Spider (7 page)

There was that moment's pause while the man's frightened shout ran down the street, and then there was a concerted crash of gunfire! Even then the figure on the roof did not immediately dodge back out of sight. It stood peering down into the dark canyon of the street, the black cape sweeping out on the breath of the wind. Wentworth's teeth set fiercely. Why didn't Jackson get back out of range? He had exposed himself long enough now. He—instead of retreating, the caped figure suddenly whipped out a gun and emptied it in a swift drumroll which shattered windows in the Smedley house behind Wentworth! Then it turned and ran lightly along the front ridge of the roofs across the street!

The police went past Wentworth in a blue flood, their voices as fierce as the bay of hounds that rush in to the kill. Wentworth hesitated, while his eyes followed that flitting figure with the cape kiting at its shoulders. This was not like Jackson, to expose himself needlessly to gun fire. What was necessary he would do, but beyond that he was too wise a man, too experienced with guns and the carnage they wrought to take useless chances. Wentworth shook his head at the sudden, frightened thought that crossed his mind. He could hear, through the hammer of furiously released police guns, the thin distant wailing of a siren. It meant that Kirkpatrick was on the way; that Wentworth had only a few moments left to seize the chance which the
Spider
masquerade afforded him. But fear was still there in his heart as he darted, unobserved by the preoccupied police, through the smashed windows of the Smedley house! The figure of the
Spider
had seemed so
small
! But this was madness. It could not be . . .
Nita!

Wentworth told himself that, as he quested swiftly through the lower floor of the Smedley house, but his mind was distracted. If Jackson had left on his self-appointed errand, this was exactly what Nita would do; come herself in the masquerade of the
Spider
! God, he had to make this fast! It would be just like Nita to continue the diversion until she saw Wentworth emerge safely from the beleaguered house! Wentworth's pocket flash eagerly probed the room, glittered on the smashed shards of art treasures which the killers had left. Wanton vandalism. Staring at the wreckage, Wentworth could see the work of the steel flails which were the arms of robots. Anger shook him. He sent the flashlight toward the window portieres . . . and it glinted on his gun! With a glad cry, he sprang toward it.

Outside, the hammer of guns went on, and the shriek of the siren was louder. When he reappeared, the false
Spider
could flee. Wentworth stooped swiftly toward the gun . . . and it was only belatedly that his caution returned to him. He remembered then that his light had passed this spot once before, and that on the previous occasion the gun had not been here!

Even as the significance of that fact flashed across his mind, he hurled himself toward the portieres while his left hand clawed for the heavy automatic that nested beneath his arm. He was too late. Before his hand could close on the gun, before he could touch the portieres, he saw a hand snake out from behind the curtain and a blackjack swung viciously toward his skull!

Brilliant lights exploded within Wentworth's skull, and he pitched to the floor. There was agony in his brain, but all his senses were terribly acute. He tried to drive strength into his limbs, and he could not move at all. But he could hear with a clarity that seemed to give him a new vision. Feet moved softly toward him. There was a thin snickering laughter just above his head, and then the chill touch of steel in the palm of his right hand. After that, only the clatter of guns and the mounting shriek of the siren.

Wentworth knew what had happened all right. That was the damnable part of the thing. His brain was startlingly clear, though he could move not even a finger. The crook, perhaps the leader himself of this dread combination of horror and robbery, had hidden here to make sure that the incriminating gun was not removed before the police were at hand. Wentworth, his mind concentrated on his fears for Nita, had walked into the trap. He would lie here unconscious now, and the gun beneath his hand was a murder weapon!

"Now," he heard that hateful voice just above him whisper. "Now, the
Spider
will walk no more!"

Chapter Four
On The Spot

A LESSER MAN THAN THE
SPIDER
would have fought through brief seconds against the benumbing effects of that blow and, failing, would have been doomed. Wentworth's body was defeated, but his mind fought on; his will was a flame of naked steel. That siren dinned dimly in his ears, and the
Spider
commanded his body to rise.

Perspiration broke out on his forehead under the assault of his will. The muscles of his legs and arms twitched, and there was no strength in them. But it was the will of the Master of Men that commanded. There was that moment of pause and then, slowly, as if each individual limb weighed a ton, Wentworth's arm drew beneath him. His legs tensed—and the
Spider
staggered to his feet!

There was no feeling in his legs, and his head sagged like a broken thing. He moved and his feet scuffed the floor in the dragging step of a paralytic. He stood there in that dark room and forced his head up. His hands still gripped the gun, his soft hat was on his head. The siren shrieked furiously in the street, and the gunshots were dying. There was so little time; so little.

The window would not serve now. He could not trust his crippled body through it. The door. . . . It swung open under the grip of Wentworth's gloved hand. He stumbled out into the shadows of the portico, somehow reached the sidewalk. Kirkpatrick's car blazed past toward where the police where grouped excitedly in the street. Their eyes were turned upward, but the silhouette of the
Spider
no longer showed there on the skyline. Fear like physical pain thrust through Wentworth's heart. What had happened then? Had Nita. . . .

He smothered the thought. Every shred of his concentrated will was necessary even to achieve movement. Close in the shadow of the building, he turned away from the police and presently angled toward the other side; toward the bar room where he had told the policeman he would wait. Thoughts drove through his brain like individual spikes. His will was the sledge. Kirkpatrick must not see him come from the direction of the Smedley home. Beyond that, he could not plan now.

He reached the center of the street, sought for no more. He turned then and moved toward Kirkpatrick's car. The cold stab of the wind was grateful in his lungs. He felt that presently the curtain of numbness that had dropped over his brain would lift, but not yet. Not yet. He forced his head erect, tried to put briskness in his stride, but twice he stumbled where there was no obstacle at all. His pain-squeezed eyes reached ahead to where Kirkpatrick's lean, military figure stood beside the big red-eyed limousine and shouted orders. Evidently, he asked some question about Wentworth, for one of the policeman lifted a pointing arm and Kirkpatrick pivoted sharply about to stare where Wentworth walked.

Steady, Wentworth cautioned himself:
Put your feet down briskly and keep your bearing jaunty. . . .
If Kirkpatrick discovered he had been slugged, it was tantamount to admitting that he had entered the guarded building. The gun . . . good God! He still had the gun in his pocket! Too late now to do anything about it.

* * *

Kirkpatrick's voice came crisply: "Where have you been?" he demanded. "I told you to surrender yourself to the nearest policeman!"

Wentworth tried to answer and his tongue moved thickly in his mouth.

"Well?" Kirkpatrick snapped.

Wentworth managed to shrug. His words lacked their usual precise delivery. "I . . . waited," he mumbled. He nodded toward the officer with whom he had spoken previously. "Officer will tell you."

Kirkpatrick frowned, and the policeman grinned slightly as he peered toward Wentworth. "Right, sir. He was with me when the

Spider
was sighted. . . ."

"With you?" Kirkpatrick demanded.

"Right with me," the policeman nodded. "The gentleman said he would wait for you in the bar around the corner. I . . . think he did!" The cop hid another grin, and Kirkpatrick glared sharply at Wentworth.

It was the cue which Wentworth had awaited. He laughed loudly. "Right," he said. "Did wait in the bar. Good lord, that last drink packed an awful wallop. Went right to my head!"

Kirkpatrick did not smile. He looked at Wentworth, but his words were addressed to the policeman beside him. "You were standing right in front of the Smedley house when the
Spider
was sighted, I take it," he said.

"Yes, Commissioner."

"You left this gentleman with free access to the Smedley house, officer?"

The red crept up the policeman's cheeks. "Why, yes, sir. The gentleman was waiting for you, and the
Spider—
"

Kirkpatrick's laughter was sharp, triumphant. "Exactly! Officer O'Holian,
search this man!
"

The command fell like a shock across Wentworth's mind, and the veil of pain finally lifted, though his head still reeled from a blow which would have rendered a lesser man unconscious for an hour. He stiffened at Kirkpatrick's words, and he took a step backward. He seemed merely indignant, but he was frantic. With that murder gun in his pocket, he dared not submit to search! There was no longer any doubt that Kirkpatrick had been told in detail what evidence he would find in the Smedley home.

"This has gone far enough, Kirkpatrick!" Wentworth said harshly. "You presume upon friendship!"

Kirkpatrick motioned the policeman forward. "You are wrong, Dick," he said. "No malefactor is my friend! If you have nothing incriminating on you, you cannot object to search! Now then, permit the officer to do his duty!"

Wentworth faced the policeman squarely. "I have not been arrested," he warned the man. "You have no right to search me, and I will not submit." His words were quiet, but the cold force of the voice of the Master of Men struck through his tone. The policeman checked, but Wentworth recognized that this was only momentary respite. Kirkpatrick would insist. He had to find a way out. Had to! If the murder gun were found, he would no longer be able to fight against the Iron Man and his criminal cohorts . . . Wentworth reckoned grimly that the Iron Man would have a terrific score to settle when this was finished!

"You have illusions of grandeur," Wentworth snapped at Kirkpatrick, and his voice rose. He was stalling desperately for time. He had only one slim chance . . . if Jackson or Nita were within sound of his voice. If he could make them understand what he wanted, he might still evade Kirkpatrick. Yes, a slim chance.

"This is America, and there is a constitution to protect my rights!" He declared. "God in heaven, haven't I been through enough tonight? An attempt to frame me in my home.
I have been been shot at in the streets!

"Do you think criminals want me dead because I have
helped
them?
At any minute, there may be another attack on my life!
"

Kirkpatrick said drily, "I hardly think it possible with all these police around you. Enough of this—"

Wentworth laughed harshly. "There were police around me last time I was shot at! A bullet can come from any shadow. . . . But that is beside the point, merely a proof of my innocence." His words rang clearly. "
I would rather be shot than submit to the indignity of such a search!
"

Had his words been heard, Wentworth wondered desperately? He dared not make his meaning clearer—and there was always the possibility that Jackson, or brave Nita if it had been she in the disguise of the
Spider,
had been wounded. Kirkpatrick gestured impatiently.

"You will either submit to search here and now," he said shortly, "or you will be taken to police headquarters on charges of suspicion of murder! Take your choice!"

Wentworth said, stiffly, "The choice is easy!" He could not stall much longer. It was clear none of his comrades was within the sound of his voice. Better to make a run for it, and. . . .

The sound of the shot that was fired from an opposite roof was loud in the waiting silence of the street. The tongue of flame reached downward fiercely.

Wentworth blew out his breath in a thin whisper of sound and pitched limply forward to the street. For an instant, there was only shocked silence in the street, and then bedlam broke loose. A half dozen police guns blasted toward the roof ambuscade, but Kirkpatrick cried out and dropped on his knees beside Wentworth. He bent close over him . . . and it gave Wentworth the chance he sought. The incriminating gun already was in his hand. As Kirkpatrick bent toward him, his back was toward Wentworth's right hand . . . and Wentworth whipped the gun toward a street sewer opening a dozen feet away!

Through the racket of the street, he heard the gun rasp on metal, and knew that it had struck the grating accurately. It was a sound that would go unnoticed in the general clamor.

"Play it up," he whispered to Kirkpatrick. "If the killer thinks he got me, he'll stop shooting!"

Kirkpatrick swore and ripped to his feet. "Faking!" The commissioner glared down at Wentworth irresolutely through a long moment, then turned to peer up toward the roof from which the shot had come. Wentworth seized that opportunity to glance toward the sewer opening, and an oath sprung to his lips. The gun had struck the grating all right. But it still hung there, balanced on the edge of the grating, and to Wentworth it seemed that all light in the street concentrated on the exposed butt!

He sprang to his feet, and Kirkpatrick whipped toward him. His call brought O'Holian back to his side. "Once before, Dick," he said quietly, "you escaped my custody during gunplay. I am making no accusation—"

"I should be thankful, I suppose!" Wentworth mocked.

"—but my ultimatum holds good!" Kirkpatrick pressed on. "Submit to search, or you go to jail!"