THE SPIDER-City of Doom

by Norvell W. Page

  "Cassidy, behind that glass shield, you will be safe from fire," he said softly. "If you step out from behind it, you will be burned! Stay behind that shield every minute, Cassidy . . . and forget what has happened!"

  Wentworth bounded across the room, and he staggered a little as he ran, so intense had been the concentration of his mind. He felt as shaken as though he had fought a great battle . . . and God, time was so short! Impossible now to return to his home for the cape and garb of the Spider! He whirled toward Kirkpatrick's coat closet, and whipped out a long evening dress cape, lined with white satin. He found a black fedora and dragged it down over his brows. It was the best he could do . . . asbestos cape and fire extinguishers were at his home. He had one light gun instead of his two heavy arms. And he was going to a rendezvous with almost certain death—to capture the most clever, ruthless criminal he had ever fought!

  Wentworth laughed, and the sound came out of his lips with thin self-mockery. He hurled himself down the stairs toward the street. He had three minutes . . . .

  Within thirty seconds, Wentworth was hurling himself into a cab at the door of the apartment house.

  "Down Park Avenue! Fast!"

  The driver wrenched the cab out from the curb and sent it spurting down Park Avenue. Wentworth loosened the gun from the rubber bands at his wrist. The cape was thrown over his arm, the hat perched jauntily on his head. Nothing here for the man to recognize as the Spider! But he could not ride the whole way in this cab, lest a link be made between Kirk's apartment and the rendezvous of the Spider!

  A half-dozen blocks down Park Avenue, Wentworth paid off the cab. He waited through feverish seconds while the machine tooled on, then Wentworth turned a corner and stepped toward another cab at the curb. The driver hopped out, and Wentworth moved in sharply. His left fist jolted upward solidly to the jaw, and he crossed the right neatly.

  Wentworth stooped over to thrust a ten dollar bill into the man's hand . . . then sprang behind the wheel!

  One minute was left before he was due to walk into that black tunnel, but it would be enough. A bare ten blocks to cover, and he cared nothing for traffic lights now! As he ground the accelerator to the floor, and felt the stubborn motor begin to catch, a familiar moving figure tagged his glance and his head swung about. He frowned in bewilderment at the thing he saw.

  "Kirkpatrick!" he muttered.

  He could not be mistaken in that jerky, decisive stride, the commanding aggressive poise of the shoulders. If he needed confirmation, a man in police blue stalked at his elbow! They were going rapidly up the steps and into the lobby of the exclusive Bonheur Hotel.

  What business could Kirkpatrick have there at this particular time, Wentworth wondered. He was driving with a wide open throttle, weaving with sure hands through the dawdling traffic. The lights changed, but Wentworth let the cab rave on. He palmed the horn button and held it down. A cop whistled shrilly, but Wentworth ignored him, raced on. The high entrance to the ramp around Grand Central Terminal was just ahead. Beyond that, across the seven blocks that the viaduct spanned, and he would be at the entrance of the tunnel where he had his rendezvous with death! Yet his thoughts lingered back there with Kirkpatrick. There was an elaborate society ball being held at the Bonheur on this Thanksgiving night. The rich would be there in full panoply of jewels and satins—and he had seen Kirkpatrick enter.

  Wentworth jerked his head. He could not think of that now. He must concentrate on the approaching battle. Kirkpatrick's arrival had prevented him using what little time had remained to him for making any plans for the capture of Munro. He could make none now; charge into the tunnel; locate Munro, and then . . . . Wentworth whipped the cab around the last right-angle turn of the ramp, bore down on the accelerator for the last two block dash to the entrance of the tunnel. He could see its black cavern arch, the signs set across its mouth to turn traffic aside. Somewhere a clock began to strike out for the half-hour!

  The Spider was in time!

  Wentworth dragged the cape about his shoulders, pulled the brim of his black hat low over his eyes, and rapidly bound a scarf across the lower part of his face. He gripped his light single gun in his fist, then . . . and once more bore down on the accelerator!

  His eyes stabbed fiercely ahead, and a startled cry crowded out of his throat. As he watched, a cab swerved toward the mouth of the tunnel. Its door whipped open, and from its dark interior, there leaped a figure in a heel-length black cape, with a hat dragged down over its eyes. The figure ran with hunched shoulders, with great black guns gleaming in its fists . . . and it ran straight toward the entrance of the traffic tunnel.

  Another Spider had kept the rendezvous.

  Even as Wentworth realized what was happening, that Jackson had defied his explicit orders in order to save Nita and clear Wentworth of suspicion—his eyes flicked beyond the entrance of the tunnel, and he saw another thing that was like a blow between the eyes.

  From the shadows of a building entrance, another figure was racing across the street toward that same tunnel . . . and it was Kirkpatrick!

  Wentworth's foot faltered on the accelerator, and horror seized him by the throat. He knew now that Munro was not inside the tunnel, and would not come there. His original fear was only too well justified; that Munro would strike with all his ruthless force at some other point while the Spider and police were both concentrating on this one spot.

  Without a doubt, Munro had been the man he had seen striding into the Bonheur in the disguise of Kirkpatrick! That meant Munro was going to rob the Bonheur and would turn loose his murdering hordes, his fierce flames upon the hapless thousands who were crowded there tonight!

  Only an instant did Wentworth hesitate, yet in that moment he had realized all the horror that sudden, liquid flame would create in that crowded hotel; and he had made his plans! He bore down on the accelerator . . . and sent the cab roaring straight toward that yawning black tunnel!

  The cab struck the traffic standards and leaped high, sent them clattering and broken aside, the noise of the motor was suddenly deafening in Wentworth's ears. He whistled twice, an eerie, piercing note that he and Jackson had used as a signal before this. It would tell Jackson who roared into the tunnel behind him! He heard the whistle shrill back in joyous answer and, as if that had been a signal, hell broke loose there in that tunnel beneath the streets of New York!

  In one instant, the entire walls of that tunnel were converted into flame!

  Wentworth crouched over the wheel, feeling the shock of the flaming concussion even through the tightly closed windows. The heat reached through with the impact of a hammer blow. He shielded his eyes, and kept the cab rolling. Ahead, he could see the crouched figure of Jackson, a black, tiny huddled thing in the middle of that inferno. But Jackson had drawn over his head the asbestos-lined cape that the Spider had made with just such a trap as this in mind!

  That cape was smoldering on the surface, but even as Wentworth jerked on the brakes, and reached for the door, he saw a hand dart out from beneath the cape—and an area of flame blacked out instantaneously! White fumes swirled upward with the heat, crawled out across the floor, and Jackson wrenched out his hand again, and again, and hurled the flame extinguishers about him. Wentworth let the cab roll slowly forward into that area of blackness, and Jackson straightened, ran staggering toward Wentworth. The wig of the Spider was singed from his head, the makeup was striped with perspiration, and he was panting between the strangling coughs.

  Wentworth hurled open the door and sprang to the pavement.

  "One side!" he snapped above the roar of the flames, and the cab trundled forward in second gear, throttle yanked wide. Slowly, it gained momentum. The tires were blazing from the inflammables through which it had raced; spots of paint were flaming on its sides.

  Wentworth seized Jackson by the arm and, in a half-dozen long bounds, reached an emergency exit that led upward by steel ladders to the streets above.

  "We will wait here a moment," Wentworth said quie
tly.

  Jackson nodded.

  They stood there and their strangling breath filled the narrow way. The roar and heat of the flames was all about them, sweeping past the entrance to their cul-de-sac. Munro had done a thorough job of priming the walls with inflammables, so that even the stones seemed to burn. It would not last long, but it would last long enough to wipe out of existence any human being who dared it in ordinary clothing, and with any less powerful extinguisher than the ones that Jackson carried.

  Wentworth listened tautly. Jackson said no word, but he had drawn himself up stiffly in his soldier's attitude. Wentworth did not speak to him, but his heart went out to Jackson. He had risked death before in the Spider's name, but this time he had done even more—he had risked being discharged by the master he loved better than life itself! He was waiting now for the blow to fall.

  "Robe and hat," Wentworth ordered coldly. "Make-up kit? Good! Follow me!"

  Wentworth swept on the robe of the Spider, and slowly, soundlessly, made his way up the escape ladder. When he was half-way up, he heard the crash as the taxi cab, kept straight by the close walls of the tunnel, smacked into the traffic stanchions at the far end of the passage. He heard the sharp shouts of the police, their shrill whistles; even the echo of pounding feet as they raced toward the spot.

  "This will have to be fast!" Wentworth whispered to Jackson. "As soon as we are clear of this place, I'm going to expose myself to the police, and lead them away. You will then return to your post, according to orders. Understand this, Jackson?"

  Jackson said, woodenly. "Yes, Major! I—"

  Wentworth smiled slightly. "You will assemble four automatics, and a dozen hand grenades and await further instructions."

  Jackson said eagerly, "Yes, Major!"

  Wentworth thrust open the grating and slipped out—into the open air. The police guard for this exit was a half-dozen paces away, staring fixedly down the street toward where the taxi was wrecked against a lamp-post, a blazing wreck. Wentworth took two long strides, and his fist crashed against the policeman's jaw. He eased him to the ground, gazed piercingly about him. His lips smiled thinly as he saw Kirkpatrick's car, almost across the street!

  In a single lithe movement, Wentworth vaulted the metal fence that girdled the Central park above the traffic tunnel. He was three-quarters of the way across the street before the driver of Kirkpatrick's car saw him, then the man stared openmouthed through a long moment before he stabbed for his gun. It was too late. Wentworth's fist lashed out again, connected with the man's jaw. Wentworth eased him out of the car, to the pavement, and slid in behind the wheel. He cut the siren loose, started the machine rolling, and executed a swift U-turn.

  Police darted out into the street ahead of him, recognized the commissioner's car and hesitated. Kirkpatrick sprang out from a post at the entrance of the tunnel, and Wentworth headed straight toward him . . . swerved at the last moment.

  Wentworth leaned out of the car then, and his scarf-masked face beneath the broad-brimmed black hat was secretly smiling.

  "Follow me, Kirkpatrick!" he called, "and I'll lead you to Munro!"

  A policeman gasped, "The Spider! It's the Spider!"

  Then Wentworth drove down on the accelerator and the powerful car of the police commissioner leaped forward and took the ramp back toward upper Park Avenue. The smile that had touched his lips for an instant at sight of the complete bewilderment upon Kirkpatrick's face was gone now, and there was another, grimmer expression, God grant that he would lead the police after Munro in time! This was the swiftest way . . . for the police to pursue the Spider! They would not be slow to take up this chase!

  Wentworth whipped the long limousine through the twisted lane of the viaduct, sent it bellowing down the slope and into Park Avenue. He wrenched the siren wide, and held it that way. His eyes burned ahead to the sedate facade of the Bonheur Hotel. It had been no more than five minutes ago that he had seen Munro, disguised as Kirkpatrick, enter those broad doors. Five minutes . . . . But a thousand men could die in that many seconds! Only, Munro had not yet released his flames upon the hotel. The blow might fall at any moment.

  Wentworth swerved the powerful machine and rammed straight toward a red box, set upon a standard on the corner—a red fire alarm box! The front bumper caught it, slammed it straight down upon the pavement. The box split into fragments, bounced high . . . and Wentworth was racing on! That was one way to turn in a fire alarm, and he had no time to stop! He had killed the siren. The police behind him were getting under way. The first two radio cars dived down the chute of the viaduct with their sirens shrieking like women in pain. Wentworth clipped one more fire box, and then he swung the limousine in a whistling curve and slammed it to the curb in front of the Bonheur Hotel!

  With a single long stride, he was across the sidewalk while the stupefied doorman still stared. He went up the steps in a bound, batted his way through the revolving doors . . . and bounded to the middle of the lobby!

  A woman was smiling, leaning her shoulders against one of the marble columns as she looked up into the face of her escort. She frowned at the sudden cold that the Spider's swift entrance had brought, and turned her head. She screamed then, and pointed with a shaking hand. She screamed, "The Spider!"

  A half dozen, then a score, then a hundred voices echoed that shout. Men and women were suddenly running from the lobby of the hotel! But Wentworth threw both arms high above his head, and his voice rang out clearly.

  "Listen to me," he cried. "Listen to the Spider, and know that the Spider does not lie! This place is going to be robbed tonight, perhaps within a few minutes! The robbers will set the building on fire. The police and the fire department are on the way. Be calm . . . . Do not allow yourself to be stampeded!"

  Hard-faced men wedged suddenly out of a narrow corridor to the left of the lobby, pounded toward him with hands reaching for their guns. Wentworth knew them for the squad of detectives maintained by the hotel.

  "This way!" he shouted to them.

  With an easy vault, Wentworth cleared the marble counter of the desk. His weight smashed against the staring clerk, carried him to the floor.

  Wentworth crouched beside the terrified man. "Commissioner Kirkpatrick came in here a moment ago," he said harshly. "Where is he?"

  The clerk's eyes, rolled up. "The manager!" he gasped. "The manager . . . . His office!"

  His quivering hand pointed toward a door at one end of the desk alcove and Wentworth sprang toward it. A gun crashed from the lobby and he heard the deathly whisper of the lead past his head. He hit the door—and it was locked. No time for finesse now that the alarm was given! Wentworth's gun cracked twice in his hand, shattering the lock, and the drive of his shoulder hurled it quivering inward. His leap carried him two-thirds of the way across the office, and the smashing detonation of a gun greeted him; his automatic answered and a man in police blue stepped backward a half-pace. His head was punched backward so that he seemed, incredulously, to stare at the ceiling. Then his uniform hat slipped off and bounced on the floor, and his body let loose all at once. He slumped forward to the floor, a bullet hole between his eyes.

  In a single all-inclusive glance, Wentworth took in the manager's office. A man in evening dress lay sprawled upon the floor with a bullet hole through the back of his skull. The safe gaped, and papers were strewn about . . . and a man was just rising with a valise stuffed full of money from before the looted strongbox. At the swift double crash of the guns, he whipped about—and Wentworth gasped!

  Even when he knew the truth, when his unfaltering gun-hand was sweeping up for the final shot that would wipe Munro from the face of the earth, he felt a shock run along his nerves. In that first, curt glance, he would have sworn he was gazing into the face, and the eyes, of Commissioner Stanley Kirkpatrick!

  It required a conscious effort to force his hand to close on the trigger, and Wentworth knew even as he fired, that he had missed! Great God, the Spider, face-to-face with a mass murderer, had mi
ssed an easy shot! His body had refused the clear order of his brain, because of the shock that Munro's resemblance to Kirkpatrick had given him. For once the Spider's highly trained reflexes had played him false! There was time for no second shot!

  Wentworth saw mockery leap into those dark eyes that stared so fixedly into his. The valise swept across the desk, and knocked the telephone to the floor—and the room exploded!

  Wentworth felt heat strike him like a moving wall. It plucked him from the floor and hurled him backward. Somehow, he managed to whip the asbestos-lined cape before his face, but the shock, the heat, almost overpowered him. Half-dazed though he was, he drove himself to his feet, fought his way through the swirling smoke, the leaping tongues of crimson flame. The gun quested like a hound's nose for its prey, and did not find it.

  Behind him, he could hear the sudden screams of people, and he knew that the touch-off of the entire hotel had been hooked up with some electrical contact connected with the telephone. Munro's sweeping valise, loaded with loot, had set off a holocaust!

  Wentworth smashed two of the flame extinguishers against the walls of the office, and then he could see an open door across its width. He hesitated, not in fear of what might lie behind, but with a divided sense of duty. All his being urged him to fling himself in violent pursuit of Munro now, while he knew in what guise the man fled. But there were hundreds, thousands of people trapped in the hotel. Wentworth hesitated . . . and there came to his ears the screams and shrieks of a dozen sirens. He heard the hoarse, long drawn wail of the fire engines; the whimpering, yelping thinness of police radio cars; the deeper ululation of the ambulances.

  Wentworth laughed harshly. Between their eagerness to catch the Spider, and his own care to summon the fire department, there would be ample help for the people of the hotel within a space of seconds.

  The Spider was free to hunt!

  With that laugh, Wentworth thunder-bolted across the room and burst out through that closed door. A gun hammered furiously from the darkness at a corridor's end, a man was emptying a gun as fast as he could pull the trigger . . . and that was no way to shoot accurately, as Wentworth could have told him. He threw a shot across his chest toward that flickering snake-tongue of powder-flame . . . and it was extinguished. The Spider javelined. At least, after that first moment did not even pause. He bounded toward where a gleam of street lights showed an exit, whipped to the street!