The Iron Spiders

By Baynard Kendrick

A bizarre death on an isolated Florida island requires a unique detective in this Golden Age mystery by the author of the Duncan Maclain series.

Young electrical engineer Donald Buchanan is excited to be working again—and to spend his winter in Florida instead of New York. Instead of waiting tables, he’ll be running a small power plant on Broken Heart Key, a private island owned by eccentric billionaire Aaron Tuckerton. Never mind his boss’s strange warning about people wanting him dead . . .

But trouble quickly follows Don to paradise when a servant mysteriously jumps to her death in what she should’ve known were barracuda-infested waters. Then a mysterious necklace known as “the Iron Spider” is discovered in her room. Don believes there needs to be an inquest, but Aaron phones for a special investigator instead.

The next morning, Don is greeted by Miles Standish Rice. With his schoolboy attitude and voracious appetite, “Stan” may not seem like the type to bring a killer to justice. But as things take a turn for the deadlier on Broken Heart Key, it becomes clear to Don the PI is his only chance of getting off the island alive . . .

Baynard Kendrick was a founding member of the Mystery Writers of America, the holder of the organization’s first membership card, and a winner of its Grand Master Award.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MysteriousPress.com Open Road
• Release date: Mar 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781504065665

Baynard Kendrick

Baynard Kendrick (1894–1977) was one of the founders of the Mystery Writers of America, later named a Grand Master by the organization. After returning from military service in World War I, Kendrick wrote for pulp magazines such as Black Mask and Dime Detective Magazine under various pseudonyms before creating the Duncan Maclain character for which he is now known. The blind detective appeared in twelve novels, several short stories, and three films. 

Book preview

Prologue

Blood begets blood. Murder is the child of murder. The seeds of slaughter, once planted, may grow and flourish for a century of time, and man may be helpless against them until their course is run.

On the twenty-eighth day of December, in the year 1835, two weary companies of United States Infantry, under the command of Major Francis L. Dade, were on a forced march. Fort King was being sorely besieged by the crafty Seminole Chief, Osceola. The troops from Fort Brooke, on Tampa Bay, were hurrying to its relief.

Near the Withlacoochee River, they entered the dark environs of Wahoo Swamp. The light of day darkened, cloaked by shadow of giant trees. Tangling vines plucked at their tired feet Black sand sucked them down at every step, reluctant to let them go.

Suddenly, the leader raised his hand. In the deadly silence of the swamp a broken twig had crackled loudly, warning him of a dreaded ambush.

The signal was too late. The fastnesses of Wahoo Swamp vomited Seminole Indians. Relentlessly, in a wave of hatred for the invaders of the country which had once been their own, they cut down the soldiers who wished to banish them from Florida to the biting cold of Arkansas. When their work was done, another page of history was smeared and splotched with blood.

The Seminoles took with them, from the scene of carnage, a single captive—the only one of their enemies they had spared. The captive was a six weeks old white girl baby. One of the massacred soldiers had found her, deserted, in a settler’s hut along the line of march. The Indians called her Hocktoche, and learned to love her. When she was sixteen, a Seminole Chief took her to wife, and before she died she saw a grandson open his eyes in the Everglades.

She was proud of her grandson. As he grew to a boy, he led the youths of his tribe in the sports of the forest. He was fleet of foot, full of stamina, and agile as a deer. His fame spread abroad among the Indian villages, and they called him Shot-to-och-klo-klon.

But he was most unhappy. The blood of the white man was in his veins. He sorrowed for the ignorance of his dwindling tribe. To help his people, to learn more of the outside world, he finally left the tribe.

In the year 1935, a century after his grandmother was baptized in blood, three people were done to death on Aaron Tuckerton’s island—a millionaire’s playground—called Broken Heart Key. They died by violence, not because of the Indian boy, but because of his Indian name—Shottoochkloklon.

Chapter I

A crowd of discouraged men was huddled against the side of the building on Sixth Avenue, when O’Shanigan came downstairs and tacked a notice on the bulletin board. It was a rainy Wednesday, a few days before Christmas. The men had long since given up hope of finding work to brighten the holidays, but the sight of O’Shanigan, in person, always created a stir in the waiting crowd.

O’Shanigan’s Employment Agency had a reputation a trifle above the average. The waiting men knew that a job was worth trying for when the big Irishman hauled his bulk down the dark stairs and posted the notice himself. Minor jobs, such as second-cook, waiter, or dishwasher, were invariably put up by O’Shanigan’s assistant, a spindling man whose name was much of a mystery to the job-seekers.

Out of the entire crowd there was only one who had a glimmer of encouragement. The paper announcement read:

W

ANTED:

Well educated man to take charge of private electric plant in Florida. Must also act as companion to elderly invalid. Three months, beginning January 1st. May be permanent.

A young man, whose shabby overcoat could not conceal the play of muscles across his broad shoulders, pushed his way into the uninviting entrance and slowly ascended the stairs.

It was late in the afternoon. O’Shanigan was alone, seated at his well-worn oak desk, gazing out of the large dirty window at the dripping structure of the elevated railway. Without taking his pipe from his mouth, or bothering to turn his head, he said: Nothing doing today. Come in after Christmas.

The young man was not to be put off so easily. It’s Don Buchanan, Mr. O’Shanigan. What about that electric plant job in Florida?

The Irishman became more interested. He effectually disguised a kindly and generous nature with the battered face of an ex-pugilist, and the studied coldness of a man who is brought into daily contact with the tragedies of a hundred or more of his fellow men. He had succeeded in getting a couple of temporary jobs for Donald Buchanan, and really liked the boy.

He pulled out an old wooden file box and thumbed through the cards, searching for the Buchanan record. Donald took a seat beside the desk and watched him.

What do you know about electric plants? O’Shanigan asked, after he had read everything on both sides of the record.

I’m a graduate electrical engineer—M. I. T.—although I may not look it You have it all down on there—

You’re a waiter and a soda jerker—going by the jobs you’ve had from me. Stand up and let us have a look at you.

He pulled a string that turned on the two hundred watt bulb which hung in the center of the office. Donald stood up and turned around slowly, painfully conscious that every defect in his worn clothes was visible under the harsh white light.

You’re clean enough. But your hair! Do you have the price of a barber on you? ’Tis sticking down the back of your collar. This is no hash slinging job, and they’re wanting me to send a man for them to look at this evening. I’m half in mind to take a chance on you.

I have just a quarter left. Don fingered the lone coin in his pocket. I have to eat. That is—

O’Shanigan turned him around again under the light. ’Tis the build of a prize fighter you have on you. Can you use your mitts?

I was considered pretty good in college. I’ve even considered trying to get in the ring. The engineering hasn’t been too happy.

The idea seemed to please O’Shanigan. He nodded his head approvingly. Then he came to a sudden decision.

Maybe ’tis you’re a better engineer than you are a waiter. I’m going to send you to see the old man. He’s a hellion, but I worked for him for five years in his bank. He noticed Don’s expression of skepticism, and explained with a grin: As a special cop. That’s how I come to get his business. Go downstairs to the barber underneath and get him to take off some of that hair. I’ll be down in a few minutes and give you a note. I want to call up and see if it’s O.K. for you to go to the house. Don hesitated, and O’Shanigan added: I’ll pay for the haircut. I think you’ll get the job. Don was part way down the steps when he heard O’Shanigan say, almost prayerfully: God help you!

The barber had nearly finished his job, and the boy was getting worried, when O’Shanigan entered the shop. He walked critically around the chair, and finished by ordering the negro bootblack to shine Don’s worn shoes. Ever after, Donald Buchanan had a warn spot in his heart for the shrewd Irishman who was willing to gamble a little money to make him presentable enough to get a job. When they left the shop together, even the drenched dismalness of Sixth Avenue in the forties failed to dampen Don’s spirits.

O’Shanigan handed Don a white envelope as soon as they were outside the door. ’Tis high social registers you’ll be visiting. None other than old man Aaron Tuckerton. The banker, you know. Tuckerton and Brennan.

I’m to go there now? To his house?

Right you are, boy. Take a bus up Fifth Avenue. You’ll be seeing it right opposite the park. He’ll browbeat you, and ’tis not me can tell you how to handle him. Whatever you do is most like to be wrong. ’Tis luck I’m wishing you—and meself, for there’s none pays better if you can please him. He’s paralyzed—or the one half of him is—but the other half of him is mean enough to make up for it. I’m warning you not to pay too much attention if he abuses you a bit. ’Tis a grand chance.

It sounds like it, Don said doubtfully. He must be a regular pal to work for—from your description. But I’ll do my best, Mr. O’Shanigan. I appreciate—

Off you go now. ’Tis a week’s pay will be the appreciation. Don started across the street, and O’Shanigan called after him: Don’t let him bluff you on money. Ask a fair salary and stick to it. He’ll pay it if he wants you. Don waved his hand in acknowledgment And don’t be scared of old Aaron. ’Tis the son and the daughter you’ll find are much worse. With which reassuring statement O’Shanigan disappeared into the crowd. Elated, Donald went on his way, not knowing he was being followed by two men who were watching every move he made.

He was filled with conflicting emotions as the Fifth Avenue bus pushed and nosed its cumbersome bulk through the heavy traffic. It was never easy for him to face a prospective employer. He strengthened himself, now, by fingering the fifteen cents left out of his last quarter, and mentally picturing the delights of a winter spent in Florida. Even though he was to be only a small cog in the Tuckerton ménage, he would be warm and well fed. There could be no choice between that and a winter as a penniless derelict on the streets of New York.

In spite of his determination to make at least a try for the job, an overwhelming diffidence took possession of him as soon as he had rung the doorbell. The marble mansion, which occupied nearly a whole block in the seventies, was formidable enough to wealthy guests. It was almost overpowering to Donald, penniless and needing work. He was saved from running away by the opening of the door. He did not know what type of monster he had expected to greet him, but the sight of a grinning negro butler calmed him down like a douche of cold water.

It was Donald’s first sight of Sam Knox, Aaron’s efficient servant. Later Donald admitted that no better butler than Sam ever lived, nor any man with a finer character. Sam put the hesitant visitor instantly at ease. Mr. Tuckerton was waiting for him in the library. Would he come right in? Don’s dripping hat and coat were removed with as much ceremony as if he had been an honored guest for dinner. He followed Sam across a large comfortable hall, heard his name announced, and a door close softly behind him. He was facing a huge man, sunk in a soft down chair in front of a roaring fire. He needed no one to tell him this was Aaron Tuckerton.

There was no greeting, no friendly word to mitigate Donald’s acute discomfort, fiercely aroused in presence of the financier. Sunken, gray eyes, expressionless as two large oysters, slowly dissected the boy. Donald felt his hands growing. He swallowed, and nervously shifted his feet, trying not to look at Aaron’s helpless arm disposed along the arm of the chair, resolutely keeping his glance away from the paralyzed half of Aaron Tuckerton’s face. Aaron began to speak. His voice was peculiarly cracked, ascending the scale from harshness to points as cold as the tinkling of a crystal chandelier.

I have decided to hire you to run my power plant on Broken Heart Key. O’Shanigan told me all about you over the phone. I hope you are not a fool. I think you are, or you would have money—and you would sit down in the chair behind you. That’s better. I don’t want to hear anything more about you. It would bore me—so please listen to what I have to say. Sam will give you a letter of instructions on your way out. There will be sufficient money in it. I hope you are not a hog. You will have to live in the house with us. Please go now. He touched a button on the table beside him. Donald rose and started from the room as Sam opened the door. Aaron raised his good hand, and Donald paused.

Perhaps O’Shanigan told you that many people desire my death, Aaron said. If he did—don’t let it worry you. I’m ready to die and don’t want protection. If they decide to kill me you can’t stop them, anyhow. They are far more clever than you, and I am far more clever than they. What you must remember is this: if you damage my power plant, I will have you arrested!

Chapter II

The Tuckerton family had received far more than their share of publicity. As Donald stood in the rain waiting for a bus to take him downtown, he ran over in his mind the few outstanding facts he remembered about them from the papers.

Close mouthed and taciturn, unfriendly and bitter toward the press, Aaron’s millions never spared him from being pilloried by the reporters on the flimsiest of pretexts. He had been good newspaper copy before Donald Buchanan was born. Married twice, he had divorced his first wife on grounds of infidelity, and had secured custody of their daughter, Cornelia. Cornelia’s mother had vainly tried to get her daughter out of Aaron’s hands, but had finally admitted defeat, and dropped out of sight, and out of the news. That was many years previous to the night Donald interviewed the millionaire.

Cornelia, now a spinster about forty years old, lived with Aaron in the house Donald had just left. She was a writer of some ability, and her cold patrician features were to be seen in the Sunday supplements with monotonous regularity. The escapades of her half-brother, Beverly Tuckerton, more nearly paralleled Donald’s own time. They were called escapades in deference to the wealth of the family. At least two, which were common gossip in Donald’s fraternity house in Boston, would have landed the son of a less powerful man in jail.

Beverly was Aaron’s son by the second Mrs. Tuckerton, who, rumor had it, had drunk herself to death when Beverly was twenty years old—twenty years of Cornelia, Beverly, and Aaron being more than human flesh could stand. Donald was to see enough of Beverly’s viciousness on Broken Heart Key to make him believe the rumor might be true.

To put it mildly, Old Son, Donald addressed an approaching bus, you may have secured yourself a winter in Florida, but let’s hope you won’t wish you were back in Bryant Park before it’s over!

On the bus, he opened the letter Sam had handed him as he left the house. His heart thrilled as he fingered the ten crisp twenty dollar bills it contained. Whatever might be said about the eccentricity of Aaron Tuckerton, it proved a life-saver for Donald Buchanan. His long unfulfilled dream about a thick steak with potatoes au gratin was about to become a reality.

The letter was short and to the point:

Mr. Donald Buchanan

You will leave New York on the 10:05 train, Sunday night, December 30th for Key West, Florida. You will present this letter to Charlie Means, on the cruiser Alamo. He will show you your quarters on Broken Heart Key.

You will need clothes. I have arranged with Mr. North, at Bennett Brothers & Kyle, on Madison Avenue, to outfit you tomorrow.

I will arrive at the key shortly after you do. I expect to find the power plant in perfect condition.

Aaron Tuckerton

There was no mention of salary, nothing about references. It was Donald’s first taste of the mighty egotism of the whole Tuckerton clan. He was to find that all their household retainers had been employed in much the same way, a gesture evidently designed to show an utter disregard for money in small things. When he spoke to Aaron about it on Broken Heart Key, the great man was quite annoyed. Did I argue about your pay? he demanded. What are you worth? Donald had given the matter some thought, and hesitantly asked for fifty dollars per week. I’m paying you seventy-five, Aaron said nastily. You admit that’s twenty-five more than you are worth. Try to earn it. Donald let the matter rest there.

It was a prosperous looking Donald Buchanan who boarded the Key West sleeper Sunday evening. Mr. North, at Bennett Brothers, had taken him in hand as soon as he entered the store. Mr. North had talked with Mr. Tuckerton, and his orders were specific. Donald left the luxurious establishment feeling that he had been equipped in much the same manner as a new house for which Aaron would order interior decorations.

There was no philanthropy connected with any of Aaron Tuckerton’s actions. It was necessary, for the smooth running of the winter home, that an engineer be present. If his clothes were incongruous, it would prove an annoyance to the family. Donald’s personal choice, in design, or material, was ignored. He was liveried, just as surely as if he were a second footman. The only difference was that his livery embraced everything from bathing suit, to golf togs, and evening clothes. He was surprised at the elaborateness of his new wardrobe until he recalled that his job included being a companion to his employer, a fact he had almost forgotten.

Donald was glad to leave New York. He gave a sigh of gratitude when the porter deposited his new Gladstone bag in his berth. His dismal hall bedroom, and O’Shanigan’s depressing office were out of his life, for a few weeks at least. He exultantly overtipped the grinning porter, and went into the smoking room for a last cigarette before turning in for the night.

There were two men seated on the long seat. Donald’s entrance apparently interrupted their conversation. One of them picked up a brightly bound mystery novel and buried himself back of it. The other busied himself clipping off the end of a black cigar with a gold cutter attached to his watch chain. Donald lit his cigarette, sat down beside them, and turned his attention to a magazine he had bought in the station. He had been reading only a few minutes when he looked up to find the man next to him studying him intently.

I didn’t mean to be rude, the man apologized in a warm, friendly voice. I was wondering if you were Mr. Buchanan. He laughed at Donald’s surprise. "I knew you were going South on this train. I’m Andrew Brennan, President of Mr. Tuckerton’s bank. This is Dr. Fairfield Ames, Mr. Tuckerton’s physician, and the world’s most omnivorous reader of mysteries. We had dinner with Aaron this evening. He mentioned you then."

Oh, I see. Donald shook hands with them both. I was surprised. I’m not very well known in New York—

The banker laughed again. Donald discovered, not long after, that Andrew Brennan used that laugh, habitually, to disguise his reactions. There was certainly nothing of mirth in it. Donald, throughout his life, never forgot the sound of its hollow cadence. It was impressed too deeply on his memory during the horrible night of the storm on Broken Heart Key—when the power plant failed, and the panther screamed in the Hammock.

You will be well known, Brennan said, if you work for Aaron Tuckerton long enough.

The three of them talked for an hour after the train started, touching on many subjects. Donald’s companions were friendly, but the boy felt they were testing him so that he might be allocated to his correct niche among the idiosyncrasies of his employer. The experience was not altogether to his liking. He sat and smoked until late, after Brennan and the doctor had excused themselves and retired.

Outside of a