THE SPIDER-City of Doom

by Norvell W. Page

  He and Ram Singh were side by side now, and the three men retreated warily before them. Their heads swung as they sought a way to escape, and there was none. The huddle of boys was against the wall on their left.

  In a single bound, one of the men reached the boys. He seized one as a shield, and a gun glittered in his hand.

  "Nita!" Wentworth called. "The shoulder, please!"

  Nita's gun blasted from the gun-port of the car, and the man pitched to the ground, carrying the boy with him. But Nita had had a clear shot. The remaining two men broke and ran. Wentworth made two long leaps and his cane struck once, and then again. One of the men hit the pavement. The other cringed under a blow across his shoulders. Wentworth's cane twirled in the air, fiercely. Two, three, four blows he laid across the man's back.

  "In the future," he said harshly, "leave these boys alone. Understand? You may carry that word to the Mekookum Club!"

  The man stumbled down the street and Wentworth tucked the cane under his arm, dusted his hands, before he turned back to the boys. Ram Singh was scowling over the prostrate bodies of the men. One of them was stirring, but he made no effort to rise.

  "Wah, master," grumbled Ram Singh. "It was a good fight thy servant needed. This was not worthy of perspiration."

  Wentworth clapped him on the shoulder, but his face was stern as he turned to the worshipful boys against the wall.

  "Geez," whispered Bill Sanders. "Oh, geez, you fight like the Spider himself!"

  Wentworth shook his head quietly. "The Spider . . . kills," he said. "You will go to your homes, and you will make no further attacks on these men. I hope you aren't known to them."

  Bill Sanders took a hesitant step forward. "But we can't, Mr. Wentworth," he said. "Don't you see? The cops can't do anything unless somebody will talk, and the victims are all scared. We're scared to go to the cops, too. It ain't only Deesie's dad. There's lots of others. We followed the collection gang. Gee, Mr. Wentworth . . ."

  Wentworth bent toward the earnest boy, and his face was gentle. "Yes, Bill," he said. "I see . . . but I did not mean nothing would be done. Get all the information you can, but don't disturb these men actively again. I can sometimes get in touch with the Spider. I will send him to you! Now, hurry! Get away from here before there's more trouble!"

  Wentworth motioned the boys away. They looked at Bill Sanders, and abruptly he nodded. "Okay, Mr. Wentworth!" he said.

  In a trice, the five boys were racing away down the street, Bill Sanders leading. He angled across the street, swarmed over a wooden fence. Wood echoed hollowly as his gang followed. He reached a piling beside the wharf, looked around at the four panting boys behind him.

  He nodded then, and motioned them over the side. One by one, they bellied over the edge, swung under and disappeared. Bill Sanders stood for a moment peering at the damp darkness around them, listened to the hoot of tugs on the East River whose waters washed the pier.

  Then he nodded to himself and swung down into the darkness after the others. It was like a cave under the wharf. One boy had lighted a stump of a candle, set it on a soap box. For moments, the boys panted in silence, their eyes big as they looked at each other.

  Presently, Bill Sanders pulled the captured revolver out of his pocket and thumped it down on the box. "We got an arsenal now," he said, and dragged a sleeve across his forehead. "Geez, can that Mr. Wentworth fight!"

  That started it. They all talked at once, but presently Bill rapped on the box with the gun. "Spiders, we got to be ready when our chief comes. He'll go to the Mekookum Club and bust it wide open. We'll scout out the neighborhood there, hunh?"

  They clamored their assent. They stole out of their dark cave, and slipped through dark side streets toward the club. They didn't see that there were six men in the shadows of two parked cars, nor see those cars roll toward them quietly.

  The cars picked up speed while the boys were sliding along a blank warehouse wall. They closed in and made a trap. Suddenly, the men were among the boys; six men armed with blackjacks and clubbed pistols, attacking boys.

  There were shrill shouts. The boys dodged like imprisoned dogs. They slammed against the two autos that formed the trap. One jumped into a car. Another slid over a hood. But one lay already on the pavement, and did not stir. And men held the other two. Their blackjacks were lifted. They were glaring down at their helpless prisoners.

  That was why they did not see the figure that seemed to materialize out of the very shadows itself. A twisted figure with hunched shoulders, whose body was draped in a long cape. They did not see the man, but they heard him! They heard him laugh!

  The sound was grating and low and mocking! It was sinister with the imminent threat of death!

  And the men whirled with screams of terror. They had heard that laughter, too, and always when it had sounded, a criminal had died. It was the laughter of the Spider!

  The thugs leaped for the cars in sudden terror . . . but there were two forty-five calibre automatics in the fists of the Spider! They whipped out their own weapons, began to blast to ribbons the wet darkness of the night.

  The two weapons in the fists of the Spider spoke at the same instant, and two of the men were hurled to death under the heavy impact of the lead. The others leaped into one of the cars. The motor roared as they wrenched the sedan free and sent it charging down the street at heedless speed.

  The Spider pivoted easily, and once more his two guns spoke together. There was no more shooting from the car. It skidded around the corner and vanished. Its motor howled against the night. The Spider moved with his curious limping gait that covered ground so swiftly. He stooped tenderly over the boy on the ground.

  It was Deesie. A blow had torn his scalp. He was unconscious and his breathing was labored. The Spider lifted his head and the boys shrank back. He whistled softly, and a car poked its nose out from the corner behind them. It rolled swiftly forward, a dilapidated coupe whose motor had a deep whispering note of power.

  "It is not for work like this," the Spider said sternly, "that I allow you to organize my clubs. This is work for men who know how to take and mete out death. You have all walked very close to death tonight. In the future, you will obey orders implicitly. And keep out of sight!"

  The coupe drew to a halt and a man whose entire face was covered by a black mask swung to the ground. "The hospital," the Spider ordered. "Take the car the thugs abandoned. It is war."

  The masked man saluted silently. He lifted the unconscious Deesie in tender arms, stalked toward the crooks' car, and sped away. The Spider faced the boys. "Go to your homes," he said quietly. "This is no mere minor racket you have run across."

  "But . . . Bill . . ." one of the boys said, and his voice was almost a sob. "Bill . . . I saw him jump into that car!"

  The Spider swore softly. If Bill Sanders had jumped into the car that got away, then he was a prisoner of the killers! They would not be mercifully inclined after tonight. He would have to move swiftly. He glanced at the boys. Their faces were white and frightened, but there was no flinching there. The Spider nodded.

  "I will need a guide," he said. "Someone may perhaps have to drive the car. Come with me."

  He sprang behind the wheel of the coupe. The boys piled after him, gazing with awe at his grim profile.

  "We go to the Mekookum Club," the Spider ordered softly.

  His voice was expressionless, and beneath the steel mask that hid his face, his mouth was bitterly set. He blamed himself for that boy's injury, for the kidnapping of the other. He should have sent them into protection at once. But it had been necessary to remain behind, to don the robes of the Spider in order to trail the thugs when they recovered.

  Presently, they parked a block away from the Mekookum Club which filled the entire fourth floor of a loft building. Its windows glowed with light and great black letters had been painted on the glass, spelling the club's name.

  "This is our battle plan," the Spider said softly. "That adjoining building will be easy t
o enter. I can get to the roof of the club. Fats, you can drive. You stay near the car. Pug, you will go on the other side of the block and keep out of sight. Monk, you'll go with me. If any one of you hears me whistle like this," he piped three failing notes. "Call the police at once!"

  "The cops!" Monk gulped.

  The Spider nodded, and as he slid from the coupe Monk was at his side. He was visibly puffed up with pride at his assignment to go with the Spider.

  "Geez," he whispered, "I've had dreams like this! Only, couldn't I have a gun? I got my old sock with half a brick in the toe, but it ain't like having a rod!"

  A smile stirred Wentworth's lips. "Your job, Monk, will be to keep lookout, too," he said softly. "It's possible that, when I'm once inside, the others won't be able to hear me whistle. You will repeat the signal if you hear it. I'm giving you a post of great importance, Monk. You'll have to guard my line of retreat!"

  Monk said happily, "Oh, that's swell, Spider, and if anybody tries to stop you, I'll—I'll—"

  "You'll call the police, Monk!" the Spider ordered.

  It was simple to gain entrance to the taller loft building and, five minutes later Wentworth was looking down upon the roof of the Mekookum Club two stories below him. With a deft movement, he slid a coil of silk line from a pocket of his cape. It was fine stuff, no larger than a pencil, but it had a tested strength of hundreds of pounds! Rapidly, he looped it about a chimney pot, let the end dangle down toward the roof below.

  "Now, Monk!" he warned. "Keep out of sight, even here. Listen for my signal. Remember, my life and the life of Bill Sanders may depend on your following orders strictly. This is my line of retreat!"

  Monk nodded eagerly. "I'll hide here!" he said.

  He faded back into the dark shadow of the roof kiosk and was invisible except for the white blur of his face. Wentworth nodded and stole toward the rampart and his silken line. His lips were harshly drawn. He would have to move fast indeed to save Bill Sanders. The boy probably had been brought here only a few moments before, but gangsters like these didn't waste time!

  The Spider took a rapid turn of the silk about his thigh and arm and began to slip down the face of the building as silently as the creature whose name he bore. He was half way down when he felt a tremor run through the silken line. He wrenched his head back.

  Silhouetted against the sky, was a man! Not Monk—for this man wore a felt hat—and there was the glitter of a knife in his hand!

  He was preparing to slice the Spider's web and drop him to his death!

  Wentworth swore softly and wrenched out his automatic, but he hesitated to fire. If he shot, there would be a general alarm, and no chance at all to rescue Bill Sanders! Wentworth loosened his grip slightly on the silken line, sped more rapidly toward the roof.

  Above him, there was a muffled thud, a cry. Something flashed down past him. It was a knife!

  Wentworth peered upward again. There was a silhouette up there, but this time there was no hat . . . only rumpled hair. Monk's voice came down to him clearly.

  "Retreat's okay!" he called softly. "I used the old brick in the sock!"

  Wentworth felt his throat tighten. They were great kids, these boys in the Spider club. If anything happened to them . . . Wentworth cut off the thought. He had reached the roof of the Mekookum Club! Two strides he took, and the shadows swallowed him.

  Presently, the balustrade at the back of the club took on a distorted, humped silhouette. It was only for a moment, and then all was normal again. On the roof above, Monk strained his eyes and ears. In the streets below, two boys waited . . . and in a room of the Mekookum Club a half dozen armed killers waited!

  In the room where Bill Sanders lay, bound and spread-eagled upon a table top, there was only one man. The others waited outside the doors, guns in their fists, anger and bitter hatred in their eyes. They were afraid. They would strike all the more viciously because of that! Bill Sanders had been stripped to the waist, and the man who stood beside him had a grin on this thick lips.

  "So you won't make a nice noise, eh bud?" the man said. "A nice little scream now, like I was hurting you, so the Spider will come in a hurry. Of course, I'm not really hurting you." He put the heel of his palm on Bill's nose and ground down. It hurt excruciatingly. Bill set his teeth on his lip.

  "Got to have guts, don't you, Bill?" the man purred. He seemed to like his job. "Let's see how a thumb in the eye works."

  Bill felt a sob jerk into his throat. He didn't make a sound. The gangster slapped him across the mouth and stood back, scowling at him.

  "I guess I gotta get tough," he said happily. He lighted a cigarette! "A little touch of hot-nose, let's say!" he laughed. "By golly, that's a good one. I'll have to tell the boys. Hot-nose! It's simple. You just get a cigarette going and shove the hot end up the nose. How about that, now, Bill? Going to yell?"

  There were tears in Bill's eyes. He hated himself because of them. He said, with breath between each word: "You . . . go . . . to . . . hell!"

  The gangster nodded amiably. He had the cigarette going to his satisfaction now. He'd get a scream out of this brat. The Spider would come dashing in. There were six of the hoods. Six guns. Oh, they'd finish him off all right!

  He leaned toward the helpless boy, the cigarette coal glowing redly. He jeered. "Not going to yell, hunh?"

  Bill yelled. He screamed at the top of his lungs before the cigarette reached his nose. The gangster jumped with surprise, straightened . . . and something soft as silk dropped over his head! It didn't feel like anything until it touched his throat, then it tightened like a band of steel!

  The gangster tried to yell, and he couldn't get breath past that circle of steel. He whirled, clawing for his revolver, clawing at his throat. There was a crouching black figure there on the window sill—and a face that was like judgment day.

  The gangster tried to speak. Words pushed at his throat: "The Spider!"

  He didn't make a sound. The silken web, noosed about his throat yanked him forward and he thumped to the floor.

  "Scream again, Bill!" whispered the Spider.

  Bill screamed, and suddenly, it seemed to him that the gangster was talking over him again.

  "That's fine," the voice said. "That's just fine. Now a couple more good screams, just to prove you don't really like a hot-nose."

  Bill saw it was the Spider talking while he rapidly unfastened Bill's bonds. But he wasn't looking at Bill. His eyes were everywhere about the room. This was an office. There was a desk, a typewriter. There was a safe. On this safe the Spider's eyes lingered. And all the while, he talked.

  "So you're going to get stubborn after those nice screams, are you?" he said raspingly. "Come on now, scream nice. Scream pretty. So your pal, the Spider will come popping in. Scream!"

  Bill screamed. His hands and feet were free now and the Spider was helping him toward the window. He was whispering. "I'll lift you until you can reach the roof," he said. "Monk is on the other roof above this one. He'll help you get up . . . with the Web. Wait for me there!"

  Bill's hands clutched the edge of the roof. Strong hands gripped him below the knees, lifted him until he could grab the roof edge. It wasn't hard. He got over, and he lay there panting. He poked his head down to give a hand to the Spider, but the Spider wasn't there in the window any more.

  Inside the room, the Spider moved swiftly toward the safe. He was still talking in the voice of the strangled gangster on the floor. "Damned little fool, what the hell did you faint for? I haven't started hurting you yet. I'm just playing with you. Come on now, wake up, before I really go to work."

  His hands rested against the safe door. His fingers were long, and their tips were sensitive. He twirled the dial rapidly, nodding his head now and again as he felt the tumblers click. It was a very simple box, one of the large old-fashioned kind. Within a space of moments, he had the door swung open. Money there, and papers. He riffled through them rapidly and cold light glittered in his eyes. He stuffed papers and money int
o pockets inside the cape.

  It was when he straightened afterward that he felt the fan of a draft across his shoulders. Only one thing could cause that—the opening of a door! The gangsters had spotted him!

  Wentworth knew that, even before his eyes flicked to a bawdy picture hung upon the wall, whose glass served as an excellent mirror. In that dark mirror he saw that not one, but both doors had opened! There were three men in each, and they had guns in their fists!

  Even as he spotted them, a harsh voice rasped an order:

  "Give it to him! Kill the Spider!"

  Then gun-sound tore the quiet of the room to shreds!

  Chapter Three

  Without Quarter!

  The Spider, in that deadly instant, had the advantage of only a split-second warning. If he hesitated, if he whirled to fight, that moment was wasted . . . and he would be a dead man! But the Spider did not hesitate! As always, the perfectly trained co-ordination of body and mind chose the only possible action—and performed it!

  The glimpse in the glass was enough. He dived behind the steel door of the safe, twisting as he leaped. His twin automatics smacked into his palms, and one blasted. The light went out!

  That was while the first gunshots ripped across the room, while the rasping echo of the killer-leader's voice still echoed. After that first blast, there was an instant of silence.

  Into that silence, the Spider flung his mocking, ominous laughter!

  The guns went wild then. The men flung a hail of bullets into the darkness. The steel door rang again and again to the impact of lead. Fear had got the better of their hatred. A Spider they could not see along their gunsights was as deadly as invisible death itself!

  The Spider concentrated on one door with his right hand automatic. He lifted it, smiling thinly at the flashes of the guns there. When he pulled the trigger, it was as if there had been one long gun-blast, so swiftly did the three bullets fly! The guns in that doorway did not fire again. There were two heavy solid thuds as bodies were punched to the floor by the Spider's deadly lead.