by Norvell Page
On The Spot
A LESSER MAN THAN THE SPIDER would have fought through brief seconds against the benumbing effects of that blow and, failing, would have been doomed. Wentworth's body was defeated, but his mind fought on; his will was a flame of naked steel. That siren dinned dimly in his ears, and the Spider commanded his body to rise.
Perspiration broke out on his forehead under the assault of his will. The muscles of his legs and arms twitched, and there was no strength in them. But it was the will of the Master of Men that commanded. There was that moment of pause and then, slowly, as if each individual limb weighed a ton, Wentworth's arm drew beneath him. His legs tensed—and the Spider staggered to his feet!
There was no feeling in his legs, and his head sagged like a broken thing. He moved and his feet scuffed the floor in the dragging step of a paralytic. He stood there in that dark room and forced his head up. His hands still gripped the gun, his soft hat was on his head. The siren shrieked furiously in the street, and the gunshots were dying. There was so little time; so little.
The window would not serve now. He could not trust his crippled body through it. The door. . . . It swung open under the grip of Wentworth's gloved hand. He stumbled out into the shadows of the portico, somehow reached the sidewalk. Kirkpatrick's car blazed past toward where the police where grouped excitedly in the street. Their eyes were turned upward, but the silhouette of the Spider no longer showed there on the skyline. Fear like physical pain thrust through Wentworth's heart. What had happened then? Had Nita. . . .
He smothered the thought. Every shred of his concentrated will was necessary even to achieve movement. Close in the shadow of the building, he turned away from the police and presently angled toward the other side; toward the bar room where he had told the policeman he would wait. Thoughts drove through his brain like individual spikes. His will was the sledge. Kirkpatrick must not see him come from the direction of the Smedley home. Beyond that, he could not plan now.
He reached the center of the street, sought for no more. He turned then and moved toward Kirkpatrick's car. The cold stab of the wind was grateful in his lungs. He felt that presently the curtain of numbness that had dropped over his brain would lift, but not yet. Not yet. He forced his head erect, tried to put briskness in his stride, but twice he stumbled where there was no obstacle at all. His pain-squeezed eyes reached ahead to where Kirkpatrick's lean, military figure stood beside the big red-eyed limousine and shouted orders. Evidently, he asked some question about Wentworth, for one of the policeman lifted a pointing arm and Kirkpatrick pivoted sharply about to stare where Wentworth walked.
Steady, Wentworth cautioned himself: Put your feet down briskly and keep your bearing jaunty. . . . If Kirkpatrick discovered he had been slugged, it was tantamount to admitting that he had entered the guarded building. The gun . . . good God! He still had the gun in his pocket! Too late now to do anything about it.
* * *
Kirkpatrick's voice came crisply: "Where have you been?" he demanded. "I told you to surrender yourself to the nearest policeman!"
Wentworth tried to answer and his tongue moved thickly in his mouth.
"Well?" Kirkpatrick snapped.
Wentworth managed to shrug. His words lacked their usual precise delivery. "I . . . waited," he mumbled. He nodded toward the officer with whom he had spoken previously. "Officer will tell you."
Kirkpatrick frowned, and the policeman grinned slightly as he peered toward Wentworth. "Right, sir. He was with me when the
Spider was sighted. . . ."
"With you?" Kirkpatrick demanded.
"Right with me," the policeman nodded. "The gentleman said he would wait for you in the bar around the corner. I . . . think he did!" The cop hid another grin, and Kirkpatrick glared sharply at Wentworth.
It was the cue which Wentworth had awaited. He laughed loudly. "Right," he said. "Did wait in the bar. Good lord, that last drink packed an awful wallop. Went right to my head!"
Kirkpatrick did not smile. He looked at Wentworth, but his words were addressed to the policeman beside him. "You were standing right in front of the Smedley house when the Spider was sighted, I take it," he said.
"Yes, Commissioner."
"You left this gentleman with free access to the Smedley house, officer?"
The red crept up the policeman's cheeks. "Why, yes, sir. The gentleman was waiting for you, and the Spider—"
Kirkpatrick's laughter was sharp, triumphant. "Exactly! Officer O'Holian, search this man!"
The command fell like a shock across Wentworth's mind, and the veil of pain finally lifted, though his head still reeled from a blow which would have rendered a lesser man unconscious for an hour. He stiffened at Kirkpatrick's words, and he took a step backward. He seemed merely indignant, but he was frantic. With that murder gun in his pocket, he dared not submit to search! There was no longer any doubt that Kirkpatrick had been told in detail what evidence he would find in the Smedley home.
"This has gone far enough, Kirkpatrick!" Wentworth said harshly. "You presume upon friendship!"
Kirkpatrick motioned the policeman forward. "You are wrong, Dick," he said. "No malefactor is my friend! If you have nothing incriminating on you, you cannot object to search! Now then, permit the officer to do his duty!"
Wentworth faced the policeman squarely. "I have not been arrested," he warned the man. "You have no right to search me, and I will not submit." His words were quiet, but the cold force of the voice of the Master of Men struck through his tone. The policeman checked, but Wentworth recognized that this was only momentary respite. Kirkpatrick would insist. He had to find a way out. Had to! If the murder gun were found, he would no longer be able to fight against the Iron Man and his criminal cohorts . . . Wentworth reckoned grimly that the Iron Man would have a terrific score to settle when this was finished!
"You have illusions of grandeur," Wentworth snapped at Kirkpatrick, and his voice rose. He was stalling desperately for time. He had only one slim chance . . . if Jackson or Nita were within sound of his voice. If he could make them understand what he wanted, he might still evade Kirkpatrick. Yes, a slim chance.
"This is America, and there is a constitution to protect my rights!" He declared. "God in heaven, haven't I been through enough tonight? An attempt to frame me in my home. I have been been shot at in the streets!
"Do you think criminals want me dead because I have helped them? At any minute, there may be another attack on my life!"
Kirkpatrick said drily, "I hardly think it possible with all these police around you. Enough of this—"
Wentworth laughed harshly. "There were police around me last time I was shot at! A bullet can come from any shadow. . . . But that is beside the point, merely a proof of my innocence." His words rang clearly. "I would rather be shot than submit to the indignity of such a search!"
Had his words been heard, Wentworth wondered desperately? He dared not make his meaning clearer—and there was always the possibility that Jackson, or brave Nita if it had been she in the disguise of the Spider, had been wounded. Kirkpatrick gestured impatiently.
"You will either submit to search here and now," he said shortly, "or you will be taken to police headquarters on charges of suspicion of murder! Take your choice!"
Wentworth said, stiffly, "The choice is easy!" He could not stall much longer. It was clear none of his comrades was within the sound of his voice. Better to make a run for it, and. . . .
The sound of the shot that was fired from an opposite roof was loud in the waiting silence of the street. The tongue of flame reached downward fiercely.
Wentworth blew out his breath in a thin whisper of sound and pitched limply forward to the street. For an instant, there was only shocked silence in the street, and then bedlam broke loose. A half dozen police guns blasted toward the roof ambuscade, but Kirkpatrick cried out and dropped on his knees beside Wentworth. He bent close over him . . . and it gave Wentworth the chance he sought. The incriminating gun already w
as in his hand. As Kirkpatrick bent toward him, his back was toward Wentworth's right hand . . . and Wentworth whipped the gun toward a street sewer opening a dozen feet away!
Through the racket of the street, he heard the gun rasp on metal, and knew that it had struck the grating accurately. It was a sound that would go unnoticed in the general clamor.
"Play it up," he whispered to Kirkpatrick. "If the killer thinks he got me, he'll stop shooting!"
Kirkpatrick swore and ripped to his feet. "Faking!" The commissioner glared down at Wentworth irresolutely through a long moment, then turned to peer up toward the roof from which the shot had come. Wentworth seized that opportunity to glance toward the sewer opening, and an oath sprung to his lips. The gun had struck the grating all right. But it still hung there, balanced on the edge of the grating, and to Wentworth it seemed that all light in the street concentrated on the exposed butt!
He sprang to his feet, and Kirkpatrick whipped toward him. His call brought O'Holian back to his side. "Once before, Dick," he said quietly, "you escaped my custody during gunplay. I am making no accusation—"
"I should be thankful, I suppose!" Wentworth mocked.
"—but my ultimatum holds good!" Kirkpatrick pressed on. "Submit to search, or you go to jail!"
Wentworth met Kirkpatrick's frosty glare through a long moment, then slowly he lifted his hands. "Very well," he said grimly, "but I think you'll regret this, Kirkpatrick!"
Kirkpatrick's face was rigid as frozen earth. There was both determination and a wincing dread in his expression. "It is possible," he said heavily. "O'Holian, get on with the search!"
While the policeman made his rapidly thorough search, Wentworth allowed his eyes to stray covertly toward the sewer opening. A uniformed man was sauntering that way. If he should catch sight of that gun-butt . . . Wentworth shifted impatiently.
"It might help O'Holian, Kirk," he said shortly, "if you would tell him what he's looking for."
"A thirty-eight calibre automatic," Kirkpatrick said grimly. "A colt, with a test barrel."
"It ain't on him, sir," O'Holian reported steadily. "His gun is a forty-five, and he's got a license for it here."
Kirkpatrick's whole body seemed to relax, though his voice remained toneless. "Very well, O'Holian," he said. "That will do."
* * *
Wentworth saw that the policeman had reached the sewer. He was kicking the metal grating absently with his toe. How could he help seeing that gun butt?
"If you're through with your insults," he said stiffly. "I'm going home." His mind was very active.
Kirkpatrick nodded gravely. His frosty blue eyes were puzzled, but there was suffering in their depths. Actually, he detested these moments when he had to accuse his friend. Things would be a little smoother, now, with the searching over and done—if only . . . Wentworth turned aside and glanced once more toward the policeman. He was standing on the grating now, staring up at the front of the Smedley house. His toes were almost touching the dangling gun!
A grim smile touched Wentworth's lips. It was a time for hair-line measures! He turned excitedly toward Kirkpatrick, pointed toward the policeman.
"What is that man's name?" he demanded.
Kirkpatrick frowned. "Patrolman Kelly," he growled, "but what—"
"Kelly!" Wentworth called sharply. "Here at once!"
As he had calculated, the man started at the sudden summons. He executed a neat about face . . . and his toe brushed the gun, sent it spinning down into the sewer! Wentworth blew out a relieved sigh, but masked it. He peered hard into the face of the policeman. He shook his head, puzzled.
"I could have sworn, from the set of this man's shoulders," he said slowly, "that he was the driver of that coupe that got away from me tonight, but I got a glimpse of the man's face, and it wasn't Kelly. I'm sorry."
Kirkpatrick said sharply, "Do you think the police harbor assassins?"
Wentworth looked him directly in the eye. "It is peculiar," he said slowly, "that both times I've been fired on tonight, it has been after police brought me out into the open!"
Kirkpatrick started an angry answer, but cut off the words before he began them. "You are at liberty to go, Dick," he said slowly. "I . . . I bear you no ill feeling, man, but you must realize I can show no favoritism in the execution of my duty!"
Wentworth was torn. He wanted nothing more than to grip firmly the hand that Kirkpatrick half extended, but friendship with the commissioner was becoming too hampering. There was a titan's battle ahead, and he must throw off all handicaps.
Instead of taking the half-proferred hand then, Wentworth bowed stiffly, swung on his heel and strode away. There was no time for personal grief. He must hurl himself at once into the fray, where he had been forced to leave off to avoid the traps of the Iron Man's hirelings. As he stalked toward the corner bar, his eyes quested once more, and vainly, over the building from which the shots had come. There, a few minutes ago, the Spider had flaunted his robes at the police. Heaven grant that his substitute had not been trapped!
Wentworth cut into the bar room, angled at once toward a corner phone booth. There was only one party in the narrow dining room behind the bar, two men and women noisily jubilant over their drinks. Wentworth ignored them to shoot through a call to his home. Now, in a few minutes, he would learn the truth. If Jackson had left earlier, then it had been Nita who had worn the Spider's garb!
His call went through swiftly, and in a few moments, Ram Singh's harsh voice rasped over the line.
"Orders, Ram Singh," he snapped. "In my stores is a rubber diving suit with a helmet and oxygen tank. Get a fresh tank of oxygen and rush the equipment to Sutton Place. Understood?"
"Han, sahib!" Ram Singh echoed deeply. "Fortunate it is that thy servant obeyed his orders. That foolish braggart, Jackson, left almost as soon as thyself, and . . ."
* * *
Wentworth's face hardened at this confirmation of his guess. Jackson had gone to remove the body of the policeman from the dead-end street, and Nita . . . Nita had worn the Spider's robes!
"He went to risk his life for our honor, Ram Singh," Wentworth said gently. "Hurry, thou mighty warrior!"
Twice, he groped for the hook while his unseeing eyes stared straight before him. Once more, he was seeing that bravely daring figure flaunt defiance at the police, so small in the black and ominous robes of the Spider. God, if anything had happened to her. . . . Wentworth thrust at the door of the booth, and the fatigue of his strenuous night hit him all at once. The throbbing of his head seemed to swell. He stumbled as he moved toward the bar, and ordered a brandy. He could not search for her, not now, lest the police follow him. . . .
At his elbow, a voice spoke, "How about buying us a drink, big boy?"
Wentworth stared and whirled. "Nita!" he cried.
Nita was leaning her elbows on the bar beside him, and there was mockery in the gay smile that curved her lips. "So this is how you spend your spare time," she chided him. "I'm afraid, Dick, that you will be far from a model husband!"
Wentworth's hands gripped hers hard, and his eyes drank in the laughter in the violet depths of her gaze. "You come out of here, young lady," he ordered. "You and I are going to have a talk!"
Nita laughed, tucked her hand under his arm, and they were almost at the door when the barkeep returned with Wentworth's drink. The man swore, then shrugged and tossed the drink off himself.
"Quickest pickup I ever saw," he nodded confidently to himself in the mirror.
But Wentworth was not even aware he had spoken. He had no need of brandy, with Nita at his side, and he turned under her direction toward the coupe which she had parked two blocks away.
"You're taking too many chances, dear," he told Nita sternly. "Though in this instance I'll admit it was fortunate for me that you did. Nevertheless, you go home now as fast as I can ship you there!"
Nita shook her head in mock bitterness, though there was worry in her violet eyes. "That's the thanks I get for coming to you,
" she said. "I'm just beginning to enjoy myself!"
Wentworth smiled down on her. "You're fired," he told her grimly. His heart swelled at recognition of her bravery, for he knew that she was torn with terror for him; for the battle that lay ahead. As always, she thought not of herself, but of cheering him. Her hand clung to his now.
"Dick, surely now you can rest," she said. "Just for tonight—"
Wentworth jerked his head in negation. He said, "In this battle, every passing hour means more deaths! I'll take you to a taxi, and then—"
"And then?" Nita's question was no more than a breath.
"Why then," Wentworth said softly, "I shall hunt for robots! I have a theory about those monsters, and if I'm right it will be possible to stop them. I hope so, and—"
He broke off then as they stopped beside the coupe, for a man had suddenly darted around the nearby corner. Wentworth's hand flicked toward his automatic, but the man did not come toward them, did not even seem to see them. His breath rasped in his throat and he ran heavily, as a man would run at the extreme end of exhaustion. His shoulder struck a light post, and he reeled aside, but did not check his pace at all. He rounded another corner and was gone.