finalproof of his knowledge. Furthermore, Kirkpatrickadmired and respected this killer of the night whostruck swiftly where the law's machinery, for allKirkpatrick's brilliance, could move only with acautious tread. And he had declared an armedtruce with Wentworth.

When he could, he would help the Spider inhis battles against the underworld. But if everthere came a time when proof was put into hishands, he would act with full power and brillianceof which he was capable, even if it meantsending his closest friend to the electric chair.That was why there was a sardonic smile on hislips as he asked now about Canada, knowing fullwell that Wentworth had been about the work ofthe Spider.

"The hunting was boring," Wentworth saidwith a smile, "and I never did care for fish."

Kirkpatrick laughed. "What brings you here?"Wentworth nodded pleasantly. "I heard that a

fellow called the Death Fiddler was cutting up highjinks here, murdering police and one thing andanother, so I thought I'd give you a hand."

Kirkpatrick's blue eyes narrowed. "So hecalls himself the Death Fiddler, does he? Thanks,Dick."

The two men faced each other with the warysmiles of fencers, Wentworth's lean, tanned faceblankly innocent. Kirkpatrick's shrewd, with eyesnarrowed, lips pursed beneath his militarymustache. He had a saturnine face, cut deepwith creases of determination and humor. Blackhair lay straight and flat upon his crown, stippledwith silver at the temples. A gardenia graced thelapel, typifying his immaculate dress.

Nita laughed, a little uncertainly. "There'ssomething going on here that doesn't quite meetthe eye," she said. "What are you two fencingabout?"

Wentworth raised his brows. They weretilted upward quirkily and when he arched themthey were mocking. "Nothing at all, dear," he saidblandly.

Kirkpatrick closed his lips more firmly. Thesmile left his face. "Things are much more serious

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than I dare admit," he said, his words clipped andprecise. "Fifty police have been killed by banditsin the past two weeks. Three have been shotdown tonight and another man is missing. . . . "

"That last wouldn't be one William Horace,would it, Kirk?"

Kirkpatrick stiffened perceptibly. His fingers,forming a neat tent above the blotter, whitenedwith pressure.

"This is no time for joking, Dick," he saidsharply. "If you know anything about Horace, tellme."

Wentworth nodded amiably, drew a platinumand black cigarette case from his pocket.Kirkpatrick glowered at him for a moment, thenshrugged and accepted a cigarette when the casereached him. Wentworth deliberately lighted allthree cigarettes from the single flame of hislighter. He snapped it out, set down and nodded.

"I'm not joking," he said calmly. "I want aspecial favor, Kirk. I want you to give me a letterassigning Horace to secret duty of some sort,ordering him not to reveal the fact that he's aliveeven to his own mother, if he has one. . . . "

"He has one," Kirkpatrick interrupted. "Shelost her husband in a gun battle with banditsseven years ago on the same beat her son hasnow."

"Bill seemed like a nice boy," Wentworth saidmildly. "His mother must be told you have hope,but that Bill disappeared from his post. You aredoing everything possible to locate him. . . . "

Kirkpatrick was abruptly on his feet. "Listen,Dick," he said harshly. "This is no time for trifling.If you know where Bill Horace is, out with it!"

Wentworth continued his suave smile. "Ihaven't said that I know," he pointed out. "I thinkthat presently you will receive a telephone call,possibly anonymous, which will inform you thatone Limpy Magee, operator of a second-handshop on Clancy Street, shot Horace through thehead in Collins' back room, and afterwards carriedthe body away in his car. But not havingestablished corpus delicti you will have difficultyin doing anything to Limpy Magee."

Kirkpatrick frowned and slowly dropped backinto his seat.

"I tell you," Wentworth continued, "that it'simportant for the underworld to believe Bill Horacedead, and for you to assign him to secret duty sothat he will continue to seem dead."

KIRKPATRICK'S eyes were half closed. Helifted a hand to his mustache, fingered it. "Iwonder what would happen if we searched thissecond-hand shop of Limpy Magee," he saidsoftly.

Nita's hands were twisting in her lap, but thesmile upon her lips did not vary. She shook herhead slowly as if the entire thing was beyond her,not worth worrying about.

"Limpy Magee and a lot of second-handjunk," Wentworth shrugged, "and the wreckage ofa plan that might otherwise place this DeathFiddler in your power."

The door opened and Cassidy stuck in hiscarrot-haired head, "Senator Bigger and other bigshots, Commissioner," he said.

Kirkpatrick frowned, looking at Wentworthspeculatively. "Show then in, Cassidy."

Wentworth moved leisurely over behindNita’s chair, and Cassidy threw the door wide.Senator Bigger waddled in behind an immensebelly, his fat-swollen face wreathed in smiles, histriple chin jovially creased.

"Hello, hello, Commissioner!" he boomedheartily. "I hope we aren't intruding on anythingimportant!"

"Just a social call'', Kirkpatrick assured him,standing straight behind his desk, face grave."You know Mr. Wentworth and Miss van Sloan,"The politician bowed and Kirkpatrick askedshortly, "What can I do for you?"

His dislike of the politician and his kind wasvery apparent. Politicians were responsible for thefreeing of many prisoners, the destruction of thepolice morale. And that was why so many of hismen—his boys, he called them were being killed.

The senator swung his belly about lookedover his shoulders at three other men who hadfollowed him in. The effect reddened his face,beaded his upper lip with perspiration. He wore ablack cutaway and dark gray trousers like areversed tent.

The men behind him were quiet, but smiling.Wentworth recognized them all. Raymond Allen,high in the councils of the local political party;Fuzy Larson, a congressman, Patrick O'Larry,another senator. They were all big men in theirparty, Allen perhaps the strongest.

"You speak for us, Senator," Allen urgedBigger, his voice soft.

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Bigger cleared his throat, glanced at Nita andWentworth. "What we have to say may be private,Commissioner. You may not want it to bepublicized!"

Kirkpatrick waved his long-fingered hand."Go ahead."

Bigger cleared his throat, thrust out hisstomach. "Commissioner Kirkpatrick," he beganoratorically. "We are here to confer upon you agr-r-reat honor! The greatest that it is in the powerof our proud party to bestow! We come to youbecause your long service to the pee-pul warrantsreward. . . . "

"Come to the point," Kirkpatrick cut in.Senator Bigger, caught in the middle of a

period, stopped talking and puffed. He looked ashurt as a child spanked in public. Kirkpatrick wasuncompromisingly stern, his eyes boring into theslightly bulging ones of the senator.

"We want you to accept our nomination forGovernor," Bigger finished weakly.

CHAPTER FIVEThe Death Fiddler Strikes

KIRKPATRICK frowned. Wentworth sawthat refusal of the offer was imminent and steppedforward.

"I can see that the Commissioner isoverwhelmed," he said smoothly. "There is nodoubt that he well deserves the honor you offer,but he has never sought public reward for hisservices." Wentworth paused and shot asidewise glance at Kirkpatrick. The Commissionerwas frowning at him, saturnine face slightlybelligerent, eyes puzzled. "You don't mind, doyou, Commissioner?" Wentworth asked himhumbly.

Kirkpatrick shrugged. “Go ahead," he saidgrumpily.

And Wentworth did go ahead, with an easyhypocrisy that put the politicians at once at theirease. This was the kind of talk they couldunderstand. Kirkpatrick's bluntness disconcertedthem.

"And so," Wentworth concluded, talking moreto Raymond Allen than to Senator Bigger, for heknew well who was behind this move, "you

understand that the Commissioner cannot at oncegive you his answer. His services here havemeant a great deal to him. He loves his men, butthe opportunity for larger services appeals to him.You must give him time to think this over."

Allen's eyes met his and a slight, humorlesssmile creased his sunken cheeks. He shookhands on departing.

"Very nicely done, Wentworth," hemurmured. "If you ever want to go into politics..."He let his voice die out as he turned away, andWentworth closed the door, then rested hisshoulders against it.

"Don't you see, Kirk," he cried, "it's thechance of a lifetime! As Police Commissioner youcan suppress petty crime, but you are powerlessagainst the crooks allied with the political powersof the city, such as this Death Fiddler. Your menhave brought in a dozen gunmen for the murdersof your policemen, and every one has beenturned loose. It's politics that does it!"

"Politics is filthy," Kirkpatrick said violently. "Iwon't have a damned thing to do with it."

Wentworth nodded. "That's just why politicsis dirty," he said. "Because good men won'tenter the field. This is the chance of a lifetime,Kirk. From Albany, you can clean up the wholedamned state with your police force and yourpower to appoint investigators."

Kirkpatrick sat down slowly, and Wentworthcrossed to him, beat softly on the desk with hisfist. "The chance of a lifetime, Kirk!" he insisted.

Neither was conscious of the door opening,but, looking up abruptly, Wentworth saw a manstanding unobtrusively against the partition, hissleekly blond head respectfully bowed, his eyeson super-polished shoe tips.

"I'm sorry," he said gently, "but Cassidy wasout of the office and I knocked and took the libertyof stepping in since I had an importantcommunication."

He lifted his eyes for a moment, a slightsmile on his lips, and Wentworth was struck withthe intense blue of the man's gaze. Kirkpatrickgestured impatiently.

"All right, Larrimore. Let’s have themessage."

The man toed soundlessly to the desk,placed on it an official looking envelope.Kirkpatrick ripped it open.

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"There may be an answer, I was told,"Larrimore said.

ABRUPTLY Wentworth identified the man.He was Dodson Larrimore, secretary to theMayor. He wore carefully creased clothing, but hewas as inconspicuous as a female robin. Evenwhile he stood there, eyes carefully on polishedshoe tips, one almost forgot that he was in theoffice.

Kirkpatrick passed the letter vehemently tohis desk. A dull red suffused his cheeks. Whenhe spoke, his voice was quiet, but the tightgripping of his fingers on the chair arms showedhow great was the effort at self-control.

"Who is the Mayor planning to appoint in myplace?" he asked.

Larrimore said, "I beg your pardon?”Kirkpatrick snorted, repeated his question,

then held the letter out to Wentworth.It requested Kirkpatrick's resignation as

Commissioner, effective at once. There was noexplanation. Kirkpatrick, as the Mayor'sappointee, was subject to removal at any time.

Larrimore said slowly, looking directly atKirkpatrick: "Do I understand that the Mayor isasking you to resign?"

“You do!”Larrimore flushed. "It isn't right, sir," he

said, the subdued quiet dropping from voice."Why you're the best Commissioner the city hasever had. . . . "

Kirkpatrick smiled quizzically at Larrimore."I've been expecting it for some time," henodded. "Purviss never liked me and I've refuseda half dozen 'favors' for his friends recently."

Larrimore was obviously excited. He forgot tokeep his eyes on his shoe tips. "That isn't whatCommissioners are for!" he declared. "Can't youdo something, sir? Is there anything I could do foryou? You got me my job, sir. I won't ever forgetthat, and. . . . "

Wentworth smiled. Such gratitude waspleasant. Larrimore was about thirty, a clean-cutman with solid strength in his face. There seemedno doubt of his sincerity. The man was stirred outof his customary secretarial calm.

"I appreciate it, Larrimore," Kirkpatrickinterrupted, "but forget it. I'm afraid myusefulness as Police Commissioner is about

ended anyway. When there is hostility betweenthis office and the Mayor, nothing good can comeof it." He shrugged slightly, parting his mustachewith thumb and forefinger. Then he nodded,picked up the phone.

"Get me Senator Bigger's apartment,please," he directed, "and have him call me assoon as he returns home." He leaned back in hischair and rocked on noiseless springs, his eyeson Larrimore's flushed face.

"I'll dictate my reply in just a moment,Larrimore," he said quietly.

Wentworth leaned forward and clappedKirkpatrick on the shoulder. There was quickjubilation in his veins. In his last crusade,Kirkpatrick had narrowly escaped being accusedof helping the Spider, and Wentworth had fearedfor his future reputation. If he became Governor,Wentworth would have a newly energized policeforce to fight in the city, but he would be relievedof constant worry about his friend.

THE phone buzzed softly, and Kirkpatricksnatched the instrument.

"Senator?" his voice rang. "I'm acceptingyour nomination for the governorship, and I’llissue a statement to the papers at once in theform of a letter to the Mayor . . . I appreciate youroffer, Senator, but I'll map my own campaign.Thank you."

Answering a buzzer, a young man in civilianclothes entered and seated himself with pencilpoised over a notebook. "Type this letter at onceand make six carbons," Kirkpatrick said briefly."You will then give a copy to the representative ofeach newspaper and bring the original to me forimmediate signature. This letter goes to theMayor.

Dear sir:l submit herewith my resignation as

Commissioner of Police, effective tomorrow, as peryour request.

I am convinced that you are motivated by dirtypolitics. It may interest you to know that I am runningfor Governor in the Fall election, with the expresspurpose of cleaning up your administration.

I would like to point out that in the recentoutbreak of crime and murder, the police have mademany arrests only to meet with defeat in the courts. Anumber of these releases of prisoners were made byyour appointees to the magisterial bench.

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I ask you, furthermore, if you can affirm,truthfully that you had no previous knowledge thatthese prisoners would be released?

Yours for clean government, Stanley Kirkpatrick.

Larrimore's smile grew during the dictation,but at the last savage sentence he started andfrowned.

The secretary who was taking the letterlooked big-eyed with amazement. He fairly ranfrom the room.

"Do you really believe he had a hand in allthis crime, sir?" Larrimore asked slowly.

Kirkpatrick grunted. "Can't say. But what Ipointed out in the letter is a fact. It at least meritsexplanation."

In an incredibly short time the typed letterwas on Kirkpatrick's desk. Kirkpatrick read it overwith bent brows, lips pursed. Then he signed itwith a heavy flourish, dropped it into an envelope.

"There's your answer, Larrimore."Larrimore bowed, said, "Thank you, sir,"

thrust the envelope into his pocket, and tip-toedfrom the room, followed by Kirkpatrick'sstenographer. Kirkpatrick's face, turned towardWentworth, was suddenly tired and drawn. Hisshoulders slumped a little.

"This is the reward for doing a job well," hesaid heavily.

Wentworth clapped him on the shoulder."The wisest move you ever made in your life," hedeclared. "As for reward, surely you didn't expectany?"

Kirkpatrick acknowledged that with a slightshrug, looked up at Wentworth quizzically. "Youshould know, eh, Dick?"

Yes, the Spider should know. He gave uphis life, his every chance of happiness to theservice of humanity—and his reward was thathumanity hounded him with threats of death. Buthe only smiled at Kirkpatrick's query.

"The knowledge is scarcely esoteric," hesaid. "Don't you want to give me that letter to BillHorace now as one of your last official acts?"

KIRKPATRICK laughed sharply. "You nevergive up, eh, Dick?"

He drew a sheet of paper toward him,scrawled an order, handed it over. "By the way, I

heard from Corcoran the other day. He and Anniesent their love. They've got a little girl."

Wentworth hid the letter into his pocket witha mechanical smile. Corcoran was Kirkpatrick'sonly nephew. He had married a girl who hadbeen the pawn in one of Wentworth's battles withthe underworld, and they had a child . . . .

Nita's hand touched his arm. "Come along,dear. Kirk will have a lot to do tonight."

Wentworth nodded, moved toward the door."Oh Dick," Kirkpatrick called, "I forgot to tell

you that the Spider called me tonight. . . . "Wentworth turned at the door, eyebrows

raised."He warned me," Kirkpatrick went on, "that

Judge Scott was to be murdered tonight, andadvised a guard. Another thing. Just before youcalled, a kill by the Spider was reported, justaround the corner from Limpy Magee's shop."

"That's a coincidence," Wentworth saidlightly.

"I'm not so sure of that," Kirkpatrick told him,leaning forward on his desk, "but this is thecurious thing. Beside this man the Spider killedand branded was another corpse, branded with aviolin. I was wondering whether that violin brandcould have anything to do with—the DeathFiddler!"

Wentworth frowned. "Yes, it does. I intendedtelling you that a violin was his brand. Why hedoesn't mark the men he kills on Thursday nights,I don't know."

"I'm glad the Spider's busy again,"Kirkpatrick said softly. The eyes of the two menmet. Into the understanding silence that fellbetween them rolled the single chime of a distantbell. Kirkpatrick started, glanced at his watch.

"Eleven-thirty," he said tightly. "I hope thoseguards at Judge Scott's place are alert."

Nita's hand touched Wentworth's arm and hecovered it with his. The three of them were tense,waiting for the word that soon would come of theDeath Fiddler's failure or success. When thetelephone buzzed, their tight muscles jerked.Kirkpatrick's hand went out slowly to theinstrument.

"Kirkpatrick speaking," he said. "Yes."Slowly his lips compressed, the lines at his mouthcorners deepened. "Yes, I'll go there." He hungup, lifted his eyes to Wentworth's.

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"They got Judge Scott, all right. Machine-gunned him through a window while he wasplaying bridge, and got clean away. They alsoburned down a butler and three detectives I hadon guard."

CHAPTER SIX$200,000 Kidnapping

THE news struck Wentworth with the force ofa physical blow. He had counted heavily on thepolice guard protecting Judge Scott—had hopedthrough that means to build up their morale,already badly shaken. But the Death Fiddler hadproved too clever for them.

A jagged curse rasped in his throat. His fistsknotted at his sides.

Nita's hand left his arm. "I'll wait here," shesaid. "You go."

Kirkpatrick shook his head. "That's notwhere I'm going," he said. "I'm going out onsomething you don't know about yet, Dick. TheFiddler demanded a hundred thousand dollarsfrom John K. Barnfeller. . . .

"The devil he did!"Kirkpatrick nodded. "And when Barnfeller

refused to pay, he said he would kidnap himtonight and hold him for two hundred thousand."

"Calling his shots eh?" Wentworth's faceshowed excitement. "That takes nerve andexcellent organization. You're going to Barnfeller'shome?"

"No." Kirkpatrick was worried. "Barnfeller'ssecretary just phoned the sergeant downstairsthat, defying all orders, Barnfeller had left for adowntown conference of bankers. Barnfellerwon't take the threat seriously. He has an escortof six armored motorcycles mounting machineguns, two radio cruisers carrying four men each,and two detectives riding in the car with him."

Wentworth lifted his brows. "Barnfeller isn'tthat important."

"But the morale of the police department is. Ifthe Death Fiddler succeeds in this . . . ."

THE siren in the Commissioner's big, lowsedan purred now and again as he and

Wentworth sped northward through streets almostdevoid of traffic. The air was pleasantly warm,with a faint damp promise of rain. A police patrol,four men marching together with guns in theirhands, went warily down Fifth Avenue.

"By tomorrow," said Kirkpatrick, "I expect toarm each patrol with a riot gun and a machine-gun. They're equipped that way in the worst partsof town now."

Wentworth had to force himself to relaxagainst the cushions. Every nerve was tense, hisbrain keenly alert.

"If I were going to snatch Barnfeller," he saidslowly, "I'd block the road, plant barricadedmachine guns to each side, and mow down thatguard before they knew what was happening. Itwould be a simple matter then to take Barnfeller.The Fiddler has no regard at all for human lives."

Kirkpatrick sat erectly as always, the militarysquareness of his shoulders more emphatic in histension. He lifted a hand slowly, parted his spikedmustache with thumb and forefinger.

"There isn't any defense against that type ofattack," he said slowly, "unless they don't knowBarnfeller is out."

Wentworth, lolling back, eyes closed, said:"They probably caused him to be called to theconference."

Kirkpatrick's head jerked about toward hiscompanion. "How could they?"

Wentworth's shoulders lifted in a slight shrug."They're powerful enough to secure the release ofcriminals in the courts, possibly to obtain yourremoval—though I'm guessing about that ofcourse. So why not the other?"

Traffic dwindled further as the powerfulsedan whipped through Harlem, hissed withmounting speed northward toward the city limits.The thin wailing of motorcycle sirens slowed themfinally and they caught the distant grouped lightsof the Barnfeller motorcade.

Kirkpatrick ordered his driver to turn aboutand await the approaching motorcade. They werehalfway in the turn when the crashing roll ofmachine guns broke out. Wentworth saw a steel-sided truck lurch out of a side street and haltsquarely in the path of the police guard.

Without awaiting orders, the police chauffeurwhirled Kirkpatrick's car toward the barrier. Theflickering orange fire of a machine gun dancedfrom the truck and the sedan's front tires

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exploded. The bulletproof windshield frosted withradiating cracks. Fighting the pull of the flat tires,the chauffeur pushed slowly on toward the truck.Bullets beat a devil's tattoo over the sedan. Twojarring explosions sounded ahead.

Kirkpatrick snatched at the door handle, butWentworth pulled him back with a tight smile.

"No use committing suicide, Kirk," heshouted above the roll of guns.

The sedan halted with a jar and a scrape ofiron.

"We're against the truck," said Wentworth.

HE crawled into the front seat of the sedan,where the driver sat white-faced and motionless.A crank eased the windshield down an inch at thetop, and Wentworth peered upward at the side ofthe truck. Machine guns were trained along eachside of the sedan and men kept hungry watch.From beyond the truck still came the chatter ofguns.

Wentworth drew both automatics and restedthem on the top of the windshield. They blastedtogether and the machine gunners pitchedbackward out of sight. Instantly, Wentworth flungfrom the sedan, vaulting to the running board ofthe truck. He wrenched open the door, fired twicemore, hurled inside as the driver collapsedacross the wheel.

A yank, and the man tumbled to the floor.Wentworth peered through a gun port, and hisface went white.

Barnfeller's sedan lay on its side, itsunderstructure torn by an explosion. The streetwas strewn with blue-uniformed bodies. The sixmotorcycles were sprawled in abandonedpostures, smashed against building walls andtelegraph poles, the crews collapsed in theirseats.

One detective cruiser had rammed the truck,and its windows, which were not bulletproof, lay injagged ruin upon the bodies of the four men whomanned it. The other cruiser had been blasted bya bomb and lay upon its side. In all that street, noman moved.

Wentworth straightened slowly from theloophole, and clambered back to the street.Kirkpatrick stood by the hood of the truck. Silently,the two men met each other's eyes. Kirkpatrickstruck the fender heavily with his fist.

"By God, those murderers shall die!"Wentworth smiled tightly. "You're notCommissioner any more, Kirk—thanks to theDeath Fiddler."

The mirth on his lips found no echo in hisheart. This was the most overwhelming criminalattack the Fiddler's regime had made. Twentypolicemen had been murdered at one blow, andone of the world's wealthiest capitalists kidnappedon the streets of New York. Coming on the heelsof the other brazen crimes, it portended fearfulhappenings.

New York would soon be like a city inwartime, armed guards patrolling its vital points.Respect for law was no more. There was noteven fear. Already newspapers carried reports ofplans for further increases in the alreadyaugmented insurance rates. Business would beruined if this continued. And there was nothing atall to prevent the Death Fiddler from pillaging andlooting until he had stripped the city bare.

Obviously this new underworld chief wasmore clever, more daring than any other criminalWentworth had ever fought. Even the Fly, who sonarrowly had missed defeating the Spider, hadnot dared to direct his raids in person as this mandid, nor flaunt his scheduled murders bymockingly appearing in the habiliments of the menhe intended to kill! The Fiddler did not eventrouble to hide!

He must—Wentworth's fists knotted at hissides—he must kill this Fiddler. An end to truce!What did it matter if he didn't know the man'sorganization? He would find and smash that, justas he would kill the Fiddler himself. Never againwould he neglect such an opportunity as he hadhad in Collins' saloon—not even if it meant hisown death!

It was hours later that Wentworth escortedNita to her home, and returned heavily to the alleywhich led to the back door of Limpy Magee's.Once within the shelter of its basement, he rapidlyresumed the greasy garments of his disguise. Hebushed his eyebrows, created a bulbous nosewith putty. His hair became frowsled and hefastened to his knee a gadget of steel and leatherstraps, padded with sponge rubber, which wouldhold his left leg stiff.

Then he limped heavily upstairs to the roomwhere he had left Bill Horace a helpless prisoner.He clicked on the single fly-specked bulb danglingfrom the ceiling—and stiffened in surprise. Thebed lay in a heap on the floor. The headboard to

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which Bill Horace had been handcuffed was gone,and so was Bill Horace!

Wentworth cursed under his breath. All hiswell-built plans depended upon Horace remainingout of sight, apparently dead and destroyed byLimpy Magee. And now . . . .

"Hands up!" a man ordered sharply, frombehind.

CHAPTER SEVENSummoned by the Death Fiddler

AS Limpy Magee, Wentworth had nothing tofear from the underworld. He lifted his hands andpivoted awkwardly on his stiff leg.

In the doorway of the closet, crouched over agun that quivered in his hand, stood Jerry Horace.Behind him, Wentworth made out the head of thegirl who had defied Bill Horace in the saloon—Tony Musette.

"You killed my brother," Jerry said, his voicegoing thin, "and I'm going to kill you!"

The girl slid out from behind Jerry."Where did you put the . . . put him?" she

demanded.Wentworth's disguised face was screwed up

in a semblance of fright; his puckered eyesdarted from one to the other of his accusers.

He had had small opportunity to observethem in the saloon, but he saw now that the twowere formidable. Jerry, seeming even slighterthan his five-feet-six as he crouched there overthe gun, was white-faced with a mixture of angerand fright. Black, curly hair hung down over a paleforehead, and his eyes glared upward under awrinkled brow.

Wentworth turned his attention to the girl.Her blue eyes were a match for Bill Horace's,glittering with hot lights now. A soft, lovely mouthwas thinned with the pressure of anger, and herrather long nose was thin and white about thenostrils.

"Where's Bill?" she demanded. Her handsclosed and unclosed at her sides. It would beimpossible to convince these two that Bill Horacewas alive, Wentworth realized. Furthermore, thatconfession would end Limpy's hard won prestige.

"You oughta always wear blue, baby,"Wentworth told her. "That dress is swell." It was

a tight knitted wool, and hugged her roundedfigure closely.

Jerry said hoarsely: "Shut up!""Is that nice?" asked Wentworth. "I hands

the dame a compliment and you . . . .""Shut up!" Jerry's gun hand trembled

violently. "Where did you put Bill?""In the basement," Wentworth told him

shortly."It's a lie!" The girl came closer, her hands

claw-like with bright red nails. "We looked in thebasement."

Wentworth shrugged. "I'd put him where hecould be found easy, wouldn't I?" He was fightingdesperately with words. A man whose handshook like that was much more dangerous with agun than an experienced killer.

"If you'll go to the basement with me,"Wentworth suggested. "I'll be glad . . ."

Tony Musette shook her head violently."Oh, no, we won't," she said. "I'll take that

gun and Jerry will go down and look. And if youdon't tell the truth. . . ."

WENTWORTH realized abruptly that hewould have even more to fear with the gun in thegirl's hand.

"I doubt if the boy friend has sense enoughto find it—" he smiled slightly at Jerry's snarl—"but I'll tell him where to look. Go down the stepsand straight across the basement on a line withthe front of the bottom step—that is, at rightangles to the stairs themselves. Count seventeenbricks from the bottom and press the eighteenthand a door will open. Bill's in there."

Jerry scowled at him. "That basement isthirty feet across. How can I walk a straight lineall the way across it?"

Wentworth smiled. "That is what I told you,my friend. I know which brick to press, butit's tough telling you."

Jerry grunted. "Tony, go with me to the doorand take the gun."

There wasn't a half second lost in the shift ofthe gun from hand to hand. Wentworth had nochance at all to seize it. Jerry went down thestairs with quick-thumping feet.

"Don't think I won't shoot," Tony snapped.

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Wentworth smiled at her. “I don't doubt it," hesaid pleasantly. "But it wouldn't be smart. Thepolice . . . ."

"Pooh!" said Tony. "Who's afraid of thepolice?"

Wentworth shook his head. "You should notinterrupt. It ain't polite. I was going to say thepolice ain't the only ones you'd have to answer to,there is . . . the Fiddler!"

The girl stiffened. "You are not . . . not one ofthem!"

Wentworth smiled, and the girl's gun sagged."It ain't wise to make the Fiddler mad, eh?" Helowered his hands, slipped a crumpled pack ofcigarettes from his pocket, lifted one.

"Jerry ain't going to find Bill in the basement,"he said conversationally. "You'd better let mehave that there gun before he finds himself introuble with the Fiddler."

The girl lowered her eyes slowly to the gun.Then she shuddered, and dropped it to the floorjust as the sound of footsteps came slowly up thestairs.

Wentworth listened, with eyes narrowedbehind the smoke of his cigarette. Jerry wouldn'tcome up the steps like that, not if he had failed tofind the right brick—which he would, since therewas no door in the wall on that side. He wouldcome bounding up angrily. These footsteps wereslow and regular.

"Come here, Tony," Wentworth whispered."If that’s Jerry, he ain't alone."

She stared into the darkness of the hallwaywith widening eyes, then moved furtively towardWentworth. He himself was no longer smiling.He had used the power of the Death Fiddler tobreak a deadlock, but the very fact that the man'sinfluence was so great was a blow.

His hand slid to the automatic beneath hisleft arm as the footsteps reached the head of thestair and Jerry moved into the pale oblong lightfrom the door. The youth's bottom lip was caughtbetween his teeth.

"Come in, Jerry," Wentworth invited softly,"and come in fast. Let's see who's behind you."

Snickering laughter came from the darkness."Okay, Limpy," a man said. "I thought this baby'spard had a gun on youse and come up cautious."

Out of the darkness behind Jerry steppedsleek, flashily dressed Danny Dawson. His hands

were empty of weapons. His sharp, long-nosedface was creased with a sly grin.

"Thanks, Danny," Wentworth grunted.Turning, he said: "Now you two get. Scram,Tony. Jerry, take a walk."

The girl's blonde head was hanging. Shewalked heavily toward the door. Jerry paused inthe doorway.

"Cheez, Danny," he said, "I hope you won'tsay anything about this to the Fiddler."

Danny laughed wheezily. "We'll see," hepromised. "We'll see."

Jerry went heavily down the steps, andDanny patted Wentworth on the shoulder. "Yousee what being in the Fiddler's band does foryou?" he asked. "I didn't even have to pull a rod tohandle that guy. Just told him youse was theFiddler's pal."

Wentworth nodded sourly. "That's swell. OnlyI ain't a big enough guy to be no pal."

DANNY smiled slyly. "How do you knowyouse ain't? The Fiddler told me to bring youse tosee him."

Wentworth blinked, fought down the joy thatrose within him. This was what he had beenplaying for. This was why he had come to theunderworld, to locate the Fiddler's headquarters.And now he was to be taken there. He gulped,made his face frightened.

"Hell, I ain't done nothing," he hoarsely."What's he want to see me for?"

"Don't blame you for being scared," Dannysniggered. "Guess you ain't done nothing he'dpunish you for. Fact is, I think he wants to patyou on the back for bumping the cop."

"You think so?"Danny nodded solemnly. "I'm almost sure."Wentworth scurried about, putting on a fresh

pressed suit, slicking his hair. When he wasready, the electric light was paling under theassault of dawn. He went with Danny downnarrow, creaking stairs. The previous night's hintof rain was unfulfilled and the dawn air was chilland bracing.

Both stared up and down the dirty streetbefore they strode briskly westward. Danny sawnothing, but Wentworth did. He saw that theshadow of a certain doorway was thicker than itshould have been, and that the shadow moved.

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Presently, rounding a corner, he saw a man stepout of hiding and recognized the broad-shouldered figure of Bill Horace! The policemanwas following him.

Wentworth did not at first know whether toworry or rejoice. As long as Horace followedWentworth, he could not reveal the fact that hehad not been murdered. However, Horace hadchanged to civilian clothing, and in doing that hemight have been seen and identified.

Danny led the way to an elevated platform.After a chill wait, shoulders hunched about theirears, the train clattered up and the doorswheezed open.

It was forty minutes of clanking, rumblingprogress on the elevated before Danny touchedWentworth's elbow. They got off together. Thesun was above the horizon now and its early redrays were burning the frost off the wooden stationplatform into rising white steam. The boardsthumped hollowly under their feet.

Danny hurried to the street, but Wentworthfollowed more deliberately, thumping unevenly onhis stiff leg. He saw a taxi halt almost a blockaway and wait without discharging a passenger.He cursed under his breath. Bill Horace, beyond adoubt. But apparently he wasn't barging in yet.He wanted to find out where they were going.

Waiting on the curb while Danny sought ataxi, Wentworth made signals at Bill Horace in thetaxi. He motioned him back, flapping his hand inthe air with a pushing movement. He was forcedto cut that short as Danny drove up. Wentworthclimbed awkwardly into the cab. He did not knowwhether Bill had seen his signal, nor whether hewould obey if he had. It was clear that the youngpoliceman was suspicious of him, despite the factthat Wentworth had saved his life.

TWO minutes later, Danny halted the car onLenox Avenue. They went up four stories in anautomatic elevator and Danny rapped on the doorinstead of ringing the bell—rapped in a slow,broken rhythm. The door opened—and Wenworthflinched back, his mouth sagging wide. He wasacting as Limpy Magee would, but he really wasstartled.

The man who opened the door was dressedin a butler's costume, and down one side of hisface trickled a line of blood from a bullet hole inhis temple. Yet the man stood erect and askedtheir names in a grave, expressionless voice.

Danny laughed an excited whinny. "Kind ofgets youse, don't it?" he asked Wentworth, "nomatter how many times youse sees it. This is oneof the Fiddler's men dressed like the butler thatwas killed last night."

Wentworth sidled past the butler with everyappearance of fear. But rage was burning in hissoul. The Fiddler not only murdered withoutmercy; he made mockery of the dead. Well, hewould answer for that soon, answer with theSpider’s lead burning his vitals.

Just as he thought that, hard hands seizedWentworth's biceps and Danny snaked the gunfrom the holster under Wentworth's left arm.

"Sorry, pard," he apologized, "but theFiddler's got to be sure of you before he lets youplay a piece in his band." He sniggered at hisown joke, handed the gun to the butler. "You don'tmind, do you?"

Wentworth grunted. "I always feel sillywithout a rod." He had another thrust under hiswaistband in the back, hidden by his coat.

They walked into an elaborately furnishedliving room—the walls, even the windows coveredwith silken drapes woven in pale, blended shades.There were no chairs, here, nothing but tablesand shaded lamps. On the tables lay effigies ofdead men marked with the bloody wounds whichhad brought about their deaths. Wentworth's swifteyes, darting over them, picked out DorseyHampton, the millionaire who, on the previousThursday, had been strangled to death in his bed.The tongue of this figure was pinched outbetween clenched teeth, the eyes were swollen inan empurpled face.

There, too, lay the figure of the Inspector ofPolice who had been stabbed through the throatat his own dinner party. And the gangster whohad been shot down on the streets, as well asfour others in the distorted attitudes of violentdeath.

Wentworth made his shoulders shudder withpretended horror. Even through his rage, hecould not repress a certain admiration for the manwho had devised this means of terrifying hissubjects into utter submission. If the reign ofdeath, the weekly killings, did not intimidate them,they were brought into this charnel house . . . .

THE woven silk drape directly beforeWentworth parted with a swirling rustle andrevealed a man seated in a heavy chair. Before

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him was a card table spread with cards; a glassstood at his elbow. The man sat beneath ahooded green lamp which threw a ghastlyillumination over chair and table. Across hisformal shirt front was a stitching of bullet holes,and blood made a black tracery below them. Theman's head was topped by an abundance of whitehair, and there was judicial severity in the set ofhis mouth.

Wentworth halted, quivering. It was theDeath Fiddler, in the guise of Judge Scott.Should he yank his hidden gun and . . . .

Living eyes opened in the face of theapparent dead man and deep-throated wordscame from it.

"Howdy, Limpy," it said slowly. "Nice work,Danny. You're right on time."

Danny sniggered with pleasure, ducked hishead. Wentworth was cold with anger now but helet his shuddering horror continue. He wassupposed to be one of the underworld's creatures,a little smarter than most perhaps, but far beneaththe intelligence of the Fiddler. This show of deathwas supposed to awe him. He allowed it to,apparently.

"Wh-what do you want with me?" hequavered.

The features of the dead judge moved in astiff smile.

"I am well pleased with you," came thedeep, slow voice. "That was nice work you did atCollins' last night."

Wentworth looked pleased. His tremblingdiminished.

"That was nothing," he said. "I got rid of thebody, too. It ain't the first time I killed a man."

The head of Judge Scott nodded. "I may finduse for you hereafter," he said. "I brought youhere to look at you, to thank you as I could not doat Collins. Perhaps I shall allow you to become amember of my band." He laughed softly. "Whenwe play, the whole city dances to our tune.Tonight we play for the Bal Masque. There will berich pickings there for the members of our band."

Wentworth simulated eager greed. The BalMasque—that was the ball being given tonight,which was the society event of the season.Jewels worn to the dance would be worth millions.

He nodded eagerly. "I sure would like to joinup," he said. "Cripes, when one of your menholds up his left hand . . . I ain't never seen what

they show, but when they do it, everything standsstill just like that. Tell me what to do to join up,won't you, chief?"

"All in good time," the Fiddler remarked.

It was an awesome setting—that man knownto be dead, nodding and talking beneath theghastly green light, the bullet holes which hadkilled him appearing across his shirt front.

"Geez, you had me scared." Wentworthwas talking eagerly now, "with all these dead menlying about. That butler was bad, and so wasthose men over there. " He nodded his head atthe strangled millionaire, "but when I saw you . . ."Wentworth paused, apparently speechless inadmiration.

The sound of a sharp outcry, a tussle andstamping feet behind him whirled him about. Hesaw the butler go down under a savage gun-blow.Bill Horace, revolver in hand, glared at them fromthe doorway.

CHAPTER EIGHTThe Fiddler Calls

AT THE challenge of the policeman, DannyDawson jerked up his hands and stood trembling.Wentworth only stared, apparently paralyzed withsurprise. His pulses were throbbing in histemples and there was aching tension in all hisbody. This was what he had feared, that BillHorace would crash in and wreck all his carefullylaid plans.

He had been invited here to see the Fiddlerbecause the gang leader believed him to haveshot down a policeman in cold blood. Now thisvery policeman was challenging them from thedoorway, gun in hand.

Should he snatch out his hidden automaticand kill the Fiddler? But Wentworth didn't knowthe man's organization yet. Striking too soonwould be disastrous. Yet the automatic'spressure under the waist band was comforting.That was a last resort. . . .

Could he break from this place? A cursechoked in his throat. How could he get past thepoliceman's leveled gun?

And then what else . . .

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26

Abruptly, Wentworth laughed. It soundedforced, but that was all right. He wanted it tosound that way. He turned his back on PatrolmanBill Horace and his leveled gun and laughedagain.

"Geez, chief," he said to the figure in thechair, "you had me scared proper for a minutethere. That's the best of all. He looks exactly likethe copper I bumped last night."

Danny's laughter was a whinny. "Cheez," hesaid shrilly, "you had me fooled, too, chief. I seenow. He's just a fake like those bodies on thetables and the butler."

"Keep those hands up," snarled Bill Horace.The hand of the false Judge Scott came up

with a gun and Wentworth flopped down on hisface. He heard the policeman's gun blast and,peering upward, saw the chief's body jerk with thebeat of lead. Crimson spurted from fresh holes inthe stiff-fronted shirt, but the chief's gun keptrising.

A frightened curse from Bill Horace echoedthe first shot from the chief's gun, then the doorslalomed. The policeman had fled. Wentworth gotup on his knees, watching red wash down theleader's stiff shirt from the spot where thepoliceman's bullets had pierced. Wentworthbegan to curse in a low, monotonous voice. DamnBill Horace for a fool, he thought. He had killedthe Fiddler, frustrated all the Spider’s plans.

The Fiddler laughed.Wentworth jerked up his head and stared at

the man, while the laughter continued. Wentworthsprang to his feet.

"Cheez!" he cried. "I thought he'd rubbed youout!"

Wentworth's mind was racing. How in thename of heaven could the man laugh when bloodwas pouring from five surely mortal wounds in hischest? The laughter stopped and the deep, gravevoice spoke as deliberately as before.

"Danny, I thought Limpy Magee killedPatrolman Bill Horace."

"He did, he did!" chattered Danny. "I saw himput a slug right through the bull's forehead.Cheez, youse saw him do it."

Wentworth let his eyes go wide withamazement. "You mean . . . you mean you didn'tjust put on a show for me. You mean that wasreally . . . Oh God, oh God, it couldn't be BillHorace! I shot him through the head and dumped

him on a lot in Queens. It couldn't be Bill Horace,it couldn't be."

Wentworth was watching the false JudgeScott closely. Could he convince the man of histerror? The Fiddler's face was expressionless, theeyes shadowed by the position of the ghastlygreen lamp. The gun was held levelly, pointing atno one.

Once more the Fiddler laughed lightly. "I onlysought to test you, my friends," he said softly."You may go now. You will both hear from melater."

Wentworth stared incredulously up at theshadowed face, then he babbled his thanks andbacked toward the door. He was puzzled by theFiddler's swift about-face, but guessed that theleader did not wish his subordinates to think that apoliceman could reach him so easily. Wentworthpicked up his automatic from beside the supinebutler, but made no attempt to fire at the figure inthe chair. If five bullets from a thirty-eight PolicePositive had bored that chest and failed even tostop the Fiddler's laughter . . . .

WENTWORTH let himself out ahead ofDanny and raced limpingly to the automaticelevator, the trembling crook right behind him.They went down staring at each other.

"I don't like it," said Wentworth.Danny shook his head. "Neither do I. I'm

going to get away from here fast. All thatshooting..."

They ducked to the back of the building, splitup, and Wentworth circled toward Lenox again,seeking Bill Horace. He had to get hold of thatrash youngster before he caused any moretrouble. Wentworth's lips curved in a tight smile.The cop had courage.

The policeman's taxi was parked near acorner on Lenox and Wentworth slipped up to it,opened the door and climbed in.

"Stow the gun, Bill," he said quietly. "I got apaper for you to read."

Horace said between his teeth: "Hand overthe paper and be damned careful about it." Therevolver remained against his side. Wentworthpassed over the note Kirkpatrick had scrawled.Bill held it to the window and read, then eased thegun away.

"Where'd you get this?" he asked sharply.

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27

"What do you care?" Wentworth askedarrogantly. "You know the handwriting, don'tyou?"

Bill's silence admitted that. "This says I'm togo after the Death Fiddler and I'm not to letanybody know I'm alive."

Wentworth's lips twisted into a thin grin."Good! Suppose we go see the Fiddler?" he

said softly.He felt Bill shudder. "I put five bullets in him

and he bled and kept on talking," the policemansaid in a muffled voice. "What the hell's the use ofbucking up against anything like that?"

"That's a fake of some kind, just like thebutler was," Wentworth told him. "Let's go andsee what it was."

They sat there in silence for a few minutes.The early morning traffic was thickening. Thefrostiness was gone from the air. The taxi-meterticked on. Wentworth was conscious of BillHorace's eyes on his profile and he smiled faintly.

"Are you afraid, Bill?" he asked softly.Bill cursed and his heavy shoulders hunched

forward. He slid the revolver into his right handcoat pocket.

"If you can face it, I can," he said thickly.Wentworth opened the door and stepped out.

He paid off the taxi and, side by side, they strodeto the doorway of the apartment.

"I don't see why the cops didn't come," Billmuttered. "All that shooting."

"Probably soundproofed," Wentworthgrunted. "Them silk drapes, you know."

The elevator clicked to a stop and Wentworthstepped out into the fourth floor hallway with anautomatic in his hand. He crossed directly to thedoor and rammed it with his shoulder. The doorflew in and he dived for the floor, eyes sweepingthe room beyond.

It was empty. Silk draperies and tables weregone. So were the effigies of death.

Wentworth sprang to his feet and staredabout. Bill was cursing behind him, blue eyesstartled.

Wentworth whirled out, hobbled upstairs tothe next floor. A woman answered his ring at theapartment just above and looked him overbelligerently, brushing hair out of her eyes.

"This is a fine time to be ringing doorbells,"she burred. "And me in the middle ofbreakfast..."

The room behind her gave no hint of theluxury of the Fiddler's apartment. On the thirdfloor, Wentworth had no better luck. After that heand Bill stared at each other. They went back tothe fourth floor apartment and examined it morecarefully. In a closet they found seven collapsibletables and a lamp. That was all. The silks andthe dummies were gone as completely as was theDeath Fiddler and his butler.

"We're licked," Wentworth admitted. "That'sthe quickest getaway I ever saw. I wasn't out ofthat apartment more than ten minutes and theygot clear."

"I'll find that guy," the cop swore. "Next timeI'll choke him. We'll see if he can take that andlaugh."

WENTWORTH smiled faintly, looked at Bill'swrists and saw they had been chafed. "You did anice job of getting away from those handcuffs."

"Wasn't nothing," Bill grinned suddenly. "Ijust pulled up my feet and muscled my belly overthe head of the bed. Once I got my feet on thefloor it was easy to kick out the side pieces of thebed and tote off the head piece. I found a file inyour basement and helped myself to someclothes out of your shop. Then I hid out acrossthe street to watch. I figured maybe you had atie-up with all these holdups, and since you waswith Danny Dawson . . . But you got a note fromthe Commissioner!"

Wentworth nodded thoughtfully. "You let meknow where you're going to hole up, Bill," hesaid, "and if I get a lead on this guy, I'll let youknow."

"Okay," said Horace.Wentworth walked briskly off down the

street. His mind was racing with conjecture. TheFiddler had revealed his plans to raid the BalMasque tonight very strangely. He was toointelligent to boast needlessly to subordinates.Obviously there had been a purpose behind thestatement.

Only one explanation remained. He was notafraid of police interference and he wished to testhis new subject, Limpy Magee. If police wereinformed, he would know that Limpy was not to betrusted. There would be an end of the trail he

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followed and he would have to start all over again,a new character.

On the other hand, if Wentworth did notinform police of the impending raid, there wouldbe murder at the Bal Masque, a fortune in jewelsstolen. . . .

A sudden thought struck Wentworth.Suppose the Fiddler was not planning a holdup ofthe ball, simply intended it as a test? Wentworthshook his head heavily. Whether it was a trick ornot, he could not inform police. The very fact thatthe Fiddler boasted in advance indicated thateven a police guard would stand little chance ofpreventing the raid.

Wentworth's disguised lips thinned. He knewsuddenly that he would not inform the police. TheSpider would attend the Bal Masque tonight. Letthe Fiddler attack if he dared!

CHAPTER NINEThe Bal Masque

Outwardly Broadway was as gay as ever,decked like a Christmas tree with lights and signs,packed with shuffling crowds and squawkingtraffic. Outwardly, it was like that. But the spirit ofBroadway, the gabbing, happy, noisy spirit wasn'tthere. The people dragged their feet and theireyes flicked to the shadows where thick patrols ofpolice kept ceaseless watch. When they spoketheir voices were muted. These were peopleafraid, who sought relief from their fear inthronging with other people.

It was as if the Death Fiddler's murdersymphonies spirited upon Broadway from theblack fog which shrouded the city. Even the whineof tires on the blackly gleaming asphalt soundeddoleful.

Usually the eight police, posted on the twoconcrete triangles of Times Square whereSeventh Avenue and Broadway cross in agigantic X, would have drawn a throng. Tonightpeople avoided them. The four traffic policestationed there stood back to back, and each helda machine-gun in his arms. At their feet, riot gunsrested upon an ammunition case.

All this was intended to bolster the courageof the people, but actually it depressed them. Theusual clatter of tongues became a subdued

murmur. The raucous barkers in front of motionpicture houses seemed to sound unnecessarilyloud. A man's normal voice could have beenheard easily in the pauses of the automobiletraffic. Only the loud-speakers pouring out cannedmusic from the shows were unaffected, and atthese police glared resentfully.

In the midst of the gloom-wrapped Broadwaysection stood the Tory Hotel, house of banquetsand balls, facing out on the concrete triangles ofTimes Square where machine guns pointedvicious muzzles toward the crowds. The austere,age-streaked facade of the hotel rose straight upinto the fog, while its roof gardens, under glass atthis time of year, pierced the murk with lightswhich should have been festive.

The street at the side of the Tory waspacked, people thronging the sidewalk beside its"carriage entrance." Lean-flanked sedans,hearselike limousines slid up in endlessprocession, tires purring on the wet pavement.They discharged furred, bedecked, curiouslycostumed men and women. The flashlights ofnewspaper cameramen danced like lightning,flickering intermittent bluish brilliance over theclose-pressing walls and the watching white facesof the crowd.

It was the night of the Bal Masque.

WENTWORTH'S Lancia was caught by atraffic light just east of Broadway. There he satmoodily staring at the muted throng flocking past.Nita was beside him, her glittering costumecloaked in ermine and velvet, her glowing hairroped in diamonds.

She laid a white gloved hand gently on hisarm. "You're too somber, Dick," she said softly."This isn't the way you fight.''

Wentworth's lips curved slightly but absently,as his eyes skimmed the police guard.

"Unless they called out the troops, I don't seehow they could have put a stronger guard here,"he said.

That fact should have been reassuring, butWentworth's spirits did not lift. He realized that hewas battling a criminal leader who was, at once,the most brilliant and daring one ever to lay seigeto humanity's wealth and happiness. Tonight thebattle was his alone.

Nita's laughter sounded forced. "The Fiddlerwouldn't dare raid the ball. It was just a trick.And you were too smart for him."

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Wentworth laughed sharply. Smart! So farall the tricks had gone to the Fiddler. And hehimself did not believe the threatened raid was abluff.

The traffic lights clicked to green, and thefour policemen at the corner parted the sea ofhuman traffic allowing Wentworth's car to slidethrough. His trusted Hindu servant, Ram Singh,at the wheel, brought the long-nosed sedanexpertly to the Tory's carriage door, leaped to thesidewalk, and swung wide the door as he bowedhis turbaned head in a profound salaam.

Resolutely Wentworth threw off his gloom.Stepping out and turning to Nita, he caught thegleam of the Hindu's eyes and smiled faintly. RamSingh's oriental soul loved this luxurious display.

As Wentworth held out his hand and bowedNita from the car, there was a renewed burst offlashlights, a rising murmur from the watchingcrowd. Both Nita and he were gorgeously attired.The Bal Masque this year had selected the periodof Louis XIII: Wentworth wore the garb of captainof the King's musqueteers and Nita was a lady ofthe court.

Wentworth's attire was strangely symbolic.The curls of his wig, the small, pointed beard andmustache gave him an augmented dignity. Hishand rested naturally on the pommel of the dresssword at his waist. His doublet was of royal blue,slashed with scarlet, and his cavalier's hat sportedtwo sweeping white plumes. He looked entirelythe part he played in life, a gallant defender of allthat was honorable and right.

Nita's gown was pure white, of silkenbrocade. She seemed to glide forward amid herflounced wide skirts. Above them, her slenderbody was as graceful as the stem of a flower.

Wentworth concealed worried thoughtsbehind a smile as they ascended in an elevatorwith a costumed operator, then bowed andcurtsied their way through the great archeddoorway to the grand ball room, where Kirkpatrickhastened toward them, out of the colorful crowd.The Commissioner wore the crimson cap androbe of Cardinal Richelieu. His mustache hadbeen grayed with powder, a dab of whiskers wasfastened to his chin.

But Kirkpatrick was anything but gay. "It'squeer," he said after the greetings, "but I feel as ifthere should be a dirge instead of dancing tonight.That damned Fiddler. . . . "

WENTWORTH looked quickly intoKirkpatrick's eyes, then away. He was torturedbetween a desire to warn his friend whatimpended, and the certainty that if he did hisevery chance of tracing the wily and ruthless chiefof the underworld would be destroyed. For thepresent the Death Fiddler partly trusted LimpyMagee. An alarm tonight before the raid wouldend that. . . .

He must turn Kirkpatrick's thoughts to otherchannels. Wordlessly, he proffered a jeweledsnuff box and Kirkpatrick partook gingerly.

"No tricks, Dick," he warned.Wentworth delicately dusted his fingers and

sniffed. Kirkpatrick duplicated the feat, and burstimmediately into a paroxysm of sneezing.

"You've put—ka-chew!—pepper in thedammed—ka-chew!—stuff!"

"Snuff, my dear ex-Commissioner. Snuff,not stuff," Wentworth corrected mildly. He madehis lips smile, but there was no amusement in hiseyes. His thoughts were somber. "How's politics?"he asked.

His glance skimmed over the room, scanningflushed and laughing faces. He hoped the eveningof revelry would not be spoiled. The lips of theSpider tightened grimly. What panic would seizethem if they could read his thoughts! But evenKirkpatrick had failed to do that. He had partlyrecovered from the snuff now and frowned atWentworth's question on politics, still pressing ahandkerchief to his nose.

"It's a mess," he said, his voice muffled."Those damned politicians who came last nightare dissatisfied with—with—" he fought back asneeze—"with my resigning. They think I shouldhave retained office until the crime wave, as theycall it, has been suppressed. They didn't seem toconsider the Mayor's power of removal."

He tried to fight back another sneeze, failed."Damn that snuff!" he exploded.

"It's powerful," Wentworth agreed, "I supposethe new Commissioner has been appointed?"

"They're going to kick out Boise, if theyhaven't already," Kirkpatrick said savagely. "Thatwas to be expected, but they're also removing allappointive officials and retiring a lot of theveterans I've trained."

"Who was appointed?" Wentworth repeated."Flynn," Kirkpatrick clipped the name off. "It

hasn't been announced yet, but he's already busy

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30

picking his deputies. Larrimore phoned me. Hesaid he'd be glad to keep us informed ofdevelopments. Larrimore will be useful." Hepaused, glaring at the floor, went on again with asarcastic twist of his lips. "Major General Patrick0. Flynn, retired, late of the President's RoyalHouse Guards or something. He's reorganizingthe police force on a military basis. Military basishell! He's wrecking it!"

WENTWORTH frowned as he toyed with thehilt of his sword. There was a persistent thoughtat the back of his brain that all this had beenplanned; that Kirkpatrick's resignation, if not thenomination, had been engineered to achievedisruption of the police force. The Death Fiddleralready had the courts well in hand and now hewas taking over the police. . . . Wentworth's eyestightened. If his suspicions were right, it meantthat Purviss, or someone with a strong hold uponhim, someone like Allen or Senator Bigger. . . .

"Is Flynn here tonight?" Wentworth askedcasually. "I see that Allen and Bigger are. I'dknow that abdominal protuberance in anydisguise."

"Flynn was too busy wrecking the force toattend," Kirkpatrick said sourly, "but you'll find theMayor about somewhere. Damn Purviss’ blacksoul. I wonder. . . . "

"He hasn't got sense enough to be theFiddler," Wentworth cut in. "Someone else ispulling the strings. Boss Fogarty, could do it."

"He's here tonight," Kirkpatrick said slowly,"Dressed as some duke or another. Ah, there heis."

Wentworth looked at the vigorously erectfigure of Boss Fogarty. With a face pinkly floridbeneath a wig of long black curls, Fogarty lookedfar less than his sixty-odd years. Nor did he seemother than the benevolent soul he pretended tobe.

Kirkpatrick snorted. "That blackguard takesthe city for nearly two million a year one way oranother. His word is law throughout the ranks ofthe party. King of the city, in fact. I can't see whyhe'd turn to crime."

"How about his son?" Wentworth askedsoftly.

Kirkpatrick's muscles jerked, his facestiffened into a mask. A man in fool's motleystalked by, gripping his cap-and-bells staff like aclub. Kirkpatrick's eyes followed him thoughtfully.

A couple circled by in a slow waltz, the girl in ascarlet page's dress, the man in a herald's silverand blue.

A small smile twitched at Wentworth's lipsand he lifted a hand to stroke his mustaches.Unless his eyes were playing him tricks—and theSpider’s life often depended on the accuracy ofhis vision—the page in scarlet was Tony Musetteand she was dancing with the policeman'sbrother, Jerry Horace.

"Fogarty's son isn't here tonight," Kirkpatricksaid slowly. "Are you serious in suspecting him,Dick?"

Wentworth shrugged. "I suspect everyone,Kirk. Just now I'm wondering what a faro dealerfrom Gallagan's is doing here with a girl who is aclerk in Macy's."

Kirkpatrick shook his head. "Anyone cancome who wishes to spend the money on acostume and pay the admittance. It's a charityaffair."

Wentworth scanned once more thethickening galaxy of society and wealth all abouthim. The room was exquisitely draped in crimsonvelvet, festooned in garlands of roses. The glowof lights flashed back from a thousand jewels onmen's and women's elaborate garments. Whenand where would the Fiddler strike at all this,Wentworth wondered. Did the presence of Tonyand Jerry have any significance?

NITA'S hand was on his arm. "Dick, you'repositively stupid tonight. Come and dance—orshall I accept the invitation of that grand dukewho's been ogling me for the last fifteenminutes?"

Wentworth laughed, tried to thrust worry intothe back of his mind. "If you accept, the grandduke dies at daybreak with my rapier in his heart,"he threatened. "See you later, Kirk."

With a bow, Wentworth escorted Nita to thedance floor and they swung gracefully off on thestrains of a waltz. But he stopped as the musicceased on a minor strain, and strolled with Nitatoward where Kirkpatrick stood glowering at thefloor.

"I wish I'd made Purviss force me out,"Kirkpatrick said abruptly.

Wentworth made no reply, but brieflyexcused himself.

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"Where are you going?" Kirkpatrickdemanded sharply.

Wentworth raised mocking brows. "Really,Kirk, you do ask the most embarrassingquestions."

"Well, isn't that a Police Commissioner’sjob?" Nita asked. Her silvery laughter rang outwith attempted gaiety.

Kirkpatrick's lips relaxed slightly, and asWentworth left the ballroom, he turned his graveeyes on Nita.

"I'm worried about Dick," he said. "I've neverseen him so depressed, so lacking in plans. Thatbusiness of suspecting Fogarty's son now—hehas no reason for that."

Nita smiled and looked away. "Dick has doneseveral things well," she said slowly, "and theyhave accomplished nothing. You must remember,it's three months and more since these highlyorganized robberies and weekly murders began.The Fiddler is cleverly protected. . . . "

"Dick has fought things like that before this,"Kirkpatrick said swiftly.

Nita nodded. "He has a feeling that there isgoing to be a raid here tonight."

"A feeling?"Nita nodded, still looking away from

Kirkpatrick. She was aware of his eyes studyingher profile, then flicking over the assembledcrowd.

"That would be practically impossible,"Kirkpatrick muttered.

Nita said nothing more. She watched TonyMusette and Jerry Horace dance by. The girl's lipswere smiling, and there was a charming dimple inher chin. She had nice legs and ankles, Nitanoticed. No wonder she chose a costume withtights.

Kirkpatrick moved restively. "Care to dance,Nita?"

Nita smiled up at him and they swung out onthe floor. Kirkpatrick's costume with its black suitand cape, its cap of crimson, was conspicuous forits somberness among the array of silks andvelvets.

"Do you think Dick is justified in his feelingthat something will happen?" he asked.

Nita lifted a smooth shoulder in a slightshrug. "I don't know," she said. "Before I camehere tonight, I would have sworn it was

foolishness, but Dick's moodiness has begun toworry me. I don't know."

At that instant a man screamed.

THE hoarse cry ripped through the dulcetstrains of the music and stopped it with adiscordant crash. Nita and Kirkpatrick froze in themiddle of a step, and flung apart, staring towardthe middle of the ballroom where a secondterrified scream had already begun.

Boss Fogarty stood on wide-planted feet inthe middle of a rapidly widening circle of men andwomen. His right arm was twisted awkwardly upbehind him, toward the center of his back. Theglistening cream satin of his coat was stained by alengthening spot of blood. From his backprotruded half the blade of a rapier. The other halfwas buried in his body.

The second hoarse cry choked off andFogarty went down on his knees, slid forward onhis face with one arm still twisted behind him. Therapier's hilt swayed like a flower on its stem.Fogarty's hand clenched hard, then opened limplyand dropped to the floor.

It was only then that a woman shrieked. Thesound of it rose shrilly, rose until it seemedimpossible that a human throat could utter so highand piercing a sound. Then it broke into brittle,shivering fragments.

Not a dozen persons had seen Fogarty fall,but the screams stirred panic everywhere.Women ran headlong for the main doors, somewith hands thrust out stiffly before them, othersdragging wide skirts.

Kirkpatrick spun toward the musicians."Play, men, play!" he shouted.The instruments made a few wailing sounds,

gathered rhythm, then swelled to normal volume.Kirkpatrick hurried to the spot where Fogarty lay.Without touching the flesh he knew the man wasdead. Eighteen inches of steel had gone clearthrough his body.

As the Commissioner straightened, he founda ring of men about him. Women in thebackground were crying hysterically. One wasscreaming. The music could not hide the soundsof panic.

From the doorway a deep voice boomed out:"Please, be calm everyone!" it cried. "The policeare here."

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Kirkpatrick saw a man in civilian clothesstriding toward him with two blue-coated police athis heels. The man pushed through the ring,flashed a golden badge in his hand.

"I'm Deputy Commissioner Lyons," he said."What happened here?" He broke off. "Good God!It's Fogarty!"

Kirkpatrick frowned at him. The man was astranger to him. Flynn undoubtedly had installedhim. The Deputy Commissioner looked sharplyabout the circle of men and saw Kirkpatrick.

"You are Stanley Kirkpatrick, aren't you, sir?"he asked.

Kirkpatrick nodded. Looking sharply aboutthe ring, Deputy Commissioner Lyons asked ifanyone had seen the blow struck. No one had.

"How did it happen," Kirkpatrick askedquietly, "that you got here so quickly,Commissioner?"

Lyons frowned. "Fifteen minutes ago I had acall from a man who said he was an official of theball. He said a twenty-five thousand dollardiamond necklace had been stolen. I had justarrived to investigate when this murder occurred."

THE man was squat of build, thick cheeked.His voice was heavy and slightly husky. He stoodlooking at the body of Fogarty, inspecting the hiltof the sword.

"There won't be any prints on that," he said,nodding at the jewel-encrusted pommel. "There'sjust one thing to do." He drew a deep breath andhis face was very serious. "It's going to raise hell,but I'll have to order everyone at the ballsearched. The diamonds were stolen from Mrs.Fogarty and it is apparent Mr. Fogarty spotted thethief and was killed to prevent an alarm."

"That's preposterous!"Kirkpatrick saw that it was Senator Bigger

who spoke—as usual in exclamations. Thesenator thrust out his belly pompously. "Find aman with an empty scabbard! You will have yourmurderer and your jewels both, then!"

Lyons smiled gravely. "I'm willing to predictthere won't be an empty scabbard in the hall," hesaid. "Furthermore, it would be easily possible forthe jewels to have been passed on to anaccomplice."

Kirkpatrick, Nita beside him again, wasstruggling with an impression that there wassomething wrong about Lyons and his blue-

coated officers. Yet on the surface they wereauthentic enough, his deductions were logicalenough.

The Deputy Commissioner turned towardKirkpatrick.

"Would you mind coming with me, sir?" heasked deferentially. "You're much more familiarwith such matters than I and I should appreciateyour help."

Nita's hand closed on his arm. "Don't go,"she whispered. "That man is a fake."

Kirkpatrick's brows tightened above his eyes.Nita's whisper confirmed his own doubts, thoughthe man's invitation seemed sincere enough.

"Dick expected a raid," she pointed out. "I'msure that. . . . "

"How about it, Mr. Kirkpatrick?" Lyonsasked, his voice sharpening.

Kirkpatrick bowed. "As soon as I've found anescort for madam," he said and gave Nita his arm,guiding her toward a group of women against thefar wall.

"Do you know anything?" he asked in anundertone.

"One of those policemen," said Nita, "isbelow the legal requirement for height. He is notquite as tall as I am."

Kirkpatrick continued to bend attentivelytoward her, but Nita could feel the muscles tightenin his arm beneath her hand.

"You are right!" he said. "I should havenoticed that. I knew there was something. . . . "

"This is the attack Dick expected," Nita saidfirmly. "When they search us, they will take ourjewels, make us prisoners and go away."

KIRKPATRICK straightened, flung a glanceabout the room. Doors and windows wereguarded by men in police uniforms. The costumedguests were huddled in flustered little groups.

"I wish Dick were here," he said slowly. "Iwonder what's keeping him so long."

"The street is full of police," Nita said softly."If only we could signal them, this would bebroken up in a hurry."

Kirkpatrick laughed. The sound of it wasstrangely loud in the somber room. "That will beeasy," he told her.

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They were near a row of chairs against thewall. Kirkpatrick abruptly snatched up one,whirled it around his head at arm's length. Hiseyes were fixed on a window. If he could smasha chair through it, the commotion should bring atleast an inquiry from outside. He had a policewhistle between his teeth. . . .

A revolver spoke.Kirkpatrick swayed, the chair flew from his

hands to bounce harmlessly on the floor, then hepitched heavily there himself, flopping over on hisback.

Lyons strode toward him on heavy heels,revolver in hand.

"Search this woman first," he orderedsharply. "She probably has the jewels." Nitadropped upon her knees beside Kirkpatrick,whose eyes were glazing with pain. She scarcelyheard Lyons, but two of the false policemenseized her, one on each side, and a sharp painpricked her arm. She knew that a needle hadbeen plunged into her flesh. Drugs! She openedher mouth to cry a warning. The words did notcome. The room spun about her and she slumpedforward into the arms of the police.

"All right," Lyons called, "we'll start thesearch. Ladies first—through this door overhere."

CHAPTER TENSpider to the Rescue

WHEN Wentworth left the ball, he wentdirectly to a room in the hotel which he hadpreviously engaged and, lighting a cigarette,began to pace the floor. He had alreadyconvinced himself that the Fiddler meant to striketonight, and he sought to figure what method theman would employ.

Certainly the Fiddler would not rush in armedmen and line the guests against the wall. Therewere too many of them. An outcry would certainlybe raised before the robbers could get clear.Wentworth shook his head angrily. A dozen otherways suggested themselves, but all seemedequally faulty.

Angrily, he whirled toward a small satchel setupon a rack beside the chiffonier. Snapping it

open, he took out a small make-up kit and,standing before the mirror, went to work on hisface. Under his deft hands, the skin became tautand sallow, emphasizing his cheek bones. Thenose, built up with wax, became beaked and thin,his mouth went lipless. Bushy brows covered hisown, and the wig of curls gave place to one oflank black hair. When the work was completed, hecarefully inspected himself in the mirror, thennodded briefly.

With quick movements, he doffed hiscostume. Minutes later, a hunch-backed figure ina long black cape stood in the room, a black,broad-brimmed hat upon his head, sword-cane inhand. He switched off the lights and glided to thedoor.

Now he was the Spider in earnest. The blackcape and the hunched back would identify himinstantly as that fearsome nemesis of the night.

It had been months since he had venturedforth in the garb. But he felt that the time hadcome when he must spread once more the terrorof his ugly red brand of death.

He peered cautiously through the slittedopening of his door, made sure the hall wasempty, then, silent as the killer whose name hebore, made hastily toward the stairs.

He knew the layout of the hotel verythoroughly. A second, smaller ballroom was onthe floor above where the Bal Masque was beingheld. A narrow iron stairway: connected with twohalls; an auxiliary fire escape and two anteroomsof the major dance floor opened on it. Thosestairs would provide an entrance for the Spider.

With long strides, he went silently down thestairs to the floor above the grand ballroom. Achambermaid stared at him with wide-eyedamazement, but he walked on without noticingher. She did not scream . . . had in fact vanisheddown the hallways when he slid into the smallerballroom and made his way rapidly toward theanterooms and stairs behind.

ABRUPTLY he paused, standing stiffly in themiddle of the dark and empty room. He had hearda pistol shot in the room below.

With an oath choked in his throat, he flungtoward the anteroom stairs. The cane was heldlightly in his right hand, its ferrule toward thedarkness ahead; his feet were soundless on thepolished floor.

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At the closed door of the anteroom hepaused, listening. No sound came from within.Abruptly the Spider flung the door aside andsprang in, his cane poised like a sword.

A man started up from the head of the stairs,gun in hand, and Wentworth lunged savagelyforward.

It was a fencer's lunge, cane before him likea foil, left foot trailing behind, right under him tocatch his weight. He covered fully ten feet in thatone bound. His cane tip shot past the leveledgun, crunched home against the man's larynx. Awheezing sound, almost inaudible, was pushedout of the gunman's mouth. He staggeredbackward with his hands tearing at his throat,tripped, and pitched to the floor. Wentworth flungbodily upon the man's legs so that they would notbeat an alarm.

Death came convulsively to the guard andWentworth eased to his feet, caught up the man'srevolver, crept toward the steps. He twisted thehead of his cane and drew it away from the stick.

There was a singing whisper of steel and theSpider held in his right hand a short, two-edgedsword ground to razor sharpness. Gun in onehand, sword in the other, he opened another doorand glided down the iron steps.

The platform below was lighted andcrouching there tensely were four men, guns intheir hands. They were facing two doors whichopened off the platform toward the ballroom. Attheir backs the stairway led both down and up.

Wentworth stole back up the steps, bent overthe body of the man he had killed. He pressed thebase of his cigarette lighter to the man's forehead,and the crimson of his Spider seal stood outvividly against the purple face.

Wentworth thrust the sword through the edgeof his cape, took the captured gun between histeeth and caught up the body. He put a handbeneath each arm pit. Then slowly, on heavy feet,neck corded with the strain of carrying the body inthat position, he went down the steps.

He made no effort now to move silently. Hissolid heels rang dully in the enclosed well of thesteps. The stairs curved in a tight spiral halfwaydown and he rounded this bend abruptly, the bodypoised before him. It seemed that a dead manwalked, a dead-man with a face empurpled, withdead eyes bulging like marbles, swollen tonguethrust out—and the dread crimson seal of theSpider on his forehead.

Wentworth heard gasps, a wavering, half-choked cry from the hall below. Then he thrust thebody violently from him, so that it dived headfirstdown the stairs. Guns blasted wildly; one or twomen shrieked in terror. The body struck with anasty crunch on the iron platform at their feet.

THE instant he thrust the body forward andwhile the eyes of the men below were still focusedon its horrible face, Wentworth leaped backwardaround the curve. When the body struck, thestairs behind it were empty, but from the darknessabove floated flat, mocking laughter. It startedsoftly, a low sinister chuckle, but mounted untilthe stairwell boomed with diabolic mirth. It endedabruptly, and a hissing whisper dropped from thedarkness.

"The Spider is here! The Spider comes tokill!"

Once more the bubbling emptiness of hismocking mirth poured down upon them, whilemen emptied their automatics at the darkness,

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poured a ringing hail of lead upon the steps—andfled desperately down the stairway.

Wentworth's smile pressed his lips againsthis bared teeth. He made no effort to pursue themen. It was strange that no one had come fromthe ballroom to find the cause of that burst ofshooting, of those screams and thatMephistophelian laughter. He caught thedoorknob and, on the point of entering, dodgedback. Curses made his lips writhe. He knew nowwhy no one had come to the help of the guards.He knew now that the Death Fiddler had planneda robbery of the richest ball of years—and how hewas going about it.

Anaesthetics! The odor he had smelled waschloroform!

The room beyond this door, opening off theballroom, was filled with anaesthetics. Were thevictims driven into these rooms and stripped?Wentworth shook his head. He did not know theprocedure, but he must disrupt the Fiddler's work.Taking a handkerchief from his pocket andbinding it tightly over mouth and nostrils, heyanked open the door, sprang in.

For a second the sight that met his eyesstaggered him. Women lay upon the floor in neatrows, pale faces turned upward, eyes closed. Oneswift glance showed him Nita, against the wall;her hair drooping upon her shoulders, thediamonds that had bound it torn away. Even as heentered, another woman, in the doorway, wasbeing stripped of jewels by three men in gasmasks, one of whom held a cloth saturated withchloroform to her nose, while another held herarms, and the third rapidly relieved her ofnecklace and earrings. The men's gas maskscovered their entire heads.

Only one of them saw Wentworth at first andhe was unable to shout warning to hiscompanions because of the mask. The mandropped the jewels and snatched at his gun.

The automatic in Wentworth's left handcrashed, and the man slammed back against thewall. His shoulders braced against it, he foughtfrantically to lift his automatic. The other two menwhirled at the crash of the shot. Wentworth's gunshot down one, his sword found the other's heart.

The woman they had been robbing, halfconscious, staggered aside. The three menslumped to the floor and the door flung wide. Aman in a policeman's blue uniform stood in thedoorway, gun in hand. Wentworth's lungs were

bursting with the need for air as he leapedforward. The policeman's gun blasted.

But the man's eyes were staring wide, hismouth open in surprised fright. He recognized theSpider! The fright made his shot go astray—Wentworth felt it jerk at his cape below his leftarm—and before he could shoot again, the Spiderwas upon him. He went down under the slash ofWentworth's gun and the Spider darted into theballroom.

Men in police uniforms lined the walls of theroom, blocked the windows and the doors. GoodGod, had he attacked and slain police?

Wentworth's head jerked. Impossible, ofcourse. If police were involved, there would be nochloroforming, no stripping of jewels, no gasmasks. Then he caught sight of a man in a deepred cape stretched on the floor—Kirkpatrick. ByGod, if they had killed Kirkpatrick! A red haze ofrage burned his brain.

His angry eyes continued swiftly about theroom. Before three other doors, men and womenstood in lines guarded by police. They were stilland frightened. The musicians were in the line,too—except for the police and the bodies ofKirkpatrick and Fogarty, everyone was in thoselines. But no, not quite everyone.

Seated in a chair against the far wall, leaningback at his ease, was a man from whose chestthe hilt of a knife apparently protruded. As hesaw Wentworth crouched in the doorway, gun andbloody sword in hand, he lifted his right handcasually and pointed.

"Shoot that man, but don't kill him," heordered calmly.

There was no doubt that the man was theDeath Fiddler.

CHAPTER ELEVENVictory—and Defeat

WENTWORTH glimpsed all these things infractions of a second. Actually he had only dartedthrough the door, halted, and swept his eyesabout the room.

At the Fiddler's order, a half dozen policementhrew up their guns. The Spider was too far fromthe doorway to spring back into its protection. He

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could not shoot down six men before one of theirbullets found his body. There was no possibility ofshooting out the lights; hundreds of them shone inclusters on the ceiling. Yet he would notsurrender.

A bullet jerked his hat back on his head, anda light, leaden blow burned his right forearm. Hespat curses between his teeth. In the briefmoment between the instant he dived to the floorand fired his first shots, the Fiddler haddisappeared. No one remained except the falsepolice against the wall. Then he was gone,leaping down the fire-exit stairs.

Unexcited voices came to him as hecautiously peered around the wall at the head ofthe stairs toward the entrance to the grandballroom. The doors were open, he saw, and oncemore the prisoners were being ushered out oneby one, their jewels stripped from them.

TONY MUSETTE, still brave in her scarlet,stepped through the narrow opening of the doors,her eyes blazing. Jerry Horace was just behindher. A man was on each side of the doorway, twoothers behind them. The Death Fiddler, a long-bladed rapier in his hand now, stood to one sideand watched.

"You hid a ring," one of the crooks snappedat Tony. He snatched the throat of her silkenblouse and ripped it. The girl cried out, caught ather torn clothing. Jerry sprang forward with ahoarse shout. His fist connected with the jaw ofthe assaulter who reeled backward, struck thewall and flopped to the floor.

He wasn't out, but he was groggy. For amoment he lay there, propping himself on anelbow. Then, with a snarled curse, he grabbed forhis underarm gun.

The Death Fiddler took a deliberate stepforward and ran his rapier through the heart of hisown man. The fellow twisted up a startled facewhich immediately lost all expression. His elbowslipped out from under him and his head hit thefloor with a hollow thump.

"I don't approve," said the Fiddler softly, "ofunnecessary abuse of women."

The Spider, crouched behind the corner ofthe wall, shut his lips grimly and lifted hisautomatic. The man was gallant where womenwere concerned, but that was no affair of theSpider. The man was also a fiendishly clever

criminal who had murdered scores of persons,had looted the city until it had been driven to theverge of panic and bankruptcy. That was the affairof the Spider. He had sworn to kill this man andhe would do it.

Thus Wentworth goaded himself, but hisinner being countered with the fact that the Fiddlerhad once spared the Spider’s life, had saved twowomen from dishonor. There seemed to be aphysical inability to pull the trigger of the leveledautomatic.

So be it, then.He thrust the rapier through the edge of his

cape, palmed both automatics and stepped outinto the hall. Then he let his mocking laughter ringout.

"Turn, fools and fight!" he challenged. "TheSpider is here."

The three minions of the Fiddler whirled as ifthey were one mechanism, yet Wentworth cursedfuriously, between clenched teeth, as he saw thatthe Fiddler had no intention of whirling thus to jointhe battle.

While the man turned slowly about,Wentworth's weapons spoke a spiteful epic ofdeath, filling the hall with thunder. Three shotssped from his automatics and three men crasheddown to the floor, each with a bullet through hisforehead.

And still the Fiddler had not faced entirelyabout, still he made no move to draw his weapon.He held his rapier, point down, in his right handand from its gleaming point red blood drippedslowly. A casual smile crossed his lips andWentworth recognized with a start of amazementwho it was the man caricatured, who it was thatthe Fiddler must be intending to murder ateleven-thirty the following Thursday.

The disguise was that of the Governor ofNew York!

The recognition thinned Wentworth's lips.Truly this man chose his victims in high places.And with the man still making no effort to draw agun, only standing there rapier in hand,Wentworth dropped his own automatics into hispockets—with a curse—and whipped up his rapierin salute.

Abruptly the ballroom doors flung wide. Fourmen, grasping revolvers, crouched in theentrance. Too late, Wentworth saw that he hadbeen tricked into a position from which there was

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no escape. The Fiddler now could have him shotdown. . . .The Spider poised his rapier, preparedto make one last effort to triumph.

"Don't shoot," the Fiddler ordered his men ina casual voice. "I believe I am being challenged toa dual of rapiers."

Gracefully he swept his own blade to salute,and the two prospective combatants stood stiffly.Both their rapiers had tasted blood this night; thebrilliance of their points was dimmed. Death wasin the eyes of both as they stood, very nearly of asize, well proportioned as to shoulders, slender inthe hips, and awaited a signal. Their gaze metunwaveringly and on the lips of both were tight,hard smiles.

"En garde!" Wentworth cried.The rapiers whistled down and both men

crouched, left hands lifted on balanced weaponscircling almost at arm's length. The Spiderdanced in, lunging strongly, recovering withlightning rapidity—yet not a moment too soon. Hebarely turned the Fiddler's riposte from his throat.

"Bravo!" he cried.

THE Fiddler's lips curved, but the light in hiseyes was hard and bitter. He thrust swiftly,recovered, and lunged. Wentworth was forced tobreak ground, the Fiddler held what he hadgained. But the Spider knew now what he hadwanted to learn: the length of the other's lunge. Itwas formidable, but his own was better.

The Fiddler sprang back a full two feet fromthe outlicking point of a thrust and Wentworthlunged instantly. His lunge was almost acrobatic.His feet quit the floor, the left trailing behind, theright drawn under him. His entire body wasstretched out, a prolonged turn of the rapier. TheFiddler sprang back, tried wildly for a parry thatwould have impaled Wentworth on the impetus ofhis own attack had it succeeded.

But the Spider’s powerfully driven bladeknocked aside the other's and struck true towardthe Fiddler's heart. The criminal reeled back, hisblade dropping. Wentworth recovered, a puzzledfrown on his forehead. He had struck true, yet theblade had not had the feel of penetrating.

It was as if he had struck something yieldingyet solid. Not a steel vest . . . .

Swift movement on his right pulledWentworth's eyes that way. He caught a glimpseof Jerry, hurling a chair. Even as he spotted the

heavy chair flying at him, it was too late to duck.He whipped up the point of his rapier. There wasa crunch as the point ate home. The blade bent,snapped, and the chair crashed on. Its backcaught Wentworth over the head and spilled himto the floor. In the moment before the blow wipedout consciousness, the Spider’s thoughts were allblack. He was doomed, whether the Fiddlercarried him away or police won their way through.

CHAPTER TWELVEThe Fiddler Plans Anew

A VOICE was calling to Wentworth from agreat distance and he couldn't quite make out thewords. He strained and strained to hear, andfinally, blurrily, recognized his own name. Hetried to answer and abruptly, with a snap insidehis brain, he was conscious.

"Quick, Dick," Nita's voice was frantic."Quick. I can't drag you any further and the policeknow you're missing."

Wentworth pulled himself groggily to his feet,fighting the pain in his brain. Even before heunderstood what was happening, he wasstruggling along with Nita's arm half supportinghim. The action and the pain rapidly completedthe work of restoration. He glanced about, foundthey were hurrying along a corridor of the hotel.Behind him were shouts and excitement.

"What happened?" he asked heavily."The Fiddler and his men got away," she told

him. "They threw a bomb down the elevator shaftand one down the stairways, blocked them both,and then finished robbing the people. When thepolice came up on firemen's ladders, they ranupward into the hotel and simply disappeared."

Wentworth grunted. They were climbing aflight of stairs now toward the next floor and thecries of police were fainter behind them. Hefrowned, looked down at the floor. "Do you knowwhether Kirk was . . ."

Nita shook her head. "They carried him awayin an ambulance. He's in bad shape, I'm afraid."

It was late in the morning before he wasaway from the hotel, with Nita, and racing to thehospital where Kirkpatrick had been taken. Thesurgeon, Doctor Devoe, was leaving the building

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as they drove up and Wentworth, knowing he wasthe chief of staff of the hospital, stopped him onthe sidewalk.

"Kirkpatrick?" Wentworth said eagerly.Devoe's eyes were weary. He shook his

head slowly."I don't know," he said. "The bullet missed

the spine and kidneys, missed every vital organby some miracle, but it perforated the intestines insix places. I removed the punctures..." A tiredsmile crossed his lips. "The operation was asuccess."

Wentworth knew the rest of the phrase and ittightened an iron band about his heart. "Theoperation was a success, but the patient died." Ajest it was. But, Good God, this was Kirkpatrick!This was his friend!

"In heaven's name, Doctor Devoe,"Wentworth said hoarsely, "if there is anything . . .money's no object."

The doctor nodded gravely. "Everything thatcan be done has been done," he said. "Luckily,he didn't lose too much blood externally . . . .Internal hemorrhage of course."

WENTWORTH was doomed to inaction. Hediscovered where Tony Musette worked behind acounter at Macy's, and Nita used her influence toget a job in the same department. RichardWentworth disappeared and Limpy Mageereturned to his shop off the Bowery.

Days grew into weeks without any newhappenings except that, with the removal ofKirkpatrick from the office of Commissioner andthe retirement and dismissal of many of hisleading officials, the police defense had becomesadly weakened. Fewer of them were killed bybandits, but that was because they lacked theincentive to pursue the fleeing killers' cars.

Kirkpatrick still hovered between life anddeath. Once there was a slight improvementreported and Wentworth rejoiced, but two dayslater his friend slipped back again. He had neverbeen off the danger list and Dr. Devoe, withmatchless, untiring devotion, was fightingperitonitis and pneumonia, both of whichthreatened the patient in his weakened condition.

Then the Governor, ringed about withguards, was killed by a knife either thrown or shotthrough a window, and the Death Fiddler cameboastfully into Collins' in the garb of his victim!

Wentworth, as Limpy Magee, arrived minutesafter the Fiddler left and despair nearlyoverwhelmed him.

For hours, for days he had been awaitinganother opportunity to face the Fiddler. And herehe had missed one of the leader's rareappearances. Now he sat slumped forward overhis table, hands shoved into the touseled mop ofhis hair.

As on his every visit, Snakey Anniesauntered up and dropped into a chair acrossfrom him.

A cigarette dangled from her lip, and hereyes were black and brilliant as she leanedforward, sifting smoke out of her nostrils.

"Why the weeps, big boy?" Her voice wassoftly insinuating. "Ain't I with you?"

Wentworth jerked up, staring at her with thevenomous, blood-shot eyes that were part of hisdisguise. "Scram, will you," he snarled. "I'm sickof looking at your ugly mug."

Snakey Annie's lips quirked upward at theleft corner. "Tell me more, Limpy, I love it." Sheslid her elbows on the table, rested chin on fists.She seemed not to be speaking now, but wordsbreathed from her motionless lips.

"Limpy, if you're wise, you'll play along withme," she said.

Wentworth continued to stare at her. Thenhe caught up his whisky glass and tossed the vileliquor against his pallet, throwing back his head.He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

"All right, spill it," he snarled.Snakey Annie inhaled deeply of her cigarette,

eyes nearly closed. Her lips twisted again in asmile and she pushed up from the chair, thenthrust her head at him as viciously as the reptilewhose name she bore.

"Go to hell!" she spat at him. "I know peoplewho will pay for what I know."

Wentworth tried to hide the calculation thatcrept into his eyes as he leered up at her.

"Scram!" he snarled again. Lurching to hisfeet he slapped viciously at her. She dodged andsauntered away with an exaggerated swaying ofher hips. Wentworth settled back into his chair asif too drunk to do anything else. He dropped hishead on his crossed arms and no one botheredhim. Limpy Magee was one of the elite.

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BUT his mind was totally unfogged withliquor. The hint from the girl had swept his brainclean of worry and fatigue, wiped out in a fewwords the despair that had gripped him. Whathad she hinted? Did she mean she haddiscovered that he was in disguise? Or was itmerely that she had private information which shethought valuable? No way of telling, of course,unless he went after her. A tight smile twisted hislips, hidden by his folded arms. That wouldn't benecessary. Snakey Annie would come backagain. He felt the table shift under his weight andsome one dropped into the opposite chair. A thin,whining voice prodded at him.

"Wake up, Limpy," it urged, "I got big newsfor youse."

Wentworth stirred grumpily, cursed andordered the speaker away. He knew who it was.Danny Dawson had been a shadow for him atevery appearance in the back room of Collins'place. The little yegg seemed to look upon LimpyMagee as little short of a god. Indeed, it was arare thing that one crook would risk his life to saveanother when police were at his heels, and Limpyhad been scarcely an acquaintance to Dannywhen he had done that.

Danny's whining voice persisted and finallyWentworth sat up, blearily awake. The little yeggleaned confidentially across the table, his narrow,horse-nosed face grinning slyly beneath a foppishwhite felt.

"I ain't supposed to tell youse till five a.m.,"he said, "but I'll break a rule for a pard any day.Youse is going to see you know who in the a.m."

Wentworth peered with apparent dullness atDanny's shrewd face, but his heart sprang up intohis throat and beat there like a great thuddingdrum. He was to see the Fiddler again!

"What the hell y’talkin' about?" he demanded.Danny flung a look over his shoulder to see

that nobody was near and the smile stayed on hisface. "The Fiddler," he whispered. "He wantsyouse to come see him again."

Wentworth frowned, shrugged his shoulders."So what?"

His indifference seemed to frighten Danny."I ain't goin' to talk about what I said no more

until five a.m.," he said. "What's the matter wit'youse and Annie? She's been givin' me the glad-eye since I palled up wit' youse and tonight shelooked like she was wantin' to knife me. What'sthe matter?"

Wentworth looked owlishly at Danny, shookhis head and signaled for drinks. It was onlyeleven o'clock. He had hours to wait before hecould come face to face again with the Fiddler.His mind shifted to Snakey Annie, and he forcedhimself to study the possible meaning of herwords. But he merely shrugged at Danny'sinquiries, and both fell to drinking silently.

DESPITE his relaxed look, Wentworth wastense with apprehension. If Annie had beenabout Limpy Magee's shop spying on him and hadseen something to make her suspicious . . . GoodLord, he couldn't let her betray him now, not whenhe was within hours of meeting finally the dreadcriminal genius who ruled the city! He must gethold of her and learn her secret.

"Listen," said Danny, breaking a long,restless silence, "youse don't want to treat Annietoo rough. There ain't nothin' she won't do, onceyou get her riled. Want I should take a walkover..." He eased to his feet.

"Sit down!" Wentworth snapped. He rolledhis head limply on his neck and looked about him.A buxom blonde in a vivid green sweater andchecked skirt was sauntering by with muchswaying of hips and Wentworth reached out andhooked her about the waist.

"Come'n see papa, baby," he grinned. Theblonde spun about, green-eyed with anger untilshe recognized Limpy, then she grinned, sliding ahand over his mouse-colored hair, behind hishead.

"How're yuh, Limpy? What's the ideainsultin' a poor woiking goil?"

Wentworth guffawed loudly, hauled the girl—Jessie James, she called herself—down on hisknee. She was flattered at attention from thefamous Limpy Magee, and put an affectionatearm about his shoulders. That lasted about thirtyseconds. Snakey Annie blew up in a whirlwind asWentworth had known she would and JessieJames took to her heels squealing, trying tostretch her tight checkered skirt into a space-covering stride.

Then Annie was standing before Wentworthwith her hands set on her silk-covered hips,glowering down at him.

"You're just hell on claim-jumpers, ain't you,baby?" Wentworth chuckled at her. He reachedout and caught Annie's left wrist. She foughtwildly, but the Spider’s lithe strength was too

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much. Without apparent effort, he pulled hertoward him and plumped her on his lap with herhands locked behind.

She kicked at him viciously, but withouteffect, and finally, amid the laughter of the entireroom, sat quite still upon Wentworth's good rightknee, his left being stretched out stiffly, proppedon a chair.

"What's the matter, Annie?" Wentworthjeered at her. "This is where you've been wantingto get for ages. Now what's eatin' you?"

Annie's black eyes were just on a level withhis, even though she sat in his lap. They burnedwith hate and baffled anger. Her hands werepinioned behind her with Wentworth's left. Hisright arm, clamped across her thighs, held herimmovable. Abruptly he caught her chin with hisright hand and kissed her very thoroughly.

Danny had left the table and the others in theroom were attending to their own business now.The fight had been a novelty, but public flirtingwasn't. Wentworth felt traitorous in what he did,but he had made greater sacrifices.

With that fierce kiss upon her lips, SnakyAnnie went suddenly limp in his arms. She nolonger fought nor sat stiffly erect upon his knees.He released her wrists and her arms closed abouthis neck.

"Why you been so mean to me, Limpy?" shewhispered against his ear.

WENTWORTH laughed shortly. Thebitterness in it was not feigned. Duty bade himlove this girl, while the woman who held his heartwas ever denied him by the stern path of hisservice to humanity. They could not even workside by side when they fought a common danger,lest her very nearness to the Spider doom herhorribly at the hands of his enemies. Yet this littletrollop of the underworld, as ready with her kissesas her gun, a girl not long out of her teens whowas reported—truthfully, Wentworth knew—tohave killed two men in a holdup, was his for theasking. He did not even need to ask. No wonderhis laughter was bitter!

But Snakey Annie, her hard eyes softenednow, did not question the quality of his mirth. Shelaughed too, and snuggled against his chest,curling her feet up under her. Her black hair was acloud before his face and he found that thefragrance of the hair of a woman who has killed isas sweet as any other's. She seemed to bear norancor that he had spurned her so long. Shecared only that at last she was in his arms.

Apparently, she had settled for a long stay.But that was not Wentworth's plan. There wascertain information he wanted from her, the newswith which she had threatened him. Since she didnot volunteer, he must find other means withoutasking her. A question would be fatal.

"Get up," he growled, "you're breaking mygame leg."

He shoved her roughly erect and she almostfell in scrambling to her feet. But nothing seemedto annoy her now. She pulled a chair close andsat looking at him through the smoke of a newlylighted cigarette. Wentworth ignored her, gazed

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deliberately past her inviting face to the noisycrowd about other tables, to be seen dimlythrough the fog of smoke. Ten minutes of that andAnnie jumped to her feet.

"Come on," she said, catching Wentworth bythe arm, "let's get out of here."

Wentworth looked up at her sourly, shruggedloose of her grip. "Run along and play," hegrowled.

Annie urged him, winked voluptuouspromises, smiled and made inviting moues, butWentworth was indifferent to all. Finally she bentclose to his ear, nipped it with her teeth.

"Don't you want to know what I know?" shewhispered.

Wentworth laughed nastily. "I've forgottenmore than you know, or ever will."

"Yeah?" she glowered down at him. "Maybeyou know then that the Metropolitan is going to berobbed in the morning."

"What?"She was pleased at the startled exclamation,

at his quick glance into her face. She smiled, bentclose, brushed his face with her dangling hair.

"They're going to rob the Metropolitan ArtMuseum in the morning," she murmured. "Comeon, and I'll tell you all about it."

Wentworth lurched heavily to his feet, caughtup his greasy cap from the next chair and lookedsullenly about the room. Those at the nearesttables turned and waved a farewell, butWentworth saw none of that. He saw only thepicture that Snakey Annie's words had raisedbefore his startled eyes. The Metropolitan ArtMuseum, the treasures of the centuries, looted bythe Death Fiddler. And the girl knew the details.He would have to learn them at all costs, anddefeat the criminal hordes.

Danny swaggered close. "Don't forget I wantto see youse at —five a.m.," he sniggered.

"Come over to the shop," Wentworthgrunted. He shoved his fists into his pockets andlimped toward the door. Snakey Annie hung ontohis left, lolling her head against him. She didn'teven mind when he shouldered it roughly away.

The Metropolitan! Wentworth drew in a slow,noisy breath, then hissed it out between his teeth.This was one crime they would not get away with.He grinned suddenly. It was possible that the

Fiddler would not be there to participate, after theSpider paid him a visit!

CHAPTER THIRTEENLimpy Magee Is Unmasked

WENTWORTH was waiting in front of LimpyMagee's shop at a little before five o'clock whenDanny came swaggering down the street for him.There was a brisk chill in the pre-dawn air, andmist lay heavy over the river. Against the softlypurple sky, buildings stood squat and black.

Danny was chipper. He clapped Wentworthon his hunched shoulders and proclaimed that itwas a fine morning.

"A hell of a time this guy picks forinterviews," Wentworth growled. "A hell of a time."

They took a taxi directly to the west side,crossed Fifth Avenue and circled back on Tenth,where they went into a basement areaway.Wentworth limped in first when the grating wasopened, this time by a butler without bulletwounds. Danny pushed forward, but the gratingslammed in his face.

"The Master says you've finished for tonight,"the butler said.

It was with a sense of utter loss thatWentworth saw Danny's narrow, swaggeringshoulders disappear. It seemed ominous that thistime he should be separated from the little yegg. Itwas not impossible, either, that the Fiddler haddiscovered that Patrolman Bill Horace was stillalive. Wentworth had not seen the policemansince handing him Kirkpatrick's message.

"This way, sir," said the butler.Wentworth braced himself instinctively,

unbuttoned his coat so that his guns would beready to hand, then stumped along a narrow,badly lighted hall, into a room at its end.

Once more the bodies of the past victims, ineffigy, were sprawled on tables along the wall.Governor Harn was there with the knife in hisheart, and Judge Scott with his bullet-pockedshirt. The ceiling was low and from a beamagainst the far side, a figure had been hanged.There before a five-foot fireplace lay a nakedman, his feet so close to the coals that . . . that. . . Wentworth cursed under his breath. It mustbe in his imagination that he smelled seared

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human flesh. He limped across to the fireplace,held his hands to the blaze—then stiffened, horrorand anger alike quivering through his body.

That figure whose feet scorched in the firewas actually a man! That is, it had been a man,though it was only cold clay now. Traced uponthe chest in elaborate detail was a huge violin.

Nausea hit him like a blow as he jerked hiseyes away from that pitiful body on the floor. Heremembered now where he had seen that manwho lay so terribly dead by the fire.

Last night that man had been . . . had beenwith Snakey Annie!

WENTWORTH'S lips tightened grimly. Wasthat why he had been brought here? Was thisman dead because he had babbled to SnakeyAnnie about the pending Metropolitan robbery? Ifso, his own turn might well come next. He wasglad he had his guns.

Slowly Wentworth forced himself tocalmness. With his eyes he searched the room,which was lighted only by the glimmer from thefire. There was nothing here save the table withthe effigies of murder, and that body before thefire which was not an effigy. The far wall, theback of the room, seemed solid.

But even as his eyes surveyed it, a slit ofgreenish light split it from top to bottom.Majestically that slit widened, the two halves ofthe wall collapsed to either side and in adownward shaft of the ghastly light the DeathFiddler was revealed.

Wentworth felt his muscles jerk with surpriseas he realized the disguise the Fiddler wore. Hecontrolled himself with a frantic effort. LimpyMagee should not indicate that he knew this man,though Wentworth's recognition of him sent theblood humming through his veins in anger. TheFiddler was disguised as Dodson Larrimore, thesecretary to the Mayor! Between his eyes was ared-blue bullet hole.

"I am glad," said the Fiddler softly, "that youwere amused by last night's entertainment."

It was Limpy Magee who answered,stammering, "Cheez, chief, I ain't done nothing."

The Fiddler's face remained expressionlessas his gentle voice asked: "Are you sure?" Helaughed at Limpy Magee's trembling reassurance,and went on. "I didn't bring you here for

punishment, Limpy. I brought you here to ask afavor—a favor for which I am willing to pay well."

"What d'you want me to do, chief?" he askedwith feigned eagerness.

The Fiddler laughed once more. "A verysimple thing. I want you to pay a visit which I'vepromised this coming Thursday night at eleven-thirty."

Wentworth stood motionless while the fullimport of the man's words stabbed into his brain.The Fiddler had chosen him to make this week'skill!

And the man he had selected to die wasKirkpatrick's friend, the man who had beensupplying him with police information—DodsonLarrimore!

"I want you to blast the Mayor's secretary forme," the Fiddler was saying. "You'll be given anyhelp you want, either in getting into a position toshoot, or in escaping afterward. In case wherethe victims are forewarned, I make a point ofplanning the kills myself. But I think you are aman of ingenuity, Limpy. I shall leave this entirelyin your hands."

WENTWORTH moved forward a few haltingfeet. He was wondering desperately how he couldkill this man. Bullets had failed once before. Theeffigy of the Governor lay on Wentworth's right,dagger in his chest. Perhaps a knife thrust intothe Fiddler's neck would succeed. . . .

He was beside the body of the Governornow. He looked at it, and back to the Fiddler withadmiring eyes.

"Cheez, nobody's too big for you, are they,chief? The Governor gets in your way and, bingo,he's gone. What's the Mayor's secretary done toyou, chief?"

"I prefer men who don't ask questions," saidthe Fiddler coldly. "You will be told where to comefor your reward when you have killed Larrimore."

As he finished speaking, the collapsible wallsbegan to slide together before him. The Spider’sbreath hissed out. It was now or never. Withoutwarning or sound, he snatched the knife from thebreast of the Governor's effigy and sprang towardthe Death Fiddler. He just managed to squeezethrough before the walls closed behind him, thenhe flung himself toward the other. The man didnot move, his features did not change, asWentworth leaped.

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Wentworth's left hand pinioned down thearms. He presented the point of the knife to theFiddler's throat. He was nerving himself to thrust,to remove this murderer of the great, the manwho terrorized the entire city. His jaw clenched.He hunched his shoulders to drive the blade home. . . and realized that the wrists beneath his lefthand were cold. That they did not yield to hispressure as would normal flesh.

With an oath, Wentworth reversed the knifeand struck the head with its hilt. The headtottered, rolled from the Death Fiddler's shoulders,and thudded to the floor. A thin red liquid seepedout from the spot where it had rested, andWentworth, laughing crazily, savagely sprawledthe whole carcass to the floor. The body, like thehead, like those effigies against the wall, wasmade of wax!

The red fluid was between the outer layer ofwax and the papier mache form on which it wasmolded. Furiously, Wentworth mauled the figure,prying out its secrets. He found two thin wiresrunning from the body backward toward the wall.He knew the answer now. A loud-speakerarrangement had spoken for the waxen figure. Itsmovements in the previous interview had beenstiff and mechanical, as he remembered them—because of some type of geared machinery withinthe wax figure, no doubt. Either that or invisiblyfine black threads lifting the limbs like someghastly marionette. And one other thing: theDeath Fiddler could see into the room! Thatmeant he was within reach.

WITH a sharp laugh, Wentworth swept thegreen lamp to the floor and smashed it. In utterdarkness, he searched ceiling and wall with alerteyes. No gleam of light betrayed a peephole. Butwithout warning the entire back wall of the roomfolded in upon itself to the sides. Only dim graylight came in but it revealed five men who stoodwaiting. As soon as the wall opened the way,they began shooting, fanning the darkness with aclose net of lead.

Behind them, over their heads, a searchlightblazed out, deluging the room with brilliantillumination, veiling the men with its dazzle.Wentworth's first shot smashed that and with twomore shots he dropped two men. He wascrouched behind the chair where the wax figure ofthe Fiddler had sat, but he soon found it offeredno protection. Bullets splintered through it andwhined close by his head. The searchlight, brief

as had been its flash, had betrayed the Spider’shiding place.

Flinging flat on the floor, he wriggled towardthe wax figure. He was in a dark cavern whileothers were outlined against the sickly gray lightcreeping in through ground-level windows. Thesun had risen, though in this canyon of brick wallsit was still pre-dawn dusk. However, it wasenough to silhouette the gangsters, andWentworth picked them off, one by one.

Wentworth drew a deep slow breath, a lungfull of cordite fumes which made him cough. Noone fired at the sound, and he nodded to himself.His victory seemed complete. But he reloaded hisguns before he got cautiously to his feet and flungthe beam of a pocket flash over the shambles hehad created.

Swiftly he went from victim to victim,pressing his dread seal to the foreheads of thedead, searching each face hopefully. As he cameto the last, he cursed in anger. The Death Fiddlerwas not among them. Not that he knew theman's face, but he did know that none of thesewho had died had the intelligence of the Fiddler.

He sprang to the back of the room and founda courtyard, tightly encased by walls of brick.Climbing out, he caught the sill of a first storywindow above and drew himself up slowly. Theapartment overhead was empty and he smashedthat window with his gun butt while dangling withone arm on the sill. Then he scrambled inside.

He was in a large room, which duplicated theone below. Upon a table rested a microphone.Two levers were fastened to the floor, andoverhead ran the ropes of counterbalancedweights which evidently had operated the wallsbelow. A periscope pierced the floor. This, then,was where the Death Fiddler operated.

FOR a man who had just wiped out a groupof formidable enemies, the Spider was strangelymorose as he limped northward beneath theelevated railway structure. His thoughts weredark, and with reason. All the information he hadgained concerning the Fiddler he had learnedwhile posing as Limpy Magee. Now he mustabandon that personality.

He made a wry face. He had already calledthe new Commissioner of Police, Flynn, and asthe Spider had warned him against the robbery ofthe Metropolitan Museum today by men who

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would wear the uniforms of guards and take theplaces of the regular men.

"Impossible," Flynn had spluttered, "and letme tell you something, Mr. Spider. If you'rewise, you'll leave this town. I'm going to run youto earth if it's the last thing I do."

He had tried to persuade Flynn that he spokethe truth, but he had not succeeded. The curatorof the museum had been equally dubious.Larrimore, when called, had been unable toconvince the Mayor. It seemed that, withKirkpatrick out of office, all sanity and intelligencehad deserted the directors of the city's destiny. Sothat now the task of guarding the stupendoustreasures of the Museum rested in Wentworth'shands and his alone.

Two hours would elapse, Wentworthfigured—glancing at a clock in a barber shop—before the change of guards at the Metropolitantook place; and it would not be until a while laterthat the treasures would be taken. Deciding,therefore, to visit his home first, he stepped into aconvenient drugstore and called Ram Singh,directing the Hindu to meet him with the Lancia.Twenty minutes later, within its curtained rear, heabandoned the identity of Limpy Magee andbecame, once more, Richard Wentworth.

As the Lancia slid along, there was anunaccustomed slump to his shoulders. His heartseemed oppressed by leaden weights. Thedisaster that had followed him in recent crusadesagainst the underworld seemed to have found himagain. Gloomily he recalled how, not so long ago,he had narrowly escaped death, first at the handsof a shrewd opponent, then at the hands of policewhen his faithful chauffeur and former sergeant,Jackson, had sacrificed himself. Jackson hadtaken the bullet intended for the Spider andafterwards had confessed all the Spider's crimes,taking the blame upon himself. The nation hadpaid homage at his funeral. Even the governmenthad joined.

It had saved Wentworth, but he had lost afaithful servitor, a tried and true friend who hadhelped him through many a savage battle. Now, itseemed, he was in a fair way to losing another.

He phoned the hospital directly on returningto his apartment, and learned that Kirkpatrick hadspent another restless night. Dr. Devoe, his voicesomber, announced that they were using anoxygen tent now. When they reached thatstage..... And he was responsible for Kirkpatrick'sapproaching death, Wentworth told himself

bitterly! If he had warned his friend, Kirkpatrickmight have been prepared for a fight.

And then there was Nita. Nita, brave anduncomplaining, who had suffered the tortures ofthe damned to help him in his work. He mustphone Nita. . . .

Her voice was fresh and cheerful. "It's allright being a shop girl," she said. "I get a lot offun out of it, but that's because I know that anynight I wish I can step out to Delmonico's orPierre's for dinner and get something reallysuperlative in the line of food or wines."

"An excellent idea." Wentworth could neverhelp being stirred by the mere thought of herpresence. "Excellent. This is Monday, shall wesay Thursday night at Delmonico's?"

"Dick!" Nita's voice was rich with hope. "Dick,do you mean. . . ."

His laughter was bitter. "No, I don't meanthe fight is over. I mean only that Limpy Magee isdead and that, barring accidents, there is no needto deprive ourselves of a good meal now andthen."

Nita detected the undertones of his voice."I'm relieved," she said. "I was afraid Limpy wasgoing to harm you one of these days. TonyMusette hates him terribly. She told meyesterday how Limpy killed her brother and shesaid that her boy friend was going to see that hepaid for it. She said that Limpy was under theprotection of a certain criminal and that Jerry—theboy friend—didn't dare do anything about it untilhe could undermine Limpy's connections. Sheseemed to think that the process was well underway."

Wentworth questioned her quickly, but Nitaknew no details and interrupted with a laugh.

"See you Thursday, Dick, if not before.Meantime, the poor working girl has to hurry towork or she'll be docked for being late."

Wentworth was prepared to leave at once forthe Metropolitan, but old Jenkyns insisted onserving breakfast, whereupon he found that hehad an appetite.

The papers were laid before him. On top anextra blazed with the news of five more kills bythe Spider. The mechanical tricks of the housewere shown with artist's drawings. There was apicture also of a taxi driver who, it was alleged,had delivered a man who limped to the doorwhere the shambles had been discovered.

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Wentworth saw that this edition was a "thirdextra." The police had worked fast, all right. Thechances were that they had already identifiedeither the "man who limped" or Danny Dawson. Ifnot, they soon would have the information.

Wentworth smiled thinly. Well, the Spiderwas known in two characters now; as LimpyMagee and as the hunchbacked Tito Caliepi,whose original name already was forgotten. Toeveryone that hunchbacked, sinister figure incape and broad hat was not Tito, but the Spider.It might soon be that way with Limpy Magee.

Wentworth finished his breakfast and left,with Ram Singh following respectfully. In theLancia once more, Wentworth spoke at lengththrough the tube to his faithful Hindu.

"I shall make no attempt to prevent therobbery of the Metropolitan," he said slowly. "Theyare too many for us and it would only invitedisaster. What I plan is this: When the last of thetreasure trucks—there will have to be at leastfour, I should say—gets under way, I intend toboard it and either capture or kill the men upon it.I shall then disguise myself as one of the men andfollow the other trucks to whatever hiding placehas been selected.

"My purpose is to discover the hideout of theDeath Fiddler and if possible destroy him. I tellyou this, Ram Singh, so that you will understandyour part. You are to follow in the Lancia when Itake over the truck, bringing me the necessarymake-up materials and afterwards carrying awaythe prisoners—if any."

Wentworth could find no loophole in his plan,but he felt a strange fatalism about the comingengagement with the Death Fiddler and his men.Many times he had attempted even more daringinvasions of an enemy camp, and came awaysuccessfully. His keen brain and alertlyresponsive muscles had always carried him tosafety. But a strangely hostile destiny followedhim these days... in which, it seemed, there wereno loopholes.

No loopholes! He laughed sharply. Therewas always the loophole of death.

CHAPTER FOURTEENThe Race Against Death

THE Lancia purred softly in weaving its waynorthward through the early morning traffic of FifthAvenue. The day had lost its earlier crispfreshness; there was a hint of rain now in thehaze of blue sky. Wentworth saw these thingswithout realization, for his depression hadreturned with increased strength.

Ram Singh swung around and drew upbefore the Metropolitan Museum. Wentworthglanced at his watch. It was a fearful commentaryon the fear engendered by the Death Fiddler, thatthe Lancia had made the run straight up FifthAvenue at its most crowded hour in somethingunder fifteen minutes!

Wentworth made no effort at disguise. He didnot intend at this time to take any action againstthe minions of the Fiddler. He was chieflyinterested at present in looking over the scene.

He saw a huge furniture van lurch over thecurb and crawl along the concrete drive whichcircled to the back of the long, low, museumbuilding. There were five men upon its broad seat.Wentworth's lips twisted crookedly. The oddsagainst him were greater than he had thought.Single-handed, he must capture a truck guardedby five men.

Within the museum, the door of which waswatched by two men in gray uniforms, he found adozen men busy in one room. He started toenter, but another uniformed guard turned himpolitely aside.

"If you don't mind, sir, don't go in there," hesaid. "A borrowed collection is being taken back toits owner."

Wentworth nodded casually, then strolled onthrough the big chambers. He was conscious thatthe guard's eyes followed him suspiciously, but hewas determined to learn the extent of thedepredations. No one except a casual visitor hereand there, the guards, and the men in that oneroom, were in evidence.

Wentworth nodded as he realized the fullcleverness of the plan. All these rooms wereclosed on some occasions—for cleaning, orrearrangement of exhibits. When the band hadfinished with that one room, they undoubtedlywould close it and place one of the regular signson the door. After that, they would proceed to thenext room to be looted. It was unlikely that anyvisitor would remain long enough to becomesuspicious. And if anyone did call a policeman,

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undoubtedly the moving men would produce anorder signed by at least the assistant curator. . . .

Kirkpatrick would soon have broken up thissmooth theft, Wentworth knew. But Flynn wouldonly grow red in the face and deliver anotherultimatum if Wentworth called. The man washonest enough but he could not seem to visualizethe extent to which modern criminals would go.

Back in the Lancia, Wentworth spedsouthward again. Entering Central Park, hedirected Ram Singh to find a place where parkingwas permitted. Then he alighted and climbed arise, thickly grown with shrubbery, where he couldwatch without interruption. Only one thing worriedhim. It was said that the Fiddler always directedhis men in person, but there had been no one inthe museum who might in any way have beenidentified as the Fiddler.

BY noon the sky was completely overcast; alittle before two o'clock a misting rain began tofall. It fogged Wentworth's vision and he left hiscover to move closer. From the speed at whichthe looters worked, he believed that the last truckwould be ready to leave within the next hour. TheSpider must be ready then to act.

One truck already had departed; that onehad headed north along Fifth Avenue, so thatWentworth had had the Lancia parked on thatside of the museum. Then with Ram Singh waitingin the car near an apartment house, as were ahalf dozen other chauffeurs, Wentworth himselfstrolled slowly up the avenue. He was a bitconspicuous in the drizzle, but he would have totake his chances on that.

He had reached Ninety-Second Street whenthe heavy truck from the museum lumbered past.A half block behind, trailed a sedan carryingfour men, obviously gunmen. The Lancia swervedto the curb immediately afterward, Wentworthjumped in, and they began the tedious work oftrailing.In the back, Wentworth opened his wardrobe andquickly resumed the garb of Limpy Magee. Hewas already proscribed; it mattered little whatother offenses against the Fiddler he committed.He opened a small window on the right side, andsignaled to Ram Singh to overtake the gangstercar.

The rain grew heavier and small cold dropsshot against his face as he waited tensely by the

open window. He had expected this convoy car,and he was prepared to eliminate it.

"Better make then, speed up a little beforeyou pass," he told Ram Singh through the tube.He saw the Hindu's turbaned head nodunderstanding, then the Lancia began to passtraffic with a quiet, effortless speed. A boy in aFord sedan tried to squeeze out ahead from theright hand lane, but Ram Singh outbluffed himwith an extra notch of speed. The boy fell back,shouting vigorous curses.

ANOTHER block and the Lancia's nose wasjust behind the Cadillac in which the gunmenrode. With the truculence which characterizedsuch individuals, their car was squarely in thecenter of the lane so that cars could pass neitherto right nor left.

Ram Singh touched the trumpet horn to apolite, questioning note. The car ahead did notchange position. Ram Singh held the horn downand Wentworth smiled grimly at its persistenttrumpeting.

Through the rain-blurred windshield he sawthe white blob of a face at the Cadillac's backwindow. The horn kept on and the car aheadbegan to pick up a little speed. Ram Singh shovedthe Lancia's nose up to its left, still sounding thehorn. The Cadillac pulled ahead, its passengersglaring out angrily. The driver cranked down hiswindow and shouted.

"Now," Wentworth said calmly.With an effortless ease which made the car

appear to stand still, the Lancia's one hundredand seventy-five horsepower motor shot it pastthe sedan. And as Wentworth's open windowwhipped opposite that of the driver, the Spidergrinned impudently and tossed a glass bomb oftear gas straight past the man's head into theCadillac.

"Faster," he ordered. The Lancia surgedforward and he cranked shut the window, peeringback through the bulletproof glass in the rear. TheCadillac swerved once, twice, yawed wildly towardthe southbound traffic, then its brakes gripped andthe rear swung about to the right. A limousineleaped forward out of its path as, still skidding, itswung almost lazily across Fifth Avenue. On itssecond turn the rear end slapped the front of adouble-decker bus. The Cadillac shimmied backtwo feet from the collision and remainedstationary. Its doors were flung open on both

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sides and four men, hands pressed to their eyes,arms before their faces, ran wildly out and away.

One crashed blindly into the front of asecond bus and disappeared under its wheels.Another tripped over a curbing and sprawledheadfirst against the stone wall circling the park.The other two vanished into the thickening trafficwhich backed up behind the accident.

Wentworth smiled, nodded to himself, anddropped back on the cushions.

"Just keep the truck in sight for a while," heordered.

When the treasure truck reached Yonkersand rumbled on through its streets northwardtoward Albany, the Lancia drew closer. As itreached the open road beyond, Ram Singhpushed the lean, long nose of the Lancia nearer.They were less than a hundred yards behindwhen the right hand door of the truck opened anda man leveled a machine gun along its side. RamSingh merely swerved to the left, and the man'sbullets were blocked off by the truck itself.

Wentworth bent over, slid out a shallow trayfrom beneath the seat. In it nestled revolvers andautomatics, bombs and rifles. There was a riotgun and a sub-machine gun. He selected anEnfield army rifle with a jacketed bullet, crankeddown the larger right hand window and leanedoutside.

Without an order Ram Singh eased to theright again. Their re-emergence caught themachine gunner unaware. Wentworth's rifle spokeonce and the man's body lunged back against thetruck door, then slumped so that his feet almostdragged the road. The machine gun dangled fromhis neck and it was apparent that it had beenstrapped to him, even as he had been tied to thetruck.

Wentworth saw hands reach out for themachine gun and he squeezed off another shot.The hands disappeared, but not before bloodspurted from one.

The truck was hurricaning down the middleof the road now, its canvas rear cover snappingand popping in the wind, the dead man and hismachine gun swinging wildly from the bangingdoor. There was a hard, cold smile onWentworth's lips. He signaled Ram Singh to theleft and shot the rear vision mirror off the truck'smud-guard.

"Pass them on the right," he said.

IMPERTURBABLY, Ram Singh tooled to thetruck's right. He did not overhaul the van rapidly,merely inched ahead. Wentworth crossed to theleft of the tonneau and drew out another glasstear gas bomb. He was ready when Ram Singhsuddenly spurted past the open door of the truck.As Wentworth had intended, the men were allwatching the left hand side where he had shot offthe mirror. The gas bomb struck the steeringwheel and burst, spraying gray vapor over thefour men, spewing a large part of it into thedriver's eyes.

The truck swayed and wobbled, rocking as ityawned from left to right. Its great speed madesudden stopping dangerous, but it also helped toclear the cabin quickly. The truck was brakedperfectly. It came to a shuddering halt within thirtyseconds after Wentworth's bomb had burst.

Ram Singh had slowed as soon as theLancia was out of danger of being hit by thecareening truck. The men dodged from the cabinof the truck, driven out by the tear gas, but theycame shooting. One of them caught the machinegun from the man Wentworth had killed andspewed a tornado of lead at the Lancia.Wentworth calmly drilled him with his rifle, then inrapid succession picked off two more. The driver,whom Wentworth had carefully spared, turnedand fled blindly when he heard his companion'sguns go dead. The Lancia loafed up beside him.He emptied his automatic against its armoredsides, then Wentworth leaned out and tapped himwith a blackjack.

It had been a surprisingly easy victory thusfar and the knowledge buoyed his spirits. Hesprang from the car and, while Ram Singh oncemore turned about, caught up the unconsciousgangster and moved at a heavy trot toward thetruck. The Lancia reached the spot almost asquickly and Ram Singh tossed the bodies of theother dead into the tonneau. Then, at Wentworth'sorder, the Hindu raced away, took a side road halfa mile ahead, and vanished.

Wentworth took time to imprint his dread sealon the dead men, then looked the truck overcarefully. No bullet marks showed except on thesmashed mirror. Ensconcing the unconsciousman beside him, he drove on, trundling along at athoroughly reasonable rate of speed. Themotorcycle cops who presently came racing pastpaid him no attention at all.

The gangster revived after about five miles.Finding himself handcuffed, he first cursed

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Wentworth. When that had no effect he beggedfor information as to what was going to happen tohim. His eyes were still swollen from the tear gas,and the lump on his forehead from the blackjackwas an ugly blue-green.

And still Wentworth paid him no attention atall, merely keeping his own eyes on the rain-washed road ahead, through the space cleared bythe sloshing windshield wiper. The beat of rain onthe roof made a dreary background for the varyingroar of the motor.

Presently the gangster fell silent andslumped back in his corner of the seat. Broodingupon his cuffed hands for long moments, hestared up at his captor after a while. Wentworthheard him gasp.

"Good God!" the man groaned. "You areLimpy Magee. You're... the Spider!"

NOT until then did Wentworth turn toward hisprisoner—and then only to look at him withexpressionless eyes. As he swung back to watchthe road again, the man made small moaningnoises in his throat. After a time that stopped andhe began to beg once more.

"What yuh going to do with me?" hepleaded. "For God's sake, Spider, I ain't donenothin' but steal. I ain't never killed nobody nornothin' like that." He whimpered. "What happenedto Pete and Buddy and Jack and—and Fred?" Heseemed afraid to ask, and yet driven on by afearful curiosity.

The loose lips that were part of LimpyMagee's disguise twitched into a mocking smile.

"I killed them,'' he said.The man was silent after that. The big truck

roared on through the darkening day; the rainbeat in broken gusts as the wind whipped itacross their path. Finally the prisoner spokeagain, his voice rasping in a dry mouth.

"What . . .what are you going to do with me?"Once more Wentworth smiled and the man

choked down a cry, then on rising notes shrilled:"What are you going to do? What are you goingto do . . . to me?" His last words were a whisper.

Wentworth let the noise of the rain beat inbetween them again before he answered. "Thatdepends very much on you yourself." He madeno pretense of imitating the voice of LimpyMagee, and the incongruity of his cultured tones

with his shabby garb and leering face made whathe said the more threatening.

In the words, the man must have caught agleam of hope. He leaned forward, strainingagainst the cuffs fastening him to the far side ofthe seat, thrusting his face with its opened mouthtoward Wentworth, across the width of the truck.

"What do you mean?" he whispered."Information," the Spider laughed.

"Information—or death!""I'm not going to squeal," the man said

stubbornly, defiantly.Wentworth nodded. He braked the truck to a

halt at the head of a hill, climbed downdeliberately and circled to the other side. Hetossed the man the key to the handcuffs andcovered him with an automatic.

"Unlock those and get out," he ordered.The eyes of the two met and locked. The

driver's gaze widened slowly until the whitesshowed completely around the irises.

"You'd shoot me down without a chance?" Atrembling seized him. His voice quavered outbetween chattering teeth. "I'll talk! I'll talk!"

"Why wasn't the Fiddler himself on this job?"Wentworth asked.

It was not what he had intended to demand.He had planned to ask where the hideout was,where the treasure was being taken. But eversince he had failed to spot the Death Fiddler onthe scene the man's absence had worried him. Hehad a persistent feeling that there was animportant reason behind his missing the job.

The man's mouth gaped like a landed fish.He swallowed dryly before he could gulp outwords "Another job."

"What?""He's planning to rob Penn Station tonight."Wentworth stiffened. "Penn Station!"The man nodded. "Yeah. Ticket offices. He

says they take in a lot of dough, and it's easy toget. I was supposed to leave this truck and scootback to town in a car to lend a hand, and. . . ."

He broke off at Wentworth's sharp curse.Wentworth sprang back to the driver's seat, sentthe truck lurching forward again, worked itlaboriously about, and headed swiftly back for thecity.

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"What time is this robbery planned?" heasked anxiously, wrenching the careening truckaround a sharp curve, fighting the bucking wheel.

"Five-thirty."The man was watching Wentworth drive with

a mixture of admiration and fear upon his face.His superb handling of the heavy van, the nicetywith which he gauged its potentialities, clearlyappealed to him as a driver. His fear was fading.He remembered old stories he had heard of theSpider and he remembered that the Spider kepthis word. If he talked, he would not die, thisstrange Limpy Magee had said, and thinking ofthat, the driver gained new courage.

WENTWORTH'S face was set and hard.The clock on the dash read four-twenty-five. Not achance in a hundred that he could make PennStation in time in a passenger car, much less inthis truck. But he had instructed Ram Singh tocircle back to Dobbs Ferry and wait there untilmidnight for him. The Lancia would help. GrimlyWentworth decided to try once more to call police.If they had learned of the museum robbery, theymight listen.

Ten minutes later, he rolled the truck to ahalt before a gas station in Dobbs Ferry, spottedhis Lancia at the curb, and dropped down fromthe seat. He went around the driver's side of thelimousine and climbed into the back.

"New York," he snapped at Ram Singh. "Asfast as you can make it!"

Before the Lancia, racing at breakneckspeed, had scorched into the outer fringes ofYonkers, Wentworth had stripped off the disguiseand was himself again. That accomplished hebrought the car to a halt near a centrally locatedhotel which was pretty apt to be crowded. Swiftlyhe ordered Ram Singh to hire a taxi back toDobbs Ferry, disguise himself, take the driver toa rooming house, and leave him a prisoner there.Afterward, the Hindu was to call local police andtell them of the loot from the museum in the truck,and where the prisoner could be located.

Wentworth tossed the last words over hisshoulder as he strode toward the hotel. Slippinginto a coin booth he put in a call for CommissionerFlynn at New York. For five minutes he shiftedrestlessly from foot to foot glanced again andagain at his watch. Then the wires clicked.

"Flynn!" a voice barked.

"Spider!" Wentworth hurled back at him, hislips twisted in a thin smile. "Have you found outyet that the Metropolitan Museum has beenstripped?"

Flynn's end of the wire throbbed with silencefor a slow count of ten, then his voice rasped overthe wire again.

"What do you know?"Wentworth closed his eyes. Thank God one

thing was going right for him at last in his battleagainst the Death Fiddler. Even while the thoughttouched his mind he was talking rapidly, tellingwhere the treasure trucks were to be found.

"Maybe you'll believe me this time," hewound up, his disguised voice flat, faintlymocking. "Tonight at five-thirty, the Fiddler isgoing to rob Pennsylvania Station. I'm in Yonkersand won't be able to get there. Get the lead outof your carcass and do something this time."

Seconds later he was in the Lancia, swingingout from the curb and beginning his wild dash forNew York. Flynn might act this time, yet therewas no certainty of it. The man was hard-headedand stubborn. He would hate to take help fromone he classed as a criminal.

THE Lancia laid its belly to the road, andraced on and on. Miles blurred past beneath theflying wheels and other cars were vagrant flashingbeams of light. Wentworth kept his horn goingwildly and other machines flung out of his path.Halfway along the Broadway stretch into the city astring of red lights across the road started his footkicking the brakes. When he grasped the purposeof the lights, he was still going forty. He slowedstill more, his heart beating thunderously. Thosewere police who blocked the road and they werestopping every car. Automobiles were backed upfor a hundred yards.

Impatiently, Wentworth coasted the motor,edging along as rapidly as possible in the slow-moving line. His heart was pounding high andhard in his throat. He realized that he had not onlygiven Flynn his whereabouts, but had indicatedthat he would race for New York. Undoubtedly hisown speed had been spotted by the police. Hecursed softly under his breath, gaining some relieffrom the fact that the policemen, standing out inthe rain without slickers, only glanced into eachcar crawling past.

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Finally the car ahead was passed and theLancia rolled forward. The cop looked at himsharply, stepped up on the running board.

"Pull over to the side," he ordered.Wentworth made no protest. It would do no

good and would merely make the officersuspicious. But there was a sinking sensation atthe pit of his stomach as he said, "Certainly, butplease make it as quick as possible. I'm late nowfor an engagement."

The policeman said nothing, but when theyhad reached the side of the road, he peered in.

"In a hurry back there, wasn't you?" heasked belligerently.

Wentworth admitted it was a shrug. "As I toldyou, I'm late for an engagement." He plunged twofingers into a vest pocket, drew out a goldencourtesy shield Kirkpatrick had given him. He heldin his palm and the officer frowned, then growledsomething under his breath.

"I don't often use it," Wentworth said gently,"but I really am in a hurry." He drew out a cigarcase and proffered it.

The cop grunted, took two cigars and sniffedthem. His face lighted up, and he saluted.

"Sorry to have detained you, sir." He walkedheavily back to his post on the line.

Wentworth sent the Lancia forward with alurch. He had lost another six minutes. But theroad was fairly clear ahead, thanks to theblockade, and he bore the accelerator toward thefloor. When the needle touched eighty, he easedoff. At that speed, an obstacle four blocks aheadbecame a suicidal danger. The least curve madethe tires whistle and moan, set even the low-hungLancia rocking on its heavy springs.

He reached the Two-hundred-twenty-fifthStreet bridge five minutes after five. But the restof the trip would be a nerve wracking grindthrough heavy traffic. He whirled off Broadway,took back streets until he reached RiversideDrive, then streaked down the center of thedouble-lane road, drawing shouts and angryglares from other motorists. Street lights poppedup with a sudden white flowering in the wet dusk,made streaks along the road. His blazingheadlights helped gain him right-of-way.

He spotted a motorcycle policeman in a side-lane and crashed a red traffic light to reach him,showed him the badge and a twenty dollar bill."I've got to get to Penn Station in nothing flat." he

said. "Can you leave your post long enough to getme to the elevated highway?"

The money changed hands and the cop senthis motorcycle popping forward as the lightschanged. He started his siren going. There was aweary smile of amusement on Wentworth's lips ashe blazed along at forty-five miles an hour behindthe shrieking siren, down the center of the twolanes of traffic, ignoring stop lights, sending cross-traffic drivers into frightened stalls. Nowhere in theworld except New York would a simple badgehave earned him this. But police here were bredin the school of favoritism. It didn't extend tocriminals, but privilege in the city wore a high-silkhat and drove expensive foreign cars. Thepolitician's friends were manifold.

AT SEVENTY-SECOND Street, thepoliceman circled the traffic light standard andWentworth swung a hand as he whirred right ontothe temporary ramp of the elevated automobileexpress highway which, with one interruption,continued miles downtown from Seventy-secondstreet to Canal.

Leaving the highway by a convenient ramp,he raced for the Pennsylvania Station. It lackedbut five minutes of five-thirty now; it would beimpossible for him to reach the place in time to beahead of the Fiddler's attempt. He should,however, get there in time for the battle, he toldhimself grimly.

The hands of the big station clock stood atfive thirty-two when he slammed the Lanciaagainst the curb in a restricted parking area andraced for the entrance. As he reached the fatcolumns dividing the opening, he heard a rattlingdischarge of weapons and, staring through glassdoors saw two men in police uniform whirl aboutin the middle of the concourse and spill to thefloor.

In two long strides he reached the door.Springing inside, he pitched to the floor as he sawa man, crouched against one of the entrance gatetowers, swing the muzzle of a machine guntoward him. The concourse below was empty ofthe commuters who should have thronged it atthis hour; he breathed a prayer of hope that hiswarning had been heeded by Flynn in time toprevent any loss of life among bystanders.

A torrent of lead swept over him and theglass doors behind fell in a tinkling heap.Wentworth was untouched. Flat on his stomach

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on the stone platform, he was protected by hisenemy's lower position. Twice more bursts of leadstreamed above him, and by the doors he heard aman cough. Turning, he saw an elderly policeofficial pitch stiffly forward, the uniform capbouncing from his gray head.

Grimly, Wentworth faced toward the machinegunner again. He squirmed forward on hisstomach until a quick upward jerk of his headwould give him a view of the concourse, thenflung up his arm. Quick as was the action, hisshot was no slower. He fired twice, then sprangerect, going down the shallow steps in longleaping strides while the machine gunner stillstood poised in his death plunge.

Wentworth's eyes swept a swift arc acrossthe far side of the great vaulted hall. A high ironfence separated waiting room from the descent tothe tracks and beside two of the gatewaysWentworth spotted two more machine gunners.He checked his pace, snapped two quick shots atthe one on his right, dropped to the steps,supporting himself on one hand, and sent his lastthree bullets clanging along the steel network ofthe gate tower behind which the man crouched.

An answering hail of bullets beat about andhe pitched prone on the steps, then rolled limplydown them. His other automatic against his side,he kept his eyes on the machine gunner. He sawnow why there was no crowd of commutersthronging the floor. Seven men were sprawledacross the steps at the far end where they hadbeen burned down with bullets. Their bodiesapparently had served as sufficient warning.

The rolling made him slightly dizzy, but hesaw the machine gunner straighten and step frombehind the tower to give his victim a final burst oflead. Wentworth spread his legs wide, checkedhis roll, pumped bullets with the rapid, unerringaccuracy for which he was famed. The mancollapsed over his gun and its muzzle, pusheddown toward his own feet, spewed deadly steel,which gnawed its way across them and began toeat up his legs before his fall stopped thechattering weapon.

Wentworth came to his feet limping slightlywith bruises—which did not hamper his speed ashe sprinted toward the doors separating this, thedeparture platform, from the concourse beyond,where the ticket offices were located. As he spedforward, stuffing fresh cartridges into clips, gunsbegan to speak near the ticket offices.

The Spider dodged aside, skirting the wall ashe approached the doors. There had been notime at all for thought, since he had dashed intothe arena and almost into a stream of lead. Butnow he began to wonder where the police hadbeen placed—if, indeed, Flynn had sent anyguard to the station. He was ten feet away fromthe doors when he got his answer.

Behind him a whistle shrilled loudly. Hejerked about—to see uniformed men pouring inthrough all three entrances of the departureconcourse. The foremost carried machine guns.And one of them, seeing Wentworth with guns inhands, threw up his weapon and at once startedfiring.

CHAPTER FIFTEENThe Death Fiddler Trapped

WENTWORTH sprang frantically for thedoors, which opened by means of a photo-electriccell and a beam of light. The light helpedWentworth. It flung the doors wide and he did nothave even the fractional pause a man makeswhen, in flight, he meets any check.

He went through in a sprawling roll and,behind him, glass crashed under a welter ofbullets. From the sound at least six machineguns had poured their lead after him. A slight chillran through his body. He rolled to the protection ofa column beside the doorway and flung swift,piercing eyes about the concourse beyond.

Here, too, gangsters were posted withmachine guns. But they hesitated to shoot at anarmed man who was in obvious flight from theblast of police whistles, the thunder of policeguns. The moment of hesitation enabledWentworth to dart to the opposite side of the halland into the safety of a thick-walled waiting room.

Through the windows of the ticket offices, ashe sprinted past, he spotted the looters at work.And crouching now where he commanded one ofthe exits to the series of offices along one side ofthe concourse, his fingers were light and ready onhis triggers. However, he was unprepared for thesolid phalanx of armed men appearing suddenlyin the center of the concourse, moving at a heavytrot for the exit, and carrying in the midst of theirflying wedge a man who crouched low for theprotection of the bodies about him.

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With an oath, Wentworth opened fire. He hadno doubt as to the identity of that protected man.As his bullets cut into the side of the wedge, twomen stumbled down, then a third pitched over ontop of them. The others closed in about the chiefthey guarded and in an instant were out of sight.

The last man had scarcely vanished behindthe edge of the ticket offices which cut offWentworth's view when there was a stunningblast of fire. It sounded as if a hundred machineguns had cut loose at once. The confining wallshammered back the beat and pound of theexplosions. Two men appeared from around thecorner where the phalanx had vanished. Beforethey had taken two leaping strides, bullets caughtthem.

One sprang into the air like a dancer, headwrenched back, arms thrown high, legs spanningin a stride. He went limp in mid-air and when hehit, his head bounced in a sickening way. Theother figure arched backward as if a pile-driverhad caught him in the center of the back. Teethflew when his face smacked down.

Wentworth stepped stealthily backward.There was only one explanation of that fearfulblast. Flynn had planted a machine gun batterysomewhere . . . the plane! That was it. He hadplanted men in the huge Ford monoplane whichhad been assembled in the concourse long ago toserve as an advertisement for air travel. His menhad hidden in the plane until he signaled, thenstepped out or poked their guns through smashedwindows, and poured that withering fire. Not aman had escaped. An exultant warmth spreadthrough Wentworth. The Fiddler had fallen prey toother guns than the Spider’s, but the means of hisdeath did not matter . . .

WENTWORTH straightened to steal away.Since the man was dead, there was no point inRichard Wentworth being discovered on thescene of action. He smiled at the high lifting ofhis heart. Gone was a curse from the world, acurse more deadly than any that had swept thecities of ancient Europe; the curse of that unholyalliance, politics and crime . . . .

His thoughts broke off as a flash ofmovement caught his eye. He had a glimpse of aface, the forehead pocked by a false bullet-hole.His gun swung up, belching a challenge of deathas he pivoted. Too late. Even as his fingertightened on the trigger, the man had whirled left

behind the protection of thick walls. He had fledinto the men's room.

With a furious shout, Wentworth sprangforward. In some inconceivable way, the Fiddlerhad escaped! Even in that fleeting glimpse, hehad recognized the disguise that the other hadassumed— that of Dodson Larrimore—and on theforehead, the false bullet-hole which marked themeans of his intended death.

He was still twenty feet from the doorwaythrough which the Fiddler had dodged when thewhine of bullets past his head, the hammer of amachine gun behind him, heralded an attack.

Wentworth threw himself down violently tothe floor, only saving his skull from deadly impactwith the floor by throwing his arm up in the way.With the impetus of his fall he rolled into theprotection of rows of heavy seats, and caught aglimpse, through lowered eyelids, of a machinegunner. The gangster hurried forward, muzzle stillpointed at his victim. Wentworth's guns had flownfrom his hands with the violence of his fall and helay helpless, awaiting the killer—helpless whilethe Death Fiddler was escaping.

Wentworth could see the gangster with aterrible clarity now, could even see the verticalcrease between his eyes as he prepared to kill;saw the tightening of his trigger finger. . . .

A shot came from at least fifty feet away.Even while he was still dazedly watching the

machine gunner's arms sag with the weapon, hisknees turn to rubber under him—with a shout thatwas hoarse in his throat, Wentworth jumped to hisfeet.

He flung a swift glance about the waitingroom, saw a man's back vanish through doors onthe far side. The doors creaked back into placeand Wentworth shook his head dazedly, draggedthe back of one hand across his forehead. GoodLord, had the blow of his fall affected his senses?For a moment, a fleeting moment, he had thoughthe recognized that man disappearing through thedoor, the man whose timely shot had savedWentworth's life. He had thought it was Jackson,who had served with Wentworth in France, whohad turned down a commission to remain hissergeant, who had come to be his chauffeur whenthe war was finished. Wentworth should know hisback, certainly. He had stared often enough atthose broadly competent shoulders while Jacksondrove. But Jackson was dead, had diedconfessing the Spider’s sins. Wentworth longed

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mightily to pursue that man if for no other purposethan to thank him—but meanwhile the DeathFiddler might escape! The Fiddler first!

WENTWORTH stooped to snatch his guns,whirled toward the door through which the Fiddlerhad disappeared. This was no time to indulge inlunatic speculation. In that room the leader of allthis terror might be making good his escape.Wentworth plunged toward the doors and, at thesame instant, in from the concourse poured astream of men in police blue. In the front rank,gripping a riot gun at his hip, was a policemanWentworth knew—carrot-topped Cassidy who hadbeen Kirkpatrick's outer guard. Evidently Flynnhad put him back in harness.

The riot gun was on Wentworth andCassidy's usually good-humored face was set in agrim mask. He was within an ace of pulling thetrigger when Wentworth jerked his hands, gunsand all, above his head. Cassidy stared into hisface with belated recognition.

"God save ye, Mr. Wentworth," he gasped, "Inearly shot yuz."

"The Fiddler's in there!" Wentworth pointedwith his automatic toward the door of the washroom. "I saw him run in there."

There was a stir among the thick-pressedranks and a lean, tall man, a fedora hat set withmilitary preciseness upon his head, thrust throughto the front. He had a tight, bony face, a pointed,strong nose, a straight-lipped mouth, a jutting cragof a chin.

"What is this?" he snapped.Cassidy let his gun hang at his side and

snapped to salute."If the Commissioner pleases, sir. This

gentleman says the Death Fiddler is in the washroom."

Commissioner Flynn—Wentworth hadrecognized him the instant he spotted the man'shead above the blue-coated rank—lookedWentworth over frostily. Wentworth's hands hungat his sides now, the automatics pointed towardthe floor. Flynn's eyes sought those, lifted to hisface again.

"Your name?" Flynn demanded.Wentworth's hard-pressed lips relaxed in a

slight smile. Despite Kirkpatrick's hostility to thisman, despite what appeared inefficient organizing,Wentworth could not but recognize the force and

strength of this new Commissioner. Cassidy'smanner was sufficiently military, and deferentiallythe police were waiting for a word from him.

"Richard Wentworth," Wentworth gave hisname and nodded in brief greeting. "If I maysuggest, Commissioner, I saw the Fiddler run intothis room. That gangster back there threw downon me with the machine gun and I was delayedfor a couple of minutes, but the Fiddler should stillbe in there."

Flynn nodded stiffly, jerked out an order tothe police, and they went into the wash room,guns first, without any more hesitation than theywould have executed squads left on parade.Wentworth strode beside the Commissioner andtogether they stared toward the swing half-door tothe wash room proper.

"Come out!" Flynn's brisk voice was edged."Come out, or we'll blow that room full of lead."

"Thank God, thank God," a thin voice wailedbehind the partition. "Thank God you've come atlast, Flynn." A man's tottering legs showedbeneath the half-door and above it showed theeyes and roached black hair of the Mayor of NewYork City!

Wentworth's breath hissed sharply betweenhis teeth. Once or twice before his suspicionshad turned toward the Mayor, but he haddiscounted the man as lacking sufficientintelligence to carry out the Death Fiddler'scrimes, or to plan them in the first place. But theMayor's presence here was suspicious, extremelyso.

"Is this the man you saw come in here?"Flynn asked Wentworth sharply.

Wentworth shook his head. "You know theFiddler's trick of disguising himself to look like theman he intends to kill in his regular Thursdaynight murders?"

Flynn nodded jerkily. It was obvious that hewasted few words. His whole manner was swift;his gestures choppy, his long-legged stride almostviolent in its impetuosity.

"Tonight," said Wentworth slowly, "the DeathFiddler was disguised as Dodson Larrimore."

THE Mayor's tight mouth dropped open insurprise and Flynn threw a sharp side glance atWentworth. "Right," said Flynn. "Glimpsed himmyself. Knew he looked familiar. Anyone enterthere?" This last to the Mayor.

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Purviss shook his head loosely and movedtoward the policemen. Wentworth was frowning.Wasn't the man overdoing his surprise and fearjust a little?

"Larrimore's in there," the Mayor stuttered.Wentworth beat Flynn to the swing door, saw

a man sprawled on the floor and stooped overhim. He rolled the man over on his back, saw thatit was really Larrimore and that he had been hitover the head. There was an automatic under hisright hand.

Flynn looked up at Wentworth under browswhich did not wrinkle. "Know Larrimore well?"

"Fairly," said Wentworth, copying the other'slaconic speech. "Don't worry about identification.This is the man."

He wet a paper towel and soppedLarrimore's forehead. It was ten minutes beforeLarrimore recovered; then he jerked up, his armsflying to a defensive position. As soon as herealized who was about him, he sagged back tothe floor and frowned, his eyes shutting with pain.

"What happened?" he asked thickly."You tell us," Flynn suggested sharply.Larrimore opened his eyes, shading them

with his palm, and stared up at the Commissioner."Hello, Flynn," he said weakly. Then he nodded toWentworth, after which he closed his eyes againand seemed to be thinking.

"I remember now," he said finally, his voiceclearer. "Purviss and I were crouched in the outerroom after we had run up from the Long Islandplatform. I had emptied my automatic and had nomore bullets. We heard a heavy blast of firing,then some more in the waiting room just outside.Purviss went on back into the inner wash roomand I waited, trying to decide just what to do.Then I heard another single shot just outside hereand decided I'd get under cover, too. I walkedtoward the swing door. Then I heard footstepsbehind me. Before I could turn, something hit meon the head and I fell toward the door. I got hitagain as I went down."

Purviss, when questioned, told about thesame story. He saw Larrimore falling through thedoor and dragged him inside out of sight for fearthat someone might see the body and investigate.In his excitement, Purviss was quite candid aboutthe reason for dragging Larrimore inside.

Wentworth looked about the anteroom.There was a side door at the other end which led

out onto another main concourse, and two highwindows which did the same. There had beenminutes after the Fiddler had fled into this roomwhen Wentworth had not been able to watch thedoor. What Larrimore and Purviss described waspossible. He went back to where Larrimore stoodshakily on his feet.

"Are you quite sure," he asked, "that youhad not entered the wash room when you werehit?"

Flynn's flinty eyes held his face steadily, andLarrimore lifted his head with a tired smile.

"No, I can't say definitely," he said. "What Itold you before is what I thought happened, butnow that you ask me I'm not quite sure. Actuallyall I remember is turning away from the main doorthere and starting in to join Purviss."

A patrolman supported Larrimore as hewalked on heavy feet toward the waiting room.He checked and turned slowly.

"Please don't say anything about this in thenewspapers," he implored, "or mention that theFiddler was dressed up like me. My wife wouldbe worried to death."

Flynn jerked a nod and, when he had gone,looked toward Wentworth. "What's up?" he askedshortly.

Wentworth gestured toward the entry to thewash room and walked there with Flynn, thenindicated the floor.

"Can you see," he asked, "where the body ofa man was dragged along this floor?"

THE floor was dirty, smeared with blacktracks from wet shoes. Wentworth dragged histoe through the mess and it left a distinct trail.Flynn spat out an oath.

"Who's lying?" he demanded roughly.Wentworth shrugged. "Larrimore told two

stories, but Purviss confirmed that part aboutdragging him inside. Frankly, I don't know what tothink. Larrimore was obviously confused. Hemight have been hit just as he went through thedoor, staggered two steps or more and fallen, justas a boxer may keep on going when he's out onhis feet. That's especially true if Larrimore wasmoving swiftly. On the other hand. . . ."

Flynn's hard blue eyes were steadily on his."What?" he asked.

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"On the other hand, Larrimore might havebeen hit over the head inside the door, by Purviss.As I pointed out, there is no evidence of anyonebeing dragged across the floor. I do not see howthe Fiddler could have slugged Larrimore insidethe wash room without being seen by Purviss. . . .But if Purviss were in league with the Fiddler, itwould have been a simple matter for him to strikedown Larrimore as he came through the door."

Wentworth could see the stiffening of Flynn'sramrod back as he finished. But theCommissioner did not explode as he halfexpected. Instead, Flynn dropped his eyes againto the tell-tale floor.

"They say Kirkpatrick's holding his own," hesaid abruptly. "Makes me feel terrible, taking hisjob. He probably hates my guts." A wintry smiletouched his lips as the army expression slippedout. "Hates me for kicking out Boice,flock of others. Had to, you know. Theywere loyal to Kirkpatrick. Naturally. Had to turneverything upside down. Show them who's boss.Old army trick."

He drew a deep breath. "Kirkpatrickrespected your judgment a lot. Know because Ifollowed him closely. Newspapers, I mean. Youthink Purviss guilty?"

Wentworth felt a rising respect and liking forthis stern, soldierly Commissioner. Flynn hadactually offered an apology, an indirect one, it wastrue, for his retirement of Kirkpatrick's favorites.But his justification was sound—and his firm gripof the men was evident in the unquestioningobedience with which they had wheeled into thewash room in the face of what might have beeninstant death. So Wentworth hesitated before hespoke. The man had indicated he would givegreat weight to what he said.

"I don't know," he remarked finally. "Purvisshad no chance to change his story. He might havesaid something he did not quite mean in hisexcitement. Maybe what he meant was that hecaught Larrimore as he was falling and helpedhim a few faltering steps before he collapsed.Commissioner, the whole case is a great puzzleto me. Usually I have some very definite ideasabout a man of the proportions of this fellow whocalls himself the Death Fiddler. But I'm stumpedthis time. The only thing I can say with anycertainty is that the Fiddler is either a politician orhe has a life-and-death hold over someone who isa very powerful politician. And you see that coversa great deal of territory. I am explaining at such

length because I would not want to lead youastray."

Flynn nodded. "Police work, deduction, isnew to me. Can organize men. I'll snap thewhole force up in short order. But deduction—"He shook his head. "Appreciate any help you cangive." He offered his hand. Wentworth clasped itgladly. A firm, powerful grip Flynn had, and therewas nothing old about his skin. It was elastic withyouth.

When Wentworth returned to the Lancia apoliceman bawled him out for parking in front ofthe station entrance and gave him a ticket.

CHAPIER SIXTEENDeath in Herald Square

IT was afterward that Wentworthremembered to check on whether Raymond Allenhad been in the Pennsylvania Station at the timeof the Death Fiddler's attack. When he did think ofit he could only have private detectives ascertainwhether Allen had an alibi.

Strangely, it was not the close involvement ofPurviss with the raid, nor the attack on Larrimore,nor even the apparent friendliness of Flynn whichpersisted in Wentworth's thoughts. It was hisglimpse of the back of a man who had saved hislife, the broad-shouldered one who had shot downthe machine gunner in the instant he prepared tokill Wentworth.

Memory is a confusing thing. A few minutesafter a man speaks, he probably will not be ableto tell precisely what he said. The moreintensively he thinks about the matter, the moremuddled his memory tracks become. So it waswith Wentworth. He could think only that theman's back had seemed to be Jackson's. ButJackson was dead. He had been buried withgreat military honor. It could not have beenJackson. And yet . . . .

Wentworth's detectives could find no onewho had seen Allen between the time he leftsome friends at a political club around four-thirtyand his arrival at home three hours later. Thedetectives also discovered the reason for Purviss'and Larrimore's presence in the station. Purvisshad dropped Larrimore by the station in his car onthe way home and had, at Larrimore's invitation,

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dropped in on the Savarin restaurant and barthere for a cocktail. Larrimore was, of course, onhis way home. He lived in Forest Hills where hewas buying a house for his wife and two youngchildren.

On the day after the tragedy the fullcasualties of the attack were finally computed. Sixpolice, three ticket agents, and seventeencommuters had been killed. The criminal losseshad been heaviest. Thirty-four had been slain,ten more taken to hospitals with seriouswounds. Twenty-one had been shot down in thesingle phalanx in the center of which the Fiddlerhad attempted to make his escape.

The newspapers hailed the battle as a signalvictory over the Death Fiddler and predicted thatthe city had heard the last of him. The news evenchecked slightly the steady average of holdups.But on Wednesday, two days after the battle, thecrime wave rose to a new zenith and Wentworthwent again to the underworld to discover thereason. He went furtively, as Limpy Magee, andeven dared to visit his shop, which the thin littlegirl with the shawl was patiently operating. Shestarted violently when Wentworth, stealing upfrom the cellar, spoke gently in her ear. Then shewhirled and flung her arms about his shoulders.

"Oh, Limpy," she sobbed, "they said youwere dead! They said you were the Spider andthat you were dead."

Wentworth patted her shaking shoulders,then detached himself gently. He went to abattered old desk, penned and pre-dated a papergiving her the shop, and handed it to her.

"I am the Spider," he told her gravely, "butI'm very far from dead. This shop is yours now.Sometimes I may come back here. Will youalways have a room for me?"

"Oh, yes, yes!" The girl reached for himagain, but Wentworth turned lightly away. He stoledown into the basement, leaped halfway downand sprawled on the earthen floor with his gun inhis hand.

"Stand just like that," he ordered fiercely.

THE figure crouched against the light of thecellar door opening into the backyard,straightened slowly. "Okay, Limpy," he growled."I just wanted to talk to you."

"Why in the hell didn't you say so?" snarledLimpy Magee. He crossed stiffly toward the figure,then hesitated. "Bill Horace!" he grunted.

"Yeah, me," the policeman admitted. "Listen,mug, are you the Spider?"

Wentworth laughed softly, the mocking flatlaughter men knew and feared everywhere asheralding that dread avenger of the night. Gone,abruptly, were the rough manners of LimpyMagee. But he held his gun steadily on thepoliceman.

"Why yes, William," he agreed gently. "I amthe Spider. But don't get any ideas into yourhead that you're going to collect the reward."

Horace laughed harshly. "Not me," he said. "Iknew there was something funny about you fromthe first. But you done me some good turns. Justthe same, if I ever bump into you when I'm onduty, I'm going to run you in."

"Certainly, William.""Don't call me William," the policeman said

crossly. "Listen, I've found out why crooks aregetting all set up again. Half of the Fiddler's mobis still going strong. Even losing the loot of thePenn Station and the Metropolitan ain't stoppedthem. They're planning some big job tomorrow. Ican't find out what."

"Ah," said Wentworth softly. "Where can Icall you, Willie—pardon me, Bill—if I should wantto reach you."

The policeman gave his false name and thenumber of a cheap hotel where he was staying."Listen, Spider," he said slowly, "you seen Tonylately? Tony Musette, the girl who was with mybrother at the saloon that night?"

"I hear of her," Wentworth said. "She is well.I hear that she and Jerry are still trying to get poorold Limpy Magee for killing you."

"Hell, you can't blame them.""I don't, Bill," Wentworth told him. "Now,

kindly go upstairs into the shop. I want to hearyou lock the door up there."

"I ain't out for you, Spider.""Of course not," Wentworth agreed. "Go

upstairs."His retreat from the underworld being thus

uneventful, Wentworth spent the evening with Nitatrying desperately to figure out what the Fiddler'snext move would be. Flynn accepted theinformation already gleaned with monosyllabicthanks. He would have men ready at all stationson the next day for an emergency, he said.Wentworth believed that the plans would bethorough. An army man would know how to

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organize such things. Thoughtfully, he calledLarrimore.

"Can you tell me Purviss' movements fortomorrow?" he asked.

Larrimore said: "I'm sorry he's not in. I'llhave him call you later." By that, Wentworthunderstood that Larrimore was not in a positionfor talking. Since the wounding of Kirkpatrick,Larrimore had repeatedly called to give himinformation which might be valuable in his fightagainst the Death Fiddler, or in helpingKirkpatrick's campaign.

Kirkpatrick's foes were hammering at the factthat he had resigned from office in the midst ofone of the worst crime waves in history and theyhad broadcast one of those sly questions whichcannot be branded libel.

"We ask Kirkpatrick," ran the question, "if it isnot a fact that the Mayor asked him to resignbecause of his inefficiency in combating the risingtide of crime?"

Purviss professed himself unable to find acopy of the letter he had sent to Kirkpatrick andno one had been able to locate the original amongKirkpatrick's papers. It was a cowardly attackagainst a man who could not answer back andamong some people it stirred resentment. Others,influenced by the opposition claims thatKirkpatrick really was not badly wounded but wasseeking to avoid answering their challenges, hadturned against Kirkpatrick.

The hospital reported impersonally that "Mr.Kirkpatrick had a slightly more restful night. He isholding his own."

Even if Kirkpatrick recovered, he would betoo weak to campaign. That was certain. Only onething could save the election for him, or clear hisname of the need that had been thrown upon it bypolitical foes. That would be for him somehow tosmash the Death Fiddler.

Wentworth laughed bitterly at the thought.How could Kirkpatrick, battling for his very life inthe hospital, conquer the Fiddler? If Wentworthcould learn the man's plans and defeat them, thengive the credit to Kirkpatrick . . . .But that wouldbe immediately suspect. No, there must be someother way.

LARRIMORE'S call elicited nothingspectacular for the following day, Thursday.Purviss would be in his office practically all day.He had refused all appointments because he had

a conference with bankers for the afternoon overa loan to the city. Larrimore laughed a littlenervously when Wentworth asked him whatprotection he himself was planning for thefollowing night.

"It doesn't seem to make much differencewhat form of protection a man has," he said. "TheFiddler managed to get the Governor despitenearly a hundred guards. What chance have Igot?"

It was two o'clock the following afternoon,Thursday, when Larrimore called him excitedly. "Idon't know what this means," he said rapidly, "butPurviss has just sent me on the most nonsensicalerrand I ever heard of."

Wentworth frowned, rubbed his palm acrosshis forehead. He had been working furiously tofind an answer to the Fiddler's return ofconfidence, and he had failed. "What is it?" heasked wearily.

"He just ordered me to go to Macy's to gethim some personal stationery," Larrimore replied."The funny part of it is that he's got all thepersonal stationery he needs. And, anyway, hehas a half dozen lesser men to run errands forhim. Yet he sends me . . ." Larrimore hesitated."I confess I'm uneasy."

All Wentworth's suspicions of Purviss aroseanew. As Larrimore said, it was a strange thingthe Mayor had ordered. Was there a reasonbehind it? Wentworth knew that the Death Fiddlerplanned a new outrage today—and he had beenunable to learn where the man planned to strike,or when.

"Did Purviss tell you any special time to getthere?" Wentworth asked slowly.

"That's another strange thing," Larrimorewent on, growing more and more worried. "Hesaid that the woman he wanted me to see wentout at two-thirty for lunch and I absolutely had toget there by that time."

Wentworth's fist hit the telephone stand ablow that made the receiver jar against his ear."Don't go," he told Larrimore quickly. "Without adoubt, the Fiddler is planning to rob Macy's storetoday!"

He hung up, signaled excitedly for theoperator. His remark to Larrimore had beensheer guesswork, but the more he thought of itthe more certain he was that his surmise wascorrect. Macy's receipts for the day undoubtedlytopped that of any other store in town. What was

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it their advertisements said—four sales everysecond? The total would be enormous,somewhere up in the hundreds of thousands. Hewas suddenly certain Macy's was the object of theattack.

Why then had Purviss directed Larrimore togo to the store? But that, too, was rather obvious.Suspicion already had pointed partly to Larrimorebecause of the affair in Penn Station, thoughthere it had touched the Mayor also. If Larrimorewere at Macy's at the time that the robbery wasstaged and was found there, if he presented thenonsensical excuse that he had just givenWentworth over the phone and then Purvissdenied having sent Larrimore to the store, thesecretary would certainly be in bad spot.

In the same instant that the explanation ofPurviss' strange order had struck Wentworth,another thought had occurred. He wanted someway of thwarting the Fiddler and throwing thecredit to Kirkpatrick. Well, he knew the Fiddler'splans now, and abruptly he realized how he couldthrow the credit to Kirkpatrick.

Bill Horace undoubtedly still carried thehandwritten order from Kirkpatrick directing him tolet the story of his death remain uncontradictedand to investigate the Fiddler. If, then, Bill Horaceshould phone in the tip on what was to occur, thecredit would go to Kirkpatrick for having assignedan astute man to the case and, at the same time,having seized on a man reported dead to do thework . . . .

THE call went through and a nasal voiceasked roughly what was wanted. Wentworthasked for Horace under the assumed name heused and waited through interminable minutes.

"Yeah?" Bill Horace's voice was as laconicand rough as the first that had answered.

"Bill," Wentworth said swiftly. "this is LimpyMagee. I found out what the Fiddler is goin' to dothis afternoon. Yeah, at two-thirty he's going torob Macy's. Yeah. Now listen Bill, you call upFlynn and don't talk to nobody else. Tell him youlearned all about it from a friend you've got who'sin on the Fiddler's gang."

Horace's voice was heavy. "Sure, I'll tell him Igot it from my brother. Why in the hell didn't youtell me Jerry was nuts about the Fiddler? Cheez,if I'd stayed home I might of saved the kid."

"You didn't stand a chance," Wentworthsnapped at him. "He's killed two men, killed them

before you ever had that little run-in with LimpyMagee at Collins' place. I could cite you facts.But don't delay, Bill. It's ten after two now theFiddler is going to hit at two-thirty. Tell Flynn thatKirkpatrick gave you that special assignment, thenhand the paper over to him when you go in and ifhe doesn't boost you to a detective, I miss myguess a long way. Hurry, Bill, a thousand livesdepend on you!"

Wentworth hung up and sat tensely by histelephone. A thousand lives might not be much ofan exaggeration. If the robbers cut loose withmachine guns in the crowded aisles of the bigdepartment store on Herald Square, there wouldbe plenty of blood shed. And the evil would notend there. A successful looting of Macy's wouldstir the underworld to rabid frenzy again. It wouldloot and kill for the sheer joy of crime.

Five minutes by his watch, Wentworthwaited, until he was sure Bill Horace had had timeto put his call through. Then he, too, phonedCommissioner Flynn. He got Police Headquarters,but was told Flynn was to busy to talk.

"This is Wentworth," he rasped imperatively."If you want to take the responsibility for athousand murders just keep me from talking toFlynn."

In a moment Flynn barked his name into thephone.

"The Fiddler is going to raid Macy's at two-thirty," Wentworth rushed his words.

Flynn interrupted, demanding to know wherehe had got the information, jerking out that apoliceman who had been reported dead hadphoned in the same thing not two minutes before.Wentworth told what he knew from Larrimore andnow and then Flynn interrupted to bark orders atwhat apparently was a chain of orderlies darting inand out of his office.

"The Fiddler has been planning somethingspectacular," Wentworth concluded his briefmarshaling of the facts. "What could he do morespectacular than looting the city's largest store?"

"Sounds crazy," Flynn said sharply, "butfrom two sources, this way, it must be so. Policeare covering."

"Good," Wentworth snapped. "See youthere."

He slammed down the phone and sprangfrom his chair. It was two-twenty, ten minutesbefore the Death Fiddler was to strike. He ran for

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the door, patting his under-shoulder holsters as amatter of habit to be sure he had his guns.

"Jenkyns," he called, "call Miss Nita. AtMacy's—you know how. Tell her to get outquickly, that in ten minutes the Death Fiddler willraid the store."

Wentworth knew that he was speakingfoolishness even as he requested Jenkyns to act.It was well that Nita should be warned in advance,but she would no more leave the scene of actionthan Wentworth would stay away himself.

A TAXI spun Wentworth swiftly down andacross town. At the Seventh Avenue entrance ofMacy's he alighted with two minutes to spare. Hecaught an elevator to the third floor, knowing thatone of the money receiving offices was on thefourth. As he wove a rapid way through crowdsthat packed the store, there was a leaping joy inhis heart because he had once more ferreted outthe Death Fiddler's plot.

Yet his lips were drawn tight and straight withapprehension. In this crowd, the police would fearto shoot, but no such consideration would deterthe criminals. Wentworth began to realize that theplan to rob the store was not as mad as it had firstseemed. So far as escaping was concerned, thevery crowds would facilitate it.

Flight outside might be a different matter.South of Times Square, no street carried half somuch traffic as Thirty-fourth, just outside Macy'sfront door. To the west on Seventh Avenue, trafficwould be impossibly congested, too, since Macy'swas just at the edge of the Pennsylvania Stationdistrict as well as the heavy trucking of thegarment district, with Times Square itself only ashort distance northward.

On the east was the junction of Broadwayand Sixth Avenue, the two triangles of HeraldSquare and Greeley Square. Here again, withstreet car lines on both avenues, and on Thirty-fourth as well, with the pillars of the elevatedfurther complicating traffic, escape seemed cutoff. Thirty-fifth would be blocked with trucks andwas narrow at best.

Wentworth nodded as he recounted thesethings in mind. Undoubtedly Flynn would plan tostop the bandits as they attempted to flee thestore. He would not invade the building itselfwhere stray bullets might kill more than had diedin the Pennsylvania Station battle. Now that herecalled the scraps of Flynn's orders heard over

the phone, he was convinced that this was theCommissioner's plan.

Wentworth threading his way along the thirdfloor, was still fifty feet away from the downescalators when he saw the first indication of theraid. He had planned to cover those movingsteps, block them against possible escape,hoping that Flynn was planning some similarguard on stairs and elevators. Even if Flynn hadnot yet had time to take such precautions,Wentworth hoped to delay the escape until policecould make sure of capture by posting largeforces of reserves about the store. Flynn would beat his best in such an effort.

A sharp curse rasped in Wentworth's throatand he tried to worm his way more rapidly throughthe thickening throng of shoppers. The aisleahead was completely blocked by a four-deepcrowd about a counter where a sign read "$2.98silks X1.49 a yard." Beyond, against the left handwall, was the money reception office, a woodenpartition with bronze-caged windows at regularintervals.

Abruptly the door at the end of the officeopened and three men came out fast. The secondcarried two large leather bags, plumply stuffed,and the other two walked close on his flanks,heads down, hands thrust deep into bulgingpockets. A glance assured Wentworth that these,the money carrier and two guards, were some ofthe men he had come to block.

He estimated distances rapidly. He was fiftyfeet from the end of the downward escalator,pocketed behind a thick crowd of mailing womenshoppers. The three men had less than twenty-five feet to go and there was no crowd to blocktheir escape.

Wentworth's hands itched for his automatics,but they, too, would be futile. If he chargedviolently through the crowd ahead, the threebandits would take alarm and blast their way free,mow down women and men indiscriminately withtheir desperate guns. He, himself, could not firelest he wound someone . . . .

FRANTICALLY Wentworth cast about forsome means of blocking the escape. His eyelighted again on the silk bargain sign. With a grimsmile he reached out and caught two women bythe shoulders, hauled them out of the way,grabbed two more and wormed through the crowdto the counter. Shoppers jostled him and

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exclaimed indignantly. A slamming elbow caughthim in the side and shortened his wind, but hereached the counter. With an easy spring, hewas standing on its top amid the silks.

The three gangsters caught the sound of thedisturbance now. The man with the moneyquickened his pace. The other two stopped,shoulders tensing, hands half pulling from theirpockets.

Wentworth caught up a bolt of silk, grabbedthe loose end and heaved the bolt itself violentlytoward the gangsters. Its glittering lengthunwound across the store, above the heads ofthe startled women, toward the two armedguards. Their hands were clear of their pocketsnow, the ugly snouts of their automatics halfraised.

At the same instant, Wentworth snatched hisautomatics from their holsters. Each blasted once.He had a clear shot over the heads of thefrightened women, and the bullets flew true.

Both bandits reeled backward, guns droppingfrom their hands, startled pain on their faces. Onestruck a counter, spun about, and caught it withhis hands as he went down. The counter tippedand spilled an avalanche of boxed silk stockingsupon him.

The second gangster stared incredulously atWentworth. The tag end of the bolt of silk stillfluttered in the air, wavering downward to thefloor. It had served its purpose well, bewilderedthe two gunmen while Wentworth got his gunsinto play. Then the man went down all at once,every joint collapsing simultaneously as heflopped forward on his face.

The man carrying the money twisted about.As he saw his two guards go down beneath theSpider’s lead, a shrill scream tore from his lipsand he sprang toward the escalator. Wentworthfired while he was still in midleap and the manwent limp, arms and legs dangling, to come downin a heap on the topmost step of the movingstairway. The fat money bags landed soddenly onthe floor.

Wentworth stood quietly for a moment, ahard smile on his lips. The body of the third deadgunman was moving downward on the escalator,being carried along with a majestic slownesswhich had in it a suggestion of the callousinevitability of fate. Women stood staring up atWentworth, at the dead bandits, with openmouths, faces frozen in panic. It had all happened

so quickly that fear had not yet released theirlungs.

Then one woman screamed. She screamedagain, took two faltering steps—and crumpled tothe floor in a dead faint.

That one cry touched it off. With thesuddenness of a shot, all the women weretrampling madly back, anywhere from this calmmadman with the two guns and those pitifullycrumpled bodies.

Wentworth sprang to the floor and caught upthe woman who had fainted. He laid her gentlydown upon the silk bargain counter, out of theway of the stampede, then loped to where themoney bags lay. The one gunman's body washalfway to the floor below now, on the deliberatelymoving escalator . . . .

WENTWORTH caught up the bags ofmoney, ran to the office from which it had beenstolen—and stopped there, staring down in horror.A girl lay upon the floor in an awkward position,which could mean only death. The back of herhead had been crushed by a blow. Two men laythere also, bound hand and foot.

Wentworth quickly freed them, told thembriefly what had happened and what to expect.Then he hurried back to the escalator.

He ran rapidly down it. The moving stepswere deserted now. Customers and clerks hadfled from the second floor, fled from the proximityof the body that had ridden headfirst down theescalator and stubbornly refused to be entirelydiscarded. It lay at the bottom of the flight, half on,half off, the steps; each succeeding tread bendingthe toes of the man's shoes upward, then slidingon as the gentle thrust failed to stir the body.

Wentworth pulled the man clear and ran withlong strides along the second floor toward thehead of the next escalator. This was where Nitawas supposed to work with Tony Musette. But hesaw nothing of the girls. Perhaps, after all, Nitahad obeyed his warning and left the store. Yet hedoubted that.

He flung a swift glance about him, looked atthe elevator bank across the floor. With a leapingexultation he saw that the indicators, showing onwhich floor the cars were stationed, were notmoving. That meant that all the elevators hadbeen halted . . . .

With a tight smile, Wentworth realized alsothat it meant the bandits now would have to use

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either escalators or ordinary stairs—with the oddsin favor of the escalators. He opened the clips ofhis automatics and replaced the cartridges he hadfired. Quickly reconnoitering his position, he sawthat he was exposed from the doorway giving onthe stairs, and from the back escalators. If hemoved that counter on his right, it would give himprotection from the rear.

He stepped toward the counter—and heard aman's frightened shout from above. His eyesnarrowed, his lips stirred in a hard smile. Had thebandits discovered their dead? It was probable.He watched the moving railing of the escalatorabove him and saw a man's hand grip it. As thestairs slid downward, more of the arm, then theshoulder, appeared, afterward the back of theman's head.

The man jerked about in swift alarm as if hesensed the Spider’s watch. But the upward throwof his gun was too slow. Wentworth's shot drilledhim through the head.

For a moment longer, the hand gripped themoving rail, then slid from sight. Wild curses rangout above. Wentworth circled widely to his left, gotdirectly in front of the escalator. Two pairs of legswere visible at the top. He rested both automaticson a counter, sighted at the legs, and dischargedboth guns together. Two men's bodies camesuddenly into view, one pitching on the escalator,the other scrabbling around at the top.

Up to this time, Wentworth's automatics hadmade the only gun sounds in the store. But now,suddenly, on the floor above a machine gunchattered. The man on the escalator tried anawkward shot and Wentworth drilled him alsothrough the head. In a moment, three bodieswere heaped sprawlingly at the foot of theescalator.

Wentworth thought quickly. He had held thismeans of descent without much trouble so far, butthere was a persistent worry in the back of hismind. Considering the size of this operation, therewas too little shooting. Either Flynn had notarrived on the scene, or the Fiddler's band hadnot left the store. Would they bunch and rush thelines?

A MACHINE GUN sputtered on the enclosedstairway off to Wentworth's left, apparently at thesecond floor level. Then the sound went on down,rattling noisily. Good Lord! That one machine gun

loosed on the packed crowd below wouldslaughter scores, hundreds. . . .

Wentworth darted for the down escalator. Hecrouched upon it so that his head just topped thewooden side, and peered toward the stairs exit.Four machine gunners were in line there and eachhad the muzzle of his weapon against the back ofa woman. Before them was the whole massedcrowd of the store, many of whom had descendedfrom upper floors and jammed this one tight.

Behind the machine gunners were ten othermen. And one, in the guise of Dodson Larrimore,with that bragging fake bullet wound between hiseyes, was the Death Fiddler himself!

Wentworth's fingers trembled on the triggersof his automatics as he slid lower and lower onthe escalator. But then a startled oath rippedfrom his throat. One of the women held captivebelow was Tony Musette, and another. . . . wasNita!

He had just time to discover that when theFiddler's voice rang out in a stentorian order. "Youby the door there, tell the police outside thatunless we are allowed to go our way unmolested,not only these four girls, but everyone in front ofthese guns will be killed.

"Tell them, furthermore, that we haveanother recourse which should keep the policehere until we are well on our way. There are adozen bombs planted in this building, enough tobring the entire structure crashing down uponyour heads. We are willing to wait in here untilthose bombs go off. It would be no more fatal tous than going out the door there. But if we areallowed to go free, we will phone back the locationof the switch that controls the bombs in time toprevent the destruction of the building and allthose in it."

Wentworth had reached the bottom of theescalator by the time the man had finished hisspeech. He heard people near the door shout themessage to the police outside.

"Tell the police they'd better hurry. Thebombs will go off in twenty minutes," the Fiddlershouted.

There was something wrong about all this,Wentworth told himself fiercely. If the Fiddler hadone good feature it was the fact that he would nottolerate any objectionable behavior towardwomen. Yet this time their successful escapehinged exclusively on the threatened destructionof women.

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Was it possible that all the man's previouschivalry had been a sham? Wentworth did notbelieve it. Why, the Fiddler had twice killed hisown men simply to preserve that tradition!

Still puzzling over the discrepancy as heslipped through the crowd to the upboundescalator and allowed it to carry him higher,Wentworth's every muscle was tense, whilemadness ran through his brain. How in the nameof heaven was he to defeat the Death Fiddler?Those bombs would destroy the building and allwithin it even if the Spider managed to free thehostages of his machine guns.

And even that much seemed an impossibletask. There were four men with machine guns,another with a revolver. One person could notpossibly account for all five before the murderoushail of lead was turned lose. To be sure, he couldsave Nita by a single well-placed shot, but herrelease alone would not serve. There must, mustbe a way!

AS THE escalator carried him from sight,Wentworth cast a last frantic glance about. Andsuddenly hope burgeoned within him. He wouldhave to work fast. All his chances depended onspeed, on the Fiddler remaining where he was fora few minutes longer. A few minutes . . . GoodLord! Within twenty minutes, the building wouldcome tumbling down upon all the thousandspacked into that first floor and held there by guns!

Wentworth darted first to the men's clothingdepartment, against the east wall of the building.From its cases, he whipped a black felt hat and ablack Inverness cape. A black scarf furnished amask when he had slashed eyeholes with hisknife. Then he raced back across the floor anddown a short flight of stairs to the balcony justabove the Death Fiddler's head.

As he ran he swiftly looped a length of thepowerful silk cord which he always carried withhim, the silk cord that was less than the diameterof a lead pencil but which had a tensile strength ofseven hundred pounds. Reaching the balcony, hecrept to the railing, behind a silk shawl drapedover the edge.

"Time is flying," the Death Fiddler boomed,just below him. "It is only fifteen minutes beforethe bombs explode."

Wentworth had his loop ready. Hestraightened, leaned over the railing, and madehis cast. His appearance had scarcely registered

on the assembled crowd, the murmur of fright andsurprise had only begun to rise from their throats,when the silken loop settled about the neck of theFiddler.

With a jerk, Wentworth drew the loop tight.He hauled upward until the Fiddler could barelytouch his toes to the counter below. Dexterouslyhe drew the cord about a pillar, fastened its end tothe leg of a heavy table, then balanced the tableon the railing.

"If any man moves," Wentworth shouted,"the Death Fiddler dies. The Spider swears it!"

Gangsters and machine gunners staredupward with twisted necks. "Stand still,"Wentworth warned them. "If you move, I'll dropthe table. The line is around this pillar and theyank of the table will break the Fiddler's neck.Shoot me and the same thing happens. Atpresent, your leader, though a bit uncomfortable,can still survive." He sent his mocking flat laughterover the assembled crowd.

It was deadlock, and a deadlock which onlythe Spider could break. The gangsters held theirguns on the crowd, but if they shot anyone, orattempted to shoot the Spider—even if theysucceeded in killing him!—their leader died andthat meant an end of them. They knew they couldnever get out without him.

Wentworth had hit upon the one possibleway out of the situation and with his usual swiftfacility had seized upon it.

"Will you young ladies down there kindlyrelieve those gentlemen of the machine guns?"Wentworth asked, mockingly. "Ah, ah!" he warnedone of the men who resisted, "Be careful or I'llbreak your dear Fiddler's neck!"

Nita held a machine gun in competent handsnow, trained on the men who had held herprisoner.

"Now then," said Wentworth, "we'll wait forthe bombs to go off. You ladies out there canmake your way quietly out of the doors. Thesemen lied about the amount of time remainingbefore the bombs went off. You have plenty oftime, but get moving at once."

The Spider peered benevolently down uponthe crowd and a slow movement toward the doorstarted. Wentworth glanced at his watchnervously. He had lied about extra time, ofcourse, but he had done it to prevent the panicthat the truth might have caused. Once they weremoving in orderly fashion toward the door, it

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would be easy to speed them up without danger.Wentworth leaned forward, with his elbows on therailing.

"I wonder if any of you gentlemen would bekind enough to tell us where the switch to thebomb is?" he asked gently.

"Hands up!" a man's voice spoke behind him."Hands up, Spider! And keep them up."

Wentworth straightened with a cold fearprodding at his heart—fear for those hundreds,those thousands packed helplessly below him,awaiting death. He knew that voice and he knewwhat it portended.

"Get that table down off the railing," the voicewent on. Jerry Horace's voice.

The Spider had made a clever play, had hadthe victory virtually in his hands. And now, throughthis man, he might lose it all; sacrifice the lives ofthese men and women.

What chance had he, with Jerry Horacebehind him with a gun? What chance to save

those thousands who could not possibly escapefrom the building before the bombs went off?There was an awful tension in all his muscles, arigidity in his neck. Despairing rage narrowed hiseyes. He would not give up. He could not . . .

"I can't put up my hands, Jerry." Nothing ofthat tension nor rage showed in his voice. "I can'tput my hands up because, if I do, the Fiddler willdie!"

CHAPTER SEVENTEENSurrender

JERRY HORACE'S voice sounded fromcloser behind Wentworth; a gun prodded into hisribs.

"Get that table down off the railing," Jerryordered tightly.

The Spider’s face grew rock hard under theblack mask that covered it. Many times now hehad been on the point of victory over the DeathFiddler, and each time some one thing hadprevented his triumph. The breath came quicklybetween his teeth, the slow, hard pounding of hisheart seemed to echo throughout his entire body.Even if it meant his death, the death of all thosehundreds grouped tensely below, the Fiddlershould die this time. And his death would be apublic execution! He would be hanged by the neckuntil dead, dead, dead . . .

"All right, Jerry," Wentworth said harshly."I'll take the table off the railing."

He stepped back, deliberately shoved theheavy table. But he shoved it forward, so thatwith a lurch and a shriek of metal on wood itplunged downward toward the counters below.

Wentworth heard a rising, murmurous gaspfrom the waiting hundreds, heard the rope raspabout the pillar as the plunging table jerked ittight. Then the table crashed against the floorbelow, the rope whipped taut, and somethingblack and limp jerked into view. The snap of theline had jerked the Death Fiddler clear of thecounter and thrown him violently into the air. Onlyan instant was the body visible, then it plungeddownward again. The line once more went tautand there was a dull snap that made Wentworth'slips skin back from his teeth. That sound was thebreaking of the Death Fiddler's neck!

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A great exultant joy surged over him. Comewhat might now, the Fiddler was dead. His gangsno longer would spread death and horror . . . Asthe heat of jubilation swept over him, he pivotedon his heel.

Jerry Horace was staring with wide eyes, anddead white face. He was actually paralyzed, as ifwith both surprise and pain, at what he had seen.

No more than two seconds had passed sinceWentworth had said harshly, "All right!" Yet inthose two seconds, the Fiddler had died. Andnow...

Whirling, Wentworth's left hand slappedaside the leveled gun, his right closed aboutJerry's throat. Thumb and fingers gouged home.For a moment the two stood motionless like that,then, with a sharp wrench, the Spider yanked thegun away and thrust Jerry backward threestaggering paces. The Spider’s flat laughterrippled from his lips. His chest was pumping withthe joy of his laughter. He felt strong, invincible.The Fiddler was dead. The Spider had killed him!

"Now, Jerry," Wentworth snapped, "unlessyou want Tony to be mashed to pieces when thisbuilding caves in, you'd better show me wherethat bomb switch is."

He laughed again. Nothing could beat himnow. The bombs? Of course Jerry would talk.

"Run, Tony! Run!" Jerry shouted.Wentworth shook his head. "She's standing

by the girl she works with, Jerry, and by you. Shewouldn't run and leave you to die. Are you goingto let her die?" Wentworth's voice was taunting;the blind feeling of victory was still strong withinhim. Behind him, dangling at the end of a slendersilken cord, the body of the Death Fiddler swungabove the heads of his men. Nita held a machinegun on the others.

He laughed again. "Suppose that iron beamup there came down on Tony, Jerry? The resultwouldn't be pretty, would it, Jerry? Rather ruinthe shape of that lovely body . . ."

"Don't, for God's sake," Jerry gasped. "I'llshow you the switch. I'll show you . . ."

HE TOTTERED away from the counter towhich he had been hurled, looped about, startedfor the steps upward. Wentworth reached him ina long stride, jammed the gun against his ribs.

"We've got two minutes," he said in a flat, dryvoice. His mouth felt arid. In the midst of his

victory, was death to come, death from thebombs? "Hurry, damn you!"

Jerry went up the steps in leaping strides,wove among the counters toward the elevatorshaft. His hip caught a counter and it knocked himaside, he tripped over a high stool and spilleddown on his face, hands thrown out above hishead . . . He scrambled up, lungs pumping, faceagonized.

Wentworth shook him violently by the arm."Quick, man! The switch!"

Jerry lifted a limp hand toward the shaft wall."Box," he gasped. "Black box!"

With a hoarse shout, Wentworth sprangtoward the box. A clock on the wall nearbyshowed there was only thirty seconds, thirtyseconds to death . . . He wrenched open the box,snatched the switch clear.

A swift step behind him pulled him about andhe dodged aside. There was no time even to drawbreath; no time to exult that the bomb switch hadbeen wrenched clear, that the thousands belowwere safe.

Jerry had played him a trick in that stumblingfall, a trick to make him leap ahead. The gangyouth was on his feet now and in his hand hegrasped the stool over which he had fallen. Evenas Wentworth whirled about, the stool was swungheavily.

Wentworth flung up his arm. Barely divertingthe blow, the down swing still caught him withsufficient force to numb his left arm and drive himto his knees.

With a hoarse shout, Jerry whirled the thingaloft, to strike again. Wentworth dived at his legs.He felt knees gouge into his shoulders, heard athud as Jerry's head struck the wall. ThenWentworth was reeling to his feet and staring athis unconscious assailant.

He shook his head sharply, drew up his leftarm twice, clenching the fist with a grimace for thepain it caused, then ran swiftly toward theescalators.

As he ran, guns began to speak below—muffled at first, but growing louder as he nearedthe steps. He went down them in great boundingstrides, an automatic in each hand. His keeneyes took in the scene below in a single sweepingglance.

Police were battling their way in through thedoors. The packed hordes of shoppers were

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fighting their way outward, screaming, struck atlast with panic. The rescue force was jammedinextricably. Before they could enter . . . .

Wentworth swung toward the balcony.Sharp joy struck through him again at sight of thedangling figure of the Death Fiddler, swaying witha slow macabre rhythm above the heads of hisfighting cohorts.

But his joy was short-lived. His swift eyessought—and failed—to find Nita. His ready gunsdelayed . . . .

Then he saw her, saw her supine upon thefloor while above, legs straddled protectingly overher body, stood a broad-shouldered man whofought with the strength of the devil himself.

Even as Wentworth caught sight of him, thebroad-shouldered fellow struck out savagely witha fist, slammed a gangster to the floor, andscooped up the machine gun the other had held.Wentworth saw a man throw down on him and hisown automatic spoke with the instinctive swiftspeed of which only the Spider’s was capable.The gangster's body jerked; he swayed, bent chinto chest, then pitched forward like that.

BESIDE Nita, the man with the machine guncrouched now and the gun began to chatter,sweeping from side to side. Wentworth firedcarefully from where he stood. He sprang fromthe escalator to its wooden side and, haltingthere, fired carefully, one shot at a time, pickingout a gangster head here, a threatening gun handthere... But his thoughts were not upon his guns.His thoughts were with that broad-shouldered onewho crouched over Nita's body and fought like aninspired fiend.

Those shoulders identified the man as theone who had saved Wentworth's life in the raid onPennsylvania Station. There could be no doubtabout that. And in glimpsing those shouldersagain and yet again as he swept his eyes over thepress below seeking a new target, he felt a warm,thrilling certainty grow within him. Now, each timehe squeezed the trigger, he said: "Jackson." Hepunctuated every shot with that word, either aloudor in his mind.

It couldn't be Jackson. It couldn't be.Jackson was dead, had died confessing the sinsof the Spider. It was impossible . . . .

Wentworth's automatic swerved upon aleaping figure which sprang toward the broad-shouldered one, but he held his fire just in time.

It was Ram Singh; Nita, too, was alert now.Thrusting up on one arm, she was wielding arevolver. The three were a rallying point againstthe gangsters. Ram Singh had a long knife ineach hand. He stood squarely behind the manwith the machine gun, whose broad shoulderswere hidden from Wentworth then . . . .

The Spider’s mind was whirling. Ram Singhand the other were fighting side by side asJackson and Ram Singh had fought so manytimes. From behind the press of the battle, agangster drew a bead on the machine gunner,and Ram Singh's swift knife became a flittinggleam of steel. It caught the gangster in thethroat and the man went down in a sea of fightingkillers. Wentworth saw that the machine gunneron his knees threw back his head and laughed.

Impossible to hear the sound of the laughterin the bedlam below. Impossible to hear anythingexcept the screams of the wounded and dying,the panic yelp of fleeing women, the heavy poundof gunfire. Impossible, and yet Wentworth wassure he heard that laughter—such vaunting,battle-glorying laughter as only one man had everuttered before . . . A lump caught in his throat asa wild, fantastic hope made his heart leap. Hesprang to the steps, started downward . . . A stoolhurled from the head of the steps caught him atthe base of the neck. Only the fact that he wasmoving in the same direction prevented fatalinjury. Even as it was, he went down violentlyupon the escalator, merely falling by impulse sothat he landed on his shoulders instead of hishead.

Down the moving steps, a man camerunning, his lips writhing in hate. It was JerryHorace. He came down the steps in greatvaulting strides, caught up the stool he had hurledand raised it slowly, tensely above his head. Ifthat blow fell, the Spider would never stir again,never again carry the battle to the enemies ofmankind. Jerry paused a moment with the stoolpoised, gloating with a small hating smile over hisconquest.

"You killed Bill," his voice was shrill. "I sworeI'd kill you for it."

BUT Nita had caught sight of the capedfigure plunging down the steps, had seen thatcowardly blow from behind. Frantic, she leveledher revolver and pulled the trigger. The hammersnapped futilely upon an empty chamber. Shecaught desperately at Ram Singh's leg. Her

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shout was barely audible above the sound ofconflict, but her rigidly pointing revolver showedRam Singh where danger lay . . . .

He did not wait to turn. Twisted only fromthe hips, he whipped his knife forward like themissile of a catapult, in a throw fully seventy-fivefeet. The slim blade whistled with the speed of itspassage, just as the stool was starteddownward...

Jerry stood rigidly, staring with wide,frightened eyes at the knife that had pierced hisleft arm through and through. His blow never fellupon the Spider. The stool dropped from hishands and he turned and fled wildly into the thickof the crowd.

Even while Ram Singh raced toward him,Wentworth staggered heavily to his feet, holdinghis head between squeezing palms. He thoughtnothing of the blow, nothing of the pain in hisbrain. The hammer of guns was suddenly stilledand he reeled toward where Nita came slowly,limping on the arm of the man who had defendedher with a machine gun. Behind them lay thethick-piled rows of dead and over them swayedthe body of the Death Fiddler, dancing on air atthe end of that lethal Spider web.

Then Wentworth saw the face of the manbeside Nita. He stopped and a great breathrushed into his lungs. He shook his aching head,dragged an incredulous hand across his eyes andstared again. He groped for a support, staggeredback two full paces until his hips hit a counter.Then he leaned there, panting. A great cry burstfrom him.

"Jackson!" he cried. "Jackson!"The man with the wide shoulders grinned

almost sheepishly, his broad-jawed face flushed.Then he stiffened and saluted in perfect armystyle.

"If the Major pleases," he said formally,"Sergeant Jackson reports back for duty."

Wentworth pushed himself away from thecounter only by an enormous physical effort. Hisfeet dragged as he swayed forward. Hewhispered, "But damn it, man, I saw you die!"

The whisper, however, was held back by thelump in his throat. This was the man he hadmourned for dead. This was the man he hadseen yield up his life to save the Spider. AndJackson was alive and standing before him!

Wentworth shook his head again. Then a quirkysmile touched his lips.

"Damn it, Sergeant," he said grimly. "Damnit. You've been A.W.0.L. Your excuses had betterbe good!"

For a moment longer, the two men stoodlike that. Then Wentworth sprang forward andthrew his arms about Jackson's broad shoulders.His hands patted the sturdy back, he leaned backand gripped Jackson by his arms. Their smileswere so wide their jaws hurt.

Nita said: "Dick, here comes CommissionerFlynn."

For a moment, the idea didn't penetrate, thenRam Singh whipped the damning Spider capeand hat from Wentworth and tossed them behinda counter. Wentworth stepped back, still grinning.

"Damn your soul, Jack, I believe I'm glad tosee you," he said. "We'll talk tonight. There'swork now."

THEIR smiles left them. They were oncemore man and master. Wentworth swung aboutand saw the high, bobbing head of Flynn cometoward him. Jackson fell back and Wentworthcalled a greeting.

"The Spider beat us to it," Wentworth said.He nodded up at the swinging body.

"Heard about it," Flynn snapped. "Cut himdown," he barked as one of his men rushed up.

The policeman raced up the steps to thebalcony, cut the silken cord, lowered the bodyuntil it lay flat upon one of the counters. BothFlynn and Wentworth crossed to the spot.Wentworth still felt dazed. Jackson's resurrectionwas incredible, but he could not doubt its reality.Jackson had been dead and now.

Wentworth forced his attention to focus uponthe man who lay flat on his back upon thecounter. The Death Fiddler. There was noevidence of strangulation upon the face. The colorwas natural. Wentworth frowned, reached out andyanked at Fiddler's hair. It came loose—and withit came a mask, a steel mask that covered theentire face.

Wentworth gasped. Flynn said: "So, DannyDawson was the Death Fiddler!"

Wentworth stared down at the dead face ofthe little crook, and slowly a bitter smile touchedhis lips. He shook his head sadly, disappointedly."No," he said, "Danny Dawson wasn't the

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Fiddler." He had seen Dawson and the Fiddlerside by side, many times! Danny was not theFiddler. And that meant . . . .

The world spun dizzily for Wentworth. Thatmeant that the Fiddler had escaped! That he hadnever come to Macy's, had merely sent anunderling to act in his place. The Death Fiddlerwas still at large! Humanity was still threatenedby his diabolical plans, his wholesale murders!

CHAPTER EIGHTEENThe Death Fiddler in Person

THE knowledge that the murderous Fiddlerwas still at large, still able to muster his thieving,slaying cohorts, had overshadowed Wentworth'sjoy even in Jackson's return. He had been unableto convince Flynn that Danny Dawson was not theDeath Fiddler. It had been, naturally, impossibleto give evidence of seeing the two side by side.The information would be tantamount toconfessing that he was the Spider. And short ofthat, there had been only the meager proof thatthe Fiddler was always chivalrous toward women.

Wentworth felt an immense weariness. Hehad thought the battle won, and now it was tobegin all over again. Even the one clue he hadhad, Danny's connection with the Fiddler, waswiped out.

Resolutely, Wentworth thrust despair fromhim, turned toward where Ram Singh andJackson stood respectfully in the doorway.Jackson was once more in his chauffeur'suniform, Ram Singh looked resplendent in thewhite he loved to wear about the house: longtunic, loose trousers, spotless turban across hisdark, fine brows . . . There was still amazement inWentworth's eyes as he regarded Jackson.

"It won't do, Jackson," he said gravely. "Thatdying confession of yours . . . The police will beon your neck if you come back."

"I'm my twin brother," Jackson said jauntily."Mr. Kirkpatrick won't be Commissioner any more.We don't need to worry about that."

Wentworth laughed, his joy at Jackson'sreturn thrusting back the clouds of despair.

"Ram Singh, brave warrior," he said, "there isno reward I could give which would show you my

appreciation. Or wait . . . There is a sword youfancy . . ."

Ram Singh's eyes grew brilliant. He swept alow salaam, cupped hands to his forehead.

"It is an emperor's sword, sahib!"Wentworth smiled slowly. "It is a brave man's

sword and I give it gladly to a brave man." WellWentworth knew that an offer of money to RamSingh would be an insult. "But tell me, my braveone, how it happens that I gaze once more uponthe living face of him I mourned as dead."

Ram Singh's face was grave. He waved ahand gracefully. "Wah, sahib, it was as nothing.Had sahib not been wounded, he would havedone it himself. It was merely that throughcowardice I was not wounded in the battle whenyou killed that vile one who called himself theAvenger . . ."

"Jackson," Wentworth interrupted. "I seethat I'll have to ask you for details."

Jackson clapped Ram Singh on the back,stood with his strong blunt fingers gripping hisshoulder. "The lad saw Mr. Kirkpatrick carry youout to the ambulance and saw a guard take hisstand by me. And then he saw me move a fingeror some thing of the sort. Knew I was alive. Hewent into an antechamber and emptied his gun,then when the guard came running to find outabout the noise, Ram Singh knocked him for aloop."

Ram Singh's face was impassive. "The guardwas a fool," he said quietly. "He stood there andwaited for me to hit him."

Nita, on the davenport beside Wentworth,laughed delightedly. She joyed as much in thesetwo strong men, in their devotion to Wentworth,as she did in Jackson's return. Their loyalty to herwas equaled only by their devotion to Wentworth.

Wentworth said grimly, "If you two stall meoff much longer on this story, I'm going to put youboth on bread and water."

JACKSON grinned and hurried on. "RamSingh knew that police hadn't counted the dead atthat time, so he got one of the dead gangstersand put the cape and Spider mask on him. Policehadn't seen the Spider's face. They didn't knowme... So when Ram Singh ran out of the chamberwith me on his shoulder, telling them I was onlywounded, they gave him a hand to the taxi. Theythought I was some friend of yours. Ram Singh

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took me to your doctor friend instead of to thehospital."

"Damn it, Ram Singh," Wentworth cut in."Why didn't you tell me about all this? I mighthave helped. Jackson might have..." His throatclosed. He swallowed hard and laughed a littleuncertainly. "Get on with it," he ordered gruffly.

Jackson's eyes dropped to the floor. Hehesitated a little before he went on.

These two had been very close to eachother, Wentworth and Jackson, though they weremaster and man.

"There isn't much more to it, sir," Jacksonsaid slowly. "You were in pretty bad shapeyourself, you'll remember. When you began toget better, I was well on the road to recovery also.It seemed like a good idea to surprise you, comeback unexpected like."

Wentworth laughed grimly. "Very timely, yourreturn," he said. "You saved my life in PennStation—again. Saved Miss Nita at Macy's. I'mafraid the balance is in your favor now, Jackson.I'll have to do something to even the odds."

Jackson couldn't pull his eyes off the floor,and a slow red flood suffused his face. Nita,gripping Wentworth's arm with both hands,laughed softly.

Finally Jackson looked up. "The Lancia is inwretched condition, Major," he said formally. "Ifthe Major will excuse me . . . . "

Wentworth waved dismissal and sat very still,watching Jackson's broad shoulders retreatthrough the doorway with the least little swaggerin their movement. He smiled. Nita sighedcontentedly beside him.

"It's good to have him back. . . . " she said.Wentworth nodded. "I'll have to find another

name for Jackson. It's possible our enemiesmight dig up that confession he made to being theSpider."

"Dick, you don't seem very much elated,"Nita said slowly. "Jackson's back, the Fiddler'sdead, and we can celebrate that dinner weplanned tonight. . . ."

Wentworth shook his head. "The Fiddler isn'tdead," he insisted grimly. "And there'll be nosafety in this city until he is captured. I'm hopingto smash him tonight before he can organize anew gang. Perhaps we can have a little midnightsupper...."

His voice was heavy and dull. He was verytired. The evaporation of his elation left himstrangely empty. He touched the back of his neckgingerly. The pain of Jerry Horace's blow made adull aching through his head.

"Tonight, Nita," he said slowly.

HE spent the rest of the afternoon in readingnewspaper accounts of the Macy’s battle. At hisrequest Flynn had made no mention ofWentworth's part in the warning and all credit hadbeen given to one William Horace, first classpatrolman put on special duty by Kirkpatrick.Printed in the paper was a facsimile ofKirkpatrick's bold handwriting ordering the searchfor the Death Fiddler. There were photographs ofBill and his mother.

But the best news Wentworth had was atelephone message from the hospital stating thatKirkpatrick had passed the crisis and wasdefinitely on the mend. Wentworth was sure, too,that the panegyrics of the newspapers over theconquest of the Death Fiddler would definitelyspell Kirkpatrick's election. . . .

Yes, all the news was good, all of it exceptone thing—the city was satisfied that the DeathFiddler was captured but Wentworth knew he wasstill at large, knew that as long as that man lived,neither the city nor anyone in it was safe. Asalways, the ultimate battle depended upon theSpider. As always, he would go to that battlealone, with the lives of hundreds depending on hisshrewdness, on the split-second precision of hisplanning. . . .

When darkness had fallen, Wentworth retiredto his room and very carefully assumed a newdisguise. As he worked, he glanced frequently ata cabinet photograph before him, amending whathe saw there with what he knew. When hestepped back, satisfied, there remained but onething to be done. He stepped close again, andpainted a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead.

It was a masterly job, that bullet hole, quiteas good as the Fiddler had achieved in assumingthe character of Dodson Larrimore. So good thatafterward, when Wentworth sat down to a lonelysupper, Jenkyns stared at him with horror in hiseyes.

Wentworth seemed in no hurry. He dalliedover coffee, barely sipped his liqueur. Later hebegan to pace the floor with long, nervous strides.

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At last the telephone buzzed faintly and he sprangto it, waving Jenkyns aside.

"All is ready, sahib," came the voice at theother end.

Wentworth uttered an exclamation of delight.He caught up a hat which pulled well down overhis brows and quickly left the building. His eyeswere downcast and the operator of the elevatordid not notice that this man had not the face ofWentworth.

Once outside, he strode swiftly down FifthAvenue, turned a corner, and climbed into arented Ford coupe parked at the spot. Minuteslater, after weaving his way eastward andsouthward, he drew up before an apartmentbuilding which just escaped the tenement class. Inthe hall Jackson awaited him. Ram Singh hadbeen busy on his face with make-up material andit no longer had the broad honesty that wasnatural to it.

No words passed between the two men asthey climbed a flight of stairs and rang a doorbell.

From within came slow deliberate footsteps.The door opened wide. In the doorway, clothed ina cheap civilian suit stood Bill Horace.

"The Fiddler!" he gasped.The cry was echoed within. Behind Horace,

in the narrow hallway, appeared blonde TonyMusette, with Jerry by her side. On Jerry's faceshowed a mixture of pleasure and fear. There wasno doubt about the girl's expression. She wasfrightened.

"Horace," Wentworth said to the policeman,and his voice was that of the Death Fiddler."Horace, you destroyed my men. You wrecked mydreams, I have come to exact payment."

BILL HORACE tried to spring backward andslam the door, but Jackson was faster. Jacksonwent in with a blackjack in the palm of his hand.He struck once, then hauled the unconsciouspatrolman forward into the hall. Jerry's handwhipped to his gun, but Wentworth jerked thedoor shut on a steel rasp that would hold it tightlyand, between them, he and Jackson carried BillHorace to the first floor where they put him in avacant apartment. Ram Singh bowed gravely inthe half darkness created by the vagrant beamsof a street light, and the unconscious policemanwas given into his charge.

Wentworth rapidly removed his disguise andwent back up the stairs. He had on a different hatand his topcoat had been discarded. Thebattering on the door of the apartment upstairswas thunderous but he managed to make himselfheard above the shout.

"What's the matter?" he demanded.A muffled banging on the door answered

him, then a garble of voices. He slid a strip ofsteel down one side of the rasp, shouldered thedoor and shoved it in. Jerry Horace raced pasthim, gun in hand. Tony stood in the doorway andwrung her hands, while behind her stood an oldwoman with a quiet face. That would be BillHorace's mother, Wentworth knew.

Wentworth caught Jerry by the shoulder andthe boy slashed viciously at his hand with therevolver. A quick wrench captured the gun. JerryHorace reeled back, pale faced, against the wall,holding the arm which Wentworth knew RamSingh's knife had pierced.

"What's the trouble?" Wentworth askedanxiously. "I came to pay Bill Horace a reward.I'd do a good deal to help him. Is there anytrouble?"

"Give me that gun," Jerry snarled, movingforward on his toes.

Tony Musette caught at Wentworth's arm."Please," she begged, "please save Bill. TheDeath Fiddler just came and took him away." Herfingers slipped from Wentworth's arm and sheturned to Jerry. "Please, Jerry, save Bill. Youknow he's the one I love . . ."

Jerry stopped his advance and stared at hervery steadily with his small dark eyes. "You loveBill?" He asked it almost softly.

Tony nodded her head miserably and Jerrydrew a deep breath. "I knew it," he said bitterly."I knew it all the time you were pretending I wasthe one..."

He whirled to Wentworth, who was looking inpretended amazement from one to the other. "Didyou say," Wentworth asked incredulously, "thatthe Fiddler carried Bill Horace away?"

Jerry nodded impatiently. "Sure, nobody withany sense would have thought that DannyDawson was the Fiddler. Listen, if you want tohelp me, give me that gun and let me go."

"I'll do better than that," Wentworth declaredvehemently. "If you're going after the Fiddler, I'llgo with you."

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He handed Jerry his revolver, caught his ownheavy automatic from its holster. He balanced itfor a moment on his palm, grinned crookedly atJerry. "Lead on," he said.

Wentworth let Jerry call a taxi and he sat astensely as Jerry on the edge of his seat while thecab sped up town under the black, thick pillars ofthe elevated.

"He ought to be here tonight," Jerry saidthickly. "He told us yesterday he would. He toldme then that he didn't expect many of us wouldshow up at the place today, but he'd be there justthe same."

JERRY appeared to attach little significanceto the words he pronounced, but Wentworth feltan almost uncontrollable jerking of his muscles.The Fiddler had told Jerry plainly, in the wordsthe boy had just relayed, that the holdup ofMacy's, as probably the Penn Station robbery,too, had been intended to wipe out the mob. Andthe Fiddler was waiting tonight to finish the job.

Wentworth knew that suddenly. He realizedthat the Fiddler would never have attempted suchraids. The returns were too small in proportion tothe risk. He realized, too, why Purviss had sentLarrimore to Macy's. Purviss had known theholdup would end in disaster, otherwise therewould have been no point in sending Larrimorethere.

"I don't think I'd go into this place recklessly,"Wentworth told Jerry slowly.

"I think if you do you'll walk into a stream ofbullets."

Jerry said nothing. Wentworth was thinkingthat this was the man who had almost killed himearlier today, that he was a dangerous member ofthe Fiddler's mob, probably more trusted thanmost of the others. And all this dated back to themoment in the hall of the Tory hotel when theFiddler had joined Jerry in protecting Tony fromone of his underlings.

There was a white purity about Jerry's faceas it was set now. The meanness and slynesshad gone. This man was intent upon only onething now, saving his brother for the girl they bothloved.

The taxi whirled abruptly westward andpulled up before the only apartment house in theblock. Jerry sprang out and dived for the doors.Wentworth tossed a bill to the driver and racedafter his guide.

He was seconds too late. Jerry had sprunginto the elevator, slammed the door and wasshoving upward.

Wentworth stood cursing. If he ran up thestairs, he would not know at what floor to stop.He had to stand and wait until the automaticelevator stopped.

It checked at the fourth floor and Wentworthpulled the elevator back again by pressing thebutton by the side of the door. The cagedescended with maddening slowness. With itfinally at hand, Wentworth wrenched open thedoor, sprang inside, waited with enforced calmwhile the car sighed upward.

As he stepped into the hall, he heard amuffled shot and whirled toward the sound.Undoubtedly it came from behind the door at theend of the hall. Wentworth started toward it, thenchecked, remembering. Flinging toward the stepshe crept on silent feet to the apartment above theone where he had heard the shot. He tried thedoor gently, brought a slender lockpick of surgicalsteel into play, slipped the bolt.

He flung the door wide, sprang inside withgun in hand. A man jumped upright behind a smalltable on which a microphone was placed. Hesnatched up a revolver from the table, butWentworth's gun had already spoken. The shottook the man squarely between the eyes andspilled him backward over his chair to the floor.He did not stir.

Wentworth walked slowly over and stareddown at the dead man. His lips twisted in a wrysmile. There was no doubt that this man was theDeath Fiddler. His pale face stared up atWentworth, a duplicate of the one Wentworthhimself had worn a short while ago, even to thebullet hole between the eyes. The dead man, theDeath Fiddler was—was Dodson Larrimore!

EVERYTHING was clear now—even whyLarrimore had been ordered to Macy's. He hadordered himself there to tip off the police and wipeout the mob which was becoming dangerous to itsleader. Doubtless he already had accumulatedmore money than he could ever hope to use. Thedevice of ordering himself killed by Limpy Mageewas a neat trick to destroy suspicion againsthimself, and he had picked a man he had thoughtincapable of carrying the crime through—LimpyMagee.

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Undoubtedly Larrimore had had a death-holdover the Mayor or his political superiors, and itwas through them he had controlled prosecutorand courts. Wentworth remembered, with astartled sense of surprise, how Purviss oftenstood aside as if in deference to Larrimore, how inthe Pennsylvania Station, he had apedLarrimore's explanation of his being knocked out,a story which was to help throw suspicion onPurviss himself.

Well, Larrimore—the Death Fiddler—wasdead now. The battle over. Wentworth bent tothe periscope which showed the room below—and his lips tightened. The false wax figure of theFiddler was there. And even as he had feared,Jerry lay dead almost on the threshold. Therecould be no doubt of death because the bullet hadtorn away the side of his head.

Yet there was a strange peace on the deadface. He had come to bring back to the girl theyboth loved the brother whom the girl preferred.Wentworth suspected he did not find deathunwelcome.

Wentworth straightened from the periscope,bent above the dead Fiddler and placed hisscarlet death seal upon the forehead beside thebullet hole. It occurred to him ironically that theSpider, as Limpy Magee, had been ordered to killDodson Larrimore in precisely this way, on thisvery day. He stood erect and cast one quickglance about the barren room.

Distantly, a single silvery note gonged.Wentworth glanced down at his watch and soft,mocking laughter escaped from his lips.

It was eleven-thirty, Thursday night.

THE END

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