Quest of the Spider - Robeson Kenneth - Страница 38

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Fat Horace Haas was also there, with his flashy clothes sadly bedraggled.

This was the Gray Spider's prison! Here he held the owners of the great lumber companies of the South and tortured them into doing his bidding—doing such things as signing control of their concerns over to men who were tools of the Gray Spider.

THE chase led into another room. This was fitted with a desk, calculating machines, many big sheet-metal filing cabinets.

The cloaked and masked Gray Spider was tearing at a door across the chamber. He had grasped up a handful of notebooks and papers in his flight.

He dropped the documents in his wild haste. He got through the door barely ahead of Doc's flashing bronze form. The door slammed. This one was of heavy steel. The lock tumblers rapped over.

Doc Savage scooped up the papers the Gray Spider had dropped. He ran backward.

"Lay an egg!" he clipped at Monk.

Monk hauled a hand grenade out of his capacious pockets.

"Holy cow!" choked Ham, remembering Monk's headlong fall down the stone stairs. "And your pockets were full of them things!"

Doc Savage eyed the documents he had seized. They were a find indeed!

They seemed to be a complete record of the Gray Spider's crooked transactions, as well as the roster of his organization. There was proof enough here to send every man of his vile gang fleeing from justice.

Monk's hand grenade exploded. The steel door caved like a tin can hit by a shinny stick. It appeared to float off its hinges.

Doc and his men barged through.

Unexpected resistance met them.

In a vast room, thirty or so yellowish-brown men milled. They were members of the inner circle of the Cult of the Moccasin. Every man was armed.

It was evident they had been holding some kind of a conclave. In the center of the chamber stood a box. It had large holes for ventilation. These were covered with a fine screen.

A box of the poisonous flies! Evidently the Gray Spider had more of the things on hand, in case his first batch didn't work.

The members of the inner circle must have been examining them.

A pistol rapped. The bullet stirred Doc's bronze hair—which, remarkably enough, was thus far no more ruffled than it would have been by a Waldorf banquet.

Renny's deadly machine gun burred loudly. The pistol wielder gave an imitation of a sack emptying itself.

But the fight was not going to be won with a shot or two. Several of the voodoo men were lifting machine guns.

The Gray Spider had taken shelter behind them. Suddenly his purple-veined talon whipped up. It flung a hand grenade.

The deadly blow of metal flew straight

Doc and his men seemed doomed. The sportiest gambler wouldn't have bet a slot-machine slug on their chances. They had no time to retreat. You couldn't hurl back this type of grenade. They exploded the instant they reached you. And there was enough nitro in it to reduce all five men to mangled fragments.

As on countless other occasions, it was the giant bronze man who saved the situation.

With a speed no eye could have caught, Doc's hand swept over. It plucked Renny's machine gun from his big hands. The weapon flashed through the air.

It was a perfect throw. The hurtling machine gun met the grenade.

The grenade exploded near the box which held the poisonous flies. That box was ruptured.

The deadly insects swarmed out.

"Back!" Doc's powerful voice throbbed. "Get out of here!"

He and his men turned heel and fled from the buzzing death flies. Behind them, men screamed. The famished insects were settling upon them. They were falling victim to their own murderous tool.

Of all the fiends left behind in the room of death, only the Gray Spider had the presence of mind to try to flee by the same route Doc and his men had taken.

He pounded after Doc, a score of feet to the rear.

The evil master knew the fly stings meant his finish. He screamed as the small creatures bit into his flesh; he tried to beat them off his face, tearing off the gaudy silk covering that served for a mask.

It was then that Doc and his men saw the features of this man who called himself the Gray Spider, They had reached the end of the passage, were going through the door which closed off the barred cells.

Just as they were about to step through, the screaming maniac behind them tripped on his own long robe, fell head-foremost on the floor. The bloodthirsty, poisonous flies swarmed about his distorted features, inflicting death with every thrust.

Only a moment did Doc and his men look at that agonized face; only a moment was needed to recognize the features of this master devil who plotted so skillfully, with such dire cruelty.

In that moment, Doc and his companions in adventure saw the one person whom few would suspect. It was the face of Silas Bunnywell—and the screams were the voice of Silas Bunnywell, the voice which, a short while ago, they recognized as having heard before.

Silas Bunnywell, old and decrepit bookkeeper for Big Eric's concern, was the Gray Spider!

With a mighty slam, Doc shut the door upon the leader and the ringleaders of the Cult of the Moccasin. The death they had planned for others would be fit punishment for themselves!

IT took but short minutes to unlock the barred cell doors. They found a ring of keys on a peg near the corridor end.

Pitiful indeed was the array of prisoners who stumbled forth. Some had been there years, their sobbed testimonials of delight and gratitude disclosed. The Gray Spider, it seemed, had been operating a long time, and only of late had become bold enough to throw his insidious web about the largest lumber companies of the South for the grand cleanup.

Most moving of all, perhaps, was the simple statement of thanks which beautiful Edna Danielsen gave Doc Savage as the bedraggled cavalcade quitted the Castle of the Moccasin. The gripping part of her expression was not the commonplace words, but the depths of feeling that went into them. There was a sort of joy and hopelessness intermingled—as though she finally understood that she must keep hidden forever the emotions her heart held for the mighty man of bronze.

Monk expressed it. He usually had a description for everything.

"It's tough for her to fall like that," said Monk. "For the woman isn't made who can get a rise out of Doc."

* * *

OUTSIDE, in the steaming sunlight of the swamp, tension fell from the adventurers. Their work here was done.

Standing a little apart, the giant bronze man looked thoughtfully into the north.

He was thinking of the face of the Gray Spider, the face of the old bookkeeper—Silas Bunnywell—as he lay on the floor, victim of his own evil!

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