THE SPIDER-City of Doom (49 page)

"Don't, Kirk," Wentworth said quietly, then he laughed. "I'm sure she's had enough shocks for one day."

He moved toward where Nita sat, rather limply, in a high-backed chair. Her face was pale, but there was humor in the smile on her soft lips. She lifted a hand slowly to her temple. She looked slowly from one man toward the other.

"I think I made a pretty good choice of friends," she said, a little absently. "I feel . . . ashamed that I cannot remember. I understand about some kind of explosion, but afterward, there was so much horror." Her eyes widened. "I saw a man killed, you know, and—"

"Sssh!" Wentworth urged gently. "Don't try to think about it. Just let your mind rest."

He dropped into a chair near her, eyes intently on her face, and there was tenderness in his deep voice when he spoke again. This was pain to him, this thing that had happened to Nita, but he was guiltily aware, too, of a certain relief. For once Nita would be safe from the turmoil and horror of the battle he fought. But suppose this amnesia were permanent! Wentworth's lips grew a little grim. He could not allow Nita again to become involved in the dangers of the
Spider's
life!

Wentworth made that decision, and he felt tightness constrict his throat so that his voice was pinched off. Life, without Nita . . . would not be life. It would be a stale and flat existence! . . . But happiness was not for him. He had never permitted himself the joy of marrying Nita, for the life of the
Spider
could lead only to ultimate disgrace and death. He could not involve her more deeply in that. No, he could not again endanger Nita!

So strong was the decision that Wentworth pulled to his feet. He found that his left hand was clenched into a fist . . . and that Nita was looking up at him curiously. Kirkpatrick was saying quietly that he would have to leave.

"Come to see me tomorrow, Dick, at my home," he smiled wryly. "I want to discuss certain . . . problems." His glance toward Nita was significant.

Wentworth nodded his understanding. "Very well, Kirk. Tomorrow."

Kirkpatrick made his departure and Wentworth sat down once more beside Nita, and was again aware of the bewilderment in her eyes.

This man . . . her fiancé? His face was strong and there was character and intelligence and tenderness there. She felt drawn to him . . . and at the same time, she knew a strange revulsion! This man, whom she was supposed to love, somehow filled her with fear!

Nita's glance was shy now. "You must teach me . . . many things, Mr. Wentworth. Oh, I know that sounds stilted and strange," she cried. "But how can I say . . . when I don't remember!"

Wentworth wanted to touch her arm in reassurance. He did not. He said gravely: "There is no pressure upon you at all. No compulsion even to see me, if you do not wish. Your recovery is all-important."

Nita's hand went out to his. "Oh, you are kind," she said. "It's just that I don't
know!
"

There was, suddenly, a sharp rap at the door. Without other warning, the door was snapped open and Commissioner Littlejohn strode into the room. He stood there, his jaw set in savage ill-humor, flames burning hotly in his blue eyes. But his voice was casual.

"Been here long, Wentworth?"

Wentworth rose stiffly to his feet. An angry reprimand was on his lips, but he held it back. "I was admitted only a few minutes ago," he said quietly. "The nurse will tell you how long I have been here. May I inquire the reason for your solicitude?"

Nita van Sloan's eyes shuttled between the two men. She felt their anger and their hostility, and she could not fathom it. Littlejohn, she knew; and there were vague memories, too, of this other man. They were memories . . . of horror! And yet, she liked him. She liked this Richard Wentworth whom she was supposed to marry!

Littlejohn ignored Wentworth's inquiry. He turned and nodded stiffly to Nita. "Miss van Sloan," he said, and harshness crept into his voice. "I want you to remember certain things that happened after you recovered consciousness. You saw a man killed, and another man place the imprint of a red seal on his forehead!"

Nita's eyes widened. She felt terror cold within her, and her hand pressed against her teeth. She could remember the scene, all right, and she did not like it. Ever since it had happened, she had been shrinking from that memory, and she did not know why. It was death, surely, but it was not the death that had stricken her. The horror came from . . . from beyond the veil that had dropped across her mind!

Littlejohn said softly, "I see that you remember!" He whirled toward Wentworth. "Now then," he snapped, "you will say, 'Nita! It's Dick! Don't you understand?'"

Wentworth's face held a small smile, but his eyes were without expression. Littlejohn was repeating the words that Wentworth had cried to Nita there on the street after he had killed a looter. Plainly, Nita remembered them; had repeated them to Littlejohn, for the officer was trying to get Nita to identify Wentworth as the
Spider!
And Nita . . . Nita had no reason not to speak!

Nita cried out, sharply, "
No!
" then sank back.

Littlejohn whipped toward her. "What do you mean, 'No?'" he demanded.

Nita's head was shaking from side to side. She did not speak again. Her eyes strained wide, and there was horror in their depths as she looked once more from Wentworth to Littlejohn. The horror had her by the throat again. Her hands were clasped there. She understood now what Littlejohn meant. He meant that . . . that this man who called himself her fiancé was the murderer whose trade-mark was the red spider seal!

Oh heavens! Was this possible? Did this explain the way she felt toward Richard Wentworth, at once drawn to him and repelled?

Littlejohn's voice was pounding at her savagely, but Nita was not looking at him any longer. She was staring fixedly at the face of Richard Wentworth.

"This isn't a fair test, you know," he was saying gently. "And you need not do as Littlejohn says. However, if you wish, I will repeat the words." Wentworth smiled into her eyes. "I do not want you to have any doubts about me."

Littlejohn said, "Damn you, Wentworth, you're suborning a witness under my eyes. You say what I dictated, or keep your mouth shut! Now then, Miss van Sloan, I see that you remember—"

Wentworth said, coldly, "Very well, Littlejohn. This is highly unethical—"

"To hell with ethics!" snapped Littlejohn.

Wentworth nodded. "Yes," he said. "Exactly . . ." He made his voice urgent, "
Nita, it's Dick! Don't you understand?
" Nita's lips parted. There was fear in the depths of her violet eyes as they stared at Wentworth, and he knew a sick horror in his heart. It did not matter what Nita should say. It did not matter whether she unwittingly betrayed him to Littlejohn. But to see
fear
in her eyes when she looked at him . . . Nita abruptly buried her face in her hands.

There was hell in her heart, too. She was sure. She was almost sure. That voice echoed in her ears, and the vision of that awful street swam back before her aching brain. Littlejohn's sharp voice was prodding her. It was her duty. She could accuse this man. He was a murderer. She had seen him kill a man. She had seen him imprint the seal of the
Spider
on his forehead. She had read many papers since then, telling of the murders this
Spider
had committed. Yes, she should accuse him.

Nita lifted her head and looked into Wentworth's face. There was no pleading in his eyes. They met hers simply, without any urging, without any appeal. There was no fear there, only a quiet strength. This man . . . a murderer? The wanton butcher who was depicted as the
Spider?

Nita's head swung slowly from side to side.

"What do you mean?" Littlejohn's voice lifted.

Nita made no answer. She was still gazing into Wentworth's face. Slowly, she reached out to him.

"Take my hand!" she said in a muffled voice.

Wentworth took it quietly, held it in both of his, that slim, soft little hand that seemed so helpless . . . but which, on occasion, had fought so valiantly by his side. He looked down at her hand, and unbidden, a small smile tugged at his mouth corners. It was gone in an instant, a tender hint of a smile. No more than that.

Littlejohn's eyes were unwaveringly upon them. Nita turned toward him with a sudden smile. "This could not be the man," she said. "My very flesh would burn from the touch of a murderer!"

Littlejohn snorted. "Nonsense!" he snapped. "Everybody knows that Wentworth has a strong appeal for women. Use your head, not your heart! Think, Miss van Sloan! You saw a murder! Did this man do it?"

Nita withdrew her hand slowly from Wentworth's. Her head leaned back against the chair, and her eyes closed. But the smile lingered on her lips.

"I don't see how I could be mistaken," she said, and knew she lied . . . and did not know
why
she lied. "This doesn't seem to be the man!"

Littlejohn swore and slammed out of the room, and Nita opened her eyes and looked up into Wentworth's face. The smile was gone now.

"Are you . . . that man?" she asked dully. "No, no, don't answer me. I don't want to know. I don't want to know!" She buried her face in her hands, and the sobs pushed out through them. "No, don't touch me. Go! Go, quickly!"

"I'll come again tomorrow," Wentworth said quietly. "If you don't wish to see me, just leave word with the nurse, and I'll understand."

Wentworth bowed, and stepped toward the door. Behind him, Nita cried out, "
Wait!
"

She was on her feet. The rose silk of her negligee draped the smooth lines of her body. Her eyes were wild and her hands were stretched out gropingly. She said, uncertainly, "If you would . . . kiss me."

Wentworth stood stiff as stone, by the door. His arms were hungry for her. His heart was empty . . . but he knew with a certain overwhelming shock that if he kissed her now, she would remember . . . everything. She would be back in the maelstrom of horror and death. His heart argued with him. He was pampering his love, his conceit. The kiss would be only . . . a kiss. It would not help her to remember, or forget.

Wentworth's lips froze into stubbornness. He wrenched out words by great effort. "Nita, my dear," he said thickly. "It is better not."

He went hurriedly, clapping the door shut, striding rapidly along the echoing corridor. Behind him, Nita stared at that closed door. Her outstretched arms dropped heavily. She sagged back into the chair, and tears traced their jeweled way across her cheeks.

"Dick," she whispered. "Oh, Dick!"

She didn't know that she spoke. The words made no impression on her mind. They came from deep within her somewhere, and fell like tears across the silence, She did not know . . . . Something within her would not let her testify against this man. This man, Richard Wentworth.

Abruptly, Nita's eyes snapped open. It seemed to her that a voice whispered in her ear. She stirred uneasily and looked around, but there was no one here. Yet the voice persisted. It was soft, insinuating.

"There is a way to be sure," it whispered. "Call him to you and drug him. The nurse will give you the drug. He will have to tell the truth then. After all, you aren't sure. It would be nice . . . to know that he is innocent. So that you could love him. He is innocent. He must be innocent. But you have to know. Just call him to you, and drug him . . . . The nurse will give you the drug . . . . The little blonde nurse will give you the drug . . . ."

Nita rose to her feet. She cried, "No! No, I won't!"

The voice died . . . Nita looked fearfully around her. She knew that the voice would speak again.

She whispered. There had been words in her throat to utter. Now, she did not know what they were. But she felt they had been important. They would have saved her. They had saved her before, that she knew.

She did not remember the talisman. The whisper, "
Dick, Oh, Dick . . . .
"

And that voice would speak again.

Wentworth stumbled blindly as he fled from Nita's room. Only by flight could he be sure that he would not succumb to the wild hunger in his heart.

At the door of the hospital, Commissioner Littlejohn was waiting.

"Wentworth!" he snapped. "I want a word with you!"

Wentworth pulled up sharp, and his face was suddenly calm again. "The desire is mutual, Littlejohn," he replied.

Littlejohn ignored his answer. "Your alibi is shaky. In fact, it is non-existent, unless you can find the intern to whom you spoke!"

Wentworth shrugged slightly. "You neglect to inform me for what I require an alibi," he said shortly, "therefore, I shall not trouble myself unduly. Littlejohn, you have made your persecution of me an obsession. I will let that rest for the moment. You are the Commissioner of Police. I wish to lay certain information before you in that capacity."

Littlejohn's hot small eyes narrowed, but he jerked his head in assent.

Wentworth said, "Thank you. There is a combination of seven criminals planning a big raid, probably for tomorrow. Six of these men are known to the police, though one of them was supposed to be dead." He gave Littlejohn their names. "Cassin, an expert safe blower and extremely skilled with explosives, is planning a job tomorrow. Towan will help him. Towan is a very skillful man in impersonations. That is the extent of my information."

Littlejohn smiled thinly. "I suppose I am not permitted to inquire how you found this out . . . if you did find it out?"

Wentworth said, "On the contrary, Littlejohn, ask all you wish . . . . Ethics did not seem to stop you a little while ago!"

Muscles worked in Littlejohn's cheeks. "Precautions will be taken," he snapped. "I'll put out alarms for these men for questioning."

Wentworth acknowledged that with a nod. "I knew that you would perform your duty. Now then, Littlejohn, this is a personal message to you: If you persecute Miss van Sloan, any farther,
I'll beat you to a pulp!
"

Wentworth's voice was very quiet, but anger flashed coldly in his eyes. Littlejohn took a quick step backward. His hand dropped to the butt of his gun.