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  Above him, almost within pistol range, was the huge creature that he had seen twice now upon the scene of vampire murder. Even as Wentworth spotted the thing, he saw flame streak from somewhere near its head and a rifle bullet cracked past his head!

  An oath squeezed out between the Spider's locked teeth. No longer was there any doubt the thing was human. It might have wings, might skim the skies like a bat, but it was human. No bat could fire a rifle. With the thought, Wentworth yanked back the stick and drove straight at the thing, automatic ready in his hand. . . .

  Once more the rifle cracked and the bullet dug into the fuselage beside Wentworth's shoulder. The Spider kicked the rudder, skidding the plane about. He was within range now and the Spider's lead never missed. . . . His automatic was ready, but its muzzle swept empty air! In the instant it had taken Wentworth's plane to wheel about, the Bat Man—it could be no other—had disappeared! Even as he made that discovery, lead whistled upward past his gun hand.

  The Spider's lips twisted against his teeth. He shoved the stick against the instrument panel and the Lockhead dropped her nose like a plummet. In a heartbeat, he had lost two hundred feet. But he had not caught the Bat Man. He had a glimpse of him in the instant the ship's nose had gone down. The Bat Man had stood on his tail for that shot upward at the ship and as Wentworth swept by, he was in the midst of a whipstall. . . .

  As the phrase whipstall snapped through Wentworth's brain, he gasped. Gasped even as he threw two swift shots at the Bat Man. There was time for no more. He was dangerously close to the ground and the Lockhead was heavy, its wing spread proportionally small. Down, down she went while he maneuvered rudder and ailerons. The Lockhead came out of it with twenty-five feet to spare. Wentworth zoomed, viraged to spot the Bat Man. . . . He was gone! As quickly as that, in the few seconds while the Lockhead dived for earth and zoomed out of it, the flying man had vanished.

  Wentworth eagerly scanned the earth below, but there was nothing there, no movement, no sound—and no place where a plane might land even if the Bat Man were down there. Sudden wild hope sang through Wentworth's brain. Had those two swift shots, thrown in the midst of a power dive of terrific speed, knocked down the Bat Man? Slowly, the Spider shook his head. It was barely possible, but even his extraordinary aim would scarcely be equal to that task. Besides, he was certain that his zoom, his virage would have been quick enough to spot a Bat Man tumbling to earth. However, if he had dived. . . .

  Wentworth's mind turned back to the idea that had flashed through his brain as he had darted past the Bat Man. Whipstall! That described the performance of the winged man. It was a phrase applied to planes that, rising too steeply, slapped straight down to the ground as if the tail were the handle of a whip and the nose the lash. A bird couldn't perform an operation such as that if it wished, nor could a bat.

  To Wentworth that meant only one thing. That Bat Man was an ordinary human being. . . . with wings attached to his body like a plane! As the idea struck, a memory came to the Spider. Recently, at Miami, a "daredevil" had dropped from a plane with triangular canvas wings stretching from arms to his body and another fin between his legs. With their aid, he had looped and stunted in the air, finally using a parachute to land. Why wouldn't it be possible, by extending those wings to each side with struts and braces, to operate precisely as a motorless glider?

  By the gods, the thing sounded possible! There was no time now, of course, to figure weight per square foot, gliding angles. . . . While he thought, Wentworth had been scouring the country below him, hoping against hope that he might catch some glimpse of the glowing bats. But it was in vain. The Bat Man had accomplished his purpose. He had almost killed Wentworth with his rifle, operated in what way God only knew, and he had distracted him until the murdering bats could escape.

  Spider and Bat Man had met—and it was the Bat Man who had won!

  Chapter Five

  Dinner With Death

  WEARILY, Wentworth turned the Lockhead back toward Camden airport. Undoubtedly all fields had been warned to watch out for a stolen ship. He smiled slightly, took the stick between his knees and stripped off the remnants of his disguise. Many things could be forgiven Richard Wentworth, especially if he paid well. . . .

  He had no more trouble on landing than he had anticipated and found Ram Singh waiting for him with the Daimler. He settled gratefully into the cushions. A half hour later he was asleep at his rooms in the Early Quaker, an ancient and quiet hotel on the waterfront. He was astir early, found a note on his bedside table that Nita van Sloan already had arrived in response to his summons. A smile touched his lips. He lifted the note, in Nita's own handwriting, to his lips, and crossed to the telephone, got her rooms at once.

  "Darling," he cried jubilantly, "could you find it in your heart to have breakfast with me, oh practically at once?"

  "I thought the invitation was for dinner," she told him, "but it's just possible that I'm not engaged. . . ."

  It was pleasant in the informal dining room of the Early Quaker. Its flooring was the ancient boards of a wharf and extended out over the river. Mooring rungs were still fastened there, and there was always the pleasant suck and murmur of the tide among the piles. The wharf had been glassed in and, open now, allowed the warm, morning sunlight to stream through.

  Nita's smile, as Wentworth greeted her in the lobby, was warm and welcoming. Her violet eyes were deep and the bronze-lit curls that clustered about the perfect oval of her face were incredibly lovely. Wentworth told her so in a soft murmur as he took her arm and led her toward the sunlit dining room. Nita's lips were curved in a remembering smile. Their pleasurable moments together were all too brief. Greatly they loved, but the Spider could never marry. How could a man take on the responsibilities of wife and children when any moment might find the disgracing hand of the law upon his shoulder—when any night might bring his death at the hands of one of a hundred enemies?

  No, Wentworth had sacrificed his hope of personal happiness for the sake of the thousands of others who would be denied peace, perhaps even life, if the arch-criminals that now and again arose, were not put down by the Spider. He had never regretted his choice, but their were times when bitterness touched his soul. . . .

  At a table where they could gaze out on the blue of the Delaware River, Nita touched Wentworth's hand, her violet eyes gravely on his.

  "I see that they blame the Spider again," she said.

  Wentworth shrugged. "It is inevitable, I suppose. How do the newspapers explain the Spider's calling fire engines and directing the firemen to save the people with their hoses?"

  Nita glanced toward the approaching waiter. "They don't explain it, Dick. They don't mention it at all."

  Wentworth grimaced. The battalion-chief, then, had taken credit for the idea. Well, it did not matter. He began to tell Nita the events of the night before. He had no secrets from her. Often she helped him in his battles and more than once she had herself worn the Spider's mantle, and made the Spider's kills. . . .

  The day passed without further event and Wentworth spent the time conferring with police officials, seeking some clue to the reason behind the wholesale slaughters of the Bat Man. He found no motive, but he learned one thing that made his lips thin with determination. The Crosswinds Jockey club was holding an annual banquet at the Early Quaker this evening.

  It was a quasi-social affair and he decided at once to attend. Even though the Bat Man had been striking at random at humanity, it seemed likely he would still follow the aim of his first attacks— the race track. Even if there were no new assault, it was possible that Wentworth might pick up some lead to the killer. Certainly, the man must be some one familiar with racing and the coterie connected with it. He might very well still be associated with the turf himself. . . .

  An invitation was easy to arrange and the dinner he had planned with Nita was shared with some hundred other persons, social celebrities and turf men. Commissioner of Police Harrington was there at the head table with W
entworth and Nita. His red-jowled face was far from pleasant. It was plain that the overwhelming tragedies of the last twenty-four hours weighed heavily upon him.

  Wentworth had scarcely seated Nita when a blond, handsome man who towered even above Wentworth's six feet came eagerly to them.

  "I say!" he cried. "Aren't you Nitita—I'm sorry—Nita van Sloan?"

  Nita looked up questioningly then sprang to her feet and held out both hands.

  "Piggy!" she cried. "Piggy Stoking. In heaven's name . . . !"

  Wentworth stood politely by, smiling slightly, estimating the taper-shouldered strength of the man, taking in the youthful but determined face. Nita turned toward Wentworth, flushed a little.

  "This is Frederick Stoking, who was my first beau," she told him, laughing. "He used to pull my pigtails when . . . when I wore pigtails. Richard Wentworth, Fred."

  The two men bowed, shaking hands, taking each other's measure. Wentworth decided Stoking was intelligent, and steady, just as his wide-set, blue eyes were. There was a deep cleft in a firm chin. Without consciously willing it, he compared himself and this man who had been Nita's first beau. They were very much of an age, he and Stoking, but the trials he had undergone, the woes and the pains, had taken their toll of Wentworth's face. There were lines at his mouth corners, a sharpness to his nose. Stoking was gay.

  "You must join us after the banquet," Wentworth said cordially. "I'd like very much to hear about Nita's pigtails."

  Stoking's eyes were grave despite the laughter about his mouth. "They were just as lovely as her curls are now," he said. "I pulled them, but I assure you it was reverently."

  Nita laughed at him. "None the less painfully!"

  Stoking left and Wentworth and Nita both watched his superb figure as he moved back to his own party. Wentworth looked down at his plate, reflecting a score of yellow lights. His mouth was unconsciously grim. He was not thinking anything definitely, but there was a darkness, a depression, of his spirits.

  Nita's hand touched his arm. "Why, Dick!" she whispered, "I do believe you're jealous!"

  Wentworth straightened his shoulders, put a smile on his lips, but he spoke very quietly. "Darling, I am jealous for the normal happiness that might have been yours if you had never met me. Why should you be burdened down, as I am, with the cares of the world?"

  Nita's hand tightened on his arm. "If you don't stop that, I shall kiss you right here in public," she said fiercely. "Perhaps I prefer to be burdened."

  Wentworth laughed, patted her hand, and shrugged aside his depression. He leaned toward Nita, named all the celebrities present. "I am suspicious of all small men," he told her. "There's that jockey over there at the third table. An ex-jockey, rather, turned stables owner. He's very successful and bats haven't killed any of his horses. Sanderson is the name. He still doesn't weigh above ninety pounds."

  "Why small men?" Nita asked.

  "I've estimated the wing spread of the Bat Man, gliding angles, weight per square foot. He couldn't perform in the air as he does with that wing spread and weigh much over a hundred pounds. For instance, the man next to him, another ex-jockey named Earl Westfall, couldn't possibly manage himself on the wings. He's put on a lot of weight for his height, must weigh about a hundred and eighty to judge from his girth."

  Nita's hand still clung to his arm. She tightened her fingers. "That red-headed man bending over Commissioner Harrington's shoulder . . . ?"

  "Red Cullihane," Wentworth said briefly. "Partner of Latham, who was killed last night." He felt a tingling race over his body as he studied the stubby, powerful build of the man, a tingling of apprehension. Cullihane's presence here spelled danger for all of them. Suppose the Bat Man should strike at him tonight, at this banquet? If the man's intention was merely promiscuous slaughter, the gathering here offered an excellent opportunity, especially if people connected with the turf were still mainly his targets. Wentworth's eyes tightened, his hands beneath the table clenched into hard knots. He was suddenly sure that his premonition was correct, that there would be slaughter here tonight. . . .

  He glanced swiftly about the banquet hall, built out over the Delaware river on piles, an ancient wharf actually. The glassed sides were open wide and through them now and then came the moan of a tug whistle, but there were tight-fitted screens. They could be smashed out by the same means that had been used at Latham's home, but Wentworth doubted that method. It would allow too slow ingress for the number of bats necessary to dispose of the entire gathering. . . . Nevertheless, he was certain that the attack would take place.

  Wentworth's smile tightened, thinned his lips. Queer, these premonitions of his. They were rarely wrong and he had come to believe them to be based on the intuitive workings of his subconscious mind. He no longer strove to trace out the reasons, merely accepted the conclusion thus presented to him. There would be an attack here tonight.

  Somehow, his mind refused to apply itself to the problem of defense. There was no reason for the lethargy. He was thoroughly rested after the strenuous activities of the previous twenty-four hours. Yet, instead of planning strategy, he found himself gazing time and again at the man who had been Nita's first beau. Fred Stoking's eyes kept straying toward Nita, too.

  Nita's hand touched Wentworth's arm. "What's the matter, Dick boy?" she whispered.

  There wasn't anything the matter, except that he felt a vast reluctance for the encounter that was approaching. Good God, would there never be an end of this ceaseless fighting?—Never an end of the warped madmen who sought nation-wide dominion through crime? He knew a strange rebellion that he, and he alone, should meet these terrors. . . .

  "Nita," he spoke abruptly, "I want you to join Stoking's party and get them to leave here at once on some pretext."

  Nita's fingers tightened on his arm. "What is it?"

  "There's going to be a bat attack here," he told her, barely breathing the words. "I know it, but I couldn't persuade anyone to believe me. I don't even wish to prevent it. If I don't permit the attack, I won't be able to trail the Bat Man."

  Nita started to protest, but a glimpse of Wentworth's bitter eyes stopped the words on her lips. She looked at him a bit curiously. His desire to remove her from the path of danger was understandable enough, but why Piggy Stoking?

  Wentworth smiled at her slightly, reading the question in her eyes. "I rather like the lad," he said. "Besides I want to check up on your past and if he were killed, I couldn't do it."

  He rose to his feet and Nita, perforce, stood also. She looked up into the lean, tanned face she loved, the smile fading from her lips. So often, so often they had parted like this on the eve of peril and death. . . .

  "Be careful, Dick!"

  "For you, sweetheart!"

  Many eyes followed Nita and Wentworth as they crossed the floor to Stoking's table. They made a brave couple, those two, alike in proud carriage, with that touch of arrogance in the poise of the head, confidence like an accolade upon their shoulders.

  "I'm called away unexpectedly," Wentworth told Stoking. "I'm sure I can trust you since there are no pigtails to pull."

  "I make no promises," Stoking warned him. "Those curls tempt me, too."

  Wentworth bowed his way from the table, his smile lingering mechanically on his lips. From the antechamber, he sent for Commissioner Harrington. The man came heavily toward him, shorter than Wentworth, a frown between his eyes.

  "What's up?" he asked crisply.

  Wentworth's face was as grave as his. "Bats," he said. "At least seventy-five per cent of the guests tonight are associated with the race track. They got Latham. Cullihane, with whom Latham was associated, is present."

  Harrington tried to laugh it off. "You're of the belief then, that these attacks are sponsored by some crooks or another? You believe in this Bat Man?"

  Quick anger throbbed over Wentworth. It was the unbelief of men like this, the slowness of authorities entrusted with the protection of humanity, that necessitated the activities of the Spider
. Oh, for the keen strength of Governor Kirkpatrick in a time like this! Kirk, who had been police commissioner of New York City for years, had never hesitated. . . .

  "Very well," Wentworth told Harrington coldly. "Doubt me and watch your friends die." He turned on his heel and strode away.

  Commissioner Harrington came after him hurriedly. "No offense intended, Wentworth," he said. "Surely, you must realize it's hard to believe in a man with wings . . . ?"

  Wentworth turned toward him. "It's no man with wings," he said shortly. "But a man who has rigged a bat-like glider. You've heard of motorless gliders, haven't you? I fought with him last night and he outmaneuvered me. Naturally, the shorter the wingspread, and axis, the more quickly the craft can pivot or dodge." He recounted briefly his battle with the Bat Man the night before. He stopped once to bow as Nita and the Stoking party passed them. His eyes saluted Nita for her achievement, then he turned back to Harrington and continued his story. When he had finished, the Commissioner frowned heavily, staring at the floor, standing with braced legs hands locked behind his back.