THE SPIDER-City of Doom (48 page)

Wentworth backed to the middle of the office. His eyes quested frantically. But there was no exit. Dimly, he heard the wail of sirens as the police, under his deadly enemy, Littlejohn, raced to the kill!

Commissioner Littlejohn was confident as he flung his men about the block in which the
Spider
had been trapped. He welcomed the appeal flashed him by the Harding Detective and Protective Agency.

"Obey no orders except those that I give personally," he directed in his harsh, cold voice. "This time, the
Spider
won't get away!"

He led a force of police shock-troops into the building. Two men wore bulletproof armor and helmets with plated visors that had only vision slits in them. These men moved ponderously and their metal-gloved hands held sub-machine guns. Three other men carried hydraulic jacks, and there was an axe crew. All carried guns and four of them were equipped with brutal sawed-off shotguns.

Commissioner Littlejohn did not believe in temporizing with criminals!

It was the girl who had phoned for help who greeted Littlejohn. Her voice was thin with fright. "He's in there!" she said shakily, pointing to an office door of solid oak, barred with steel. "I put men with guns on the roof below."

As she spoke, there was a ripple of gunfire that echoed dimly through thick walls.

"He must have tried to get out by the window," she whispered.

Littlejohn nodded, and there were spots of red high on his cheekbones. "My men are taking over on the roof," he said curtly. "Get out of here now. We'll take him!"

He motioned the two men in armor forward. They took positions where they could fire through the door when it was opened. Other police swung forward to lift the bars.

"Watch out for trickery." Littlejohn's voice was thick, "Do nothing except by my orders! All right . . . ." He glanced about him. The armored men were on their knees. Crouching behind them, the shot-gun squad was ready. The revolver men were out of range, guns trained on the doorway. Littlejohn smiled dourly, drew his own revolver. He faced the doorway, narrowed his eyes. "Flashlights, three of you. Train them on the door. Now then . . .
open that door!
"

The dazzling beams of powerful police flashlights played over the panel. The revolver-armed police on each side manipulated the lock of the door . . . and flung it wide!

Littlejohn swore and flung up his revolver as the lights flooded into the office. There, in the center of the floor, was a twisted, black caped figure. He heard the flat, mocking laughter he had learned to hate.

"You have an efficient slaughter squad, Littlejohn," the
Spider
said softly. "Now, watch carefully . . . ."

"
Fire!
" Littlejohn snapped. His own revolver bellowed!

Even as the sub-machine guns chattered out their hail of death, and the riot-guns hurled their loads of shot, there was a flash of brilliant fire within the office! The flames seemed to leap up all around the feet of the black, twisted figure! Black smoke roiled up around him. It was like some devil's disappearance on the stage of the opera.

The black smoke rolled high, but through it, movement was dimly discernible. In spite of that wall of bullets that had been hurled into the room, the black caped figure flitted toward the window! It hurtled toward the window, appeared to hesitate there . . . and then plunged outward into space! Instantly, guns spoke from the roof below. Lead smashed through the glass of the window, pocked the ceiling. Plaster dust swirled down to meet the black fog rising from the floor!

In a single long bound, Littlejohn reached his men. "Cease firing!" he snapped. He went across the office toward the window. "Cease firing!" he shouted again, more loudly.

Guns on the roof dwindled into silence, and Littlejohn peered down into space. Ten feet below the window, there dangled the black caped figure. The silken line was looped over a window-cleaner's hook beside the casement. But there was no body inside the black cape. Now that it dangled so, Littlejohn could see the spindly legs and prongs of a hat-rack, on which cape and hat had been hung.

While he stared, swearing, through a long half-minute, he heard an officer's voice call out behind him. "Chief, look! There's a hole in the floor!"

Littlejohn whipped around and, through the lifting smoke, he made out what the finger of a flashlight had picked out. There was a jagged aperture, roughly square, in the middle of the office floor! With a harsh curse, Littlejohn sprang toward it. He was staring down into a sort of directors' room with a long table and green leather walls.

"Down through here, Sullivan," he snapped. "Johnson, down through this trap door. The rest of you get down to the floor below this, fast. The cordon at the door will see that he doesn't get out. Margrave, stand guard here to see that he doesn't come back!"

Littlejohn leaped for the door, led the rush of his armed squad through the outer office and toward the steps. Anger worked in his face. There was a glittering fury in his eyes. He had covered every known exit, damn it. But that hadn't stopped the Spider! He blew a hole in the floor! How in hell could a man cope with the
Spider?
He never did the same thing twice in succession. Always, when the jaws of the trap closed, they shut on . . . nothing. But the fight wasn't lost yet. The guard at the doors would hold. He'd track the
Spider
down through every last closet and cubbyhole in the whole building.

Littlejohn whipped open a door and raced down the steps with his gun ready. When he reached the office below, the door was locked. He slammed his shoulder against it . . . .

Up in the office he had left, the armor-clad Margrave crouched just inside the door. He held the muzzle of his sub-machine gun unwavering on the torn opening in the floor. His eyes were wide. Behind the slits, they searched furtively over the room. Sure, the man had disappeared like a devil out of hell. A flash of fire, now, and black smoke. Margrave sniffed apprehensively. Like brimstone it was, to be sure. He inched a little closer toward the hole in the floor, craning his neck.

He was watching very closely, but he did not see the movement in the shadows behind the steel filing cabinet. He did not see a man straighten calmly there and take swift strides toward his flank. At the last moment, he heard a faint footfall. He started to cry out, and there was a twinge of pain through his neck . . . like a blow on the funny-bone, but overwhelming, devastating. It blanked out his consciousness.

The man who had struck him with pronged fingers on his nerve centers, straightened and strolled casually toward the door. There was no one between him and the elevators . . . no one at all. The cages had been stopped and held here at Littlejohn's orders. A smart man, Littlejohn. He took all precautions!

There was a mocking smile on Wentworth's lips as he stepped into an elevator and threw over the lever. He still wore the facial disguise of the
Spider.
That was wise, for the present. Yes, Littlejohn had been pretty smart. He had penetrated the first deception quickly, but he had fallen into the second deception . . . the hole in the floor. If he had recognized the trickery there, Wentworth would have had no choice except to fight for it . . . with his fists. He thought he might have succeeded there, too, thanks to the force of surprise. But it had not been necessary.

Wentworth reached out and flicked off the overhead light in the elevator. At the first floor, he slammed open the door and bounded out. It was fantastic how much his body movements resembled those of Littlejohn. He used the man's quick, taut-muscled run, the curious rigidity of spine . . . the
Spider's
old trick of disguise. At a distance men were identified more by body gesture than by facial features.

Littlejohn had an easy voice to imitate . . . flat and rather monotonous in delivery. "Spread the cordon!" Wentworth rasped in Littlejohn's voice as he bolted toward the front doors. "Take in five blocks! The
Spider
got out of the office! Widen, damn you, and don't let so much as a rat get through the lines!"

There was an armed squad of men outside the doors. The lieutenant in command whirled about to repeat the orders and the squad lowered their guns, faced about to run to the new posts assigned them. Wentworth reached the lieutenant's side in a single long leap. Once more his hand flashed out, and prodding fingers paralyzed the man's nerve centers.

Littlejohn's limousine was at the curb. In a single fast leap, Wentworth reached it. He sent it racing toward the disintegrating police lines. He leaned out the window, shouting, still in Littlejohn's voice. "Don't let so much as a rat through the lines!"

He drove the limousine through the gap that scattering police opened and then, as he flashed clear, Wentworth laughed . . . and the taunt of that laughter mocked the stunned police. For a moment they stood motionless, then they started hurling bullets at the fleeing limousine!

But Wentworth did not mind bullets now. The car was bullet-proof, as was proper for a police commissioner's official car. They would pursue him now. Littlejohn would withdraw his forces from the building—and Jackson would have his chance to get clear with the girl they had rescued. Wentworth laughed again as the first faint siren yelped behind him. He flicked the peremptory siren of his own car, and sent it whirling to safety. He gained a few more blocks, abandoned the car on a side street and ducked down a subway. The lank wig came off as he ran, went into a trash can. The remnants of his disguise followed rapidly.

But Wentworth, though he was elated over the trickery of Littlejohn, was very grim as he sped northward by subway. Littlejohn was not through. Always after the
Spider
disappeared, Littlejohn hunted for Richard Wentworth. It was wise to be provided with an alibi! Well, he had his plans for that . . . .

Wentworth thrust thoughts of his own peril from his mind, and thought again of the threatened horror he had overheard in that long leather-lined room where the council of evil had met. Gannuck's motorized division had been staging only a rehearsal! Yet dozens, scores of people must have died.

And Gannuck was one of only six men who would participate in the X-day planned by Moulin that would make them all multi-millionaires!

Grimly, Wentworth's jaw locked. X-day would be tomorrow, if Cassin, Towan and the third hooded man whom he did not know were successful. He could gain at least a little delay from horror by defeating those men. He had fought, and knew the powers of all those men. If only the police had not struck, he might have tracked them down and destroyed them all! But Moulin had seen to it that the police came . . . and his cohorts were scattered now, to strike swiftly on the morrow!

Wentworth's eyes held a musing, puzzled light. He was remembering the cold, blustering night when he had killed Moulin—when he
thought
he had killed Moulin . . . . Yes, there was a chance that he had survived, though it had seemed impossible at the time. His motor launch, speeding to safety, had been blown out of the water by the bomb Wentworth had dropped from his plane . . . . But that had been Moulin's voice that had spoken. No doubt of that.

Wentworth whipped the thought from his mind. Somehow, he must prevent Towan, Cassin and the third Unknown from fulfilling their missions tomorrow. Meantime . . . his alibi!

No one knew New York better than Richard Wentworth. It was close to midnight, but he managed to buy a modish hat and a large box of flowers. Then he sped to the hospital in which, newspapers said, Nita van Sloan was undergoing treatment. He got past the doorman and into a waiting room without being seen. The waiting room was dark. Wentworth laid his hat upon his box, then strode angrily out into the corridor. He went to the front hall desk and tapped with irritation on the surface.

Presently, a nurse came hurrying toward him.

"This is really intolerable," Wentworth told her, shortly. "I have been waiting a half hour!"

The nurse said, agitatedly, "Really, sir, I know nothing about it. What was it you wanted?"

"That intern," Wentworth said, "he told me that he would arrange for me to see Miss van Sloan. Yes, yes, I know it's past visiting hours, but this is a special case. Miss van Sloan is my fiancée. She's suffering from amnesia . . . ."

The nurse said, slowly, "Miss van Sloan . . . then you must be Richard Wentworth!

Wentworth bowed slightly. "Kindly look up that intern . . . . No, of course I haven't any idea what intern. I don't like to disrupt hospital discipline, but I intend to see my fiancée at once!"

The nurse hurried off, and Wentworth allowed a slight smile to cross his lips. Presently the nurse came hurrying back with a staff physician. He was fretful, annoyed. "Really, most disturbing," he said, pettishly. "First Mr. Kirkpatrick, and now you. Yes, yes . . . you may go up. Miss van Sloan has a private room, and it is important for her to see familiar faces, Nurse, room one-nine-seven-six, please."

Wentworth picked up his hat and the box of flowers from the waiting room and followed the nurse. There was a frown between his brows. He glanced rapidly over his clothing. It was in order. There was a minute tear in one knee. Kirkpatrick would see that. Unless he were careful, too, Kirkpatrick would discern that this was not his hat, for Wentworth's were especially made by his private hatter.

But then, Kirkpatrick was no longer Commissioner of the Police!

Nita's voice bade him enter, and Nita's lovely violet eyes gazed on him . . . but there was no warmth in their depths, no recognition.

"Mr. Richard Wentworth," she read from the card. She smiled faintly, uncertainly. "Are you another gentleman I am supposed to know?"

Wentworth felt pain stir like a knife in his heart. He bowed quietly. "Yes, Nita," he said softly.

Across the room, Kirkpatrick smiled in his usual wintry style. His saturnine face was drawn and there was weariness about his eyes. "Hello, Dick," he said. "Yes, Nita . . . ." he turned to the girl. "This is a man you are supposed to know. In fact, you were—are—engaged to marry him."