THE SPIDER-City of Doom

by Norvell W. Page

  Littlejohn hung up the receiver, still scowling. He punched a cam on the annunciator on his desk. "Moriarity! At once!"

  In spite of himself, he felt a glow over Wentworth's words. They meant something, coming from a man as smart as Wentworth. A sour grin moved Littlejohn's lips. He was far from stupid. The man had said that, of course, to goad him to his duty in the matter of defying the politicians and arresting Bennington. But Wentworth had meant it, all the same.

  A smart man, Wentworth. A dangerous man . . . and a good man to have beside you in a tight spot. Littlejohn ground his knuckles into his forehead. But the Spider was a crook . . . and Littlejohn was a cop—a damned good cop! Littlejohn pulled to his feet. When this battle was over, if he were still in office . . . .

  Moriarity opened the door.

  "The file on Bennington," Littlejohn snapped. "Father Bennington. And put ten of our best men on his headquarters and on his tail. I want to know everything he says and does between now and eight tonight!"

  Moriarity's face showed surprise. He said, hesitantly, "Maybe you don't know, Commissioner. Certain parties aren't going to like tampering with Bennington!"

  Littlejohn's face did not change, and his voice was curiously flat and low. "To hell with certain parties!" he said.

  Moriarity stared, and then a slow grin came to his lips and brought a smile to Littlejohn's face, too.

  "Whoops!" Moriarity yelped. "A fight!" He whirled out of the office, clapped the door shut.

  Littlejohn's shoulders didn't sag. They never did. But there were tired lines under his eyes. It was his head that would fall, not Moriarity's. For just a moment he thought of his home, and his wife. Mamie was pretty proud of his new job. She'd be just as proud of Littlejohn, a busted cop, but a good one.

  Littlejohn sat down and dialed on the private wire. When he spoke, his voice held a note his men had never heard. He said, "Hello, Mamie . . ."

  It was four-thirty that afternoon when the first grey heads began to show at Times Square. The place was thronged with police. There were a dozen at each intersection. Down side streets, out of sight, there were troops of mounties, waiting. From a second floor window, beside which a portable radio transmitter had been set up, Commissioner Littlejohn watched the streets. His face was expressionless. Moriarity stood just behind him, and there was admiration in his eyes.

  But the oldsters on the streets didn't pay much attention to the police. They didn't see Littlejohn. They kept shuffling along, singly, in couples, in small groups of three and four. They walked along up one side of Times Square. They'd wait with the lights and walk down the other side and up again. They didn't talk very much, but there was a certain resolution in their worn faces.

  There was an old man with a cane, his wife beside him. Neither was less than seventy. Their hair was snow white. He patted the woman's hand on his arm.

  "Now, don't you worry about anything," he quavered. "Father Bennington said it was all right if we just do what he tells us. We got a right to strike, like anybody else. Only most of us haven't got jobs. So we strike against the city. A regular sit-down strike. And we'll get our pensions!"

  The woman shook her head. "Don't seem right. Defying providence, it is."

  "Now, Rinda—"

  The woman smiled, "Oh, I'll do what you say is right, William," she said primly. "I always have!"

  The man cackled, and she prodded him. "Now, don't start that, William! Maybe I have done a might of guiding, now and then, when you needed it . . . ! I like this Father Bennington. I like to hear him talk."

  The three men standing on the curb had sullen faces. Their clothing was badly worn, and their seamed faces showed grizzled beard.

  "It's getting near time," one muttered.

  "Gotta wait for the signal," another answered. "I'm with Bennington. We give the country the best years of our life. We gotta right . . ."

  Those words were everywhere: "We gotta right!" People shuffled up one side of Times Square and down the other, waiting for Father Bennington's signal. A right to strike . . . against the city. A right to collect pensions. That was Bennington's hold over them. Their obedience was his hold over politicians. Bennington wasn't worried. He watched his clock complacently, watched the slow increase of the number of old people on the street. They were crowding out everybody else. Must be twenty thousand there right now.

  "Don't worry about the cops," he said in his deep, rich voice. "The cops can't do a thing against the old fools. It's almost time. How are they in the subways?"

  His assistant laughed. "Hundreds of them down there. Hundreds. Think they'll have the nerve?"

  Bennington grunted, "Faith does it. Not nerve. I gave 'em faith, the old fools. It's a good racket even without this cleanup tonight. A swell racket . . . ."

  The police kept the people moving. In the side streets, the horses of the mounted cops tossed their heads and pawed at the asphalt. The sergeant was frowning. One of his men leaned toward him.

  "I don't like this stuff," he said uneasily. "What we gonna do when they form the parade? Charge into a bunch of old ones like that? Hell, I got a mother. She might be out there. She thinks this Bennington is the berries. Listens to him every chance she gets."

  The sergeant said, curtly, "I'm waiting orders. Old ones like that won't be hard to handle."

  The cop shook his head, "If they're like my maw—geez, is she stubborn when she gets her mind set on something!"

  In his lookout, Littlejohn had not moved for minutes. Worry was deepening in his eyes. He slapped a fist into his palm.

  "To hell with this waiting," he said. "It may be asking for trouble, but—pick up Bennington right now!"

  The radio man touched a switch in his panel, leaned toward the mike. "Special squad five," he said steadily. "Calling special squad five. Pick up X now. Pick up X now. Orders, Littlejohn. That is all."

  Littlejohn's face was pale, his jaw muscles knotted. On the pavement below, he saw an old man totter and fall. Excitement too much for him, probably. Two police picked the man up instantly and carried him to the corner. Littlejohn swore. Bennington was a murderer, damn him, getting these old people to do these things!

  The phone shrilled and Moriarity answered it. He cursed harshly. "Chief, special squad five hit Bennington's headquarters. He'd been seen going in there five minutes before—but he wasn't in there! Must be some sort of other way out. Something secret . . . ."

  Littlejohn's voice was dead cold. "Clean out the headquarters. Rip it to pieces. Tell the squads at radio stations to watch for Bennington. Grab him if he shows. Tell those radio men with direction finders to keep busy. Moment they spot Bennington's direction, close in! Damn it, I want Bennington!"

  Moriarity bent over the radio man and the orders went out in a constant stream. It was sixteen minutes to five.

  Abruptly, from a radio set in a corner of the room, a deep voice spoke richly, with vibrating passion. "My friends!" it said. "My people! The police, those slaves of the rich and crooked city government, are trying to stop you in your hour of triumph! But they cannot! Nothing can stand against your combined might! You are the old ones, the wise ones! I give you the word. Father Bennington gives you the word! It is . . . strike!"

  Abruptly, a great voice was crashing down into the street! It was Bennington's voice, magnified a thousand times! At the first echoes of it, a thin, wavering cheer broke from the old people in the streets.

  "My friends!" Bennington intoned, and his voice vibrated with rich indignation. "My people! The police are slaves of the rich and crooked government! They are trying to stop you in your hour of triumph!"

  Littlejohn's voice crashed out, "It's a loudspeaker . . . in the Times Building! Get men up there fast! Smash it?"

  Bennington's voice went steadily on. "The police cannot stop you! No one can stop you. Nothing can stand against your combined might! You are the old ones, the wise ones. Humbly, I have pointed the way, with the guidance of the God we all worship! I give you His word. Father Benning
ton gives you the word, and His shield will be over you. His word shall strike for you.

  "Sing my brethren. Sing, Hallelujah! The hour has come. I give you the word. It is: Strike! Strike for Victory!"

  On the streets, cracked old voices lifted in feeble song. It was a hymn they chanted. The volume grew slowly, then rapidly. There were thousands of those faint, muted voices singing the words of an old hymn. As they sang, the old people moved out into the streets.

  "Mounted squads!" snapped Littlejohn. "All reserves! Quickly!"

  The radio announcer's voice cracked out orders. In the side streets, policemen swung to the saddles. The troops walked, trotted . . . drove their wedge toward Times Square. Police sirens screamed in the distance, grew louder. Corps of taxis moved out of side streets and started down through the crowds, horn blaring, drivers cursing. The old people paid no heed at all. Their song lifted even above the blare of horns. It was a solid body of sound.

  The old people marched out into the streets. In the path of autos and street cars. In the paths of police cars and taxis. They did not march far. Slowly, because of their stiff joints, but happily, laughing and singing . . . they lay down in the streets!

  Thousands of them hobbled down from the curbs and ignored the automobiles. William and Rinda lay down on the street car tracks and the motorman leaned from the window and yelled at them.

  "Hallelujah, brother!" Rinda called shrilly. "You'll be old yourself some day! Don't you want your pension? Come and lie down with us!"

  The trolley remained motionless. The three sullen men walked into the path of the trotting troop of mounted police and lay down on the asphalt. Their faces were pale, but their jaws were stubborn. Following their lead, a dozen more lay down. They lay flat on their backs in the street and chanted their hymn!

  From the window, Littlejohn watched in stunned surprise. He had planned on breaking up a parade, splitting the people into small groups and dispersing them. It was a familiar police technique, employed thousands of times in the city. But you couldn't disperse people who did not move at all!

  "Get ambulances!" Littlejohn snapped. "Commandeer cars. Tell the police to pick them up and put them in cars. Take them to different parts of the city and leave them. Come back for more . . . ." Moriarity was repeating the orders to the radio man. Littlejohn's lips twisted and he swore.

  "They are victims, too," he said. "Be gentle with them. They are old!"

  A policeman burst into the room. "Commissioner," he shouted. "They have tied up the subways! The train stopped and a whole column of them got down on the tracks and lay down. More of them keep piling down on the tracks, and singing, and lying down. The subways are stopped cold. We had to cut off the current to save their lives!"

  The telephone shrilled. Moriarity picked it up and cursed. He repeated Littlejohn's orders, then slammed down the instrument.

  "Same at Grand Central!" he rasped. "And they're tying up trains at Penn station, too! God! They'll tie up the whole city!"

  Littlejohn was glaring from the window. Police were pushing out on foot into the jammed streets. They would pick up a man and carry him away. The man did not resist. He sang as he was carried away . . . and another man, or an old women, would take his place!

  Littlejohn groaned. He turned a helpless face toward his men. "Call the Mayor," he said heavily. "Maybe he can talk them out of it. Nothing else will work. It will take hours and hours to clear the streets this way. These people have to be persuaded to move themselves."

  Moriarity said, "Good God, Chief. Look!"

  Littlejohn turned and looked where Moriarity pointed. A strange conveyance was lurching out of the side street. It was a platform, carried on the shoulders of boys! There were forty, fifty, a hundred boys . . . all of them supporting that flimsy platform on their shoulders. And each of them wore a black cape!

  On it, were two men . . . and one of them wore the black cape and broad-brimmed black hat of—the Spider!

  Littlejohn ripped out a curse, dragged his revolver into his fist. But he hesitated. For the Spider was pointing to the man who was bound to an upright post beside him, a man with a great black shock of hair, bound hand and foot, and with a broad white gag tied across his mouth.

  And the Spider's voice was reaching out, terribly loud, over a loudspeaker hookup that was invisible. He held a small microphone in his hand.

  "Pension marchers!" cried the Spider, and his voice was flat and mocking, bitterly cold. "You can win your strike. You have won it . . . . But what good will it do you if I kill your leader!"

  The singing faltered and died. The blaring of multiple horns was stilled. Thousands of civilians and hundreds of blue-coated police stood motionless and stared at the man who was the most hunted, the most dreaded killer in the world! The Spider!

  He stood there, his back twisted under that concealing cape, and spoke again into the microphone. His voice was a whisper, but it reached every man.

  "Pensions marchers, there is one way you can save the life of Father Bennington!" he said. "Rise . . . and follow me! Rise, and follow your leader, or I will put a leaden bullet through your leader's skull!"

  In that breathless moment, the Spider lifted his right hand. The automatic it gripped was heavy and black. Its muzzle rested against the forehead of the man bound to the post. And the man fought against his bonds, fought against the gag!

  The microphone was lifted close to the gag, and the sounds of his struggle and his fear came to the ears of the thousands who lay prostrate in the streets. The gag slipped a little, and a deep voice, hoarse and scarcely recognizable, blasted into the loudspeaker:

  "For God's sake, rise and follow him, or he'll kill me!"

  The old people were swarming to their feet now. They moved in a slowly gathering stream toward the platform . . . but the platform was turning up Broadway now. The boys who carried it were moving more rapidly.

  Littlejohn whispered, "That isn't Bennington! You can tell through the glasses. But it's working. It's working! The mob is breaking up . . . ." He swallowed stiffly. "Thanks to the Spider!" He faced his aide: "A general order. No man is to try to stop the Spider until that crowd is entirely inside the park. That's where he's leading them. Mounted troops and foot forces fall in behind the parade, flank them. Send motorcycles ahead to clear the way. Once they're in the park, close in! Let no one escape!

  "Reserves! Rush all reserves to the park. Surround it, and close in from the north. I want that park sewed up until not even a bird can get out. Understand?"

  Moriarity was repeating the orders to the radio man, rapidly, but there was a frown between Moriarity's brows.

  "You're going to catch the Spider," he said, when the orders were all sent out.

  Littlejohn's face was a grim mask. "The Spider has done a great thing," he said. "Maybe the court will be lenient with him on that account. I'm just a cop, and I've got a hundred warrants for that man's arrest. Catch the Spider!"

  Chapter Ten

  Treachery

  Swaying on the light platform which the scores of boys carried easily on their shoulders, the Spider watched with quietly speculative eyes the slow gathering of the army at his heels. The man tied to the post turned his head and a grin spread over his features.

  "How'd I do, Spider?" he whispered.

  Wentworth's lips moved slightly, "It's the best performance you've ever given—on or off stage," he said quietly. "Do as well when you dismiss them, and I'll double that thousand dollar fee."

  The actor nodded. "I'll wow 'em," he promised.

  Wentworth let his eyes roam again over the assembled crowd. The police were closing in behind them. He glanced down a side street and saw galloping troops of horsemen keeping pace. There were motorcycle police ahead, clearing the way. The smile on his lips grew thin. Littlejohn was allowing him to solve the problem—but the police would be on hand afterward! He had planned to lead the march into the park. He saw now that was impossible . . . and unnecessary.

  Ahead of him was a
small truck, driven by Bill Sanders. As the boys approached it, they lifted the platform from their shoulders. When it rested on the truck, they looked up at Wentworth. The small capes about their shoulders mimicked the Spider's. They were very proud of them, these members of the Spider clubs whom Bill had rounded up from every section of the city.

  Wentworth smiled slowly down into their perspiring faces, met the eager glint of their eyes. "Pass the word along," he told one softly. "When I give the signal, all of you run and scatter! You have done a great thing this day! You have done what grown men, and organized police could not do! You will never regret it! It was a great service. The word will be . . . Spider!"

  Wentworth saw the eager whisper run along the line. The platform was supported now by the truck. That had not been possible in the square where a human barrier blocked all movements of cars. But the way was clear now.

  Wentworth cried, "Spider!"

  Like chaff before the wind, the boys broke and ran. They scattered in every direction, filtered through the trailing crowd of tiring old people, into building entrances, down side streets, into subway entrances. In less than a minute, there was not one of them in sight! But the platform trundled on. It was only three blocks from the park entrance now. Already, he could see the wide jaws of the police trap spread there. He turned to the actor.

  "Make your speech here," he said, "but make it fast! Bill, stop the truck. When I give the word, clear out of here fast!"

  Bill nodded, and the actor lifted his voice: "My friends!" he said. "My people! The plan has failed, and the fault is mine. Go to your homes now, and the Spider swears I will be allowed to go free! I know he tells the truth, and each moment you delay keeps me a prisoner that much longer. Go to your homes now . . . so that I may be free. Break it up. Go, each of you, to his home!"

  The old people stopped, puzzled. Many already had fallen away from the fringes of the crowd. They stared at the bound prisoner on the platform, at the grim, twisted figure of the Spider. Hope died in their faces. It was a piteous thing to see how weary they were now that their dream was broken, now that they no longer sang. In bewilderment, they turned and looked at each other while the actor exhorted them again. Slowly, they began to file away. A man alone here, a couple there . . . small groups of three and four together. They were bitterly disappointed, they were baffled, and they were tired. Slowly, painfully, they limped away.