THE SPIDER-City of Doom (52 page)

Commissioner Littlejohn stood high upon a block of fallen masonry from the Roycroft bank where his furious eyes could take in the entire scene of devastation. His rasping, thin voice penetrated the hubbub as he directed his men in rescue and demolition. Muscles worked in his jaws. He was in a rage.

When he failed to handle this situation—and any man must fail—the Mayor would use him as a scapegoat. The Mayor and Dan Flagg would then put in the man they wanted in the first place. The man who would accept the politicians' orders.

Littlejohn snapped out an oath. Well, damn it, while he was in power, he would swing the job by the tail. He might not be able to cope with this wholesale crime wave. But he was confident of one thing. He could trap and destroy the
Spider.
And it would save the job for him.

Littlejohn's lips moved in the faintest of sour grins. He would concede that Wentworth was a smart man; had defeated him more than once. But now there was a Police Commissioner who would loose the entire power of the police on that one job . . . as soon as he could free them from the pressure of overt crime. Littlejohn nodded, stepped down from his lookout.

"Take over," he rasped at a nearby captain. "I'll be at headquarters. Cassin and Towan were responsible for this bank raid. We've got to track them down!"

He had sneered at Kirkpatrick many times for following the suggestions of the
Spider,
or of Dick Wentworth. But, by God, Wentworth had been right this time.

It was within ten minutes of his return to the commissioner's office at police headquarters that Littlejohn received a phone call from Richard Wentworth.

"Yes, I know you warned me," he snapped into the phone, "and I've had alarms out for Towan and Cassin since last night . . . . Who? Father Bennington? How in hell can you know that he's a member of the gang?"

Wentworth's voice was quiet. "I have no proof at all, Commissioner," he said. "You don't need proof of criminal activity to stop him. My man, Jenkyns, will testify that he exhorted the members of his pension club to parade in spite of the order prohibiting it. That can be made into inciting to riot, and it will at least keep him off the streets tonight. It's important, Littlejohn. I have information which indicates that, at eight o'clock tonight, Cassin, Towan, Gannuck, Bennington and Flagg will combine forces to take loot worth millions of dollars. I don't know how or just where, but I am reasonably sure of the time. Since the other men have not been found, we can at least eliminate Bennington!"

Littlejohn said, angrily, "Still trying to run the police force, eh, Wentworth?"

Wentworth's voice was courteous. "It's a suggestion only, Littlejohn," he said, "but I should like to point out that my information about Cassin and Towan proved accurate!"

Littlejohn was scowling blankly across the room. "It's a hell of a mess," he growled, and suddenly he sounded tired. "Bennington has all the politicians doing handstands. They're afraid of the voting power of his club. If I arrest him, I'll have to wait until he actually has started the parade. Meantime, surveillance . . . and I probably won't be able to hold him."

"But you like fights, Commissioner!" Wentworth said softly.

Littlejohn slammed his fist down hard on the desk. "I'm a cop!" he snapped. "I do my duty! And my first duty when this mess is cleared up will be to burn you for your crimes as the
Spider!
"

Wentworth's voice did not change. "I know your purpose, Littlejohn!" he said. "And I mean this: You're a good cop; a damned fine cop!"

Littlejohn hung up the receiver, still scowling. He punched a cam on the annunciator on his desk. "Moriarity! At once!"

In spite of himself, he felt a glow over Wentworth's words. They meant something, coming from a man as smart as Wentworth. A sour grin moved Littlejohn's lips. He was far from stupid. The man had said that, of course, to goad him to his duty in the matter of defying the politicians and arresting Bennington. But Wentworth had meant it, all the same.

A smart man, Wentworth. A dangerous man . . . and a good man to have beside you in a tight spot. Littlejohn ground his knuckles into his forehead. But the
Spider
was a crook . . . and Littlejohn was a cop—a damned good cop! Littlejohn pulled to his feet. When this battle was over, if he were still in office . . . .

Moriarity opened the door.

"The file on Bennington," Littlejohn snapped. "Father Bennington. And put ten of our best men on his headquarters and on his tail. I want to know everything he says and does between now and eight tonight!"

Moriarity's face showed surprise. He said, hesitantly, "Maybe you don't know, Commissioner. Certain parties aren't going to like tampering with Bennington!"

Littlejohn's face did not change, and his voice was curiously flat and low. "To hell with certain parties!" he said.

Moriarity stared, and then a slow grin came to his lips and brought a smile to Littlejohn's face, too.

"Whoops!" Moriarity yelped. "A fight!" He whirled out of the office, clapped the door shut.

Littlejohn's shoulders didn't sag. They never did. But there were tired lines under his eyes. It was his head that would fall, not Moriarity's. For just a moment he thought of his home, and his wife. Mamie was pretty proud of his new job. She'd be just as proud of Littlejohn, a busted cop, but a good one.

Littlejohn sat down and dialed on the private wire. When he spoke, his voice held a note his men had never heard. He said, "Hello, Mamie . . ."

It was four-thirty that afternoon when the first grey heads began to show at Times Square. The place was thronged with police. There were a dozen at each intersection. Down side streets, out of sight, there were troops of mounties, waiting. From a second floor window, beside which a portable radio transmitter had been set up, Commissioner Littlejohn watched the streets. His face was expressionless. Moriarity stood just behind him, and there was admiration in his eyes.

But the oldsters on the streets didn't pay much attention to the police. They didn't see Littlejohn. They kept shuffling along, singly, in couples, in small groups of three and four. They walked along up one side of Times Square. They'd wait with the lights and walk down the other side and up again. They didn't talk very much, but there was a certain resolution in their worn faces.

There was an old man with a cane, his wife beside him. Neither was less than seventy. Their hair was snow white. He patted the woman's hand on his arm.

"Now, don't you worry about anything," he quavered. "Father Bennington said it was all right if we just do what he tells us. We got a right to strike, like anybody else. Only most of us haven't got jobs. So we strike against the city. A regular sit-down strike. And we'll get our pensions!"

The woman shook her head. "Don't seem right. Defying providence, it is."

"Now, Rinda—"

The woman smiled, "Oh, I'll do what you say is right, William," she said primly. "I always have!"

The man cackled, and she prodded him. "Now, don't start that, William! Maybe I have done a might of guiding, now and then, when you needed it . . . ! I like this Father Bennington. I like to hear him talk."

The three men standing on the curb had sullen faces. Their clothing was badly worn, and their seamed faces showed grizzled beard.

"It's getting near time," one muttered.

"Gotta wait for the signal," another answered. "I'm with Bennington. We give the country the best years of our life. We gotta right . . ."

Those words were everywhere: "We gotta right!" People shuffled up one side of Times Square and down the other, waiting for Father Bennington's signal. A right to strike . . . against the city. A right to collect pensions. That was Bennington's hold over them. Their obedience was his hold over politicians. Bennington wasn't worried. He watched his clock complacently, watched the slow increase of the number of old people on the street. They were crowding out everybody else. Must be twenty thousand there right now.

"Don't worry about the cops," he said in his deep, rich voice. "The cops can't do a thing against the old fools. It's almost time. How are they in the subways?"

His assistant laughed. "Hundreds of them down there. Hundreds. Think they'll have the nerve?"

Bennington grunted, "Faith does it. Not nerve. I gave 'em faith, the old fools. It's a good racket even without this cleanup tonight. A swell racket . . . ."

The police kept the people moving. In the side streets, the horses of the mounted cops tossed their heads and pawed at the asphalt. The sergeant was frowning. One of his men leaned toward him.

"I don't like this stuff," he said uneasily. "What we gonna do when they form the parade? Charge into a bunch of old ones like that? Hell, I got a mother. She might be out there. She thinks this Bennington is the berries. Listens to him every chance she gets."

The sergeant said, curtly, "I'm waiting orders. Old ones like that won't be hard to handle."

The cop shook his head, "If they're like my maw—geez, is she stubborn when she gets her mind set on something!"

In his lookout, Littlejohn had not moved for minutes. Worry was deepening in his eyes. He slapped a fist into his palm.

"To hell with this waiting," he said. "It may be asking for trouble, but—pick up Bennington right now!"

The radio man touched a switch in his panel, leaned toward the mike. "Special squad five," he said steadily. "Calling special squad five. Pick up X now. Pick up X now. Orders, Littlejohn. That is all."

Littlejohn's face was pale, his jaw muscles knotted. On the pavement below, he saw an old man totter and fall. Excitement too much for him, probably. Two police picked the man up instantly and carried him to the corner. Littlejohn swore. Bennington was a murderer, damn him, getting these old people to do these things!

The phone shrilled and Moriarity answered it. He cursed harshly. "Chief, special squad five hit Bennington's headquarters. He'd been seen going in there five minutes before—but he wasn't in there! Must be some sort of other way out. Something secret . . . ."

Littlejohn's voice was dead cold. "Clean out the headquarters. Rip it to pieces. Tell the squads at radio stations to watch for Bennington. Grab him if he shows. Tell those radio men with direction finders to keep busy. Moment they spot Bennington's direction, close in! Damn it,
I want Bennington!
"

Moriarity bent over the radio man and the orders went out in a constant stream. It was sixteen minutes to five.

Abruptly, from a radio set in a corner of the room, a deep voice spoke richly, with vibrating passion. "My friends!" it said. "My people! The police, those slaves of the rich and crooked city government, are trying to stop you in your hour of triumph! But they cannot! Nothing can stand against your combined might! You are the old ones, the wise ones! I give you the word. Father Bennington gives you the word! It is . . .
strike!
"

Abruptly, a great voice was crashing down into the street! It was Bennington's voice, magnified a thousand times! At the first echoes of it, a thin, wavering cheer broke from the old people in the streets.

"My friends!" Bennington intoned, and his voice vibrated with rich indignation. "My people! The police are slaves of the rich and crooked government! They are trying to stop you in your hour of triumph!"

Littlejohn's voice crashed out, "It's a loudspeaker . . . in the Times Building! Get men up there fast! Smash it?"

Bennington's voice went steadily on. "The police cannot stop you! No one can stop you. Nothing can stand against your combined might! You are the old ones, the wise ones. Humbly, I have pointed the way, with the guidance of the God we all worship! I give you His word. Father Bennington gives you the word, and His shield will be over you. His word shall strike for you.

"Sing my brethren. Sing, Hallelujah! The hour has come. I give you the word. It is:
Strike! Strike for Victory!
"

On the streets, cracked old voices lifted in feeble song. It was a hymn they chanted. The volume grew slowly, then rapidly. There were thousands of those faint, muted voices singing the words of an old hymn. As they sang, the old people moved out into the streets.

"Mounted squads!" snapped Littlejohn. "All reserves! Quickly!"

The radio announcer's voice cracked out orders. In the side streets, policemen swung to the saddles. The troops walked, trotted . . . drove their wedge toward Times Square. Police sirens screamed in the distance, grew louder. Corps of taxis moved out of side streets and started down through the crowds, horn blaring, drivers cursing. The old people paid no heed at all. Their song lifted even above the blare of horns. It was a solid body of sound.

The old people marched out into the streets. In the path of autos and street cars. In the paths of police cars and taxis. They did not march far. Slowly, because of their stiff joints, but happily, laughing and singing . . .
they lay down in the streets!

Thousands of them hobbled down from the curbs and ignored the automobiles. William and Rinda lay down on the street car tracks and the motorman leaned from the window and yelled at them.

"Hallelujah, brother!" Rinda called shrilly. "You'll be old yourself some day! Don't you want your pension? Come and lie down with us!"

The trolley remained motionless. The three sullen men walked into the path of the trotting troop of mounted police and lay down on the asphalt. Their faces were pale, but their jaws were stubborn. Following their lead, a dozen more lay down. They lay flat on their backs in the street and chanted their hymn!

From the window, Littlejohn watched in stunned surprise. He had planned on breaking up a parade, splitting the people into small groups and dispersing them. It was a familiar police technique, employed thousands of times in the city. But you couldn't disperse people who did not move at all!

"Get ambulances!" Littlejohn snapped. "Commandeer cars. Tell the police to pick them up and put them in cars. Take them to different parts of the city and leave them. Come back for more . . . ." Moriarity was repeating the orders to the radio man. Littlejohn's lips twisted and he swore.