THE SPIDER-City of Doom

by Norvell W. Page

  Littlejohn swore and slammed out of the room, and Nita opened her eyes and looked up into Wentworth's face. The smile was gone now.

  "Are you . . . that man?" she asked dully. "No, no, don't answer me. I don't want to know. I don't want to know!" She buried her face in her hands, and the sobs pushed out through them. "No, don't touch me. Go! Go, quickly!"

  "I'll come again tomorrow," Wentworth said quietly. "If you don't wish to see me, just leave word with the nurse, and I'll understand."

  Wentworth bowed, and stepped toward the door. Behind him, Nita cried out, "Wait!"

  She was on her feet. The rose silk of her negligee draped the smooth lines of her body. Her eyes were wild and her hands were stretched out gropingly. She said, uncertainly, "If you would . . . kiss me."

  Wentworth stood stiff as stone, by the door. His arms were hungry for her. His heart was empty . . . but he knew with a certain overwhelming shock that if he kissed her now, she would remember . . . everything. She would be back in the maelstrom of horror and death. His heart argued with him. He was pampering his love, his conceit. The kiss would be only . . . a kiss. It would not help her to remember, or forget.

  Wentworth's lips froze into stubbornness. He wrenched out words by great effort. "Nita, my dear," he said thickly. "It is better not."

  He went hurriedly, clapping the door shut, striding rapidly along the echoing corridor. Behind him, Nita stared at that closed door. Her outstretched arms dropped heavily. She sagged back into the chair, and tears traced their jeweled way across her cheeks.

  "Dick," she whispered. "Oh, Dick!"

  She didn't know that she spoke. The words made no impression on her mind. They came from deep within her somewhere, and fell like tears across the silence, She did not know . . . . Something within her would not let her testify against this man. This man, Richard Wentworth.

  Abruptly, Nita's eyes snapped open. It seemed to her that a voice whispered in her ear. She stirred uneasily and looked around, but there was no one here. Yet the voice persisted. It was soft, insinuating.

  "There is a way to be sure," it whispered. "Call him to you and drug him. The nurse will give you the drug. He will have to tell the truth then. After all, you aren't sure. It would be nice . . . to know that he is innocent. So that you could love him. He is innocent. He must be innocent. But you have to know. Just call him to you, and drug him . . . . The nurse will give you the drug . . . . The little blonde nurse will give you the drug . . . ."

  Nita rose to her feet. She cried, "No! No, I won't!"

  The voice died . . . Nita looked fearfully around her. She knew that the voice would speak again.

  She whispered. There had been words in her throat to utter. Now, she did not know what they were. But she felt they had been important. They would have saved her. They had saved her before, that she knew.

  She did not remember the talisman. The whisper, "Dick, Oh, Dick . . . ."

  And that voice would speak again.

  Chapter Eight

  Death's Rehearsal

  Wentworth stumbled blindly as he fled from Nita's room. Only by flight could he be sure that he would not succumb to the wild hunger in his heart.

  At the door of the hospital, Commissioner Littlejohn was waiting.

  "Wentworth!" he snapped. "I want a word with you!"

  Wentworth pulled up sharp, and his face was suddenly calm again. "The desire is mutual, Littlejohn," he replied.

  Littlejohn ignored his answer. "Your alibi is shaky. In fact, it is non-existent, unless you can find the intern to whom you spoke!"

  Wentworth shrugged slightly. "You neglect to inform me for what I require an alibi," he said shortly, "therefore, I shall not trouble myself unduly. Littlejohn, you have made your persecution of me an obsession. I will let that rest for the moment. You are the Commissioner of Police. I wish to lay certain information before you in that capacity."

  Littlejohn's hot small eyes narrowed, but he jerked his head in assent.

  Wentworth said, "Thank you. There is a combination of seven criminals planning a big raid, probably for tomorrow. Six of these men are known to the police, though one of them was supposed to be dead." He gave Littlejohn their names. "Cassin, an expert safe blower and extremely skilled with explosives, is planning a job tomorrow. Towan will help him. Towan is a very skillful man in impersonations. That is the extent of my information."

  Littlejohn smiled thinly. "I suppose I am not permitted to inquire how you found this out . . . if you did find it out?"

  Wentworth said, "On the contrary, Littlejohn, ask all you wish . . . . Ethics did not seem to stop you a little while ago!"

  Muscles worked in Littlejohn's cheeks. "Precautions will be taken," he snapped. "I'll put out alarms for these men for questioning."

  Wentworth acknowledged that with a nod. "I knew that you would perform your duty. Now then, Littlejohn, this is a personal message to you: If you persecute Miss van Sloan, any farther, I'll beat you to a pulp!"

  Wentworth's voice was very quiet, but anger flashed coldly in his eyes. Littlejohn took a quick step backward. His hand dropped to the butt of his gun.

  "Trying to protect yourself, aren't you, Wentworth?" Littlejohn sneered.

  Wentworth's smile was faint and thin. "Not at all, Littlejohn. I am entirely willing to appear for identification by Miss van Sloan at any proper time and place, but I will not stand for you heckling her again. The doctors would not approve. If you ignore their orders, I shall reinforce them myself. I hope you understand fully!"

  Wentworth swung on his heel and strode down the broad steps of the hospital. He heard the whispered curses of Commissioner Littlejohn behind him. He found a taxi and flung himself in it. For moments, his anger sustained him. Then the extreme fatigue of the long hours of constant battle swept over him. It left him shaken and weak.

  His voice was leaden as he gave the taxi driver instructions. There could be no rest for the Spider. Not yet. He must gain some clue to the plans of Cassin and Towan for tomorrow; some hint of the X-day that threatened. He had only one connection: The blonde secretary of the agency known as Mildred!

  After the furor of the police hunt for the Spider, Wentworth doubted that the girl would have left. Not yet at any rate. If he moved swiftly . . . God, he was so tired! He relaxed against the cushions and closed his eyes. He could snatch ten minutes' sleep . . . .

  The taxi driver's first word snapped him back to full consciousness. "Here you are, boss."

  Wentworth paid off the man and climbed, a little heavily, to the street. There was still a police car in front of the building. That meant Mildred had not yet left. Wentworth crossed to an all-night restaurant, ordered black coffee, and went to a phone booth to call his home. Jackson's sturdy voice answered him at once.

  "I was worried about you, sir," he said, "for a short while . . . until I heard the police chasing you through the streets. I got the girl home all right. Her father sent her to Honolulu on a plane."

  "Fine," Wentworth agreed. "Jackson, sleep for three hours, and then relieve me." He told him how to make contact, made his way to where he had parked another of the coupes he kept scattered about the city for emergency use. He settled down to keep watch. But at the end of three hours, when Jackson relieved him, the girl had not shown herself.

  Wentworth stumbled home to sleep, awoke within three hours as he had planned. After the sting of a cold shower, he was fully revived.

  "Jackson called, sir," Wentworth's aged butler, Jenkyns reported. "About two hours ago. He followed somebody and gave me the address."

  Wentworth said, "Excellent!" He ate hurriedly the ample breakfast that Jenkyns prepared and already his mind was racing ahead. This might be X-day!

  Wentworth's jaw clamped grimly shut. He tested his two automatics before he holstered them beneath his arms, and strode toward the door. He saw that Jenkyns had disposed of the hat he had purchased the night before and a smile touched Wentworth's lips.

  "I see that you disapprove of my
new headgear, Jenkyns," he said.

  Jenkyns' lined face was pained. "It was ghastly, sir!"

  Wentworth laughed. "Get a half dozen of the latest novels and send them to Miss Nita at the hospital," he directed. "You know the rose she prefers. Keep her supplied. Fruits also."

  Jenkyns' eyes, which had softened at mention of Nita's name, grew suddenly perturbed. "You will be away . . . for some days, Master Richie?" he asked heavily.

  Wentworth's eyes were grave. "I'm afraid not, Jenkyns. I'm very much afraid the battle will be over today! Be ready to relay all messages. Jackson or I will phone here."

  As he drove swiftly across the city toward the address that Jackson had relayed, the planes of Wentworth's face grew taut and bitter.

  X-day!

  Wentworth parked near the address Jackson had given, an ordinary six-story apartment house in the upper eighties. His faintly whistled signal brought Jackson striding from the shadows. His square, rolling shoulders looked very competent.

  "Hasn't left yet," Jackson reported crisply. "This is the only exit. Probably, she'll sleep late." He nodded toward Mildred's window.

  "I think not," Wentworth said softly. "No, I think we cannot allow her to sleep late. We must work fast."

  Jackson's eyes sharpened. "How do we work it, sir?"

  Wentworth removed something that glittered from his vest pocket. It was a detective's badge. "Keep in the background," he ordered.

  Wentworth's sharp ring on the girl's doorbell, his knocking, brought no response, but the name-card, Mildred Shaner, indicated Jackson was right. Wentworth did not hesitate. His lock-pick quickly released the bolt, and he slid into the apartment. He swore softly. It was a one-room apartment, and the day-bed had not been slept on. Hurriedly, he peered into the bathroom, the kitchenette, and then inspected the clothes closet.

  It was a singularly barren room, and it had an empty odor. No perfume, or soap; no ordinary odors of living.

  "This apartment is a blind," Wentworth said quietly. "Either this room, or the building itself, has a second exit."

  "Not the building, sir!" Jackson was firm, though there was worry in his eyes. "I saw her come to the window and open it! She was in here, and there's no other way out of the building."

  Wentworth nodded. "Quite," he agreed, "but unless I'm gravely mistaken, there's a second exit to this apartment . . . into another building! That wall is blank, flush up another building!"

  There was a high secretary placed against the wall. The couch was in a corner . . . the closet ran to the same structure. With Jackson's help, Wentworth swiftly eliminated the possibility of an opening behind either article of furniture. The closet remained.

  It was a work of moments to slide the clothing that hung on neat racks. "See how the silk is misshapen by pressure of the racks?" Wentworth said. "None of them has been removed for quite a while." He began a minute inspection of the end wall, and presently he laughed softly. He lifted the shelf, twisted the clothing rod . . . and the end wall of the closet swung inward.

  In a long, swift leap, Wentworth was through the opening, his gun in his fist. But this apartment was as empty as the one they had searched!

  "Just a trick," Jackson growled, "for dodging trailers! I'm a damned fool! I should have made sure the girl was in the apartment!"

  Wentworth shook his head, but his eyes were keenly speculative. "No blame attached to you, Jackson. I want you to get to that office. Make sure, first, that the girl has not arrived and then take up your watch there. As soon as you spot her, let me know."

  Jackson saluted, and ran hurriedly back through the secret doorway and so to the street. For a short while longer, Wentworth quietly and carefully searched the room. This, too, showed no signs of occupancy. It was obvious that this was just what Jackson had called it, a trick for evading surveillance. Wentworth stood rigidly in the middle of the room. The girl was his only means of finding the criminals he sought. He knew that Commissioner Littlejohn had undertaken their apprehension, but the morning papers had brought no word of success.

  His only course was to keep watch over this locality and try to spot some suspicious person, perhaps the girl, or one of the hunted men; perhaps merely some criminal whom he knew. But, damn it, the attacks planned for today could not be long delayed. It was possible that he might be able to figure out something from the known capacities of the men he hunted.

  Back in the car once more, Wentworth switched on his radio to listen to news broadcasts. There was nothing to hold his detailed attention, though the tale of carnage the day before was more awful even than he had feared. The news man clicked off, and another voice came on the air, the deep, stirring voice of an orator.

  "My friends," he said, "members of the Bennington Pension Club, I address you directly. We have been refused the right to parade today. We are being deprived of our privileges guaranteed under the immortal Bill of Rights! The right of free speech, free assembly and free petition. We shall exercise those rights, none the less! Await the call of Father Bennington!"

  Wentworth listened with a strained attention. That voice had struck a dimly responsive chord. It was possible that the man who had spoken, apparently some one known as Father Bennington, had been the sixth hooded member of Moulin's band! Wentworth knew something of the movement. It was one of the multiple pension plans advocated for aged persons, on whom the "clubs" preyed. Too often, they were merely sucker traps for collecting small membership fees from large groups. Concerning the man, Bennington, Wentworth knew nothing specific . . . but if he were the sixth hooded man, he had an important part in X-day!

  For an instant Wentworth hesitated, then he jumped from the car and hurried to a telephone, called his own home. "Jenkyns, set the telephone recorder to repeat messages over the wire," he said rapidly, "then go out and join the Father Bennington Pension movement."

  Jenkyns assented at once and Wentworth hurried back to the car, took up again the problem of Cassin's and Towan's plans for the day. An expert in explosives, and a clever disguise artist . . . impersonator. Wentworth's eyes narrowed. The two of them together could loot a bank of incalculable wealth! There had been no mention of a gang working with them . . . Wentworth smiled slowly as he canvassed the neighborhood in which he parked.

  He would keep his radio tuned to police calls. Meantime, there were two banks in the neighborhood which he could watch at the same time he kept the two-apartment escape route under surveillance. Jackson was waiting near the detective agency office for the blonde girl to reappear. For the present, it was all that he could do . . . .

  Hours dragged past while Wentworth kept watch. It seemed futile and yet he had an uneasy certainty that he was on the right trail. Once an hour, he checked by telephone with his home, but there was no report from Jackson. He became apprehensive about the necessity of leaving his post even for those few minutes. Finally, he put through a call to the leader of the boys who had served him so well before . . . Bill Sanders.

  As a consequence of this, it was necessary for him to assume a partial, nondescript disguise. He could not allow helpers, summoned by the Spider, to know Richard Wentworth! It was while he was awaiting Bill Sanders and the rest that the first suspicious happening electrified Wentworth!

  He saw a criminal he recognized enter the Roycroft bank with a fat briefcase under his arm!

  For a single instant, Wentworth leaned tensely forward, then, with a quiet smile, he forced himself to relax. It was merely that this sudden confirmation of his deductions made him long for action. Instead, he waited . . . and presently spotted the freckled and resolute Bill Sanders striding toward him past the bank with his red-headed companion dubbed Monk. Monk's face was wrinkled in a concentration that showed plainly the origin of his simian nick-name.

  Wentworth's soft whistle brought them swarming eagerly into the coupe, and a few moments later, he was able to dispatch Bill on the trail of the departing criminal with the briefcase. He was gone only a few minutes before he returned with the address to w
hich the man had gone.

  It was Mildred's apartment!

  Wentworth's jaw set grimly. There could no longer be any doubt that the Roycroft bank was the target of Moulin's hooded Council of Evil. He penciled a note, signed with his seal, and told Monk how to locate Jackson . . . and as Monk started away, Wentworth saw another criminal he recognized with a briefcase walking slowly toward the Roycroft bank!

  He could delay no longer. He had no way of knowing just what was going on in the bank. Obviously, it was not a stickup. But equally plain was the fact that the criminals were successful!

  Rapidly, Wentworth penciled another note to Jackson. "He'll be here within minutes after Monk gives him my first message," he told Bill. "This note will tell Jackson you're all right. Give him this message: 'The rats are going to the nest you discovered. Watch the other hole?' Can you remember that?"

  "Geez, yes!" Bill exclaimed. "It's code, ain't it, Spider?"

  "It's code," Wentworth agreed with a slight smile that could not change the grimness of his eyes. "You stay right here and keep watch. If you hear my whistle signal, start the car and roll it toward me. Got it?"

  "Got it!" Bill cried, "and good luck, Spider!"

  The man with the briefcase was just turning in through the broad main doors of the bank. A grey-uniformed guard glanced toward him, but did not appear interested. Wentworth hurried in his wake. He knew better than to loiter in the entrance. He went straight to a glass counter, obtained a blank deposit slip. He turned it over and began to add up a column of figures, frowning as he worked. But his eyes were on the criminal with the brief case.

  The man apparently was attending as strictly to business as was the Spider. He walked directly to the bronze-barred gate at the rear which closed the steps leading down to the safety deposit boxes! Wentworth watched him narrowly, and his heart began to pound with long slow strokes in his throat. Roycroft was close to a very wealthy neighborhood and contradicting its apparent smallness, its safety vault section was one of the largest depositories in the entire city!