"Phantysima? My god, what happened?!" Wesley took his ally by his side, and treated to her injury. Phantysima tried to get up, but the wound was painful enough to convince her not to. "You should get to a doctor," Wesley said, as Phantysima struggled.
"No! No . . . I'm fine, don't worry about it. Silly boy, do you think I would be so easily hurt?"
"Phantysima . . . "
"Don't worry, my dear Sandman. I will find a way." She covered herself in velvet black, disappearing into the night. Wesley then recalled what she told him. The whereabouts of Spider Jerusalem.
The North Crossroads . . . Warehouse B.
"So, the Sandman," he whispered aiming, his revolver at Wesley. An aim to kill.
The shot was deafening. And the blow deadly.
If it got any closer.
Wesley leapt into the air, and landed on his fighting stance, waiting for someone to appear from the shadows. "So, who are you now?" he yelled, as Ian scrambled out of his hiding place. "I'm Inspector Samwell of the 13th precinct, and you are under arrest for - "
"Gentlemen, please," Spider said, interrupting the conversation. He stepped forward, before the two would be allowed to rip each other to bits. "Calm down, friends. I have your information on the Tarantula, or have you forgotten?"
Ian sneered, and turned his back to the wall. "For all you know, this Sandman character is the Tarantula in disguise. He already attacked me in my apartment."
"What are you talking about?" Wesley protested to the inspector, as Spider Jerusalem sighed in failure. "I didn't even attack anyone out of the hoodlums in the streets! I didn't even know there was an inspector on the case!"
"Oh, is that so? Now, that's another offense, kid! Not acknowledging authority's presence--"
"Will you two keep quiet for a minute?" Spider tried to muster his gut again. "The Tarantula is already on the loose at this very moment. It is already too late for any of you to stop him, thanks to your lengthy squabble." Spider leaned his back on the wall, his raven tresses mixed into the shadow. "However, I assure you, there is such a great chance you may unravel this mystery during the eve of the masquerade. I have suspects for you that you may research into further. If you two can settle your grievances for now."
The vigilante and the law enforcer took a cold stare to each other. "Fine, truce then," Samwell said, then turned back to Spider Jerusalem. "Now, give us the list of the suspects then. We'll split it into two."
Spider sighed, and grabbed the sheet of paper in his pocket. Immediately, Wesley took it and tore it in half. "Much better this way," he commented, giving the other half to Ian. "I'll gather some of my allies for information then."
Spider smiled grimly, and grabbed his coat. "My, isn't the wind so cold all of the sudden? As if someone died . . . " they paused, as the breeze left the room.
1.) John S. Durscham. Black Market Gambler, usually in the Casino Real. Rumors say that he betted on the death of the seven debutantes as said by a "mysterious benefactor."
Durscham felt the breeze by his back. Someone had opened the window of his apartment. Who would do that? Immediately he spotted the figure in the corner, breathing heavily.
"John S. Durscham," the figure said.
Durscham backed away, but fell on his knees. "W-what d-d-o ya want?!!?"
"The truth, John." Wesley smiled beneath his mask, as if playing with the game. "Tell me about the Tarantula."
4.) Henry Cultenbeau. He has hold of priceless jewelry in his possession. The debutantes were suppose to display his jewelry. What if one of them stole it and he wanted them back?
"I don't really know what you're talking about, sir," The distinguished gentleman declared, holding onto a rare Aztec relic. Samwell grabbed his pistol, and aimed for one of the crystal statues displayed on the table beside Cultenbeau. "You wouldn't do that, sir. It's written in your eyes."
Click.
Samwell faced the man, while only one trigger away from ruining the fine collection. Tension began to heat up, as sweat trickled down the brows. Slowly Cultenbeau sat down, and grabbed his kerchief.
"You win."
Samwell placed his weapon down, as his eyes motioned Cultenbeau to talk.
"Who's the Tarantula?"
2.)Talulah Bankhead. One of the debutantes, could be behind the murders out of jealousy.
The Sandman bolted the door, and entered the candle-lit hallway. Something smells, Wesley thought, as the narrow corridor began to play tricks on him, as the shadows came to life. The bartender allowed me inside only on one condition. To get out alive. Suddenly, a hairy spider began to crawl on the floor, heading for Wesley. A tarantula. Then he noticed it.
The spiders were infinite in number, perhaps a clue in apprehending the Tarantula. On the other side of the hallway, a heavy metal door was shut tight, a giant web spun around it. The bartender did tell me Talulah didn't come out of that room for about five days. Could be that why the web was unattached. As he eyed it closely, he saw a sight that made him churn. A nesting place. Baby spiders were crawling across the web, waiting for their mother's return. Wesley grabbed a lit candle, and threw it across the room. He watched as the web dissolved, the hatchlings burning away. In the midst of it all, Wesley barged through the door.
"Damn!"
There lay Talulah Bankhead, already caught in the spider's web. At least, parts of her, missing her skin.
3.) Jacob Simmons. Construction management for the float. He could've killed the debutantes because of the insufficient funds given by the elite. A way of revenge, mayhap?
Knock. Knock.
"Coming!"
Ian was greeted by a middle-aged woman, about thirty-four, smiling readily. "Why, hello there, sir! How can I help you?"
Ian stepped inside, while the woman grabbed a cup of coffee. "I'm Inspector Samwell, ma'am," he said, taking one of the pictures. One was of his family. One was of his wife. It seemed to unlikely that Jacob Simmons could've done it. Then Ian spotted a paycheck and a telegram lying on the table. He picked it up, and read it silently.
"Oh, an inspector! Why? Is there something - "
Suddenly, Samwell stood up, and took his fedora hat. He opened the door, and walked out. "Sir? Is there something wrong?"
Samwell turned to the woman. "No, nothing. I already have what I needed," he said, as the rain began to fall down upon him.
Friday night. The Rolls Royce stopped across the main gate.
"Thank you, Kingston," the lady said, as she traversed down the Rolls Royce. Sanderson Hawkins led her into the magnificent ballroom, whereon masked upon masked elite danced across the marble floor.
"Cousin Di, just wait here, will you?" Sanderson disappeared into the crowd, as the young brunette debutante catered herself to some fruit punch.
"Always the caterer, never the catered to, eh Miss Belmont?" the young man said, as Dian turned to face the voice. The distinguished gentleman smiled, pouring himself a cup. "I'm Albert Goldman, son of sir Roger Goldman."
"Ah yes, our host. Wealthy man, sells carpets I heard."
" . . . yes. It's a fine trade really. After all, our carpets are quality made . . . "
"Wesley, she's here!" Sanderson yelled into his ear, trying to drown out the crowd. "Dian's here?"
Not a good thing.
Wesley brought the boy behind a marble column, and eyed for onlookers. Then he hushed Sanderson, trying to keep him quiet. "Listen, Sandy. The killer may be in the party, already stalking for debutantes to kill. Get Dian out of here as soon as possible, and . . . I don't know, look for Marianne. I heard she was here . . . "
"Well, actually . . . she's behind you."
Wesley Dodds turned to his back, not before Marianne embraced him in her arms. "Oh, my dear sweet Wesley! How long has it been?"
"Well, actually Marianne . . . " he slowly moved away, and then held on to her. "You must get out of this place," he said, eyes dwelling on his pensive tone. Marianne paused, quietly listening to him. "Is it because I look to horrible to be seen with you? Wesley how can you say . . . "
"No! No . . . not that. You look great. It's the killings." Wesley pointed at Sanderson to go, and with a nod, the boy disappeared in a flash of a moment. He took Marianne's hand and together they sat in the darkness of the corner of the ballroom.
"What is this about?" Marianne asked, as Wesley was staring outside the windows, as the guards began to circle the mansion. "I've received information that the killer is abound, rampant even," he said, holding her hands tighter. "I . . . I just . . . don't want you to fall victim to him."
Marianne's eyes slowly lit up, and with a gesture, she kissed him on the cheek. " . . . you know I won't Wesley," she whispered, and she stood up, and dragged the boy back onto the dance. "Shall we dance?"
Samwell stood from a hill above the mansion. The guards were circling the mansion, trying to ensure that the killer won't have a single chance of making an entrance. Behind, Spider sighed. "When is he coming, inspector?" he said with confidence, while Ian Samwell took a light smoke of tobacco. Suddenly, he spotted a figure across the roof, making his way in silence.
"There," he said, and fired. Suddenly the figure screamed in pain, and fell into the bushes. Samwell and Spider made their way down the hill, only to find the silence of the night again. "Damn it, he escaped."
Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain in his back. The Sandman threw another kick at Ian, sending him down onto the ground. Ian, as old as he was, grabbed for his revolver. Suddenly, with a twist of his wrist, the Sandman stood atop of him, revolver in his hands.
"You thought you could get away, didn't you?" his voice said, as his breathing grew stronger. "You thought you would come close into solving the Tarantula mystery? Well, you're wrong!"
Click.
The revolver was ready. The Sandman stared at him into the face, aiming it at point blank. "Goodbye, Detective Samwell. You came too close too deadly . . . "
Click.
"That's why you became my partner, you never knew I was prepared, " Ian said, swerving the vigilante off his feet. The Sandman fell on his back, as Ian got up and lit a tobacco.
"Detective Pascal, I am placing under arrest and court trial for harassing a police officer and suspected murder."
Suddenly, he took off his gas mask, revealing his face. Detective Pascal smiled wryly, as he made his getaway. Then, with a flick of a wrist, he was down, leg bloodied.
"Aa - "
"That would be me, detective," Spider Jerusalem said, finally stepping out of the shadow of observation, gun in his hand. "Once we pieced the clues together, it already seemed obvious. The Sandman wore an Armani black suit in his battles, while you wore one in dark brown color, in American fabric. The texture was different, as from what I've let researched from the dear inspector. It seems we found the similarity in your workclothes."
Pascal stared furiously at Samwell, while Spider loomed above him.
"Two, none of our original suspects had anything to do with the murders. Yet, some of the field reports we found in Ian's office were actually fabricated, because from what I've researched, the Tarantula strips off the victim's skin layer. Only Mary Ramsey and Jessica Owens were decapitated."
"So what?" Pascal said, trying to inch forward. Spider just smiled, and shot again. Pascal yelled in pain once more, this time both feet down.
"Finally, we also had your office investigated. Inspector Samwell seemed to have found a bloodied butcher's knife hidden in your compartment, and some ether. Also, a flyer of the summer parade, with names marked off."
Ian Samwell stared at his former partner and sighed. "Why'd you do this, Pascal? What's your motive?" he asked, his gut in pain as he tried not to bring the words out. Pascal sighed. "He paid me to, Ian. The Tarantula . . . "
"Who is the Tarantula . . . ?"
Pascal suddenly kept quiet. Suddenly, he reached for his gun, and placed it on his forehead.
A shot, and he fell dead.
"Damn," Ian muttered, as the lifeless body of Pascal was suddenly crowded by the other policemen, rushing to the scene. "All this and we still don't know who the Tarantula is . . . "
The crowd in the ballroom turned to the outside, as screams of women filled the air.
"Di - did they?"
"The killer -- is he . . . ?"
The voices of panic filled the corridor, as Dian tried to cover her ears. Albert Goldman held onto her, and then led her to the stairs.
"Wait, Dian!" Sanderson yelled, but his voice was too tiny to be heard across the screams and shouts.
Wesley then turned to Marianne. "Then stay here, I have to get Sanderson back," he said. In an impulsive action, his lips met hers, before disappearing into the crowd. Marianne sighed, and held on to her heart.
I hope Spider and the inspector can take care of the problem outside, he thought, as he went inside one of the rooms in the empty corridor. Great, the maid's room, he thought, as he entered it. Wesley shut it behind him, right before a knock made itself heard.
"Wes, it's me, Sanderson!" his voiced trailed off, as Wesley opened the door for his protege. "What are you doing?"
"Readying myself. Why? Shouldn't you be with . . . "
"Yeah, I know, Dian. But I lost her when she disappeared into the upper floors of the mansion."
"Then we'll have to find a way . . . " Wesley said, before donning the mask of the Sandman. "Look, Sandy . . . there must be a dumbwaiter near this corridor. Search for it, and report to me as soon as possible."
"I saw it already, there's one on the left hallway."
"Good. Sanderson, get Marianne out of here, I will take care of Dian."
"Okay, but . . . don't you think she'll be fine?"
Wesley paused, before going out of the room. " . . . I have this feeling . . . something's wrong."
His eyes dilated as he felt the embrace of sleep for that moment alone.
Skin . . . knife . . . cat . . . flask . . . it's all here.
"That feeling . . . something's wrong."
Spider Jerusalem sighed, while trying to keep track of the time. " . . . I knew it . . . " he whispered to himself.
"The killer is already inside the mansion . . . "
Next issue: The Web is now coming close to the full circle, as Wesley must divulge into the secrets of the mad Tarantula. The Final Act will spin the last tale . . . and the secrets of the Tarantula will be revealed.