THE SPIDER-City of Doom (34 page)

Wentworth whipped toward the door and beat on it with his fist. He was still hammering, unheard in the bedlam within, when Kirkpatrick strode to his side.

"What are you doing here, Dick?" he asked wearily.

Wentworth whipped toward him. "In God's name, get me inside there, Kirk," he demanded. "There's a white fire truck outside, and there are No-More-Fire witnesses inside. Kirk, I've got to hear them, got to find out about Munro!"

"He has added two more crimes to his roster, tonight," Kirkpatrick pounded on. "We found two clients of No-More-Fires burned to death!"

Wentworth felt the shock of fear and surprise run through him. He had thought he had found them all, had them safe! Damn Munro! For all he could tell, the fiend had simply picked up any likely victim. Easy enough to make them seem clients of No-More-Fires!

"That makes my news even worse, Kirk," he said heavily. "Nita was kidnapped by Munro!"

Kirkpatrick swore raspingly, and Wentworth gave him the details of how Ram Singh had been hit over the head, and Munro had taken his place. Kirkpatrick shuddered.

"The man is uncanny!" he cried. "God alone knows in what disguise he will appear next! Dick, you go home and let me handle this business inside. Toley isn't too fond of you, you know, and I promise that if there is anything definite that will lead to Munro, anything that will help you find Nita, I'll give it to you at once!"

Wentworth let his shoulders sag, "You are right, Kirk," he said. "I was half-crazy. On my way down to see you when I saw that white fire truck, and . . . ."

A door opened across the hall, and a man in police blue thrust out his head. "Mr. Wentworth," he said, "there's a call on this phone for you!"

Wentworth stiffened to a sudden certainty that he knew the nature of that call! Kirkpatrick was striding beside him as they crossed the corridor, but Wentworth's hand was stone-steady when he caught up the phone.

"Richard Wentworth here," he said.

He saw Kirkpatrick snatching up another phone, putting a tracer on the call, and the voice of Munro was rasping in his ear!

"Done a pretty neat job tonight, haven't you, Wentworth?" said Munro slowly. "Rounded up a lot of clients and forced them to talk, wiped out dozens of my men and thrown them into the hands of the police?"

Wentworth said mockingly, "That's good news, Munro, but I'm afraid you have the wrong party. I understand the
Spider
has done a few things this night!"

Munro ripped out an oath, and then the cool mockery returned to his voice. "Ah, I see, not you, but the
Spider.
Under those circumstances, I must change my plans a little. Your Hindu lad told me where to reach you, in case you're interested. But you are interested only in my message, aren't you Wentworth. In . . . Nita?"

Wentworth said coldly, "If you harm her, Munro, you will not survive the night!"

Munro laughed quietly, "Oh, I fancy I will. You will return to your home, Wentworth, and await further instructions from me via telephone. And, oh, yes, you'd better get in touch with your friend, the
Spider,
in the meantime. You see, Wentworth, I intend to burn Nita alive . . . unless you can persuade the
Spider
to put himself on the spot for you!

"Understand, Wentworth?

"Unless you can put the
Spider
on the spot, at a time and a place I will give you in three hours time . . .
Nita will be burned alive!
"

WENTWORTH heard the click of disconnection and whipped toward Kirkpatrick, who was swearing bitterly at delays on the line, unable to get through to a telephone company official. Even while he working, Wentworth knew it was hopeless. Damn it, Ram Singh should have phoned him, and . . . Wentworth shook his head. Ram Singh had not known where he was. Munro must have seen him entering the building, or a spy reported it. The latter was more likely.

Wentworth weaved a little on his feet as he started toward the door, thrust out a
hand to steady himself. Into the room bounced District Attorney Toley.

"I've got one thing to thank the
Spider
for," be chortled. "The biggest case of my career! Kirkpatrick, I want a complete round-up of that gang within twenty-four hours! I'll hold these men here, shove them into the grand jury first thing in the morning . . . I'll have indictments by noon. But don't wait for that, Kirkpatrick. Get busy!"

He bounced out of the room again, and Kirkpatrick crossed to Wentworth's side. "It was Munro, wasn't it, threatening Nita?"

Wentworth said, "Yes, he seems to blame me for what the
Spider
did." His voice was dull.

Kirkpatrick's voice was kind. "Go home, Dick, and rest. This is all cleaned up, I tell you! We'll have every man behind the bars in twenty-four hours!"

The laughter that pushed out between Wentworth's grim lips was bitter. "Aren't you forgetting . . . Munro?" he asked softly.

"We'll find men who will talk!" Kirkpatrick said, but his voice lacked confidence.

Wentworth shook his head. "They will describe to you a man called Munro—a man whose face has been seared and twisted by flame until it is scarcely human, whose eyes are red-rimmed, bleared sockets."

"No man like that can hide long from us!"

"You miss the point, Kirk," Wentworth said quietly. "No man like that could possibly assume the disguise of a normal face." His voice dropped, wearily.

"The semblance of the Faceless One is merely another disguise. Good luck in your round-up, Kirk, and if you can find out anything about Nita . . . ."

Kirkpatrick's arm tightened about Wentworth's shoulders. They made a strange picture in that scene of triumph. There was bounce to the stride of the district attorney's aides as they scurried about his business; even the police seemed to have a stiffer, more confident poise. But there was a perceptible droop to Wentworth's shoulders, and Kirkpatrick's face was gouged by lines of anger and frustration. His arm dropped and, slowly, he knuckled his waxed mustaches, as always when he was worried.

"As long as Munro is at large," he said gruffly, "we have gained very little by this round-up. His use of fire is a terrible weapon that he knows too well how to use. He will use it as long as he is at liberty."

"And only the more terribly because of this round-up," Wentworth agreed gravely. "We are chasing phantoms in the dark, and we find only the habiliments of trickery . . . empty disguises. If I may suggest, Kirk, it would be a good idea to take a talking-picture record of every one of the prisoners, especially watching the sonograph. A man may disguise his voice, but there will be peculiarities there that he himself will not know. The sonograph will show that in sound vibrations!"

Kirkpatrick's eyes narrowed. "You think that Munro is one of those men who are . . . supposed to be his victims?"

Wentworth lifted his shoulders in a slow shrug. "I do not know, Kirk. It would be clever, in fact the only way he could learn the exact status of the case against him. I have studied each of those men in detail and I can't identify Munro, but I think Munro will call me again about Nita. I will take a sonograph record of the voice . . . We must catch at straws to identify that man!"

Kirkpatrick said crisply, "I'll do it, Dick! If we can trap a man by the way his voice makes the air vibrate . . . ."

"Then we will have added a page to the science of crime-detection," Wentworth smiled slightly. "I hold out no great hopes, Kirk. It is predicated on the possibility that Munro is in that room. Make sure that Toley keeps them prisoners!" He nodded. "If you want me in the next three hours, Kirk . . . After that, you can leave any information about Nita with Ram Singh. I'll be . . . out!"

He strode down the broad corridor, and the eyes of the police followed him respectfully. There was a tangle of newspapermen outside the doors and they yelped eager questions at him. Wentworth shook his head.

"You'll have to see Toley, or Kirkpatrick," he said. "I came on private business."

They followed him to the Daimler, where Jackson waited behind the wheel, and he turned at the door there.

"You may quote me as saying that the
Spider
has done a great piece of work," he answered their barrage. "I envy him the accomplishment! Will you publish my request that the
Spider
communicate with me on a matter of vital importance . . . to me?"

He leaned back against the cushions then and Jackson slapped the door shut, drove swiftly, smoothly back toward Wentworth's apartment. Wentworth fought against the despair that closed in on his heart, and for the first time allowed himself to think deliberately of Munro's demands.

It was like Munro to phrase his demand as he had that Wentworth must put the
Spider
on the spot. Munro had no doubts that he and the
Spider
were the same man, though he had no positive proof of it. Wentworth allowed a faint smile to move his lips. Munro needed no proof. All any criminal needed was a suspicion. Well, he could make certain preparations. Munro had said he would call again in three hours time to tell Wentworth where and when the
Spider
must be sacrificed.

Somehow, he must contrive to turn that deathtrap for the
Spider
—into a snare that would accomplish Munro's death!

Munro was shrewd enough to guess in advance that he would make just such an attempt. So when Munro called, it certainty that he would allow only the slimmest margin of time . . . Round and round the cycle of weary thought raced.

It had been almost forty-eight hours since he had slept, and his food had been snatched inadequately. Body and brain had been functioning at super-speed, strained to their utmost. He . . . He was tired. And, dear God, the greatest battle lay ahead: the battle to destroy Munro and save Nita's sweet life.

Wentworth tried to exert his will toward rest, and his mind would not. Munro was not finished; his vanity would not permit him to drop the fight now that his superficial organization had been smashed. Wentworth stiffened at the conviction that this trap for the
Spider
was only a small part of Munro's plans. He would time it beautifully, and while the
Spider
was walking into a trap—somewhere in the city, Munro would strike a terrible blow with his weapons of living flame!

His hands knotting to slow, white fists on his knees, Wentworth realized that for the present he was utterly helpless to discover where Munro would strike. He could only guess at the nature of the crime . . . but he knew how shrewdly and terribly Munro could plan. It was a safe guess that it would entail a wanton slaughter of human beings to cover the final escape!

A crystal-clear chiming of bells broke across Wentworth's thoughts and he lifted his head to stare about him. The dawn was lifting greyly out of the East. There was a bitter, bracing cold in the air against which the few persons abroad moved swiftly, with heads bowed. The doors of a cathedral stood open and men and women were hurrying up the broad, shallow steps.

"This isn't Sunday," Wentworth said dully.

Jackson shook his head, and there was grief and pity on his face as he turned it for an instant while the car slid to a halt at a traffic light.

"No, Major," he said. "Not Sunday. This is Thanksgiving Day."

Wentworth fought down the mockery of the laughter that surged to his lips. Slowly, he forced himself to relax again against the cushions. Thanksgiving Day . . . .

The first hour that Wentworth spent at his home, high above Fifth Avenue where the wind was clean and sharp, was a time of violent activity. He had Jackson rig a recording-machine to take down the words of Munro, and the voice, when he called again. He made arrangements with the telephone company to trace instantaneously any call that came in over his wires. His car was parked at the curb, ready to race at an instant's notice, and he had Ram Singh rent a seaplane and fly it to the nearest pier in the East River, anchor it there.

Afterward, he sent Jackson after more of the flame-extinguishers and to purchase asbestos cloth with which to line the cape of the
Spider
and fashion a mask. For the moment, it was all he could do; Kirkpatrick would be pressing the questioning of the prisoners, rounding up whatever of Munro's associates could be found

Now, he could only wait.

Wentworth stripped and flung himself across his bed but, for a long while, even his powerful will could not drive his harassed mind into the nothingness of sleep. At the end of two hours, he awoke without summons. A cold shower, and a brisk rub-down, and he was as refreshed as from a full night's rest.

But no word had come from Munro and time passed . . . .

By A violent exertion of will, Wentworth forced himself to sit quietly in his drawing-room to await that call. His mind would stray . . . and presently he would find himself striding the floor with long, reaching strides, his hair rumpled from the quick, hard thrusts of his lean fingers through it. Somehow, he should be able to hit on the target of Munro's plans this day. The banks would be closed, and fire was not, anyway, a potent weapon against those structures built conventionally of stone and steel. He gripped his temples hard. Damn it, he could not think. But his every nerve was vibrantly alert. He knew that this day Munro would strike!

The day dragged out its weary course. Three times, Kirkpatrick called, but he was asking for information and had none himself to offer. In Wentworth's home, no one moved save on tiptoe. Time and again, Jackson would come to stand silently behind him, but he was not an articulate man. He could not proffer the sympathy he felt. There was a scowling rage on the face of Ram Singh, and Punjabi curses hissed through his lips. Even Jackson, who usually bantered him, did not cross him this Thanksgiving day.

Blue dusk began to gather in the streets and the western sky held low clouds, red as the flames that Munro raised so terribly and still there came no word. Wentworth fought against a feeling of helplessness and despair. He knew that all this had been deliberately calculated by Munro; that somewhere in the city he was making his dual preparations, to kill the
Spider,
and to loot when the hour was ripe. But Wentworth knew that, regardless of the fact that Munro had planned to keep him idle, his greatest hope of finding and destroying this wanton butcher was to do precisely that. When the telephone shrilled . . . .