THE SPIDER-City of Doom (40 page)

Kirkpatrick found himself feverishly impatient, so that he darted ahead of Nita into the apartment house before he thought, and his apology was perfunctory.

From the locked cell door, Wentworth called out angrily, "Kirkpatrick, if you don't let me out of this damned cell, I'm going to sue you so fiercely you'll be kicked out of office. Damn you, can't you understand, Nita is in the hands of Munro, and . . ."

Nita came into the room then and Wentworth broke off with a glad cry and Nita ran to his arms. He clasped her through the steel bars, and Kirkpatrick heard her telling him rapidly the same things she had told him previously. His eyes were burning into Cassidy's, but the policeman met them steadily.

"Cassidy," he said sharply, "have you been out from behind this glass shield!"

Cassidy sighed, "Faith, Commissioner I haven't moved, but it's hard on my feet. You didn't give me a chair!"

Kirkpatrick frowned. "In other words, your eyes have never been off Wentworth, and he has not left that cell!"

Cassidy frowned, too. "Never a wink have I taken, Commissioner," he said, "and Wentworth has been standing right there where he is now the whole time!"

Kirkpatrick swung about toward Wentworth, took the keys from Cassidy. There was something that troubled him, and he could not place it. Cassidy had spoken with a straight-forward conviction, and plain sincerity. And yet . . . Damn it, he had seen the
Spider!
He unlocked the door of the cell.

"It seems, Dick," he said slowly, "that I owe you more apologies than I can ever muster up the words to speak. Tonight, I have seen the
Spider
with my own eyes, and I know that man in action. It could not have been someone else in disguise. And I had provided you with an unbreakable alibi." He smiled suddenly, and it lighted all his weary face. "Dick, from the bottom of my heart, I am glad! Now, there can be an end of fencing and pretense between us! Will you shake hands?"

Wentworth's heart gave him a twinge. He hated thus to deceive his friend, but his duty and his service to humanity demanded it. He clasped Kirkpatrick's hand warmly . . . and from the other room, the radio was suddenly loud.

"Attention, Kirkpatrick!" it called sharply. "Kirkpatrick, are you listening. This is the
Spider
speaking!"

Kirkpatrick smothered an oath and leaped to the doorway. Jackson was standing by the radio. He stammered, "I . . . I just wanted to see what the news was saying about the
Spider,
" he said.

Kirkpatrick gestured him to silence.

"Kirkpatrick," came the flat and mocking voice of the
Spider,
"I have done your work for you once more. You'll find Munro dead, and his men, some dead, and some prisoners, on the yacht
Phoenix
anchored off the Coney Island bell buoy about a mile. Also, you will find a sonograph record of his declaration that Nita van Sloan was to die, and why. If you will check it with those I understand Wentworth had you make of certain suspects, you should have no difficulty in making sure that it was Munro speaking!

"And you can do me a favor, Kirkpatrick. Munro seems to make the same mistake that so many of you confounded imbeciles make. He confuses me with Wentworth. Now admittedly, Wentworth is a superior mentality, but he cannot compare with me! I always . . . . beat him to the kill!

"Do this little thing for me, Kirkpatrick, and give this sop to my vanity! Wentworth . . . phooey!"

Wentworth said violently, "Confound his impudence! He can boast! And here I was, sealed up in a cell . . . ."

Nita said, gently, "But he saved my life, Dick!"

Wentworth grumbled into silence, shrugged. What he muttered sounded suspiciously like, "The conceited ass!"

Kirkpatrick was smiling, and there seemed to be years taken from his shoulders. "I will make that clear for the
Spider,
" he laughed, "and for you, Dick! To think of all these years, when I have been sure you were one and the same man!"

Ram Singh was waiting in the Daimler below, and the snow was sifting down softly in large, feathery flakes. He stood rigidly beside the doorway.

"It came over the air perfectly, Ram Singh," Wentworth said quietly, "have you already cleared the sound-track of the speech?"

Ram Singh salaamed, "
Han, sahib
!" he growled, "but this
Spider
said some defaming things, master. When I get my hands upon his throat . . . Ha!" Ram Singh threw back his head and roared out his laughter on the cold night air.

Jackson shouldered forward, "Pipe down, you heathen," he rasped, in top sergeant style. "You want to give the show away?"

Ram Singh cut his laughter short and scowled down at Jackson. "I will have thy ears yet, for my necklace, fool!"

Jackson snorted, "Only a weak sister like you would wear a necklace, and . . . ."

Wentworth laughed, knowing that this was the reaction from the tension of long battle. Nita's hand was light on his arm, and the night seemed suddenly kind. The drifting snow-flakes were like a benison.

"Jackson," he said curtly. "You disobeyed orders!"

Jackson stiffened, and his face went suddenly rigid and pale. He faced Wentworth, standing at attention.

"Begging your pardon, Major," he said stiffly. "Regulations say, 'When a superior officer is mentally or physically disqualified, it shall be the duty of the next ranking officer to take command, and to carry on to the best of his ability, disregarding any previous instructions if they shall interfere with what his knowledge dictates . . . !'"

Wentworth said, dryly, "That's a bit free in quotation, Jackson, but close enough. Jackson, you're confined to quarters for thirty days . . . and there will be bonus of a thousand dollars for you when you come out!"

Jackson saluted, and the laughter sparkled in his eyes. "Thank you, Major!" he said. His hand slapped against his thigh.

Ram Singh's teeth flashed whitely behind his beard. "Ah, hoo!" he chuckled. "And I shall be his jailer! Thou small flea . . . ."

"You heathen lummox."

Nita said softly, "You two brave splendid men!"

Jackson's ears turned red, and Ram Singh stiffened with pride . . . But Wentworth laughed and swept Nita into his arms, and climbed into the car.

"You splendid warriors are going to get your faces washed with snow," he said dryly, "if we don't get home inside of five minutes. In fact, I shall call in the
Spider
to perform the task!"

They were all laughing, as the car rolled northward along Park, swung westward toward home . . . At his window high up in the apartment building, Kirkpatrick watched them go, and shook his head wonderingly over Cassidy. Standing straight up, with his shoulders hitched against the wall, Cassidy was asleep, a faithful guard worn out by the too hard performance of his duty.

He would sleep for twelve hours as Wentworth had ordered him, under the spell of hypnosis, but he would never remember opening the door of that cell for Wentworth to leave; or locking him in again when he returned.

Kirkpatrick smiled, "And all these years," he said to himself slowly, "I have suspected Dick of being the
Spider!
What a fool I have been. What a fool!"

It was one of those neighborhoods found only in New York City. On one side of the street were exclusive apartments, their subdued lights glowing warmly against the blanket of cold fog. On the other side, there was rank squalor.

Here the buildings were unclean and condemned, tenement slums and cheap shops from which figures slunk with the cringing furtiveness of wild beasts.

The imported limousine seemed out of place in such a street, under the glow of the street lamp. Dark and sleek it stood there, its motor silent. Drops of fog condensed on its windows slid quietly down. There was no sign of movement from within.

Like the street, it waited.

The night waited. There were no sounds save the hoarse moan of fog whistles as tugs prowled through the murk of the East River and the far off rumble of elevated trams. Overhead, a row of dim lights crawled through mid-air, where other lights hung like drops of blood . . . . Queensborough Bridge.

There was a faint thin note in the air that seemed to come from above. It resolved itself into a whistled tune, but such a tune as this street had never heard before! It was weird, throbbing, with something of the eerie wailing of a Chinese flute . . . a sound that might have come straight from the yellow heart of the mysterious Orient!

Suddenly the waiting was ended!

In the limousine there was a hint of movement. A pale face showed against a window. It was a lovely face, shadowed somehow with tragedy and apprehension. From behind the car, a tall figure slid forward, a man with broad towering shoulders, arms folded across his chest. He made no sound. There was a turban bound about his proud head.

The whistle died . . . and abruptly there was movement where the shadows clustered most closely against the tenements. A hunched and crippled figure melted out of the blackness into the half-light.

It was a man muffled to the eyes in a long black cape that covered his twisted back and draped to his heels. He moved with a sideways, ugly shuffle. Beneath the broad brim of his black hat his eyes glittered coldly.

The turbaned man swept a low salaam before this sinister figure . . . and just around the corner, a police whistle shrilled in the night!

The man in the cape laughed softly, and a few crackling words in Punjabi issued from his lips as he sprang toward the car. The turbaned man salaamed again, sprang to the rear of the limousine. The door of the tonneau swung open. For an instant, the woman's face showed. Fear and apprehension were gone now. Instead, there was a welcoming smile on her lips.

The man swept off the hat as he leaped through the door. His hair dangled in lank, black strings upon his shoulders. His face was beaked, ruthless . . . a bitter, stern and remorseless profile. Then the door clapped shut.

A police radio car whooped into the street. Blue-uniformed police raced on foot around the corner, their feet loud in the moisture-laden air. The corner light glinted on their guns. They converged on the black limousine.

"Hey, you!" one snarled at the turbaned man. "What you doing here?"

The man straightened imperturbably. His bearded face showed nothing, but fierceness flashed in his eyes.

"
Wah!
" he said scornfully, "are you a fool to ask such questions? Use your eyes!"

A tire of the limousine was flat.

The door of the limousine opened and a light flashed on in the ceiling. In the rear sat a woman, beautifully gowned, and a man in evening dress. His silk hat sat jauntily on his head, and his face was pleasant, kindly, despite the strength of the jaw, the firm line of nose and brows.

The man opened the door. "Is anything wrong, officer?" he asked quietly.

"I beg your pardon, sir," the officer said, more mildly. "Did you see anyone pass here in a hurry? You see, there's been a murder."

The woman gasped. "Horrible!"

The man frowned. "Any number of people have passed, I suppose," he said. "But I noticed none of them in particular. No one running. My man took a short cut to avoid traffic, and we had that beastly puncture. It's a wonder the street department wouldn't sweep here once in a while . . . If I can be of any help to you, let me know." He fingered a card from a platinum cigarette case and held it out to the officer.

The cop frowned at it. "Mr. Richard Wentworth!" he said. "Gee, I didn't know it was you, Mr. Wentworth! You'd better let me leave a man on guard here until your tire is mended. This murder—it was the
Spider
done it!"

The girl in the car shuddered again.

"The
Spider!
How horrible!" she gasped.

The cop rubbed his jaw. "Yeah, well . . . . It's murder, like I said, but the guy what got it—"

"Who was it, officer?"

The cop started to spit, glanced at the woman and didn't. "He was a lawyer. Mortimer Hurd."

Wentworth nodded gravely. "I remember. He just beat some disbarment action against him. Supposed to have worked with a dope ring."

"Supposed!" snapped the cop. "
Supposed!
He was the whole works, if you ask me. Only he was too slick. The law couldn't touch him . . . . Well, I got to get going. I'll leave a man here until you're fixed up."

Wentworth said, "Thank you, officer." He closed the door, and the hand of the woman beside him slid into his. "Nita, my dear," Wentworth said, "your hand is quite cold! When will you get over being nervous over the operations of . . . the
Spider?
This wasn't even close."

Nita van Sloan shuddered a little, drew her fur-edged wrap more closely about her shoulders. "I . . . worry, Dick," she whispered.

Wentworth laughed gently. "You heard what the policeman said, Nita . . . 'He was too slick. The law couldn't touch him.' Still, I don't think the
Spider
intended to kill him. Not if he'd turn over all his money to the poor and leave the country. He preferred to be slick—and try for his gun. When the law can't act . . . the
Spider
will!"

Nita's hand twined within his. "Oh, Dick," she whispered, "you talk as if you . . . and the
Spider . . .
were two entirely different persons!"

Wentworth stared straight before him. His blue-grey eyes were not narrow, but wide and thoughtful. The smile on his generous mouth held regret, but no weakness. "Sometimes," he said softly, "it would be . . . nice if it were so. There's so much to do, so many criminals to be punished . . . ."

The turbaned man swung in behind the wheel, set the limousine in swift motion. Wentworth saluted the policeman on guard, picked up a microphone.

"Nice work, Ram Singh," he said softly and saw the turbaned driver bow briefly. "Switch on transmission . . . ." He pressed a button on the microphone, and knew that his voice, when next he spoke, would be broadcast over the car's two-way radio. He did not speak. Instead, he whistled softly a few bars of an old English folksong. Then he replaced the microphone, and he was frowning a little.