THE SPIDER-City of Doom

by Norvell W. Page

  The third man screamed terribly. His gun clattered down. His feet made fumbling, broken steps across the floor. It was possible to hear them in the silence that his scream had caused. Three, four dragging steps . . . and a long pause. The scream stopped. There was a final thud . . . and silence!

  Wentworth weighed his automatics in his palms and crouched lower behind the door, listening. He heard a whisper, and knew what it portended. They thought he would make a break through that one door which his bullets had cleared. Well, that was as he had planned it!

  Wentworth's eyes quested over the room. Grey light came in dimly through the oblong of the window. He could see the dark shadow of the torturer he had strangled . . . the silk line was within reach of his hand. Wentworth laughed inaudibly behind his steel mask. He drew the silk line to him, got the slack in his hand and tossed it into the darkness. His aim was perfect. It settled across the top of the door his bullets had swept clear of enemy guns!

  Then the Spider began, softly, slowly, to tighten his silken line. The body of the dead gangster began to slide across the floor toward that empty doorway!

  Abruptly, the guns began to blaze again. Two of them hammered from beyond the doorway he had cleared. The third was within the room. Wentworth groped within the safe, found a box heavy with silver currency. Unerringly, he threw the box. There was a jangle of silver as it struck, a hard rain upon the floor. The gangster gasped. His body thudded to the floor.

  The other two guns were still crashing, and they had not seen the source of that missile. Slowly, Wentworth raised to his feet. He lifted his two guns . . . was on the verge of leaping forward to still those last two gunmen.

  At that instant, gunfire burst into the darkness from the window! Streaming lines of crimson powder-flame gushed into the room. Without thought, Wentworth's right gun swivelled that way. A cry rose in his throat . . . and he did not fire!

  That was a boy that dangled, head-first, from the roof. Bill Sanders had come to the rescue!

  Even as Wentworth spotted the fact, the two gangsters leaped to the door of the room. Their guns blazed . . . toward the window!

  With fierce speed, Wentworth whipped his guns around and blasted. He leaped forward as he shot, snapped two more shots after the first. Dimly, he saw the black lumps that were the gangsters in the shadows. They were driven backward against the walls. The shots pinned them there, seemed to flatten them.

  When the Spider's automatics ceased, those two killers remained erect through long heart-beats of time. Then they pitched forward to the floor. In the darkness, there was no sound now except the slow scrabbling of a dying man's last convulsions, the hoarse breathing of the gangster who had been slugged. The reek of gunpowder stung the nostrils, brought moisture to the harrowed eyes of the Spider.

  "Don't shoot again, Bill," he called softly.

  He heard Bill gasp, "Thank God! I thought you were a goner! That's why we called the cops!"

  Wentworth swore softly, lifted his head to listen. Yes, the police were already on the way. Those thin siren screams were just on the edge of audibility. They swelled rapidly . . . but there was still work to do here!

  The Spider flicked on a small pocket flash. Its brilliance spilled across the floor, and he strode toward the man he had struck down with the box. He would label him so that his crooked days would be finished forever!

  From his pocket, the Spider slid a slender platinum cigarette lighter. He thumbed open its base, stooped toward the man and ground it against the unconscious gangster's forehead. When he straightened, his light remained focused on the forehead of the man. Where he had touched, a crimson symbol sprang to life; a thing of hairy legs and poison fangs: the seal of the Spider!

  Abruptly, Wentworth swore and bent toward the man. He used the heel of his palm to scrub at the man's forehead . . . and then a sense of utter incredulity struck across his mind. He stood stiffly, staring down at the upturned face, hearing the hoarse breathing of the stunned man. But it was no illusion.

  On the man's forehead . . . were two seals of the Spider!

  There could be only one meaning. This man was one of the half dozen criminals upon whom Wentworth had placed his seal but allowed to survive with that brand upon his flesh and soul!

  Rapidly, Wentworth canvassed his memory. This huge frame, the shaggy hair across the brow, the bluntly brutal features . . . . Damn it, this man was one of the most cruel tyrants that had burgeoned in the age of the rackets. It was Big Gannuck! Wentworth laughed, stooped toward the prostrate body of Gannuck . . . and Bill Saunders called hoarsely from the window.

  "Spider, the cops are surrounding the block! There must be a hundred of them!" Wentworth swore. He could not carry Gannuck through that cordon. He weighed his automatic in his hand, shook his head. The Spider had killed many men, but only when they faced him, weapon in hand. It was a foolish chivalry perhaps, but it was part of the Spider's code. He could not kill Gannuck; there was no time to revive him to give Gannuck his chance; no way to carry him out a prisoner.

  The Spider laughed softly. Gannuck's entire force had been destroyed. The man himself was double-branded. He thought that Gannuck would be finished. Wentworth dipped his gun muzzle in the stains upon the floor. On the white wall, he scrawled:

  "Flee, Gannuck! Next time, you die!" And beneath it, he imprinted the seal of the Spider!

  Once more, Bill cried out anxiously from the window and then Wentworth ran that way. He gathered the length of the Web that had strangled the torturer and carried it with him.

  "All right, Bill!" he called softly. "Stand aside!"

  From the sill, Wentworth leaped upward. His powerful hands clamped on the edge of the roof, and he swung his body through an accelerating arc as he levered upward. He thrust his legs and half his body over the edge . . . was on his feet on the roof in an instant.

  With long strides, he raced across the roof toward where his Web dangled. He could see the silhouette of Monk against the sky. He swore under his breath as Bill raced beside him. He could hear the police now. More and more sirens were whimpering into the district. The place was alive with cops. It was going to be hard enough to escape alone, and now he had to rescue these two boys!

  A slight and gentle smile moved his lips. It took the young to stand by so loyally! Men, growing older, were more selfish of their own safety. But these boys . . . . At the foot of the gangling Web, Wentworth whirled toward Bill. "I'll tie this loop about you," he said rapidly, "and go up first to lift you. It's a trick to climb a rope as thin as this!"

  Bill nodded. He was gasping for breath from his run. The Spider's breathing was scarcely hurried. Once the Web was secure about Bill, he gripped the line with his hands, running it in and out between his fingers. He gripped the loose end between clamped heels. When he closed his fist, the silken line could not slip. He hauled up, clamped his heels, slid his hand higher for another grip, repeated that process. It was a feat that would exhaust an ordinary athlete. Wentworth scarcely heeded what he did. So many times, so many walls he had scaled thus. His muscles knew their task. His brain raced to the job ahead. These two boys must escape!

  Moments after he reached the higher roof, he had hauled Bill Sanders to his side. Then he raced across to the outer balustrade and stared down into the street. He saw a slim tall man, erect as a soldier. He was in civilian clothes, but the abrupt movements of his hands, the instant obedience he commanded identified him at once.

  Commissioner Stanley Kirkpatrick had taken personal charge!

  A smile touched Wentworth's lips. Kirkpatrick was his personal friend; and he was the Spider's deadliest nemesis! His keen brain would make the cordon air-tight against the escape of the Spider!

  His plan was simple. A line of police, backed up by a rope, was being strung entirely around the block. There was only one exit, and that was where Kirkpatrick stood. He intended to inspect personally every person brought out of the buildings!

  Wentworth's smile widened. He turned to survey the rest of
the block. On the opposite side were tenements. There would be many people there. There was a way out . . . . It would be thick with dangers, but danger was not new to the Spider!

  He turned toward the two boys, who were watching him with wide, awed eyes. He nodded toward them.

  "Follow me," he said. "This is a very fine police cordon. It may give us some trouble!"

  Rapidly then, he ran across the roofs. Once more they had to use the Web to drop to another level. There Wentworth left it, and to its end he affixed his long black cape, his broad-brimmed hat. At a little distance, it looked quite lifelike. The breeze made it sway a little.

  Two roofs farther on, he darted into a tenement building. There was an empty room on an upper floor. He went in there. Swiftly, he stowed the money and paper from the safes about his person. He found a ragged pair of trousers, a torn shirt. From a leather girdle about his waist, he took out a compact kit to make-up . . . . Moments later, he emerged from the room to confront the boys.

  They glanced at him, then looked away. One of them whistled self-consciously. "We're just waiting for a friend," said Bill.

  Wentworth's eyes twinkled. It was no wonder they did not recognize him. His wig was gone, and his normal hair was greyed with make-up. There were lines of age about his mouth, denting his cheeks . . . and his eyes were the weak, reddened eyes of the aged.

  He laughed softly, and the two boys whirled toward him. Wentworth nodded and spoke to them in the voice of the Spider. "We are going to the streets now. I am your grandfather. I am determined that you shall not become gangsters and I am teaching you a lesson. Follow my lead."

  They went swiftly down the steps and, just inside the outer door, Wentworth took each of the boys by the ear. His eyes, behind their disguise, were quick and sharp. If he were caught, and identified . . . . He shook his head. He must not be! Too many men lay dead under the seal of the Spider! It did not matter that each one of them richly deserved death. In the eyes of the law, he was guilty!

  For a moment longer, Wentworth hesitated. His mind flashed back to Gannuck. It was remarkable that the man should return to New York after the lesson he had had once before from the Spider. Was it possible that he had some new and strong protection that he should dare the Spider's wrath? He knew, with a certainty born of long years of battle against the Underworld, that Gannuck had not come back for any such minor racket as the small protection paid by local grocers. Something big was afoot . . . and that meant something that was terribly menacing to the people Wentworth served.

  Wentworth cut his thoughts short and strode out into the street. He lifted his voice, and it was the cracked and aged voice of an irritable, domineering old man.

  "You young rapscallions!" he said harshly. "So you want to be gangsters, do you? I'll show you what happens to gangsters! I'll show you that you can't put things over on old Grandpap!" He tweaked Bill's ear. "Well, why don't you say something, Capone?"

  Bill writhed, and said something in a whining voice. A cop at the cordon rope grinned and waved him back.

  "You can't go outside the ropes, grandpap!" he called.

  "Don't want to," Wentworth snapped. "Want to stay inside the cordon. I'm going to show these young rapscallions what happens to gangsters. Saw the Spider shoot hell out of them over there and a good job, too . . . ."

  "Where is the Spider?" the cop snapped.

  "Up on the roof, I suppose," Wentworth said. "He was sneaking across the housetops a little while ago. Up there!" He nodded toward the roof where the cape and hat of the Spider still dangled in lifelike fashion.

  The cop shouted, and a half dozen officers bolted toward the house Wentworth had indicated, but the cordon was still as strong as ever. Wentworth tramped along, grumbling, fussing at the two boys he still held resolutely by the ears. Kirkpatrick was only a half block away, winnowing out a group of people caught within the cordon. Wentworth's eyes narrowed, and then one brow lifted mockingly.

  He had disarmed the policeman with a laugh. It was a fact that men could rarely take seriously any person at whom they laughed. If he could only carry out that idea in the presence of Kirkpatrick . . . . He was only a hundred feet from Kirkpatrick now, and he lifted his voice, saying again that he would show the boys what happened to gangsters.

  "Where's the boss of this she-bang?" he demanded of a cop. The man grinned and nodded toward Kirkpatrick. Wentworth hurried the two boys that way. "I want to get permission to go in there where the Spider killed them men," he said thinly. "I want to show these two young fools what happens when people think they're smarter than the law. I just want to let them see."

  Under his breath, Wentworth whispered to the two boys. "When I say 'rapscallion' again, you two break free, run right at Kirkpatrick, the tall man there, dodge around him, then run on. Understand?"

  He did not wait for the two boys to answer. They were only a score of feet away now, and Kirkpatrick was glancing toward them with a frown.

  "Mr. Police Chief," Wentworth lifted his voice, "I want permission to take these two young rapscallions . . ."

  As he spoke, Bill and Monk, by one concerted twist wrenched free of Wentworth's grip and raced toward Kirkpatrick. Wentworth stumbled to one knee. He got up and stumbled after them, shouting, waving his arms.

  "Stop them!" he cried. "Stop them, Mr. Police Chief! I'm going to teach them a lesson, and . . ."

  Kirkpatrick made a grab for Bill, but Bill dodged the grip. Monk jostled Kirkpatrick from the other side. They dodged behind the Commissioner as Wentworth ran up, limping.

  "You young rapscallions!" Wentworth shouted. "You just wait until I get my hands on you! Knocking your old grandpap down!"

  Kirkpatrick said furiously, "That's enough of that! Stop it, you young fools!"

  Wentworth dodged past Kirkpatrick and gave him a stiff thrust with his shoulder. Bill tripped the commissioner and Kirkpatrick went sprawling to the ground. Instantly, Bill and Monk were running frantically from Wentworth as he hobbled after them, shouting, waving his arms. Cops were hiding grins on their faces. One of them made a halfhearted grab at the fleeing boys.

  Kirkpatrick was already scrambling to his feet. Wentworth, in spite of his hobble, made surprisingly good time. He was already through the cordon, hurrying toward the darkness into which the two boys had disappeared.

  Kirkpatrick's voice reached out fiercely: "Stop him, men!" he cried. "Stop him, I say. It's the Spider!"

  But even as he shouted, there was a fierce, heavy outbreak of gunfire on the roof where the Spider's cape and hat dangled from a silken line. His words were blotted out in the sound. Men's attention was divided. Kirkpatrick pulled out his long-barreled revolver and sent a bullet whining into the darkness where Wentworth was running. It was close, damnably close. It brought the attention of the cops back to their Commissioner.

  "It's the Spider, I tell you!" Kirkpatrick shouted. "Damn it, we should be accustomed to his tricks by now! Stop him!"

  Cops stared for an amazed moment at the shadows where the bent and hobbling old man had disappeared. When they recovered, they still didn't use their guns. They couldn't quite believe what the Commissioner shouted. They began to run . . . and Wentworth, gasping now, made the last long leap into a darkened doorway.

  "This way, Spider," the voice of Bill whispered. "I know the way. There's a hole in the fence, and a cellar window . . ."

  Kirkpatrick's voice rang out, "Widen the cordon! Encircle the next block! Damn it, don't let the Spider get away!"

  The police were running fiercely, but without guidance. Their eyes stared blindly at the darkness. They called to each other. They saw nothing of the hobbling old man they sought. They heard something . . . a voice that came to their ears faintly, mockingly . . . the laughter of the Spider!

  Chapter Four

  Hell's Invasion

  The three were huddled in the small sitting room behind the family grocery store; father, mother and daughter. The yellow light laid its yellow path between the cretonne curtains into the di
mmer shop. Out front, the sign was lighted, inviting late customers . . . begging for one last late patron.

  It could have been a cheerful family group there about the stove. The man's face was made for laughter with those fans of wrinkles about his eye corners, the humorous quirk to the mouth. But his eyes were haunted now as he pored over the day's receipts. The woman's eyes glanced toward him anxiously now and again, but rested most often on the brown curly head of their daughter, bent over her studies. Hard on a girl her age, not having money for nice things . . . .

  The man muttered an oath under his breath. There was a jeer in his voice when he spoke. "If this keeps up," he said harshly, "we'll have almost enough money to pay protection day after tomorrow!"

  The woman sighed and bent lower over the sewing in her lap. The girl's head snapped up. "Dad, why don't you go to the cops?" she demanded. "These cheap racketeers—"

  The woman said, "Sssh, Doris!"

  "Well, I don't care! It's pretty awful to just make enough to pay them! I'm tired of doing without, and everything!" She tossed her brown curls, her face was flushed.

  Her father came slowly to his feet. His movements were those of an old man, though his hair was still crisp and black, his flesh still firm. "Yeah, Doris. That's right. But they said . . . they'd take you. They'd do it, too, by God! . . . There must be a way out of this. There's got to be. This is America, and . . ."

  The tinkle of the shop door's bell whipped him about, and there was terror in his eyes. He started toward the cretonne curtains, but before he reached them, those curtains stirred slightly. A package of money thudded in the middle of the floor.

  "Your money, Markham!" The voice spoke from the shadows, a flat monotone. "The money you gave the racketeers. You won't have to worry about them again. They're dead!"

  The man had stooped unconsciously to pick up the money. He stood stroking it with shaking hands. The girl arose.