THE SPIDER-City of Doom

by Norvell W. Page

  For an instant the girl hesitated, then she seemed to consult within herself. Presently she opened the door and the sixth man filed to his seat about the council table. None of them spoke to another. They stared with fixed suspicion at each other, glared at the plate of glass at the head of the table. The room was not so well lighted now. It was windowless and the glow of illumination that came from somewhere near the ceiling faded a little.

  The six men stiffened in their seats. For the glass at the head of the table was no longer translucent. A milky whiteness was spreading over it. It intensified, grew, permanent and fixed . . . and a face made itself visible there!

  It was a thin-jawed face of utter ruthlessness. Cruelty drew the line of the lips; the eyes were heavy-lidded and sinister. There was a corpse-like pallor, an utter rigidity.

  One of the hooded men leaned forward with a harsh oath. "Moulin!" he gasped. "Moulin! But, damn it, you're dead! I saw the Spider kill you!"

  The lips of the face moved very slightly and clipped, thin words slid out. "No, Gannuck," it said, "I am not . . . dead. You have something to report, I believe, before we shall accept you as a member?"

  Gannuck pushed his hood back from his forehead, bearing the double imprint of the Spider's seal. He swore and dragged a sleeve across his brow.

  "God!" he said. "God—it's like the dead talking. I tell you . . . ."

  "Report!" Moulin snapped.

  Over by the door, the girl had a notebook on her knee and she was inscribing rapid hooks and curves upon it. Her lips moved as if she voiced to herself the words she wrote.

  Gannuck mumbled, "Okay, okay." He sounded cowed. "The Spider acted up and caused me some losses. About ten men, maybe more. Haven't counted up yet. He also wrecked two trucks including the cannon. But that didn't stop me. We smashed through a heavy cordon of police, killed a bunch of them. I think I proved my motorized unit can handle anything that's put up to it. It was a swell rehearsal."

  Moulin's head nodded. "I agree, Gannuck! The rehearsal was adequate. I cast my vote for admitting Gannuck. We will need him on X-day."

  Five heads nodded, and Moulin's voice lifted. "Mildred, record the vote as admitting Gannuck!"

  Mildred looked up, startled, beside the door. She quavered, "Yes, Lord Moulin."

  For a long moment the men stared at the submissive, blonde girl. Then her head bowed, and she was writing again with moving lips. The men looked toward the face in the mirror.

  "Flagg," said Moulin. "Report!"

  "Kirkpatrick has been removed," the man's flat voice said unctuously. "Littlejohn is in his place. An unimaginative man who knows only routine. A deadly enemy of the Spider. There will be no trouble with him."

  Moulin nodded again. "I vote admission for Flagg," he said. "Now, then, Towan!"

  The man he addressed was a little smaller than the others. He started nervously. "Me—me, Moulin? But I haven't done my job yet. You said it could wait until tomorrow. But me and Cassin got a swell job figured out together, haven't we, Cassin?"

  Another hooded figure nodded silently, the man addressed as Towan leaned forward on the table. "Tomorrow, Moulin . . . but listen here, Moulin. You're checking up on our jobs! What about yours? You was going to put the Spider out of the way!"

  Moulin smiled with a slight cold movement of his lips. The eyes remained hooded. "My report will be ready in a moment, Towan. See to it that your job tomorrow is a good one. There is no expulsion from this brotherhood save by one means. You know that, Towan."

  Towan cowered back in his chair. "Sure, sure, I know that, Moulin," he said hoarsely. "I don't want my neck cracked."

  Moulin nodded, faced toward the sixth hooded figure. "I won't mention your name," he said. "I know you. Report."

  "Tomorrow," the man's voice was deep, rich . . . an orator's voice. "I will be ready on X-day, I and my thousands. The demonstration, the proof, will come tomorrow!"

  Moulin smiled slowly. "That is fine, gentlemen. Excellent. If Towan's and Cassin's are right; if this demonstration is successful, I shall give the signal at once. Tomorrow will be X-day! And the day afterward, you will all be multimillionaires! Gentlemen, those who have failed in the past have failed for this reason: They tried to collect their money over long periods of time. They laid themselves open to growing carelessness, to leaks, to mistakes. We shall not do that. We shall strike once . . . and it will be long enough to last us our lives!"

  Towan muttered something, repeated it in a louder tone of voice. "What about your report!" he insisted.

  Moulin snarled, "Shut up, Towan! You have yet to prove yourself . . . ." His voice grew confidential. "All of you have suffered at the hands of the Spider. All of you are great in your lines, but you failed through trying for a long haul. I have sought you out because you had a great hatred, and it would solidify you. Because you have great skills which, pulled into a cohesive whole, engineered by myself, can make us all rich! . . . But you asked for my proof. The Spider is not yet in my hands. I have one of his chief lieutenants. I am destroying him. I have also the daughter of a wealthy man you all know. He has grown obstinate over ransom.

  "But I am planting a trap for the Spider, gentlemen. He is fanatical about rescuing his associates. When he comes, he will fall into a trap from which he will never emerge. Gentlemen . . . my report!"

  As he spoke, the glass was suddenly no more than it had been before—a sheet of translucent material. The voice was gone, too . . . but the end of the room was opening on darkness beyond, a slow and deliberate folding back of the leaves of leather-covered wall. They moved slowly, and the six hooded men held their breaths and stared intently at the pitch blackness beyond.

  When the doors were fully opened, light blazed suddenly in the room beyond. The hooded men drew in a slow, tortured breath. There were, as Moulin had foretold, two prisoners there—a man and a girl. One was Wentworth's stalwart ally, Jackson. The other was a lovely, dark girl, whose face was strained with terror. The two prisoners were bound rigidly to rough beams of wood. They were stretched upon the beams by bonds that secured arms and legs and drew them in opposite directions.

  But that was not the thing that made Towan start to his feet with a smothered cry, nor what made Gannuck push back the hood from his heavy brow and drag his sleeve across the beaded sweat there. It was the means that Moulin had devised for these two to die.

  The prisoners were gagged. Beside them stood two men hooded in black as were the six about the table. Those two men gripped the opposite ends of a long, fine-toothed saw.

  As the six watched, those two hooded men turned toward each other. They pressed the saw down against the breast of the girl, against the naked, swelling chest of Jackson. They set their shoulders . . . and waited for the signal. They were going to saw the two prisoners in half while they still were alive!

  In the darkness, the voice of Moulin spoke, softly, "Are you ready, gentlemen?"

  In the instant when he spoke, there was another sound in the still quiet of the room. It was scarcely audible, but it sent a chill of paralyzing horror through the men who waited.

  It was laughter . . . the laughter of the Spider!

  Even as it sounded, a shaft of light slashed down into the room from above. A trapdoor had opened there! And down through it, black cape whipping out behind him like great, sinister wings, leaped . . . the Spider!

  "Strike!" Moulin shouted. "Kill!"

  The man with the saw heaved. The girl screamed against her gag as the silk of her dress split under the sharp saw teeth. Jackson surged against his bonds, trying to lift the cruel blade away from the girl . . . but the two heavy guns in the Spider's hands spoke as one weapon!

  They drowned out the startled shouts of men about the table. They blew the two sawyers away from their weapon of torture death. They were tossed like broken dolls by the quarter-ton impact of lead. They were hurled to the ground. The saw fell across them, and the edge struck the beam on which Jackson lay with a strident musical note.

  Even
as it sounded, Wentworth was in action again. He sprang wide of the table, whirled to bring his shoulders against the leather cushioned wall. The guns in his hands quested for prey . . . and there was none!

  The six hooded men had vanished like wraiths of fog! Wentworth swore harshly and leaped forward. Not only the men had vanished, but their chairs were gone too. That could mean only one thing. They had been dropped through prepared trapdoors in the floor. Wentworth flicked out a pocket torch, sprayed its illumination over the floor. He sent a bullet toward the circular trapdoor he spotted. The bullet rang on steel, ricocheted upward to scar the edge of the mahogany table.

  "You will not escape alive, Spider!" came the harsh voice of Moulin. "You have fallen into my trap!"

  Wentworth could find no source for the voice. Only one person, besides the prisoners, remained in the room. On her folding chair near the door, the blonde girl bowed her head into her hands and rocked slowly backward and forward. She made no sound. She was passive, unresisting, foredoomed!

  Wentworth approached her, curious. He pulled up her head, stared into her pale stricken face. No, there could be no disguise here. This was a woman. Her face bore not even a trace of makeup. Moulin had callously and deliberately left her behind!

  Wentworth hesitated. Then, gently, he prodded certain nerve centers in the girl's throat. She slipped unconscious to the floor. He could not afford to have even this timorous ally of Moulin at liberty in the room while he worked. He knew what peril he risked. He had chosen this way deliberately, sure of victory. He was frowning as he sprang toward the two prisoners on the beams. In a space of seconds, he had sliced through Jackson's bonds. He thrust the knife into his hands.

  "Free the girl," he snapped. "Web through the trapdoor. By the window and Web to the roof!"

  He sprang back upon the table, and his guns kept watch like restless snakes. Jackson staggered a little as he moved toward the girl. He was not badly hurt. The girl had fainted chiefly from terror. He began slicing her bonds.

  "You killed Moulin, Major," he said, applying the title by which he first had known Wentworth when they fought as soldiers together. "I'll swear I saw Moulin die. But that was his voice!"

  "It was also his face," Wentworth said softly. "Hurry, Jackson! We can't have more than a few moments!"

  "Coming, sir!" Jackson sprang upon the table, the girl in his arms. Wentworth held his cupped hands and Jackson stood upright in them, slid the girl through the open aperture in the ceiling. Then he sprang up himself, reached down a hand for Wentworth.

  One last glance Wentworth flung around the room . . . but there was only the unconscious girl. He did not need her record of what had been said in this room. He had heard it all. He knew now whom he had to oppose—an alliance of men whom he had defeated before but who, organized, were deadly, as Gannuck already had proved!

  "I knew you'd find us, sir," Jackson said as he helped Wentworth through the trapdoor. "I didn't know how; or even where we were . . . ."

  "This is headquarters for a private police agency," Wentworth told him quietly. "One of the fools left a billy in the coupe. It didn't have a city police initial on it, so I knew it must be a private agency. It was then only a matter of elimination. It took two hours, damn it!"

  Jackson had the girl in his arms again. He was staring toward the window. "You go first, sir," he said.

  Wentworth laughed shortly, "Up the rope, Jackson!" he snapped. "No time for debate. I'll tie the girl on for you to lift . . . I still have business here!"

  Jackson started to demur: "I'll fight with you, sir!"

  "The girl, Jackson!" Wentworth snapped, "She must be safe first. Afterward, you can return . . . if there is time. Take her to safety."

  Jackson saluted stiffly, his heavy jaw set in resistance. He began the high climb up the strand of silken rope. It stretched three stories straight up from the window to the roof. Jackson climbed as Wentworth had. The muscles rippled across his shoulders. Wentworth already was tying the girl to the end of the silken line.

  His eyes quested over the office in which he stood. Somewhere here was the key to all this mystery. He knew all of the men who had been in the room below except the one unidentified by Moulin. That orator's voice had awakened memories, but he could not place it definitely. Not yet.

  That did not matter. There were six—no seven—men in this building who owed the Spider their lives. Who owed humanity their deaths! As soon as Jackson had lifted the girl to safety Wentworth would . . . Jackson yanked twice on the silken line, and, very gently, Wentworth swung the girl over the window sill. Her body lifted toward the roof.

  At that very moment, the voice of Moulin spoke mockingly in the room! Wentworth whirled, with gun raised, but could discover no source for the sound!

  "It is useless to try to find me, Spider," Moulin said, in his thin, sinister voice. "It is also useless for you to attempt to escape from this room. It is lined with steel and triple-locked. My guns command the one window. You will have no chance to turn your deadly automatics upon my cohorts! No, no, Spider, I am much too clever for that!

  "The men who are coming to take you prisoner, Spider, are men you cannot wound. You don't shoot at policemen, do you, Wentworth? A little weakness of yours." Moulin laughed. "It is the police who are coming for you, Spider. The police under Commissioner Littlejohn! Prepare yourself to meet them, Spider!"

  The voice ceased speaking and Wentworth leaped to the door. In a trice he had picked the lock. But the door resisted. He could tell that bars had been dropped across it. Steel bars! The trapdoor! That, too, was locked from below! He sprang to the window . . . and a hail of bullets swept across the aperture!

  Wentworth backed to the middle of the office. His eyes quested frantically. But there was no exit. Dimly, he heard the wail of sirens as the police, under his deadly enemy, Littlejohn, raced to the kill!

  Chapter Seven

  In the Trap

  Commissioner Littlejohn was confident as he flung his men about the block in which the Spider had been trapped. He welcomed the appeal flashed him by the Harding Detective and Protective Agency.

  "Obey no orders except those that I give personally," he directed in his harsh, cold voice. "This time, the Spider won't get away!"

  He led a force of police shock-troops into the building. Two men wore bulletproof armor and helmets with plated visors that had only vision slits in them. These men moved ponderously and their metal-gloved hands held sub-machine guns. Three other men carried hydraulic jacks, and there was an axe crew. All carried guns and four of them were equipped with brutal sawed-off shotguns.

  Commissioner Littlejohn did not believe in temporizing with criminals!

  It was the girl who had phoned for help who greeted Littlejohn. Her voice was thin with fright. "He's in there!" she said shakily, pointing to an office door of solid oak, barred with steel. "I put men with guns on the roof below."

  As she spoke, there was a ripple of gunfire that echoed dimly through thick walls.

  "He must have tried to get out by the window," she whispered.

  Littlejohn nodded, and there were spots of red high on his cheekbones. "My men are taking over on the roof," he said curtly. "Get out of here now. We'll take him!"

  He motioned the two men in armor forward. They took positions where they could fire through the door when it was opened. Other police swung forward to lift the bars.

  "Watch out for trickery." Littlejohn's voice was thick, "Do nothing except by my orders! All right . . . ." He glanced about him. The armored men were on their knees. Crouching behind them, the shot-gun squad was ready. The revolver men were out of range, guns trained on the doorway. Littlejohn smiled dourly, drew his own revolver. He faced the doorway, narrowed his eyes. "Flashlights, three of you. Train them on the door. Now then . . . open that door!"

  The dazzling beams of powerful police flashlights played over the panel. The revolver-armed police on each side manipulated the lock of the door . . . and flung it wide!

&
nbsp; Littlejohn swore and flung up his revolver as the lights flooded into the office. There, in the center of the floor, was a twisted, black caped figure. He heard the flat, mocking laughter he had learned to hate.

  "You have an efficient slaughter squad, Littlejohn," the Spider said softly. "Now, watch carefully . . . ."

  "Fire!" Littlejohn snapped. His own revolver bellowed!

  Even as the sub-machine guns chattered out their hail of death, and the riot-guns hurled their loads of shot, there was a flash of brilliant fire within the office! The flames seemed to leap up all around the feet of the black, twisted figure! Black smoke roiled up around him. It was like some devil's disappearance on the stage of the opera.

  The black smoke rolled high, but through it, movement was dimly discernible. In spite of that wall of bullets that had been hurled into the room, the black caped figure flitted toward the window! It hurtled toward the window, appeared to hesitate there . . . and then plunged outward into space! Instantly, guns spoke from the roof below. Lead smashed through the glass of the window, pocked the ceiling. Plaster dust swirled down to meet the black fog rising from the floor!

  In a single long bound, Littlejohn reached his men. "Cease firing!" he snapped. He went across the office toward the window. "Cease firing!" he shouted again, more loudly.

  Guns on the roof dwindled into silence, and Littlejohn peered down into space. Ten feet below the window, there dangled the black caped figure. The silken line was looped over a window-cleaner's hook beside the casement. But there was no body inside the black cape. Now that it dangled so, Littlejohn could see the spindly legs and prongs of a hat-rack, on which cape and hat had been hung.

  While he stared, swearing, through a long half-minute, he heard an officer's voice call out behind him. "Chief, look! There's a hole in the floor!"

  Littlejohn whipped around and, through the lifting smoke, he made out what the finger of a flashlight had picked out. There was a jagged aperture, roughly square, in the middle of the office floor! With a harsh curse, Littlejohn sprang toward it. He was staring down into a sort of directors' room with a long table and green leather walls.