THE SPIDER-City of Doom

by Norvell W. Page

  "You heathen lummox."

  Nita said softly, "You two brave splendid men!"

  Jackson's ears turned red, and Ram Singh stiffened with pride . . . But Wentworth laughed and swept Nita into his arms, and climbed into the car.

  "You splendid warriors are going to get your faces washed with snow," he said dryly, "if we don't get home inside of five minutes. In fact, I shall call in the Spider to perform the task!"

  They were all laughing, as the car rolled northward along Park, swung westward toward home . . . At his window high up in the apartment building, Kirkpatrick watched them go, and shook his head wonderingly over Cassidy. Standing straight up, with his shoulders hitched against the wall, Cassidy was asleep, a faithful guard worn out by the too hard performance of his duty.

  He would sleep for twelve hours as Wentworth had ordered him, under the spell of hypnosis, but he would never remember opening the door of that cell for Wentworth to leave; or locking him in again when he returned.

  Kirkpatrick smiled, "And all these years," he said to himself slowly, "I have suspected Dick of being the Spider! What a fool I have been. What a fool!"

  THE COUNCIL OF EVIL

  Chapter One

  Dark Portent

  It was one of those neighborhoods found only in New York City. On one side of the street were exclusive apartments, their subdued lights glowing warmly against the blanket of cold fog. On the other side, there was rank squalor.

  Here the buildings were unclean and condemned, tenement slums and cheap shops from which figures slunk with the cringing furtiveness of wild beasts.

  The imported limousine seemed out of place in such a street, under the glow of the street lamp. Dark and sleek it stood there, its motor silent. Drops of fog condensed on its windows slid quietly down. There was no sign of movement from within.

  Like the street, it waited.

  The night waited. There were no sounds save the hoarse moan of fog whistles as tugs prowled through the murk of the East River and the far off rumble of elevated trams. Overhead, a row of dim lights crawled through mid-air, where other lights hung like drops of blood . . . . Queensborough Bridge.

  There was a faint thin note in the air that seemed to come from above. It resolved itself into a whistled tune, but such a tune as this street had never heard before! It was weird, throbbing, with something of the eerie wailing of a Chinese flute . . . a sound that might have come straight from the yellow heart of the mysterious Orient!

  Suddenly the waiting was ended!

  In the limousine there was a hint of movement. A pale face showed against a window. It was a lovely face, shadowed somehow with tragedy and apprehension. From behind the car, a tall figure slid forward, a man with broad towering shoulders, arms folded across his chest. He made no sound. There was a turban bound about his proud head.

  The whistle died . . . and abruptly there was movement where the shadows clustered most closely against the tenements. A hunched and crippled figure melted out of the blackness into the half-light.

  It was a man muffled to the eyes in a long black cape that covered his twisted back and draped to his heels. He moved with a sideways, ugly shuffle. Beneath the broad brim of his black hat his eyes glittered coldly.

  The turbaned man swept a low salaam before this sinister figure . . . and just around the corner, a police whistle shrilled in the night!

  The man in the cape laughed softly, and a few crackling words in Punjabi issued from his lips as he sprang toward the car. The turbaned man salaamed again, sprang to the rear of the limousine. The door of the tonneau swung open. For an instant, the woman's face showed. Fear and apprehension were gone now. Instead, there was a welcoming smile on her lips.

  The man swept off the hat as he leaped through the door. His hair dangled in lank, black strings upon his shoulders. His face was beaked, ruthless . . . a bitter, stern and remorseless profile. Then the door clapped shut.

  A police radio car whooped into the street. Blue-uniformed police raced on foot around the corner, their feet loud in the moisture-laden air. The corner light glinted on their guns. They converged on the black limousine.

  "Hey, you!" one snarled at the turbaned man. "What you doing here?"

  The man straightened imperturbably. His bearded face showed nothing, but fierceness flashed in his eyes.

  "Wah!" he said scornfully, "are you a fool to ask such questions? Use your eyes!"

  A tire of the limousine was flat.

  * * *

  The door of the limousine opened and a light flashed on in the ceiling. In the rear sat a woman, beautifully gowned, and a man in evening dress. His silk hat sat jauntily on his head, and his face was pleasant, kindly, despite the strength of the jaw, the firm line of nose and brows.

  The man opened the door. "Is anything wrong, officer?" he asked quietly.

  "I beg your pardon, sir," the officer said, more mildly. "Did you see anyone pass here in a hurry? You see, there's been a murder."

  The woman gasped. "Horrible!"

  The man frowned. "Any number of people have passed, I suppose," he said. "But I noticed none of them in particular. No one running. My man took a short cut to avoid traffic, and we had that beastly puncture. It's a wonder the street department wouldn't sweep here once in a while . . . If I can be of any help to you, let me know." He fingered a card from a platinum cigarette case and held it out to the officer.

  The cop frowned at it. "Mr. Richard Wentworth!" he said. "Gee, I didn't know it was you, Mr. Wentworth! You'd better let me leave a man on guard here until your tire is mended. This murder—it was the Spider done it!"

  The girl in the car shuddered again.

  "The Spider! How horrible!" she gasped.

  The cop rubbed his jaw. "Yeah, well . . . . It's murder, like I said, but the guy what got it—"

  "Who was it, officer?"

  The cop started to spit, glanced at the woman and didn't. "He was a lawyer. Mortimer Hurd."

  Wentworth nodded gravely. "I remember. He just beat some disbarment action against him. Supposed to have worked with a dope ring."

  "Supposed!" snapped the cop. "Supposed! He was the whole works, if you ask me. Only he was too slick. The law couldn't touch him . . . . Well, I got to get going. I'll leave a man here until you're fixed up."

  Wentworth said, "Thank you, officer." He closed the door, and the hand of the woman beside him slid into his. "Nita, my dear," Wentworth said, "your hand is quite cold! When will you get over being nervous over the operations of . . . the Spider? This wasn't even close."

  Nita van Sloan shuddered a little, drew her fur-edged wrap more closely about her shoulders. "I . . . worry, Dick," she whispered.

  Wentworth laughed gently. "You heard what the policeman said, Nita . . . 'He was too slick. The law couldn't touch him.' Still, I don't think the Spider intended to kill him. Not if he'd turn over all his money to the poor and leave the country. He preferred to be slick—and try for his gun. When the law can't act . . . the Spider will!"

  Nita's hand twined within his. "Oh, Dick," she whispered, "you talk as if you . . . and the Spider . . . were two entirely different persons!"

  Wentworth stared straight before him. His blue-grey eyes were not narrow, but wide and thoughtful. The smile on his generous mouth held regret, but no weakness. "Sometimes," he said softly, "it would be . . . nice if it were so. There's so much to do, so many criminals to be punished . . . ."

  The turbaned man swung in behind the wheel, set the limousine in swift motion. Wentworth saluted the policeman on guard, picked up a microphone.

  "Nice work, Ram Singh," he said softly and saw the turbaned driver bow briefly. "Switch on transmission . . . ." He pressed a button on the microphone, and knew that his voice, when next he spoke, would be broadcast over the car's two-way radio. He did not speak. Instead, he whistled softly a few bars of an old English folksong. Then he replaced the microphone, and he was frowning a little.

  "I didn't need any of the precautions I took," he sai
d. "Jackson wasn't necessary as a guard. I've just sent him home, with that signal. Of course, Hurd may have disbanded his force—"

  Abruptly Nita caught Wentworth's arm. "Oh, look, Dick!" she whispered.

  Wentworth's head jerked about where she pointed. In the darkness of a side street, a half dozen figures milled about. They were the figures of half-grown boys. They were attacking a man!

  "What the devil!" Wentworth snapped. "Ram Singh—into that street!"

  The limousine swung smoothly over, glided to a halt. Wentworth was already on the street. One of the boys turned and saw him, but he did not run. Instead, he flung himself fiercely into the fight again.

  Wentworth saw that the man was trying to draw a gun!

  "Wait! Stop this!" Wentworth lifted his voice. "What goes on here?"

  Two of the boys whirled toward him, and the man got his gun free. He pointed it at the nearest of the boys. Before he could fire, Wentworth sprang forward. His leap was smooth as a lion's charge. The cane in his hand lunged forward like a rapier. There was the click of metal on metal . . . and the gun clattered to the pavement.

  For an instant, the boys stood back. The man seized the opportunity. He ducked into a black doorway behind him. For a few moments, footsteps beat on wooden floors, then they were silent . . . . The man was gone. But the boys were circled around Wentworth, as ominously silent as wolves ready for the kill.

  One boy muttered out of his mouth corner, "If he goes for a gun, slug him." Wentworth glanced at them in bewilderment. If these boys were a gang of hoodlums bent on robbery, they were the boldest he had ever seen. Usually, the mere arrival of an extra person would set such thieves running in all directions. But these stood their ground, and glared at him. This time, it had been the victim who had fled!

  The keen grey-blue eyes of Wentworth inspected the boy who had spoken. He was perhaps sixteen, broad in the shoulders for his age, and dressed like all the other boys, in long trousers and a pullover sweater. It was almost a uniform. The boy's fists were knotted at his sides, his jaw was thrust out belligerently, and his dark eyes were hot and angry as they met Wentworth's unswervingly.

  The boy muttered out of his mouth corner again, "Maybe he's one of them. He sure broke it up neat!"

  One of the boys stooped swiftly and caught up the gun that had been dropped. His hand shook a little with the weapon. Slowly, Wentworth looked over the faces of the five boys . . . and he made his decision.

  "I seem to have made a slight mistake," he said, "you weren't trying to rob that man, were you?"

  "Rob him?" The boy who was plainly the leader was scornful. He spat. "Rob him, hell! We was trying to beat the living daylights out of him. Same as we'll do you if you don't come clean. What'd you butt in for?"

  Wentworth felt a sharp urge to laugh. He kept his face sombre. Behind the boys, Ram Singh stood with folded arms. Nita van Sloan had opened a small gun-port in the window and the muzzle of an automatic glinted through it. Wentworth nodded toward her, toward Ram Singh.

  "It's all right," he said quietly. "I'm just going to have a talk with these young men."

  The leader whipped his head about, saw Ram Singh, caught the glint of the gun in the window. His face paled a little. It made the freckles across his nose startlingly strong. His eyes were wide, but he stood up to Wentworth.

  "All right," he said hoarsely, "so you got us. So what?"

  This time, Wentworth did laugh. He sobered quickly. "Son, I haven't got you at all. But I would like to know what this is all about. I don't believe you thought you were doing wrong, or you would have run. But I don't think you realize your danger. In another moment, one or two of you would have been shot. If that man made charges against you, you fellows would spend the next five years in a reform school!"

  The boy said, uneasily, "He won't make no charges against us."

  Wentworth said quietly, "I'm Richard Wentworth. Perhaps I can help you."

  The boy's eyes widened, "Geez, are you! Richard Wentworth, hunh! Golly, you—you've seen the Spider! Look, I'm Bill Sanders. And this is Monk, and Pug, and Fats, and Deesie. They're my gang. Look, we know something the Spider ought to know. Can you get word to him?"

  Wentworth leaned on his cane and looked at the five boys grouped eagerly about him. They had forgotten the fight of a few moments before, though their faces bore the marks of it. A cut lip here, a swollen and blackening eye. Bill Sanders limped as he moved closer, but his gaze was courageous.

  Bill said, "That guy we was beating up was a racketeer. He shook down Deesie's dad for a whole week's take in his grocery store. Deesie's dad is scared to go to the cops, and they wouldn't do nothing anyway. They're all fixed."

  "So you took matters into your hands," Wentworth said softly.

  "Sure, we ain't afraid," Bill said eagerly. "We even know where they got their headquarters. It's the Mekookum Social Club down on Avenue A. We was figuring on taking that tonight, maybe, if we could get back the money for Deesie's dad. Only we needed some guns."

  Wentworth felt coldness along his spine. These boys were fine, and strong and resolute. But they did not realize what they were facing. Guns, and a raid on racketeers . . . murder, death for themselves, reform school . . . . But Bill Sanders was a born leader!

  Wentworth's voice was stern. "Bill, you've been a fool!" he snapped. "That's not the way things are done in America! You've been behaving like a hoodlum in one of these foreign countries where thugs in uniform beat up helpless people!"

  Bill Sanders shook his head. "No. He was a crook!"

  "You were taking the law into your own hands!" Wentworth's voice was still sharp. "That is not the American way!"

  Bill Sanders' face was very serious. "You're dead wrong, mister," he said. "That is the American way. Look, I read a lot. When the law don't do things right, Americans take over and do things for the law. Us, we're just setting the law right."

  Wentworth asked softly, "Have you given the law a chance? Have you gone to the police? They're pretty swell guys, most of them."

  Bill Sanders started to hold out his left hand, hesitated. "Well, no, we ain't," he said slowly. "But, look. Look—the Spider don't go to the cops!"

  "You're not the Spider, son," Wentworth said quietly. "The Spider has devoted his entire life to crime detection. He is a qualified judge. And he never strikes . . . unless the police have failed. But you, son . . . ."

  The boy shook his head fiercely, "We're Spiders, too!" he said. "Look!" He held out his hand, and on his finger there glittered a silver ring, whose seal was black . . . and on that seal there glittered a figure of scarlet—a symbol of poised hairy legs and poisonous fangs: the seal of the Spider!

  It was while Wentworth stared with mingled feelings of respect and dread, and a little of awe that his leadership could do such things . . . it was while he stared that he heard the thin, sliding whine of tires as a car rocketed into the street. Brakes howled. The car jerked to a halt. Four men jumped out and began to stalk toward them. Big shouldered men, tough men. Blackjacks dangled from their fists.

  As they came forward, Wentworth heard the squeal of other brakes behind him and knew that another car had come from the opposite direction. Four more men! And Wentworth laughed softly!

  "It seems, Bill," he said casually, "that your judgment was more or less right. We have to deal with gangsters. They have come to teach you a lesson. Get back toward the wall and let me . . . chat with these gentlemen.

  "There are only eight of them."

  Chapter Two

  Against Odds

  Sight of Wentworth and his car did not check the men at all. He heard Nita call out softly, and shook his head at her. She knew that he meant she was to help only if he called on her.

  Ram Singh's teeth flashed behind the thicket of his beard. "Wah, Sahib!" he muttered in his strong, nasal voice. "Do not you soil your hands with these vermin. These many days, thy servant has had no battle to warm his blood!"

  A smile moved Wentworth's lips. "No deaths, Ram
Singh," he said. "This is not the time nor the place."

  Seeing that Wentworth did not flee, that he leaned only casually on his cane, the eight men drew to a halt. Behind him, the five boys seemed scarcely to breathe. They were huddled against the wall, waiting. Ram Singh stood against the left fender of the car, arms folded across his swelling chest. There was no one behind him, for the rough semi-circle of the men ran from the front of the car almost to the tenement wall.

  "Gentlemen," Wentworth said equably, "you walk as if you had some business to attend to. Do not allow me to detain you." The silk hat was jaunty over his right eyebrow. The smile on his lips was mocking.

  "Shove off, buddy," one of the men growled. "We're just going to run in this bunch of hoodlums. They tried to rob a guy."

  Wentworth said, "My, my! Rough customers, these boys, since it takes eight of you to handle them. You made remarkably good time getting here from . . . the Mekookum Club!"

  The man started, and his eyes narrowed beneath the snap brim of his hat. He didn't say anything, but the eight men leaped forward as if geared to one throttle of hate. In the same instant, Wentworth and Ram Singh struck.

  Ram Singh touched a hand to the hood of the car, vaulted over it and drove his feet into the face of the end man. Wentworth's cane balanced in his hand and his whole body extended in a straight line behind it. The cane caught the leader between the eyes. His body arched backward while his legs were still carrying him forward. His shoulders thudded to the pavement. His heels clumped down afterward. Wentworth made a long leap forward, bounded entirely over the man's prostrate body, and pivoted easily. Twice more he lunged, and a man doubled over the knock-out punch the cane had administered to the solar plexus; a second caught the ferrule against his jaw and cart-wheeled to the earth. Ram Singh had disposed of another.

  In those two swift seconds of action, five of the eight men were stretched helpless on the ground!

  "We have destroyed the left flank," Wentworth murmured, "and broken through the centre. An encirclement of the right flank is indicated!"