THE SPIDER-City of Doom
Page 1
The Spider: City of Doom
A Master of Men Thriller by
Norvell Page
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
TM and Copyright © 2008 Argosy Communications, Inc.
All Rights Reserved.
THE SPIDER is a registered trademark and the property of Argosy Communications, Inc.
A Baen Book
Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
www.baen.com
ISBN 10: 1-4165-5555-2
ISBN 13: 978-1-4165-5555-1
Cover and interior art by Jim Steranko
Special thanks to consulting art director
J. David Spurlock and Vanguard Productions
First Baen printing, June 2008
Distributed by Simon & Schuster
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Page, Norvell W.
The spider : city of doom / by Norvell W. Page.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-5555-1 (trade pbk.)
ISBN-10: 1-4165-5555-2 (trade pbk.)
1. Spider (Fictitious character)--Fiction. 2.
Vigilantes--Fiction. 3. Criminals--Fiction. 4. New York
(N.Y.)--Fiction. I. Title. II. Title: City of doom.
PS3531.A2355S63 2008
813'.6--dc22
2008013443
Printed in the United States of America
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
THE CITY DESTROYER
originally appeared in the January 1935 issue of THE SPIDER magazine. Copyright © 1934 by Popular Publications, Inc. Copyright renewed © 1962 and assigned to Argosy Communications, Inc. All Rights Reserved.
THE FACELESS ONE
originally appeared in the November 1939 issue of THE SPIDER magazine. Copyright © 1939 by Popular Publications, Inc. Copyright renewed © 1967 and assigned to Argosy Communications, Inc. All Rights Reserved.
THE COUNCIL OF EVIL
originally appeared in the October 1940 issue of THE SPIDER magazine. Copyright © 1940 by Popular Publications, Inc. Copyright renewed © 1968 and assigned to Argosy Communications, Inc. All Rights Reserved.
THE SPIDER is a registered trademark of Argosy Communications, Inc.
FOREWORD
The Man Who Invented Hard-Boiled
by Joel Frieman
He dropped to one knee and fired twice."
According to John D. MacDonald, Raoul Whitfield began a story with that line. MacDonald's first literary agent, Joseph T. Shaw, gave him this bit of information instead of crediting its actual author, Carroll John Daly.
"Cap" Shaw was the editor of the legendary Black Mask magazine, until a feud he had with Daly boiled over and Daly left Black Mask for the pages of Dime Detective magazine. Shaw was still nursing a grudge years later as he was pointing out to his young client how a detective story should begin.
Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler and Erle Stanley Gardner were the "Murderers' Row" of Black Mask, but it was Carroll John Daly who was The Franchise. Unfortunately for Shaw, Daly proved this when he left Black Mask and took with him to Dime Detective Race Williams.
Erle Stanley Gardner described Daly's most famous creation as, "The incomparably hard-boiled, bone-crushing, fast-shooting Race Williams."
Mickey Spillane said that Daly was the only writer who ever influenced him, and added, "Mike Hammer and Race Williams could be twins."
Race Williams was the very first hard-boiled crime fiction superstar, and he made Carroll John Daly a bestselling author with a very large following during the 1920s and the 1930s.
When 1941 rolled in, Daly's hardcover sales were sliding, but he was still among the highest paid pulp fiction writers. Since Daly was the inventor of the hard-boiled private investigator, he was the elder statesman of the field.
That is why Frank Costello, who got to know Daly shortly after reading the first Race Williams book, The Snarl of the Beast, back in 1927, had asked Carroll John Daly to explain the situation to Norvell W. Page.
Costello knew that Page was going to ask questions.
They met at Gavagan's Bar two days after the incident.
Page immediately recognized him from the back. Daly was seated at a table near the large plate glass window facing the street.
Approaching the table quietly, Page nervously cleared his throat.
"Norvell," Daly said, "have a seat."
Page studied the coat rack in the corner, but decided to wear his hat and overcoat. It would be cold sitting near that window.
Norvell headed over to the chair opposite Daly. As he walked around the table, Page noticed a green whiskey bottle and a squat glass filled with amber liquid in front of Daly.
Page ordered a black coffee and sat down.
A professional writer for over a decade, and he was still in awe of Daly.
"Frank told me to make this short and sweet," Daly said, smiling.
Bespectacled, and with a trimmed graying mustache, Daly wore a dark, slightly rumpled, tweed suit, a white shirt and a black tie. He gazed at Page, sized him up, and began.
"What happened the other night had nothing to do with the settlement made by Detective Comics."
Taking a sip from the glass before him, Daly continued, "The gunman had a German passport. He was carrying a Walther P-38. A Nazi assassin."
"Must have been a critic," Page responded, as a waiter placed a steaming cup of coffee on the table. "Back in 1938, I wrote a series of novels where The Spider fought storm troopers. Evidently, it hit home."
"Evidently," Daly said nodding his head slowly. "But, remember, there may be others. Be more careful."
"Well, my motto for The Spider is," Page said thoughtfully, "Do not fear sudden terror, or the holocaust of the evil, when it comes."
"Proverbs 3:25, very good," retorted Daly, adding, "Race Williams has a motto, too, and I also have one for myself."
First glancing at the green bottle before him, "The one for Race is," Daly looked up and grinned, "Sine Metu."
"Without fear. Most appropriate," Page said, as he spied the label on the green whiskey bottle, tilted his head forward sternly at Daly, then laughed.
"And the one I chose for myself is," Daly paused, "As for all those who design evil against me, speedily nullify their counsel and disrupt their design."
"Saint Augustine?"
Daly shook his head.
"Aquinas?"
Daly shook his head again, smiled, and said, "No. The Talmud!"
Now that the ice was broken, Norvell Page thought that this would be the ideal time to ask the question.
"C.J., just what had happened between you and Joe Shaw?"
Daly leaned forward in his chair, gazed out the window in back of Page, lifted the glass in front of him, then drained it in one gulp.
"Things came to a head in 1930 when Knopf published The Maltese Falcon. Dashiell Hammett was Shaw's golden boy, and Shaw came up with a plan meant to turn the acclaim that The Maltese Falcon was receiving against me. A contest."
Incredulous, Page sputtered, "You mean that contest where you were voted the number one favorite by the Black Mask readership?"
"Yes, but there was a side bet that Shaw had talked Hammett into. If Hammett won, I would have to give him a brand new .44 revolver, just like the one used by Race Williams. And, if I won, Dash would give me a Webley-Fosbery in good working order. When Dash came in third, Shaw had to cover the loss. The gulf widened between us after that, and Shaw never forgave me."
Just as Norvell Page hit the floor prone, a staccato of machine gun bullets shattered the plate glass, raining shards around him. Page looked up and saw Daly finish his drink, gently place the glass on a shelf in back of him, then grimly focus on the window opening through a mist of finely settling debris.
Seamlessly producing a Webley-Fosbery from the shoulder holster concealed by his tweed suit jacket, Carroll John Daly dropped to one knee and fired twice.
THE CITY DESTROYER
Chapter One
"I Am The Spider!"
A MAN AND WOMAN stood rigidly against the wall. The man wore rumpled pajamas; the woman's nightgown was green silk and an inset point of lace dipped between her breasts. The window was up and a cold wind flapped the curtains and the woman's nightgown. She was frightened, while the man was very angry.
"For the last time," he said raspingly. "You've got all the papers."
Three men in overcoats faced them and two held automatics carelessly. The third man was scowling at the woman. Abruptly, his head jerked up. He whispered words out the corner of his mouth. "Quick, Jiggs, the kitchen! Somebody in there!"
The man on his right whirled on his toes, took two quick strides and slapped a swing door open. It banged back against the wood and quivered. Jiggs held it there with his left hand while the muzzle of his gun swept around the kitchen. He grunted, switched on a ceiling light and looked again carefully. He crossed to the kitchen window and found it locked. Jiggs turned off the light once more and went back into the other room. "Nobody in there," he reported. "Must 'a' been the wind."
As he left the kitchen, the narrow door of the broom-closet opened and a hunched figure in a long black cape stepped out. Piercing blue gray eyes were narrowed beneath the broad black brim of a slouch hat. There was a thin, mirthless smile on the hunch-back's lips. Without a sound, he glided toward the swing door. His arms crossed; smoothly his hands slid under the cape and two black automatics snouted from his fists. His movements had not seemed hurried, yet the draw was incredibly fast. He stepped into the doorway. "Stand still, you three gentlemen," he said softly. "Keep your hands down."
The three gangsters stiffened, their heads snapping up with surprise. The leader twisted his face about, and sudden pallor made his black eyes seem blank holes in his face.
"My God!" he gasped hoarsely. "It's—the Spider!"
The smile still lingered about the mouth of the cloaked man standing in the doorway. "Quite right," he spoke easily. "Deputy Collins—" The tall man in pajamas jerked with surprise at the cripple's knowledge of his name. "Better close that window, and get a blanket for Mrs. Collins. It's quite chilly in here and these rats from New York have no consideration for women, even out here."
The Spider's tone was light, but his piercing eyes were intent, and the automatics were like poised cobra heads. He knew the men with whom he had to deal, knew this gang leader, Devil Hackerson, and the deadly gun of Jiggs, the straw-haired hood on his right. He had not expected to find them here tonight when he had wriggled in through the kitchen window, but he was glad now that he had. It would be easier to get the information he must have from this woman and man if the Spider proved his friendliness by helping them out of a jam.
He must find out from the woman, especially, what her chemist husband had been working on just before his death a week ago. Police had called the death suicide. The widow—this girl—had insisted it was murder. And her husband's brother, Deputy Sheriff Anse Collins—from Culpeper, Virginia—had come north to investigate. But that death itself was not the important thing . . . .
Two days after the chemist had died, a rich suburban bank in a town fifty miles away had been robbed. The crooks had done something to the steel bars that protected the windows, and the bars had broken like candy sticks. They had done the same thing to the vault and its doors had powdered like cake sugar, beneath the blow of a light sledge hammer. Such a weapon in the hands of unscrupulous criminals could strip the nation's banks.
Obviously some new chemistry of steel had been discovered and had fallen into criminal hands. And Jim Collins, who had died—or been murdered—had been a steel chemist.
These two facts had been associated in the Spiders quick mind and he had once more quit his life of wealth and luxury as Richard Wentworth, scion of riches and of the aristocracy of America for the grim, taut life of the Spider. He had acted quickly, then, following the trail his keen mind had picked for him and he had been barely in time.
Speeding northward to Middleton where Jim Collins had lived, Wentworth had donned the disguise of the Spider while his faithful Hindu servant, Ram Singh, drove his powerful sedan. He had reached this apartment just in time to find gangsters on the scene, to hear talk of missing papers. It sounded very much to the Spider as if he had guessed right about Jim Collins and this potent steel destroyer.
Deputy Anse Collins had shut the window and was now picking up a blanket from the davenport where it was obvious he had been sleeping. The girl snuggled it about her body and sat down and tucked her feet up into its warmth. Her blue eyes were harassed and shadows made black smudges beneath them. Honey-colored hair sprawled in delectable disarray about her small, pert head.
"Now, disarm these men," Wentworth told Collins.
The gang leader, Devil Hackerson, still had his head strained around on his shoulder, watching Wentworth. His face was lean and dark, ending in a pointed chin beneath a sneering mouth. There was a Mephistophelian flare to his eyebrows, slanting upward at their outer corners, which, together with his reputation for cold ferocity, had earned him the nickname of "Devil." The man in pajamas was tall, over six feet. He wrenched one gangster's gun away and the man cursed with pain. Collins strode toward Jiggs on Hackerson's right. He moved with angry vehemence, and that very violence tricked him. His foot slipped on the smoothly-waxed floor just as he reached for Jiggs' gun. The two men went down together.
"Stand still!" The Spider barked at the other two.
The two men on the floor rolled over and Collins was on top, grappling with the blond gunman. Then suddenly he went limp, soggily, and the snout of Jiggs' gun thrust into view, pointing toward the Spider. But Wentworth had already moved. An agile leap put him at Hackerson's back. The third gangster sprang after him, slashing with a blackjack. The Spider's left gun belched and the man gasped a scream, doubling forward as the bullet took him in the belly. But his flailing arm holding the lead-loaded club swiped at Wentworth, caught him a glancing blow on the side of the head and sent him reeling.
Hackerson saw his chance and whirled with his fist smashing upward.
Wentworth slapped out with his automatic. He didn't want to kill Hackerson because the man knew things that would be invaluable to the Spider. His gun barrel skimmed across Hackerson's forehead, drew a curse of pain and sent the boss gangster reeling backward. Wentworth danced after him, ready to smack him to the floor—and caught swift movement in the corner of his eye. Jiggs was up, springing into the clear to shoot.
The Spider spun on the balls of his feet, threw lead at exactly the same instant. Jiggs caught the slug in the chest and his shoulders slammed back against the wall. He rolled and his clawed hands scraped along the plaster as he went down suddenly on his knees. Wentworth sprang backward toward the kitchen door, guns swiveling. The girl screamed.
Even as she shrieked, Wentworth flung himself face down, headlong on the floor. A bullet thwacked the wall behind him viciously. As he rolled, guessing the cause of his danger, another slug bored the floor beside him.
Now he could see the source of this new menace. The girl was on her feet, her blanket spilled to the floor. Devil Hackerson's thick arm was circled about her from behind, pinning her arms to her side, holding her rigidly in front of him—a motionless unwilling shield. It was
a time-worn trick, but it never lost its effectiveness.
Wentworth saw a snub-nosed automatic snouting from behind the girl as he reversed his roll. Lead splintered into the floor again. He jerked up his guns and blasted out the ceiling light. Two guns boomed together, cross-raking the spot where he had lain a moment before. One shot had come from the spot where Jiggs had fallen, on the right, and Wentworth tossed two bullets at the flash. He heard a gun clatter to the floor, heard a man groan in pain. He smiled tightly in the darkness. It sounded as if, this time, Jiggs were out of the battle for good.
The girl screamed again frantically, and the cry was chopped short, muffled by a smacking palm. Two long strides took Wentworth to the sound. He dropped his left gun. Soft warm flesh dented beneath his fingers. His hand slipped upward, gripped a bare shoulder and then he jerked hard. The woman cried out again, seemed to resist, then came toward him with a rush.
Wentworth and the girl reeled backward together. His heels caught in a rug and he tripped, sprawling backward. The girl let out a sobbing gasp of fear and landed heavily on top of him, slamming his head hard against the floor. Warm flesh crushed down on his face, smothering him. It buried an oath in his throat. He rolled from beneath the weeping silken burden, reeled to his feet. His head rang from the nasty crack on the floor but he still clung to his gun. He fought down the drumming in his ears, listened intently. From his right came the bubbling wheezy breath of a man dying with a bullet in his lungs. He knew that would be Jiggs. The woman gasped sobs on the floor. There were only those two sounds . . . .
Wentworth snatched out a pocket flash, sent its small white disc sweeping over the room. Hackerson was gone. The Spider pivoted on his heel, sped into the kitchen and flung up the window. He whistled eerily, a three-noted bar, and an instantaneous reply came from below. With a grunt of satisfaction, he darted back to the scene of the hasty battle. That whistle had ordered his faithful Hindu servant, Ram Singh, to take the trail. He would spot the fugitive and pursue him relentlessly.