THE SPIDER-City of Doom

by Norvell W. Page

  Shoes rasping on rocks pulled Wentworth around and he saw two men running toward him with revolvers glinting in their fists. They were red-faced men, glowering beneath the pulled-down brims of felts. They eyed Wentworth suspiciously until they spotted "Trigger" Skinner dead on the ground, then admiration replaced the glare. "What'd you get him with, his own machine gun?" one growled.

  Wentworth smiled grimly. "Automatic pistols are pretty deadly weapons, too, when properly used," he said dryly. "Did they get away with anything?"

  "Only ninety grand," snarled one of the men. "Not counting those the wreck killed, there's four dead men in the express car. We was riding passenger as an extra precaution or the typewriter would of caught us, too."

  His remark confirmed Wentworth's surmise that the two were railroad detectives.

  "Listen," he said. "I've got some damned important business to attend to in Middleton. Suppose it would be all right for me to shove along? It wouldn't make me sore if I didn't have to hang around to tell about this." A jerk of his head indicated the corpse of the gangster.

  The detectives' eyes narrowed. They asked a few questions but in the end the men's hunger for praise won them over. They agreed to take credit for the kill. Wentworth pushed off up the rocky embankment toward where a relief train and autos had stopped, a half mile down the right of way. He and Collins could do no more good here.

  Wentworth's face was white beneath the lean tan and his eyes smoldered as they surveyed the white-coated doctors climbing over the wreckage, the stretchers filing past toward the hospital car. Seven coaches were sprawled over the rocks, and the locomotive was a smashed wreck in the ravine. Two white splotches beside it, sheet-covered corpses, marked the resting place of the crew.

  Wentworth's eyes rose to the glinting line of the steel rails, following it backward from the spot where the shattered engine lay. A few hundred feet back there was a break. His mouth lipless with compression, he walked rapidly to that spot and stared down at the crumbled wreckage of the rail. If there had been any doubt before that the Master was behind this carnage, a single glance at the track dissolved it. He stooped and picked up a segment of gray steel, struck it with another. There was no ring, only a sodden thud and fragments crumbled off and sifted gray powder on the ground.

  Chapter Nine

  Prey of the Master

  THE STEEL fell from his hands and a low bitter oath rasped his throat. He had counted thirty stretchers passing and men still labored to extract the injured and dead from the debris of the train. Was there no end to the infamy of this killer? Either Wentworth had accidentally taken the train which they intended looting, or the Master had deliberately wrecked it to get him at a disadvantage and mow him down. It looked suspiciously like that machine gunner had been planted solely to dispose of him—as if those shots had been fired partly to lure him from the protection of steel cars if he had survived the crash.

  The Spider had killed the killer, but loot and slaughter had added to the villain's toll. This time there seemed more reason behind the atrocity that had been committed, but still the purpose behind the wrecking of the skyscrapers did not appear. The answer might be found in Middleton. Wentworth and Collins completed their trip to the town in relief automobiles, repaired their clothing and went directly to the Collins apartment.

  Collins stopped with an oath inside the door. The apartment was a wreck. Rugs had been stripped from the floor, pictures ripped from their moldings, overstuffed furniture cut to pieces. Drawers full of papers were tumbled upon the floor. Wentworth entered with a grimly satisfied smile. He made a telephone call, then from the wall above a closet door dug out a small camera and an electric fixture.

  "Infra-red camera and light," he explained to Collins. "It could take a picture in darkness as well as light and the man it snapped would not be aware of the photograph. We'll have it developed."

  Wentworth took the camera to a specialist shop and emerged to find extras being screamed in the streets. The headlines covered half the front page.

  MUNICIPAL BUILDING CRASHES!

  BANK LOOTED OF HALF MILLION!

  GOVERNOR CALLS OUT TROOPS!

  With hands as rigid as rock, and as cold, Wentworth gripped the paper to read the details. Truly, the Master had struck terribly in New York City. Apparently, he had only waited until Wentworth's back was turned to deal his most terrific blow. The death toll this time was only a thousand. The mockery of that qualifying word, "only," jeered at Wentworth like a grinning death's-head. But the casualties had been light as compared with the toll of the Sky and the Plymouth buildings.

  The Municipal Building, which housed the business offices of the city, had collapsed at the rush luncheon hour when the street was thronged with persons. Luckily, it had caved in upon itself, rather than plunging full length into jammed Park Row. If that had happened, the death toll might well have been several times as great. There had been no high wind, but engineers figured the constant jarring of subways beneath the building had broken down the crystallized steel.

  Wentworth's burning eyes skipped from that account to the looting of the bank. It had occurred even as their train had been pulling out of Pennsylvania station. Machine guns had swept the entrance and interior of the bank clean of human life and steel shields had furnished no protection. They had crumpled like glass beneath the pounding bullets. The vaults had been no stronger and within minutes of the attack, the gangsters had rushed out with a fortune, the biggest robbery of its kind in history. Police were quickly on the scene and had managed to kill four of the robbers, but the rest had escaped.

  A smaller item was the $250,000 robbery of an armored truck. Only the fact that a similar method had been used in this holdup even won it space on the front page. A large sedan had rolled up beside the armored truck and opened fire with machine guns. Under the hammer of the lead, the sides of the truck had crumpled. The guards had been literally riddled with bullets and the blood-stained loot snatched away. It had all happened within a space of moments. Three pedestrians had been burned down with the machine guns while they stood paralyzed by surprise.

  And now, martial law had been declared in New York City. Hereafter, bayonet-armed troops would patrol the street. A stringent curfew would be enforced, and no one could enter the financial district of the city where the banks were concentrated unless he had a special military permit. Wentworth saw the keen planning of Kirkpatrick behind these precautions, but he shook his head dubiously. Resources were being concentrated there under the supervision of the soldiers. Smaller banks, terrified by the ruthless efficiency of the attacks, were pouring their money into the strongly-protected centers. The insurance companies were responsible for that move, of course, insisting on these supposed safeguards under threat of vastly increased premiums. Couldn't the fools see that they were playing directly into the Master's hands?

  Slowly, Wentworth folded the newspaper, looked up to find Collins white-faced and hot eyed. "I reckon Jim is better off dead," he said slowly. "If he knew that his invention was being used to kill people, he'd turn over in his grave."

  With a wrench, Wentworth hurled the newspaper from him, stared about him at the throngs that were reading the extras. He saw men glance nervously over their shoulders at banks; he saw people move away from tall buildings with frightened strides. The panic was on. Until that monstrous Master was wiped out, men would walk in constant terror of their lives. Business was suffering already and once more the nation's faith in government and banks would reel. The industrial repercussions of this fright would send thunderous waves across the oceans and shake security there. A world that had buttressed its wealth behind steel—that protected its shores and borders with steel—would stare disintegration in the face.

  "Listen," said Collins, "don't you reckon Alrecht might be behind this thing? You haven't even looked him up. I tell you, he and Bill Butterworth were the only folks that knew of Jim's invention."

  Wentworth nodded shortly. "That's one of the reasons we came t
o Middleton today," he said. "You get to Butterworth and bring him down to our hotel room. I'll pay Mr. Alrecht a call. By that time, our infra-red film should be ready and we may know the answer to our problem."

  Collins agreed, strode off with a long-legged determined pace, his face set and his heavy shoulders thrust forward. Wentworth watched him go with speculative eyes, then walked deliberately down Main Street toward the city's largest building, the First National Bank, in which Alrecht had law offices. As skyscrapers went, it wasn't very tall, but fourteen stories was an all-time high in Middleton. An elevator boy was arguing with the starter in the hall.

  "I ain't hankering after being mashed in that cage," the boy said vehemently.

  "This is the tallest building in Middleton, and if those fellows come here, this will be the first place they hit. They're already robbed a bank here, and . . ."

  "You can leave if you want to," the starter told him shortly, "but there isn't any need coming back tomorrow or the next day and expecting to get your job back."

  The operator jeered, jerked off the coat that was the entire uniform and flung it on a chair. "This building ain't going to be here tomorrow," he said and strode toward the basement lockers. The starter crossed to the cage with an apologetic glance at Wentworth. "The whole town's half-crazy, sir," he said. "I'll take you up."

  Wentworth caught himself listening for sounds in the building as the elevator rose, listening for creaking groans that might herald its collapse, and he cursed himself silently. Hell, he was getting as bad as that elevator boy. But his thoughts brought home with a shock to him how fearfully the terror of the steel-eater was spreading. If the Spider, knowing more than anyone else about the gangsters—but he had to admit that his knowledge was terribly limited—could thus become nervous on merely entering a tall building, think of the effect of the spreading propaganda of fear upon the people as a whole!

  * * *

  Alrecht's outer office was well but not expensively furnished with brown leather chairs in a commodious waiting room. A girl clerk patted her metallic marcel as he told her that he was a police detective from New York City. She powdered her nose before she went into the inner office, but her calculating blue eyes were upon Wentworth again as she ushered him in. He walked with the slight swagger that unimportant men assume when, burdened with authority, they face a man who overawes them. He kept his hat on.

  Alrecht was seated behind his desk, lounging back, toying with a metal pencil with one hand. "What do you want?" he asked. There was no expression in his voice, either of hostility or welcome.

  "Some dope about Jim Collins," Wentworth told him. He swaggered up to the desk and hooked his knee over a corner, leaned on it. "You was a pretty good friend of his, wasn't you ?"

  He studied the smallish man behind the desk. Alrecht was not old, though the wariness in his eyes was far from callow. Those eyes were watery, but had a strange quality of piercing regard. His hair lay neatly upon his large head, parted low on the side, and the parts had thinned peaks above his temples. His nose was sharp and aggressive, his mouth was secretive. There were little radiating lines along the upper lip that were prominent now as he pursed his mouth judiciously.

  "Pretty good, yes," he agreed finally, with a nod. "But I knew his wife better than I knew him."

  Wentworth leered. "Oh, that way, eh?" Alrecht's eyes lifted to his coldly and Wentworth straightened and took his knee off the desk. "No offense intended, counselor," he said quickly.

  "I hope not," Alrecht replied gently.

  Wentworth was acting out his role of detective to perfection, but behind the mask of crudity and swagger authority, he was keenly estimating this man. Alrecht was shrewd, beyond any doubt, and nervousness was evident in the slow, studied movements of his hands. He was fighting a tendency to fidget with that metal pencil. He slapped it down abruptly, and clasped his hands together. The fingers closed tightly.

  "Come to the point," he said sharply. "I have no time to idle away like this."

  "Of course not, of course not," Wentworth agreed. "The commissioner wanted to know if you had any idea what this invention of Jim Collins' was. Miz' Collins, she says you was to finance it if it went over."

  Alrecht shook his head. "No, I didn't know what it was. Jim was very secretive about it. All he said was it would make us all rich if I'd help him. And of course I was glad to do that for Mrs. Collins' sake."

  "I see," Wentworth nodded sagely. "Know Bill Butterworth?" Was he mistaken, or had Alrecht started at that sudden mention of the chemist who worked with Collins?

  "I've met him," Alrecht said cautiously, after a perceptible pause. "He was another chemist at the place where Jim worked. In fact I had dinner with him last night, trying to find if he knew anything of Jim's processes—for Mrs. Collins' sake, of course."

  "Of course," Wentworth agreed, and he masked his sarcasm so lightly that Alrecht looked at him sharply for a long moment before he went on talking.

  "Butterworth said he didn't know anything about it, but he seemed to be more prosperous than I ever remember seeing him before." Alrecht paused as if weighing his words. "He had on a new suit and he seemed mightily pleased with himself. Told me he'd had an extra allowance from home and was planning to run back and surprise the folks. He was English, you know. I tried to get hold of him at the plant today and he had left. They said he had resigned."

  Wentworth frowned heavily. "That looks mighty suspicious."

  Alrecht nodded slowly, and there was a gleam back of his pale, queerly keen eyes. "I thought so, and here's something else. Night before last I was driving through the Outerdale section—that's where the Collins lived you know—and I'll swear I saw Butterworth sneaking along the street. Sneaking, mind you! I started to stop him, but he clearly didn't want to be recognized so I thought better of it."

  Alrecht spread his hands, palm upward. Wentworth saw that they were moist. "I don't want to make trouble for Butterworth, but it all seems damnably suspicious. And I'll tell you something else. It's just a hunch, you understand, but I believe it's a good one. I believe that Jim's invention is being used by these men who robbed the bank here!"

  "No!" Wentworth cried. Alrecht nodded solemnly.

  "Jeez!" said Wentworth. "There might be something in that at that. Jim Collins was a steel chemist . . . say! I'm going to find this Bill Butterworth."

  He started toward the door. "Thanks a lot, Mr. Alrecht."

  Alrecht jerked his chin up, lowering his eyes, a gesture to wait. "Just a minute, my man," he said. He got deliberately to his feet and circled the desk. He put a hand on Wentworth's arm and looked seriously into his eyes. "I'd much rather my name wasn't mentioned in connection with this," he said. "Tell your superiors if you have to, but . . ." He smiled patronizingly, tapped Wentworth on the shoulder. "Why not turn the idea in as your own?"

  "You wouldn't mind?" Wentworth registered suppressed eagerness.

  "Not at all."

  "Thanks, Mr. Alrecht, I won't forget this," Wentworth said feelingly, and walked out. Once in the hall, his forehead creased in a frown. Just what, he wondered, was Alrecht's game? It was obvious that he was trying to throw suspicion on Butterworth, and it was just as obvious that he knew much more about the invention than he was willing to tell.

  Furthermore, Wentworth was not entirely sure that he had put over the imposture perfectly. There had been one or two occasions when suspicion had gleamed in Alrecht's queer eyes. He had been inclined to discount Anse Collins' ideas about Alrecht, laying them down to his obvious jealously over Nancy. Now, he was not sure. Alrecht scarcely seemed the egocentric killer that the Master was, yet the man certainly had an essential conceit.

  Collins was waiting for Wentworth at the hotel. "Butterworth has skipped town," he growled. "Hasn't been seen since he left his boarding house last night. All his clothes had been cleaned out some time back, and, he owes a wad of bills around town."

  Wentworth responded with only a slight nod. His mind was still occupied with th
e puzzle about Alrecht. To his way of thinking, Butterworth's departure was simply fortuitous for the lawyer. But why had he mentioned seeing Butterworth near the Collins apartment? With a sudden oath, Wentworth wheeled and started for the door.

  "Get that picture from the camera shop and come to Alrecht's office with it fast," he snapped.

  Collins' quick query was cut off by the slamming door and Wentworth went downstairs in great striding bounds, ignoring the elevator. He was furious with himself. Why hadn't he seen the significance of that story about Butterworth when he was in the lawyer's office? It was obvious enough that the man had been trying to throw suspicion on the chemist and had mentioned his supposed sight of him near the Collins home because Alrecht knew the home had been searched!

  Only guilty knowledge of the searching could have inspired Alrecht's lie about Butterworth and that confiding eager rush of information. Either Alrecht had performed that search himself or he had paid some one to do it. His talkativeness alone was enough to cause suspicion. Long strides hurled Wentworth across the lobby, into a taxi at the curb.

  "First National Building fast," he snapped.

  They got there fast, but it wasn't fast enough. When he reached Alrecht's office, the lawyer had gone. The girl with the metallic hair tossed her head at him and delicately powdered her nose. "Mr. Alrecht has gone to New York," she said. "He was called into consultation on an important case."

  She slapped her hand down on the desk, whirled her chair as Wentworth stalked past her toward the door of the inner office.

  "You can't do that," she protested.

  The inner office was empty. Wentworth crossed to a telephone. The girl came across and put both hands on the other side of the desk. Her arms were stiff. "Say, what do you think this is?" she demanded.