THE SPIDER-City of Doom (2 page)

These two facts had been associated in the
Spiders
quick mind and he had once more quit his life of wealth and luxury as Richard Wentworth, scion of riches and of the aristocracy of America for the grim, taut life of the
Spider.
He had acted quickly, then, following the trail his keen mind had picked for him and he had been barely in time.

Speeding northward to Middleton where Jim Collins had lived, Wentworth had donned the disguise of the
Spider
while his faithful Hindu servant, Ram Singh, drove his powerful sedan. He had reached this apartment just in time to find gangsters on the scene, to hear talk of missing papers. It sounded very much to the
Spider
as if he had guessed right about Jim Collins and this potent steel destroyer.

Deputy Anse Collins had shut the window and was now picking up a blanket from the davenport where it was obvious he had been sleeping. The girl snuggled it about her body and sat down and tucked her feet up into its warmth. Her blue eyes were harassed and shadows made black smudges beneath them. Honey-colored hair sprawled in delectable disarray about her small, pert head.

"Now, disarm these men," Wentworth told Collins.

The gang leader, Devil Hackerson, still had his head strained around on his shoulder, watching Wentworth. His face was lean and dark, ending in a pointed chin beneath a sneering mouth. There was a Mephistophelian flare to his eyebrows, slanting upward at their outer corners, which, together with his reputation for cold ferocity, had earned him the nickname of "Devil." The man in pajamas was tall, over six feet. He wrenched one gangster's gun away and the man cursed with pain. Collins strode toward Jiggs on Hackerson's right. He moved with angry vehemence, and that very violence tricked him. His foot slipped on the smoothly-waxed floor just as he reached for Jiggs' gun. The two men went down together.

"Stand still!" The
Spider
barked at the other two.

The two men on the floor rolled over and Collins was on top, grappling with the blond gunman. Then suddenly he went limp, soggily, and the snout of Jiggs' gun thrust into view, pointing toward the
Spider.
But Wentworth had already moved. An agile leap put him at Hackerson's back. The third gangster sprang after him, slashing with a blackjack. The
Spider's
left gun belched and the man gasped a scream, doubling forward as the bullet took him in the belly. But his flailing arm holding the lead-loaded club swiped at Wentworth, caught him a glancing blow on the side of the head and sent him reeling.

Hackerson saw his chance and whirled with his fist smashing upward.

Wentworth slapped out with his automatic. He didn't want to kill Hackerson because the man knew things that would be invaluable to the
Spider.
His gun barrel skimmed across Hackerson's forehead, drew a curse of pain and sent the boss gangster reeling backward. Wentworth danced after him, ready to smack him to the floor—and caught swift movement in the corner of his eye. Jiggs was up, springing into the clear to shoot.

The
Spider
spun on the balls of his feet, threw lead at exactly the same instant. Jiggs caught the slug in the chest and his shoulders slammed back against the wall. He rolled and his clawed hands scraped along the plaster as he went down suddenly on his knees. Wentworth sprang backward toward the kitchen door, guns swiveling. The girl screamed.

Even as she shrieked, Wentworth flung himself face down, headlong on the floor. A bullet thwacked the wall behind him viciously. As he rolled, guessing the cause of his danger, another slug bored the floor beside him.

Now he could see the source of this new menace. The girl was on her feet, her blanket spilled to the floor. Devil Hackerson's thick arm was circled about her from behind, pinning her arms to her side, holding her rigidly in front of him—a motionless unwilling shield. It was a time-worn trick, but it never lost its effectiveness.

Wentworth saw a snub-nosed automatic snouting from behind the girl as he reversed his roll. Lead splintered into the floor again. He jerked up his guns and blasted out the ceiling light. Two guns boomed together, cross-raking the spot where he had lain a moment before. One shot had come from the spot where Jiggs had fallen, on the right, and Wentworth tossed two bullets at the flash. He heard a
gun clatter to the floor, heard a man groan in pain. He smiled tightly in the darkness. It sounded as if, this time, Jiggs were out of the battle for good.

The girl screamed again frantically, and the cry was chopped short, muffled by a smacking palm. Two long strides took Wentworth to the sound. He dropped his left gun. Soft warm flesh dented beneath his fingers. His hand slipped upward, gripped a bare shoulder and then he jerked hard. The woman cried out again, seemed to resist, then came toward him with a rush.

Wentworth and the girl reeled backward together. His heels caught in a rug and he tripped, sprawling backward. The girl let out a sobbing gasp of fear and landed heavily on top of him, slamming his head hard against the floor. Warm flesh crushed down on his face, smothering him. It buried an oath in his throat. He rolled from beneath the weeping silken burden, reeled to his feet. His head rang from the nasty crack on the floor but he still clung to his gun. He fought down the drumming in his ears, listened intently. From his right came the bubbling wheezy breath of a man dying with a bullet in his lungs. He knew that would be Jiggs. The woman gasped sobs on the floor. There were only those two sounds . . . .

Wentworth snatched out a pocket flash, sent its small white disc sweeping over the room. Hackerson was gone. The
Spider
pivoted on his heel, sped into the kitchen and flung up the window. He whistled eerily, a three-noted bar, and an instantaneous reply came from below. With a grunt of satisfaction, he darted back to the scene of the hasty battle. That whistle had ordered his faithful Hindu servant, Ram Singh, to take the trail. He would spot the fugitive and pursue him relentlessly.

The kitchen light flung an oblong of luminousness out into the living room, just reaching Collins, who was still unconscious. Wentworth stooped over the deputy sheriff, found a welted red knot behind his left ear where Jigg's gun had struck. A slosh of water from the kitchen and the man stirred, moaning. Wentworth watched him a moment, then nodded and stopped fleetingly by each of the two men he had slain. He pressed something that glinted to each forehead and when he stepped away, a blob that was red as their spilled blood glowed upon the brow of each. That blob had sprawling hairy legs, and viciously ready fangs—
the seal of the Spider!

A thin mocking grin was on the
Spider's
lips as he left his prey, reloaded and holstered his guns, and crossed to the woman. She lay face down on the floor, arms thrown protectingly over her blond head. Her silken gown hung from her in tatters, exposing the smooth tense curve of her back.

Wentworth dropped the blanket over her. "The gangsters are gone," he said swiftly, "but police will be here within minutes and I must be gone when they arrive. You know by now that the
Spider
is your friend. You must answer some questions."

The girl stirred slightly, and he helped her sit up on the floor. Her eyes were red-rimmed. She locked her even white teeth upon her lower lip and fought down sobs. Wentworth drew the blanket about her shoulders and squatted before her.

"I'll tell you what I know," Wentworth said swiftly, and recounted what he had learned of her husband's death.

While he spoke, the girl's eyes quested over the room. She saw the dead men and her eyes flew back to Wentworth as if for protection. Her gaze clung desperately to him now.

"I want to know what invention your husband was working on," Wentworth said. "Can you tell me?"

The girl shook her golden head. Her hair slipped down across her shoulder. "Those gangsters were after something like that, too," she said. "They wanted something they said was in Jim's papers. But it wasn't there."

"You don't know what it was?"

"No, except Jim said—" she choked and her eyes filled. "Jim said it would put us on Easy Street forever. We could . . . could . . ." Her voice died out.

Wentworth heard Collins stir behind him and jerked his head about. The deputy surged abruptly to his feet, stood with clenched fists, his eyes darting about. He took in the twisted bodies on the floor, glared at Wentworth. "One of them got away," he growled hoarsely.

"Do you know what Jim's invention was?" Wentworth asked sharply.

The man's dark eyes narrowed. "I reckon it wouldn't be any of your business if I did," he said.

Wentworth straightened. "That's where you're wrong," he said coldly. "Two days after Jim Collins died, a bank was robbed near here. The crooks who broke into that bank had something brand new in the way of burglar tools. It smashed steel like sugar. I associate your brother's death with that robbery."

Deputy Collins came forward slowly. He was a heavily built man, over six feet tall, with wedge shoulders. His neck was corded. "I reckon you'll have to explain that last remark," he said. His voice was soft and slow, but there was a hard ring to the words.

Wentworth uttered an impatient exclamation. He knew the police must be close. He could not understand why they had not come before this.

"I mean that gangsters murdered your brother for his secret," he said swiftly. "Now, for heaven's sake, if you know anything, spill it fast."

The huge man stared at him with his big head thrust forward, the heavy shock of brown hair tousled. He seemed to be studying the man beneath the false face that Wentworth had built over his own to create the character of the
Spider.

"I reckon we do owe you a mite of consideration," Collins said slowly. "You sure pulled us out of a powerful tight hole." He shook his head. "We don't know much. Only that Jim was figuring on selling his invention to the government. But there's two men that know more than we do. They're Bill Butterworth, who worked with Jim at the steel plant, and . . . ." A scowl twisted the man's features. "DeHaven Alrecht, a damned foreigner who had his finger in Jim's pie."

Nancy Collins' quiet voice broke in. "Mr. Alrecht was very nice to us, Anse," she said. "He got Jim his job at the plant and he was going to finance the invention when Jim got it finished."

"Sure, for a lion's share cut of the profits," Anse Collins drawled. "And you can't tell me he was just being nice to Jim. I always did think the skunk had his eye on you."

"Anse!" The girl's voice was distressed.

"It's a fact," Anse Collins said stubbornly. "Alrecht was dead set on marrying you."

A thunderous fist beat on the door. Wentworth sprang to his feet. "That's the police," he snapped. "Listen, the crooks who held you up came from New York. If you want to find Jim's murderers, you can go there and register at the Kennillworth Hotel on Forty-Sixth Street. I'll get in touch with you."

He reached the kitchen door in a bound—checked short. Crouched on the fire-escape was a policeman. The cold light from the window glinted on his badge and on a gun in his hand. So that was why the police had delayed! They had surrounded the building before knocking. The fist battered at the door again.

"Open up," a man shouted. "It's the police."

The fire-escape and door were blocked. That policeman on the fire-escape prevented any use of the dumbwaiter in the kitchen. And here on the floor lay the bodies of two men with the seal of the
Spider
upon their foreheads. What did it matter that they were criminals? The
Spider
had killed them, and the law could not consider motives.

"If you don't open up in one minute," the rough voice bellowed from the hall, "we'll break the door in!"

THE TWO, Nancy Collins, and her brother-in-law, were staring at Wentworth with worried frowns. Unconsciously, the girl drew the blanket more tightly about her. There was a wary light in Anse Collins' eyes.

"Look here," he shouted gruffly. "I'm an officer of the law, too, even if I haven't any authority here. Reckon you better get out of here damned quick."

Wentworth laughed softly. "That's right. Stall them as long as you can."

He darted into the bedroom, slapped the door shut and locked it. He heard the reverberations of more pounding on the outside door, heard Collins' gruff voice, but couldn't make out the words. He reached the window with quick strides. It was already raised and he peered furtively toward the man on the fire-escape. The cop was still poised there with gun in hand, peering into the kitchen.

A glance above and below showed still another uniform cap thrust over the edge of the roof, two shadows that were men in the alley below. Wentworth's smile became grim. It was almost as if these men knew that the
Spider
was here and were taking no chances on his escape. There was a fifty-thousand-dollar reason for him—the rewards piled upon his head by communities he had flouted and mocked in his swift and deadly pursuit of evildoers.

It did not matter at all that Wentworth had done these things only in the name of justice, that he killed only when justice was served by death. A dozen different states were ready to hang or electrocute him—if they could once identify him as the
Spider.
And in the other room there was evidence enough of that, besides the two persons who knew he had affixed the mocking crimson seal to the dead men lying there.

If he failed to escape, not only was his life forfeit, but perhaps with him would die the chance of capturing criminals who, through their wide scientific knowledge, could ravage from banks all over the nation the hard-earned savings of thousands of honest men and women. Even as he thought this, he wheeled, reentered the living room. There was one slim chance of escape, but he would have to act quickly.

Collins and Nancy jerked about as he opened the door. "Stand clear," he ordered them gesturing toward the portal where police hammered.

Collins sprang back and Wentworth fired twice into the ceiling A fusillade answered, riddling the door. Wentworth sprang back into the bedroom, reached the window in a bound.