THE SPIDER-City of Doom (6 page)

He felt a stab in his heart that he knew was pain—felt the burn of savage anger in his breast—anger at the madmen who would commit such a fearful deed . . . A numbness gripped him, too, a numbness like the first shock of a bullet or of grief. He saw a larger section of stone rip loose from the toppling building. Then the mooring mast-tower became detached and somersaulted downward, end over end. It was two hundred feet high and it looked at first like a child's toy. It swooped toward earth, spinning in the wind. It struck in the middle of Fifth Avenue, three blocks south of the Sky Building and exploded into dust. The thunder of its crash billowed up the wide thoroughfare. Windows blew out with the concussion. The moan of the watching crowd was like a dirge.

Now the whole building was disintegrating. It leaned from the base, stately as a forest giant sweeping to destruction. It broke in two places, a third of the way from the top, a third of the way from the bottom. The middle section seemed to move faster than the other two so that the very pinnacle was left for a moment pointing straight upward while the rest of the building pulled away below it. A breath long, that peak poised there, rocks and furnishings streaming from it like blood, a head ripped from a living body.

Then the peak smashed straight downward, struck the falling torso of the Sky Building and splashed stone blood in all directions. With one final cataclysmic wrench, the tons of it fell.

It smeared five city blocks off the face of the earth. It hammered buildings down into the ground, drove them in on their own foundations. It obliterated them.

One huge building stone catapulted twenty blocks, pierced the roof of a subway tunnel and jack-knifed the leading car of an eight-car train. Passengers were pulped. There had been sixty persons in that first car. There was nothing that could be called human in the wreckage.

Wentworth actually saw the building splash its carcass into the street, saw giant jagged blocks of stone that weighed a ton bounce like golf balls. Then the gust of concussion slapped him flat and jarred out his senses.

THE DARKNESS of unconsciousness lifted like a sullen fog at the insistent demand of Wentworth's will. His struggle jerked at his muscles, made him toss.

"It's all right, Dick." The voice was sweet and deep. He knew that voice, but how had Nita van Sloan got into hell? He gathered all his strength and opened his eyes. He found that he was seated in a car, that it actually was Nita sitting beside him, Nita of the spun-bronze curls and the blue eyes that were like dewy violets. She smiled and Wentworth struggled erect.

"Kirkpatrick?" he questioned.

"He regained consciousness about ten minutes ago," she said. "He's directing the search of the ruins. He says—" Nita hesitated, and there was a shudder in her voice, "he says at least a thousand were killed and that probably we'll never know the exact total."

Wentworth nodded slowly, squeezed his temples with his palms. His head felt swollen. Kirkpatrick was right. Anyone in the direct path of those flying building blocks would be obliterated. Abruptly he thrust himself upward. Nita's hands clung to his arm, then she stood also and climbed out of the car.

"Every building in town must be guarded," Wentworth said, his tongue still moving thickly. As he spoke, his speech and his mind cleared. "There must be an inspection of all steel daily from now on . . . Where is Kirkpatrick?"

A policeman hurrying past, turned and thrust a rigid arm toward the south. "In what's left of the building, Sir," he reported. The policeman's face was white and drawn. "But for sweet Mary's sake, don't let the lady go down there. The dead . . . ."

Nita winced, as if the man had struck her. "The extras and the radios were crazy with the news of what was happening," she said rapidly. "I heard them and knew you'd be somewhere near. I came down to help, and I'm not going back now."

Wentworth turned his wan face. His mind had fully recovered now, but there was a heavy weakness in his limbs. "You are always brave, my darling," he said to her simply. "But there really is nothing you can do. Wait here until I get Kirkpatrick. I'll be right back."

He insisted and Nita finally climbed into the car to wait. Striding down Fifth Avenue, Wentworth was conscious again of the cold wind whipping against his back, pushing him ahead. There wasn't a whole window along the street. Policeman were on guard against looters everywhere. The cordon had been drawn in since the crash until it extended only five blocks from the wrecked building, but it still barred all entrants except those on official business.

Wentworth was numb to horror now, but he frowned as he was blown on down the street. He could not fathom the motive behind such wanton mass murder. For a moment the idea of looting had brushed his mind, but it was inconceivable that any man could commit such a crime for the sake of petty loot. He would have realized in advance that police would be upon the scene before he could accomplish any sacking. Wentworth's eyes flicked over the scene as he pushed on and his face became haggard.

A stone that weighed a ton had smashed a crater in the street and in its bottom was something viscous and dark, all that was left of a human being. On every side, the Avenue was a shambles. Huddled bodies of men who had not been struck were crushed against jagged cracked walls, broken by the force of the concussion. Entire sides of buildings had been driven in. Southward, the city looked like a thrice-bombed town of Flanders. Scarcely two bricks had been left atop each ether. It spread over entire blocks. Just how far, it was hard to estimate, for it was no longer possible to make out where the cross streets had been.

In the midst of the ruins, Wentworth found Kirkpatrick and told him rapidly what he thought should be done. Kirkpatrick nodded at once and issued the orders.

"I've put out an alarm for Devil Hackerson," he said curtly. "The Collins have left their apartment in Middleton and gave no address. Their home-town down South hasn't heard from them. What other trails are there to follow?"

"I'll question Ram Singh," said Wentworth slowly. "Chemists are analyzing the broken steel, of course?"

Kirkpatrick nodded, turned aside to give some instructions to an inspector who came up hurriedly. Abruptly the three men reeled, staggered and brought up sprawling over a pile of debris. Wentworth scrambled erect and stared northward. Billows of dust were racing down the wind. The earth trembled beneath them and a roar like ten thousand Niagaras dinned in their ears.

Wentworth's keen eyes swept the skyline northward and his fists knotted at his sides. He ground out a curse that hurt his throat.

"God in heaven, Kirk!" he said, his voice scarcely more than a whisper. "Can you—can you see the Plymouth spire?"

Kirkpatrick seized his arm and the fingers ate into Wentworth's flesh like steel talons. "It isn't possible, Dick," he rasped. "They can't . . . can't . . . !"

A motorcycle rocketed down the Avenue, dodging the holes that pitted it like shell craters. The policeman yanked the machine to a halt, leaped from it and raced the last fifty yards flat-footed. He ran with his head thrown back, his face twisted by horror, his eyes staring. He pounded up and Kirkpatrick seized his shoulders. The officer opened his mouth, swallowed, finally squeezed out words.

"Plymouth building, sir," he gasped. "She . . . she . . . !"

The inadequacy of words seemed to choke the man. He raised an arm rigid over his head and swished it down, struck a gloved hand flat into another. He nodded his head.

"The Plymouth building fell," he said flatly. "Grand Central went, too . . . ."

Wentworth felt his lips skin back from his teeth, knew that he shouted hoarse meaningless sounds from his throat, felt the white flame of consuming fury rise within him. By God, when the
Spider
found the man behind this, he would grind him to death beneath his heels! The Plymouth building and the Grand Central station destroyed! Grand Central station where thousands poured into the city daily! More blocks of the city laid to waste, pulverized by tons of steel and masonry piling down from incredible heights.

A thousand had died in the crash of the Sky Building despite police warning and frantic efforts to clear the surrounding area.
And up there in the Plymouth building, there had been no warning!

Imagination reeled beneath the shock. There would be thousands, literally thousands who would never again be heard from, whose families would never know their fate. And it would be better so. Wentworth thought of that pit in the street with its dark, viscous pool. A shudder swept him. He was trembling all over, his muscles jerking and quivering. Slowly he fought himself to calmness. Kirkpatrick had gasped a few orders that had sent police to the scene of disaster.

Slowly, a cold rage swept the horror from Wentworth's breast. He turned a graven, bitter face to Kirkpatrick.

"Better clear the whole area of skyscrapers of people," he said, and he could scarcely recognize his own voice. "Keep it clear until inspections can be finished. Better call on some expert in skyscraper mechanics to help."

Kirkpatrick nodded. "Good God in heaven," he whispered. "I hope the
Spider
and not myself gets these fiends. The
Spider
won't have to use civilized methods of punishment."

Wentworth nodded. He slowly took out his cigarette case and offered it to Kirkpatrick and the Police Commissioner's fingers shook. Wentworth's hand was like rock. He felt that his heart was like that, too, cold and hard. He lighted a cigarette.

"I think, Kirk," he said calmly, "that you can count on that."

Resolutely, Wentworth drove all shock and horror from his brain as he strode back up Fifth Avenue to where Nita waited for him, huddled in furs in her small coupe. A glance at his face told her that he knew what had happened, that he was intent on plans, and she drove southward without a word, circling to the west around the area of shattered buildings and streets. The traffic congestion stalled them for long minutes and they deserted the car for an elevated train, walked across town to Wentworth's apartment.

The private elevator to his penthouse shot them upward fifteen floors, and the door swung open as they crossed the hall. The ruddy face of old Jenkyns, the butler, was creased with smiles as he ducked his crown of white hair in a profound bow. He always greeted Nita thus. It was his fondest hope that some day his master would marry and cease these mad adventures of his—these quixotic tilts with crime.

Wentworth did not speak. He stalked past his butler, across the living room with its stone fireplace and smoky beams into the music-room beyond. Within the door, he stopped. He heard Nita behind him and turned to face her, a slow, grave smile moving his lips. Nita came close into his arms, pressed her bronze curls against his breast. In her heart was sadness, too. She knew that Wentworth had pledged himself ever to battle the underworld, ever to right the crooked wrongs that afflicted humanity. Right now, she was not sorry. This was a crusade she would not have the
Spider
shirk.

But there was sadness within her, too. She knew how both of them had fought their love because the
Spider
could never marry—how could the
Spider
marry and build a home, have a family, when he knew not what day the police would clap vengeful hands upon his shoulders and send him to his death as a common murderer?—but their love had proved stronger than even the
Spider's
grim power.

In the end, Nita, too, had taken the pledge of service with which Wentworth had bound himself. It was their only pleasure that they fought side by side through death and horror. Something of all this was flitting through Wentworth's brain as he clasped her close in his arms, smiling grimly above her head into the empty blackness beyond his windows which formerly had framed the majesty of the Sky Building. He was remembering, too, what horror had faced Nita in his last battle with the underworld, when she had so narrowly escaped a fearful death.

He led Nita gently to a chair and strode across to the end of the room where a mighty organ had been installed. Waiting only to toss his overcoat aside, Wentworth seated himself before the instrument, manipulated the stops and began to play. His music was extemporaneous; its chords crashed with thunder like the collapse of the Sky Building. Its theme mounted in wild wind-like fury. Nita sank back in her chair and closed her eyes. She knew that her Dick found in music a release that nothing else could afford. She knew that his mind was tortured by the sufferings of the thousands in this latest mad raid of the underworld on civilization, that he sought to calm himself so that he might think more clearly.

On and on thundered the soaring notes, the crashing basses. Jenkyns brought in a tray upon which decanter and syphon stood, and stepped back against the wall, his ruddy old face distraught. He, too, knew the black despair which spoke through the music. Another form stepped into the doorway: Ram Singh, clad in spotless white, his head wrapped in a fresh turban that strengthened the hard, clean mold of his features, pale now with pain. His left arm was strapped to his body.

They waited long. It was an hour before the mad, vaulting chords gave way to gentler strains, another half hour before they droned into the sweeping phrases of love music. And Nita knew now that Wentworth played to her. The tension that had gripped her relaxed. She let her wrists go limp upon the chair arms. Her eyes strayed over the beauty of the room, touched the Steinway concert grand, the Stradivarius violin that was Wentworth's special joy. The music of the organ died in a lingering quaver, and it was the old alert Wentworth who spun from the bench, strode energetically across the room.

His eyes spotted Ram Singh. "Damn your fighting soul, Ram Singh," he grinned. "Why don't you stay in the hospital when you're sick?"

Ram Singh's eyes gleamed into his master's. "Pooh. It is nothing." He slapped his wounded shoulder with his good right hand. "A mere pin prick. I knew you would need me."