THE SPIDER-City of Doom

by Norvell W. Page

Ram Singh glowered at him, "Wah, do I take orders from such as thee!"

  "Quiet!" Wentworth snapped. "Have you cleared that record off, Ram Singh? Kirkpatrick may follow!"

  "Even as commanded, master." Ram Singh's voice was a growl, and his eyes were on Jackson. "It has been drawn through the magnet and is innocent of thy voice!"

  "Jackson, take the wheel!" Wentworth snapped.

  Jackson swung around the car, and the three crowded into the coupe, which made a swift circuit of the fire area and bore southward at Wentworth's orders. Jackson drove at furious speed, but his eyes strayed now and again to Ram Singh's face.

  "There's a knot behind your ear, you dumb heathen!" he ripped out at Ram Singh. "They took you! Good God, Major, they haven't got . . . Miss Nita!"

  Wentworth's tightening lips were sufficient answer, but he told briefly what had happened . . . how Ram Singh had been called from the car by a voice that had seemed Wentworth's own, and knocked down; the fight in the building. Ram Singh's chest swelled with pride.

  "Hadst thou been present," he said stoutly, "thou wouldst have seen two mighty warriors go into battle! Many of the sahib's enemies died under my hand!"

  Jackson spat out the open window. "Pity you didn't start fighting a little sooner! Miss Nita taken!"

  Ram Singh's voice burst out in a roar that showed his pain. "Now by Kali and by Siva, thou jackal . . . ."

  "Silence," Wentworth said quietly. "We're on our way now to rescue Miss Nita. Our only chance is through Munro. By putting that Spider message on the air, I warned Munro that the police would be on his trail. If there's anything incriminating in that office, he'll clean it out. We'll find one of his men there. With any luck . . . Munro himself!"

  Ram Singh laughed, "Wah, sahib! Let these two hands of mine . . ."

  "Stop at the next corner, Jackson," Wentworth cut in. "Ram Singh, you will go home. I think there is a good chance that Munro will phone . . . to threaten about the missie sahib! I need a brave man there!"

  Ram Singh glowered, "Nay, sahib, did I not fight well?"

  "Like the warrior you are, my lion," Wentworth said quietly. "There is incense in thy beard!"

  Ram Singh's teeth flashed through his beard, as the car stopped. "Wah, it is not to battle you go, Jackson!" he said contemptuously. "Were it battle, the master would prefer his warrior!"

  Jackson's lips opened, but Wentworth's hand touched his arm, and he said nothing. The car spurted forward, and instantly Wentworth whipped open the compartment which hid his Spider disguise.

  "Each man to his own trade, Jackson," he said, "You would not expect a corporal to command a brigade!"

  "But Miss Nita, sir!" Jackson's words were a cry. Their loyalty to the brave woman whom Wentworth loved was only less than to their master; second not even to their loyalty to each other. Nita van Sloan could command Jackson and Ram Singh . . . and these were men who acknowledged few leaders!

  Wentworth made no answer. His own heart was sore, and the battle ahead claimed all his concentration. The police would be there quickly. They had no such urgency to drive them as Wentworth's own, but Kirkpatrick would waste no time. The Spider had to get there ahead of the police. He had his own means of making prisoners talk, which the police could not employ. And there might be evidence there which would mean to the Spider the capture of Munro—and the release of Nita!

  Jackson said slowly, "You may be walking into a trap, Major. Munro will be expecting . . . the Spider!"

  Working on his disguise, Wentworth did not glance up. He said, quietly, "Of course, Jackson!"

  Along the seventh floor corridor of the deserted office building, the man ran swiftly. He checked at a door whose glass was lettered: No-More-Fires, Inc. His knuckles played an eccentric tattoo, and the door was whipped open.

  The man darted through the darkened outer office toward the inner room where a man with abnormally thick shoulders bent over a mass of papers. The floor was littered; a safe stood open.

  "He's here!" the man gasped. "The Spider's here, Daley!"

  The man called Daley jerked up his head. His black eyes stabbed into the face of the other, and they were ruthless, sharp eyes, contrasting strangely with the dapper dignity of his grey hair and mustache, his tailored business suit.

  "You saw what?" he demanded harshly.

  "At the service door," the man panted. "A coupe slowed down there and . . . and a sort of shadow crossed the sidewalk!"

  Daley's dark eyes widened. He nodded briskly. "All right, you five take your stations. Strike a match at the window first, so the boys on the roof will be ready. Remember, do nothing until I give the signal! I don't want to get burned down like Mugsy Lugan!"

  The man nodded, swallowed thickly. "The way that Spider gets out of traps . . . .

  Daley said, quietly, "Shut up, Haskins!"

  Haskins flinched, ducked his head. "Okay. Okay," he muttered. "You're the boss, but I wish Munro was here."

  Daley bent over the papers without more words. He began thrusting some of them back into the safe, tucking others into an inside pocket. They made the breast of his coat bulge a little, and he frowned at that. The office was completely quiet, the men hidden in the huddled darkness of the outer room. He strained his ears and could hear nothing. It did not matter. Everything was ready. His mouth compressed against his teeth. He didn't understand this play of the Spider in using the police . . . .

  He turned his back toward the doorway, and slipped aside the blotter on the desk. A ground-glass panel was exposed, and he depressed a button at one corner of the glass. A picture in strong blacks sprang into view in the glass panel, an overhead view of the outer office brought here by an infra-red light relay and television!

  He could see what would be hidden in the darkness out there, could see the five men crouched out of sight behind chairs and the divan forming a semi-circle whose center was the door of the inner office. That was how he wanted it. The Spider must be allowed to enter. The difficulty would come when he tried to get out! For a moment, Daley frowned. He hoped the police wouldn't come too soon! But hell, a couple of fire bombs would block them out, and they had their guns . . . Daley shrugged, and kept his eye on the panel. Abruptly, he stiffened and bent sharply forward over the panel!

  Now . . . .

  The outside door of the office had opened . . . and a shadow stole inside! A shadow that was a man all in black, shielded by a long black cape that made the outlines of his body amorphous and somehow more menacing than a human shape would have been. Daley stared with slowly widening eyes while that figure poised inside the door. He saw the slow movement of the head as the man looked about him. The man . . . Good God, he was gazing on the Spider!

  Daley's hand shook as he slapped the blotter back into place over the ground-glass panel. Leaning forward across the desk, he snatched up the telephone and dialed a number. The clicking of the mechanism seemed ridiculously loud. Daley was aware of the smallness of the office. Despite the dwindled heat of the building, it seemed very hot in here. A finger slipped under his collar, loosened it a little about his neck.

  "Sprague?" he spoke into the phone, and cleared his throat of hoarseness. "Sprague, Daley speaking. Orders from Munro! The Spider has set the police on our trail . . . No, not yet! They're likely to raid at any minute. Listen, Sprague . . . Munro wants a meeting of all sub-heads in one hour! Sudden? Yes . . . Well, maybe you want to argue with Munro! Yes, I thought you'd see it that way. Munro says it's up to you to get the boys together in one hour at the room at the Man o' War. And Munro is getting leery of spies. Here's the password, and give it only to those who are called to the meeting. Ready? All right—'From my ashes, I arise again!' That's all, but see every one of the lieutenants is there!"

  He slapped up the receiver, and behind him a voice spoke mockingly, "I'm afraid," it said softly, "that one lieutenant will be . . . indisposed!"

  Daley had been expecting something, of course, but he started violently. He whipped about, and his hands clawed at the side
of the desk. His cheeks quivered. He touched a tongue to his dry lips, just inside the door, stood the hunched and sinister figure of the Spider! From beneath the broad brim of the black hat, grey-blue eyes regarded him coldly, unwaveringly. Daley shivered, and the stiffness went out of him.

  He said, incredulously, quaveringly. "The . . . the Spider!"

  The figure did not move. "I see that you have saved me a lot of time," the Spider said softly. "I'll take the papers from your inside pocket. But be sure that you bring out only the papers, Daley!" The gun in the Spider's left hand moved slowly, a cold eye, but not more deadly than the grey-blue eyes of the Spider. It lifted, and centered on Daley's forehead!

  Daley's hand moved jerkily across his breast, and drew out the papers Wentworth had indicated—and only the papers. His black eyes wavered away from the Spider's and fell.

  "Don't . . . Don't kill me, Spider!" he whispered.

  Wentworth laughed, and the sound was mocking, more menacing than any words. "Why, not yet, Daley," he said. "Perhaps, not at all! It will depend on you, Daley. On how much you know! You will notice, Daley, that I do not say how much you will tell . . . We know that, Daley." He was moving softly forward. His cape made his advance a silken, ominous glide. "Yes, indeed, we know that. You will tell everything, Daley! Turn around!"

  Daley stiffened, turned on wooden feet. His hands were yanked down behind him, and rope bit into his flesh. He did not struggle at all. He was thrust into the chair behind the desk. His eyes followed the crisp movements of the Spider, the sure speed with which his gloved hands shuffled through the papers of the safe. Daley licked his lips. This was not going exactly as he had planned. This was the time when he should break for it, throw himself into the outer office and call on the others to shoot down the Spider. This was the time . . . Daley sat very still.

  A thin distant wail sliced into the room and Daley stiffened. The Spider had not moved from his swift contemplation of the papers, but he spoke casually. "Ah, yes, the police," he murmured, "but don't worry, Daley. They won't get here in time to help . . . or hurt you!" He seemed to move almost idly, and yet the Spider was across the room in a bound, had yanked Daley from the chair and thrown his weight across his shoulder.

  "We still have a little time, Daley," he said gently, "and I have further business. It may seem a shame to you to spoil this fine office, but I think a spot of fire here would be a good idea. You guarantee your clients will not have fires, don't you, Daley? Don't you think it may make your path more difficult . . . if your office is destroyed by fire?"

  Carelessly Wentworth tossed Daley into the outer office!

  He sprang back beside the desk then, and his hands moved swiftly. He whipped out several glass containers from beneath his cloak and smashed them against the walls. The reek of benzene struck across the office. Wentworth swept the papers from the desk, brought out his lighter . . . and paused, rigidly. He had swept aside the blotter, and he was staring down at the ground-glass panel!

  Instantly, his keen mind leaped to the use of the panel. His hand flicked to the button and depressed it, and he gazed down at the infra-red view of the outer office. Daley, already freed, was being led across the office toward a place of concealment. As Wentworth watched, Daley's hands lifted, and he stripped off the wig . . . His whole face seemed to come off with the touch of his hands!

  In still amazement, Wentworth watched. There had been terror in the crouch of those ambushers a moment ago, but now suddenly there was confidence in their poise. The guns lifted bravely in their hands. And Wentworth knew why! Daley had stripped off a disguise. Daley was . . . Munro!

  Wentworth's lips twisted in a slow smile, and the expression of his face was ominous! He laid his guns on the desk before him, and his eyes quested over the thin partition of glass and wood that separated him from the outer room, shifted back to the view in the panel—and a curse leaped to his lips. Munro had faced toward him now, and for the first time he saw the man's face. He saw where a face should be. God! The man . . . The man had no face!

  The flesh was welted and corded across his countenance as if by a horrible burn. The mouth was a twisted, gaping smear, and the eyes were red-rimmed, drawn to awful slits! If this was the face of Munro . . . Wentworth cut off his thoughts. The police sirens were shrieking to crescendo. In a few moments' time, they would be crashing into the building, and he had a score to settle first!

  Wentworth looked down again at the ground-glass panel, looked toward the walls and deliberately lifted his two guns. He could not be absolutely sure of his first shot through those obstacles, but with the aid of the ground-glass panel he could soon get the range!

  Wentworth thrust out his two automatics at arm's length, a thing the Spider rarely found necessary to do. Eyes on the panel, he squeezed the two triggers together!

  The crash of the guns in the office was thunderous. The wooden partition of the wall held two torn and splintered holes . . . and in the infra-red panel, Wentworth saw the glass of the outer door crash to the floor! But Munro . . . Munro who had stood there a moment before, was flat on the floor behind a desk! The other men were on their feet, and their guns began to speak!

  Wentworth smiled bitterly. Munro was for the moment beyond his reach, but when he arose again, the guns of the Spider would be more certain! He began to shoot!

  At the same instant, he heard the window crash out behind him, and there was a muffled blast on the floor. He saw gouts of liquid flame hurtle past him—and in the same instant, the benzene which he had scattered against the walls caught fire! In a breath, the walls of the room were curtains of flame!

  The end . . . .

  Outside the office door, the guns of the killers were crashing! Wentworth saw a gun spurt upward from the spot where Munro lay, and suddenly the infra-red panel went blank! And the sirens of the police had wailed to a finish out in the streets.

  Trapped . . . Doubly trapped by flames and the guns of these men outside, his advantage of the infra-red panel destroyed. And the police were outside. Wentworth lifted his two automatics, crouched in the shelter of the desk. Wentworth lifted the guns . . . and then the Spider laughed aloud!

  Chapter Seven

  Murder Conference

  In that outer office, men heard the laughter of the Spider and clutched their guns more fiercely. The bright red glare of the flames lifted behind the partition, threw its light out through the ground glass of the door.

  "Wait!" Munro's voice said harshly. "He can't see you now, and he'll have to come out. And don't worry about the police. I'll blast a way through them!"

  Abruptly, the door of the inner office whipped open. The caped, hunched outline of the Spider glided smoothly forward, and guns reached out their red lances from its sides. With a hysterical fury, the guns of the gangsters answered! They cursed and shouted in the release of their tension, hurled lead with both hands. The figure of the Spider had stopped, and there were no more shots from him.

  "I got him, Frenchy!" a hoarse voice shouted. "I got three bullets in him!"

  "I got five!" Frenchy yelled back.

  The guns, emptied once, began to hammer again . . . and still there was no answering fire. And yet, suddenly, the Spider laughed!

  The eerie sound of that mocking mirth mounted above the fury of the guns, above the crackling roar of the fire within the inner office. It stopped the shooting; it cut off the voices of men. Then, with a shriek of pure terror, one man bolted out through the doorway. Another followed.

  "You can't kill him!" he shrieked. "Oh, God, you can't kill him!"

  That whole office was full of sudden panic, and men fighting to escape. From a remote corner of the office, a figure lifted—minus hat and cape—and the two guns in his fists rolled rhythmically. Three men went down in that huddle at the doorway, but the others escaped. Wentworth reached them in two long leaps, whipped them over on their backs and swore raspingly. The Faceless One, Munro, was not among them!

  Fiercely, Wentworth sprang toward where the
figure of the Spider apparently stood. He yanked cape and hat and flung them about his own body, sprang for the door with the cape kiting from his shoulders. Where the Spider apparently had stood, there was revealed a tall desk lamp standing upon a swivel, roller bearing chair. In their hysterical fear, the killers had mistaken that draped chair, with Wentworth prone behind to push it forward, to fire his guns that one time, for the figure of the Spider!

  Beside the outer door, Wentworth paused for a single moment. He stooped, and his cigarette lighter glinted in his hand . . . and when he sped on along the hallway, be left a glistening challenge for Munro, a mockery for the police who at least would not have to solve this crime . . . . The Spider had stamped his signature upon his kill—the seal of the Spider!

  But Wentworth ran with fury in his blood. Once more, he had been face to face with Munro, and the man had slipped between his fingers! He recalled that flame-seared countenance and something like a shudder traced its way up Wentworth's spine. If that was the face of Munro, it was no wonder the man had become a genius at disguise!

  The battle was not yet lost. The police would be on guard below, warned by the crash of shots and the lurid glare of the flames! If he could contrive to throw Munro into their hands . . . .

  Wentworth raced down the fire escape stairs by which he had ascended, and suddenly heard the crackle of shots below, and a muffled detonation that was followed by the mad screams of men in awful pain! He swerved out into the first floor corridor, and saw . . . hell! Three police men were down, motionless in death, and two others ran crazily for the exit with flame streaming from their garments! Even as Wentworth saw them, their companions reached for the men and hurled them to the ground to extinguish the fires—and Wentworth heard Kirkpatrick's sharply crisp voice rap out, organizing pursuit!

  Wentworth ducked back into the stairway, raced quietly for the service entrance which his lockpick had opened for him a little earlier. He could do no more out there than the police were accomplishing, for Munro had once more made good his escape! But there was something he still could do . . . . He could attend the meeting of Munro's associates. He knew the place, the time, and the pass-word!