THE SPIDER-City of Doom (31 page)

Cassidy said truculently, "Imagine that lily-fingered guy throwing off on the
Spider!
What's
he
ever done . . . ."

"That will do, Cassidy!" Kirkpatrick said sternly. "Speak when you're spoken to. Find O'Leary. Tell him I'll need a squad of men. And find out the address of this No-More-Fires, Inc.!"

Sergeant Reams, who was Kirkpatrick's bodyguard, came running breathlessly. "I tried to get through to you, sir," he cried. "That mob out there . . . Commissioner, the
Spider
was just on the air! He got clear!"

Kirkpatrick glared at Sergeant Reams.

"It's the truth, Commissioner, so help me!" Reams blurted.

Kirkpatrick said dryly, "Are you sure, Reams, that it wasn't little Sir Echo you heard?"

He snorted and climbed into the car. Reams took off his uniform cap and scratched his head. He went toward the car. "No, now, listen, Commissioner, I'd be willing to swear . . . ."

In the crowd beyond the fire line, Wentworth's stride stretched out and Jackson swung up alongside of him. Their heels clicked on the pavement in regular rhythm, marching men together.

"You're going to that office, too, Major?" Jackson asked quietly. "Too bad Cassidy got the name."

Wentworth smiled. Jackson had got what Kirkpatrick had missed—that Wentworth had tried to keep him from hearing that name, No-More-Fires, Inc. "Quite right," he acknowledged, "I wanted the . . . enemy to hear that warning, but I didn't want Cassidy's pals on the scene too soon. We'll have to hurry!"

The last of the crowd was behind. Wentworth swiftly led the way around a corner. Jackson stretched his legs to keep pace. His lips were compressed and his eyes kept reaching up to the face of the man he served.

"In God's name, Major, how did you manage it?"

"The broadcast?" Wentworth asked absently. His mind was racing ahead to the work before him. The police would leave promptly, and he must reach those offices first.

"No, I know about the broadcast," Jackson said quickly. "You recorded the speech on one of those telephone gadgets that uses a wire for a record. But the fire, sir!"

"Oh, that," Wentworth said, his gaze still reaching ahead. "There were plenty of radio aerials to twist into a cable, a roof fifty feet away with a convenient chimney. Simply lassoed it . . . ." He rubbed a gloved palm gingerly. "I can think of more pleasant methods, however, than going hand over hand along such wires as those!"

Jackson spotted the coupe ahead—a coupe to which they all carried duplicate keys, and he leaped ahead to snap open the door. He started, "
Ram
Singh!
What the devil! You were on duty guarding Miss Nita!"

Ram Singh glowered at him, "
Wah,
do I take orders from such as thee!"

"Quiet!" Wentworth snapped. "Have you cleared that record off, Ram Singh? Kirkpatrick may follow!"

"Even as commanded, master." Ram Singh's voice was a growl, and his eyes were on Jackson. "It has been drawn through the magnet and is innocent of thy voice!"

"Jackson, take the wheel!" Wentworth snapped.

Jackson swung around the car, and the three crowded into the coupe, which made a swift circuit of the fire area and bore southward at Wentworth's orders. Jackson drove at furious speed, but his eyes strayed now and again to Ram Singh's face.

"There's a knot behind your ear, you dumb heathen!" he ripped out at Ram Singh. "They took you! Good God, Major, they haven't got . . .
Miss Nita!
"

Wentworth's tightening lips were sufficient answer, but he told briefly what had happened . . . how Ram Singh had been called from the car by a voice that had seemed Wentworth's own, and knocked down; the fight in the building. Ram Singh's chest swelled with pride.

"Hadst thou been present," he said stoutly, "thou wouldst have seen two mighty warriors go into battle! Many of the sahib's enemies died under my hand!"

Jackson spat out the open window. "Pity you didn't start fighting a little sooner! Miss Nita taken!"

Ram Singh's voice burst out in a roar that showed his pain. "Now by Kali and by Siva, thou jackal . . . ."

"Silence," Wentworth said quietly. "We're on our way now to rescue Miss Nita. Our only chance is through Munro. By putting that
Spider
message on the air, I warned Munro that the police would be on his trail. If there's anything incriminating in that office, he'll clean it out. We'll find one of his men there. With any luck . . . Munro himself!"

Ram Singh laughed, "
Wah, sahib!
Let these two hands of mine . . ."

"Stop at the next corner, Jackson," Wentworth cut in. "Ram Singh, you will go home. I think there is a good chance that Munro will phone . . . to threaten about the missie sahib! I need a brave man there!"

Ram Singh glowered, "Nay,
sahib,
did I not fight well?"

"Like the warrior you are, my lion," Wentworth said quietly. "There is incense in thy beard!"

Ram Singh's teeth flashed through his beard, as the car stopped. "
Wah,
it is not to battle you go, Jackson!" he said contemptuously. "Were it battle, the master would prefer his warrior!"

Jackson's lips opened, but Wentworth's hand touched his arm, and he said nothing. The car spurted forward, and instantly Wentworth whipped open the compartment which hid his
Spider
disguise.

"Each man to his own trade, Jackson," he said, "You would not expect a corporal to command a brigade!"

"But Miss Nita, sir!" Jackson's words were a cry. Their loyalty to the brave woman whom Wentworth loved was only less than to their master; second not even to their loyalty to each other. Nita van Sloan could command Jackson and Ram Singh . . . and these were men who acknowledged few leaders!

Wentworth made no answer. His own heart was sore, and the battle ahead claimed all his concentration. The police would be there quickly. They had no such urgency to drive them as Wentworth's own, but Kirkpatrick would waste no time. The
Spider
had to get there ahead of the police. He had his own means of making prisoners talk, which the police could not employ. And there might be evidence there which would mean to the
Spider
the capture of Munro—and the release of Nita!

Jackson said slowly, "You may be walking into
a
trap, Major. Munro will be expecting . . . the
Spider!
"

Working on his disguise, Wentworth did not glance up. He said, quietly, "Of course, Jackson!"

Along the seventh floor corridor of the deserted office building, the man ran swiftly. He checked at a door whose glass was lettered: No-More-Fires, Inc. His knuckles played an eccentric tattoo, and the door was whipped open.

The man darted through the darkened outer office toward the inner room where a man with abnormally thick shoulders bent over a mass of papers. The floor was littered; a safe stood open.

"He's here!" the man gasped. "The
Spider's
here, Daley!"

The man called Daley jerked up his head. His black eyes stabbed into the face of the other, and they were ruthless, sharp eyes, contrasting strangely with the dapper dignity of his grey hair and mustache, his tailored business suit.

"You saw what?" he demanded harshly.

"At the service door," the man panted. "A coupe slowed down there and . . . and a sort of shadow crossed the sidewalk!"

Daley's dark eyes widened. He nodded briskly. "All right, you five take your stations. Strike a match at the window first, so the boys on the roof will be ready. Remember, do nothing until I give the signal! I don't want to get burned down like Mugsy Lugan!"

The man nodded, swallowed thickly. "The way that
Spider
gets out of traps . . . .

Daley said, quietly, "Shut up, Haskins!"

Haskins flinched, ducked his head. "Okay. Okay," he muttered. "You're the boss, but I wish Munro was here."

Daley bent over the papers without more words. He began thrusting some of them back into the safe, tucking others into an inside pocket. They made the breast of his coat bulge a little, and he frowned at that. The office was completely quiet, the men hidden in the huddled darkness of the outer room. He strained his ears and could hear nothing. It did not matter. Everything was ready. His mouth compressed against his teeth. He didn't understand this play of the
Spider
in using the police . . . .

He turned his back toward the doorway, and slipped aside the blotter on the desk. A ground-glass panel was exposed, and he depressed a button at one corner of the glass. A picture in strong blacks sprang into view in the glass panel, an overhead view of the outer office brought here by an infra-red light relay and television!

He could see what would be hidden in the darkness out there, could see the five men crouched out of sight behind chairs and the divan forming a semi-circle whose center was the door of the inner office. That was how he wanted it. The
Spider
must be allowed to enter. The difficulty would come when he tried to get out! For a moment, Daley frowned. He hoped the police wouldn't come too soon! But hell, a couple of fire bombs would block them out, and they had their guns . . . Daley shrugged, and kept his eye on the panel. Abruptly, he stiffened and bent sharply forward over the panel!

Now . . . .

The outside door of the office had opened . . . and a shadow stole inside! A shadow that was a man all in black, shielded by a long black cape that made the outlines of his body amorphous and somehow more menacing than a human shape would have been. Daley stared with slowly widening eyes while that figure poised inside the door. He saw the slow movement of the head as the man looked about him. The man . . . Good God, he was gazing on the
Spider!

Daley's hand shook as he slapped the blotter back into place over the ground-glass panel. Leaning forward across the desk, he snatched up the telephone and dialed a number. The clicking of the mechanism seemed ridiculously loud. Daley was aware of the smallness of the office. Despite the dwindled heat of the building, it seemed very hot in here. A finger slipped under his collar, loosened it a little about his neck.

"Sprague?" he spoke into the phone, and cleared his throat of hoarseness. "Sprague, Daley speaking. Orders from Munro! The
Spider
has set the police on our trail . . . No, not yet! They're likely to raid at any minute. Listen, Sprague . . . Munro wants a meeting of all sub-heads in one hour! Sudden? Yes . . . Well, maybe you want to argue with Munro! Yes, I thought you'd see it that way. Munro says it's up to you to get the boys together in one hour at the room at the Man o' War. And Munro is getting leery of spies. Here's the password, and give it only to those who are called to the meeting. Ready? All right—'From my ashes, I arise again!' That's all, but see every one of the lieutenants is there!"

He slapped up the receiver, and behind him a voice spoke mockingly, "I'm afraid," it said softly, "that one lieutenant will be . . . indisposed!"

Daley had been expecting something, of course, but he started violently. He whipped about, and his hands clawed at the side of the desk. His cheeks quivered. He touched a tongue to his dry lips, just inside the door, stood the hunched and sinister figure of the
Spider!
From beneath the broad brim of the black hat, grey-blue eyes regarded him coldly, unwaveringly. Daley shivered, and the stiffness went out of him.

He said, incredulously, quaveringly. "The . . . the
Spider!
"

The figure did not move. "I see that you have saved me a lot of time," the
Spider
said softly. "I'll take the papers from your inside pocket. But be sure that you bring out only the papers, Daley!" The gun in the
Spider's
left hand moved slowly, a cold eye, but not more deadly than the grey-blue eyes of the
Spider.
It lifted, and centered on Daley's forehead!

Daley's hand moved jerkily across his breast, and drew out the papers Wentworth had indicated—and only the papers. His black eyes wavered away from the
Spider's
and fell.

"Don't . . . Don't kill me,
Spider!
" he whispered.

Wentworth laughed, and the sound was mocking, more menacing than any words. "Why, not yet, Daley," he said. "Perhaps, not at all! It will depend on you, Daley. On how much you know! You will notice, Daley, that I do not say how much you will tell . . . We know that, Daley." He was moving softly forward. His cape made his advance a silken, ominous glide. "Yes, indeed, we know that. You will tell everything, Daley!
Turn around!
"

Daley stiffened, turned on wooden feet. His hands were yanked down behind him, and rope bit into his flesh. He did not struggle at all. He was thrust into the chair behind the desk. His eyes followed the crisp movements of the
Spider,
the sure speed with which his gloved hands shuffled through the papers of the safe. Daley licked his lips. This was not going exactly as he had planned. This was the time when he should break for it, throw himself into the outer office and call on the others to shoot down the
Spider.
This was the time . . . Daley sat very still.

A thin distant wail sliced into the room and Daley stiffened. The
Spider
had not moved from his swift contemplation of the papers, but he spoke casually. "Ah, yes, the police," he murmured, "but don't worry, Daley. They won't get here in time to help . . . or hurt you!" He seemed to move almost idly, and yet the
Spider
was across the room in a bound, had yanked Daley from the chair and thrown his weight across his shoulder.

"We still have a little time, Daley," he said gently, "and I have further business. It may seem a shame to you to spoil this fine office, but I think a spot of fire here would be a good idea. You guarantee your clients will not have fires, don't you, Daley? Don't you think it may make your path more difficult . . . if your office is destroyed by fire?"

Carelessly Wentworth tossed Daley into the outer office!

He sprang back beside the desk then, and his hands moved swiftly. He whipped out several glass containers from beneath his cloak and smashed them against the walls. The reek of benzene struck across the office. Wentworth swept the papers from the desk, brought out his lighter . . . and paused, rigidly. He had swept aside the blotter, and he was staring down at the ground-glass panel!