THE SPIDER-City of Doom
by
Norvell W. Page

Table of Contents

The Spider: City of Doom

A Master of Men Thriller by

Norvell Page

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

TM and Copyright © 2008 Argosy Communications, Inc.
All Rights Reserved.

THE SPIDER is a registered trademark and the property of Argosy Communications, Inc.

A Baen Book
Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
www.baen.com

ISBN 10: 1-4165-5555-2
ISBN 13: 978-1-4165-5555-1

Cover and interior art by Jim Steranko

Special thanks to consulting art director
J. David Spurlock and Vanguard Productions

First Baen printing, June 2008

Distributed by Simon & Schuster
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Page, Norvell W.
The spider : city of doom / by Norvell W. Page.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-5555-1 (trade pbk.)
ISBN-10: 1-4165-5555-2 (trade pbk.)
1. Spider (Fictitious character)--Fiction. 2.
Vigilantes--Fiction. 3. Criminals--Fiction. 4. New York
(N.Y.)--Fiction. I. Title. II. Title: City of doom.
PS3531.A2355S63 2008
813'.6--dc22
2008013443

Printed in the United States of America

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

THE CITY DESTROYER

originally appeared in the January 1935 issue of THE SPIDER magazine. Copyright © 1934 by Popular Publications, Inc. Copyright renewed © 1962 and assigned to Argosy Communications, Inc. All Rights Reserved.

THE FACELESS ONE

originally appeared in the November 1939 issue of THE SPIDER magazine. Copyright © 1939 by Popular Publications, Inc. Copyright renewed © 1967 and assigned to Argosy Communications, Inc. All Rights Reserved.

THE COUNCIL OF EVIL

originally appeared in the October 1940 issue of THE SPIDER magazine. Copyright © 1940 by Popular Publications, Inc. Copyright renewed © 1968 and assigned to Argosy Communications, Inc. All Rights Reserved.

THE SPIDER is a registered trademark of Argosy Communications, Inc.

FOREWORD

The Man Who Invented Hard-Boiled

by Joel Frieman

He dropped to one knee and fired twice."

According to John D. MacDonald, Raoul Whitfield began a story with that line. MacDonald's first literary agent, Joseph T. Shaw, gave him this bit of information instead of crediting its actual author, Carroll John Daly.

"Cap" Shaw was the editor of the legendary Black Mask magazine, until a feud he had with Daly boiled over and Daly left Black Mask for the pages of Dime Detective magazine. Shaw was still nursing a grudge years later as he was pointing out to his young client how a detective story should begin.

Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler and Erle Stanley Gardner were the "Murderers' Row" of Black Mask, but it was Carroll John Daly who was The Franchise. Unfortunately for Shaw, Daly proved this when he left Black Mask and took with him to Dime Detective Race Williams.

Erle Stanley Gardner described Daly's most famous creation as, "The incomparably hard-boiled, bone-crushing, fast-shooting Race Williams."

Mickey Spillane said that Daly was the only writer who ever influenced him, and added, "Mike Hammer and Race Williams could be twins."

Race Williams was the very first hard-boiled crime fiction superstar, and he made Carroll John Daly a bestselling author with a very large following during the 1920s and the 1930s.

When 1941 rolled in, Daly's hardcover sales were sliding, but he was still among the highest paid pulp fiction writers. Since Daly was the inventor of the hard-boiled private investigator, he was the elder statesman of the field.

That is why Frank Costello, who got to know Daly shortly after reading the first Race Williams book, The Snarl of the Beast, back in 1927, had asked Carroll John Daly to explain the situation to Norvell W. Page.

Costello knew that Page was going to ask questions.

They met at Gavagan's Bar two days after the incident.

Page immediately recognized him from the back. Daly was seated at a table near the large plate glass window facing the street.

Approaching the table quietly, Page nervously cleared his throat.

"Norvell," Daly said, "have a seat."

Page studied the coat rack in the corner, but decided to wear his hat and overcoat. It would be cold sitting near that window.

Norvell headed over to the chair opposite Daly. As he walked around the table, Page noticed a green whiskey bottle and a squat glass filled with amber liquid in front of Daly.

Page ordered a black coffee and sat down.

A professional writer for over a decade, and he was still in awe of Daly.

"Frank told me to make this short and sweet," Daly said, smiling.

Bespectacled, and with a trimmed graying mustache, Daly wore a dark, slightly rumpled, tweed suit, a white shirt and a black tie. He gazed at Page, sized him up, and began.

"What happened the other night had nothing to do with the settlement made by Detective Comics."

Taking a sip from the glass before him, Daly continued, "The gunman had a German passport. He was carrying a Walther P-38. A Nazi assassin."

"Must have been a critic," Page responded, as a waiter placed a steaming cup of coffee on the table. "Back in 1938, I wrote a series of novels where The Spider fought storm troopers. Evidently, it hit home."

"Evidently," Daly said nodding his head slowly. "But, remember, there may be others. Be more careful."

"Well, my motto for The Spider is," Page said thoughtfully, "Do not fear sudden terror, or the holocaust of the evil, when it comes."

"Proverbs 3:25, very good," retorted Daly, adding, "Race Williams has a motto, too, and I also have one for myself."

First glancing at the green bottle before him, "The one for Race is," Daly looked up and grinned, "Sine Metu."

"Without fear. Most appropriate," Page said, as he spied the label on the green whiskey bottle, tilted his head forward sternly at Daly, then laughed.

"And the one I chose for myself is," Daly paused, "As for all those who design evil against me, speedily nullify their counsel and disrupt their design."

"Saint Augustine?"

Daly shook his head.

"Aquinas?"

Daly shook his head again, smiled, and said, "No. The Talmud!"

Now that the ice was broken, Norvell Page thought that this would be the ideal time to ask the question.

"C.J., just what had happened between you and Joe Shaw?"

Daly leaned forward in his chair, gazed out the window in back of Page, lifted the glass in front of him, then drained it in one gulp.

"Things came to a head in 1930 when Knopf published The Maltese Falcon. Dashiell Hammett was Shaw's golden boy, and Shaw came up with a plan meant to turn the acclaim that The Maltese Falcon was receiving against me. A contest."

Incredulous, Page sputtered, "You mean that contest where you were voted the number one favorite by the Black Mask readership?"

"Yes, but there was a side bet that Shaw had talked Hammett into. If Hammett won, I would have to give him a brand new .44 revolver, just like the one used by Race Williams. And, if I won, Dash would give me a Webley-Fosbery in good working order. When Dash came in third, Shaw had to cover the loss. The gulf widened between us after that, and Shaw never forgave me."

Emptying the remaining contents of the green bottle into his glass, Daly then glanced out the window, sprang up from his chair with glass in hand, strode to the side of the window, and ordered, "Page, under the table. Now!"

Just as Norvell Page hit the floor prone, a staccato of machine gun bullets shattered the plate glass, raining shards around him. Page looked up and saw Daly finish his drink, gently place the glass on a shelf in back of him, then grimly focus on the window opening through a mist of finely settling debris.

Seamlessly producing a Webley-Fosbery from the shoulder holster concealed by his tweed suit jacket, Carroll John Daly dropped to one knee and fired twice.

THE CITY DESTROYER

Chapter One
"I Am The Spider!"

A MAN AND WOMAN stood rigidly against the wall. The man wore rumpled pajamas; the woman's nightgown was green silk and an inset point of lace dipped between her breasts. The window was up and a cold wind flapped the curtains and the woman's nightgown. She was frightened, while the man was very angry.

"For the last time," he said raspingly. "You've got all the papers."

Three men in overcoats faced them and two held automatics carelessly. The third man was scowling at the woman. Abruptly, his head jerked up. He whispered words out the corner of his mouth. "Quick, Jiggs, the kitchen! Somebody in there!"

The man on his right whirled on his toes, took two quick strides and slapped a swing door open. It banged back against the wood and quivered. Jiggs held it there with his left hand while the muzzle of his gun swept around the kitchen. He grunted, switched on a ceiling light and looked again carefully. He crossed to the kitchen window and found it locked. Jiggs turned off the light once more and went back into the other room. "Nobody in there," he reported. "Must 'a' been the wind."

As he left the kitchen, the narrow door of the broom-closet opened and a hunched figure in a long black cape stepped out. Piercing blue gray eyes were narrowed beneath the broad black brim of a slouch hat. There was a thin, mirthless smile on the hunch-back's lips. Without a sound, he glided toward the swing door. His arms crossed; smoothly his hands slid under the cape and two black automatics snouted from his fists. His movements had not seemed hurried, yet the draw was incredibly fast. He stepped into the doorway. "Stand still, you three gentlemen," he said softly. "Keep your hands down."

The three gangsters stiffened, their heads snapping up with surprise. The leader twisted his face about, and sudden pallor made his black eyes seem blank holes in his face.

"My God!" he gasped hoarsely. "It's—the Spider!"

The smile still lingered about the mouth of the cloaked man standing in the doorway. "Quite right," he spoke easily. "Deputy Collins—" The tall man in pajamas jerked with surprise at the cripple's knowledge of his name. "Better close that window, and get a blanket for Mrs. Collins. It's quite chilly in here and these rats from New York have no consideration for women, even out here."

The Spider's tone was light, but his piercing eyes were intent, and the automatics were like poised cobra heads. He knew the men with whom he had to deal, knew this gang leader, Devil Hackerson, and the deadly gun of Jiggs, the straw-haired hood on his right. He had not expected to find them here tonight when he had wriggled in through the kitchen window, but he was glad now that he had. It would be easier to get the information he must have from this woman and man if the Spider proved his friendliness by helping them out of a jam.

He must find out from the woman, especially, what her chemist husband had been working on just before his death a week ago. Police had called the death suicide. The widow—this girl—had insisted it was murder. And her husband's brother, Deputy Sheriff Anse Collins—from Culpeper, Virginia—had come north to investigate. But that death itself was not the important thing . . . .

Two days after the chemist had died, a rich suburban bank in a town fifty miles away had been robbed. The crooks had done something to the steel bars that protected the windows, and the bars had broken like candy sticks. They had done the same thing to the vault and its doors had powdered like cake sugar, beneath the blow of a light sledge hammer. Such a weapon in the hands of unscrupulous criminals could strip the nation's banks.

Obviously some new chemistry of steel had been discovered and had fallen into criminal hands. And Jim Collins, who had died—or been murdered—had been a steel chemist.

These two facts had been associated in the Spiders quick mind and he had once more quit his life of wealth and luxury as Richard Wentworth, scion of riches and of the aristocracy of America for the grim, taut life of the Spider. He had acted quickly, then, following the trail his keen mind had picked for him and he had been barely in time.

Speeding northward to Middleton where Jim Collins had lived, Wentworth had donned the disguise of the Spider while his faithful Hindu servant, Ram Singh, drove his powerful sedan. He had reached this apartment just in time to find gangsters on the scene, to hear talk of missing papers. It sounded very much to the Spider as if he had guessed right about Jim Collins and this potent steel destroyer.

Deputy Anse Collins had shut the window and was now picking up a blanket from the davenport where it was obvious he had been sleeping. The girl snuggled it about her body and sat down and tucked her feet up into its warmth. Her blue eyes were harassed and shadows made black smudges beneath them. Honey-colored hair sprawled in delectable disarray about her small, pert head.

"Now, disarm these men," Wentworth told Collins.

The gang leader, Devil Hackerson, still had his head strained around on his shoulder, watching Wentworth. His face was lean and dark, ending in a pointed chin beneath a sneering mouth. There was a Mephistophelian flare to his eyebrows, slanting upward at their outer corners, which, together with his reputation for cold ferocity, had earned him the nickname of "Devil." The man in pajamas was tall, over six feet. He wrenched one gangster's gun away and the man cursed with pain. Collins strode toward Jiggs on Hackerson's right. He moved with angry vehemence, and that very violence tricked him. His foot slipped on the smoothly-waxed floor just as he reached for Jiggs' gun. The two men went down together.

"Stand still!" The Spider barked at the other two.

The two men on the floor rolled over and Collins was on top, grappling with the blond gunman. Then suddenly he went limp, soggily, and the snout of Jiggs' gun thrust into view, pointing toward the Spider. But Wentworth had already moved. An agile leap put him at Hackerson's back. The third gangster sprang after him, slashing with a blackjack. The Spider's left gun belched and the man gasped a scream, doubling forward as the bullet took him in the belly. But his flailing arm holding the lead-loaded club swiped at Wentworth, caught him a glancing blow on the side of the head and sent him reeling.

Hackerson saw his chance and whirled with his fist smashing upward.

Wentworth slapped out with his automatic. He didn't want to kill Hackerson because the man knew things that would be invaluable to the Spider. His gun barrel skimmed across Hackerson's forehead, drew a curse of pain and sent the boss gangster reeling backward. Wentworth danced after him, ready to smack him to the floor—and caught swift movement in the corner of his eye. Jiggs was up, springing into the clear to shoot.

The Spider spun on the balls of his feet, threw lead at exactly the same instant. Jiggs caught the slug in the chest and his shoulders slammed back against the wall. He rolled and his clawed hands scraped along the plaster as he went down suddenly on his knees. Wentworth sprang backward toward the kitchen door, guns swiveling. The girl screamed.

Even as she shrieked, Wentworth flung himself face down, headlong on the floor. A bullet thwacked the wall behind him viciously. As he rolled, guessing the cause of his danger, another slug bored the floor beside him.

Now he could see the source of this new menace. The girl was on her feet, her blanket spilled to the floor. Devil Hackerson's thick arm was circled about her from behind, pinning her arms to her side, holding her rigidly in front of him—a motionless unwilling shield. It was a time-worn trick, but it never lost its effectiveness.

Wentworth saw a snub-nosed automatic snouting from behind the girl as he reversed his roll. Lead splintered into the floor again. He jerked up his guns and blasted out the ceiling light. Two guns boomed together, cross-raking the spot where he had lain a moment before. One shot had come from the spot where Jiggs had fallen, on the right, and Wentworth tossed two bullets at the flash. He heard a gun clatter to the floor, heard a man groan in pain. He smiled tightly in the darkness. It sounded as if, this time, Jiggs were out of the battle for good.

The girl screamed again frantically, and the cry was chopped short, muffled by a smacking palm. Two long strides took Wentworth to the sound. He dropped his left gun. Soft warm flesh dented beneath his fingers. His hand slipped upward, gripped a bare shoulder and then he jerked hard. The woman cried out again, seemed to resist, then came toward him with a rush.

Wentworth and the girl reeled backward together. His heels caught in a rug and he tripped, sprawling backward. The girl let out a sobbing gasp of fear and landed heavily on top of him, slamming his head hard against the floor. Warm flesh crushed down on his face, smothering him. It buried an oath in his throat. He rolled from beneath the weeping silken burden, reeled to his feet. His head rang from the nasty crack on the floor but he still clung to his gun. He fought down the drumming in his ears, listened intently. From his right came the bubbling wheezy breath of a man dying with a bullet in his lungs. He knew that would be Jiggs. The woman gasped sobs on the floor. There were only those two sounds . . . .

Wentworth snatched out a pocket flash, sent its small white disc sweeping over the room. Hackerson was gone. The Spider pivoted on his heel, sped into the kitchen and flung up the window. He whistled eerily, a three-noted bar, and an instantaneous reply came from below. With a grunt of satisfaction, he darted back to the scene of the hasty battle. That whistle had ordered his faithful Hindu servant, Ram Singh, to take the trail. He would spot the fugitive and pursue him relentlessly.

The kitchen light flung an oblong of luminousness out into the living room, just reaching Collins, who was still unconscious. Wentworth stooped over the deputy sheriff, found a welted red knot behind his left ear where Jigg's gun had struck. A slosh of water from the kitchen and the man stirred, moaning. Wentworth watched him a moment, then nodded and stopped fleetingly by each of the two men he had slain. He pressed something that glinted to each forehead and when he stepped away, a blob that was red as their spilled blood glowed upon the brow of each. That blob had sprawling hairy legs, and viciously ready fangs—the seal of the Spider!

A thin mocking grin was on the Spider's lips as he left his prey, reloaded and holstered his guns, and crossed to the woman. She lay face down on the floor, arms thrown protectingly over her blond head. Her silken gown hung from her in tatters, exposing the smooth tense curve of her back.

Wentworth dropped the blanket over her. "The gangsters are gone," he said swiftly, "but police will be here within minutes and I must be gone when they arrive. You know by now that the Spider is your friend. You must answer some questions."

The girl stirred slightly, and he helped her sit up on the floor. Her eyes were red-rimmed. She locked her even white teeth upon her lower lip and fought down sobs. Wentworth drew the blanket about her shoulders and squatted before her.

"I'll tell you what I know," Wentworth said swiftly, and recounted what he had learned of her husband's death.

While he spoke, the girl's eyes quested over the room. She saw the dead men and her eyes flew back to Wentworth as if for protection. Her gaze clung desperately to him now.

"I want to know what invention your husband was working on," Wentworth said. "Can you tell me?"

The girl shook her golden head. Her hair slipped down across her shoulder. "Those gangsters were after something like that, too," she said. "They wanted something they said was in Jim's papers. But it wasn't there."

"You don't know what it was?"

"No, except Jim said—" she choked and her eyes filled. "Jim said it would put us on Easy Street forever. We could . . . could . . ." Her voice died out.

Wentworth heard Collins stir behind him and jerked his head about. The deputy surged abruptly to his feet, stood with clenched fists, his eyes darting about. He took in the twisted bodies on the floor, glared at Wentworth. "One of them got away," he growled hoarsely.

"Do you know what Jim's invention was?" Wentworth asked sharply.

The man's dark eyes narrowed. "I reckon it wouldn't be any of your business if I did," he said.

* * *

Wentworth straightened. "That's where you're wrong," he said coldly. "Two days after Jim Collins died, a bank was robbed near here. The crooks who broke into that bank had something brand new in the way of burglar tools. It smashed steel like sugar. I associate your brother's death with that robbery."

Deputy Collins came forward slowly. He was a heavily built man, over six feet tall, with wedge shoulders. His neck was corded. "I reckon you'll have to explain that last remark," he said. His voice was soft and slow, but there was a hard ring to the words.

Wentworth uttered an impatient exclamation. He knew the police must be close. He could not understand why they had not come before this.

"I mean that gangsters murdered your brother for his secret," he said swiftly. "Now, for heaven's sake, if you know anything, spill it fast."

The huge man stared at him with his big head thrust forward, the heavy shock of brown hair tousled. He seemed to be studying the man beneath the false face that Wentworth had built over his own to create the character of the Spider.

"I reckon we do owe you a mite of consideration," Collins said slowly. "You sure pulled us out of a powerful tight hole." He shook his head. "We don't know much. Only that Jim was figuring on selling his invention to the government. But there's two men that know more than we do. They're Bill Butterworth, who worked with Jim at the steel plant, and . . . ." A scowl twisted the man's features. "DeHaven Alrecht, a damned foreigner who had his finger in Jim's pie."

Nancy Collins' quiet voice broke in. "Mr. Alrecht was very nice to us, Anse," she said. "He got Jim his job at the plant and he was going to finance the invention when Jim got it finished."

"Sure, for a lion's share cut of the profits," Anse Collins drawled. "And you can't tell me he was just being nice to Jim. I always did think the skunk had his eye on you."

"Anse!" The girl's voice was distressed.

"It's a fact," Anse Collins said stubbornly. "Alrecht was dead set on marrying you."

A thunderous fist beat on the door. Wentworth sprang to his feet. "That's the police," he snapped. "Listen, the crooks who held you up came from New York. If you want to find Jim's murderers, you can go there and register at the Kennillworth Hotel on Forty-Sixth Street. I'll get in touch with you."

He reached the kitchen door in a bound—checked short. Crouched on the fire-escape was a policeman. The cold light from the window glinted on his badge and on a gun in his hand. So that was why the police had delayed! They had surrounded the building before knocking. The fist battered at the door again.

"Open up," a man shouted. "It's the police."

The fire-escape and door were blocked. That policeman on the fire-escape prevented any use of the dumbwaiter in the kitchen. And here on the floor lay the bodies of two men with the seal of the Spider upon their foreheads. What did it matter that they were criminals? The Spider had killed them, and the law could not consider motives.

"If you don't open up in one minute," the rough voice bellowed from the hall, "we'll break the door in!"

Chapter Two
Ram Singh Falls

THE TWO, Nancy Collins, and her brother-in-law, were staring at Wentworth with worried frowns. Unconsciously, the girl drew the blanket more tightly about her. There was a wary light in Anse Collins' eyes.

"Look here," he shouted gruffly. "I'm an officer of the law, too, even if I haven't any authority here. Reckon you better get out of here damned quick."

Wentworth laughed softly. "That's right. Stall them as long as you can."

He darted into the bedroom, slapped the door shut and locked it. He heard the reverberations of more pounding on the outside door, heard Collins' gruff voice, but couldn't make out the words. He reached the window with quick strides. It was already raised and he peered furtively toward the man on the fire-escape. The cop was still poised there with gun in hand, peering into the kitchen.

A glance above and below showed still another uniform cap thrust over the edge of the roof, two shadows that were men in the alley below. Wentworth's smile became grim. It was almost as if these men knew that the Spider was here and were taking no chances on his escape. There was a fifty-thousand-dollar reason for him—the rewards piled upon his head by communities he had flouted and mocked in his swift and deadly pursuit of evildoers.

It did not matter at all that Wentworth had done these things only in the name of justice, that he killed only when justice was served by death. A dozen different states were ready to hang or electrocute him—if they could once identify him as the Spider. And in the other room there was evidence enough of that, besides the two persons who knew he had affixed the mocking crimson seal to the dead men lying there.

If he failed to escape, not only was his life forfeit, but perhaps with him would die the chance of capturing criminals who, through their wide scientific knowledge, could ravage from banks all over the nation the hard-earned savings of thousands of honest men and women. Even as he thought this, he wheeled, reentered the living room. There was one slim chance of escape, but he would have to act quickly.

Collins and Nancy jerked about as he opened the door. "Stand clear," he ordered them gesturing toward the portal where police hammered.

Collins sprang back and Wentworth fired twice into the ceiling A fusillade answered, riddling the door. Wentworth sprang back into the bedroom, reached the window in a bound.

The cop on the fire-escape straightened, smashed in the window with his gun, sprang inside. But that man on the roof and those two in the alley still watched. Wentworth shrugged. It was now or never. Already the police were at the door of the bedroom.

"Open up, Spider," a man commanded. "We got you dead to rights this time. You're surrounded and you can't get away."

There was jubilance in the voice, eager triumph. Wentworth's smile tightened. He whipped a length of silken cord from beneath his arm, cord that was not quite as large in diameter as a pencil, yet which had a tensile strength of seven-hundred pounds. He looped it over the steam radiator beneath the window, forked the sill and slid down the side of the building with the cord wrapped about arms and legs. He contrived to make a lot of noise doing it, kicked the window out of the room below the Collins' bedroom.

The two policemen on watch in the alley heard and shouted rapidly. They ran down the alley with their flashlights questing over the side of the building.

"Don't shoot!" Wentworth cried in terror-stricken accents. "For God's sake, don't shoot!"

He pushed his feet against the side of the house and caused himself to swing from side to side. The cops ran down the alley until they stood below him but carefully away from the wall so that he could not drop upon them. Wentworth had descended another story now. He was only two floors above the ground and directly opposite the window of another apartment.

Windows were flung open above his head and bedcapped heads thrust out. "We got him," the cops below sang out triumphantly.

Wentworth was gyrating widely on his silken line now. His feet struck the window and crashed it inward. Then, abruptly, the Spider vanished. He swung into the window and out of sight. Guns blazed in the alley. Men shouted excitedly.

Inside the room where Wentworth crouched, a quavering voice said, "Don't shoot me. I ain't got nothing you want."

Wentworth crossed to the door in a bound, sprang across the room beyond and jerked open the outside door, slammed it again. Silently then, he slipped back to the kitchen. This apartment had exactly the same floor plan as the Collins' rooms and he had no trouble in finding his way. In the kitchen, he went directly to the dumb-waiter shaft. The cage itself was one story below and he hauled it quietly to his level and climbed inside. He was certain the basement would be guarded. There was still only a slim chance of escaping. He raised the dumbwaiter slowly until he was once more level with the Collins apartment. He listened intently, ear to the shaft door. There was no sound in the apartment and he eased into the empty kitchen.

Then he could hear talking in the next room, Nancy Collins protesting vigorously that she knew nothing except what she had told. Wentworth peered into the room. Collins was standing with legs aggressively braced, his tousled head thrust forward. "I reckon you-all have asked enough questions now," the big man drawled quietly.

There were two police inside, one in civilian clothes, one in uniform. Wentworth's spring into the room was soundless. The first warning the two men had of his presence was the flashing light within their skulls when his pistols slapped their heads. Collins half-started forward, but suddenly he was looking into the black muzzle of an automatic.

"I don't want to slap you down, too," the Spider said softly.

Anse Collins grinned slowly. "Reckon I don't want you to either," he smiled.

Wentworth nodded. He stooped and snatched the uniformed man's cap, put it on and whirled back to the kitchen, clambered out on the fire-escape. The two police were still in the alley.

"He went down the dumb-waiter!" Wentworth yelled at them. "The Spider's in the basement!"

The two cops peered up and saw the silhouette of a police cap against the sky.

"Get down in the basement, you lugs!" Wentworth bawled. "He's down there, I tell you. I'll watch the alley."

The two cops hesitated a moment longer, then raced for the cellar entrance as Wentworth clattered down. They paused once more at the door. Wentworth dropped from the fire-escape and ran toward them. They ducked out of sight. He clapped the door shut behind them, jammed into its crack a thin piece of rasp steel from the tool kit beneath his arm. Then he raced on for the street. The cops in the basement started shouting. Their guns banged, smashing the door's lock. The man on the roof peered down uncertainly into the darkness of the alley, but it sounded to him as if Spider and police had joined battle in the basement.

Wentworth darted into the street, saw a line of police cars at the curb and leaped into the first. The motor was still hot and it started instantly. He took the corner on two whistling tires. Behind him, through the whine and sough of the wind roaring past the car, biting at his silk-gloved hands, he heard the popping of pistol shots, the skid of wheels, then the wail of sirens. But he had a two-block lead. It was all the Spider needed.

Ten minutes later, driving his own car and stripped of the disguise of the Spider which was carefully hidden in a secret compartment in the car's rear, Richard Wentworth parked by the Ft. Middle Hotel, where he had registered that night with Ram Singh. He had several lines of investigation open, but just now it was most important that he be here to receive a phone call from Ram Singh when the Hindu should have located the headquarters toward which Devil Hackerson had been fleeing. He had hardly reached his room when the bell tinkled and he snatched up the receiver.

"Sahib!" It was Ram Singh's voice, a gasp of haste.

"Shoot," Wentworth ordered.

"The Sky Building, sahib," Ram Singh blurted. "They are pl—"

The sound of a shot and a groan echoed faintly over the wire. Wentworth's hands tensed about the 'phone, knuckles whitening.

"Ram Singh!" he called anxiously.

There was a soft click of disconnection. Frantically, Wentworth signaled the operator. "That call, where did it come from?"

"From New York City, sir," the telephone operator reported.

Wentworth waited five dragging minutes while she raised the New York operator, while she reported that the call came from a telephone pay-station in a Bronx drug store.

"Notify police that there was a shooting at that address," Wentworth snapped. "I heard it over the telephone."

He slammed up the receiver and flung from the hotel, sprang behind the wheel of his car and sent it sizzling along the one hundred and forty mile stretch to New York. He did not think the police would reach the spot in time to learn anything. His mouth shut with compressed lips that formed a straight bitter line. The underworld always struck at the Spider through his loved ones: through Nita van Sloan, the woman he loved, through his loyal Hindu. If Ram Singh had been killed, Wentworth would rip New York's underworld to pieces to find his murderer!

Meanwhile, what of Ram Singh's message? It was clear that some deviltry was afoot at the Sky Building. Were the users of the steel crusher planning a robbery there?

While Wentworth raced for New York, while police radio prowl cars sped to the spot where Ram Singh had been shot, Ram Singh himself lay unconscious on the floor of a gray sedan beneath the feet of two men. One of those was Devil Hackerson, and the frown between his eyes was increasing the satanic slant of his brows. "This is damned foolishness," he snapped. "I'm going to stick a knife into the nigger's guts and dump him in the gutter."

The other man turned his head very slowly. "If you do, the Master will cut off your supply of the stuff," he said. His voice was high; he whined slightly, but there was a tone of insolent authority.

Hackerson cursed violently. The driver echoed his anger. "This here guy we shot works for the Spider," the latter said. "We ought to string him up by his ears."

The third man said nothing more. He sat and stared straight ahead through the windshield at the Fifth Avenue traffic through which they were weaving a slow and laborious way. He had a high dome of a head that seemed to swell out behind the ears and dwarf the little, wizened face. One of his overly prominent eyes had a cast in it and was a pale, washed-out blue. The other was brown and kept darting about like a frightened bird. He lipped a cigarette wetly.

"Listen, Devil," he whined. "You know I ain't got nothing to do with this. All I do is get the orders over the telephone and bring 'em to you. This guy what calls himself the Master always seems to know where to find me. He may call me at a restaurant or in a saloon and sometimes at the boarding-house. I don't see no harm in doing what the Master says. We get good dough out of it and if you don't do what he says, I'll lose my job, and . . ."

Devil Hackerson pushed the other roughly in the face, but without ill nature, and the man's cap slid off. He was bald as an egg.

"Don't get excited, Baldy," he said. "We're doing what your Master wants." There was a sneer in his voice at the word "Master." "But it's not to save your job. It's because we want the stuff. Boy, with that, we could knock over the Treasury of the United States without any trouble at all."

The man called Baldy drew the cap over his bald head with nervous hands. "The Master says next time you don't use the stuff for what he tells you, you don't get any more." Baldy's voice was trembling, a little squeaky with fear at the message, but he kept on with it. "He says tell you there are other guys would be glad to get their hands on the stuff."

"Ain't it the truth?" murmured Hackerson, but the frown on his forehead was puzzled now. "I'll be damned if I can see what good it'll do to knock the Sky Building down in the streets. Still more, I can't see why we got to take this nigger up on top of it and wait until the building topples before he dies. Hell, she might fall over while we're up there since it's all fixed now."

Ram Singh heard the words with a sense of dull shock. These men talked of making the world's tallest building collapse as if it were no more than a hill of sand on the beach. Yet the Sky Building's collapse, even in the dead of night, would kill hundreds. And by day with the thousands teeming past on Fifth Avenue . . . Ram Singh shuddered involuntarily, listened while Baldy talked on.

"There's not enough wind," Baldy said. "The stone walls will hold it together until we have a good wind, and then . . ." He paused. Mere words couldn't paint for him the collapse of that mighty building, its base covering an entire city block, its tower more than a fifth of a mile above the streets. There was a gleam in his brown eye and his tongue slid out like a timid pink snake to touch his dry lips. "The Weather Bureau says the wind will keep rising until it reaches gale force about morning."

Ram Singh groaned and stirred beneath their feet. Hackerson leaned forward, grinding the muzzle of his gun into Ram Singh's neck.

"Keep quiet, blackboy," he rasped, "or I'll crack you again."

There was a drying red stain on Ram Singh's left shoulder.

"Hadn't we better get him up on the seat now, put his robe around him?" Baldy asked timidly.

Devil Hackerson jerked erect, thrust his satanic face into Baldy's cowering countenance. "Listen," he rasped, "you can bring orders from this guy that calls himself the Master, but you're not running my mob, see?"

Baldy cringed back into his corner and made placating sounds with his mouth. Hackerson chuckled. He caught Ram Singh by his wounded shoulder and yanked him to a sitting position, threw a black robe around him and hauled him up on the seat.

"You're the Yogi Mala Kalai Balu," said Hackerson, "and you're just finishing a long fast. Furthermore, you've made a pledge not to speak again in this life. If you show any inclination to forget that, I'm going to remind you with lead in your guts. Get it?"

Ram Singh was weak with his wound. His face had a gray tinge beneath its swarthy skin. "I understand," he replied slowly.

When the sedan stopped before the Sky Building, Hackerson helped the Hindu to alight with every show of deference and the car rolled away, Baldy peering back with his one good eye from the rear seat. Ram Singh could hardly stand. He leaned heavily on his captor's arm and together they went upward to the tower. There were few persons about to stare curiously at the two. Within a half hour, the tower would close. Ram Singh's eyes were on the floor. His head seemed too heavy to lift.

In his dull thoughts, he sought frantically for some way to escape. But there was none that did not involve ridding himself of this gangster at his side, and unarmed, he had not the strength for the attempt. He had managed to get two words out to the Spider before that bullet had crashed him to the floor of the booth—before gunmen had charged into the store and taken him out while they held clerks and customers of the drug store at pistol point. God grant that those two words had been enough!

It seemed incredible to Ram Singh that these gangsters, because of orders received through that queer spokesman, were wrecking this huge building. But the "stuff," as they called it, already had been loosed upon the mighty girders. The supports were undermined, ready to crumple into powdery fragments whenever the wind blew hard. And thousands would be crushed to pulp beneath it.

"Hurry up," snapped Hackerson. "I don't like the way the wind is moaning."

He waited his chance and shoved Ram Singh into a porter's closet where brushes and pails were stored for use at night. No one would enter it until late the next night when the cleaning got under way again and before then . . .

"Heavy wind blowing up," Hackerson gibed at Ram Singh. "You won't have long to wait, I guess."

He gagged the Hindu brutally, bound him hand and foot, lashed him to the pipes of a slop sink in the closet. Then he kicked him in the stomach. "Baldy said to knock you out," he jeered, "but I'd rather you could hear the wind rising and feel the building sway just before she topples. You ought to enjoy that."

He kicked Ram Singh again, shut the door and locked it. Ram Singh did not hear him go, but he heard something else. He heard the hollow moan of wind in the elevator shafts and the hallways. He had felt tall skyscrapers sway before this, when they were held together by the flexibility of the steel that had enabled man to rear buildings higher and higher into the skies.

But now the steel was no longer flexible. Now it would crumble and split when the strain was put upon it. Was it his imagination tricking him or was the stately rhythmic movement of the building a little jerky? By Kali and by Siva, the doom of the Sky Building, of the thousands its fall would kill, was already upon it.

Ram Singh strained against his ropes. It wrenched his wounded shoulder and he groaned feebly against his gag. Blackness swarmed about him. Through it he could feel the sickening sway of the building, hear the mounting wail of the wind as if it already mourned the dead . . . .

Chapter Three
When Thousands Died

WENTWORTH had a blowout on the way to New York City. The eastern sky was graying when he skidded to a halt before the Centre Street headquarters of the New York City police and took the steps three at a time. It was just after seven o'clock—but the winter dawn came late—and there was a chance that Stanley Kirkpatrick, the commissioner, might be at his desk.

The sergeant in the anteroom recognized Wentworth, nodded alertly. "Commissioner's in his office, sir," he said. "Shall I . . . ?"

He stared at a vanishing back as Wentworth pushed into the private office of the police commissioner. Kirkpatrick's head came up sharply at the abrupt entrance; his eyes narrowed as they saw the tightness of Wentworth's face.

"What is it, Dick?" he asked quickly.

"Ram Singh!" Wentworth snapped out. "That shooting scrape on Jerome Avenue!"

Kirkpatrick stared, frowning, thumbed through a file of reports on his desk, paused to study one. "Unidentified man, apparently a Negro, shot in a telephone-booth and carried off by assailants," he summarized swiftly.

Wentworth cursed harshly, dropped into a chair and sat stiffly on six inches of the seat. His fists were clenched on his knees.

"They got Ram Singh," he said dully. The two men, Wentworth and Kirkpatrick, were much alike in a general way as they sat there facing each other—two men who had been violent enemies and now were friends. Both were dark and had lean, hard jaws. Kirkpatrick had a saturnine countenance, harsh lines chiseled about a firm-lipped mouth that was emphasized by a straight pointed mustache. His gray eyes peered out straightly from under broad, level brows and his black hair lay flat against his head. There was a calmness about the man as he rested his elbows on the desk and rubbed his palms together with a dry whisper of sound. "Tell me about it," he urged, his voice incisive, accents clipped.

Wentworth nodded. "You know what the Spider did in Middleton tonight?" he queried, and when Kirkpatrick nodded, Wentworth explained that he had set Ram Singh to searching for Devil Hackerson since one of the men killed by the Spider in Middleton was a Hackerson hood.

There was a slight ironic twist of Kirkpatrick's lips as he listened that had nothing to do with the seriousness of the situation. His mockery was because both of them spoke of the Spider as though he were a third person.

Kirkpatrick had battled the Spider for many months, though secretly he admired and respected this swift avenger who struck down the criminals that the law-hedged police could not reach. Finally he had confronted Wentworth, told him flatly that he knew he was the Spider, but that he lacked proof. Until such time as positive evidence fell into his hands, he said, he would assist Wentworth and the Spider in every legal way. But if that evidence came into his possession, he would prosecute to the full extent of his powers. It was an armed truce. Never again had either of them referred to Wentworth's possible connection with the Spider. But it often amused Kirkpatrick, and the mockery touched Wentworth's face, too.

His gray-blue eyes met Kirkpatrick's directly as he talked, explaining about the activities in Middleton, how they confirmed his own suspicion that there was a tie-up between the death of the chemist, Jim Collins, and the robbery of the bank. But there was mockery in Wentworth's tip-tilted eyebrows though there was grave seriousness in the set, determined mouth and chin, the thin-bridged intelligent nose, the calm broad forehead. His black hair crisped across his brow, swept down to hide a thin scar upon his right temple, relic of an old knife fight. There was a throbbing in that wound now, but that was the only symptom in his vital, keen face that the alarm over Ram Singh gnawed at his heart.

"You see the seriousness of what threatens," Wentworth said swiftly. "If these criminals use their steel-eater widely, there won't be a bank in the country safe from their attack. Just before Ram Singh was—" Wentworth paused and swallowed hard; the muscles bulged along his jaw line, "before he was shot, he shouted something about the Sky Building. I don't know whether he meant a robbery was being staged there or whether he meant Hackerson had a headquarters there. But if you are willing, I'd like to go there with you and see what we can discover."

Kirkpatrick nodded gravely, but it was nearly two hours later—two hours in which they had thrown every resource of the police into the search for Ram Singh—that Kirkpatrick stepped to a wardrobe in a corner and shrugged into a dark-blue belted topcoat. He set a derby straight across his brows and together he and Wentworth strode from the building.

The commissioner's heavy private car made swift speed through the thickening traffic. The wind whipped past the closed windows with a thin whining, and though there was a heater in the tonneau, their breath made small wavering puffs before their mouths as they talked.

"If they bothered to carry Ram Singh away," Kirkpatrick mused. "It's likely he was only wounded."

"Probably," Wentworth agreed. He stared out at the stone buildings, gray in the early morning light as they slid past. The car had swept up Lafayette now, spun west to Fifth Avenue and was stepping north along the broad thoroughfare. Men and women struggled against the wind as against a savage undertow, coats whipping about their thighs.

"The tail end of that Hatteras gale is hitting here today," Kirkpatrick said absently. "The Sky Building will be rocking like a tree."

Wentworth nodded again, wordlessly. He was trying to think what Ram Singh could have meant by that last shout about the Sky Building. "They are pl . . ." he had got out just before the shot. Perhaps that last word had been "planning," but planning what? Wentworth could not guess at Ram Singh's fearful secret, at the horror that tortured the faithful Hindu now, wounded and a prisoner of tight ropes, as he struggled for freedom high in the groaning Sky Building.

How could Wentworth guess that the Sky Building was slated for destruction, that even now its weakened steel girders were yielding beneath the lash of the rising wind? He knew, of course, of the steel-eater, but why would anyone wish to raze the building? Even Devil Hackerson, who had carried out the orders for the Master and put the "stuff" on the girders, had not been able to understand why it should be destroyed.

As they sped farther north, the sidewalks were thick with crowds of people going to work. It was a little after nine, the height of the rush hour. Girls ducked their heads into the wind, pulled their coats tight about their hips and plunged across the street on their high heels. Men ploughed doggedly into the rising gale's thrust clasping hats to their heads with freezing hands. Even from the car, the cherry red of cold-burnt ears could be seen, but Wentworth beheld the tapestry of New York going to work only subconsciously. His mind was still busy with the problem of Ram Singh and the Sky building.

The squat broad base of the building came into sight, hinting even in the briefly truncated view below the auto roof of the majesty that soared above. Wentworth, alighting from the car, paused on the sidewalk, holding his derby firmly in place while he leaned back to peer up at the heights that rose a fifth of a mile into the sky. Sunlight glinted coldly on the strips of chromium that streaked its sides, but bustling gray clouds would soon blot that out. The gale was on the way. It would soon be blowing sixty miles an hour and better up there where the rounded dome of the dirigible mooring-mast met the clouds.

Wentworth frowned, walked into the elaborate lobby with Kirkpatrick at his side. Kirkpatrick looked sideways at him curiously. It was rarely that his friend was so preoccupied, engrossed though he might be in the battles of mankind, in the defense of humanity against the underworld.

"Just what do we do now that we're here?" he asked.

"I'm not quite sure," Wentworth confessed.

He asked some apparently aimless questions of the elevator starter and learned that nothing out of the ordinary had occurred in the building. He knew already that there had been no robbery reports from the vicinity the night before. He turned away abruptly, stalked to Kirkpatrick's side. He had a feeling that the answer to his bewilderment was within reach, but that he could not fathom it. It was within reach all right, no farther away than the thick walls that encased the steel basic supports of the building, eaten by the Master's "stuff" until they would crack when the strain of the gale came . . .

"Let's go up to the tower," Wentworth said abruptly. "I always get a thrill out of the sway in windy weather, out of the feeling of power in man's conquest of the elements."

Kirkpatrick smiled wryly. "Seeking inspiration, Dick?"

Wentworth nodded shortly. "I have a feeling that the answer is right here." He stretched out his gloved hand and closed the fingers palm upward. "But I can't quite grasp it. Something tells me that I know everything that is essential to finding the answer."

The elevator was wafted upward silently. Through the shaft, the wind moaned and made hollow bass whinings. While they were moving the sway of the building was not noticeable, but once they reached the observation room, it could be felt. Kirkpatrick looked about him with alert, quick glances. There were no visitors to the tower so early in the morning.

"You may like this swaying business, but I don't care for it at all," Kirkpatrick said.

"The building is entirely safe," Wentworth said shortly, staring about also, looking out over the city where the wind was snatching smoke from the chimneys, dancing bits of paper high in the air. "Engineers always allow a safety margin of three or four hundred percent in stresses. They probably did more than that here."

A particularly strenuous gust howled about the corners of the building, and somewhere deep in the building there was a faint, creaking groan.

Kirkpatrick grimaced. "I still don't like it," he muttered. "Are you going up any higher?"

Wentworth looked out once more over the gale-lashed city and nodded slowly. "I think I shall," he said. "There is something about wind . . ." He paused and cocked his head, listening. Above the screaming of the wind, he caught a faint regular sound, a muffled thump, thump, thump.

"Do you hear that?" Wentworth asked quickly.

Kirkpatrick frowned at him. "I hear the wind and I hear the building making funny noises."

Wentworth moved his hand impatiently. "I don't mean that. I mean a sound like someone knocking. Listen."

They listened again to that faint muffled thump, thump, thump. On its heels came another sound from deep in the bowels of the building. Another creaking groan.

"Listen, Wentworth," Kirkpatrick's face was worried, "I'll swear this building is creaking."

Wentworth did not hear him. He was striding rapidly around a corner of the hall whence the thumping seemed to come. He stood there, waiting. Once more the sound reached his ears, more loudly this time. With a subdued cry, he sprang to the door of a porter's closet. He tried the knob, found it locked. His hand flew to the Spider's tool kit beneath his arm and rapidly he forced the lock. Kirkpatrick came around the corner just as the bolt snicked back and Wentworth yanked the door open.

Together they peered into the half-dark. Brooms and mops were stacked against the wall, pails were on the floor and among the pails lay something that moved. Wentworth splashed light from a pocket flash into the gloom and a cry spilled from his lips: "Ram Singh!"

The Hindu had beaten on the door with his bound feet. Now he tossed and bumped on the floor. He made fearful sounds behind his gag. Wentworth flung down on his knees, yanked away the cloth that blocked Ram Singh's speech.

"Quickly, sahib!" the Hindu's voice sounded sepulchral as it croaked from his dry throat. "Quickly! This building is going to fall!"

"What?" It was a startled curse from Kirkpatrick.

"God!" Wentworth barked. "That's it! Those fiends have put the steel-eater on the girders of this building! I knew the answer was here!"

He was hauling Ram Singh from the close confines of the closet, slicing off his bonds with a pocket knife.

"That is it, sahib,'"the Hindu gasped. "They left me here to die as a warning to . . ." He choked off the words, coughed down the "to the Spider" he had started to say. "They say that when the wind blows strong, it will fall."

The three men stood rigid, heard once more the groaning complaint of the building. It seemed louder than before. It seemed the moan of a living, suffering thing. As if all the thousands of men and women in the building knew what was about to happen and had joined their voices in one vast moan of universal terror. For an instant the sound held them in the grip like paralysis. They felt the building sway giddily . . . Unconsciously, they leaned the opposite way as if by their feeble weight they would counterbalance the catastrophe that loomed. Their hearts thumped swiftly, for they felt that doom was upon them.

"We're gone," said Kirkpatrick flatly. His face was white beneath its lean tan.

The sway ended. The building seemed to poise on the split edge of oblivion, then there was a slight jerk. It wavered back into the wind. Wentworth snapped from his motionlessness.

"We must clear the building, clear the streets and the neighboring places!" he poured out words. "Kirk, you get the reserves! I'll call out the fire department, send an alarm . . . ."

He sprang into the main hall, flung a swift glance about, spotted a red box and sprang to it with an eager cry. He smashed the glass. An elevator operator gaped at him with open mouth.

"Where's the fire?" he demanded.

"This building is going to collapse!" Wentworth snapped. "The steel girders have been cut." He whirled to Ram Singh. "Get downstairs and tell them to stop everyone at the doors and send them away, let the elevators rise empty and take out people as fast as they can." He thrust a courtesy police badge into Ram Singh's hand for authority.

"Operator, take this man down and don't stop until you hit the first floor!"

Wentworth ran for a 'phone, heard Kirkpatrick's crisp voice barking orders into a transmitter in a public booth. His words came out swiftly, but clipped and precise as if he sat in his own office directing activities.

Wentworth stared out the window at the evidence of the wind's power, heard the still mounting volume of its shrieks about the building. Now he was oversensitive to each fractional sway of the skyscraper. He smiled grimly to think that within seconds this huge tower of stone and crumbling steel would crash its hundreds of human souls into extinction.

He was bitter with himself for having failed to guess the answer long before, but he could see no way in which he could have figured it out. It was a piece of murderous criminality without parallel. Even now that he knew what impended, he could discern no motive. What possible reason or profit could there be?

He took a cigarette from his platinum case and smiled grimly at his unwavering hands. They wouldn't shake even in hell! But he was shaking inwardly, not in personal fear, but with dread of the horror that impended for the city's millions. He fought himself to calmness. His eyes gazing past the steady flame of his lighter spotted a NO SMOKING sign. The smile twisted on his lips. He blew out smoke and Kirkpatrick slammed out of the booth. He stopped short at sight of Wentworth calmly smoking, drew in a quivering breath. There was grayness beneath the tan of his face, but Wentworth's steadiness braced him. He nodded in approval.

Both of them must keep their heads, even in the face of this overwhelming catastrophe, if they were to snatch the victims from imminent doom. They must forget themselves . . . . The flame wavered as he lighted a cigarette.

"Suppose you and I take alternate floors and empty them," Wentworth suggested. "We'll clear them until reserves can arrive and take over. I sent word to the business office of the building and they're organizing the elevator banks now."

"I'll take the floor below this," Kirkpatrick agreed. "You take the one below that."

Once more the building swayed and groaned. This time there could be no doubt as to the cause of the sound. Wentworth checked his cigarette half way to his mouth, his eyes widening, his mouth feeling dry. Was this the last sway? Was the building heeling over into the final dive to destruction? Slowly the Sky Tower braced back into the push of the wind; the groan faded into a dim creak. Wentworth found he was holding his breath and he blew it out noisily.

"There's about a forty mile wind now," he said, clearing the hoarseness from his throat. "My guess is that when she hits fifty, the building goes."

They stared into each other's eyes and their smiles were forced. They went swiftly down the steps together. At the floor below, they paused for a moment on the platform, facing each other. Their palms touched briefly in a hand-clasp—two lean-faced men with death upon them, but with small smiles on their lips.

"See you in hell," Wentworth said trying to make it sound like a joke. He snapped his cigarette into a corner, clattered down stairs and into an office. People were standing excitedly; the fire gong was dinning, but they all thought it was a false alarm. How could the Sky Building burn?

"Get out quickly!" Wentworth shouted at them. "There's no danger if you move quickly and in orderly fashion. There'll be an elevator here in a moment. Wait in the hall."

"What's the matter?" a man demanded harshly. He was fat-cheeked and fat-bodied, but his clothes fitted faultlessly. "We have business to do and haven't any time for fire drills."

Wentworth eyed him coldly, his mouth grim. "If your business is more important than your life, by all means stay," he barked. "Your workers are leaving. This whole building will go within ten minutes."

Women squealed; a few men laughed. One said something about being nonchalant and tried to light a cigarette, but the flame danced in his trembling fingers and went out. The workers filed swiftly from the office. Wentworth had no trouble in the other offices. He simply held open the door so that those within could see the other people waiting in the hall. While he was in the second office, the first elevator took on a load.

Chapter Four
Flight From Doom

A PERSISTENT worry thrust through the horror in Wentworth's brain. If the building swayed and failed to come back, the elevators would be blocked even if the structure did not topple at once. Hundreds would be trapped, helpless. The stairs would be too slow . . . .

"Women in the elevators," Wentworth barked. "Men, down the steps!"

A man began to curse shrilly. "Walk down ninety stories! You're a damned fool."

Wentworth drew his automatics, a small white smile on his lips.

"Walk down," he ordered, "or I'll let you have it!"

The men walked; Wentworth's mind kept veering to the tragedy at hand. He tried to estimate the chances of escape for those hundreds and his head jerked in a tense negative. The cords of his neck felt stiff and hard. No matter how rapidly they moved, scores would die—millions of dollars worth of buildings would be ground to powder. And all to satisfy the mysterious criminal plans of some monstrous killer.

When the third cage stopped at his floor, a policeman stepped out and saluted. "I'm taking over, sir," he said.

Wentworth nodded tightly. "I've got the men walking down," he said. "The idea is that as soon as the women are out on all floors, we'll start picking up the men."

"Okay," the policeman said. He turned to the crowd. "Get a move on there," his hearty voice rang out. "Think you got all day? In about ten minutes this building is going to fall down! And boy, oh boy, it will go boom!"

Wentworth forced a laugh and men and women joined. It was nervous laughter and shrill, but it was better than the white-faced silence and fear. Wentworth stopped to light a cigarette before he strolled to the steps. Still his hand did not shake. The women, huddled together, watched him with wide, frightened eyes. He smiled at them and it took all his courage to make that smile genuine. So many of them—and he, too—might never reach the street alive. He lifted his hat politely . . . Kirkpatrick, walking also, met him on the steps.

"The police have taken over," he said sharply. "They're clearing the other buildings and the streets are roped off for twelve blocks around. Ram Singh collapsed and was shipped to a hospital."

Wentworth swore. "I'd forgotten his wound. He was too eager to help to mention it. That man deserves a medal if anyone . . ." He broke off, rigid in his tracks. A shivering groan filled the air about them. A thin white snow of plaster sifted through the air and before their eyes, a crack gaped in the wall of the stairs. A man behind them screamed and bolted downward.

Wentworth pivoted and smacked him down with a right to the jaw.

"Hold it," he ordered sharply, shouting at the men streaming past. "Panic will only jam the stairs and prevent anyone from escaping. Take it easy."

White-faced men were darting down the steps. Panic glistened wildly in the eyes of a few, but Wentworth's blow had had a sobering effect on them. They went more quietly. Wentworth swung the man he had slugged to his shoulder and they went down. When the man recovered, he set him on his feet and allowed him to make his own way. They had reached the fiftieth floor when a policeman stopped them on the steps.

"All the women out, sir. Three cars waiting here," he reported.

Men jammed toward the door with eager shouts. Wentworth drew a deep breath. They had won that many from the maw of death. He turned tensely to Kirkpatrick.

"You get aboard, Kirk," he said. "You've got to direct that bunch downstairs or they'll be trapped."

Kirkpatrick smiled faintly, opened his mouth to speak then shut it again as an abysmal moan of twisted structure beams made deafening noise in the confined stairway. He looked up, watched a hunk of ceiling plaster detach itself and smack to pieces on the floor. When the noise had died, he spoke above the bedlam of terror it caused. His voice was hoarse, tight with enforced calm.

"You're needed, too, Dick," he said quietly. "Don't forget that this is only the beginning of the battle. As usual, I'll be hampered by the confounded laws. We ought to take this Devil Hackerson and torture the truth out of him."

Wentworth pulled up his lip corners with an effort. Death had spoken to all of them in that last groan.

"Quite," he murmured with assumed nonchalance. "Let's recommend it to the Spider."

They went into the hallway and squeezed in behind the last of the men into an already overloaded elevator. They dropped down swiftly. In the lobby, police had formed close-ranked lines and men—all the women had already left—were herded through at a run. If anyone slowed, an officer's nightstick rapped him smartly on the thighs and he speeded up again. The faces of the police were set and grim. Their eyes lifted time and again to the ceilings and the walls that at any moment might come in upon them.

A man ran up to Kirkpatrick. He was in civilian clothes and his face was distraught. "Four main supports of the south side have given away," he reported excitedly. "We can't do a damned thing toward bracing. One more hard gust . . ." He choked off as a terrific cracking roar thundered through the hall. A crack gaped in the ceiling, then slowly, deliberately, half the mosaic ceiling swung down, hinged at one side, and crashed to the floor. Three men went down under it and police instantly leaped to clear them.

A constant stream of men poured from the elevator banks.

"How many floors to clear?" Kirkpatrick barked.

"Fifteen," the starter shouted.

"Two floors cleared every minute," an officer said curtly beside Kirkpatrick. "Seven more minutes to go. Think it will hold off, sir?"

There was strain in all their voices, a strain they tried to hide. Others had heard that question and many eyes were riveted fearfully, hopefully on the engineer's face.

The engineer shook his head dubiously. "I wouldn't guarantee one minute," he said. "These walls are strong, but it's steel that holds them. When that goes, everything will crumple. And it's going damned fast."

A ringing clang as if a cracked bell of enormous size had been struck gonged hollowly through the building.

"There goes another support," the engineer gasped. He drew out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. The linen was already soggy with perspiration. Kirkpatrick was watching the elevator indicators.

"Have the operators shout at the fifth floor that all below that must walk," he ordered curtly.

A constant stream of white-faced men was belching now from the stairs, the elevators seemed to be moving more swiftly.

"Three floors in the last minute," the Officer beside Kirkpatrick reported. "Guess a lot of them have walked down from those floors."

Wentworth and Kirkpatrick stood stiffly side by side as the seconds ticked by and watched the flashing lights which indicated the flight of the elevators. They had worked down to the eighth floor now. One cage dropped to the fifth and stopped, the lights showed, then plunged straight to the main floor. The door yanked open.

"Fifth floor clear!" he shouted.

"All out!" shouted Kirkpatrick. "And run like hell, to the north. This building will flop to the south. All out!"

A dozen voices picked up his cry and two more gonging explosions told that two more girders had crumpled. One by one the elevators swooped to a halt and their operators fled with the passengers. Policemen were ordered out. They tried to keep panic out of their retreat. One broke and ran. Others followed.

Once more Kirkpatrick and Wentworth faced each other. They nodded. They had done all they could here. They were justified now in trying to save their own lives. They strode swiftly to the door, faces drawn and haggard, turned north amid a stream of other men. The crowd was all ahead of them, pelting away from the danger zone. Wentworth wondered if now, that the work was over, his hand could still hold a flame steadily . . .

But Wentworth and Kirkpatrick did not run. Wentworth bowed his head into the wind. He was thinking now, with death so close, only a single word, a name, Nita. He did not visualize the woman he loved, did not even think of the death that must soon annihilate him, of the tons of debris that would smear him out of existence. He merely thought her name.

Two blocks away, Wentworth stopped to turn and stare upward at the highest building in the world. As he looked, a shuddering gasp of horror went up from the watching crowd, shivering down on the breath of the icy wind. The building seemed to be leaning. For a moment, it was not possible to tell definitely; then the angle became more pronounced. The tall spire was curved slightly at its middle like a woman's back.

"Run, Dick!" Kirkpatrick barked at him.

"No use, Kirk," Wentworth said heavily. "We couldn't gain more than fifty feet and that wouldn't . . . ."

He broke off, sucking in his breath. The bow in the middle of the building had increased. Wentworth realized that the steel-eater had not been applied throughout the building, but only on its major supports. Up there, the beams still held, but it was a useless, futile battle the steel fought with the elements. He saw a speck that was the first huge stone to tear from its seating. He watched it sweep downward, growing larger and larger, saw it strike the roof of a building.

On the top story of that building, the windows burst outward suddenly. Wentworth shook himself. All this was happening in split-seconds, and yet it passed before his lightning swift mind like the movements of a slow-motion camera. His ego seemed to be detached from his body, so that, like a bystander, he watched himself watch this major catastrophe of the world's history that was occurring before his eyes. He realized the millions in damage, knew that hundreds still fought their way downward through nearby buildings and were sprinting up the streets past him toward safety, that other scores could not possibly get free in time.

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.

Chapter Five
The Second Calamity

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."

Wentworth stopped before him, standing on straddled legs. A tenseness touched his eyes. "Did you find Hackerson's headquarters?" he asked.

Ram Singh stiffened like a soldier at attention. "I traced him to a saloon, Sahib" he reported. "There he talked with one who was bald-headed and had a cast in his left eye. Hackerson addressed him as Baldy. Baldy asked if the Sky Building had been fixed so it would collapse and Hackerson said it had. I left at once to report, but they must have seen me. I was shot down even as I began to tell you about it." He recounted then what had been said in the automobile while he was being carried to the Sky Building to die—of Baldy's words of the Master, of the anonymous "stuff" that had been put on the steel girders.

"Describe this bald man," Wentworth asked softly, and listened with narrowed eyes while Ram Singh told how he looked. He shook his head at the end. "I never heard of such a criminal," he said. "Go to police headquarters and see if you can find him in the rogue's gallery. If you identify him, tell Sahib Kirkpatrick what you have told me." He nodded in dismissal and Ram Singh backed three paces, raised his cupped hand to his turbaned forehead in a salaam, pivoted and was gone.

Jenkyns announced dinner, and Wentworth noted with surprise that the mad day had faded. He had not eaten since the night before. Knowing that he must battle soon, he allowed himself an hour more with Nita, during which time they ate the perfect meal Jenkyns had prepared.

Back in the living room, Wentworth took a turn up and down, paused before Nita. "Darling, will you get in touch with Professor Brownlee and have him install an infra-red camera in the Collins apartment in Middleton? And, darling . . . !" He paused, smiling down at her tenderly. "Hide yourself at some hotel. I'm afraid these killers may strike at me through you."

He bent over her, a hand on each arm of her chair, brushed her gleaming hair with his lips. Nita lifted her mouth to his, pressed her soft cheek to his with closed eyes. Wentworth's arms dropped about her shoulders, tightened savagely. It was as if he would shield her with that moment's caress from all the fury of the world, the madness of criminal onslaughts. When he released her, his eyes were gentle.

"It may be some days before I see you again, dear," he said briskly. "There is much to do."

He saw rebellious protest on Nita's face and promised swiftly that he had work for her, too, but that first he must make certain investigations . . . Then he sent her away. Five minutes later he was driving away in his town sedan, the Lancia in which he had burned the roads between Middleton and New York. In a dark side street, he parked and drew the curtains, entered the tonneau. His hand dropped to a button beneath the left half of the cushion and that section slid forward and revolved soundlessly.

Its back contained clothing hung on racks and from it Wentworth unfolded a mirror and make-up tray framed with mazdas. He went to work swiftly. Beneath his skillful hands the face of Richard Wentworth became sallow and sharp, the nose lengthened and bushy black brows that were low over his eyes masked the mockery of his own smooth eyebrows. A lank, black wig, a broad-brimmed hat of black and a cape completed the transformation. He pocketed false celluloid teeth like fangs. Again Richard Wentworth had become the Spider. He climbed slowly from the tonneau, and shuffling along the walk, he was a hunchback, twisted shoulders distorting the smooth erect stride that was Wentworth's.

The Spider's face was set and hard. Tonight he was borrowing a leaf from the book of gangsterdom. It dictated that when you could not find the man you wanted, you attacked where it would hurt that man. The police would be before him, of course, watching for Hackerson to fall into their hands. But Wentworth would not wait . . . .

He turned around a corner, his cape flapping behind him in the cold whip of the wind, a somber, half-seen shadow in the swift-falling winter dusk, and saw a block ahead the apartment house where lived Beatrice Ross, Devil Hackerson's mistress. As he shuffled closer, he made out the forms of two men hidden in a facing doorway. His lips stirred slightly in mockery. The police were watching for Hackerson, waiting for him to drop into their laps. As if Hackerson, knowing that police and the Spider both were upon his trail, would walk openly into so obvious a place as his mistress' home!

Wentworth circled the block to avoid the detectives, for his hunched and caped figure was known throughout the land as the disguise of the Spider. He turned alongside the apartment house where Hackerson's girl friend lived, moved close within the shadow of the wall. A black stairway opened downward, tunneling under the next building. Wentworth drifted into it soundlessly, brought up against a steel grating. A lock pick disposed of that in seconds and he moved through into a black areaway walled in by the towering, window-pierced cliffs of apartment houses.

Two minutes later, he was moving steadily up the stairs of Beatrice Ross' house. He reached the fourth floor without challenge, paused a moment outside the door that bore the bronze figures 4C. The lock brought a small smile to his lips. Hackerson would know the best kind to use all right. A Foxx. It was a tough nut to crack. A glance showed him the fire-escape exit on his right. He reached the window in quick, quiet strides, slid outside. From the platform, it was only a long step to the sill of the woman's bathroom window. That would be the bedroom that was lighted next to it.

Without hesitation, Wentworth stepped across four stories of deep blackness to the sill, crouched there while a cold wind flapped his cloak dully behind him. The window slid up noiselessly and slipping into place his false celluloid fangs, he crept inside, stepping on a steam radiator that hissed dimly, then to the floor. Abruptly the light snapped on, smashing into his eyes. A woman stood in the doorway with an automatic in her hand. "So what do you want, baby?" she sneered. "Come out and show your ugly mug."

Evidently she had started to undress. Her long hennaed hair hung down her naked left shoulder and her clothing consisted of a magenta silken underskirt and, above the waist, nothing but a narrow brassier that compressed her ample breasts. Her undress did not appear to concern her.

"Come on, baby," she urged, mockingly. "Come out where mama can see you better."

Wentworth saw that her lips were brilliantly carmined and their sullen curve was hard as brass. He came forward two slow steps, bared those ugly, inch-long fangs, and lifted his head so that the light crept in under the broad brim of his hat. The woman gasped, retreated a step. Her gun hand began to waver, and then she seized the automatic with both hands and jerked it eye high.

"The Spider! The Spider!" she gabbled and began shooting.

Chapter Six
The Hot Trail

WENTWORTH had counted on the woman's fright. He dived in under the gun an instant before she yanked the trigger. His shoulder caught the woman's ankles and spilled her across his back. He heard the gun smash into a mirror, heard the woman's frightened shriek. Her head thudded against the edge of the wash bowl. Wentworth scrambled up, and the woman crouched on hands and knees, head hanging, swaying from side to side like an injured animal. The rest of her hair had come down and its dyed and lifeless ends swept the floor.

Wentworth seized her shoulders, dragged her erect and pinned her against the wall. Her mouth was sagging open, her eyes barely showed the irises. She was half out, but a dashing of water from the bowl jerked her back to full consciousness. He thrust his face, the sallow, menacing face of the Spider, close to hers; his lips snarled back from pointed fangs.

"You're going with me," he snapped, "and you're going fast—or you're going out feet first. Which will it be?"

The woman's over-red mouth gagged. She shook her head in bewilderment.

"Police are at the door," Wentworth said, emphasizing his words with a violent shake of her shoulders. "Either come with me or I drop you right here." He dragged out his gun and stabbed its muzzle against her abdomen.

"I—I'll go," she whimpered.

Wentworth led her into the next room, snatched a coat from a closet and threw it at her, and she got into it with fumbling hands. He listened at the door, then hurried her through it to the hall beyond. They went down the fire-escape while police were coming up in the elevator, dived through the passageway that a steel grating closed and moments later reached Wentworth's car. The woman huddled in the opposite corner. The winter night bit through her and her lips beneath the carmine were purple with cold. She watched the Spider with cringing eyes.

Wentworth apparently paid her no attention. The woman hugged herself for warmth. "Where—where are you taking me?" she asked.

Wentworth skated to the curb and twisted his long-nosed face toward her.

"Nowhere," he said softly. "You're taking me to Devil Hackerson, or else—" He let his voice trail off and the flat mocking laughter of the Spider filled the car.

The woman shivered and huddled miserably in her corner. "He'd—he'd kill me."

"Probably," Wentworth agreed carelessly. "Start talking."

Stark fright was on the face. She stammered out a hoarse plea for mercy, but her voice was hopeless. Wentworth took out his automatic slowly and once more the ugly mirth of the Spider spilled from his lips. Beatrice Ross whimpered.

"Get out," Wentworth ordered.

"No, no!"

"Then take it here!" Wentworth presented the gun. The woman's hands clawed at him desperately, snatching at the weapon. Wentworth cursed and jerked open his door, backed out. Beatrice Ross scrambled out the opposite side and began to run with crazy frightened shrieks. The Spider raised his gun deliberately, squeezed off a bullet.

"Oh, God!" The woman stumbled, clapped a hand to her shoulder.

A mirthless smile twisted Wentworth's lips. He had merely burned the flesh. He fired another bullet and fragments of cement stung her ankles. As she went around the corner, Wentworth blew chips off the bricks, then sprang to his car and spurted away. He circled the block in time to see the woman almost fall into a taxi. With a smooth twist of the wheel, the Spider took up the trail he hoped would lead to Devil Hackerson . . . .

The taxi droned southward on Riverside Drive, took the elevated highway along the Hudson shore and slanted down a ramp at 19th Street. It stopped at the entrance of a huge apartment house that sprawled over two blocks, one of those "colonies" that have sprung up among the tenements of New York's east and west sides to take care of the mounting demand for modern apartment quarters convenient to the business districts. The hallboy stared at the badge that Wentworth showed and stammered out that the woman had gone to Apartment 305.

The Spider was smiling as the elevator lifted him. If he knew Hackerson, the man would have assured himself of at least two exits to his apartment. That meant it would be on a fire-escape. Within two minutes after he reached the third floor, Wentworth continued his guess. He stood on the steel lattice-work of the fire-escape outside an apartment whose shades were drawn. He heard excited voices within.

"It was the Spider, I tell you," Beatrice Ross was blurting. "He tried to make me tell where you were and I wouldn't, then he said he was going to kill me. I ran and he shot at me three times, but didn't hit me."

Wentworth laughed silently. Even as he had hoped, the woman had fled straight to Devil Hackerson.

"You damned fool!" a man choked. "You damned fool! Do you think the Spider could shoot three times and miss? He just wanted you to come here so he could follow. You lousy little—" the sound of a sodden blow came through the closed window—"little tramp!"

Beatrice Ross's sobs filled the room.

"Butts," the man snapped. "Dig out and scout around the building. Muggsie, keep watch in the hall. I'll sit tight and wait. The Spider will be here any minute."

There was a silence of moments broken only by the sobbing of the woman. "It wasn't nothing like that, Devil," she pleaded. "I know it wasn't. I wouldn't fall for a sappy move like that. He shot at me and missed. He burned my shoulder once—"

"Shut up," Hackerson growled. "I want to hear the Spider when he comes. My God, the fire-escape! It isn't covered!"

Wentworth smiled thinly. He kicked in the window and the shade snapped up. He went in guns first and caught Hackerson half out of his chair, hand going for rod too late.

"Yes, Hackerson, the fire-escape," said Wentworth quietly, "but you were a little slow in thinking about it." The sinister flat laughter of the Spider filled the room.

Devil Hackerson's hand quivered at his vest opening, but he could not make up his mind to go for his gun, not with the Spider's two automatics leveled on his breast, not with the Spider's glacial eyes boring into him. The woman on the floor whimpered and moaned. She clasped her hands before her and rose straight on her knees and swayed backward and forward. Her coat came open and her brassier had slipped. Her hair was wild about her shoulders. She didn't say a word, just moaned.

Hackerson was unconsciously backing. His knees struck the davenport and he dropped down on the cushions and bounced soggily. The tip of his tongue touched his lips.

"What do you want?" he asked hoarsely.

"First," said the Spider, his fantastic fanged teeth chopping off the words. "First, the name of the man who ordered that job on the Plymouth and the Sky buildings."

Hackerson sucked in a deep breath. His eyes were riveted with hypnotic fascination on Wentworth's gaze.

"For God's sake, don't shoot, Spider," he whispered. "I don't know."

"What about Baldy?" The words were little more than a hiss. Wentworth was listening for other things than the moaning of the woman and Hackerson's reply. He was listening for the possible return of Butts and Muggsie. They had been ordered to prowl outside, but they might return. If Butts peered up at the window and saw the curtains flapping out into the frigid night, he might think it worth investigating.

"What about Baldy?" Wentworth asked and Hackerson's eyes widened in surprise. "How do you reach Baldy?"

"I don't," Hackerson protested hoarsely, and winced. Wentworth had made no move, but cold lights flamed in the Spider's eyes "I don't get in touch with him," Hackerson spoke hurriedly. "He always seems to know where to reach me whether I'm at home or in a restaurant or wherever I am. He brings the stuff and he brings the money, and that's all I know."

"What's the stuff like?" Wentworth was disappointed, blocked in this lead through which he had hoped to trace the man Baldy and his Master. But he believed Hackerson told the truth. It confirmed what Ram Singh's story had indicated, the anonymity of the Master.

"Jeez, Spider," Hackerson whined, "he'll rub me out if I spill all this to you . . . ."

Wentworth cursed, and Hackerson broke off, a yelp of fear in his throat as Wentworth stepped forward.

He took only a single stride toward Hackerson, then seemed to trip and go flat down on the floor. He rolled on his right side and flame leaped from both guns toward the window. A black figure there reeled to its feet, mouth opened in a soundless scream. Butts, Wentworth saw, was accounted for. He hurled upward to his knees, caught Hackerson as the man pulled his gun clear. He saw Beatrice Ross on her feet plunging toward him and dodged as his left gun spat. He failed to get clear and the woman's charge sprawled him sideways to the floor. She fell upon him, sobbing and fighting. Fingernails tore at his face, knees drummed his side. He swept his right arm in a swishing semi-circle and the woman slapped down hard on the floor, her feet thrashing. She was up like a cat, leaping toward him with fingers clawing.

Wentworth cursed angrily. A fragmentary glance showed him that Hackerson was out of the fight at least for a time, slumped down on the davenport, but Muggsie would crash in at any moment, drawn by the shots. A short upward jar of his gun and Beatrice Ross sat down again. Her legs were straddled out, her arms braced sideways on the floor. Her mouth sagged.

Wentworth whirled, his quick glance sweeping the room. He saw the door whip open, saw Muggsie charge in with his revolver leaping at his side, spewing lead. A bullet jerked at Wentworth's hat, a second nipped the lobe of his ear, then Muggsie reeled against the doorjamb and went down under a blast of Spider lead. Wentworth jerked back to Hackerson, cursed violently.

Hackerson was dead, a bullet through the base of his throat. The Spider's sure aim had been directed at the right shoulder, intended only to cripple the man so that he still could reveal the secrets of the Master or be used as bait for Baldy. The woman's attack had jerked his gun in the instant of discharge—and killed Hackerson.

Excited shouts were ringing through the corridors. A woman shrieked for police in a high, frightened voice. Wentworth bounded to the door, yanked Muggsie's body inside, stooped to print his seal on the man's forehead. A moment he paused also beside each of the other bodies to leave his crimson sinister signature. The woman had reeled to her feet now, stood swaying.

"By God, Spider" she swore. "I'll get you for this, you . . . ." Her voice spewed filthy abuse. She staggered toward him, tears streaming down her face, wetting the cheek that still bore the crimson imprint of Hackerson's blow. Wentworth pushed her aside, held her off with a hand on her shoulder while she leaned forward, swiping at him futilely.

"You can give a message to Baldy," the Spider said, slowly. "You tell him this is just a token payment. Tell him I shall kill every hireling of his Master, himself included, on sight. The Spider will show no more mercy. From now on, he will kill! Kill! KILL!"

He thrust Beatrice Ross away and she reeled with arms swinging wildly. Wentworth stepped to the fire-escape, swung rapidly downward. He heard the Ross woman screeching from the window. Flame lanced from her hand and gun-noise racketed in the narrow areaway. But her bullets only clanged off the steel framework of the fire-escape and splatted against the concrete floor of the areaway.

As he dashed through the hallways of another of the colony buildings, a white-faced man stepped into his path with a gun in a trembling hand. A swift blow sent the gun scaling along the floor and the Spider went out into the street. The eerie shriek of police sirens was close at hand, but he reached his car before the first of the radio patrol-cars skated into the street. His eyes, as he drove quietly away, were burning points of flame. His only accomplishment had been to wipe out the one tangible clue he had to the Master. There remained—Beatrice Ross.

Chapter Seven
Lull Before the Storm

AS WENTWORTH drove on, a cold smile touched his lips. The fiery action had cooled his rage, left only the steel-like bite of avenging anger. He swerved to the curb, called police headquarters and got Ram Singh on the telephone.

"Have you had any success, Ram Singh?" he queried.

The Hindu's voice was expressionless, but there was weariness behind it. "There is not a picture in the Rogue's gallery like the man I saw."

"Very well, I have another task for thee, Ram Singh," Wentworth lapsed into staccato Hindustani, for he did not know who might be listening upon the wire. "Devil Hackerson is dead with the seal of the Spider upon his forehead. Police will bring in presently a woman known as Beatrice Ross. When she is freed, follow her and before many hours, you should meet again your friend, Baldy. When you do, drop the woman and trail the man. Report through Jenkyns."

He parked his car and speedily stripped off the disguise of the Spider, becoming then a blond young man with full cheeks and a bristling, reddish mustache. He exaggerated his customary erect stride as he entered the Kennillworth Hotel on Forty-Sixth Street. He walked with an accentuated tap of heels, a slight sway of the left hip that cavalrymen everywhere would recognize, the stride of an officer accustomed to wearing spurs and swaying the dangling sabre out of the way of his booted calves.

At the desk, his incisive question revealed that Anse Collins' room was on the eleventh floor. Wentworth crossed to a house 'phone to talk with him, and the clerk scowled after him. These army men were all like that, so used to service by others that they never had a courteous word for anyone.

"Collins," Wentworth said softly as the man answered the 'phone, "this is the man you have been expecting. I'll be right up."

"Good!" Collins snapped. "I was getting ready to go out on my own. I'm thinking that the same thing that was used to break that safe caused these buildings to fall today."

Wentworth found that Nancy Collins had a room down the hall from her brother-in-law. "If you don't mind," the deputy said, "I reckon we don't need to bother Nancy any. She's had a powerful tough time of it lately." His eyes were keenly studying Wentworth's face, skipped over the brownish tweeds he had donned. "I reckon I wouldn't know you."

A broad smile curved Wentworth's lips. "Probably not," he agreed. There were few persons in the world more adept at disguise than the Spider. It was not that he changed his face radically. It was simply that with each new identity went an entirely new personality. He spoke differently, walked with a distinct stride, carried head and shoulders as would the man whose character he had assumed. He pushed on without a pause in his conversation.

"There's work to be done, Collins, if you want to get the man who was responsible for your brother's death."

"You mean Hackerson?" The deputy's words were slow, but there was a thin white line around his compressed mouth.

Wentworth shook his head shortly. "Not Hackerson. I killed him less than a half-hour ago."

Collins' eyes jerked wide, then narrowed. "You're pretty open about it, Mr. Spider," he said slowly. "How do you know I'm not going to turn you over to the police?"

"That would be a poor way to repay a friend's help," Wentworth smiled at him quietly. "And down where you come from, men usually stick by their friends."

"That's right, by God!" Collins' voice took on a rough edge. "And we remember our enemies, too!"

Wentworth glanced down at the man's fists. They were small in proportion to his size, but they would carry the enormous powers of those shoulders, that deep chest. He took in the strong face and the rumpled brown hair. Apparently, it was always like that, tousled as if from sleeping. A comb wouldn't do much to it. A woman would love to run her fingers through it . . . .

"Here's the job," Wentworth said swiftly. "I want you to offer yourself as bait to an attack by the criminals. It's pretty clear that they think you have information about the chemicals your brother devised. We'll go to Middleton together and see if we can draw their fire. Frankly, I haven't a clue to the identities of the men behind this business. I didn't want to kill Hackerson until after he had answered some questions, but he went for his gun and I had to."

Collins nodded, frowning. "That listens good to me, but I don't like to hear you say you've got no clue. As sure as you're a foot high, that guy DeHaven Alrecht has got something to do with this."

"That's one of the reasons I'm going to Middleton," Wentworth told him. "I want to have a little private conversation with that gentlemen and also with this Bill Butterworth who worked with your brother."

"Butterworth has gone away somewhere," Collins said. His eyes were thoughtful. He pulled aside the left half of his vest and tugged out a smooth-worn forty-four.

"She's a mite short," he said, spinning the chamber, "but I find she comes out quicker like this." He shoved the gun back, patted the butt. "When do we start?"

"In the morning," Wentworth told him. "In the meantime, I'd like you to identify yourself to Police Commissioner Kirkpatrick. It's possible you might be able to help him some."

Collins snapped his fingers. "By golly, I knew there was something we had to tell you," he said. "Before you busted in at Middleton, there was another guy there. You had to leave so quickly we couldn't tell you. This guy asked some questions, then seemed to get scared when Hackerson was talking about hurting us if we didn't talk. He beat it then."

Wentworth's eyes keened. "A bald man?" he asked quickly, "with a cast in his left eye?"

Collins nodded slowly, his eyes wonderingly on Wentworth's face. "I reckon you know everything, Mr. Spider," he said slowly. "That's the guy."

"Good," Wentworth's head came up joyfully. "You and Mrs. Collins go down to the police and give them the best description you can of that man. This is the first time witnesses have been found against him. I'll come by for you in the morning and we'll go to Middleton. Maybe we'll have luck."

"Maybe," Collins agreed. He was grinning. "Say, man, I'd like to shake hands with you. You're my sort of folks, Mr. Spider."

Wentworth gripped Collins' hand firmly. "Just call me Spider" he laughed. "Your mister sounds too formal."

Collins laughed also, strode down the hall with Wentworth. The Spider didn't wait to see Nancy. He wanted to be at police headquarters when they got there and he had to rid himself of the disguise in the meantime. He had to find this man, Baldy, and make him talk. Wentworth's face set hard. He'd make the man talk, or kill him. Then, perhaps, he could force the Master to show his hand, to battle in the open. So far it had all been movements of pawns. The Master had delivered several telling strokes, but he still had not revealed the purposes behind his attack. Wentworth felt that if he could learn that motive, he might have a better chance of reaching the Master himself.

The criminal leader was undoubtedly very clever. He had not appeared at all himself—had worked only through this strange, timid mouthpiece, Baldy. He used gangs of known criminals with whom he never came in contact. From Ram Singh's account of Hackerson's conversation with Baldy, it seemed that even the mouthpiece did not know the Master. It was a damned clever organization. It meant that the man had all the underworld at his service without himself being identified with it in any way. No matter how many of his hirelings Wentworth wiped out, there would always be more on tap. The Master himself would have to be found before these wholesale slaughterings could be stopped.

It was the old alert Wentworth who strode into police headquarters, buoyant of step, a stiff, slightly arrogant poise to his shapely head, an erect athletic swing of shoulders that bespoke the muscular strength beneath the superb tailoring of his clothing. Kirkpatrick saw him at once. A small alert man sat beside his desk, smoking a big cigar that seemed incongruous with his van Dyke and imperial mustaches. He bounded to his feet, pumped Wentworth's hand energetically as Kirkpatrick introduced them.

"W. Johnson Briggs?" Wentworth inquired and the man nodded, bit out a quick assent. "Yes, yes, of course. W. Johnson Briggs. And you're Richard Wentworth, of course." He laughed, jabbed the wet end of his fuming cigar at Kirkpatrick, shoved it back in his mouth again. "This man wants to know how you can stop steel from caving in. How you can save buildings even if steel crystallizes. Damned nonsense, of course. There isn't any way."

Wentworth smiled at the machine gun chatter of the little man. The cigar was locked between his teeth, billowing smoke up in front of his face. There were four chewed butts on the desk. W. Johnson Briggs was one of the country's biggest consultant architects on skyscrapers. Kirkpatrick had done well to call in a man who knew his craft so thoroughly. Wentworth scrutinized him curiously. The man had an aesthetic face, wore his hair long and swept back over his ears. He chewed and puffed his cigar at the same time.

Kirkpatrick said grimly, "We've got to find a way, Mr. Briggs. Got to! We can't keep the city crippled as it is now. We've got guards to prevent anyone entering the skyscrapers and even the Mayor is howling at me about it. Inspectors are going over the buildings as fast as they can, but it's slow work."

They all three looked up quickly as a policeman opened the door, thrust in a head of carroty bristles. "Guy named Collins out here, Commissioner," he said. "Says he's got some evidence for you. Got a lady with him."

Kirkpatrick's face was interested. "That must be those people from Middleton," he told Wentworth. "Show them in at once."

Collins' face was flushed when he came through the door behind Nancy Collins. He glared at the policeman who shut the door. Wentworth hid a smile behind the lighting of a cigarette. It was hard to get through to Kirkpatrick if the police didn't know you. The big deputy strode forward purposefully.

"I'm Anse Collins, sir," he said to Kirkpatrick, half-turned as Nancy came forward. "And this is my brother's . . . . my brother's widow."

Kirkpatrick bowed gravely, came around the desk to place a chair for Mrs. Collins, and introduced Wentworth and Briggs. There was a tightness upon Nancy's pretty face that did not belong there and the smudges beneath her eyes were purple shadows. Her blue eyes rose hesitantly to Kirkpatrick's face.

"You know who we are?" she asked softly.

"You come from Middleton?" Kirkpatrick queried, and at her nod he said that he knew, then, who they were.

"The Spider saved us from some men in Middleton," Nancy said. Her voice was softened by a drawl. She was looking at her hands in her lap now, fingering a handkerchief. "The police there wouldn't believe that Jim . . . ." Her hands gripped tightly together and she went on, "that Jim was murdered. But the Spider did. Tonight he came to our hotel and told us we ought to come and tell you all we know."

"By Judas Priest!" exploded Briggs. "Listen at the calm way she says it. Just like the Spider was anybody else. He came to our hotel, she says." He shoved the cigar into his mouth and puffed vigorously.

Nancy Collins looked up at him and smiled slightly. Her lips were full, a little tremulous. "He was . . . very nice," she said gently. "And he believed me when I told him about Jim."

"He's all right, that Spider fellow," Anse Collins put in shortly. "He may be a killer, but he's the real goods. Those rats he killed tonight needed killing."

Kirkpatrick eyed him keenly. "That couldn't possibly be in the newspapers yet," he said, "So I guess it was the Spider who talked to you all right. He told you he killed Hackerson?"

Collins' eyes narrowed. "Maybe I'd better not say," he replied cautiously. "I'm not saying anything might hurt the Spider. Hell!" the word was explosive, "I shook hands with him."

Wentworth nodded his head slowly, leaned back in his chair. He knew now what he had come to learn. He had wanted to know how far he could trust this Anse Collins and the man was, as he himself had put it, the real goods. He listened without comment while Nancy Collins and her brother-in-law told about Baldy and said they could identify him. Kirkpatrick had her go into details on the description, nodding now and then as it checked with Ram Singh's word picture.

"He's new to the criminal world," Kirkpatrick said finally. "But we're hoping to hear about him soon."

Wentworth knew what that meant. Every detective in headquarters would have his stool pigeons scurrying about, seeking trace of this queer bald-headed man with a cast in one eye who brought the orders of wholesale murder from the Master. They might find out something that way, but it was Wentworth's guess the men the Master hired would be too well paid to talk and that they would shield Baldy from all impudent inquiries—with murder if necessary.

He looked up sharply at an angrily defiant note in Collins' voice.

"Nancy didn't see him, and you won't get it out of me if you keep me in jail from now to Judgment Day," he declared and his tousled head was in that defiant posture that Wentworth was coming to find familiar. "I shook hands with the Spider and I'm for him."

"Good boy!" Briggs applauded. Wentworth saw that he was standing beside Nancy Collins now. The woman was smiling up at him. "Stand by your guns!"

Kirkpatrick smiled thinly, but there was sympathy on his saturnine face. He touched his mustache with thumb and forefinger, hiding the lifting of his mouth corners.

"I suspect there are many who feel as you do right now," he said slowly. "There are times when I'd like to strike as surely and directly as the Spider does in exacting punishment on evil doers. This man he killed tonight, Hackerson, was directly responsible for the collapse of the Sky Building."

Wentworth left the commissioner's office with a warm feeling in his chest, found Nita at the hotel to which she had gone and insisted on her going to a late supper with him at the Waldorf. According to what Ram Singh had reported, the Master knew that Ram Singh was the servant of the Spider, that probably meant he knew Wentworth's identity, too. Perhaps, the Master would attack . . . .

He was warily watchful as he returned to his apartment and dressed, but nothing suspicious occurred. Jenkyns had not heard from Ram Singh, but Professor Brownlee—once Wentworth's science professor at college, now his devoted friend and helper—had reported that the infra-red camera was installed in the Collins' Middleton apartment. Wentworth was out again within ten minutes, lounging behind the competent broad shoulders of his chauffeur Jackson, who wove the Lancia through traffic with insolent ease.

Halfway to Nita's hotel, Jackson leaned to the speaking tube. "I think we're being followed, Major. That yellow taxi has been behind us the whole way and every other car has passed us."

"Quite right, Jackson," Wentworth told him, with a hard eagerness in his voice. "I had spotted it." Jackson called him Major because he had served under Wentworth in France.

He continued to lounge carelessly in his seat. This would make it necessary for Nita to change her quarters again, of course, but he might inveigle the trailers into an earlier attack. He frowned as the yellow taxi cut a corner and left them, but within the next half dozen blocks, he was equally sure that a Ford coupe was on their trail.

Nita awaited him in the lounge and more than one man turned his head as they strolled toward the street again. There was envy in their stares, perhaps wistfulness. It was so patent that these two had eyes only for each other. It was clear in the way Nita's hand rested confidently on Wentworth's arm, in the eagerness with which her bright laugh met his whispered words.

But Wentworth was not talking love words. "I'm being followed, darling," he whispered. "Let's hope we get a shot at the Master himself tonight."

And Nita's laughter was clever camouflage. "I'm getting to be a good gun moll," she told him. "I've got an automatic in my garter and another in my handbag."

They entered the Lancia and it swung smoothly into the traffic. This time it was a sedan with a man and a girl close together on the front seat that took up the pursuit. Wentworth frowned as he lit a cigarette for Nita. That didn't look like a murder tail, but the mob might be lurking in the background, waiting for its chance to strike . . . .

Chapter Eight
The Spider Draws Blood

THE EVENING passed without any hostile attempt and Wentworth had Nita leave separately and shift her hotel for safety's sake. He received a report from Ram Singh, but it was negative. Beatrice Ross, arrested as a material witness in the slaying of Hackerson, was still a prisoner; her release not expected until the following day. Wentworth rode home with the shadow on his trail, and he was still being followed next morning when he left his apartment.

He gave his shadow the slip and, in a subway wash-room, rapidly changed to the disguise he had assumed on the previous day, that of the blond young cavalry officer. He found Anse Collins waiting in the lobby of the hotel, standing on braced legs and scowling out of the window.

He nodded at Wentworth and strode, big-shouldered, across to meet him, but his scowl returned the moment they entered a taxi for the railway station. Wentworth eyed him curiously, but did not comment. Presently, watching behind them, he saw that once more they had a shadow. Whether the man he had dodged had succeeded in picking up the trail again, or whether they had kept watch on Collins also, Wentworth did not know. He was puzzled by the constant trailing and it was beginning to wear on his nerves. He wondered at the purpose, but did not mention it to his companion.

Collins finally broke his silence gruffly as they alighted in front of the Pennsylvania Railway station, and strode along the wide corridor that led to the concourse. "What do you know about Briggs?" Collins growled.

Wentworth looked at him quickly, told the man's position and what his part was in the present case. Collins grunted. "He's making a play for Nancy," he said, "and he's damned near old enough to be her father."

Humor flickered in Wentworth's eyes, but he was careful not to let Collins see it. He had spotted their present shadow, a young woman, whose red hat was brave against the muggy day.

"Briggs took us to the hotel in his car last night," Collins grumbled. "Made a luncheon date with Nancy for today. He was tickled to death when I couldn't make it."

"Mrs. Collins is a very attractive woman," Wentworth said. "Going about a bit will help to take her mind off her troubles."

Collins lapsed into a sullen silence that lasted until they boarded the Middleton train. Wentworth saw that the girl in the red hat did not follow and he sat frowning out the window at the people hurrying up the platform, following red caps encumbered with suitcases and hat-boxes. Unless the gangsters knew where Wentworth and Collins were going, there should be a shadow on the train now, yet he had spotted none. Collins was sitting bunched forward, elbows on his knees and hands clasped. "I guess Briggs is all right," he was saying grudgingly, "only . . . only . . . ."

"Only you rather fancy Nancy yourself, eh?" Wentworth asked softly.

Collins colored. "Always was right fond of Nancy," he admitted slowly. "And I'm not aiming to have any damn Yankee—" he hesitated, eyeing Wentworth frankly. "I'm sorry, but that's the way I think of them. I ain't aiming to have anybody take advantage of her. And that Briggs is old enough to be her father."

Wentworth felt a slight impatience at the intrusion of this additional confusion into the situation. The whole story was plain enough. Anse Collins apparently had long planned to marry Nancy, but had given her up to his younger brother.

Now that his brother was dead, he didn't purpose to have any one else take her away from him.

A touch of suspicion glanced across Wentworth's mind, but he thrust it aside instantly. Anse Collins would never be implicated in his brother's death, even though the action were inspired by so lovely a girl as Nancy Collins. The thought persisted that Anse Collins' misstep had been responsible for the mishap that had precipitated that first shooting scrape with Devil Hackerson, an affray that might well have proved fatal to the Spider. But Collins had been loyal enough since then. Nevertheless, Wentworth decided that he would find out where Collins had been at the time of his younger brother's death.

The train belched out of a tunnel into the open and the release of the close-crowded roar of the rails made the train seem wrapped in silence. The pale lights inside clicked out and Wentworth settled back in his seat with the air of a man who has traveled much and knows how to take his ease. His eyes were half-closed, but he was alertly watchful. Still the shadow did not evidence himself, and that fact nagged at the back of his mind. Why had they been followed to the train, then dropped?

Abruptly, Wentworth snapped erect in his seat. "Quick, Anse," he barked, "find the conductor and bring him forward."

Collins perked up his head, puzzled, then sprang to his feet. He was alert and quick-moving for a man of his size.

"What's the matter?" he demanded.

Wentworth did not wait to explain, but hastened forward through the aisle followed by the curious stares of other passengers. To Wentworth there could be but one explanation of the failure of his shadow. A trail was no longer necessary, and that meant—danger! As he darted across steel platforms and into another coach, he flung a glance outside. They were ticking off an easy fifty miles an hour along the bank of the Hudson, the rails buttressed thirty or forty feet high with heaped-up jagged stones. A wreck at this point would kill scores and it would be a simple matter to apply some of the Master's chemical to the rails.

It would be like blowing up a mountain to chop down a tree, this wrecking a train to kill Wentworth. But the Master had not scrupled to knock over two skyscrapers and kill thousands for his own mysterious ends. Certainly he would not hesitate in this case. Another thought flashed through Wentworth's mind. This was an express train and undoubtedly would carry valuable mails. And it was evident the Master did not scorn to dig into other's pocketbooks with the help of his steel-eater.

A lurching jar threw Wentworth off his feet. He went flat down, catching himself on springing arms, then lay there as the jars continued. He did not have to see what was happening. He recognized those sounds, the concussions and lurching thump of the train. The locomotive had jumped the track and was bounding along out of control. It had dragged coaches off also. People were starting to their feet all over the car. A woman's voice rose shrilly and a baby wailed in fright.

With a violent sway and bump, a sickening twirl, the coach went over the embankment. The floor rose under Wentworth, pitched him against the seats on his right. He had a fragmentary glimpse through a window of jagged rock points racing toward them, then the window smashed and sent glass needles slashing through the air. A tearing jar. Wentworth clung to the side of the seat, felt his feet swing and knew that the coach had bounced and was rolling in the air. He hung on desperately.

His arms wrenched and the steel of the car clanged like a mightily struck anvil. His hands slipped from their hold. He curled his head down against his chest for protection, wrapped his arms about it and struck a cushioned back with his shoulders. He bounced, landed upon a man who grunted, then screamed, and suddenly realized that the roll of the car had ceased.

Drunkenly, he reeled to his feet, found he was standing on the ceiling of the car. Groans and frightened whimperings filled the car with a fearful symphony of pain. Off in another car, a man was screaming, over and over a single shrill note. The scream weakened and faded. Wentworth peered behind him, saw Anse Collins crumpled against a partition with a thread of blood across his temple. Beside him, the conductor pushed groggily to his feet, teetered for a moment on hands and feet and then straightened, struggling for balance.

Wentworth picked his way through broken glass and tumbled luggage to Collins' side, went hurriedly about reviving him. Abruptly, Wentworth snapped to his feet. He heard a faint sound as if some one were pounding an incredibly noisy typewriter with vehement fingers. Through the intermittent chattering, a man shrieked. Collins came to with a jerk. "A machine gun," he gasped.

"A hold-up," Wentworth snapped. "And the Master is behind it!"

He scrambled out through a broken window and raced along the embankment, a gun in each hand. The smashed cars were spilled over jumbled rocks, a sprawling, disjointed snake. Moans and screams punctuated the mechanical cackle of the gun. A group of men, carrying striped mail sacks over their shoulders, went down over the rocks with mountain-goat leaps.

Wentworth's guns blazed once, but he knew he was out of range. He charged on. It was impossible to advance in a straight line. He had to spring to right and left where flat surfaces offered secure footing, and that fact undoubtedly saved the Spider's life. A machine gun stammered from close at hand and powdered granite sprang up in dust directly in Wentworth's path. Only the fact that he had sprung sideways to better footing saved him. He jumped once more, going down on his knees between two chunks of granite. Lead buzzed past within inches of his head. He heard the deep boom of Collins' forty-four, but couldn't see the Southerner.

Cautiously, Wentworth squirmed between rocks down toward the spot where the machine gunner had hidden. He was cursing with impatience, knowing that the robbers were escaping, that it would be certain death to take up the pursuit before this machine gunner was eliminated. His trousers had been torn by that quick leap between the rocks. His scraped knees left a bloody trail. Collins' gun boomed again, and Wentworth jerked quickly into sight. He caught a glint of metal in a clump of bushes at the base of the embankment and sped ten shots in a continuous roll of fire from both guns.

Twigs flew high and the dead branches quivered and shook, then began to thrash violently. A man's hand slid into sight along the ground, gloved fingers clawing at the frozen ground. The hand and arm stiffened, then relaxed.

"Good work," Collins called, twenty feet to his right. "Man, that was good!"

* * *

Wentworth peered about. The robbers had vanished and over beyond a narrow strip of woods, automobile engines raced and dwindled into the distance. Wentworth's lips closed thinly. The bandits had escaped, but at least he had stopped one. He rock-leaped down the heap, hauled the man out of the bushes. At least six of Wentworth's bullets had hit him. Three had smashed through the side of his head.

Collins, pulling up just behind Wentworth, stared down and repeated: "Man, that was good!"

Wentworth scowled thoughtfully at the dead machine gunner. He knew that face. He was "Trigger" Skinner of Mickey McSwag's mob. Even as the Spider had guessed, his wiping out of Devil Hackerson had not hampered the Master in the least. He had had no trouble in finding other men who were willing to do his murdering for him to gain the secret of the chemical that turned vault doors into cake sugar.

Shoes rasping on rocks pulled Wentworth around and he saw two men running toward him with revolvers glinting in their fists. They were red-faced men, glowering beneath the pulled-down brims of felts. They eyed Wentworth suspiciously until they spotted "Trigger" Skinner dead on the ground, then admiration replaced the glare. "What'd you get him with, his own machine gun?" one growled.

Wentworth smiled grimly. "Automatic pistols are pretty deadly weapons, too, when properly used," he said dryly. "Did they get away with anything?"

"Only ninety grand," snarled one of the men. "Not counting those the wreck killed, there's four dead men in the express car. We was riding passenger as an extra precaution or the typewriter would of caught us, too."

His remark confirmed Wentworth's surmise that the two were railroad detectives.

"Listen," he said. "I've got some damned important business to attend to in Middleton. Suppose it would be all right for me to shove along? It wouldn't make me sore if I didn't have to hang around to tell about this." A jerk of his head indicated the corpse of the gangster.

The detectives' eyes narrowed. They asked a few questions but in the end the men's hunger for praise won them over. They agreed to take credit for the kill. Wentworth pushed off up the rocky embankment toward where a relief train and autos had stopped, a half mile down the right of way. He and Collins could do no more good here.

Wentworth's face was white beneath the lean tan and his eyes smoldered as they surveyed the white-coated doctors climbing over the wreckage, the stretchers filing past toward the hospital car. Seven coaches were sprawled over the rocks, and the locomotive was a smashed wreck in the ravine. Two white splotches beside it, sheet-covered corpses, marked the resting place of the crew.

Wentworth's eyes rose to the glinting line of the steel rails, following it backward from the spot where the shattered engine lay. A few hundred feet back there was a break. His mouth lipless with compression, he walked rapidly to that spot and stared down at the crumbled wreckage of the rail. If there had been any doubt before that the Master was behind this carnage, a single glance at the track dissolved it. He stooped and picked up a segment of gray steel, struck it with another. There was no ring, only a sodden thud and fragments crumbled off and sifted gray powder on the ground.

Chapter Nine
Prey of the Master

THE STEEL fell from his hands and a low bitter oath rasped his throat. He had counted thirty stretchers passing and men still labored to extract the injured and dead from the debris of the train. Was there no end to the infamy of this killer? Either Wentworth had accidentally taken the train which they intended looting, or the Master had deliberately wrecked it to get him at a disadvantage and mow him down. It looked suspiciously like that machine gunner had been planted solely to dispose of him—as if those shots had been fired partly to lure him from the protection of steel cars if he had survived the crash.

The Spider had killed the killer, but loot and slaughter had added to the villain's toll. This time there seemed more reason behind the atrocity that had been committed, but still the purpose behind the wrecking of the skyscrapers did not appear. The answer might be found in Middleton. Wentworth and Collins completed their trip to the town in relief automobiles, repaired their clothing and went directly to the Collins apartment.

Collins stopped with an oath inside the door. The apartment was a wreck. Rugs had been stripped from the floor, pictures ripped from their moldings, overstuffed furniture cut to pieces. Drawers full of papers were tumbled upon the floor. Wentworth entered with a grimly satisfied smile. He made a telephone call, then from the wall above a closet door dug out a small camera and an electric fixture.

"Infra-red camera and light," he explained to Collins. "It could take a picture in darkness as well as light and the man it snapped would not be aware of the photograph. We'll have it developed."

Wentworth took the camera to a specialist shop and emerged to find extras being screamed in the streets. The headlines covered half the front page.

MUNICIPAL BUILDING CRASHES!
BANK LOOTED OF HALF MILLION!
GOVERNOR CALLS OUT TROOPS!

With hands as rigid as rock, and as cold, Wentworth gripped the paper to read the details. Truly, the Master had struck terribly in New York City. Apparently, he had only waited until Wentworth's back was turned to deal his most terrific blow. The death toll this time was only a thousand. The mockery of that qualifying word, "only," jeered at Wentworth like a grinning death's-head. But the casualties had been light as compared with the toll of the Sky and the Plymouth buildings.

The Municipal Building, which housed the business offices of the city, had collapsed at the rush luncheon hour when the street was thronged with persons. Luckily, it had caved in upon itself, rather than plunging full length into jammed Park Row. If that had happened, the death toll might well have been several times as great. There had been no high wind, but engineers figured the constant jarring of subways beneath the building had broken down the crystallized steel.

Wentworth's burning eyes skipped from that account to the looting of the bank. It had occurred even as their train had been pulling out of Pennsylvania station. Machine guns had swept the entrance and interior of the bank clean of human life and steel shields had furnished no protection. They had crumpled like glass beneath the pounding bullets. The vaults had been no stronger and within minutes of the attack, the gangsters had rushed out with a fortune, the biggest robbery of its kind in history. Police were quickly on the scene and had managed to kill four of the robbers, but the rest had escaped.

A smaller item was the $250,000 robbery of an armored truck. Only the fact that a similar method had been used in this holdup even won it space on the front page. A large sedan had rolled up beside the armored truck and opened fire with machine guns. Under the hammer of the lead, the sides of the truck had crumpled. The guards had been literally riddled with bullets and the blood-stained loot snatched away. It had all happened within a space of moments. Three pedestrians had been burned down with the machine guns while they stood paralyzed by surprise.

And now, martial law had been declared in New York City. Hereafter, bayonet-armed troops would patrol the street. A stringent curfew would be enforced, and no one could enter the financial district of the city where the banks were concentrated unless he had a special military permit. Wentworth saw the keen planning of Kirkpatrick behind these precautions, but he shook his head dubiously. Resources were being concentrated there under the supervision of the soldiers. Smaller banks, terrified by the ruthless efficiency of the attacks, were pouring their money into the strongly-protected centers. The insurance companies were responsible for that move, of course, insisting on these supposed safeguards under threat of vastly increased premiums. Couldn't the fools see that they were playing directly into the Master's hands?

Slowly, Wentworth folded the newspaper, looked up to find Collins white-faced and hot eyed. "I reckon Jim is better off dead," he said slowly. "If he knew that his invention was being used to kill people, he'd turn over in his grave."

With a wrench, Wentworth hurled the newspaper from him, stared about him at the throngs that were reading the extras. He saw men glance nervously over their shoulders at banks; he saw people move away from tall buildings with frightened strides. The panic was on. Until that monstrous Master was wiped out, men would walk in constant terror of their lives. Business was suffering already and once more the nation's faith in government and banks would reel. The industrial repercussions of this fright would send thunderous waves across the oceans and shake security there. A world that had buttressed its wealth behind steel—that protected its shores and borders with steel—would stare disintegration in the face.

"Listen," said Collins, "don't you reckon Alrecht might be behind this thing? You haven't even looked him up. I tell you, he and Bill Butterworth were the only folks that knew of Jim's invention."

Wentworth nodded shortly. "That's one of the reasons we came to Middleton today," he said. "You get to Butterworth and bring him down to our hotel room. I'll pay Mr. Alrecht a call. By that time, our infra-red film should be ready and we may know the answer to our problem."

Collins agreed, strode off with a long-legged determined pace, his face set and his heavy shoulders thrust forward. Wentworth watched him go with speculative eyes, then walked deliberately down Main Street toward the city's largest building, the First National Bank, in which Alrecht had law offices. As skyscrapers went, it wasn't very tall, but fourteen stories was an all-time high in Middleton. An elevator boy was arguing with the starter in the hall.

"I ain't hankering after being mashed in that cage," the boy said vehemently.

"This is the tallest building in Middleton, and if those fellows come here, this will be the first place they hit. They're already robbed a bank here, and . . ."

"You can leave if you want to," the starter told him shortly, "but there isn't any need coming back tomorrow or the next day and expecting to get your job back."

The operator jeered, jerked off the coat that was the entire uniform and flung it on a chair. "This building ain't going to be here tomorrow," he said and strode toward the basement lockers. The starter crossed to the cage with an apologetic glance at Wentworth. "The whole town's half-crazy, sir," he said. "I'll take you up."

Wentworth caught himself listening for sounds in the building as the elevator rose, listening for creaking groans that might herald its collapse, and he cursed himself silently. Hell, he was getting as bad as that elevator boy. But his thoughts brought home with a shock to him how fearfully the terror of the steel-eater was spreading. If the Spider, knowing more than anyone else about the gangsters—but he had to admit that his knowledge was terribly limited—could thus become nervous on merely entering a tall building, think of the effect of the spreading propaganda of fear upon the people as a whole!

* * *

Alrecht's outer office was well but not expensively furnished with brown leather chairs in a commodious waiting room. A girl clerk patted her metallic marcel as he told her that he was a police detective from New York City. She powdered her nose before she went into the inner office, but her calculating blue eyes were upon Wentworth again as she ushered him in. He walked with the slight swagger that unimportant men assume when, burdened with authority, they face a man who overawes them. He kept his hat on.

Alrecht was seated behind his desk, lounging back, toying with a metal pencil with one hand. "What do you want?" he asked. There was no expression in his voice, either of hostility or welcome.

"Some dope about Jim Collins," Wentworth told him. He swaggered up to the desk and hooked his knee over a corner, leaned on it. "You was a pretty good friend of his, wasn't you ?"

He studied the smallish man behind the desk. Alrecht was not old, though the wariness in his eyes was far from callow. Those eyes were watery, but had a strange quality of piercing regard. His hair lay neatly upon his large head, parted low on the side, and the parts had thinned peaks above his temples. His nose was sharp and aggressive, his mouth was secretive. There were little radiating lines along the upper lip that were prominent now as he pursed his mouth judiciously.

"Pretty good, yes," he agreed finally, with a nod. "But I knew his wife better than I knew him."

Wentworth leered. "Oh, that way, eh?" Alrecht's eyes lifted to his coldly and Wentworth straightened and took his knee off the desk. "No offense intended, counselor," he said quickly.

"I hope not," Alrecht replied gently.

Wentworth was acting out his role of detective to perfection, but behind the mask of crudity and swagger authority, he was keenly estimating this man. Alrecht was shrewd, beyond any doubt, and nervousness was evident in the slow, studied movements of his hands. He was fighting a tendency to fidget with that metal pencil. He slapped it down abruptly, and clasped his hands together. The fingers closed tightly.

"Come to the point," he said sharply. "I have no time to idle away like this."

"Of course not, of course not," Wentworth agreed. "The commissioner wanted to know if you had any idea what this invention of Jim Collins' was. Miz' Collins, she says you was to finance it if it went over."

Alrecht shook his head. "No, I didn't know what it was. Jim was very secretive about it. All he said was it would make us all rich if I'd help him. And of course I was glad to do that for Mrs. Collins' sake."

"I see," Wentworth nodded sagely. "Know Bill Butterworth?" Was he mistaken, or had Alrecht started at that sudden mention of the chemist who worked with Collins?

"I've met him," Alrecht said cautiously, after a perceptible pause. "He was another chemist at the place where Jim worked. In fact I had dinner with him last night, trying to find if he knew anything of Jim's processes—for Mrs. Collins' sake, of course."

"Of course," Wentworth agreed, and he masked his sarcasm so lightly that Alrecht looked at him sharply for a long moment before he went on talking.

"Butterworth said he didn't know anything about it, but he seemed to be more prosperous than I ever remember seeing him before." Alrecht paused as if weighing his words. "He had on a new suit and he seemed mightily pleased with himself. Told me he'd had an extra allowance from home and was planning to run back and surprise the folks. He was English, you know. I tried to get hold of him at the plant today and he had left. They said he had resigned."

Wentworth frowned heavily. "That looks mighty suspicious."

Alrecht nodded slowly, and there was a gleam back of his pale, queerly keen eyes. "I thought so, and here's something else. Night before last I was driving through the Outerdale section—that's where the Collins lived you know—and I'll swear I saw Butterworth sneaking along the street. Sneaking, mind you! I started to stop him, but he clearly didn't want to be recognized so I thought better of it."

Alrecht spread his hands, palm upward. Wentworth saw that they were moist. "I don't want to make trouble for Butterworth, but it all seems damnably suspicious. And I'll tell you something else. It's just a hunch, you understand, but I believe it's a good one. I believe that Jim's invention is being used by these men who robbed the bank here!"

"No!" Wentworth cried. Alrecht nodded solemnly.

"Jeez!" said Wentworth. "There might be something in that at that. Jim Collins was a steel chemist . . . say! I'm going to find this Bill Butterworth."

He started toward the door. "Thanks a lot, Mr. Alrecht."

Alrecht jerked his chin up, lowering his eyes, a gesture to wait. "Just a minute, my man," he said. He got deliberately to his feet and circled the desk. He put a hand on Wentworth's arm and looked seriously into his eyes. "I'd much rather my name wasn't mentioned in connection with this," he said. "Tell your superiors if you have to, but . . ." He smiled patronizingly, tapped Wentworth on the shoulder. "Why not turn the idea in as your own?"

"You wouldn't mind?" Wentworth registered suppressed eagerness.

"Not at all."

"Thanks, Mr. Alrecht, I won't forget this," Wentworth said feelingly, and walked out. Once in the hall, his forehead creased in a frown. Just what, he wondered, was Alrecht's game? It was obvious that he was trying to throw suspicion on Butterworth, and it was just as obvious that he knew much more about the invention than he was willing to tell.

Furthermore, Wentworth was not entirely sure that he had put over the imposture perfectly. There had been one or two occasions when suspicion had gleamed in Alrecht's queer eyes. He had been inclined to discount Anse Collins' ideas about Alrecht, laying them down to his obvious jealously over Nancy. Now, he was not sure. Alrecht scarcely seemed the egocentric killer that the Master was, yet the man certainly had an essential conceit.

Collins was waiting for Wentworth at the hotel. "Butterworth has skipped town," he growled. "Hasn't been seen since he left his boarding house last night. All his clothes had been cleaned out some time back, and, he owes a wad of bills around town."

Wentworth responded with only a slight nod. His mind was still occupied with the puzzle about Alrecht. To his way of thinking, Butterworth's departure was simply fortuitous for the lawyer. But why had he mentioned seeing Butterworth near the Collins apartment? With a sudden oath, Wentworth wheeled and started for the door.

"Get that picture from the camera shop and come to Alrecht's office with it fast," he snapped.

Collins' quick query was cut off by the slamming door and Wentworth went downstairs in great striding bounds, ignoring the elevator. He was furious with himself. Why hadn't he seen the significance of that story about Butterworth when he was in the lawyer's office? It was obvious enough that the man had been trying to throw suspicion on the chemist and had mentioned his supposed sight of him near the Collins home because Alrecht knew the home had been searched!

Only guilty knowledge of the searching could have inspired Alrecht's lie about Butterworth and that confiding eager rush of information. Either Alrecht had performed that search himself or he had paid some one to do it. His talkativeness alone was enough to cause suspicion. Long strides hurled Wentworth across the lobby, into a taxi at the curb.

"First National Building fast," he snapped.

They got there fast, but it wasn't fast enough. When he reached Alrecht's office, the lawyer had gone. The girl with the metallic hair tossed her head at him and delicately powdered her nose. "Mr. Alrecht has gone to New York," she said. "He was called into consultation on an important case."

She slapped her hand down on the desk, whirled her chair as Wentworth stalked past her toward the door of the inner office.

"You can't do that," she protested.

The inner office was empty. Wentworth crossed to a telephone. The girl came across and put both hands on the other side of the desk. Her arms were stiff. "Say, what do you think this is?" she demanded.

"Long distance," said Wentworth into the transmitter. "Long distance? Mr. Alrecht calling. I wanted to verify a long distance call that came through your office for me within the last fifteen minutes. It has occurred to me that some friends of mine might be playing a joke . . . Yes, thank you very much."

Alrecht had been called to New York, and by a firm of prominent attorneys. The long distance operator confirmed the 'phone message.

Wentworth frowned and left the shrill girl talking loudly with her hands planted on her hips. Collins almost smacked into him in the hall.

"Say, that guy can't develop the film. Says he ain't got something or other he needs. I took the film away from him." He thrust a wrapped package into Wentworth's hands.

"Hell, the breaks are certainly against us!" Wentworth said impatiently as they went to the elevator. He had counted on that film and now it couldn't be developed until he reached New York. But they could reach New York soon after Alrecht, overtake him at the lawyers' offices. There would be no trains for hours because of the wreck, but an automobile would take them to the city quickly. They left the building hurriedly and climbed into a taxi. It started a leisurely trundle down Main Street. Suddenly the taxi driver squealed and yanked on his wheel. His motor roared and sent the cab reeling down a side-street. Wentworth flung forward, set a hand on the man's collar.

"What the hell . . . ?" he began. Then his voice was smashed into fragments. Rumbling thunderous concussion swept over and past him. The taxi bumped over the curb, side-swayed and rammed its nose against a brick wall, stopped with a jarring crash that sent the windshield back in the driver's lap. He sat motionless, his shoulders rising in little jerks with his heavy breathing.

"Jeez!" he panted out. "Jeez!"

Wentworth was out of the taxi now and pelting back toward Main Street.

He saw a dark huddle in the middle of the street, a huddle from which slow thick lines of crimson crawled their way. It was half of a woman's body. The other half was in a hole in the street beneath a building block. Around the corner, Wentworth whirled and stopped dead. The First National Bank building was a jumble of broken masonry and shattered steel scattered along Main street. A streetcar had been passing and its battered walls leaned crazily above its steel trucks, but it had no top and no bottom. Within it, no one even moaned.

It came to Wentworth's consciousness presently that a heavy hand was biting into his arm. He turned to see Collins, white-faced, at his elbow.

"God," Collins gulped, "and you were complaining about the breaks. If we hadn't been in a big hurry getting away from there . . . !"

Wentworth said nothing. He was thinking of that noisy little blond stenographer, a pert little thing with her powder puff and her metallic hair. Somewhere in that mess, they would find her body—if anything was left of it. He turned about, feeling suddenly sick and walked heavily down the sidewalk.

Feet slapped the pavement hurriedly behind him, but he didn't turn, saw no reason to turn until a hard prod of iron jabbed into his back.

"Hands up, you two," a breathless voice ordered. "I saw you two run out of that there bank a minute before she caved in."

Wentworth turned, looked into a policeman's flushed face. "Don't be silly," he said. "I had business with Mr. Alrecht. You can ask . . . ." He paused suddenly, realizing the utter futility of that phrase. Poor little noisy kid, crushed somewhere in that pile. The stenographer couldn't testify to anything.

"You can't fool me," the officer said angrily. "I saw you run out of there, and you're coming along to headquarters . . . ."

Wentworth was suddenly conscious of a growing crowd about them. Of tense, angry faces thick behind the officer, of mutters and clenched fists.

"What is it?" one man asked another.

"The cop caught the two guys that pushed over the First National . . . ."

"Don't be a fool," Collins snapped. He pushed toward the officer. "I'm a deputy sheriff and we had just been to see a lawyer in that building."

"Get back! Get back!" the officer yelled wildly. He backed up, waving his revolver. "Here, you men. Help me."

The mutter became an angry shouting, then a roar. There were fifty persons crowded about the tableau of Wentworth and Collins and the officer. They closed in with a rush.

"Lynch them!" a voice yelled out, somewhere back in the crowd. "They killed more than a hundred people!"

Chapter Ten
Briggs' Confession

WENTWORTH threw both hands high above his head as men jostled him and hands snatched savagely at his clothing.

"Officer, I demand that you protect me," he snapped. "You got us into this, now get us out of it!"

The policeman was white-faced, frightened at the sudden violence of the mob. He lifted his gun up above his head and squeezed the trigger twice.

"Stop it!" he shouted. "There ain't going to be no lynching!"

Somebody snatched the gun out of his hand; somebody else brought a stone down on the policeman's head. Wentworth wrenched free of the men about him, leaped forward. He saw a man level the gun and kicked out viciously. His shoe cracked against the weapon, spun it high into the air. The man moaned and doubled over a broken wrist.

Wentworth lifted the policeman, hands beneath his arms. Through a tangle of threatening fists, he spotted Collins. The tall Southerner was standing on braced feet, his fists were striking with beautifully timed precision. A man caught an uppercut and stiffened, his back arching as he pitched backward. He took two others with him. Collins' arm drew back fast, the elbow flying out behind him. It caught a man's belly and he doubled over, groaning.

That cleared a ring immediately around Collins and his quick glance sought Wentworth. There was a fighting gleam in his brown eyes, a small hard smile on his mouth.

"Give me a hand with this cop, Collins," Wentworth called. "Somebody hurt him."

Collins put out his two arms breast-stroke fashion and opened a way through the ranks. Men fell away from in front of him.

"Get an ambulance for the cop," Wentworth called. "Somebody slugged him. There's going to be trouble about this."

Collins caught hold of the cop's feet with one hand and hit about him with his right. "Get out of the way," he said angrily. "Can't you see the man's hurt?"

The crowd was in confusion now. Few had been close enough around the policeman to know which had been the accused men. A number of those had been knocked out, and others had fled in fright when the policeman was attacked. The crowd gave way before Collins' angry shouts and the two carried the cop into a drugstore.

"We'll bring in some more of the injured," Wentworth told the clerk. "See what you can do for this poor fellow."

He caught Collins by the arm and pulled him out. The crowd parted at the doorway.

"You better make yourself scarce," Wentworth said, looking several in turn straight in the eye. "That cop is going to be madder than hell when be finds his gun gone and knows that somebody slugged him."

He pushed through the crowd, Collins behind him and they hurried down the street. An excited boy followed them for three blocks, pointing at them and saying they had killed a policeman, but they lost him finally in the rush of people to the scene of the disaster.

"We've got to get back to New York quickly," Wentworth told Collins. "I don't know whether the collapse of that building back there was aimed at us or not, but it damned near caught us. And this camera contains valuable evidence. I'm sure of that. It may even have a picture of the Master himself. You go directly to those lawyers' offices as soon as we hit the city. Get on Alrecht's tail and don't lose him. I think I'll have a warrant for his arrest pretty soon after we get there."

Collins said quietly, "I won't lose him, Spider."

Wentworth hired a car and shoved the accelerator to the floor as they swept out of the end of Main Street onto the highway. The rush of air, the drone of the motor drowned all other sounds. The cold bite of the wind was like a knife through Wentworth's temples, sent his blood racing through his body, stimulated his brain.

He knew that as soon as the policeman regained consciousness, he would give detailed descriptions of himself and Collins to the state's wide police broadcast. They would be named as suspects in all the fearful tragedies that had paralyzed the world in recent days—Wentworth realized with a shock that it had been only forty-eight hours since collapse of the Sky Building had heralded this era of terror.

With brief words, tossed out the corner of his mouth, he told Collins what threatened. "This car will be identified right off," he said, "for those police can move fast when anything as important as this is involved. We would do better separate. You take my coat and hat. I'll alter your eyebrows and put a mustache on you. I'll shed my clothes and make a few other changes, then we'll drop this car."

He whirled it off the road into a lane between trees. The narrow way dipped sharply and they were soon hidden from the highway. He made the changes in Collins' appearance swiftly, sent him on the way in the car.

"Junk it in the first town," he ordered. "Hire a taxi to take you to New York. Got money?"

"I reckon I can make out all right," Collins drawled. There was excitement behind his voice. "This is the first time, though, I ever run away from a fight."

Wentworth laughed brittlely. "You'll get your full dose of fighting before this is over, fellow," he said. "We're closing in on the Master. He's trying too hard to kill us for me to think anything else. And another thing—I don't fight the police."

"I'd noticed," Collins said dryly.

Wentworth finished his work on Collins, eyed him a second and nodded. "You'll do," he said, "but if I were you I'd put a pebble in one of your shoes. That will make you limp and change the way you carry yourself."

Collins' eyes were still amused. "I reckon you're pretty good, Spider," he said, stooping to thrust a pebble into his shoe. He got in the car. "If they spot this boat, they're going to have a swell chase before they catch me."

The engine roared in reverse; the car jounced rapidly about and spurted up the hill with gravel flying from under the tires. Wentworth watched it out of sight, then stripped off mustache and wig, shrugged his shoulders into Collins' coat. It was a bit loose, but not conspicuously so. He had spotted a farmhouse a half mile back from the road and he made his way toward it. He traveled at a pace that would have been impossible for a man inexperienced in woodcraft.

The windows of the house on the hill were boarded tight. Apparently it was a summer residence. There was a two-story garage back of it and an open-faced shed strung out behind that. In front of the shed was an old Buick truck, resting on flat tires. Wentworth smiled cheerfully and went to work. There was a five gallon gasoline-can in the garage and it was half full. A pump got some air into the tires. There was almost no life in the battery, but by dint of much sweating and pushing, he got the truck to the head of a long hill and started it down. It backfired twice after a fifty-yard roll. Twenty-five more yards and it caught and died. At the foot of the hill, it spluttered and died again. Wentworth spun the loosened motor with a crank and finally it rattled noisily to life.

The next town was almost fifteen miles away and it took Wentworth an hour to make it in the truck. He left the truck on the street and had no trouble hiring a car to take him to New York. In the city, he drove through the early dusk directly to Kirkpatrick's office, gave him the infra-red camera with information as to where it had been installed and asked that he set technicians to work at once to develop it. Beatrice Ross was still a prisoner, but her lawyer had begun a habeas corpus fight and might free her at any time. Wentworth left the room to 'phone that information to Ram Singh and warn the Hindu once more of the importance of trailing the woman and Baldy. Then he called Nita, had her return to her apartment and pack clothing for a trip which he did not explain.

The commissioner's face had grown haggard and lined with fatigue, and despite his meticulous dress, he had an unpressed look about him.

"These disasters are fearful, Dick," he said heavily. "And it's one case I can't crack at all. I can't understand the motive behind it. The train wreck and the bank and armored car holdups are simple enough, but why the destruction of those buildings?"

"I still have no clue to that," Wentworth admitted, "but I have found some suspicious circumstances." And he told him about Alrecht and the man's sudden, but apparently explicable departure for New York City—the fact that Collins was trailing him. "When we get that photograph developed," Wentworth said, "I think we may have something that will make Alrecht talk. Even if he is not the Master, I think he has guilty knowledge."

The door opened and Nancy Collins walked in. There was a flush to her cheeks and her eyes were bright. Behind her, Briggs, the consultant architect, came short-legged into the room. His movements were quick as always, but there was a heaviness about him.

"Mr. Briggs has something to tell you, Mr. Kirkpatrick," Nancy said.

She nodded to Wentworth, remembering his name from their previous introduction in the commissioner's office. It was apparent that Briggs was acutely miserable. He had the butt of a cold cigar clamped between his teeth and his long hair was rumpled. He laid a soft black felt hat on the desk.

"Damned fool," Briggs muttered and glanced up, half sheepishly at Kirkpatrick. "Only one excuse," he went on in his queer staccato speech. "My daughter. I'm damn fond of Betty."

Kirkpatrick was frowning. "What the hell are you talking about, Briggs?"

Briggs looked up at Nancy Collins under his brows, then seemed to shrug off his lethargy. "Mrs. Collins made me talk," he said. He took the cigar out of his mouth, jabbed its wet end at Kirkpatrick. "There is a way to stop this business of buildings collapsing."

"What?" Kirkpatrick snapped forward, hands hard on the desk. He was abruptly red with anger, cords swelled in his throat. "A way to stop it! You knew and didn't tell us ?" He came around the desk fast, caught Briggs by the collar and jerked the little man almost off his feet. "What the hell do you mean?"

Wentworth had never seen Kirkpatrick so angry, he thought, as he stepped calmly forward, touched his friend on the shoulder.

"Let's hear what he's got to say, Kirk," he urged quietly.

Kirkpatrick whipped his head about, eyes flashing, then visibly fought down his anger. He took his hand off Briggs' collar, stepped back a half-pace although his eyes still glared.

"Out with it!" he ordered.

"Not sure of it," Briggs muttered. "Don't blame you for being that way. Feel that way myself. But, Mr. Kirkpatrick," he drew himself up to his full short height, met the commissioner's glare directly. "They kidnapped my daughter—kidnapped Betty. Told me that if I told, they'd send her back—a little piece at a time!"

His face was twisted. "But Nancy—Mrs. Collins—made me talk. After today and all those others that have been killed."

"The process, man!" Kirkpatrick roared. "What will stop the steel-eater?"

Briggs shook his head. "It isn't that," he said. "It's a different steel. Steel-eater won't hurt it. My belief it won't. Bessmo process stuff. They claim it won't crystallize. From what analysis shows, this steel-eater won't hurt it."

Kirkpatrick frowned. He shook his head. "That would mean bracing all the buildings, replacing girders, everything with this different type of steel?" he asked slowly.

"Practically that," Briggs nodded. "You see, it isn't really feasible." The man was pleading for forgiveness for not having spoken before. Nancy Collins' eyes were bright upon him. He looked sidewise at her again, back to Kirkpatrick. "For God's sake," he said suddenly, hoarsely. "Let somebody else make the discovery. My Betty . . . . All I've got in the world . . . ."

He turned and stumbled blindly and Wentworth shoved a chair in his path. He gripped its back and stood breathing heavily. Kirkpatrick was staring down at the floor. "It's worth trying," he said finally. "Dick, would Professor Brownlee stand for the announcement coming from him?"

"Probably," Wentworth said. "If he believed it was true."

"We'll find out," Kirkpatrick said grimly. He spun to the telephone, began barking orders. The president of the Bessmo concern was to be located and hailed to New York. Wentworth stood in the background and a light flamed in his eyes. When Kirkpatrick paused for a moment, he asked quietly if there was a directory of directors of corporations in the place. Kirkpatrick nodded impatiently and Wentworth strode, eager-eyed, from the office. He found the book, ran over the list of stockholders in the Bessmo. One of them was Alrecht.

A man wearing thick-lensed glasses, his blond hair rumpled, hurried into the outer office with a strip of wet paper in his hands. He headed straight for Kirkpatrick's office, went in after a brief knock. Wentworth strode after him, saw the man lay the paper on Kirkpatrick's desk.

"Here's the film from the infra-red camera, sir," the man said, speaking in a high, flustered voice. "It's not perfect, sir, but with the short time allowed me . . ."

Wentworth spun past him and gazed down at the strip of paper. The photograph, all intense blacks and whites with no grays, showed a masked man standing in the middle of a disordered room. He had a long pair of scissors in one hand and was peering about him. His lips were pursed and worried. Wentworth laughed shortly.

"Kirk, the case seems to be solved," he said excitedly. "The motive for the destruction of the buildings was the popularization of Bessmo steel. On the list of directors, the big stockholders, is that man there." He pointed at the masked man in the photograph. "Alrecht!"

Chapter Eleven
A Dangerous Game

KIRKPATRICK snatched his 'phone, ordered Alrecht's immediate arrest, but he was frowning as he leaned back in his chair, staring doubtfully at the photograph.

"But, damn it, man," he said. "If they wanted to popularize Bessmo steel, why kidnap Briggs' daughter and hold her as a price for Briggs' silence?"

"To avert suspicion," Wentworth said swiftly. "The steel must be well enough known for the truth to come out sooner or later. They must have known that Briggs would talk after a while and that the story of his daughter's kidnapping would come out. That would still leave us in the dark as to the motive behind the entire case."

Kirkpatrick shook his head. "I'm not satisfied," he said.

Wentworth grinned. "I'm not, either," he admitted. "But I still think that Alrecht can give us some interesting information about the case. I suggest that we check all the stockholders of that Bessmo company at once, check on the lives of the men . . ."

"But," Briggs came forward timidly, but doggedly. "My daughter, Betty, what about her?"

"We'll find her," Kirkpatrick said emphatically. "Got a picture?" Briggs fumbled in his pocket, brought out a kodak picture. "Men who stole her tore up every picture in the house," he said painfully. "Mrs. Collins found this one. Old album."

Kirkpatrick took the picture. It showed a smallish girl with a merry Irish face. She had on a man's hat, a large one and she was gripping it with both hands, pulling it down over her ears. It was sizes too big for her.

"We took that one day on a picnic," Briggs said. "Always made fun of my long hair. Big hats . . . ." He struck a match and lit the cold stump between his teeth. His hand trembled and he puffed furiously at the cigar, sent out billows of smoke.

"Tell me about your daughter's kidnapping," Kirkpatrick said. He spoke gruffly. He was not unsympathetic with Briggs. As the little man said, the truth about Bessmo was important, but its peculiar power to resist crystallization was not of overwhelming immediate value. In time it might protect the people. It might be used to brace buildings against future attacks of the steel-eater, but the information was useless in the present crisis.

The story of the kidnapping was soon told. Betty was a madcap girl with a bright temper, and on a certain evening she had quarreled with her escort while at a friend's home—she had coolly taken his car and driven away, returning to her own home alone. Apparently the kidnappers had been waiting for some time for an opportunity to strike. This had been the occasion. They had seized her, used her keys to enter the house and destroy the pictures—apparently to hinder police in any possible search—then carried her away. Once every day she was permitted to talk to Briggs over the 'phone, a set formula: "Hello, daddums, I'm all okay."

Then the wire would close. Briggs had insisted on this proof that his daughter was alive before he would yield to the kidnapper's demands. "I don't know what will happen now," he said miserably. "I tried to ransom her, but they only laughed at me. I'm not a rich man, you know."

He looked up with his bright little eyes through the veil of vile-smelling cigar smoke. "Going home now," he said simply. "Betty's due to call in any hour."

"Did anyone see the kidnappers enter the house?" Wentworth asked quietly.

"No," Briggs said, "but one of the hallboys of our apartment saw a man. Hung around the two days before they got her. Man with bald head. Cast in one eye."

Wentworth straightened with sucked-in breath. Kirkpatrick looked at him and they nodded. Baldy had shown up again. Everywhere they turned in their quest for the men behind the steel-eater, for the Master, they ran across this man with no criminal past, this bald man with a head like a dome and a cast in one eye. The entire case seemed to devolve on finding him.

"If you don't mind, Kirk," said Wentworth, rising, "I'd like to work on this kidnapping case."

Kirkpatrick studied him speculatively with fatigued eyes. To him, it seemed distinctly a side-issue to the main case: the snaring of the Master, the capture of Alrecht and the questioning of big stockholders in Bessmo. He shrugged.

"If you wish to, Dick," he agreed. "Of course, we'll attempt to trace the call from the girl when it comes through. You'll get in touch with Professor Brownlee right away?"

Wentworth nodded. "As soon as we find that the steel actually will do what it's supposed to. Personally, I think there is no doubt about it."

Kirkpatrick continued to eye him, then they shook hands and Wentworth left with Briggs and Nancy Collins. The architect was morose and silent throughout the drive to his Riverside Drive apartment and his cigar went out between his teeth. They dropped Nancy at her hotel and pushed on. Wentworth leaned back in a corner and stared out at the night scene with half-closed eyes. It was spitting small hard snow and the flying specks whipped upward across the windshield and danced in little eddies on the pavement of the street. Each time they passed a corner, the smash of the gust from the river would sway the car.

In the nineties, Briggs spun the car downhill into the teeth of that wind, parked on the side street and fought his door open against a half-gale. They ducked across the walk into the protection of the apartment-house doorway, stamped their feet and blew on their fingers as they went along a tiled hallway to the elevators. The Negro operator got up from a chair in a corner and crossed to the cages.

Briggs pushed open the door of his apartment and walked along a long hall. He went directly to a davenport in a corner where a telephone stood on a stand at his elbow. Hard grains of snow made a gusty whispering against the windows behind him and moaned around the corners of the house.

Briggs had a fresh cigar between his teeth and that had gone out also. The 'phone tinkled and he snatched it from its cradle before the first bell note had been completed. He held it to his ear, hesitated, staring straight ahead of him, then got out a husky, "Hello!"

His eyes brightened and he said, "I'm glad, darling. Can't you . . . ?" He choked off, put the 'phone slowly back on its cradle. He looked up dully at Wentworth.

"She's all right," he said.

Wentworth questioned Briggs briskly about the disappearance of his daughter, touching several new angles that had occurred to him since leaving Kirkpatrick's office, but he elicited nothing new and left soon afterward. George took a brown whistle from a nail near the elevator shaft, whistled loudly for a cab from the doorway, but none came and Wentworth thanked him, and holding his hat, ducked out into the wind. It pushed him up the hill and he turned to the right, hugging the wall for the comparative warmth of its protection.

There was a delicatessen store at the corner which had a telephone-booth, and from it he called Kirkpatrick, then Jackson at his apartment, then Nita. He was on the point of calling a cab when he recalled that there was a Drive-It-Yourself stand just around the corner toward the underpass that ducked beneath Riverside Drive. He went there and arranged for a closed car, for he expected to do much traveling tonight, and his own car probably would be dangerous—and cabs were busy.

His call to police headquarters had elicited the information that Beatrice Ross was about to be released, that Betty Briggs had 'phoned from a drug store in Brooklyn, but a check-up there had failed to reveal any girl having been in the booth. The drug clerk was positive of that because he had had only four or five customers the entire evening and none had been women.

Wentworth puzzled over that information as he drove through the storm toward Nita's apartment in the Riverside Towers. It tied up in one way. Mickey McSwag's mob was strong in Brooklyn and McSwag was apparently the gangster the Master was using now. Nita greeted him at the door and shivered when he clasped her warm hands in his.

"You must be almost frozen," she told him. "I've got hot coffee and some of that Courvoisier '98 you like so well."

With a bound and a cavernous bark a big Harlequin Great Dane sprang past Nita and reared with its paws on Wentworth's shoulders, huge head high above his own, tongue lolling in greeting. Wentworth thumped his fist against the dog's chest and laughed.

"Down, Apollo," he ordered and threw an arm about Nita's waist as they strolled back along the hall into her studio apartment. "Apollo can't get used to being grown up," he said. "If he starts romping, the people below you are apt to have plaster in their faces."

The Great Dane that Wentworth had trained from puppyhood after importing him for Nita stalked along beside him as they entered the studio living-room. The big windows that opened on the river were covered by the warm folds of crimson velvet curtains and on a stone hearth, a fire leaped and blazed. Coffee steamed in an urn on a small table, and there was a slim-necked bottle of cognac beside it.

But Wentworth did not drop into the chair placed invitingly beside it. He strode energetically up and down the room, tossed his overcoat and hat into a chair. He flexed his fingers, chaffed them rapidly together.

"We're near the break," he told her. "I'm going out to find Briggs' daughter tonight." He spun the story of her kidnapping. "When I locate her, I'll be close to this Baldy who's running things for the Master. Once I get to Baldy . . . ."

Nita laughed. "It doesn't sound like you're very close to the Master, Dick."

He grinned, rumpled her bronze curls with his hands and kissed her when she protested. "It's you, darling, that makes me enthusiastic. Just being here for the little while I can stay makes a new man out of me." He caught Nita by the hands and pulled her to her feet, clasped her close into his arms. For a long minute they stood like that while the fire crackled and popped and threw their merged shadow in giant size across the ceiling. Then Wentworth released her. They were serious-eyed now as they looked at each other.

The service-door opened quietly and Ram Singh appeared after a moment, bowing from the arch that led to the breakfast room. Wentworth, his eyes still on Nita, drew in a deep breath. Abruptly he drove somberness from his face with a cheerful grin that touched, but did not entirely brighten his eyes. He spun to Ram Singh and spluttered out staccato Hindustani.

Ram Singh, answering, said that Jackson had replaced him just as Beatrice Ross had been released. There was a somber protest in his words at being pulled off of such an important mission. Wentworth told him, smiling, knowing the rivalry of service between Jackson and Ram Singh, that he had a task which only the Hindu could do.

The Hindu bowed again, touching his cupped hands to his forehead in a deep salaam. His eyes were proud now. Wordlessly, he backed into the half-darkness and returned a moment later with a small black suitcase. He set it upon a table and opened it as Wentworth dropped into a chair. Ram Singh whipped out a towel and tucked it beneath his master's chin, went swiftly to work upon his face with make-up tools.

As Ram Singh worked, Wentworth talked to Nita in snatches. "We've succeeded in tracing Butterworth up to a certain point," he said. "He got a passport and had it visaed for Great Britain. He has relatives in Kent. I want you and Ram Singh to catch the Berengaria, sailing at midnight and trace him down. I'll have passports made out for you by radio. Butterworth must come back, or you must get the story from him about Collins' invention and about everyone who knows anything about it."

"Then you aren't so near to the break of the case?" asked Nita quietly.

A hint of a smile twitched Wentworth's lips. "I'm always just around the corner," he said, "but like prosperity, it may be a long, slow corner to turn. If my present plans fail, there must be another move already in preparation."

"You're quite sure, Dick," Nita asked slowly, "that you don't simply want me out of the country for safety? You haven't let me do much on this case."

"I'll be glad to have you safe," Wentworth told her gravely, "but there is much more than that. Your work may in many respects be the turning point of the whole case. I don't dare entrust what information you may gain to anyone else. It seems quite clear that Butterworth is dodging someone, possibly police. He left many unpaid debts behind in Middleton. We have been unable to find what ship he took abroad. That's why I'm sending Ram Singh with you. It may come to physical battle before you get what you want from him. At the same time, I think that it can be handled better without police help."

Ram Singh fitted a covering like a wig over Wentworth's head and Nita uttered a startled exclamation. "You're posing as Baldy!" she cried.

Wentworth lifted a small hand mirror and peered at the result of the covering. Fitted tightly over his head was a bald dome that glistened like an egg. He nodded, grinning slightly.

"A good job, Ram Singh," he said softly. "Some days ago," he told Nita, "I anticipated that the need for this imposture might occur and had Ram Singh prepare the disguise."

He stopped talking, tilted his head back while Ram Singh dropped liquid into his eyes, lifted the lids and fitted bits of concave glass under them against the eyeballs. He closed his eyes, turned toward Nita and opened them. The piercing blue-gray gaze of the Spider had vanished. The left eye was a pale blue and there was a cast in it. The right eye was dull and brown.

"Those Zeiss lenses," said Nita softly.

Wentworth nodded. "They're a bit uncomfortable for a while, but I've become quite accustomed to them. It's not very easy to see with the colors painted on them, but we've perfected a film paint that permits me to see through fairly well. And in the middle of each, there's a small hole for the pupil."

He stood up, stepped into a dressing room to one side and shortly emerged with a greasy cap pulled down over his dome head. His shoulder sloped beneath an old gray overcoat that was too short for him and he walked with a furtive shuffle that took inches off his height.

"I've never seen Baldy," Wentworth said, "but Ram Singh has and he has a remarkable memory for such detail."

He tried a number of voice tones under Ram Singh's coaching and soon had acquired a squeaky, changeable voice that caused the Hindu's turbaned head to nod in satisfaction. Wentworth balled the overcoat and cap into the suitcase, donned his own and pulled his felt well down upon his head. He bowed over Nita's hands, raising them to his lips.

"I may see you on the Berengaria," he told her. "If not, I'll 'phone you tomorrow. You have two hours before sailing. You'll find your passage reserved. Jenkyns attended to that." He straightened and Nita came close to him, raised her lips.

She shuddered slightly. "I don't really feel it's you, Dick, behind that disguise," she complained, then laughed and kissed him again. Her arms tightened about his shoulders convulsively. "Be careful, Dick," she whispered against his mouth.

Chapter Twelve
The Game Is Lost

RECALLING NITA'S warning three quarters of an hour later as he swung right off Manhattan Bridge, Wentworth's disguised lips twitched slightly. The rush and beat of the wind rocked the little coupe as he pushed it southward along the water front through the whip of the snow. In a few blocks now, he would be on the edge of what had been McSwag's "territory" during the great era of the rackets. That was finished now, but McSwag had turned to other criminal revenue. His mob of gunmen was the most ruthless and deadly in this post-repeal period. They robbed and killed and their immunity of prohibition days was still a shield and buckler to them.

The Master had done well to choose them—if he had a strong hand. Otherwise, McSwag might well take him over and make him serve his own ends. Wentworth would need to be more than careful to play the game he planned tonight and come out with his life. He would have to be bold and swift. His keen mind must not fail him for a second.

He gassed around a corner into Water Street. Out of the side window, he could see the far end of Brooklyn Bridge, hazed by snow, the swoop of its cables picked out by dim lights. He would be directly under it in another block. Two blocks beyond that was the pool-room-saloon where McSwag's mob usually hung out. Wentworth held down his impatience and let the coupe jounce along over the cobbles at a slow speed. There was no reason for Baldy to hurry, however much the Spider might yearn to join battle.

The neon-light sign before the restaurant spilled a bloody trail across the sidewalk, sent a crimson glow-out against the haze of falling snow. Wentworth spun the coupe around in a U curve and parked on the edge of that glow, eased out and shuffled to the doors, his shoulders hunched against the flail of wind and cold. He paused a moment, tugged once at the peak of his greasy cap and edged inside.

Four moth-eaten pool tables were picked out by the strong white light that funneled down from low-swung lamps. Two tables were busy. A stout man in a brown sweater was leaning his elbows on a grimy glass tobacco-counter beside the door. He lifted his eyes and grunted:

"Hello, Baldy."

Wentworth sneezed, dragged a limp handkerchief from his pocket. "'Lo," he snuffled. He was counting on the faked cold to turn aside any suspicions of his voice. "Where's McSwag?"

The man's eyes showed the whites under the irises as he looked up again. "Back room," he said slowly.

Wentworth shuffled that way. The men at the tables had stopped playing and were watching him with unshifting eyes. The Spider knew their faces, killers all. His shoulders seemed to cringe even more. He snuffled and bobbed the big dome of his head.

"Hello," he said.

Not one of them spoke. Wentworth's mind was racing behind the half-frightened mask of his disguise. Was it possible there had been some split between McSwag and the Master that he didn't know about? Was he betraying his masquerade by coming here? But that seemed unlikely. The man at the door had addressed him as Baldy, and that indicated his identity at least was accepted. Something was wrong, though. He knew that. The place was too quiet and too noisy by turns. The rough laughter that burst out now and then from the restaurant seemed to have an edge.

Wentworth snuffled and eased into the back room. All his movements had the frightened air that went with the character of Baldy. Ram Singh had noticed that the man was at once cringing and insolent in his dealings with Hackerson. As if he feared the man personally and yet knew that somehow he held a whip hand. Such was Wentworth's air tonight as he went into the back room and looked about for McSwag. He knew the Irishman by sight, a roundly solid mountain of strength, with a craggy head that might have set upon the shoulders of some ancient Iberian king. And McSwag was a king in his own territory. Politicians hastened to do him favors and police wore a worried look when something came up that involved his powerful mob.

McSwag was not visible in the back room and Wentworth slipped around a battered table where men played monosyllabic poker. The four looked up as the supposed Baldy went by and the dealer stopped flipping cards to lift his eyes beneath a green shade. A white cone of light burned down and left their faces mostly in shadow.

Wentworth sneezed twice violently. "Where's McSwag?" he asked.

The dealer said nastily, "What do you care?"

Wentworth seemed to shrink by inches, but his pinched mouth tightened a little. "I'll tell McSwag that," he whined. "And don't get ideas in your head, Hickey, that just because I'm not a hood . . . ."

Hickey slammed his chair back and came around the table with long strides. Wentworth did not cringe any longer. He stood still and the tight mouth grinned slightly. Hickey stopped two feet short of him uncertainly and Wentworth sniggered.

"Go on, hit me," he said.

Hickey cursed and spun back to his chair. "I'll let McSwag tend to you," he growled. "Go on and see him."

"Where is he?" Wentworth insisted.

"Up on Brooklyn Bridge, waiting for it to fall," Hickey flung at him. He picked up the cards and started to deal again. The other men were grinning.

Wentworth turned toward the door he had entered. "It's okay by me," he said. "You can tell McSwag I was here with a message and you ran me away."

"Aw, for the love of Pete, Baldy," Hickey growled. "You know damned well McSwag is upstairs in his office. What's the idea of the gag?" The statement was accompanied by a sideways jerk of the head and Wentworth saw a black doorway in the dark shadows of a corner.

Wentworth sneezed, cursed and shuffled toward the stairs. His confidence was mounting. All these men held Baldy in contempt, but they were a little afraid of him, a little uncertain just what he could command in the way of protection. He stumbled up the dark stairs, found a door under which a thread of light glowed. Voices were mumbled inside. He knocked and pushed in.

A skinny man jumped up from a chair against the wall, a gun flashed in his hand.

"Why in hell don't you wait till you're asked in?" he snarled.

"Go count bugs!" Wentworth cursed at him, even while his shoulders cringed.

He flashed a glance over the room and barely caught the start that jerked at his muscles. Jackson and a man who looked like a detective were seated, bound hand and foot, against the wall. The detective's face was bloody, and the muscles sat out in knots along Jackson's wide Gascon jaws. Wentworth turned his surprise into a sneer and turned confidently toward the man who sat unmoved across the room, ensconced in a big easy chair before a gas log that filled the room with a sweetly-sickening heat. The man was McSwag and his little blue eyes, like small hard marbles under the low bushing of his brows, were on Wentworth. Seated beside him, twisted toward him with her hand arrested, apparently in the middle of an emphatic gesture, was Beatrice Ross, the girl friend of the man Wentworth had killed, Devil Hackerson.

Her face was dead white except for the vivid gash of her mouth. A mink coat was tossed across the back of her chair and her crossed legs caught the fire gleam on their silk. Two empty whiskey glasses and a bottle sat on a taborette between the man and woman.

Gang etiquette demanded that Wentworth ask no questions about the prisoners and he ignored them. It was clear enough that they had been caught trailing the Ross woman. The detective doubtless was Kirkpatrick's man.

"Where's the dough?" McSwag demanded coldly. He looked as solid as Gibraltar in the chair and there was an impression of leashed ferocity about the man. He didn't move, just sat there staring at Wentworth.

"The Master says . . . ." Wentworth began with a whine.

"He ain't got no dough," the man by the door said shrilly.

McSwag's eyes swung toward him a moment and the voice died. He looked back to Wentworth.

"It'll be ready tomorrow," Wentworth went on, stopped to sneeze. "The Master says to turn the girl loose."

"You may tell this bozo you call the Master," said McSwag, "to go to hell!"

The slouched shoulders of the false Baldy jerked in a little shrug. "I'll tell him if you says so." He cringed. "But if I do there ain't going to be no more of the 'stuff' for youse."

McSwag was abruptly on his feet. There was no preliminary tightening of muscles that Wentworth could perceive—no hands thrusting against the chair arms. He simply straightened his legs and was on his feet. It was proof of the heavy strength of his mountainous body. He reached Wentworth in a stride and seized his shoulder.

"You little rat," he snarled.

Beatrice Ross got slowly to her feet. Her pink tongue touched the burning red of her lips. "Hit him, Mickey," she urged eagerly.

For a moment, McSwag seemed about to obey, his eyes glaring down at Wentworth. But though the Spider's body seemed to shrivel in fear, his eyes met those of the gangster chieftain directly. McSwag thrust him abruptly back, strode to his chair. He did not seat himself again, however.

"I ain't got nothing to do with it, McSwag," Wentworth protested. "I'm just a lobbygow, a windbag for the guy what calls himself the Master. I ain't even seen him and I'm just telling you what he says. He says turn the girl loose or you don't get any more of the 'stuff'."

McSwag swore violently. "So he's going to get hard, is he? Okay, that's a game I can deal cards in, too. You tell him . . . ."

Beatrice Ross sidled forward and plucked at his sleeve. McSwag moved his arm impatiently, but she persisted.

"Listen, Mickey," she said tightly. "This guy ain't Baldy."

Wentworth put a puzzled look on his face, sneezed in the middle of it. McSwag said, "What the hell?"

"I'm telling you," said the woman vehemently. "Baldy is short'n this guy, and Baldy ain't had a cold all winter. I think this guy is faking that cold to hide his voice."

McSwag said, "So!" His voice was soft and his eyes became round. He came forward on the balls of his feet and Wentworth felt a gun gouge suddenly into his back.

"You're nuts," he protested shrilly. "I say you're nuts!"

The door banged open suddenly and McSwag jerked up his head and stared past Wentworth. He tried to twist around also, but the man jabbed harder with the gun muzzle and he stopped trying. He heard startled exclamations behind him, then a squeaky voice a whole lot like the one he had assumed.

"So you got him already, have you, McSwag?" the voice said.

Shuffling footsteps approached and a face peered into his own, a face with a cast in one eye, a face smoking a cigarette and shadowed by the peak of a greasy cap. Beneath that cap-edge no hair showed. It was Baldy.

Wentworth still look puzzled. "Who the hell are you?" he growled. "Watcha doing made up to look like me?" Baldy dragged off his cap.

"Okay, Hickey," he sniggered. "You tell which is the real Baldy."

Wentworth's cap was dragged off and a rough hand ran over his head. The poker player of the green eye-shade stepped to his side and put the other hand on Baldy's head, gripped with his fingers. Wentworth felt the man's fingers denting the false scalp on his head, knew that it was only a matter of seconds before it was ripped from his head and his real identity was revealed. The gun gouged harder into his back, McSwag's marble eyes were fixed on him with flat, cold menace and behind him there were at least three other men. Beatrice Ross stared at him and slowly her eyes widened.

"I know who this guy is," she gasped. "It's . . . My God! It's the Spider!"

Chapter Thirteen
"Let Me Kill Him!"

HICKEY shoved and tugged at the false bald head that Ram Singh had fastened on Wentworth's scalp. It hurt, but it held. Ram Singh had done his work well. Hickey cursed and quit.

"I can't get it off," he said, "but this guy isn't Baldy. That's a fake head on there, and . . ."

McSwag stepped in close and his right fist swept up. It was aimed at the jaw, but Wentworth jerked his head, took the blow high up on his cheek. Nevertheless he went down hard and a great white burst of light smashed through his brain. Dully he felt shoes thud against his sides, felt the sharp heel of Beatrice Ross rake the side of his face.

Fumbling, he reached for his guns. There wasn't much feeling in his hands. Before they had moved six inches, fists pinioned his wrists to the floor. His guns were ripped from their holsters. More heels hit his sides. His stomach seemed caved in. Then he was aware of a big figure over him and fists flailing.

"Lay off!" McSwag bellowed. "You can have him in a minute. First I want to ask some questions. Lay off, I say!"

Wentworth felt himself dragged up and slammed into a chair. Whiskey burned down his throat. Water drenched him. He gasped, rolled his head and came foggily back to his senses. McSwag was holding Beatrice Ross away from him with an arm like a limb of oak. Behind him were four men and insane hatred glared from their eyes. Baldy hovered to one side, a smirking grin on his face. And Wentworth saw death in all those faces, even in the grim, hard face of McSwag who, he realized dimly, had saved him from being beaten to death a few moments before.

The Spider could expect no mercy here. Not a criminal in the entire country but had come to dread and hate his name as that of the one man who could strike terror into their hearts. Not a man in this group but who, some time, had been blocked and defeated in criminal endeavor by some crusade of the Spider. His lethal guns had burned down their companions. Now they had him a helpless prisoner! Jackson and the detective were equally useless.

"I just want to know who this Spider guy is," McSwag said, "then you can have him. Now lay off a minute, will you?"

"He killed Devil Hackerson," Beatrice Ross screeched, "and I'm going to kill him!"

"Sure, sure," McSwag soothed. "Now wait!"

The woman kept struggling to get past his arm and he drew back his hand and hit her hard with the heel. She spun up against the wall and struck it with her shoulders. Her head snapped back and she slid down slowly, a dazed look in her eyes.

"Let me kill him!" she moaned.

McSwag ignored her, turned back to Wentworth. The other men waited, tensely, leashed hounds at the kill, dogs beaten back after tasting blood. They licked their lips and fingered their weapons.

"Your number's up, Spider," McSwag said slowly. "You were a damn fool to come here like this. And this is once you ain't going to wiggle out of it. Come on, who are you?"

Wentworth lifted his head from the back of the chair. He realized he was in the big arm seat that McSwag had occupied. It was an effective prison, for he was bedded so deeply in it that there was no chance for him to move any way but forward. McSwag and his four men hedged him in there. There was no chance to tip the chair over backward either. It was too heavy for that. Besides, that beating had done him up.

He dipped his hands into his vest pocket for his cigarette-case and McSwag knocked it from his hand. It snapped against the gas log with a silvery note. "I just wanted a smoke," Wentworth explained mildly.

"Okay," McSwag grunted, "but you'll smoke my cigarettes. Get the point?"

"Oh, quite," said Wentworth. He accepted one of McSwag's cigarettes and lighted it. "Quite," he said. "You seem to have me at a temporary disadvantage."

"Temporary is right," McSwag growled and a grudging admiration lighted his eyes. "It's going to last about two minutes and then the disadvantage is going to become permanent. Come on, now, who are you?"

"The Master knows," Beatrice Ross said suddenly. "He had him followed, and ordered a train wrecked to get him."

McSwag said, "That ain't helping. I wrecked the train and I don't know who he is. You know, Baldy?"

Baldy licked his lips. "I'll tell you," he said hoarsely, "if you'll let me kill him." McSwag looked at him in surprise.

"You?" he demanded.

There was a crazy gleam in Baldy's one good eye. He nodded his head. "Yeah, I want to blow off that funny-looking head."

Wentworth laughed. "Really, Baldy," he said, "it wasn't such a bad head until Hickey started mussing it up."

For the first time he saw a gleam of hope. Baldy was no hood, didn't know how to handle a gun. If he could goad the man into making an attempt he might stand a chance of snatching the weapon. It was certain Baldy would come close to use it. He glanced out of the corner of his masked eyes toward the cigarette case. It was beginning to melt a little with the gas-log's heat.

"Let me!" Baldy pleaded.

"No!" Beatrice Ross said violently. "I'm going to." She stopped suddenly, snatched up her skirt and yanked a small gun from a thigh holster. Before she could use it, McSwag had wrenched it from her hand.

McSwag weighed Beatrice's gun on his hand and eyed Baldy. "I think that might be a good idea," he said softly. There was a gleam in his eyes. Wentworth could read his thoughts. If he had a murder he could hold over Baldy's head, he might twist him to his own ends, use him against the Master. The Spider blew another smoke ring and was thankful that the Zeiss lenses hid the mounting hope in his eyes.

"Shoot him in the belly, Baldy," Hickey urged hoarsely. "I want to put lead in him, too. He smashed out Trigger Skinner, and . . . ."

"Now, boys, boys," McSwag urged jovially. "I see no reason why all of you shouldn't have a shot. The Spider isn't going to run away, are you, Spider?"

Wentworth smiled and carefully blew another ring. "Oh, no!" he said calmly. "I wouldn't cheat you out of your fun."

It was an effort to keep his face twisted into that mocking smile. His heart was a hard thing beating against the wall of his ribs, trying to knock its way out. In his right temple, the thin scar was throbbing. He knew that never before had he been so near death as now. He knew that never had he needed more to live, not only for his own sake, but for the sake of the thousands these men would kill if he died.

Despite all his battling, he still did not know the Master. And ten thousand lives might well hinge on his escape . . . .

"I think Baldy ought to have first shot," McSwag said, "because the Spider came here disguised as him."

He held the gun out to Baldy butt first. Baldy snatched for it and at the same instant, Beatrice Ross catapulted upward from the floor, hands clawing for the weapon. McSwag roared out with anger, stepped forward to interfere, and his bulk spun Baldy aside. The little windbag had the gun and he clutched it in both hands reeling back. Wentworth dived out of the chair and his shoulder caught him in the side.

Baldy spun, felt the heat of the gas log and screamed. Wentworth snatched the gun away from him, blasted one slug from it at Hickey, who alone was in the clear, and a second later made the protection of the heavy chair. Hickey took the bullet between the eyes and slammed down onto the floor, clawing the rug. His gun skated along and Wentworth snatched it from behind the chair. Deliberately he shot down another hood, then smacked out the light with two more bullets.

McSwag had dropped to the floor with the first shot and the big chair was between him and Wentworth. His heavy gun roared and lead plunked through the back of the chair—within an inch of the Spider's head! Wentworth lay flat on the floor and burned lead along the level of the boards. McSwag swore painfully and more bullets smacked into the chair. Two came through.

A small, muffled blast whooshed near the gas log as his cigarette case exploded and Wentworth laughed. It was the mocking monotone of the Spider's mirth.

"Death!" he cackled. "Death! The Spider brings you death!"

Beatrice Ross was screaming with pain now. "Tear gas!" she shrieked. "Tear gas!"

Wentworth caught a movement in the flickering light of the gas log and fired into it twice. A man groaned and thudded to the floor. Wentworth was edging along the wall toward the door. Somewhere in this room, Baldy still crouched. There was still another gunman, Beatrice Ross and McSwag. McSwag was wounded, but Wentworth doubted that he was dead. Also, there was a pounding of feet on the stairway as the men downstairs rushed upward to the rescue. Wentworth reached the door, yanked it open. From the darkness of the room, a gun blazed wildly, and the Spider's own eyes, even protected as they were by the Zeiss lenses, were smarting with the tear gas his cigarette case had released, but the bullet did not come anywhere near him. He must free Jackson, but to do that he must empty the room.

He plunged out into the hall, squealing wildly as he ran toward the stairs. "The Spider! The Spider!" he squeaked. And once more it was Baldy's voice.

A rush of men whirled him sidewise against the wall. The man who had stood behind the counter pinned him there by his coat collar, peering at him in the dim light from the hall's single bulb. Other men dashed by. The man cursed.

"You ain't the real Baldy," he growled and his gun jerked upward at his side. Wentworth fired upward and the bullet smashed under the man's chin, thrust his head back between his shoulder blades. He went back two heavy steps on his heels, already dead, then fell limply. Wentworth crouched low, leaped the entire flight of steps, landed sprawling and rolled as a hurricane of flying lead ploughed the floor where he had landed.

* * *

Wentworth emptied the light gun up the stairs, then darted out of the store. He reached his car in a bound, flung into it and kicked the starter. A mighty creaking sound, a Titan in agony, suddenly filled all the world. There was a whang of steel as if a great wire cable had been cut by a bullet. With an abrupt stab of dread, Wentworth ducked forward over the wheel, stared upward.

The spidery span of Brooklyn Bridge, with its myriad tiny lights, was sagging. A splotch of glaring white headlights stabbed wildly downward, then spun dizzily, whirling through space toward the black waters. An automobile was plunging from the bridge. But it was not alone. An entire string of elevated cars tumbled like a child's toy train down after it.

Brooklyn Bridge was falling . . . !

Good God! The Master and his steel-eater had destroyed the Brooklyn Bridge!

Even as the thought materialized into words, a bunch of men hurtled out the front door of the restaurant, guns in hands. They froze there. Their heads twisted, too, toward that catastrophe of the bridge.

His lips grinning back from his teeth, Wentworth realized that the engine of his coupe was racing. With a snarl of fury, he yanked the car into gear, deliberately charged the six men on the walk.

He was within feet of them before they tore their eyes away from the death they had wrought. Their wild screams and upflung guns attempted to stem the rush of the steel monster whose driver had become an avenging demon. Their bullets were as futile as their screams. The car struck two of them down, slammed them savagely to the concrete, ground another against the wall, charged on to carry two more through the plate glass window of the restaurant.

One of them tore loose. He clapped his hands to his back and ran screaming down the street. Blood flowed from his back in a torrent. He did not run far. Wentworth threw back his head and laughed—a sound of blood-curdling merriment . . . .

Chapter Fourteen
Mcswag Pays

WENTWORTH was numb with horror at the slaughter these men had wrought; he was choked with rage that his swift retribution had not calmed. He smothered his wild laughter, flung from the coupe and swiftly snatched two guns from among the crushed corpses on the pavement. One still-moaning victim spotted Wentworth and lifted a heavy gun. Without compunction, the Spider smashed a bullet through his head. He busied himself a moment, pressing his crimson seals upon the foreheads of his prey, then, automatic in either fist, he slipped back into the pool-room. Once more his lips were snarling his bitter hatred.

From the adjoining restaurant, people had poured in a noisy, frightened flood. The gangsters from the poolroom were either dead in the street or smashed down by Wentworth's bullets upstairs. But McSwag and Baldy were still in the battle and Jackson remained to be rescued. The Spider was a silent shadow flitting through the pool-room, up those dark back stairs. Excited voices and McSwag's coldly venomous tones floated down to him. He went past the sweatered man he had slain and upon him, too, he left his seal.

"Damn it," McSwag's raging voice came to him as he stooped beside the corpse. "Get me out of here and get the girl out, too. Police can't hold off on this. There's been too much shooting. We'll gain some time because that Brooklyn Bridge smash will pull most of the cops away . . . ."

Wentworth drifted to a spot where he could peer into the room, saw Beatrice Ross and a gangster supporting McSwag. Baldy had vanished. The Spider's eyes tightened. His lips were stiff with rage. This was the man who had wrecked the train, who had wrecked the bridge, plunging a thousand innocents to death, maiming thousands more. The Spider went in behind his guns. Beatrice Ross screamed—a long shrill cry—and sprang back. The gangster reeled away from McSwag's side, hand darting for his gun. With his eyes still on McSwag, the Spider sped a single bullet that smashed the hood to the floor. He did it as a man might swat an annoying fly.

McSwag staggered when the two sprang from his side, but he braced himself on his wounded leg. "I haven't any gun," he stammered.

"I know it," said Wentworth. He shot McSwag's other leg out from under him, dropped the man cursing to the floor.

Beatrice Ross was spread-eagled against the wall, her palms beating in frenzy. She was too terrified to make a sound. The Spider's face was a mask of avenging fury. His automatic's muzzle was centered now on McSwag's stomach.

"Don't, for God's sake!" McSwag screamed. "You wouldn't kill a helpless man!"

The Spider laughed again and McSwag stammered into blood-chilled silence. McSwag knew that he had given those men and women on the train and bridge no chance. They had been struck down in helpless impotence. Why should he . . . ? Wentworth's finger tightened slowly on the trigger. A thought stopped him. This man alone among the living knew where Betty Briggs was held prisoner.

"Lift your hands above your head, Jackson," Wentworth said, forcing words between his tight lips.

Jackson stretched out his bound hands, the wrists straining apart and the Spider fired twice carefully. Jackson strained and his bullet-burned bonds parted. He went to work on his feet, then began to untie the detective.

"McSwag," Wentworth's voice sounded rusty. "I'll give you one chance. Tell me where Betty Briggs is and instead of killing you, I'll turn you over to the police."

Hope flared in McSwag's eyes. "She's upstairs," he said swiftly, "in the room at the end of the hall."

At a nod from Wentworth, Jackson stumbled, feet numb from the bonds, out into the hall. The others waited. Beatrice Ross had ceased to beat the wall. She was crouched, her hennaed hair asprawl on her shoulders. Her too-full lips looked bloody with their carmine. McSwag breathed heavily through his mouth, his eyes fixed with fearful fascination on the hard, unyielding face of the Spider. The detective was untying his feet with numb fingers and he, too, watched Wentworth warily. He was not quite sure what to expect from this killer who single-handed had smashed the most dangerous mob of the city, but at least his intentions seemed friendly. His fellow prisoner had been released and had immediately unbound his hands for him. He stopped to flex his fingers, began to work again on the ropes and Jackson came back to the doorway, a girl's quick-heeled patter beside him.

He did not look toward her. "Jackson, take Miss Briggs to the street. I'll join you in a moment."

McSwag's face was gray. "You promised! You promised!" he stammered.

Wentworth took two long strides toward him and the gang leader flung his arms over his face protectingly. The Spider's gun lashed down and McSwag's arms dropped. The sounds that came from his throat no longer formed words. They were scarcely human. There was a swift gleam of metal and Wentworth retreated quick steps, a mocking smile twisted his lips. McSwag's trembling hands lifted to his forehead in bewilderment.

"He's branded you, Mickey!" Beatrice Ross gasped hoarsely. "Branded you with his seal!"

McSwag's hands whipped away from his forehead. The seal was a bloody smear on his pallid face.

"The next time I see you," the Spider said softly, "I'm going to put a bullet right through the center of my seal."

He backed toward the door, flicked a glance toward the detective and saw the man lurch to his feet.

"Okay, officer?" he asked him.

"Okay," the man nodded.

"Catch!" Wentworth tossed him an automatic. The detective's hands and eyes flew toward it. When he looked up, the gun tight in his fist, the doorway was empty. Mocking flat laughter drifted back through the darkness. Seated on the floor, his two legs in a widening pool of blood, McSwag began to curse with a terrible, rasp-throated vehemence. His mob was killed off. He was wounded and in the hands of police, and that brand on his forehead would make him forever a mockery and a butt of gangster laughter.

In the street outside, Jackson had backed the coupe clear of the bodies on the walk and had the motor running. Wentworth crowded in beside the girl without a word and the car swung in a U-curve and buffered the wind at an inconspicuous speed. Wentworth was feeling the reaction of his burning anger now. He was limp, empty, inside. He turned his head heavily toward Betty Briggs and found her curious eyes on his face. The eyes were green and wanted to be merry; her bare head was a tangle of dark red curls.

"I'd like to call Daddums," she said, "as soon as you can let me, Spider."

"He knows already that you're safe," he assured her. "It will be tomorrow before you can call him. Jackson, take Miss Briggs to the hideout you know of. Don't let anyone see you go in. Stay there and wait for word from me. Drop me at the next subway station."

He descended and caught a loafing local train, sank back in a corner with his eyes closed. Kirkpatrick would be at the scene of the bridge wreck, of course. He glanced at his watch and saw that the Berengaria had sailed an hour before. Nita, at least, was out of harm's way. Within a few days there should be some word of this mysterious Butterworth. He wondered if Alrecht had been captured, and his mind switched to McSwag. Twice now, he had shattered the gangs that obeyed the Master's orders. Would he organize again? Or would he deem the work of popularizing Bessmo steel complete, and rest content on his achievements?

A hard smile twisted Wentworth's mouth. The answer to that lay in the destruction of Brooklyn Bridge. The Master was not yet through! More thousands were to die and other thousands go through life as cripples to fill his pockets. Wentworth discarded his disguise in a washroom, went to his apartment for clothing, gave some instructions, then hurried to police headquarters. Kirkpatrick had just returned wearily from the wreckage of Brooklyn Bridge. Pounds seemed to have been stripped from his lean body, years added to his shoulders. He dropped behind his desk without waiting to remove coat or derby. He looked beaten.

"Briggs got off all right," he said heavily. "Didn't want to go, but I think it was wise to get him out of the country before we make the announcement about Bessmo steel. The president of Bessmo convinced me it would do what it's supposed to."

Wentworth reached for a 'phone and put in a call to Professor Brownlee.

"Where'd you send Briggs?" he asked Kirkpatrick.

"Put him on the Berengaria." The Commissioner was fingering through some reports distractedly and frowned at Wentworth's laughter. "What's the matter?" he demanded.

"Nothing at all," Wentworth said. "I sent Nita abroad on the same boat."

Kirkpatrick smiled warily. "There were a number of last minute passengers. Briggs wouldn't go unless Nancy Collins went along as his secretary. Nancy wouldn't go unless her brother-in-law, Anse, was with her. Luckily, Anse called us here to report he hadn't been able to find Alrecht and we got hold of him. He tried to dissuade Nancy, but finally went." Wentworth frowned. He had counted on Anse Collins' help in his activities of the next few days, but it couldn't be helped now.

"Damn it," he swore. "Everything is going haywire. Still no trace of Baldy, I suppose?"

The 'phone rang. Professor Brownlee agreed to call the newspapers and give them the information on Bessmo steel. "I haven't been able to find a way to make steel impervious to crystallizing," he said, "but gold-plating might prevent any external attack."

Wentworth had scarcely hung up when the 'phone buzzed again. He frowned, picking up the receiver, then handed the instrument to Kirkpatrick with a quizzical grimace. "For you," he said and watched Kirkpatrick's face grow in turns angry and puzzled as he listened.

"You turn that girl loose," Kirkpatrick barked. "Do you hear . . . ." He jiggled the hook up and down in vain, roared out an order to trace the call. He hung up, turned baffled eyes to Wentworth.

"That was the Spider," he said slowly. "I'll swear it was. He had the same mocking laugh, the same flat expressionless voice and the slightly pedantic manner of speech. Damn it, Dick, quit playing tricks on me. I'm in no gay mood."

Wentworth raised questioning eyebrows. "Aside from the matter of tricks, which I'm not playing," he said, "what in the hell are you talking about?"

"The Spider . . . ." said Kirkpatrick, then hesitated, "the Spider informs me that he has freed Betty Briggs, that when I need her to testify against McSwag he'll produce her, but in the meantime he's keeping her safe himself.

"I didn't know McSwag had been arrested," he said slowly. "I see the Spider has stolen the march on me once more. He killed nine gangsters. He desired me to know, over the 'phone, that the reason we hadn't been able to trace Betty's 'phone call was that it had come over a tapped-in phone."

He stared at Wentworth, but his friend's face gave no hint of the amusement be felt. He had instructed Jackson to make the call and imitate the Spider's voice, no difficult trick since the voice was a false tone to begin with, a deliberately disguised chest voice whose chief characteristic was its mockery and its monotone. Although Kirkpatrick believed that he was the Spider, it was just as well to shake that belief on occasion—to give him reason to deny to his superiors and his men that Wentworth and the Spider were one and be able to cite proof of it.

"It's fantastic, Dick," Kirkpatrick said. He shrugged. "I think I'll resign in favor of . . . . the Spider!" He grinned.

Suddenly the teletype machine in the corner of the office which brought in reports from other boroughs and states began to clatter. There was excitement in its swift, rattling clicks, so much so that Kirkpatrick's eyes jerked to the instrument and Wentworth twisted about to stare. Both men sprang to their feet and raced to the instrument. It ticked out:

U.S.S. CRUISER PENNSYNAPOLIS SUNK . . . ALL ABOARD BELIEVED LOST . . . STEEL SIDES BROKE IN WHEN CURRENT SLAMMED SHIP AGAINST PIER.

Wentworth went rigid, his hands clenched. Kirkpatrick's hoarse voice rasped out oaths in an unrecognizable tone. "By God!" he swore, and his voice became solemn. "If I catch the Master, I shall torture him to death!"

Wentworth stared at his friend's pale, drawn face and knew that Kirkpatrick had pronounced a solemn pledge he would never fulfill—not if the Spider could fulfill it first!

Chapter Fifteen
A Strong Man Falters

IN THE DAYS that followed, Wentworth fought a battle that was strange for the Spider. Instead of fighting in the night against the Master's men, he devoted himself to devising safety measures that would cut down the fearful toll of lives, directing the efforts of a hundred detectives whom Kirkpatrick placed under his personal direction. This was no time for smashing through lines of gangsters. Twice now, the Spider had wiped out mobs, and still the slaughter of the innocents went on. He must, in this case, run down the leader and eliminate him. When that was done, the gangs could be wiped out to some purpose.

The slaughter went on relentlessly. Bridges were smashed. Buildings tumbled into the streets. Ships shook their plates to pieces in the battering of the Atlantic gales. Trains found rails dissolving under their swift wheels and spilled pitiful dead across the countryside, but gradually the number of deaths diminished, though the wreckage continued. The rigid regulations set up in New York under Wentworth's administration and copied throughout the East began to take effect.

Still buildings continued to crash to the streets and bridges collapsed beneath puny loads. Cities were deserted by every man and woman who could possibly escape, fleeing to the rural areas where steel was not used for building. Men who had to remain sent their wives and children away. Going to work, they walked in the middle of the street with fearful eyes continually alert for the first hint of a building's collapse. On windy days, all shops and offices closed.

Such was the city that New York had become—in which the Spider fought to save human lives. When he had done all that he possibly could to check the mounting toll of the steel-eater, Wentworth pushed on with his investigations. He heard from Nita that though Butterworth had been traced to England through his passport, his family had seen nothing of him. Alrecht had not been found. Briggs was clamoring for permission to come home and petition the Spider for the return of his daughter. Finally, he declared he would defy Kirkpatrick's advice and start on the Britannia, England's newest and swiftest ship.

The police had checked the list of Bessmo stock holders without finding anyone suspicious save Alrecht, but Wentworth was not satisfied. He went over the list himself and looked up the private history of each man. Then he paid each a personal visit and in that way finally came to O'Leary Simpson. That man, newspaper clippings had told him, had built a school building ten years before that had collapsed and killed half a hundred children. He had been cleared of blame by an inquiry. Furthermore, Wentworth's interview with him had yielded nothing. He went from the man's office to a newspaper and went to the clipping files, the Morgue as it is called.

Wentworth frowned over the clipping about O'Leary Simpson. It was foolish to suppose there was any connection between that happening so long ago and these modern tragedies. Yet the man was in a position to profit largely by the mounting sale of Bessmo steel, which was being turned out by carloads in a triple-shift factory. Hundreds of other steel factories all over the country were paying for the privilege of installing the Bessmo process in their mills. And O'Leary Simpson was next to the largest holder of stock in the Bessmo corporation, which Wentworth was sure was the key to this whole tragic enigma. He got up slowly from the table where he had been reading the clippings and his jaw tensed in resolve.

Wentworth would pay O'Leary Simpson another visit, but this time it would be the Spider who called.

* * *

The heavy twilight was thick as Wentworth pushed his way out into a windy, rain-swept street. Men walked behind wind-buffeted umbrellas in the middle of the street. Asphalt glistened with the watery trail of the few moving headlights. A bit early for the Spider's call . . . . He turned up his coat collar, thrust his head into the whipping drops. He could not recall a single war with the underworld's master minds that had defied him so many weeks. There had been some in which, on the verge of conquering, he had been laid low by wounds. There had been times when a prison cell had kept him from the battle. But it was none of these in the present case. He simply had been unable to run the Master to earth.

Alrecht, upon whom his suspicions centered, had disappeared as utterly as if his body had been pulped in the crash of one of the skyscrapers, ground into a bloody unrecognizable slime as had been so many thousands of the population of the East. Baldy had not been sighted again, but the evidences of his work were everywhere.

Wentworth turned his heavy footsteps toward home, let Jenkyns take his soggy coat and hat. With an effort he braced his shoulders, lifted his head. The Spider was not beaten, could not be beaten, he told himself. For the sake of suffering humanity to which he long ago had dedicated his life and service, he must succeed.

The 'phone rang and Wentworth was electrified at Nita's first words. She said breathlessly: "We have found Butterworth, but he refuses to return with us."

Wentworth threw back his head and laughed, feeling new life within him. "Then kidnap him!" he said. "Bring him back on the Britannia, sailing tomorrow noon. Here's how you can do it." He swiftly outlined a simple plan in which Ram Singh's make-up ability would figure. Butterworth would seem a helpless invalid, in care of the Hindu and Nita.

"I have evidence," said Nita, "that Butterworth has been in constant communication with America. He has made some heavy deposits in banks, all in the name of Alrecht."

Wentworth laughed again, and jubilance crept into his voice, "It looks, my beloved, as if you have gone the Spider one better this time," he told her, "and are solving this mystery all by yourself. By the way, Briggs is coming back on the Britannia, and that means Nancy Collins and Anse. You won't lack company."

Hanging up the 'phone, Wentworth strode across the music room to the organ, stepped up until he could reach the vents of two treble pipes. He tapped their edges with a rhythmic, alternate cadence and they made dim echoes of notes. He paused, went through the cadence again, then stepped down. A tapestry-covered panel in the side wall pivoted soundlessly outward, a yellow glow sprang up within.

He Strode into the yellow glow and with a dim click the panel revolved again and closed behind him. Within the narrow room beyond, Wentworth swiftly assumed the disguise of the Spider, lank hair and beak nose, cape and black hat and hunched back. This room was a recent installation, necessitated by the increasing frequency with which public suspicion centered upon himself as the Spider—by the occasional forays of police. He had bought the entire apartment building, had the suite below his vacated and Professor Brownlee and himself had made the necessary changes in the walls.

When they finished their work, his apartment would become an impregnable fortress, but so far there was only this dressing room and a hidden exit into the service-stairs by way of a porter's closet in the hall. Within ten minutes, Wentworth was stealing down the stairs, letting himself out into the dark street where the rain still bounced shattered drops from glistening pavements. It was turning colder. Wentworth drew the cape tightly about him and entered a battered old coupe whose disreputable hood masked a powerful engine. This, too, was a camouflage that had been forced upon him.

He fought the cold engine to life and sped northward, swinging presently into Central Park, crossing the 155th street bridge over the Harlem ship canal and taking the Grand Concourse with its row on row of white-faced apartment houses. O'Leary Simpson lived in Bronxville, a small, exclusive suburb within ten miles of the city limits. As Wentworth had planned it, he would arrive there shortly after midnight. Unless the Simpsons had guests, they should be in bed then, which suited the Spider's plans excellently.

The house was a sprawling Spanish style dwelling, smooth white walls and roof of tile. Wentworth coasted past it and saw no lights, whirled a corner and parked. His approach was as silent as his shadow. He searched for and found the burglar alarm on a window and attached to its two plates a length of wire. The alarm was of the type that sounded a gong when a plate on the window and another on the frame were separated, thus breaking a circuit. By means of the wire, he prevented that happening. He shut the window soundlessly behind him, unlocked a side door with the same caution, then crept up broad marble stairs to the second floor. Silently, he visited every door along the hall, located persons sleeping behind three of them: one, the daughter; another, the wife; the third, O'Leary Simpson.

At that door, he listened longest, and satisfied that the man slept, he entered. The connecting door between the rooms of the man and his wife was open and this the Spider shut; then he crossed to Simpson's side. He weighed a black-jack upon his palm and then struck lightly just behind the sleeping man's ear. The rhythm of Simpson's breathing broke for a moment, his muscles jerked, then relaxed. His breathing continued, a little more shallow and roughened, that was all. Wentworth whipped back the covers, rolled a blanket about the unconscious man and heaved him up to his shoulder with a smooth ease that spoke volumes for the strength of those broad, athletic shoulders. As silently as he had entered, he descended, slid out the door he had prepared below and went rapidly to his car. He handcuffed Simpson to a nickeled ring beside the seat, installed for just that purpose, and drove quietly away.

He opened the window a little on Simpson's side and after ten minutes of cold wind, the man began to squirm in his seat, moaned jerkily. Suddenly he sat bolt upright. The abrupt motion made him moan again and attempt to raise his hands to his head. The handcuffs grated on the nickeled ring and he stared at them dazedly, then whipped his head around toward the driver. The Spider did not look at him. His hunched back beneath the black cape, his sallow face glowing in the dim light, made a sinister picture. O'Leary Simpson's breath came swiftly.

The Spider said nothing. He knew that uncertainty would work more damage on Simpson's morale than any threats he could make. And he must break Simpson's courage to make him talk. If he was involved, it should not be difficult. This man had gone to bed in the security of his home, an expensive home which his wealth had built. He awoke, apparently from that sleep, to find himself riding through a wild night, handcuffed, and seated beside a sinister, black-draped figure. He would think at first that it was a nightmare . . . .

"Who are you?" Simpson demanded in a voice that vainly strove to be angry. His voice gained strength. "Who are you and what the hell do you mean by this?" His handcuffs rattled.

The Spider turned his head slowly, looked with cold implacable hatred into Simpson's eyes, so that the man winced back into his corner. Then the Spider looked back to the road. He didn't say anything, and neither did Simpson for a long while. The car rattled its way to the end of the Bronx River Parkway, took the sharp grade to the right of Kensico dam at forty-five. The engine made only a slight hissing. The rain drummed.

"In God's name," Simpson asked hoarsely. "Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?"

This time the Spider did not even turn his head. Simpson began to stammer out more questions, to threaten and curse, and finally to plead, but Wentworth ignored him. Finally the man fell silent, made little low moaning sounds that went on and on while the car reeled off ten miles, left the broad winding concrete highway that bordered the Kensico reservoir for a lonelier strip of macadam where the coupe jarred and rattled. The dashlight was improperly shielded and it turned the inside of the windshield into a dim mirror. In it Wentworth studied Simpson's face.

It was a fat, flaccid face, but beneath the blubber were the outlines of a hard and ruthless jaw. Simpson's mouth was lipless. It would be a straight gash in anger, but now it was trembling with weakness. A nervous tic quivered in the right corner. Simpson had an egg-shaped, partly bald head, colorless eyebrows, and there was a dewlap beneath his double chin. The dewlap quivered also.

The Spider's earlier elation of the evening was growing. Simpson's behavior had not been that of a guiltless man. Wentworth braked to a halt, leaned forward, cut the switch. Windshield-wiper and engine died together. The windshield clouded instantly with lashing drops that drummed like bony fingers along the roof and hammered on the tiny hood. Simpson was shaking all over. He watched Wentworth with furtive eyes. Suddenly he squealed. "Good God!" he cried. "I know you! . . . You . . . you're the . . . ." his voice trailed off and the word "Spider" quaked from him in a quivering breath.

Wentworth turned his head slowly, his face expressionless. He slid a hand beneath his cape, a gesture of dread menace.

"Have you anything to say before . . . ." Wentworth drew his hand slowly into view, showing the dull gleaming muzzle of an automatic.

"In God's name, Spider, I swear to you . . . ." Simpson broke off, choking, as the muzzle of the gun swung slowly, centered on his body and lifted until he was staring with widening gaze down into the little black hole that was the eye of death. "I swear," he whimpered. "I'm getting nothing out of it at all."

The Spider's face did not change, but he knew now that he had guessed right, that O'Leary Simpson held a clue. He appeared to hesitate. His bitter blue-gray eyes stared along the barrel of his gun.

"My time is short," he said flatly. "You will have to talk fast, for if you fail to convince me by two o'clock . . . ." A jerk of his head indicated the clock set into the rear vision mirror. It stood at three minutes of two. Simpson's eyes jumped to it, flew back to the face of the Spider. He licked his lips, sucked in a deep breath and began talking.

"I swear to you I didn't know what was behind it," he said rapidly. "Two months ago, a man called me over the telephone and reminded me that there existed written proof of a crime that would send me to prison for years . . ."

"You were responsible for the collapse of that school," Wentworth said softly. "They couldn't find your private set of specifications which told your foreman to shave the cement mixture, to use wood instead of steel, but this man could. He had the specifications. Who was this man?"

"I don't know," Simpson said. He whimpered suddenly and shrank back in his corner, tried to pull his manacled hands around in front of him as in prayer. "I don't know, Spider! As God is my witness!"

Wentworth had made no movement unless there was a slightly increased hunch to his shoulders, unless the flame of his eyes had flared more brightly. He said, between his teeth: "Go ahead."

"This man called me and told me that," Simpson stammered on. "Then he hung up. Several days later he called again, and I was half crazy with fear by then. He said he would send me some money and that with it I was to buy stock in the Bessmo Corporation, that I was to pyramid the earnings until further orders." Simpson licked his lips; his eyes slid sideways to the clock and his words spilled out faster than ever. "I did that, thinking I was getting off easy. A while later, he told me to rent a safety-deposit box, put the shares in that and then to convert all dividends into cash and place that in the box, too. I did that, too, and thought that at last I had a way to find out who held the papers. The bank wouldn't tell me who shared my box, had orders not to. I . . . . I intended either to buy him off, or . . . . or . . . ."

"Kill him," the Spider supplied.

Simpson's stare at the gun was like the fascinated stare of a snake-charmed bird. "I hid and watched at the bank where I had rented the box and didn't see anyone. But the next night two men came to my house and beat me up terribly. I was in the hospital for ten days."

"But you went again?"

"I went again," Simpson admitted. "I had to, you see. I couldn't go on not knowing when the blow would fall, when the roof would be snatched from over the heads of my wife and daughter, when my disgrace would strike them down. I went again and saw a man I knew was a minor stockholder in Bessmo enter the bank vaults. Later, when I went to the box I shared with this blackmailer whom the bank was protecting, I found the money gone, found a note telling me to put no more money in the box and that later I would be told what to do with it. By this time the buildings were beginning to fall and I became terribly afraid. I . . . I felt that there was a connection, a reason why this man did not want his stock in Bessmo listed in his own name, and this seemed to explain it. I knew that Bessmo would resist whatever was causing buildings to collapse. I was afraid."

"This small stockholder," Wentworth said, and hesitated, his voice choking. He felt that he was on the brink of a discovery that would solve the whole case, that would bring to book the man behind all these killings and crashes, the Master himself. His heart thudded in his throat. "This small stockholder you saw entering the bank. He was . . . Alrecht?"

Simpson shivered. "You know everything," he said faintly. "It was Alrecht."

Chapter Sixteen
Briggs the Hero

THE SPIDER flung back his head and laughed. It was derisive, self-mockery. Alrecht, of course, but Alrecht had disappeared. He was a will-o'-the-wisp, a shadow in the darkness. Simpson was babbling words, eyes darting from the gun to the clock which stood now at one minute past two.

"It's the truth," he was stammering. "For God's sake, Spider, believe me!"

Wentworth ceased his flat laughter. "I do," he said. "You deserve death for that other crime you committed, for the deaths of half a hundred school children, but you can purchase your way out of that. I want the key to the safety-deposit box, and I want your absolute silence about what has happened tonight. If you so much as breathe a word of it, I will know, and I will come for you. And next time, there will be nothing you can say to stave off my avenging bullet."

Simpson stammered in fear. The key, he said, had been stolen from him. Throughout the long drive back to his home he kept that up. Finally Wentworth was convinced he spoke the truth and the man sputtered his gratitude that he was allowed to live. Wentworth was confident now that he had a clue to the Master.

But the next day's investigation was a disappointment. The name on the bank's register card for the man who shared Simpson's safety deposit vault was "John Smith" and the man who had been accustomed to recognize the holders of boxes and admit them to the vaults could not describe "Smith." He was dead—had been crushed to death in the fall of a building two days before.

Signatures of Alrecht were not obtainable for comparison. His bachelor quarters were clean of any handwriting. His bank, the First National in Middleton, had been destroyed. Such friends as could be found had no letters, though one said vaguely that a photostat of the John Smith signature seemed familiar.

Nita and the others had set sail for New York on the Britannia and were due to arrive in two days. Wentworth, seated in Kirkpatrick's office, watched the reports come across the Commissioner's desk. They were like men in war time, these two.

When the carroty-haired cop who kept watch outside the Commissioner's door thrust in an excited head, both men looked up at him with a curious expectant tension.

"Eddie Blanton, of the Press," said carrot-top, and the two settled back into their seats wearily. Kirkpatrick raised an indifferent hand in consent of the man's admittance and Blanton came in briskly. Wentworth eyed him intently. Brisk movement in Blanton was a signal of excitement. Usually he lounged, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, the slouch gray hat on at any angle, the baggy topcoat soggy about his ankles. But now the coat swung out behind him, slapping quick-moving calves.

"Listen, Kirk," he said swiftly. "We got a hot tip on the Britannia, and the chief didn't even want me to talk to you over the 'phone about it."

Wentworth felt a slow, cold tension stiffen his back. He dropped the report he was scanning on his knees and his gray-blue eyes fixed on Blanton. There was a grin on the reporter's face and a tightness about his eyes that meant big news. But big news to him might mean disaster . . .

"What about the Britannia!" Kirkpatrick's voice was hard and quick.

"Is she or isn't she carrying five millions in gold?" Blanton demanded.

Wentworth's fears eased. He still sat rigidly, eyeing Blanton. Kirkpatrick frowned. "I can't say anything for publication on that, Eddie," he said slowly.

"Can you tell me whether you're planning a heavy police guard at the dock?"

"Don't start that business," Kirkpatrick growled. "You're not going to worm a damned thing out of me, and you know it."

Wentworth was leaning forward now. "I've got some friends on the Britannia, Blanton," he said slowly. "Somebody who could give you some good detail stuff."

Blanton spun toward him, shrewd brown eyes gleaming. "Where'd you get the tip from?" he demanded.

Wentworth was on his feet in an instant. "I thought so, damn it," he said. "Out with it, Blanton. What's happened on the Britannia!"

Kirkpatrick stared from one man to the other, leaning back in his chair. "What's this all about?"

***

Blanton grimaced. "Your friend, Wentworth, just tricked me," he said. "I guess I might as well spill it, but keep it under your hat until we can hit the street with an extra. I was really sent over to find out whether anybody else was in on it." He leaned over and picked up Kirkpatrick's 'phone. "Outside, darling," he told the main operator downstairs, dialed his paper and got hold of the city editor. "All clear, Gibby," he reported. "Naw, not a thing." He hung up.

"Yeah, you tricked me," Blanton told Wentworth, "but just the same I'm going to cash in on that promise of yours."

"Talk, damn you!" Kirkpatrick growled.

Blanton lipped another cigarette, held a burning match and looked over it. "The steel bunch tried to hijack the Britannia," he said casually, sucked the flame against the cigarette and blew the match out with smoke. "And dear little Briggsy, none other than our own W. Johnson Briggs, sank 'em with their own stuff."

"What!" Amazement showed on Wentworth's face.

"Uh-huh, that's just the way I feel," said Blanton, grinning. He told them with the concise efficiency of a man used to handling big news what had happened aboard the Britannia. A fast yacht had hailed the big British steamer in the midst of an Atlantic storm and ordered it to lay to and surrender its five million in gold. If the captain refused, the yacht's message read, the Britannia would be subjected to a whiff of gas that would make her steel plates break to pieces. In other words, the yacht would loose a load of the steel-eater and sink the Britannia without a trace.

Wentworth's fists were knotted at his side. He could see the picture that Blanton threw before them so vividly, the two ships heaving on the gale-swept Atlantic, giant and pygmy, and the giant at the mercy of the smaller boat. Stricken with the steel-eater, her plates would not hold together a minute in those waves. Instant dissolution. Two thousand persons plunged into wild waters from which there could be no rescue . . . .

"Little Briggsy romped up to the captain," Blanton went on. "The news had leaked out somehow. 'Listen, Cap,' he says. 'If we can make even a mild sort of demolition bomb we can beat them off.'"

The captain had heeded Briggs. While they stalled and parleyed with the yacht, powder from pistol bullets was rigged up into a weak bomb, the plane that hopped ashore with the mail from twelve hours at sea was hitched to the catapult and the pilot took off. At the same time the Britannia spun about and headed to windward of the yacht. There was a big yell from the yacht, then the mail pilot swooped over it and dropped his bomb. It was weak, so he didn't have to worry about being blown up while flying too close. He split a gas tank on the deck just as Briggs had recommended, and before he had got a hundred yards away, the yacht went to pieces.

"They got the full dose of their own gas," Blanton said. "The ship just broke up in pieces. Now, Mr. Wentworth, I've told all. How about putting me in touch with that somebody on the Britannia!"

Wentworth found that he had been standing so stiffly his muscles ached with the strain of it. He lifted a hand and plunked a fist against a palm. "That was splendidly done, by God," he said.

"How about that 'phone call to the Britannia, Wentworth?" Blanton insisted. Wentworth nodded, crossed to the desk. He picked up the 'phone.

"Commissioner," a voice said rapidly. "I was just calling. Here's something the cop on the beat thinks you ought to hear about. A man was found burned with acid near the Funsdall National Bank. He was in an auto and . . . ."

Wentworth said, "Wait a minute," turned to Kirkpatrick and repeated what he had been told. His eyes narrowed suddenly, his fist struck the desk. "By Heaven, Kirk, he said. "They're going to attack the Funsdall National with the steel-eater!"

Blanton spun and his coat flapped out from him. He went toward the door in a fast dive. Wentworth reached him in two long strides, caught him by the shoulder. The reporter came about with his fist swinging, but it skidded off Wentworth's forearm and he found himself held helpless.

"Not yet, Blanton," Wentworth said quietly. "This is the first chance we've had to be on the scene before they struck and you're not going to warn them off with your paper."

Behind them, Kirkpatrick was clipping out orders over the telephone with the rapid efficiency for organization that made him the most successful police commissioner New York had ever had. Blanton wriggled his shoulders, sighed and subsided.

Kirkpatrick heel-pounded across the office, and Wentworth pulled Blanton along with them. They entered Kirkpatrick's big sedan, and the driver whirled it on a dime and sent them roaring downtown.

Above the roaring din of the powerful motor, there came another more ominous sound. The scattered banging of pistols and the chattering fury of machine guns!

New power droned into the engine. The sedan leaped and quivered with the force, lunged forward with mounting speed. The siren began to moan, its note rising, swelling until its shriek burst through the streets in terrific volume. Wentworth coolly took his two guns from their holsters. He knew they were in perfect condition, but it was comfortable to feel their weight. He clicked back the bolt, saw the gleam of brass in each chamber and thrust the automatics back into their holster clips. He was conscious of Blanton's eyes upon him. The reporter's face was pale and he had a deprecating grin on his mouth.

"Gun noise always makes me nervous," he apologized.

Wentworth laughed sharply. He was excited. He had more in mind than merely battling these gangsters who would be looting the Funsdall Bank. For days he had been seeking a new contact with the Master and always it eluded him. He could not even discover through which mob he worked now. This was a new chance. Out of the roil of battle just ahead, victory might come, and a clue to Baldy. Wentworth was thinking warmly of Briggs. The dapper, animated little architect had played a game part. He owed Nita's life to him, he realized, for it was obvious that the pirates had intended to destroy the Britannia and all aboard once they had the loot under their own hatches.

His thoughts cut off and he braced himself with feet and thighs as the sedan skidded around a corner, straightened with its rear swinging, and swooped up a narrow cross-street between the cliffs of skyscrapers. There were gaps here and there in the rows, shattered windows presented blank eyes and the sedan dodged pits in the street. Once more a whipping turn, this time to the left, and a khaki of National Guardsmen showed. The brakes snagged and rubber whined; the sedan's rear seemed to rise with the suddenness of the stop. It slewed sidewise and Wentworth went out first, guns in his hands. Kirkpatrick was right behind him. A blue uniformed police officer, a lieutenant, puffed up at a run.

"They're inside the bank, sir," he panted. "Wiped out every man in sight with machine guns before they went in."

The proof of his statement lay in the streets, scattered bodies in brown and blue. But the robbers were trapped. Behind barricades of autos, the khaki troops, reinforced by police, waited with leveled rifles, with ready machine guns. Wentworth ran an alert eye over the defenses, heard the lieutenant report that the bank was surrounded in just this way. Then a machine gun opened up from a window.

A soldier twenty yards away tilted up the muzzle of a Lewis gun, shoulders hunched to take its recoil, and squeezed on the trigger. The gun exploded in his hands. The bolt ripped through the side of his face, hurled him kicking to the ground. His helper, standing ready with a drum of ammunition, stared stupidly and a blast from the machine gun in the bank's window smashed his head to bits. Kirkpatrick cursed viciously, strode toward the lines, and a whistle shrilled. Soldiers threw up their rifles, aiming at that window of death. What was intended as a volley turned into a mass suicide. Every rifle of the twenty aimed at that window exploded in the hands of the soldiers.

Wentworth stared down at the automatic in his hand with twisted lips, then he plunged forward also.

"Cease firing!" he shouted, and his cry was a mockery. There wasn't a soldier at this barricade except the white-faced sergeant who had trilled the whistle. He, too, was staring stupidly at the automatic he held in his hand. Wentworth seized his arm.

"Where's the commanding officer?" he snapped.

The sergeant gestured toward a cigar store at the side of the street whose windows had long since been smashed by lead. Wentworth plunged toward it at a dead run, saw cement dust kick up in his path and wrenched aside, dived to the cover of the automobile barricade. Bullets drummed fiercely against it.

When firing stopped, he jumped to his feet, reached the store at a dead run, found the major in charge.

"They've turned the steel-eater loose on the guns," Wentworth barked. "They'll all explode. The bayonet is our only chance. They'll have to be used carefully or they'll crumble."

The Major stared at him a moment, then caught the drift of the words.

"You're Major Wentworth," he nodded. "I was in your company once, over there. Give me a hand, will you? I've lost three officers, and . . . ."

Wentworth cut him short with a jerk of his hand. "Couriers to order cease firing," he barked. "With your permission, Major, I'll organize a bayonet squad." His mouth twisted thinly. "I always had a theory I taught my own sergeants that two inches of the bayonet was plenty to kill. It will have to be today, and the thrusts will all have to be in the guts. Those blades, weakened by the steel eater, won't stand even a throat job today."

The major assented with a crisp nod, jerked off hat and coat and flung them at Wentworth. "That will give you authority," he said.

Wentworth hauled himself into the coat while machine guns drummed on. But the soldiers were not shooting now. The couriers had reached them with orders not to fire. Wentworth reached the sidedoor of the store in a stride, dived out and rolled to the cover of a barricade. Men in khaki were crouched there white-faced. They were not regular army men, just boys who loved military atmosphere and had signed up with the national guard. A few of their officers had seen overseas service; none of the boys had. They were clenching their bayoneted rifles but they had no confidence in them. They had ceased to be weapons for defense and attack and had become dangerous to the men who held them.

"Men," Wentworth pitched his voice above the chatter of the gangster guns, "your guns cannot be fired, but your bayonets are still good, if you use them right." Eyes turned to him, showed doubt at his strangely mixed garb. But his voice commanded obedience, his manner carried authority. "You need only two inches of the blade," Wentworth hammered on, "and that means two inches only. That will kill, will knock a man out cold on his feet the moment you pull the steel out of him. But remember, two inches only, and that here." He jabbed a finger into his abdomen below the parting of his ribs. "Right there and nowhere else!"

Chapter Seventeen
The Spider Wages Battle

HE WHIRLED, plucked a rifle from a soldier beside him and gripped it with light and ready hands. "These men we are going against have killed thousands," he said, "but they are cowards. They have killed by pushing buildings down on innocent men and women. We are the first who have had a chance to even that score." He looked about him and saw grimness creeping into the faces of these boys, their hands tensing on their rifles. "Remember, two inches of steel in the guts." He paused, drew a deep breath. "Follow me!"

With the word, he sprang to the hood of an automobile, vaulted clear and charged toward the bank. He had chosen his point of attack well. He was out of range of the window where the machine gun stammered, out of the line of the door. Yells rang out from all sides. An excited policeman leaped to the top of an automobile and threw down on the window with a submachine gun. It blasted to pieces in his hands, blew his stomach in so that he doubled over the shattered weapon. The ludicrous surprise on his face was instantly erased by the sponge of death.

Wentworth swung around the corner and a gangster with a machine gun at his hip gaped at him. He lifted the muzzle and Wentworth's rifle thrust out as lightly as a foil. The bayonet slid in over the machine gun, prodded through the man's clothing and was whipped out. The man's eyes closed and he slumped down. Blood welled out and spread over the steps in a widening pool.

Wentworth was flat against the wall behind one of the polished columns now, soldiers behind him and opposite him behind the other column.

The glass of the doors smashed to the stone floor and two soldiers against the opposite wall pitched to the steps across their guns. One bayonet struck point-on and shattered. Inside, a machine gun racketed. The hallway was a sounding chamber. The blasts were thunderous. Wentworth turned his head. "Grenade," he said crisply.

A heavy rough piece of iron was thrust into his hand. Wentworth yanked the pin and tossed the bomb through the shattered doors. The grenade's blast was oddly muffled and Wentworth nodded. The steel-eater had weakened the casing so that the force of the explosion was greatly reduced, but it still should do heavy damage. The machine gun had stopped. Wentworth sprang toward the doors.

There were cheers behind him now, cheers of men who saw hope for the first time. They went through the glassless doors in a resolute swift wave, bayonets thrusting ahead. They penetrated the inner door and a close group of men wheeled from a bank entrance on their left. Wentworth sprang close, his bayonet point snaking out. A man flung up his hands and went down screaming. Wentworth reached past him as he fell, but he could not get at the stomach of the next gangster and the man's pistol was coming up. He ran him through the throat and the steel snapped off short.

Wentworth had no time to snatch a fallen gun, no time even to think. There were five gangsters left. A pistol blasted and a soldier screamed. Falling, his head struck Wentworth's calves. He sagged slightly, pitched forward with the butt of his rifle sweeping upward. It crunched into the groin of another gangster and the man squealed, doubled over. The butt swept on, the rifle coming up over Wentworth's shoulder, and he grabbed it, thrust forward with all his weight behind the butt. It smashed a man's face.

On his right, a soldier ran his bayonet its full length into another gangster's stomach. A man behind the hood fired almost in the trooper's face and even as his bloodied head jerked back between his shoulder blades, a companion's bayonet slipped into the throat of the gangster. The hallway was cleared for the moment.

"Take their pistols," he barked over his shoulder, and stooped to scoop up two himself. There were only four soldiers behind him now. They were white-faced and alert. He nodded encouragement and slipped into the lobby of the bank. There were bodies scattered over the floor, steel cashier's cages were smashed and the vault-door was wrecked, but there was not a gangster in sight. Wentworth and his shattered squad raced the length of the long room, spotted an open door on the side and darted toward it.

Wentworth checked for a moment in that doorway, his face gone gray. Death confronted him. Death in a half-hundred scattered corpses of blue and khaki. He plunged on, darting toward the auto barricade. He lifted the body of a policeman from the fender of one of the cars, flung himself into the driver's seat and kicked the starter.

"Get five rifles with bayonets," he ordered.

He was frowning heavily as he flung the car about, as the four men who remained piled in. In some way, the gangsters had rendered their own guns immune to the gas. Either that, or the steel-eater had hovered so close to the ground that by raising themselves to the height of the bank's floor, they had been above the level that would affect guns. What wind there had been had blown from the East, and if the gas had been released so as to affect all the troops and police about the bank, it would have had to affect their own weapons, too.

Wentworth sent the car hurtling ahead, swung around a corner. Blocks away he could hear the shriek of sirens that betokened the chase. He flung on in pursuit, forehead still corrugated in thought.

Up ahead, the gangsters would run into police whose weapons had not been weakened by the gas, but slamming along in force as they were, no ordinary squad would have strength enough to stop them. Wentworth spun another corner and yanked violently at the wheel, barely skating aside from the wreckage of a police auto. In his one swift glance, he saw that the wheels of the police car had gone to pieces, all four of them. His lips shut grimly. A new use for the steel-eater. The gangsters had trailed it behind them in their flight and it had wrecked the car of at least one pursuer.

Wentworth flung a look ahead, saw two more cars piled up. He nodded his head. It was clever strategy, but there was a way to beat it. Three blocks to the right of the line of chase Wentworth hurled his car, then paralleled it with the motor roaring wide open. The robbers' defense had a defect. If they were to protect themselves by the gas, the gangsters must flee in a straight line. Otherwise, they might well double back upon their own weapon and be defeated by it. Police probably would not realize the reason for their cars crashing until too late to profit by the knowledge.

The accelerator was pinned to the floor and Wentworth's car rocketed along at close to seventy. He jammed the horn in place with a pin and kept it blaring for right of way as he raced on. Traffic was already disrupted by the wails of sirens. It dodged aside, gave Wentworth and his four soldiers a clear path. It was possible to keep track of the chase by the sirens and the scattering bursts of shots from the gangster cars. Gradually those sounds came nearer and finally dropped behind and still Wentworth crushed the accelerator to the floor and burned the street northward.

Finally he swung left once more, toward the line of escape. His mind was racing with the swift roar of his engine. It would be a futile thing to dash these five lives into the path of the gangsters. Something more was needed than five automatics, for which they had no extra ammunition.

His car crossed Fourth Avenue in a bound and he stood on the brakes, jerked his head toward the soldiers on the rear seat.

"You and you," he picked two with his eyes, "commandeer trucks and block Fifth Avenue."

The two men sprang out instantly with their rifles and Wentworth sent his machine lurching on, crossed Fifth Avenue and hurtled Broadway, where he ordered the last two soldiers to block the street with cars and trucks. Then he raced on, circled two blocks back along the line of chase and found an interurban truck lumbering southward with a heavy trailer behind. Wentworth stopped it, flung to the driver's seat, rifle in hand.

"Out," he barked. "I'm taking the truck for police business."

The men stared at his haphazard uniform, started to argue and decided not to as Wentworth clambered up with the business end of the bayonet forward. The truckmen dropped off and he started the truck with a lurch, headed east toward Broadway. The sirens and shots were racing nearer. Then the siren stopped and Wentworth guessed that the last of the police cars had gone to pieces under the assault of the steel eater. He crouched low behind the steel front of the truck and waited, saw six cars sweep up Broadway in a close bunch. Then he started the truck lurching forward again, turned into their wake.

He heard the frantic squeal of brakes, and grim laughter bubbled up from his chest. Two trucks, traveling abreast, had swung out into Broadway and were trundling straight toward the gangster cars. A blasting fury of gun shots ripped out from the mob cars and one of the trucks swerved, locked wheels with the other and turned them both over in a splintering wreck upon the street. They blocked it from curb to curb, sloped up on the sidewalks. There was no escape for the gangster cars. The leader had almost rammed into the wrecked trucks. Now he began to back and whirl southward again.

Wentworth had reached the corner of the block in which they were trapped. He angled his huge truck and trailer across the street, set the truck running wild toward the gangster cars and dropped from the driver's seat. He had two guns and the rifle and he flung himself flat on the street and began firing beneath the body of his truck. The huge twenty-tonner wheeled on. The leading gangster's car halted and men scattered from it. An instant later the nose of the truck rammed the car, ground over the wreckage. From the debris, a faint, almost imperceptible gas filtered upward, then settled heavily toward the street. The street was completely blocked and gangsters scattered from the other cars also. A machine gun stuttered and bullets began to pock the asphalt beneath the truck. Suddenly, the machine gun stopped. It stopped with a blasting explosion that hurled its wielder bloodily to the ground. An automatic exploded in another man's hand and Wentworth laughed grimly as he pumped out his last bullets. The steel-eater had turned on its users. Their own guns were crippled now.

With a yell, he bounded to his feet, snatching up the bayoneted rifle which he had carried with him. His shout brought one soldier from the wreckage of the trucks and around the corner from Fifth Avenue two others pounded. In the hands of each, a bayoneted rifle was gripped. More than one of those bayonets was tipped with red.

"Their guns are useless, men!" Wentworth yelled. "Remember, two inches of steel in the guts!"

He hurtled forward at a dead run, his bayoneted gun at port across his body. Two more gangsters tried in their excitement to shoot and the weapons blew up and tore their hands with their explosions. The bolt smashed one man's face, then the whole group turned and ran. Thirty men turned and ran frenziedly from four. But they were weaponless, their morale had been shattered when their sure defense turned upon them and stripped them of guns. And the four attackers had long knives that would stab, two inches deep, into their guts. The underworld murderers turned and fled.

A soldier overtook Wentworth and the Spider snatched another grenade from the man, hurled it toward the fleeing gangsters. It smashed with the same oddly muffled blast, but flying fragments felled two men. The other soldier, charging from the opposite end of the block, snatched out a grenade and hurled it. Another gangster spun on his heels and went down. Then the leaders reached a subway kiosk.

"Down here!" one hood yelled. "They can't throw grenades down here!"

The gangsters funneled into the subway, rats scampering to cover. Wentworth caught a grenade from a soldier and whirled toward the kiosk on the opposite side of the street. Where the gangsters had entered, they could reach only downtown trains, trains that would shoot them back into the arms of the police from whom they fled. But, by climbing down and crossing the tracks, they could catch an uptown train. That was what Wentworth raced to prevent.

He darted down the stairs, sprang to the uptown platform as the gangsters streamed out on the opposite side. Wentworth trailed his bayoneted rifle in his left hand. In his right, he held the grenade. The leading gangster, plunging for the tracks, reeled back and his companions collided with him. Wentworth cursed viciously. The leader was McSwag! Somehow he had gathered a fresh mob and returned to the assault. The red Spider glimmered on his forehead and Wentworth had sworn to put a bullet on that spot the next time they met, yet he was helpless without arms; he raised the grenade.

"Surrender," he shouted, "or I'll blow the roof down on all of you."

McSwag's lips writhed, but what he said was drowned in the thunder of an approaching train. It was on the downtown side and it slid its steel sides between Wentworth and his prey. The gangsters streamed in as the doors opened and through the windows Wentworth saw the three soldiers charging toward the turnstiles with bayonets ready. He saw McSwag race toward the front car, knock the conductor aside and press the buttons that controlled the slide doors, operated by compressed air. The doors slid shut. The motorman, unaware that anything untoward had occurred, got the electric flash of the automatic signal indicating the doors were shut and the train slid forward. The soldiers hammered against the doors, too late. As the train gathered headway, Wentworth saw McSwag striding toward the motorman's cubicle in the first car.

He cursed, but lowered the grenade. There were a hundred innocent persons aboard that train. He could not wreck it, even to wipe out this gang of murderers. He felt the platform beneath him shaking to the vibration of the departing train, and suddenly his eyes flew wide. He swung about and slapped through the exit doors from the platform, yanked open the door of the station-agent's booth.

"Stop all trains," he shouted hoarsely.

The station agent gaped at him.

"Stop the trains, fool," Wentworth snarled at him. "The steel-eater has been spread all along the streets above the subway. The gas is heavy and will settle into the tubes; the vibration . . . ."

He choked, reeled, caught the side of the door and stood trembling while a rumbling, hollow concussion roared through the tunnel. The lights blinked out and for a moment, utter silence followed the echoes of the cave-in.

"Too late," Wentworth said hoarsely. "Too late!" He pushed himself away from the doors of the booth, made his way heavily up the steps to daylight. The soldiers boiled out of the opposite exit, stared down the street. Four blocks down Broadway, the pavement had dropped through. Thereafter, for five blocks, the street had become a great crater. The roof of the subway had fallen in.

The gangsters had carried another hundred persons with them to death, but it was a cosmic retribution that had been visited upon them.

The weapon that they had used against others had crushed them in turn!

Chapter Eighteen
Two Thousand Will Die!

WENTWORTH stood in the ruined street in his partial-uniform dress and rocked his knuckles across his forehead while the soldiers stood by with their bloody bayonets. McSwag! His presence here, his leadership of this new mob meant something, Wentworth knew, but what was it? The meaning was vital; he knew that from the sharp excitement that tingled through his veins.

Abruptly, a hoarse cry sounded in his throat, low and muffled, a hoarse cry that meant discovery and triumph. He broke into a headlong sprint, finally found a taxi. "Police headquarters, fast!" he barked.

The taxi driver took him literally, doing a fandango of speed among the pits in the streets, the blocks of roped-off debris. Wentworth sat on the edge of his seat with his fists clenched on his knees, his head thrust alertly forward. His body swayed to the jerks of the bucking cab. His face was white and eager. He knew now where to find the Master—not who he was, but where to find him! There would be around two thousand other persons at the same place, but there was a way to pick him out!

The Spider and the police had burned down gang after gang, only to have the terror of the Master rise phoenix-like from the ashes. Once more that feat would be performed, once more death and destruction would be scattered broadcast over the land. The Master was insatiable. There would be no end of peril until he died. Wentworth flung from the cab, tossing money at the driver, and went up the steps of the Centre Street station in giant bounds. The Master should die!

Wentworth punched open the door into Kirkpatrick's sanctum without announcement, sprang to the telephone and got hold of the hangar where his seaplane was kept.

"Bring it to the Battery dock at once," he ordered. "What the hell has rough water got to do with it? At once, I said!"

He slammed up, got hold of Professor Brownlee. "My weapon, is it ready?"

He nodded in satisfaction at the news that a courier was on the way with it, ordered a radio 'phone call for Nita on the Britannia, then straightened, barking words at the staring Kirkpatrick.

"The Master is aboard the Britannia!" he snapped. "I'm flying out. There'll be room for you if you want to go."

"If I want to?" Kirkpatrick was on his feet at once, striding to the wardrobe in the corner. "The murderer is still at work. An elevated train went through its tracks a half hour ago and killed more than twenty people."

Not curses, but savage laughter rose to Wentworth's lips. "He shall pay!" He went out the door with pounding heels and Kirkpatrick crowded behind him. His heavy sedan rocketed southward through the streets, passing rows of hearses and ambulances carrying the dead and injured from the scenes of the Master's latest atrocities, past the strewn bodies where the soldiers had fallen, past the cavern where the subway victims lay dead. But all that was a blurred picture of speed.

"How do you know the Master is on the Britannia?" Kirkpatrick demanded as the two of them swayed jerkily to the howling speed of the car.

"McSwag was the leader of the bank mob," Wentworth told him, his eyes fixed ahead, subconsciously picking the path for the car through the traffic. He nodded, turned his head. "Your driver is almost as good as my Jackson," he said.

Kirkpatrick swore. "What the hell has McSwag leading that mob got to do with the Master being on the Britannia?"

"It means that since the Spider wiped out McSwag's mob in Brooklyn, the night the bridge fell, Baldy has made no fresh contact with the gangsters." There was a curious smile on Wentworth's mouth. "If you will recall, none of your stoolies, nor all your police have been able to catch so much as a hint of Baldy being seen—Baldy is a conspicuous figure with his bald head and his cast eye!"

"But Baldy and the Master are two different men," said Kirkpatrick doggedly, "and I'd like to know before I risk my life in this crazy flight just what is behind your deductions."

The Sedan braked roughly to a halt, its locked rear wheels dribbling over the concrete. Wentworth flung out and slammed into a dock house, grabbed a pay 'phone. "That call to the Britannia?" he demanded. He got the connection, got Nita.

"Darling," he said rapidly, "for the next six or seven hours I want you to become garrulous. I want you to tell everybody that your fiancé is in with the police and that he has found out the Master of the wreckers is abroad the Britannia. Also that he has a clue that will identify the Master definitely. You may go even farther, darling, and tell them your fiance's exact words: that he said he had the 'key to the situation.' Yes, darling, I know you don't know what I'm talking about, but the Master does. And here's something else to do. Have Anse organize the crew, with the captain's help, and keep watch on every American on board. You watch Butterworth yourself. What am I expecting? Why, the key to the situation will show itself. Honest, dearest, it's not a riddle. Not a word to anyone but Anse now, beautiful, or it might leak out to the Master before we're ready. First Anse, sweetheart, then turn gossip. And we'll see you soon. Yes, we're flying out."

Kirkpatrick glared at him. "Damn it, Dick," he said. "I trust you, but I wish you'd tell me what it's all about before I risk my neck in this fool hop."

Wentworth spun to face him. "It's a long chance, Kirk," he said. "A damn long one, but it may trap the Master. Until we do that, not a man or woman in this country is safe. We beat the gangsters today, but now that the steel-eater has demonstrated its ability to destroy guns, nothing will be immune to attack. They could strip the treasury itself. An enemy equipped with the secret of the steel-eater could sweep us off the earth."

Kirkpatrick agreed, still angry and plucking at his spike-ended mustache in irritation.

Wentworth strode out into the open, set his teeth as the bite of the fresh wind from the sea cut into him, and pushed his heavily-coated body into it until he stood by the stringpiece, staring grim-eyed at a small speck that showed above Governor's Island and winged rapidly toward them. A man strode to him with a package. "From Professor Brownlee, sir."

Wentworth nodded curtly, took the package in both hands. Kirkpatrick stood beside him with his fists rammed into his pockets. "All right," he said. "McSwag is the key. Now what?" He had to raise his voice to make it audible above the whip of the wind and the sullen boom of waves against the stone bulkhead.

"It proves," Wentworth said dryly, "that the Master has been abroad since McSwag was beaten the first time."

"But how do you know he's aboard the Britannia?"

Wentworth's lips twisted stiffly. "Because the Britannia was attacked," he said.

Kirkpatrick's oath was inarticulate, but he dropped his questioning. He saw that Wentworth did not intend to give the explanation yet and he stared at the seaplane, circling now to a landing on the rough waters.

"He can't make it!" Kirkpatrick muttered, the words sucked from his lips by the wind. But the pilot did make it, and seven hours later, Wentworth duplicated his feat on long sliding billows beside the Britannia, kept the plane taxiing there until a hoist boom dropped a hook that lifted them to the decks. He carefully unwrapped the package he had received from Brownlee and thrust the glittering gun it contained in his belt.

The British captain, dour-faced above a heavy white mustache, was stiffly indignant at this further delay to the Britannia's progress, already slowed by storm and the brush with the pirates. Nita and Anse Collins met Wentworth in the captain's private cabin, but to his eager questions they responded only with shakes of their heads.

"I reckon I don't know exactly what's up," Anse Collins said slowly, "but I didn't see a soul throw anything overboard." Wentworth nodded, keen eyes on the tall deputy's face.

"Alrecht is on board," he said, "but he's in disguise. Nita, I think we'd better hold a council of war in your suite. Anse, get Nancy and Briggs. Ram Singh's already down in the suite. Come on, Kirk."

Wentworth strode down to C deck where Nita had taken a cabin. His head was up, but inwardly he was worried. He had counted a great deal on trapping the Master by his talk of the "key" to the situation, a reference the Master would have understood meant the key to the safety deposit-box he had shared with O'Leary Simpson. He had hoped the Master would throw it overboard, but the Master had outguessed him, had figured that his feint was precisely that.

At the door of Nita's cabin, Wentworth was halted by a page boy in a neat short-jacketed uniform who proffered a small silver tray on which lay an envelope. Wentworth glanced down from it to the boy's face.

"Where did you get this?" he demanded swiftly.

"It was on the desk when I returned from a call, sir," the boy reported.

Wentworth nodded, thanked him, took the envelope carefully and slit it open. Within was a single sheet of paper. There was one sentence on it.

If you find me, this ship sinks
and two thousand people die.

—The Master

Wentworth grinned crookedly at the message and passed it over to Kirkpatrick. "Our bluff worked partly," he said. "We at least forced the Master to admit his presence. Do you believe me now?"

Kirkpatrick said quietly, "I always believe you, Dick."

As they entered Nita's suite, Ram Singh rose from beside a bunk where a motionless figure lay. His eyes glinted as they met his master's and he swept a salaam almost to the floor. He did not speak. Wentworth glanced only cursorily at the man on the bunk, who, face turned to the wall, seemed utterly indifferent to the visitors, but Kirkpatrick crossed and stared down at him. There was a tap at the door and Nancy came in with Briggs and Anse behind her. Briggs was carrying a thick portfolio of leather, puffing a black cigar. "Can't get away from my work," he spluttered. "Carrying it with me. Figuring on a new skyscraper. Take place of Sky Building."

Wentworth clasped his hand warmly. "That was splendid work you did wiping out that ship load of pirates."

Briggs' curiously contradictory face with its keen eyes above van Dyke and imperial wrinkled with good humor. "Did a bit of killing on your own what I hear."

Wentworth smiled, amazed that Briggs had been so interested in his activities. He waited until the small talk stopped, until the people in the room were watching him seriously.

"The Master is aboard," he said, and watched the smiles wash themselves off the faces of Briggs and Nancy, saw Anse Collins' sharp blue eyes flicker and chill. "He says that if I find him, he will destroy the ship."

Briggs puffed excitedly on his cigar. "Must find him," he barked out, his voice going loud. "Find the steel-eater gas."

"Quite so," agreed Kirkpatrick. "But how? Remember, if we fumble at all, we and two thousand others die."

Wentworth was standing erect, his hands idle at his sides, his head thrust forward aggressively. "We are not without a clue," he said briskly. "I had deduced that the Master was abroad, and other deductions led to that. His presence on this ship confirms them all. The Master was a cautious man. He covered every step of his work, protected himself behind a dozen shields." Wentworth described swiftly how he had got his money through O'Leary Simpson, how he spoke always through a mouthpiece whom he never saw personally.

"When a mob became too powerful for him to handle," Wentworth went on, "he dropped a clue to police or to the Spider and had it destroyed."

He paused, looked swiftly about the faces in the room. There was keen interest on the faces of the men. Nita was calmly confident, a slight smile on her full red lips, her blue eyes on his. Nancy Collins was frightened. She alone of those in the room seemed to sense the peril that overhung them . . . If you find me, the ship will sink . . . Wentworth knew that was no idle threat, knew that the Master was fully capable of fulfilling his threat, knew that he would have means at hand. He need only release his steel-eater, and not all the labor of the entire crew could save the Britannia from plunging downward through the black waters, her hull shattered fragments of gray powder that had been steel.

He turned toward Kirkpatrick, "Kirk, I had a talk with Beatrice Ross. She was thoroughly chastened after her imprisonment. But more than that, she was eager to get back at the Spider. She told me about his crashing in on McSwag's hideout that night. She said that the way Baldy proved his identity to the gangsters, when the Spider came there in Baldy's disguise, was to have one of the gangsters feel his bald head!"

Kirkpatrick's hard blue eyes were upon him. Anse Collins was breathing heavily through his mouth and Briggs' cigar had gone out again. Wentworth met Nita's eyes and shook his head slightly.

"Baldy really was bald. Otherwise, the fact that the Spider's apparently bald head was false would not have been a factor in determining which was the real Baldy.

"The Master never did a thing when he could get someone else to perform for him . . . that is if there was personal danger involved," Wentworth continued. "He tipped off McSwag's raid on the Funsdall bank!"

"The hell he did!" This from Kirkpatrick.

"Remember, an acid-burned body was found near the bank?" Wentworth asked. "That was the tip-off. The day before that, he had revealed through the attack on the Britannia that the weapon used was acid gas!"

Kirkpatrick's blue eyes were dubious. "But the Britannia might well have been destroyed without a trace, without a survivor to tell of the acid gas."

Wentworth shook his head slowly. "No Kirk," he said softly. "I think that if Briggs had not supplied the way out, the thing would have been accomplished in another way. I think the Master intended the destruction of the yacht and all aboard, just as he contrived McSwag's downfall. But these are minor points; what I am pointing out is the caution of the man. Invariably, he used some one else to destroy the hirelings for whom he no longer had any use." He paused and drew a deep breath, looked again over the six whose eyes were riveted to his face.

"The Master was so cautious that I think there is one time when he did not use anyone else, one time when it would have been more dangerous to use some one else than to do the thing himself. I do not believe he trusted any man sufficiently to use him as a mouthpiece, even though all communications were supposed to be by telephone. Baldy has not been spotted in New York despite a most intensive search since the night the McSwag mob was wiped out by the Spider and Betty Briggs was freed." He smiled tightly at Nita. "An hour after you sailed, my dear."

Kirkpatrick broke in sharply. "Hell, you mean . . . ." Wentworth nodded. "That the Master and Baldy are one and the same man!" There was startled silence.

"Alrecht may be bald for all we know," said Wentworth quietly.

He stepped quickly to the motionless figure on the bunk, whipped aside the covers and bent over the man.

"Are you bald, Alrecht?" he asked.

"Alrecht!" Kirkpatrick exploded the word, sprang to the bunk and stared down at the prisoner. "But you said you were bringing Butterworth back from England!"

Wentworth nodded. "Quite," he admitted. "But you will remember that this Butterworth never visited his people in Kent, that he made deposits in Alrecht's name, that all trace of Alrecht vanished when Butterworth left the country."

"You mean Butterworth and Alrecht are the same man, too?" Kirkpatrick was incredulous.

"No," Wentworth was smiling thinly down at the indignant face of the lawyer, across whose mouth were strips of gagging adhesive tape. "I only mean that Alrecht went abroad on Butterworth's passport after the picture on it was altered for him. I mean that Butterworth is undoubtedly dead and I suspect that it was his body, burned by acid to prevent identification, that was found beside the Funsdall bank. The Master ordered his elimination, undoubtedly ordered from abroad, to betray McSwag."

Wentworth leaned over and stripped off the adhesive and Alrecht immediately began to splutter out indignant words that sounded rusty. Wentworth caught his hair in both fists and yanked vigorously. The hair did not come loose and Alrecht howled with pain.

"I didn't think he could be the Master," Wentworth said quietly. "But he knows who the Master is. The Master was blackmailing him, probably had his evidence placed somewhere ready to be released in case of his death. That would protect him. The Master was a coward."

"Alrecht knows who the Master is?" asked Kirkpatrick softly. He was standing directly over the bunk and slowly he took off his belt, fingered the buckle. "There should be a way of making Alrecht talk."

Chapter Nineteen
The End of the Murder Master

WENTWORTH turned carelessly away from where Alrecht lay, glaring up at Kirkpatrick. He nodded slightly to Nita. It was more a movement of the eyes than of the head. At the same moment, he barked staccato Hindustani words at Ram Singh. The Hindu took two swift strides across the room and seized Briggs' arms. Nita stepped up behind him and, wrapping her fingers in his long hair, yanked fiercely at it. There was a moment of struggle, of panted curses, then the hair came free and revealed an egg-shaped bald head.

Wentworth's gun was in his hand. "W. Johnson Briggs," he said sharply, "you are Baldy. You are the Master! There is other damning evidence against you, too. We will find, I think, that you left the Berengaria before she sailed, then overtook her by fast boat while she went down the bay. You had to see McSwag once more before you sailed."

"He did do that!" Nancy Collins cried out. "He said it was business."

"Also," Wentworth said. "I am sure that Alrecht will now confirm that he saw you open the box in which O'Leary Simpson placed Bessmo money."

"He did," said Alrecht grudgingly from the bed. "But I didn't know what it meant. I only knew he was afraid when I recognized him."

Wentworth was grinning tensely, eyes watching Briggs with keen attention. "There were two other circumstances which pointed to you, Briggs," he said. "From the description by Ram Singh of Baldy, he smoked a cigarette like a man used to cigars, that is, Baldy wet the entire end of the cigarette with his lips. And you smoke cigars, Briggs.

"Furthermore, the man who got something on the contractor O'Leary Simpson, who got his secret specifications and held them over him to force his cooperation in buying Bessmo stock, must necessarily have been someone connected with the building trade. And you were, Briggs. Then there was the matter of Baldy's big head, and your own as evidenced by that picture of your daughter wearing your hat."

"This is all utter nonsense," Briggs protested hoarsely. "How could I possibly profit from all these murders?"

"That's the simplest part of it," Wentworth told him curtly, "and the fiendish part of it, too. First you got a cut of all the money seized by the criminals with the use of this gas steel-eater that you stole from Jim Collins. Second, you profit from contracts for the rebuilding of skyscrapers, for you are a leading architect of such buildings. Third, you would take in millions through dividends from the Bessmo Corporation, whose stock you held through O'Leary Simpson. Is that a full enough picture, Briggs? Or shall I give more . . . ."

Suddenly, without warning, Ram Singh reeled backward, his head knocked back between his shoulders. Briggs snatched his leather portfolio and sprang past Nita against the wall.

"If one of you moves," he cried sharply, "the ship sinks!" He held the portfolio raised above his head, a gun in the other hand.

"Nonsense, Briggs," Kirkpatrick growled. "That bag couldn't possibly hold enough gas to sink this ship."

Briggs laughed shrilly. "It holds enough to release the big tank of gas I have hidden aboard the ship. The ventilation system of the ship will carry this to it. Your guns are useless. I released gas into the room when I first entered, just a little, but enough to make your guns explode if you fire them. My own weapon is impervious to the gas."

Anse Collins was crouched with his fists clenched, his eyes glaring. Nancy Collins had shrunk back from Briggs and Nita picked herself up slowly from the floor where Briggs had hurled her. She dropped the wig from her hands with a shudder of distaste.

"Give up, Briggs," Kirkpatrick snarled at him. "You can't escape . . . ."

Briggs' gun came up slowly. "Oh, yes, I can," he said. "I can kill you-all—my southern accent again—take your plane and release the gas. Yes, I think I should escape."

"The Spider has your daughter captive," Wentworth said quietly.

Briggs glared at him. "I shall make you tell where she is, Wentworth," he said curtly. "Talk, or your Nita shall suffer terribly before she dies. A bullet through her white belly . . . . There's no use in pretending you're not the Spider. I know you are. This stuff about getting that story from Bee Ross—That's all hokum!"

"My gun also is impervious to the gas," Wentworth put in quietly. His weapon was leveled at the little man's stomach.

"A bluff," snarled Briggs, "a bluff that will get you nowhere!"

Abruptly he sprang sideways, flung his arms about Nita van Sloan so that he held the pistol in front of her—the pistol and the portfolio.

"Grab his bag!" Wentworth snapped.

Nita snaked her arms from out of his grip, seized the portfolio with both hands. Briggs snarled, raked at her head with his automatic and she reeled forward, but she still clutched at the bag, doubled her body forward to protect it. Wentworth sprang sideways, his automatic jerking up, but Briggs was too swift for him. The small man bounded like a rubber ball, went out through the suite's door into the hall and banged the barrier shut behind him. He blasted lead through the panel and Collins dropped to the floor, his left leg shattered by a bullet. He cursed violently. Nancy flung down on her knees beside him, shielding him with her body from more lead.

"Oh, Anse," she moaned. "God, don't let him die!"

Briggs shouted outside the door.

"The first man to open the door dies," Briggs bellowed. "Remember your guns are useless."

Wentworth charged the door and wrenched it open, hurling himself aside. More lead streamed through the opening, hammering the wall. Kirkpatrick, who had rushed forward, stopped with a grunt, sat down heavily with both arms locked across his belly. He staggered to his feet and pulled a shattered gun from his belt. Briggs' bullet had struck there. He reeled a moment, sank weakly down to the floor. He wasn't injured badly but the blow had paralyzed his muscles.

"Sahib," Ram Singh's voice was sharp but low at Wentworth's elbow. "I could climb out through the porthole."

"Say it loudly," Wentworth whispered, and the Hindu repeated, as if he were calling from across the room.

"Sahib, if I could get past the door, I could climb out the porthole."

"I'll knock out the light," Wentworth called back. He did that, then thrust his gun into his belt, sprang for the door and caught the lintel with both hands. He swung with his feet doubled up and landed softly on all fours in the hallway. No shot welcomed him and his lips skinned back from his teeth in a tight, fierce grin. His ruse had worked, had drawn Briggs away from his guard in fear that he might be flanked.

Darting soft-footed along the hall, Wentworth swiftly figured out the geography of the ship, where the ventilation system would shoot the fumes that Briggs had planned to release in the stateroom. He frowned as he ran, shook his head. It was nonsense. The ventilators did not blow out of the rooms. They blew fresh air into them. He should have grasped that at once. The whole thing had been a bluff. Briggs had come into the suite without any suspicion that he might be exposed and had cleverly seized on a ruse to stall off capture.

A picture flashed into Wentworth's mind. Eddie Blanton telling of the destruction of the pirate yacht. A tank on the deck, he had said. Wentworth recalled abruptly that he had seen a cylindrical tank in the forward deck-well, lashed to the deck. He threw caution to the winds and sprinted.

Wentworth plunged into the opening from which the man had issued, found a narrow companionway winding upward.

He grabbed the rails and yanked himself up the steps, reached the deck above and spun out into the open.

Wentworth streaked forward along the deck, sprang to the railing. The well was in shadow, but he made out the cylindrical form of the tank, made out a man hunched above it.

"Get away from that tank, Briggs," he roared, "or by heaven I'll shoot the heart out of you."

Mocking laughter floated up to him and the cover clanged against metal as Briggs wrenched it from the tank. Good God! What was Briggs yelling?

"Too late, Spider," he jeered from the darkness. "You're too late. You can't reach me in time to stop the gas. You can't shoot because your gun will blow up . . . ."

Wentworth sent his wild laughter into the night. "I can shoot, Briggs!" he shouted. "I had a gun plated with gold for just this emergency . . ." He plucked an oiled rag that protected the inside of the barrel from the muzzle, threw a half dozen shots at that huddled figure on top the tank.

He sprang to the rail, balanced for an instant, then sprang out into the darkness toward the steel deck of the well.

Briggs' scream came again, nearly inarticulate words. "You . . . damned . . . ." It mingled pain and startled surprise, then changed to a piercing shriek of absolute terror.

Wentworth's feet banged on the deck and he sprawled on hands and knees, his gun flying from his hand. He fought to his feet, lunged toward the bulk of the tank. He could no longer see Briggs, but in his nostrils was an acrid burning odor. It strangled him, bit at his eyes. He knew what that was. The steel-eater had escaped, but had enough of it got out to soften the Britannia's plates?

With a sob, he flung himself on the tank, groping with nails that grated painfully on its sides for the lid that Briggs had removed. He heard the Master screaming, heard him beg for mercy, and the sounds were hollow. They were accompanied by a muffled clangor of leather beating steel.

As Wentworth's groping hands found the lid, he realized what had happened. His bullets sprayed into the darkness had struck Briggs and bowled him into the opening of the tank of gas! Remembering what had happened to that other man who had been caught in a concentrated fog of the steel-eater, Wentworth felt a horror stab into his soul. Briggs was being eaten alive by the gas!

But there could be no hesitancy. Moments were precious. Already enough of the gas might have escaped to sink the Britannia. If he paused to haul Briggs from his torture chamber, more of the vicious steel-eater would leak out. The ship would certainly be doomed. Wentworth's shoulders swelled. He seized the round metal lid of the tank's manhole and with a heave slapped it into place. Its clang was hollow and cracked and Briggs' rising scream was muted.

"Soap!" Wentworth yelled at the bridge. "Get soap and swab down the decks and plates! Fast, man!"

Behind him, he heard Kirkpatrick catch up the cry. The Commissioner had recovered from that bullet blow against his stomach, realized what he was doing, realized that soap would counteract the acid effect of the steel-eater.

The ship was safe and Wentworth's head wrenched back between his shoulders as the fearful grim laughter bubbled from his lips. He was laughing with fierce pleasure, the laughter that comes from the gods when a human monster's own works turn upon him and destroy him. And he was echoing, too, the shout of triumph with which the world hails cosmic retribution. Thinking of the tens of thousands that had died, the tens of thousands more that would go through life as cripples because this man had longed for gold, Wentworth reached for the turnbuckles that would secure the lid of the tank and seal Briggs in his cell of acid gas—gas that concentrated as it was here, would eat through living, human flesh.

And as Briggs' muffled screams of agony, his beating upon the walls that imprisoned him grew weaker, Wentworth leaned against the tank and his hands shook. Finally the sounds ceased within and the Spider lifted a drawn face toward the stars that shed dim light down upon the Britannia, upon the two thousand souls he had saved. And the Spider shuddered.

"It was horrible," he said hoarsely. "But it was necessary and it was just. God knows it was just!"

THE FACELESS ONE

Chapter One
Death-Trap for the Spider

THE lounge corridor that led to the terrace garden of the Hesperides Club was deserted. Inside, warm lights cast a subdued glow; the thumping rhythms of a swing band fought against the wolf whine of the November winds. At the end of the corridor, the French doors were tightly sealed. No patron of the club would wish to brave that terrace, open to the arctic breath from the nearby river. Yet now, someone was outside. The knob of the door turned slowly. And against the lighted panes of glass, there was a queerly distorted shadow, as if a man with curiously hunched shoulders crouched there, working on the lock!

Muted shouts and a muffled shot from outside slapped across the musical murmur that sifted into the corridor from the huge dining-room, but these sounds were swallowed in the universal thump of the orchestra. There was a brittle snap of breaking metal . . . and the door thrust open! A few, hard fine snowflakes whirled in through the opening and the curtains shivered in the cold. Then a figure whipped into the corridor, the door clapped shut and a man whirled to send his piercing blue-grey gaze stabbing through the dim reaches of the club.

The shouts outside were louder, but there were no more shots . . . yet!

The man's lipless mouth twisted in a thinly bitter smile, and long silent bounds carried him along the carpeted hallway. A broad-brimmed black hat was drawn low over his brows, and as he ran a long, black cape whipped and bellied from his shoulders. A handkerchief was bound about his right hand, and the white cloth was stained with sinister red!

A dozen feet ahead, the door of a private dining-room opened quietly, and a waiter stepped into the corridor. His head was bent, and there was a knowing smile on his lips, slyness in his eyes. He straightened, and saw the racing figure, and the smile grew lop-sided on his lips; his mouth strained with the beginning of a scream that could not drag itself free of his lips.

"My God! The Spider!"

The Spider's leap was as fierce as the charge of a tiger! His left fist cut a crisp arc to the waiter's chin! He eased the man to the floor and, with a swift glance behind him, sped on! He whipped around the corner toward the great arch that was the main entrance to the dining-room!

An instant later, the terrace doors burst open and four men spilled into the corridor. They were hatless, without overcoats, faces burnished by the wind. Guns were in their fists and their eyes were hot and eager. Their leader pointed a hand toward the prostrate waiter, and the hand trembled.

"He came this way!" the man said, and there was a tremor in his voice, too, like the whine of a dog when the scent is hot. "Rex, stay here! Watch those doors! Mac is bringing the other boys around the front, and I'll get Duncan. By God!" He lifted a clenched fist on which the knuckles shone, white as bone. "By God, we've got the Spider!"

Three of his men raced on. The man called Rex stood beside the closed terrace doors. His eyes searched the doorways, the corridor. They even flicked to the ceiling. It was all right for Butch to leave him here to watch for the Spider, but God in heaven, what chance did one man stand against the Spider? That guy just wasn't human. Let a guy step outside the law, and try to grab himself a little easy money—and down upon him came the Spider! You could bribe cops, and judges; a smart mouthpiece could wriggle you through most any scrape, but from the Spider, there was no chance of protection at all!

Rex clutched his gun until his forearm ached. Behind him, the wind rattled the door . . . and he jumped two yards away from it, whipped about with a shaking gun-hand.

"Geez!" he whispered. "I wish the gang would come back!"

Just short of the arched entrance to the main dining-room of the Hesperides Club, the gunmen had gathered in a tight knot. Their wary eyes skimmed over the laughing guests inside the doorway. They were in a side alcove off the main lobby. Telephone booths lined one wall and no one heeded them. The man called Butch stood tautly, with his lips folded in against each other. His breath made rasping sounds in his nostrils.

A compact broad-shouldered man, smoothly plastered head thrust forward aggressively, swung around the corner and confronted.

"What the hell is this, Butch?"

Butch faced him. His words pushed but like bits of metal between clamping teeth. "The Spider! He came in here! Duncan, we've got him!"

Duncan's cold gambler's eyes narrowed. "By God, if we can get him, I'd almost be willing to wreck the club! You boys spread out. Doors plugged? Good! Mac, stay here. The rest of you . . . . Come on!"

The man called Mac had a sly, pointed face. His eyes were wide, round and palely shallow, the eyes of the killer. "The dining-room, Duncan," he said softly, the words almost lisped.

Duncan glanced toward him, took short choppy strides toward the main arch. His brittle glance swept the floor before settling on the headwaiter.

"Any new guests in the last five minutes?" he snapped.

"Nearly ten," the headwaiter murmured. "The Saxon-Thompsons. Miss van Sloan . . . ."

"To hell with them!" Duncan whirled to the others, gestured with a tautness that made his arm move jerkily. The men wedged behind him. They moved on their toes, eyes darting everywhere, hands thrust into gun pockets. Mac stood against the wall. Just let the Spider pop out now from somewhere. This super-man talk was a lot of rot. There wasn't any man you couldn't kill with a bullet in the right place. He'd put his mark on the Spider!

He grinned . . . then straightened.

* * *

A waiter with a worried frown swung around the corner from the main entrance. "You Mac?" he grunted. "There's a call for you in Duncan's office. Says come quick!"

Mac said, "Yeah? For me?"

He started toward the waiter, and the man turned away. They were around the corner for perhaps ten seconds, then Mac came bounding back.

"You get the number!" he called after the waiter. "I can't leave!"

His eyes stabbed quickly, hotly about the corridor, centered on the phone booths . . . on the booth at the very end. His round pale eyes stretched a little wider and the smile on his mouth became a twisted, sly grimace. He touched his tongue to his lips.

"Hey, you!" he snapped at the headwaiter. "Get Duncan, and get him fast!"

The headwaiter stiffened, stepped into the corridor. "Were you talking to me?" he asked indignantly.

Mac's head swung toward him deliberately, and his pale eyes fell on those of the headwaiter. The man quivered. "Yes, sir! Mr. Duncan, I'll get him!"

Mac kept his eyes on the booth, and Duncan came swiftly, slapping his heels down hard into the softness of the cushioned carpet. Mac pointed with his chin, his lips scarcely moving.

"The end booth," he murmured. "See that piece of black stuff sticking out through the door! That's the Spider's cape!"

Duncan drew in a quick, hard breath. His right hand snapped across his chest, came back into sight with a gun from an under-arm holster.

"You mugs close up this corridor," he whispered to the men at his back. "We don't want nobody from the dining-room butting in."

Duncan moved forward on his toes. Mac slipped from his side and came at the booth door from the other side. Their eyes shone, and their breath was noisy between colorless lips.

"Burn him down?" Mac formed soundless words.

Duncan nodded curtly. His teeth began to show between his lips. They were flat against the wall, against the other booths on each side of that partly opened door. Duncan reached out his hand, set it on the handle. He drew in a slow breath, his shoulders swelled. Then he whipped open the door!

With a muffled shout, Mac leaped forward, his gun lifted, ready. Duncan's gun was cradled against his hip.

White fumes roiled out of the opened door. Tendrils of smoke curled up toward the ceiling, swarmed about the shaded lights. There was that smoke, and the little tag-end of a black cape . . . and that was absolutely all. The booth was empty!

Duncan ripped out a harsh oath, spun toward Mac.

A booth five doors up the line was pushed open, and a man stepped out—a tall smiling man with a lithe self-confidence in his every movement, with his head, capped in crisp black hair, held commandingly. His evening dress was tailored perfection.

"What's the trouble, Duncan?" he drawled pleasantly. "Someone attempt to hold you up?"

Duncan whipped toward the man. For an instant, his face was out of control. His mouth was twisted by ugly rage, his eyes glittering. It was only an instant, then his calm gambler's mask dropped into place again, and he was smiling.

"A chiseler did a sneak on us, Mr. Wentworth," said Duncan suavely. "I hope we haven't disturbed you."

Wentworth smiled. The gesture of his right hand, a lean, delicately shaped hand, but powerful, was easy. "Not at all, Duncan," he said easily. "I hope you catch your . . . chiseler. I dislike such rabble."

"A chiseler did sneak out on us, Mr. Wentworth," said Duncan. "It's been a long time since we've seen you here. Welcome to the Hesperides." He stepped toward Wentworth . . . and thrust out his right hand!

Wentworth's easy smile did not fade, though he knew well the significance of Duncan's offered handclasp. These killers knew that the Spider had been wounded in the right hand . . . and here was Wentworth on the spot where the Spider had vanished in a cloud of smoke! The wound, no more than a bullet-burn, but damnably painful none-the-less, was covered now with a swift hemostatic collodion. And Wentworth, calmly, deliberately, accepted Duncan's handclasp. Duncan's fingers clamped down with a vise-like pressure, and his powerful thumb dug into the back of Wentworth's wounded hand!

Pain shot up Wentworth's arm and jarred against his nervous system like a thousand jabbing knives, but it was not for nothing that Wentworth lived his double life; on one hand the wealthy gentleman of leisure, clubman, sportsman; and on the other, that secret avenger of the night, that champion of preyed-upon humanity—known as the Spider! His clasp of Duncan's hand was natural, easy, and the careless smile of his lips never wavered!

Through long seconds, Duncan held that grip . . . then he relaxed it and stepped back, and there was puzzlement in his black eyes.

"You give your guests a warm welcome, Duncan," Wentworth said easily. "I'm sorry I haven't dropped by before, but I've been . . . rather on the run lately!"

Duncan faltered, "I hope we didn't disturb you."

Wentworth waved his right hand carelessly, a lean, powerful hand, but delicately sensitive in shape. "Not at all. I couldn't reach my party, and I didn't like to leave my number. Always unsatisfactory, don't you think?" He turned toward the close-pressed rank that closed the corridor. "I hope you catch your chiseler!"

Unostentatiously, he tucked his right hand into his trouser pocket. The blood was squeezing out through the collodion . . . and these wolves would need no more than a glimpse of blood upon his right hand to close in with blazing guns! Such was their fear and hatred of the Spider, they would risk anything at all to bring him down!

He moved casually toward the corridor guards. His grey-blue eyes looked beyond them. The headwaiter was already bowing obsequiously . . . . And that row of killers, of men panting for the life of the Spider, lawless criminals who lived by the gun . . . . These men stepped aside and made a passage for Wentworth without waiting for an order from Duncan! Such was the force of the man, Wentworth.

The headwaiter bowed again, "This way, Mr. Wentworth," he said loudly. "Miss van Sloan is waiting!"

Mac was at Duncan's elbow. "You heard what he said, didn't you? He tried to get somebody, and wouldn't leave his number. Well, look here. Somebody phoned me in your office, sent word by the waiter. I turned my back for maybe ten seconds . . . ."

"Ten seconds," murmured Duncan. "Time enough. Yes, time enough for him to leave one booth and duck into another . . . . But he didn't flinch when I clamped down on his hand."

"He's got that hand in his pocket now," said Mac . . . .

* * *

Richard Wentworth strolled easily across the dining-room of the Hesperides. A dozen people nodded to him eagerly, or tried to detain him at their tables, but he murmured his excuses and pushed on. He knew that Duncan's eyes were still on him, and that the men would not so soon, or so easily, drop their search for the Spider. He was still in the deathtrap! After all, the Spider had killed one of their number tonight, one of their experts who would be hard to replace—an expert in the cowardly vicious crime of arson!

Wentworth's eyes met those of Nita van Sloan across the last fifty feet of the dining-room and saw the smile move her full soft lips. His stride lengthened, and there was, perhaps, a pang in his breast; not that he regretted his task, or the duties to which he had pledged himself. But it was hard on Nita always to live thus in peril. A pity, a great pity that they were not what they seemed—two people very much in love and out for an evening's entertainment . . . .

"I hope, my dear," he murmured, "that I haven't kept you waiting long?"

"A year or so," Nita laughed up into his face. "At least five minutes."

Wentworth clasped her hands . . . with his left, dropped an order for Martinis to the attentive waiter as he slid into a chair opposite Nita, She leaned toward him with her handkerchief.

"Dear," she said, "You should be more careful when you keep me waiting! Who was she?" She touched his mouth corner with the handkerchief, dabbing away a bit of the Spider make-up which he had missed. Under her breath, she whispered. "Duncan is coming this way. Four men backing him, separately. Do you need my gun?"

Wentworth sighed, lips smiling though his grey-blue eyes were keen and cold. "I hoped to conceal that blonde from you," he said, and softly, "Knock over your glass and break it!"

Nita leaned back easily, but her hand, returning to her side, jarred her water glass toward the floor. Wentworth grabbed for it as it shattered . . . and gashed the back of his right hand! With an exclamation of annoyance, he clapped a handkerchief to the wound—and looked up into Duncan's coldly watchful eyes.

"I seem to be hard on your glassware this evening, Duncan," he said easily, and uncovered his hand.

Duncan's solicitous tones held an undercurrent of mockery. "I hope it's not a severe wound, Mr. Wentworth."

Wentworth smiled, "It might have been so much worse. Did you want something?"

Duncan uttered an exclamation. "Stupid of me. That wound quite cut it out of my mind. There's a phone call for you . . . in a booth in the hall."

"Somehow," Wentworth murmured, "I have an aversion to phone booths tonight. Have a phone plugged in here, Duncan."

He turned back to Nita, who was engaged in binding his cut hand with the napkin. "It's really nothing at all, dear," he said.

Duncan stood an instant longer by the table, then whipped about and went striding choppily across the dining-room.

"He's not satisfied," Nita said quietly. "He'll be back. What do you want me to do?"

"Nothing just now," Wentworth told her. "In a little while, we'll leave. I dropped my cigarette lighter while paying a call this evening . . . ."

Nita could scarcely control her start. In those few words, she knew the whole story. She knew that Wentworth's cigarette lighter held a device in its base for imprinting the seal of the Spider, and she knew where that seal was placed—upon the foreheads of those he killed in his coldly just execution of those who were outside the law!

A young couple strolled past, talking excitedly. "Best fire I've seen in years!" the man was exclaiming. "That old tenement burned like paper."

"And good riddance, I say!" the girl cried, and laughed.

Wentworth's lips lost their smile. Thoughtless fools! "Five children died in that fire," he told Nita quietly. "It was a touch-off! Arson!"

Nita's shoulders shuddered a little, and she drew the fur scarf about them. "So that was where you went," she whispered. "That man deserved death!"

Wentworth glanced up as the waiter set the Martinis before them with a flourish. Duncan was returning with another waiter who bore a table phone. The smile on his lips was quiet, and Nita did not need to read his thoughts. She knew that the Spider had ferreted out the guilty man and that he had got his deserts! But the cigarette lighter, and the bullet burn across the back of his hand . . . and these cold-jawed men with their terrible, hidden guns . . . .

Wentworth lifted the Martini in his left hand, and Nita gaily clinked her glass against his. "Death and destruction . . ." Wentworth murmured.

"The phone, Mr. Wentworth," Duncan interrupted suavely.

Wentworth laughed, and finished the toast . . . "to all care and sorrow, my dear!"

Duncan gestured to the waiter, who plugged in the phone . . . and Wentworth took it in his left hand. He was leaving no prints of his right hand here. It had been gripping the cigarette lighter when a bullet had burned across its back, paralyzing the grip of his fingers. And he needed the gun in his left hand, and needed it badly! There had been no time for anything except flight. He lifted the phone.

"Richard Wentworth here," he said, with a quiet smile at Nita. He had only half-believed in the reality of this phone call, but he knew the voice that cracked secretly in his ear.

"Danger, Major!"

Wentworth's nerves tautened. Only Jackson, who had served under him in the war and was still his top-sergeant, called him 'Major.' And Jackson was at police headquarters on the Spider's special business. But while Wentworth's nerves keyed to the excitement in Jackson's voice, even Nita could see no change in his smile.

"Yes," he said.

Jackson already was rushing on. "Police headquarters is turned inside out. Anonymous tip where a body can be found with Spider seal on forehead—and beside the body, a cigarette lighter with the Spider's fingerprints on it!"

Wentworth frowned slightly. "He must have been in a hurry to have been so careless," he said, already preparing for an abrupt departure. "The matter is getting expert attention, I take it?"

"Headquarters blew up!" Jackson chuckled. "Kirkpatrick left with motorcycle escort ninety seconds ago!"

"In that case," Wentworth said quietly, "we'll hurry right along, of course. Certainly, you may use the other car. And I suggest you hurry. Lucky you knew where to reach me."

Those last few words had told the quick-witted Jackson what to do—get another car and speed to the Hesperides Club. Frowning deeply, Wentworth handed the phone to the waiter. Under the watchful eyes of Duncan, he sat thoughtfully for a moment, then lifted his eyes gravely to Nita.

"There's hardly no way to break bad news, my dear," he said quietly. "Your cousin, Gregory, just had the misfortune to be hit by an automobile."

"Gregory!" Nita burst out, rising at once to her feet. "Is he hurt badly?"

Wentworth shook his head. "Can't tell yet. Fortunately, he was struck near my apartment, and the doorman recognized him, had him carried right in."

Duncan slid Nita's chair aside. His eyes were puzzled. "I hope, Miss van Sloan, you will find this less serious than you anticipate."

Wentworth said, quietly, "It's decent of you to be concerned, Duncan."

He and Nita hurried across the dining-room and, with inattentive seeming eyes, Wentworth saw Duncan send the gunmen racing along a corridor . . . a corridor that had an exit on the street! He doubted that it meant an attack. Duncan could not be sure enough of himself as yet. He got into the overcoat he had previously left at the checkroom, hurried Nita out through the doors of the Hesperides. As they stepped out beneath the marquee, a sleek limousine flashed from the curb up the street and swerved to a halt before them. A giant bearded Sikh, his head bound in a turban, leaped from the driver's seat to whip open the door.

Wentworth sprang into the tonneau behind Nita, caught up the speaking-tube as the Sikh, recognizing the need for haste, slid in behind the wheel again.

"Slow just after you turn the corner, Ram Singh," Wentworth snapped. "I'll jump out. Take the missie sahib to the apartment, and stay just four minutes. Then drive fast for the address she'll give you!"

The Daimler slid powerfully forward and Wentworth whipped toward Nita. In the special rear-vision mirror of the tonneau, he saw the four gangsters of Duncan piling into a sedan behind them.

"They'll follow you," Wentworth said swiftly. "Let them keep you in sight. I'll leave my overcoat and hat here. Rig them up on my cane as if I sat beside you. They won't attack. They suspect where I'm going, and want to keep me in sight. I'll see you in a few minutes. This is the address . . . . Watch Ram Singh on timing. It may be . . . important!"

Nita's hands clung to his, "Good luck, Dick!" she whispered. "And next time, dear, don't be so careless!" Her tone was light, but Wentworth knew the pain that lurked beneath her words. It was always her way to encourage him.

Wentworth laughed, but his eyes were bitter and cold. "I thought I had to deal with a single case of arson," he said soberly. "There is more behind it than that! I was sure the criminals would hold on to that cigarette lighter for their own purposes, and was going back for it later. There is a brain behind this, Nita."

Nita's face was set in a smile, but he saw the tightness of apprehension about her mouth corners. "Another battle, Dick?" she asked.

Wentworth's voice was grim. "Before he died, this arsonist—his name was Eggendorfer—talked a little. He said his master's name is . . . Munro!"

Nita's smile was wiped from her lips. She whipped toward Wentworth and her face was frightened. "Munro!" she whispered.

Before she could say more, the Daimler swerved around the corner and slowed. Wentworth sprang from the running-board and three long bounds hurled him into the shadows of a doorway. The Daimler spurted on and, an instant later, the pursuing gangster car whipped around the corner in pursuit. Wentworth watched them go with grim eyes, his nerves slowly tautening . . . . If he were wrong about their intention . . . . If they should attack Nita. But the Daimler was bullet-proof and Ram Singh was one of the greatest of a great warrior race!

Now . . . .

Cold wind whined desolately along the street and Wentworth, coat collar turned up to hide the white gleam of his formal shirt, felt the bite of the chill, though his blood was racing. This would have to be fast, damned fast! It would be a matter of split-second timing with Kirkpatrick racing to the scene, and his own advantage a matter of seconds only. He could rely on Jackson, but . . . . Why didn't Jackson come!

Why?

His mind flicked back to Nita, racing across the city with those gangsters on her trail. Even she had been shaken with horror at the mention of Munro's name, and she knew him only by reputation. Wentworth had met him once in battle, and the Spider had barely escaped alive from that trap! Munro was damnably shrewd, utterly ruthless, one of the great minds of the criminal world. He . . . .

A battered coupe whipped around the corner with a purring power in the motor beneath the hood that belied the ancient body. Wentworth stepped from cover and the coupe swung in, the door already open. Wentworth leaped in, and Jackson drove the accelerator to the floor. His hands were white upon the wheel, the muscles ridged out along the broad line of his jaw. More clearly than any words, his tension told how well he recognized the need for haste.

Wentworth was crouched on the floor instantly. He whipped forward the right half of the front seat, and a secret compartment was revealed behind it. No time for the full Spider make-up, but there was a steel mask that he sometimes used in such emergency. It reproduced the Spider's features exactly, but if it should slip, or Wentworth should be captured! With a grim thinning of lips, Wentworth took that risk. Wig, cape, hat . . . twin automatics.

"Nice timing, Jackson," Wentworth said quietly. "Details!"

"Gave you everything," Jackson's voice had a rasp of taut nerves. "I was at headquarters, according to the Major's instructions, keeping an eye on the commissioner. Told him the Major sent me down to check on records of forgers. Stalled along until this call came in. Headquarters was so upside down I called over Kirkpatrick's own phone!"

"Good work," Wentworth nodded. He was on the seat now, and it was no longer Richard Wentworth who rode beside Jackson, but a hunched and sinister figure, whose eyes gleamed coldly beneath the broad black brim of a slouch hat; whose hands clutched the twin butts of deadly automatics. Damnable having to lose these minutes that might make all the difference between life and death, but he had no choice save to return to Eggendorfer's room as the Spider—and he had been forced to destroy his previous disguise with a vial of acid carried for that purpose.

So far, he seemed to be ahead of the police. He had heard no distant wail of sirens . . . . His keen eyes reached ahead, narrowed as he spotted two men lounging against the front wall of the tenement building that he must enter.

"Shoot past!" he snapped at Jackson. "Then slow on the back street. Those are Duncan's men!"

Jackson twisted about his broad, honest face and there was worry in the eyes that held always a hint of idolatry when they rested on Wentworth's face.

"There'll be a lot of those hoods, Major," he growled. "Couldn't you let me . . . ."

"Just stand by, Jackson," Wentworth ordered quietly. "Usual orders. I'll signal if I need help. Eggendorfer's room is on the third floor, southeast corner."

"Stand by, sir," Jackson acknowledged with a growl, and Wentworth knew that no more was necessary. More than once Jackson had walked into what seemed certain death to serve him . . . .

The car slowed to the curb, seemed barely to hesitate, but when it passed the street light at the next corner, the seat beside Jackson was empty . . . and on that ominously dark street, a darker shadow had merged with the shadows that cringed against the wall. The Spider moved into battle!

Chapter Two
Where Death Waits

IN THE dim-lighted room where Eggendorfer lay dead with the mocking crimson seal of the Spider upon his forehead, a gangster stood on guard. In his right fist was a heavy automatic and his eyes roved ceaselessly about the room. Time and time again, he started at some slight creaking in the ancient building. The whine of the cold wind, the tapping fingers of icy snow crystals against the window made him shiver as if with cold. His tongue touched his dry lips and there was fear in the greyness of his cheeks.

He was here because the Spider might return before the police could arrive. Only the threat of death from the boss, the promise of sure support, could have forced him to keep this lone vigil. Suppose the Spider did come!

Mugsy Lugan flinched as a particularly hard gust rattled the loose window. Only the wind . . . . It had to be the wind! Mugsy took a slow step toward the window, shook his head. No, that was against orders. He couldn't even make sure whether it was the Spider. All he could do was stand here and wait . . . for the Spider. His eyes fell toward Eggendorfer's stiffening body and he flinched. Eggendorfer had waited for the Spider!

Mugsy Lugan shifted his automatic to his left hand, dragged the right palm against his trouser leg. Geez, sweating in this weather!

"Damn the Spider to hell!" he muttered.

From the window, a voice spoke softly, a mocking voice, flatly metallic and instinct with menace!

"How very inhospitable of you, Mugsy," the voice said, softly. "The Spider is simply paying you a call!"

Mugsy stiffened, and his mouth gaped with the looseness of the fear that ran like ice through all his body. He shivered, turned about laboriously. The gun dangled limply from his fingers—poised on the windowsill, the night cold and black behind him, crouched the becaped and menacing figure of the Spider! A gun glinted in each fist. His eyes seemed to bore like bullets through Mugsy's cowardly flesh. The gun trembled in Mugsy's hand, fell to the floor with a reverberating thud!

"That was wise, Mugsy," came the sibilant mockery of the Spider's voice. "That was very wise! Now pick up that lighter, Mugsy, and bring it to me. And I think it would be advisable for you to hurry!"

One of the Spider's guns lifted an inch, and Mugsy's trembling became violent. "Yes, sir," he stammered. "Oh, sure, Spider. Right away. I . . . ."

He bent for the lighter, but his hands were shaking so that his fingers could not clasp it. His face twisted about, warped with fear.

"Don't, Spider," he whispered hoarsely. "Don't shoot. I'm trying. I swear to God I'm trying!"

Wentworth swore impatiently, leaped from the sill. Seconds were flying, and he could not estimate how many more were left to him. Already, he thought he could hear the faint whimper of police sirens racing to this spot. He took a stride forward, and with a frightened squawk, Mugsy Lugan dodged aside. His hands hit the wall, and he went down on his knees. Wentworth stooped toward the lighter—and hell burst loose in that room!

As Wentworth bent forward, the three doors that opened into that barren room flung wide with whining speed. Dazzling lights converged on Wentworth from those three separate angles—and the doors were crowded with armed men!

"Start shooting!" Mugsy's voice rose, thin with terror. "For God's sake, start shooting. Kill the Spider!"

There was that moment's pause while Wentworth stood crouched in the middle of the death-trap; while the blaze of lights pinned him, helpless, against the shadows and the guns of the men in those three doors quested for and centered on his body . . . and Mugsy pleaded for his death with a frantic certainty that only the quick and deadly fire of his companions could save him from the vengeance of the Spider!

A hoarse oath sprang to Wentworth's lips as he realized the nature of the snare into which he had stepped. Those two men on guard out front had fooled him, that and the call to the police. He had been so certain that the crooks would depend on the police to do their killing for them . . . and he had walked into this trap.

Wentworth's brain raced madly, seeking a way out. Even the deadly twin automatics of the Spider could not batter a way through this ring of steel. He . . . the Spider straightened, and the thin lipless gash of the mouth parted. His eyes glared straight into those dazzling lights, and . . . the Spider laughed!

It was a mocking, bitter sound, the laughter of the Spider, an eerie sound in the room's quiet that was the quiet before death. It beat upon the eardrums of the men who faced him, guns in hand for the kill, and it stayed their trigger fingers for that brief fraction of a second. This was the man they had dreaded and feared through endless nights of terror, a superman who always dodged somehow out of their deadliest traps, who rose to kill when they thought him already dead. They had him helpless under their guns and the Spider must know it . . . . Yet the Spider could laugh! The sound of it rasped harshly on their eardrums with a strangely piercing quality.

It was in that heartbeat's pause that the Spider struck!

Even while he laughed, he was in motion. There was one spot in that room where, for a brief moment, he might be safe . . . and that was the spot where Mugsy crouched and wailed for the death of the Spider! Not that Wentworth believed the crooks would have any compunction about murdering a companion, if by that means they could achieve the Spider's demise! But they might hesitate . . . and Wentworth was living by those split-seconds of hesitation.

The Spider had survived a thousand battles by means of those little unheeded heartbeats of time. This second, and the next, and the next . . . and his laughter had signaled Jackson that he was trapped. He hoped that Jackson had been near enough to hear that piercing, eerie laughter! It might give him the instant he needed to grab the slender length of silk that dangled outside the window, the web by which he had climbed, and could slide to safety again!

As Wentworth took that first long leap, his guns crashed in his fists. They hurled their lances of red flame against the white glare of the flashlights . . . and two of those lights blacked out! Two men screamed out in mortal agony as the quarter-ton impact of .45 caliber lead drove the fragments of metal and batteries into their bodies!

Before Wentworth could fire again, the guns of the enemy opened up. Their crashing discharge pulsed within his brain, seemed to swell the walls to bursting! The hot lead, flying from three angles, crossed and criss-crossed the spot where the Spider had stood . . . but he was no longer there! He was a blur of black movement in a room strongly shadowed by the single torch that still blazed from the door. His cape swirled and whipped out from his shoulders until he seemed twice, three times the size of a normal man. He was everywhere at once, and nowhere at all when the bullets flew. The guns in his fists blasted and blasted again—and every bullet sped true! In those crowded doorways, no man could escape or dodge. They were stationary clay-pigeons for the unerring thunder of the Spider's guns!

Two, three seconds beat past in that death-trap, and the Spider's guns had crashed five times. There was a fury of sound, of gun-thunder and human screams, in which individual voice and shot no longer counted. The light in that room of death was red and yellow, the flicker of gun-powder lightning. Only one pair of eyes saw the small sphere that might have been an over-sized baseball lob in through the open window—and the Spider gasped his thankfulness. Every eye saw the flash that came when that sphere exploded there in the middle of the floor beside Eggendorfer's body . . . and after that they saw nothing at all!

From that burst of flame, darkness spurted across the room, coils of blackness that swallowed even the flashes of the guns; that swirled into the faces of the gunmen and clogged their vision. Wentworth flung himself prone on the floor, and his breath whined in his throat from his furious movements. His lips moved soundlessly, but what he said was, "Bless Jackson!"

His trusty comrade-at-arms had heard his signal laughter, and had hurled a smoke bomb through the window!

In the darkness, the killers were mad with fear. Their guns hammered in a frenzy. Plaster dust mingled with the chemical smoke. Wentworth could hear the thudding beat of bullets jarring across the floor, searching out the walls. Mugsy Lugan had long ago ceased to scream.

Wentworth moved cautiously. His guns were fully loaded again, and even in the welter of battle—the intense darkness which could swallow up even the bitter stab of flame from the guns—he had not lost his uncanny sense of direction. He knew that, beside him on the floor within the reach of his hand, was the corpse of Eggendorfer. Wentworth's lips moved in a faint, mocking smile behind the steel mask of the Spider . . . and he began to strip off the cape and wig, the black slouch hat, the steel mask, itself.

The shooting died away a little; men's voices shouted in fear and questioning. And there was little time. The smoke of the bomb would dissipate presently. Through that lull in the bedlam struck the keening of a police siren, shrieking nearer, nearer . . . .

"Close in!" A man's voice rasped. "Keep bullets going through that window, and close in! We'll rake this room from wall to wall. If that louse is still here . . .

And then . . . the Spider laughed.

"Come, fools!" he shouted. "Come and take me!"

From the darkness, guns roared, and the screams of lead-slashed men lifted terribly. The smoke was thinning, and the flames of the Spider's automatics gave them a target. "There!" shouted the leader. "There against the wall!"

Brilliant flashlights bored once more into the thinning mist of smoke, and the guns bellowed and roared; the walls shook, and the taste of burned powder was in the air, stranglingly thick. There were no more shots from that cape-draped figure against the wall. It shook and quivered to the impact of deadly lead, but still that sinister, changeless face peered out from beneath the hat brim; still it did not flee from their attack!

"He's dead!" the leader said hoarsely. "He's got to be dead! I put almost a whole drum of bullets through him. He . . . . Come on!"

Through the darkness they charged. Their guns kicked against their stiffened wrists, and they ignored the dying wail of sirens nearby. To hell with that, if they could kill the Spider! The leader leaped close and slammed the barrel of his sub-machine gun against the side of that lolling head. The black slouch hat tilted up and fell to the floor with a soft little plop, then . . . then the face of the Spider came loose and fell to the floor. It rang like steel, and they knew it was a mask. But they were not staring at it, they were gazing into the face of the dead man against the wall. A Spider seal gleamed eerily on the forehead.

"Eggendorfer!" the leader shouted. "Damn him to hell, he put his clothes on Eggendorfer and scrammed!"

Laughter came mockingly from behind them, laughter and a swift bail of lead! Men reeled and pitched to the floor. The leader slumped to his knees and his hands clawed at the figure of Eggendorfer, hung by his collar to a light bracket on the wall. They fell together to the floor. Men lifted futile, emptied guns toward the window, but they snapped only at emptiness, at a black rectangle through which swirled a few icy particles of wind-spun snow.

"Beware," came the Spider's voice softly. "Beware, you who would trap the Spider! Carry that warning to Munro!"

Fear nailed those who remained alive to the floor, and outside the window, Wentworth slid swiftly down the silken rope by which he had climbed, the line that was no thicker than a pencil but which had phenomenal strength, and which the police and criminals alike knew as the Spider's web!

Wentworth hit the pavement, wrapped the silken web into a swift tight ball. Police were hammering into the building now. Those criminals who had survived would not escape, but he had had to cut it terribly fine. Jackson already had gone at his orders. If Ram Singh was late by so much as a minute . . . .

The Daimler careened around the corner, and Wentworth leaped to the street, flung to the running-board as the heavy limousine slowed for an instant.

"Go ahead, Ram Singh!" Nita cried, and slammed the door behind Wentworth. "They're right behind us. Your hat, your coat . . . . Oh, thank heavens, Dick. I heard guns. I never heard so many guns . . . ."

Wentworth dropped back against the cushions and settled his silk hat more smoothly upon his head. His brows were tilted and there was a slight, grim smile on his lips. He saw in the rear-vision mirror that the gangster car had just whirled the corner behind him.

His hand touched Nita's briefly, where they rested on his arm. "I believe I, too, heard . . . some guns," he murmured. "I fancy there are those who wish . . . they had not heard them! They won't again!"

Nita's hands clung to his right arm and, left-handed, Wentworth offered a cigarette, snapped flame to the slender platinum lighter that had so nearly brought about his death. By that minute yellow flame, Nita smiled into his eyes.

"Dick!" she smiled. "Showing off at your age! As if I didn't know you had recovered that lighter!"

Wentworth's laughter was tender. This was when Nita showed her true courage. He knew that she had been torn by fears for his safety, but aside from that first involuntary outcry of thanksgiving, she would never admit it. She was easing his own tension now, for none knew better than she that this was only the beginning of the battle—if Munro were involved!

"Tell me, Dick," Nita said quietly. "You mentioned . . . Munro. I remember . . . awful things about him." Her shoulders, warm beneath her fur coat, shivered a little.

"No doubt," Wentworth murmured, and his forehead creased. "Munro, the Man of a Thousand Faces! I'd hoped he'd never return to this country! He is probably the greatest criminal organizer it's ever been my misfortune to encounter . . . and aside from that, a true artist at disguise, hence his name: Munro . . . . The name doesn't mean a thing. He not only can impersonate other people, but he creates a separate personality for each crime. The police hunt him, and find only the shell of the disguise! Never a clue to his real identity. It's his vanity that causes him to use that one name again, after these years. Munro . . . . The fact that he uses it is a taunt and a challenge to me!"

"And this time," Nita said slowly, "Munro's weapon is . . . arson?"

Wentworth nodded and the last traces of laughter and mockery were gone from his lips, from his eyes. "The man who paid, Eggendorfer, said his boss was Munro. And men who face the Spider in their last hour do not lie!"

"No," Nita said quietly. "I don't think he would lie, but where is the profit, Dick? It's awful to think in terms of profit when human lives are at stake. But that man does! A rattle-trap tenement, and five of those poor children . . . ."

Wentworth's lips were grim. "It is what I mean to find out . . . tonight!" he said. "And Nita, listen, trust not even a man who seems to be myself from now on, unless he gives you sure proof! It might be . . . Munro!"

Nita whispered, "A pass-word then?" Wentworth shook his head jerkily as the Daimler slid to a halt again before the Hesperides Club, where a bright neon sign showed three bouncing golden apples. "A pass-word can be faked, my dear," he said slowly. "No one can counterfeit the memories we share!"

Nita stepped down to the curb, her hand in his, and sent her gay silvery laughter into the cold night. "So we can finish out our evening, Dick," she said happily. "That was a foolish mistake . . . ."

The doorman's eyes were fixed on them intently as he swung open the portals of the club and Wentworth knew that Duncan would get a report on Nita's words. The gangster car was just sliding to a halt. The gunman, Mac, flashed across the pavement into a side entrance. When Wentworth and Nita had checked their wraps, Duncan was striding toward them, and there was a frown on his forehead; his dark eyes were secretive beneath veiling lids. And Mac was in the background, his sly face completely puzzled.

Duncan's cordial smile was palpably forced. "I am glad you were able to return, sir!"

Wentworth's smile was affable. "We don't like to leave things half-finished," he said, "and the injury to Miss van Sloan's cousin was a foolish error. A man who looked like Gregory and the doorman of the apartment made a mistake of identity."

"I am complimented that you returned!" Duncan bowed.

Wentworth's brows lifted in mockery. "And I forgot to thank you for the bodyguard, Duncan," he murmured. "I don't know the occasion for it, or is it a service you customarily tender to your clients!"

HE TURNED easily toward Nita, and his eyes swept the corridor. Mac was no longer alone, and he was no longer in the background. He was moving lightly forward, flanked by three other gunmen! The smile on his lips was sly and knowing, and his round pale eyes were eager. Wentworth checked the curse that leaped to his lips.

Had something slipped somewhere? It was part of his plan for the evening to have a showdown with Duncan, to find out where he connected with the death of Eggendorfer; with . . . Munro! But this was not the time Wentworth would have chosen, with Nita in the very center of it. Wentworth had not even his guns. He had been compelled to leave them, with their incriminating riflings, for Ram Singh to destroy.

"By the way," Wentworth murmured over his shoulder. "When Commissioner Kirkpatrick comes, Duncan, you may show him to our table."

His gaze sought Nita's face, and he saw in the glisten of her eyes that she had spotted the danger. She put a hand on his arm, and leaned close, laughing while she whispered.

"I have a gun in my muff, Dick, if you want to fight!"

He started toward the dining-room—and Duncan stepped into his path.

"I wonder, Mr. Wentworth," he said suavely, "if you would mind stepping into my office a few moments?" His tone was casual, but there was cold menace beneath his voice. At his shoulder, Mac smiled his sly smile.

Wentworth met that smile easily, and welcomed the chance to remove Nita from danger. "If you'll wait for me in the dining-room, Nita," he said, "I'll promise not to be long."

"I'm afraid we need the lady, too," Duncan said grimly, and the subterfuge was gone now from his voice. There were three men closing in behind Wentworth. He slid his hands into his trousers pockets and his head was tilted quizzically.

"I've changed my mind, Duncan," he said. "We won't go with you. And if you don't send your trained seals packing, at once, it will be my regretful duty to put a bullet through your umbilical. Yes, that protuberance over my trouser's pocket is the muzzle of a twenty-five caliber Colt's. Not a large-caliber weapon, but placed as I have indicated, I think you will find it does the trick, nicely!"

Strangely, Duncan smiled. His eyelids lifted, and Wentworth saw there, instead of the fury and frustration he had expected, a gleam of genuine admiration.

"Check," he said gently, "you will pardon me now while I make Commissioner Kirkpatrick welcome!"

Wentworth turned his head easily and saw the crisply striding figure of Commissioner Kirkpatrick of the police punch in through the main entrance of the club. Sergeant Reams strode briskly at his heels, and there were two other uniformed men. Wentworth laughed . . . and took his hands out of his pockets, One held his cigarette case, and the other . . . the slim platinum lighter of the Spider.

"Won't you have a smoke before you go, Duncan?" Wentworth asked lightly.

Duncan hesitated, and looked down at Wentworth's hands. His smile was slight, even pleasant. "I'm afraid there isn't time just now, Mr. Wentworth," he said. "If I were you, I would remove the plaster dust from your right trouser leg. It is just possible Kirkpatrick might connect it with . . . a recent demolition job that the Spider has just finished!"

He strode easily away to meet the commissioner of police and Wentworth bent casually to do as Duncan had indicated, but there was a frown behind Wentworth's eyes, and Nita's hand, touching his, was cold. No question now that Duncan was sure of his connection with the Spider, but what was strange was the man's behavior! Duncan was a big-time gambler, it was true, but he was not of a caliber to meet the Spider on equal terms. Yet he had done just that!

More plainly than any words, Duncan had said: "This is a matter between you and me, Spider. A little private duel we shall finish after a while. I wouldn't want the police to interfere!"

Behind them, Kirkpatrick was issuing crisp orders to his men, and Wentworth swung about on his heel, lifted a hand in salute. "You came sooner than I had expected, Kirk," he called, "and I see you've brought extra guests. Good evening, Sergeant Reams!"

The sergeant nodded jerkily. His face was red from the burn of the winter cold, and there was frost in his blue eyes.

"Good evening, sir," he said, "and to you, Miss van Sloan!"

Kirkpatrick strode sharply up to Wentworth, and for once there was no friendliness in his saturnine face. His brilliant blue gaze held no recognition whatever.

"Duncan," he said. "I'll need your office. Bring that hood called Mac. Wentworth, kindly accompany me."

Wentworth shrugged, "I receive the most pressing invitations!" he said comically to Nita. "If you'll wait for me, dear?"

Nita laughed. "Nothing of the sort! I'm coming with you! I'm sure Stanley won't mind, will you, Stanley?"

For once, Kirkpatrick's faultless manners were in abeyance. "As you like, Miss van Sloan!"

He pounded his heels into the soft carpeting as he headed for Duncan's office. Nita's hand rested lightly on Wentworth's arm. The quizzical smile remained on Wentworth's lips, but he wished Nita were out of it. He did not know what evidence Kirkpatrick might have against him, and he could not afford to be slapped into a prison now, even though he might manage to clear himself in trial! Munro would not await his release to press his damnable arsons, for whatever foul profit he derived from it. Human lives were at stake. Beside that fact, nothing in Wentworth's life could be important!

If Kirkpatrick's evidence was strong, Wentworth would have no choice but to make a break for it!

Kirkpatrick was his closest friend, and often they had worked side by side against the bitter enemies of mankind. But Kirkpatrick had long openly suspected Wentworth of being the Spider, though he lacked proof to substantiate that belief. Wentworth knew that if ever his friend did obtain the evidence, he would be treated like any criminal outside the law. Kirkpatrick's allegiance was to society's code of laws—not to an individual's application of justice, however right. So stern was his service to that code that friendship would not weigh against it for an instant.

And Kirkpatrick's manner had served notice that tonight they were not friends; tonight, they were the forces of law and a man who might be a murderer!

Wentworth seated Nita suavely in Duncan's large, over-furnished office, dropped nonchalantly into a chair himself. He looked up to find Kirkpatrick standing on braced legs in the middle of the office, his face stern above the uncompromising thrust of his jaw.

"Wentworth," he said sharply, "I'll ask you to account for every minute of your evening from seven o'clock to now."

"An alibi, in fact," Wentworth smiled. "Am I to know of what you suspect me? Ah, well . . . ."

"This is serious, Wentworth!" Kirkpatrick snapped.

Wentworth's face obediently fell into serious lines. "I don't think I care for your manner, Kirk," he said quietly. "I have been here at the Hesperides Club with the exception of a brief trip to my apartment and back. I remained at the apartment between four and five minutes."

"The reason for that trip!"

Wentworth explained casually about the false report that Nita's cousin had been injured.

"It has puzzled me greatly, Kirk," he finished. "No one at all had been injured. The doorman at my apartment, who was supposed to have made the call, denied any knowledge of it. In fact, Kirk, it almost seems that some one wanted to destroy my alibi for precisely that time!"

Duncan was leaning his hips against the desk, smoking. He smiled, and interrupted. "That undoubtedly explains what I heard, Commissioner," he said. "I heard reports that Mr. Wentworth was to be held up and robbed. I didn't wish him to be annoyed, so I sent along a bodyguard in another car. Except for the few minutes when he was in his own apartment building, they did not lose sight of his car, did you, Mac?"

Mac's face was ludicrous with surprise. He swallowed, tried for his usual sly grin, missed it badly. "That's the truth, Commissioner!" he said. "We followed that Daimler all the way across town and back again, and there he was, big as life, sitting in back with the dame."

Nita's laughter was a trill. "Now, see, Dick," she said. "Why can't you call me interesting things like that? I'm a 'dame'!"

Wentworth's gaze locked with that of Duncan, and once more he was puzzled by the mocking shine of the man's masked eyes. A cold suspicion raced through Wentworth's mind, but when he rose to his feet, it was casually.

"That's very kind of you indeed, Duncan," he murmured. "I wondered at the purpose of the men who followed me. You were one, er . . . Mr. Mac? Thank you very much indeed."

Wentworth held out his hand, with the adhesive stripped across the back, and shook hands with Mac, then offered his hand to Duncan.

He saw uncertainty touch Duncan's eyes. Kirkpatrick's growl behind Wentworth held relief in its tones. Much as he despised to accept the word of those who lived on the fringes of the law, he felt that Duncan must speak the truth—at least so far as the alibi was concerned for he knew Wentworth would never enter into a bargain with such a man as this.

"I have my own doubts about the reason for your surveillance of Mr. Wentworth," Kirkpatrick said grimly to Duncan. "You'll overstep yourself some day. I hope soon!"

Duncan's eyes shot past Wentworth to Kirkpatrick, and his voice was mocking. "Mr. Commissioner, it sounds suspiciously as if you were trying to get me to commit a crime so that you could make an arrest! Surely, there are enough crimes in your city already!" As he finished speaking, he accepted Wentworth's handclasp.

Wentworth's eyes bored into the black, cool eyes of the gambler, but they told him nothing. The handclasp did! Once before tonight, he had shaken hands with Duncan, and he knew . . . that the man whose hand he shook in this instant was not Duncan!

A clever artist in disguise might simulate another person so carefully that a casual acquaintance might not be able to detect the difference, but no man could change the bony structure, the shape and thickness of his hand! The hand he shook now was thinner, narrower, with smaller bones. There was something almost feline in the touch!

Perfection in disguise, and a boldness that met the police on equal terms, that dared even to challenge the Spider to a duel.

Wentworth knew, with a terrible certainty, that he was shaking the hand of the man who this night had accomplished, through Eggendorfer, the destruction of a tenement in which five innocent children had lost their lives.

He was shaking the hand of Munro!

Chapter Three
The Spider At Bay

WENTWORTH'S reaction to that recognition was instantaneous. Munro was a man who would be gone the moment his hands no longer touched him. Once let him get outside this office, and he could strip off the disguise of Duncan . . . and vanish! Yet there was nothing, absolutely nothing genuine with which to charge him! He could not say that Eggendorfer, dying, had confessed he had taken his orders from Munro. For it was the Spider who had killed Eggendorfer, and Wentworth could have no knowledge of what the man had said!

Wentworth's mind flashed to Nita, sitting quietly behind him, to Kirkpatrick. If he precipitated a battle now, one of them might be injured, killed. It was characteristic of Wentworth that he did not think of himself, though he was unarmed. But he could not let his fears for Nita stop him. This man was guilty of the murder of five children, and it would not stop there!

Wentworth stepped back and drew a slow breath. He knew that what he was about to say might precipitate a fighting scrape that would kill Nita, but he could not hesitate.

"Kirkpatrick," he said quietly. "This man lies. His men trailed me with intent to kill me. Duncan himself threatened me with guns tonight, and was on the point of taking me a prisoner into his office when you arrived so opportunely. I will swear out a warrant. Arrest this man!"

Duncan's smile did not waver, but something deadly and venomous flashed out of his eyes. He had a cigarette in his fingers and he tapped it gently on the case.

"I submit," he said easily, "that this is scarcely the treatment I would expect in return for an excellent alibi. But, do your duty, Commissioner!"

He held out his wrists, the cigarette still dangling from his fingers. Kirkpatrick grunted with satisfaction.

"I hope you'll stand behind that charge, Dick," he said steadily. "I've been wanting to nail this man. Sergeant Reams . . ."

Reams took a stride forward, unhooking handcuffs from his belt . . . and Wentworth uttered a cry and leaped past him. He tried to catch the cigarette that dropped from Duncan's fingers. Too late! The cigarette struck the floor, and exploded! An incredible burst of gray vapor spurted upward from the spot, and in the same moment, the lights in the office blacked out!

Wentworth recognized the gas in the same moment the cigarette exploded. Tear gas! But he did not check his vain leap. Instead, he hurled himself violently forward, his arms taut to grasp Duncan! A man reeled into him, and Wentworth grappled with him viciously. His powerful legs drove him forward, and he slammed the man hard against the wall! A fist hammered into his chest, and a voice cursed thickly.

"Take that, you rat!" gasped the voice of Sergeant Reams.

Wentworth swore, jerked free, and in the darkness, a man screamed terribly, and then began to strangle in a horrible way. Words tried to bubble through that scream, and they were meaningless, a ghastly sound in the blackness.

"Flashlight, Reams!" Wentworth snapped. "The door, Kirk. I'll take the window. Now, Nita, the lights. Switch behind you!"

An instant after Reams' flashlight snapped across the width of the office, and found nothing, the lights blazed down from the ceiling. Beside the door, Nita was twisted about tensely, her small automatic searching in her fist. Guns were in the hands of Kirkpatrick and Sergeant Reams . . . and Wentworth was spread across the window. Despite that instantaneous guard, Duncan had vanished! But he had left his mark behind.

Struggling out his life on the floor, hands tearing at the gaping wound in his throat, was the gunman, Mac!

For an instant, the sight held them frozen motionless. Then Nita uttered a gasping cry and turned her face away, buried it in her arms. Wentworth crossed the office in long bounds.

"Whistle up your men, Kirk!" he cried. "There must be some hidden exit to this room—but he'll have to leave the building to escape!"

Kirkpatrick's gun lashed the glass from the window as Wentworth lunged into the hallway. The whistle screamed into the night and Kirkpatrick's deep voice shouted orders, but Wentworth knew in that same moment that it was futile. There were a hundred, perhaps two hundred men in the building—and given ten minutes in seclusion, Munro could easily cast aside the disguise of Duncan and become one of them! He did not even have to disguise himself, for if he appeared in his true identity, no man could recognize him!

Wentworth stopped his wild dash, knowing in advance that it was futile. Could he shake hands with every man in this place, attempt by that means to identify Munro? But the man was warned now. Clever as he was, he would find some way to disguise his hands also. Moreover, before he had shaken two hundred hands, Wentworth knew that his own would be so numb that there would no longer be any certainty in his grasp. He was beaten—and once more Munro had left no trail! He had even cut the throat of his private bodyguard, so that the man could tell no secrets!

He found Nita leaning weakly against the wall in the hall, still shaken by the awful death she had witnessed. She said, faintly, "Munro?"

Wentworth nodded grimly. "No question about it." He turned toward Kirkpatrick as the commissioner came striding from the office. "It won't do any good to order Duncan picked up," he said quietly. "That wasn't Duncan. I knew it when I shook hands with him, because just a short while ago I shook Duncan's hand. Kirk, my private sources of information in France tell me that Munro has returned to America. That was Munro, in disguise as usual. I am quite sure, Kirk, that these arsonous fires that have sprung up around the city in recent weeks are his work!"

Kirkpatrick gazed keenly into Wentworth's face. "Private information again, Dick?"

Wentworth shrugged slightly, "Call it a hunch, Kirk. Nothing that would hold water in court. If you have no further use for me, I'll take Nita home. She's had . . . quite a shock."

Kirkpatrick's saturnine face was quiet and very grave. "No, I have no further use for you, Dick, now. I'm sure that Duncan, or Munro, was telling the literal truth. At any rate, the doorman at your apartment could probably confirm the times of arrival and departure. This time, Dick, there is no proof that you are the Spider . . ."

"Ah," said Wentworth, "so that was the reason for the alibi. I'm glad the Spider is operating again, Kirk. Now, there is some hope of catching Munro."

Kirkpatrick shook his head. "Some day, Dick, the Spider will make a mistake!"

Wentworth laughed, "To err is human!"

Kirkpatrick looked at him very steadily. "You will find, Dick, when that mistake occurs, that I have no divinity to grant forgiveness. I am a man with a duty to perform."

Wentworth gripped Kirkpatrick's arm. "No man could wish for a fairer enemy . . . or a better friend, Kirk," he said quietly.

Kirkpatrick said nothing further, but strode choppily away along the hall. His pace was long, pounding, and there was an aggressive thrust to his shoulders, but there was a touch of weariness, too. He had never fully recovered from that long spell of heart trouble; he had been warned not to work too hard, not to worry. Wentworth felt Nita draw close beside him, and her violet eyes, when he turned to her, were wide and more than a little frightened.

"I'm taking you home, dear," Wentworth said steadily.

Nita's hand tightened convulsively on his arm. "Must you . . . leave me tonight, Dick?" she said slowly. "Somehow, I . . . I'm frightened. That man, Munro . . . ."

Wentworth's hand closed hard upon hers. "Munro will not rest," he said simply.

Nita's shoulders shuddered a little, but she said no more. Against Wentworth's inexorable sense of duty, there was no appeal. Wentworth's brows were creased by a frown. Jackson was certainly somewhere here. He had not been dismissed, and he would not leave Wentworth's trail until that standby order was canceled. He helped Nita into her wraps in the lobby. The gaiety went on undisturbed in the Hesperides Club, though police stood beside the exit and each person who left was closely surveyed.

Wentworth quietly donned his own overcoat, drew on white silk gloves. His course was clear. He must find Duncan, the real Duncan, as quickly as possible. That was his one lead, and it might be accomplished as simply as visiting Duncan's home! And that was a task for the Spider . . . .

As they stepped out beneath the marquee, Kirkpatrick spoke from the shadows. "Those two are all right, Reams!"

Wentworth lifted a hand in acknowledgment, but Kirkpatrick did not speak again. The Daimler slid to the curb; the tall turbaned driver leaped out to swing wide the door.

"Drive toward the park, Ram Singh," Wentworth said quietly.

"Han, sahib!"

The Daimler slid smoothly forward and Wentworth watched the rear-vision mirror, and presently when they had gone a few blocks, he saw the battered coupe which Jackson drove swing onto their trail. He smiled, and nodded. Faithful Jackson, still on the job.

"Pull into the curb, Ram Singh!" he called, and turned to Nita.

"Jackson is just behind us, dear," he said. "I'm going to send you home. Better stay at my apartment for the night. It's not the old fortress, but there are still some safeguards. With Ram Singh to watch over you, you'll be safe!"

Nita made no answer, but her arms reached out to him, and the soft sweetness of her lips trembled under his. She smiled faintly as he drew away.

"Don't worry about me, Dick," she said then. "I'm just a bit tired tonight."

Wentworth crushed her to him again. "Don't worry about me, dear," he said. "Only take care of yourself!"

Nita laughed, "Ram Singh will do that for me!"

Wentworth stepped to the pavement, and Jackson's door was already open. He leaped into the coupe, waved a hand, and was gone. Nita leaned back wearily against the cushions as the Daimler surged forward again. She would have preferred to share Dick's peril this night, but she knew that she would only be a burden and hindrance to him. And she could not question his decision that the Spider must once more walk this night, though each minute Dick wore those awesome black robes was fraught with double peril.

Nita closed her eyes and tried to keep her mind off the dangers she knew Dick would encounter before another day was born. She would not sleep, of course . . . . She smiled wanly. It was minutes before a curious thing began to beat its impression into her senses. The tires made a high whining, and she could hear the hissing of a strong wind. Her eyes whipped open, and she saw the buildings were flashing past in a blur. The Daimler was hurtling through the night streets at express-train speed!

"Ram Singh!" Nita cried. "There's no necessity to drive like this. Slow down at once!"

"Han, sahiba!" came the gruff acknowledgment, and the Daimler slowed gradually to a normal speed.

But Nita sat bolt upright in the rear, and a tension of fear crawled along her nerves. Sahiba! The word shrieked a warning in Nita's brain. Ram Singh had never called her anything save 'missie sahib' in all his faithful service. That meant . . . . That meant the man behind the wheel, turbaned and bearded though he was, could not be Ram Singh!

But it was worse than that. Not only was the man behind the wheel not Ram Singh, but only one man would be capable of that perfection of disguise—one man who tonight had slaughtered a fellow criminal to close his mouth.

Nita knew with a terrible cold certainty that the man who was supposed to guard her this night, the man who sat so steadily behind the wheel of the car was . . . Munro!

For a space of seconds, while several blocks wheeled past the pulsing Daimler, Nita sat rigidly while something like desperation worked in her breast. She was not afraid. No one who had lived and fought beside Richard Wentworth through the long months of struggle against viciousness could know fear for herself in the ordinary sense. But she was a woman, with a woman's softness, and the man in front of her was a brutal killer who had baffled the police of two continents!

Yet it was not of escape that Nita thought! She was quite sure that Munro was unaware that his disguise had been pierced. If she could think of some way to make him a prisoner and hold him until Wentworth arrived, this latest perilous campaign of the Spider would be finished at its very inception! If only she knew how to reach Dick now!

She did not know his plans . . . .

Nita's hands trembled a little and she pressed them hard together, looked down at them with unseeing eyes. In those narrow, ineffectual hands of hers, she thought, lay the fate of hundreds of people. If she could take Munro prisoner, untold anguish would be saved the people whom Wentworth served . . . and Dick would not have to risk his life again for a while.

Thought of the fearless man she loved strengthened Nita. She shivered a little and cuddled her hands into her muff as if she were cold . . . and her fingers closed strongly over the butt of the small automatic she carried there, which Dick had given her and taught her to use expertly! Her movements then were as swift as any pounce of the Spider! Abruptly, she leaned forward and jammed the muzzle of the automatic against the neck of the man behind the wheel.

"Pull over to the curb and stop, Munro," she said, and her voice was coldly incisive. "One false move, and I'll drill that shrewd brain of yours!"

Munro's muscles stiffened against the thrust of that automatic, but that was all. Wordlessly, he slowed the car, and let it roll to a stop against the curb. When that was accomplished, he sat quietly under the wheel for a moment, then a low chuckle rumbled from his chest.

"You are clever, mamselle," he said mockingly. "A fitting mate for the Spider! May I ask . . . what now?"

"Open the door and step out!" Nita directed calmly. "Keep your hands behind you as you do it. I'm not as good as Mr. Wentworth with this gun, but I'm still equal to a great many men, Munro."

The man obeyed her faultlessly. His left hand pulled the catch, then he put both hands behind him.

"Like this?" he asked solicitously.

Nita made no answer. She had her knee on the back of the seat, ready to slide into the front. Her left hand held a pair of handcuffs, which was among the standing equipment of Dick's cars. Triumph was making her heart beat quickly. She leaned forward to snap the cuffs on Munro's wrists—and suddenly the engine roared, the giant car leaped forward!

Nita squeezed the trigger, but it was too late. The tremendous surge of the motor's power hurled her violently backward from her uncertain perch. She tried to catch herself, to bring the automatic to bear, and the brakes shrieked. Before she could fight against that new thrust of power, Munro was leaning across the back of the seat.

His teeth gleamed evilly through the false black beard, and his black eyes were wide and happy. His hands clasped on her wrists, and he deliberately twisted her gun hand until it was numb with pain; until the gun dropped from her grasp.

"Clever, yes," whispered Munro, his face gloating above hers. "Very clever . . . but not quite clever enough to trap Munro!"

His palm cracked her hard across the jaw . . . and before her reeling senses returned, she was handcuffed and bound, gagged so that she could scarcely breathe—thrown flat upon the floor of the tonneau!

Then the car was speeding forward again, rolling smoothly through the night while its engine droned a song of power. Nita let her head sag forward to the floor, and something like a sob beat against that cruel gag in her mouth; not for herself, but for what her captivity would mean to Dick!

Munro was laughing!

Chapter Four
The Flame Master

THE battered coupe slid quietly through the back streets, boring eastward through the city. Wentworth was relaxed in the right-hand seat, eyes closed, forcing rest upon himself. For hours he had battled without ceasing, squeezing free from trap after trap. How many had his guns laid low this night, how many had merited the red badge of his swift justice upon their foreheads?

Wentworth's head sagged forward, and he knew that unless he flung himself into fierce action, he was facing one of his spells of black depression. His heart was kind, and if he seemed merciless and ruthless to those who met him on the wrong side of the law, it was because of his stern sense of justice. How many times his unerring guns had spat their lethal lead . . . and how futile the battle suddenly seemed . . . .

Trouble . . . .

His triumphs came always by Herculean effort, and always there was another greedy twisted man waiting to try his skill against humanity—and against humanity's paladin, the Spider! A few minutes before, he had been face-to-face with Munro; now that man had vanished into the nothingness of the air. Where he was now, or in what disguise, Wentworth could not guess . . . . But at least Nita was safe. He could be sure of that, with Ram Singh to guard her!

Jackson's voice was low in his throat. "Flame extinguishers in a box in the compartment, sir," he said gruffly. "Chemist said they were the most concentrated and effective known. Too expensive for commercial use."

Wentworth lifted his head and a smile moved his lips. Jackson recognized his depression and was trying to stir him from it.

"Thanks," he said quietly. "We'll need them." He opened the compartment, tucked four glass globes into pockets of his cape. "I have an idea that Munro will have at his command ways of setting fires far beyond the knowledge of ordinary arsonists. In his way, he is a genius!"

Jackson grunted, "Maybe. But this time he's bitten off more than he can chew!" Jackson spat out the window.

Wentworth's smile widened at Jackson's fierce loyalty, for he knew that his top-sergeant spoke with complete conviction.

"All you got to do, Major," Jackson went on grimly, "is to find out where these mugs hide out, then turn me and Ram Singh loose on them. That heathen is a dumb guy, but he's pretty handy to have around in a fight. Me and him together . . . ." A smile widened the straight line of Jackson's mouth. "Me, I ain't had a decent fight in months."

He tapped his thick gloved hand on the steering-wheel, Wentworth laughed softly. How could he give way to these foolish depressions when he had the loyalty of men like Jackson and Ram Singh, the love of a fine woman like Nita? If he had doubts of himself, they at least never weakened in their faith!

"It's not as simple as that, Jackson," he said quietly, "but perhaps after I pay this call on Duncan, we'll have an idea where to locate the gang. And then . . . ."

Jackson's mouth opened in a bark of laughter. "Me and Ram Singh!"

Wentworth found himself taut and ready for the battle, and wordlessly, he thanked Jackson. His eyes stabbed ahead. The hard, fine spit of the snow had changed with the dying of the wind. The flakes were larger, and they drifted down across the street lights in a swirling pattern of beauty. The sidewalks glistened wetly.

"Duncan lives in a fourth-floor apartment," Wentworth began quietly, "on the next street over. Two blocks down. I'm going there to have a talk with him."

"Let me side you, Major!" Jackson said eagerly. "There might be some other mugs around!"

Wentworth shook his head, eyes still searching ahead. "You forget, Jackson. You are known as my comrade. And tonight . . . the Spider walks!"

Jackson shifted impatiently in his seat, but his voice had the flat formality of army service again. "Usual orders, sir?" he asked. "Stand by?"

"Stand by!" Wentworth repeated softly. "The middle of the next block, Jackson. Stay within hearing after you park the car!"

Into the shadows slid the black sinister figure of the Spider, merging with the iron grating of an alleyway. In his hand, a lock pick of surgical steel glistened for a moment, then the gate swung open. Wentworth closed it softly behind him, flitted silently toward the rear. His eyes quested over the six-story apartment building on the next street, picked out the window of Duncan's apartment. No lights there . . . . The fire escape would be the quickest way up.

There would be few windows opened to this cold.

Wentworth crossed the open courtyard in long bounds, leaped high and caught the framework of the lowest landing. Above him, he heard steel rasp on mortar, heard slats tremble against each other; the entire structure quivered under his smoothly athletic swing and lift that placed him finally kneeling on the platform. He peered up through the darkness, feeling the wet kiss of snow-flakes on his cheeks, and he swore under his breath. He did not think the sound would alarm anyone. The heavy thrust of the winter wind must be enough to shake this fire escape! The thing should have been condemned long ago! The owners of these old buildings allowed the bolts and fastenings to rust out; careless fire inspectors permitted them to pass . . . or their palms were greased!

Wentworth was already on his way up the steps, and his foot-treads made no sound. So smooth was his progress that even the rattle-trap fire escape did not rattle. His eyes gleamed coldly. Small wonder that such criminals as Munro could cash in on the weaknesses and hypocrisies of humanity! The owner of this building would receive a Spider-sealed message through the mails, and if it were not heeded . . .

Wentworth checked at the fourth floor, and peered out toward the window of Duncan's apartment. A narrow ledge ran along the building beneath the windows and, without hesitation, Wentworth stepped out upon it. His shoes dusted off a fine edging of snow. One false step and he would be hurled out into space! Only a man of perfectly controlled nerves, of whip-cord muscles would have dared that passage—yet Wentworth scarcely thought about it. His mind reached ahead to the room in which he would find Duncan—if Munro had not reached him first! So rapidly he moved, seemingly a black shadow that flitted across the face of the building, that he might have been the very personification of the creature whose name he bore!

Presently, he checked beside a window, and his fingers moved deftly over its facing. The reflected glow of the city skies, always flushed with its myriad lights, reached feebly into the room, and Wentworth nodded as his eyes took in the elaborately over-luxurious furnishings of the place. Expensive—and in wretched taste. Yes, he had been right in his location of Duncan's apartment!

From beneath his cape, Wentworth drew out a device like a doctor's stethoscope and fastened a suction disk to the window-pane. The glass acted as a huge diaphragm, picking up every sound within the room. There were muffled footsteps, but from their faintness, Wentworth knew they were in the hall beyond the door. There was another muted, regular sound, and then the jiggle of bedsprings. Wentworth's smile was grim on his lips, as he thrust the instrument away. Duncan was at home!

His hand closed on the window frame and, soundlessly, it slid upward in its grooves. The Spider's skill held it from vibration. Heat swirled out into his face, and the stale bite of whisky. Effortlessly, the Spider slid over the sill, and now he was a crouched figure of menace, looming enormous in the black cape.

There was the glint of gun-metal in his fist, and his feet made no sound as he slipped across the drawing-room toward what be knew must be the bedroom entrance. The door stood open. The sound of breathing came to him again, and once more the threshing of bed-springs. So much the better, if Duncan were awake!

Wentworth slipped a small flashlight from his pocket and, muffling it beneath his cape, he stared fixedly at it through a long moment while his eyes adjusted to the brightness. Then he stepped into Duncan's room . . . and swept on the lights.

"Good evening, Duncan!" he said quietly. "Such a polished gentleman as yourself should rise when he has a visitor!"

His eyes were burning toward the bed. He could see the figure beneath the bed-clothing, covers drawn even over the head. There was a renewed, frenzied threshing of the bed-springs. The covers jumped and surged . . . but the man did not sit up as Wentworth bade him! A sharp oath sprang to Wentworth's lips. In a single long bound, he reached the bed, whipped the covers back.

There was a man in the bed all right, a man with a bristling black beard parted by the tight white bonds of a gag. Black eyes glowered fiercely up into his.

Wentworth gasped, "Ram Singh!"

It was no more than a glance and a beginning of a word that he uttered, and then Wentworth did a curious thing! He hurled his entire body forward and flung himself face down across Ram Singh's body, and whipped his cape up over his own head. At the same instant, the room exploded into flame!

If Wentworth had been one instant late in his swift leap, those flames would have seared the life from his body in that first flash! As it was, he felt the hot bite of the knife-points of flame, heard the window crash out with the force of the concussion! No ordinary man would have lived through that first split-second of disaster, but Wentworth would not have this long survived his fierce battles with crime had he not been a little greater than human.

In the instant when he was whipping aside the covers, to gaze at the incredible fact that Ram Singh was a bound prisoner in Duncan's bed, Wentworth's all-seeing eyes had caught sight of another thing. He had glimpsed a wire, so fine as to be invisible except on close inspection, fastened to the bed-clothes. He had felt that wire catch and drag as he flung the covers aside. More than that had not been necessary! He was on the trail of an arsonist, and such men dealt in flame traps!

Wentworth tried to roll Ram Singh from the bed, but ropes held him prisoner. Wentworth's hand stabbed beneath his cape and brought out . . . the glass globes of the flame extinguisher! Fiercely, he hurled one where the red, leaping flames were hottest! Already, the fire was beginning to roar with the draft from the open window. The rug, walls, even the bed itself, was alive with little dancing blazes! Then the extinguisher burst!

Where it shattered against the wall, the flames leaped fiercely high . . . and went out! White fumes crawled along the floor, and where they rolled, the spots of fire pinched out like a match tossed into a basin of water. One more of the extinguisher bombs Wentworth hurled, and the last of the blazes was blackened. The room was completely dark now. Plainly, the wiring system had been involved in that touch-off; was blown out now!

Wentworth thrust himself violently from the bed, and a keen pocket-knife flicked open in his hand. He worked with furious speed, slashing loose the bonds that held Ram Singh. Even after that so short blaze, the air of the room was stifling hot. It reached with tearing hands into his lungs. The fumes of the extinguisher crawled close to the floor, but Wentworth coughed stranglingly as he worked . . . . His mind raced even faster than his deft hands.

No question that Munro had come before him, exactly figuring the Spider's next step; no question either that this flame-trap was only the beginning! There would be killers here whose job it would be to make sure of the Spider's death! At any moment, the doors might crash in—the gunmen hurl themselves to the attack! Ram Singh must be free then . . . .

These thoughts were in the forefront of Wentworth's mind, but there was a nagging agony there, too, that he would not permit to make itself felt. Ram Singh's presence here could mean only one thing: he had been overpowered by some trick while Wentworth and Nita had been inside the Hesperides Club the last time. And that meant . . . that meant the man who had driven Nita away in the Daimler was Munro!

Wentworth ripped the gag from Ram Singh's lips. "Quiet!" he warned. "There will be enemies near!"

Ram Singh heaved his broad-shouldered length from the bed, and Wentworth caught the gleam of his teeth as he spat on the floor. "Wah," he rumbled softly. "Thy servant is a swollen-bellied idiot from the hills! They tricked me, sahib! Thy servant is unfit to live!"

Ram Singh was suddenly on his knees before Wentworth, and his powerful hands ripped open the throat of his tunic.

"Master," he growled, "they have taken my knives, else I would spare thee the task! Slay a dog who is unfit!"

Wentworth's hand dropped heavily on Ram Singh's shoulder. His own heart was lead in his chest. "If you deserve death, my warrior," he said in the harsh Punjabi that was Ram Singh's native language, "then I also deserve that fate. For I rode behind this man, clothed in thy garments! And I did not know him! I did not know him . . . and he carried off . . . the missie sahib!"

A growl of rage rumbled in Ram Singh's chest. He was suddenly on his feet, and his crouch was like a beast. His hands swung restlessly. "Master," he whispered, "let us, thou and I, earn the right to live! When I have found those who hold the missie sahib . . . ."

Wentworth's own lips were curved in a wintry smile. He heard a few frightened calls in the courtyard outside the window, but on this floor, there was complete silence. And it was a silence of waiting, and of death!

"That door leads into the hallway, Ram Singh," he said. "It is locked! And our enemies are outside!" Ram Singh crossed the room in two easy strides, and his hands clamped on the knob of the door. His shoulders, his back arched like the bow of a catapult.

"I will want one man alive," Wentworth's whisper rang.

There came a slow creaking from the door. Ram Singh's breath exploded in a curse from his lips . . . and suddenly be straightened. There was a ripping of wood, the scream of torn metal! Ram Singh wrenched the door from its hinges! A hoarse shout burst from his lips. He thrust the door before him, and lunged out into the hallway!

The enemy was waiting, men at each end of that narrow hallway with guns in their fists. They were waiting . . . but they were not ready. So swift was Ram Singh's leap that he was half-way to the nearest men before they realized their prisoners had burst from the apartment! Ram Singh whipped the door above his head, and his teeth gleamed amid the thicket of his beard. The war cry of his native hills roared joyously from his throat! A single gun spat then, wildly, and Ram Singh hurled the door, like a broad-bladed javelin, at the killers!

A man turned to run, and the door caught him in the small of the back, bent and broke him; carried him on against his fellows crowded in that narrow corridor! Three men went down, and Ram Singh shouted again and leaped through the air, with his great fists reaching before him! All that Wentworth saw as he flung through the doorway, and afterward he ignored the men at Ram Singh's end of the corridor. He had his automatics in his fist and he pivoted to the right—began shooting!

There were five men at his end of the hall. One of them, straight ahead, grasped a machine-gun. Out of doors on either side of the hallway leaned the other four, and revolvers were in their fists. In that single sweep of his eyes, Wentworth placed them all, estimated them—and his guns, hard-pressed against his hips, jerked in the first salvo of death!

His first bullet caught the crouching machine-gunner squarely in the forehead and whipped him backward out of sight through that darkened doorway. His weapon clattered to the floor and, afterward, his feet showed. They drummed the floor for a little while. But Wentworth was scarcely aware of that. The guns throbbed like living things in his fists, scoring along the walls as they skimmed toward those twin doorways from which death threatened. A gunman lurched backward against his companion, surged forward again as the other opened panicky fire on the Spider—and hit his own partner instead!

Another man, drilled through the shoulder, was whirled out into the middle of the hallway by the sledge-hammer of the Spider's lead. He pitched to his hands and knees and began to scramble frantically, crazily toward that dark doorway where the machine-gun lay. There were only two men left alive in those doorways, and they had flinched back out of sight.

Wentworth heard Ram Singh's pantherish stride behind him. "What, master," he jibed, "are there still men alive down here?"

Wentworth's smile twisted his lips. He was waiting while the crawling gangster grappled for the machine-gun. His eyes flicked to those two empty doorways.

"Throw a body down the hall," he murmured, and Ram Singh laughed harshly. His breath gusted out through his nostrils and, over Wentworth's head, sailed the limp-armed body of a man. It crashed to the floor before the doors, and flame spat out of the darkness. Wentworth squeezed each trigger once, and there was the concerted clatter of falling guns within those rooms. He had had only the gun-wrists of the men to shoot at—but he had needed no more target than that!

There were screams inside those rooms, pain and fright hoarsening the voices. And the gangster with the broken shoulder had his machine-gun.

"Drop it, fool, and live," Wentworth sent his harsh whisper sibilantly through the hallway.

The man's jaw was chattering with fear. His eyes strained wide and blind in his face. Perhaps he could not hear! His hands shook as he tried to bring the machine-gun to bear. Wentworth squeezed a trigger, and the machine-gun leaped like a living thing from the man's hand.

"Take him, Ram Singh," Wentworth whispered. "Alive!"

With a shout, Ram Singh bounded down the hallway. Wentworth moved forward more slowly. A glance behind him showed what fearful carnage the bare hands of the enraged Sikh had performed. There no longer were any cries from the two rooms that flanked the hall, yet there should be wounded men in them. There should be . . . .

Wentworth stiffened to gauge the screams and shouting that echoed through the building. Undoubtedly, the police already had been summoned. He couldn't have much time. But why were those two men in the dark rooms silent? Wentworth's eyes narrowed in abrupt alarm. He leaped through the nearest doorway and flung the strongly concentrated beam of his pocket-flash about the room. Empty! A bound took him across the hallway and into the opposite room. That also was empty, and ropes swung from the window!

Through a long moment, Wentworth stood there staring out into the darkness from which the snow whirled like dark specks against the sky-glow, and then a shout lifted to his lips. He wheeled out of the room.

"Bring the prisoner, Ram Singh!" he shouted.

* * *

He plunged for the steps, toward the screams and the shouting below him. No question what those escape ropes meant. They had not been left there for the killers to escape from the Spider. Munro had never expected the Spider to emerge alive from Duncan's room; nor would he have provided for his men to escape. Nor would they have needed the ropes for escape, if the fire in Duncan's apartment had spread. But if this apartment building were set for a touch-off, if the flames were meant to leap up this unguarded wooden stairway and sweep the building in one terrifying holocaust of destruction—then they would have needed those ropes, and needed them badly.

Wentworth took the stairs in great bounds. "Fire!" he shouted, as he ran. "Fire! The building is on fire! Get out! Get out fast—before it's too late! Hurry!" Voices muted beneath the lash of his voice. In the dim-lighted hallway below him, white faces turned up toward him. An old woman with a white cap upon her whiter hair smiled uncertainly with wrinkled lips, and a girl in a feathered negligee tossed her head, and smiled a little slyly. There was a man in trousers and undershirt, and he stared at Wentworth with spreading eyes. His red face drained of color.

"The Spider!" he whispered, and his voice broke. He screamed, "The Spider!" He turned and began to tear down the steps. They shook under his terrified tread!

Wentworth swung his arm at the people gathered there in a tight, terrified bunch. "Come on!" he shouted. "Follow me! I tell you the house is on fire!"

He stampeded down the steps behind the man, hearing his screams run ahead of him, hearing the terror that the mere mention of the Spider's name could spread in the sudden stillness; and the sudden screams that followed in the wake of the man's flight. Wentworth's lips were grim. He could not blame the people for fearing him, though it was in their service he had done what he had done. They could not reason out his motives. They only knew that many had been found dead with the glittering red mockery of the Spider's seal upon their forehead. And so they feared . . . .

It was a glancing thought across Wentworth's mind as he raced for the first floor. He could do no more than shout a warning to the people he passed. It was on the first floor, in the basement beneath, that he must seek to prevent this threatened holocaust. The touch-off mechanism would be there; the naphtha to spread the flames instantaneously. God, if only Munro were here now! Wentworth's fists tightened in white hammers at his side! The damnable callousness of the man to set such a trap, when scores of human beings were clustered in these ancient buildings; when every fire he touched off meant human lives! But he would not care for that, only for money in his pocket, by whatever scheme he used to collect on these pyres of the living.

As he ran, Wentworth heard a sound pierce through the beat of terror that raced about him: The shriek of speeding police sirens! His teeth locked together. They would be here within instants, and all about the street echoed to screams that blazoned the name of the Spider! Immediate flight was the only thing that could save him. He had his prisoner. Ram Singh could force words from the man, if the fear of the Spider would not. Within his grasp was the means to smash Munro!

But Wentworth did not even hesitate on the first floor, where he might have dashed to safety. He swung down the narrow hallway, batted open the basement door. He had to save these people first of all. If he could find the touch-off mechanism in time! He knew he had not many seconds. The precipitate flight of those gunmen told him that. He peered down into the blackness of the basement, and the hot volatile stench of naphtha struck his nostrils. Even as he started down the steps, he saw the hot leap of an electric flash!

A shout rose in Wentworth's throat. He hurled himself backward, slammed the door, dodged aside. A rumbling concussion made the floor leap beneath his feet. The basement door was torn from its hinges, and jagged swords of red flame stabbed out through the opening! There was that moment's pause, and then flame was boiling out through the doorway, as coffee boils over from a pot. Gouts of red and yellow rolled across the floor and where they touched, fresh fire leaped up to add to the billowing folds of pure flame.

Wentworth picked himself up from its path and staggered toward the front of the building. Men and women were screaming, throwing themselves from the first-floor windows. Two or three streamed down the steps and out the front door, but already the flames were working on those wooden stairs, dancing joyously, bubbling through the cracks, spreading . . . . Halfway down the first flight, Ram Singh was crouched with the unconscious gangster across his shoulder. Escape was easy now. The police had not yet arrived.

It was like the Spider that he did not hesitate at all. On the one hand was safety in escape; on the other death either by fire or at the guns of the police. But human lives were at stake, the people whom the Spider served selflessly and without stint!

Wentworth did not think of escape. He thought of an old woman in a nightcap, and a saucy young girl; he remembered the frightened wail of children.

"Out, Ram Singh!" he ordered. "Save yourself, and take the prisoner to the car!"

And the Spider whirled and bounded up the stairs, back into the teeth of flames—into the mouth of hell!

Chapter Five
The Mouth of Hell

WENTWORTH raced furiously up the steps, toward the surge of people who fought to descend that narrow, treacherous way. Wentworth felt the stairs tremble violently under his tread. A step cracked and collapsed under the thrust of his foot, and up the well, a tower of flame flapped in sudden fury. It twined its hot arms across the stairs and Wentworth hurtled it with a muffled shout.

The heat stabbed into his lungs and he staggered.

Instantly, a strong arm was about his shoulders, heaving him upward. And in his ear, the calm voice of Ram Singh spoke gravely.

"Your orders, sahib!"

Ram Singh had chosen to die beside the master he loved rather than seek safety in flight!

Wentworth whirled toward the valiant Sikh and the screams of terrified humans beat about them like a leaden hail. A man ran at the flames on the steps, shrieked and hurled himself headlong through the licking tongues. His body struck with a crash, and there was a rending, tearing sound! The steps gave way beneath him, and his scream soared, but the flames' roar drowned it quickly. They leaped higher, released by the fall of the stairs.

Wentworth's lips moved in a slight smile of acknowledgment of Ram Singh's courage. He thrust out his hand, pointing.

"Drive the people upstairs!" he ordered fiercely.

He flung up his arms, and in the hot draft of the flames, his cape billowed out behind him like black wings, a brave erect figure against the scarlet and yellow of death that flared behind him.

"Up!" he shouted above the flame roar. "Climb upward! The roof is your only protection! Fire engines are coming with ladders! Get up!"

He yelled.

A few women fled before him toward the stairs, but there was terror above, and people fought also to run down that narrow treadway to what they hoped was safety. Ram Singh reached over the rail and seized a man by the neck, dragged him from the steps.

"Up!" he shouted. "Go up!"

His scowl was fierce, and the women broke before him and fled upward. At the head of the steps, they ran into a jam of human beings. Wentworth leaped for the stairway and his legs drove him fiercely. His hands reached out over the heads of the terrified people and picked out the cowards—the men who fought blindly and crazily to escape, and were imperiling other lives. Wentworth struck crisp, reaching blows. The men went down, and the jam was broken. Afterward, the people could move more swiftly.

They were on the third floor now, and already the heat here was incredible. Black smoke swirled and drifted through the hallways, and there were strangling gasps of terror. A woman was on her knees with a baby in her arms, and two other children clung to her, big-eyed with fear, too frightened even to cry.

"The fire escape, Ram Singh!" Wentworth said quietly. "Get back there and see that there is no fighting."

Ram Singh tossed his prisoner to the floor and darted back through the wide open doorways toward the fire escape and Wentworth heard his voice ring out fiercely, batter down the panic screams. Wentworth bent over the woman with the children, and she flinched from his touch.

"It will be safer up above," Wentworth said gently.

The woman cringed away, rising to her feet. She turned and ran toward the steps upward, with the children clinging to her.

"Who's the funny man, Mother?" the little boy piped. "What are you running for, Mother? He's a nice man . . . ."

Wentworth ranged swiftly through the rooms of the floor, and found it deserted. Most of the people here had made their escape by the stairs, or already had fled before him up the steps. Ram Singh stood braced outside a window, and his great right fist was lifted like a mallet.

"You walk slow," he shouted, "or by Kali, I will smash heads!"

Wentworth stared out the window. The fire escape was jammed with human beings, creeping, fighting their way downward, and Wentworth felt the blood drain from his heart at the sudden memory of the weakness of that fire escape, and how it had rattled and swayed beneath his single weight!

"Come, Ram Singh!" he shouted. "For God's sake, hurry!"

He whirled and darted out into the hallway. The heat struck him like a solid wall, and he bent his head, muffled his face in his cape and plunged on. A tongue of flame lashed across his ankles like the bite of a scourge. He made the steps. There was no one on it now; no one at all. He plunged upward and felt the creaking of the stair beneath his feet, felt the blistering intensity of the heat that roared up this open stairway.

"Up another floor!" Wentworth shouted. "Make the people go on that fire escape slowly, not more than twelve at a time! It's weak. May break!"

He darted toward the fire escape, and Ram Singh's huge hand clamped on his shoulder. "You go upstairs, master," he said simply. "I stay here!"

Wentworth whirled, and his grey-blue eyes flashed with pale fire. "Obey!" he bit out.

Ram Singh stepped back under the fury of those eyes, and touched his hands to his forehead in low salaam. Without another word, he whirled and sped toward the steps. Wentworth plunged on toward the room which held the fire escape exit.

No light burned within the room, but none was necessary. All outdoors seemed one scarlet tower of light. The flame glow blazed in through the window as from the mouth of a furnace. At the window, a dozen men and women fought and brawled like animals to escape. A man struck about him fiercely with his fists. The woman with the baby in her arms pitched to the floor, a girl screamed as she was hurled half across the room. Immediately she was on her feet again, and dashing back into the melee! The man won a moment's freedom there at the window, got half-way out. Another man seized him by the shoulders and hurled him back . . . and no one climbed out at all!

Wentworth whipped out an automatic and fired a shot into the ceiling. "Stop fighting," he ordered coldly. "The first person who strikes another dies!"

He strode toward the window, and suddenly here was a thing among them that they feared more than the scarlet caress of the flames. Here was a terror with a gun in his fist. One man lifted himself slowly from the floor, and suddenly flung headlong at Wentworth!

Wentworth stepped easily aside, and the gun lifted and fell . . . and the man was sprawling on the floor, unconscious.

"Now then," Wentworth's voice was quiet, even calm. "Women and children first!"

He picked up the woman with the baby, and her eyes lifted to his face . . . and this time she did not cringe. A hesitant smile moved on her lips and Wentworth helped her toward the window . . . but he did not turn his back on the others. He swung the children to the fire escape platform after their mother. Above him, he could hear the harsh rasp of Ram Singh's voice . . . and there were not many on the fire escape.

"Move swiftly, but without running," Wentworth called to the people on the fire escape. "This thing is weak!"

The little boy was grinning at Wentworth, "Good-by, funny man," he said, and toddled down the shaking metal steps.

One by one, gun bitterly ready in his fist, Wentworth issued the people to the fire escape. His eyes quested beyond the immediate group. Against the wall, he saw the old woman with her white, white hair. Beside her, a small, withered mouse of a man stood quietly.

"Come, mother!" Wentworth called.

The woman's withered lips smiled, "Let the young ones go first," she said. "They have so much to live for . . . .

The little man beside her took the old woman's arm and urged her forward.

"Take care of her," Wentworth told him gently.

The man's eyes were large behind his glasses. "If you don't mind," he said, his voice thin and reedy, "I think I'll wait a while. I never could stand heights."

Wentworth stared at him, but there was no time for argument. He swung the woman from the floor, set her gently on the platform. In the red light below, he could see firemen darting into the court.

"There will be help below," he told her.

The woman's withered hand clung to his for an instant. "Bless you, Spider," she quavered.

Wentworth swung then on the huddled men, crouching to one side of the window under the threat of his guns. They were racked by coughing from the fumes that seeped through the closed door, and there was hatred in their eyes.

"One at a time," Wentworth told them grimly. "I'll be at the window above you. The first man who hurries, or tries to rush the others . . . I'll shoot! All right, easy now!"

They went out of the window on their hands and knees, and they did not hurry, or fight. Wentworth saw their faces turned up, rosy in the firelight . . . and then it happened!

With a rending sound of tearing metal, a bolt ripped out of the bricks, and one end of the platform swung clear of the wall. There were shrieks and wild shouts below. Men started to run down the slanting ladders and up above Ram Singh's voice lifted in a hoarse shout!

Wentworth flung a single shot downward, and shouted a warning. He clamped an arm inside the wall then, and locked the other about the rail of the swaying platform. By an exertion of his utmost strength, he tugged it back against the building!

"Ram Singh!" he shouted, and his voice was hoarse with strain. "Ram Singh . . . hold up the fire escape!"

There were sudden groaning sounds of wrenched iron, and another bolt gave way. Wentworth's back bowed with effort. His head sagged downward, and his teeth set in his lip. The iron seemed to be severing his arm, his muscles were strained to breaking. Vision swam before his eyes. He was aware of shouts beneath him. The people below realized their danger, and were rushing pell-mell down the metal steps. Those still above them . . . and there was another floor above Ram Singh . . . saw their last means of escape eluding them and stormed the windows in a mass. They crowded the platforms to over-flowing. They fought to get down the stairways.

And the arms of two men alone anchored that mass of steel, those struggling people to the wall! Wentworth could feel fresh weight sagging upon him. He heard the ripping tear of his coat across his shoulders as the bulge of his muscles swelled against it. Thinly, he heard a man's voice beside, him, a squeaky, thin voice that repeated one sound over and over again. It was desperate, that voice, and Wentworth remembered the mouse-like little man who would not leave.

"Web!" he cried. "Your web! Where is it?"

From great depths, Wentworth heard and recognized the words and could not seem to answer. It was a violent effort of will even to remember where he had tucked the powerful line of silk that was his web. Somehow, he forced out words, dragged from the bottom of his mind. So great was the strain upon him that he could not even be sure that the man's hands touched his body, but presently the man was shouting at him again.

"Not good at knots!" he cried. "Think it will hold!"

Wentworth lifted up his head as a man will drag a great rock from the earth, and turned it toward the fire escape. The silken web had been twisted between a steam pipe inside, and the metal frame-work of the fire escape. It was doubled and redoubled a dozen times . . . and as the little man said, the knots were peculiar, but it looked as if it would hold!

Wentworth lifted his head heavily and gazed up at Ram Singh. There were only a few people left on the fire escape, and they were running down the steps toward him. They went past with frightened glances at the man in black. If they noticed that the cords stood out like ropes in his neck, that his face was fiery with congested blood and effort, they said nothing.

Woodenly, Wentworth's eyes followed them downward as they fled, saw firemen snatch them from the last rungs and rush them clear of the wavering metal deadfall. Wentworth lifted his eyes to Ram Singh and the Sikh's eyes were bulging in his head with effort.

His voice reached down to Wentworth feebly. "Go down, master," he called, "and then I . . . ."

"Let go!" Wentworth called. "Let go!"

His sharp command penetrated even the lethargy of utter fatigue that gripped Ram Singh, and he saw the mighty arm of the Sikh loosen its hold. He let go in the same instant. The metal frame-work swayed out from the wall. A final bolt snapped up near the roof . . . and then with a rush, the whole fire escape plunged down into the courtyard! The uppermost platform struck first, bounced high, and then it was all over. A heap of twisted scrap-iron lay in the courtyard.

Somehow, Wentworth dragged himself back inside the window. His web still dangled there, looped about the steam pipe. The rusted iron of the fire escape had given way first. Slowly, Wentworth unwound the web. He was realizing that it might make the difference between life and death for them now. He pushed out from the wall, and the little man smiled at him hesitantly.

"I hope I tied it all right, Spider," he said.

Wentworth felt laughter prod at his chest. He dropped an arm, a weary, strained arm, about the man's shoulders. "No giant could have done better," he said.

The little man flushed and hung his head, and Wentworth strode with him toward the door. He pressed a palm against the door, flinched at the heat of it; stepped back.

"No man could live out there now," he said. "Even to open that door would mean we would be instantly suffocated by superheat."

With long strides, he returned to the window. Ram Singh was leaning out.

"There are still fools upon the roof, master!" Ram Singh called, "and the ladders cannot reach them because of the flames!"

Wentworth felt a dizziness that was exhaustion sweep through him, but he shook his head vehemently and reached out with the coiled web.

"Catch!" he called, and flung the line upward.

Ram Singh's hand wrapped about the silken line and Wentworth turned to the small man beside him.

"You're going out, now!" he said quietly. "There's no more you can do here!"

The man shook his head stubbornly, eyes big behind the glasses. "I'm not a leader," he said. "Very few of us are born to that . . . but I can follow! You may need me on the roof!"

Wentworth clicked back an impatient exclamation, looped the rope beneath the man's arms. "This time," he said grimly, "you lead! Haul away!"

The man hung passively in the loop while Ram Singh threw his great muscles into the task. Wentworth twisted away from the window. They had lost the prisoner that Ram Singh had taken, but this was the fourth floor where Duncan's men had tried to trap him. That door in the side wall . . . . Wentworth leaped to it, and slapped his palm against the wood. It was hot, but not like that one which opened into the hallway. He wrenched it open, and black smoke fanned into his face!

Wentworth strangled, threw the cape over his head, and plunged into the heat. Even through the thickness of his cape, he could sense the red leap of flames. Suddenly, he tripped and fell. His hands plunged against the body of a man! Cautiously, Wentworth uncovered his face, and recognized one of the killers! With a quick surge of strength, Wentworth caught up the body and hurried back to the room he had quitted. Ram Singh's shout was anxious, and Wentworth leaned out the window to reassure him, caught the silken line as it snaked down again. Rapidly, he secured it about the man's body, then he went up the silken line, feet braced against the wall, hauling in hand-over-hand! The instant his feet struck the floor inside the window upstairs, he whirled toward Ram Singh.

"Dead man on the other end of the line," he snapped. "Bring him to the roof! Where's that little man?"

Ram Singh's lips moved in a grin. "On the roof," he grunted. "He talks too much."

Wentworth grinned back slowly in Ram Singh's eyes, recognizing the admiration of the Sikh. Then Wentworth loped across the room. The air was a little clearer here, but it would not last long. The wood of the floors was beginning to smolder . . . . He sprang for the stairs, and raced to the roof, heard Ram Singh's heavy tread behind him. On the far corner of the roof were six women, huddled together, and over them stood the little man, looking out very quietly into the night. There was another building over that way, a good fifty feet away. There was nothing else.

Wentworth ran toward him, ducking under the mess of radio aerials that criss-crossed erratically; heard Ram Singh hurl the body to the roof and pound after him. In a swift instant, Wentworth leaned over the balustrade and surveyed the scene below. The flames billowed out from the windows, and even at this height, the heat was unbearable. No, no ladders could reach them here. He made a swift circuit of the roof. On one side, there was a two story building, and there were few windows on the wall. As yet, the fire had not broken through.

Instantly, Wentworth's plan was formed. He sprang atop the balustrade, and his cape billowed out in the rising heat from the flames. He cupped his hands to his mouth and sent a clear shout ringing toward the streets below. Even above the roar of the flames, the answer came back. It was a sigh, a groan of a hundred, a thousand voices.

"The Spider! The Spider?'

Wentworth lifted his hands for silence, and once more called out: "Roof to the left! Spread nets!"

There were long moments of uncertainty while Wentworth repeated that call and then he saw firemen stream out onto the roof! But already, it threatened to be too late! A section of the brick wall had fallen, and the flames licked out furiously! The firemen could not come close enough for the people to jump. Wentworth saw men in the white asbestos suits of the smoke-eaters run in their heavy burdened way toward the building, but knew they would come too late.

He cupped his hands. "Here they come!" he shouted. "Ram Singh . . . . Throw them!"

The women screamed, began to run like frightened fowls about the roof. It was the little man who stepped forward then. His face was white as the face of the high-sailing moon, and there was a quaver in his voice.

"I'm a fool about heights!" he said, and swallowed hard. "B-but you can throw me!"

The women stared then, and one of them came forward. "If he makes the net," she said, "you can throw me!"

Another woman darted forward. "No, no, throw me first! They can't hold the nets this near very long!"

Wentworth smiled thinly at the little man, "So you can't lead?" he asked softly.

He nodded to Ram Singh, and the giant Sikh caught the woman at the hips and whirled her high over his head. He ran toward the balustrade, and . . . hurled her into space! Her scream soared up into the heavens, and the white faces of the other women lined the balustrade. But Ram Singh's cast was true, and the woman smacked into the net and was taken out safely.

Swiftly then, Ram Singh and Wentworth hurled the others. The last one they both had to swing between them, like an adagio dancer by hands and feet, before she could be hurled into a high arch toward the net. She just made the edge of it, and afterward, the firemen shrank back. The flames were boiling out.

Wentworth whirled toward Ram Singh and together they gazed out over the fiery abyss. A reedy voice spoke into their silence. "It's too far to throw me," he said. "Too bad!"

Wentworth turned quickly, and he had the silken web in his hand. "With this, we can make it," he said quietly, and knotted the web beneath the man's arms. He lifted them submissively, but his eyes were very wide. He took off his glasses and his hands were trembling.

"I don't like to go first," he said. "Suppose the web catches fire when you lower me through the flames?"

Wentworth put his hands on the man's shoulders, looked him directly in the eye. "We're going to swing you clear of the flames," he said. "If we never meet again, I want you to know this: I've never met a braver man!"

The little man flushed and dropped his eyes. "Why—why, Spider . . . ." he began.

He had not chance for more. Ram Singh caught him up in his arms and ran toward the end of the roof. Swiftly, they lowered him and then Ram Singh and Wentworth together began to swing him. He hung limply in the bight of the rope, a little man afraid of heights, a little man who knew he would never be a leader. At first, he moved so very little, then his body began to sweep through a slow arc, faster, faster . . . . Back and forth across the rear of the building they swung him, until his body was sailing out beyond the side wall, out toward the net that was spread on the adjacent roof.

"Now!" Wentworth gasped.

As the man's body swung again to the farthest limits of the web, they let it rush out between their hands. Wentworth had the end twisted around his hand. They would need it to escape; they would have to have it . . . and then a coldness shot through him! He realized that the web was not long enough! It would not reach the net! Instead, the little man would be snapped up short, swung back into the flames . . . .

At the last possible moment, Wentworth whipped his hand free of the silk, and it left his hand like the snapped line of a kite. The little man sailed through the air, folded neatly to land in the center of the net. The silken web whipped after him, settled its soft skein about him. On the roof, Ram Singh turned slowly toward Wentworth and there was a grin on his face.

He started to speak, and there was a crashing roar behind them, a volley of upward flying sparks. The top floor had fallen, and the roof was already curling the soles of their shoes!

"Wah, master," cried Ram Singh, "we are trapped like dead Parsecs atop a Tower of Silence. But no vultures will ever pick our bones!"

Wentworth's eyes were questing about. If he had the web, there was that roof fifty feet away. But he did not have the web . . . .

"There are vultures below, Ram Singh," he said quietly. "They wear blue coats . . . ."

Ram Singh spat into the flames. "Wah, there are no more than two score of them, and we are mighty warriors, thou and I!"

He heaved a deep sigh, and coughed violently with the heat. "I should have liked another battle or two!"

Ram Singh threw back his head and bellowed with sudden laughter. "Ha, surely it is a great joke the One True God plays upon us!" he roared. "Now, we have earned the right to live again—and there is no way at all in which to live. Ah, hoo! How the One True God can jest!"

Chapter Six
Street Scenes Of The Damned

IN THE streets about the blazing apartment building, police fought to hold back the hysterical crowds. A thin line of the rescued still filtered down from the adjoining roof, from the court to the rear but they were those who long ago had been thrust to safety by the Spider. No one could live now in that blazing inferno!

A long block from the apartment, the heat reddened the faces of the struggling police; people held hands before their eyes and even then the blast-furnace temperature struck like a hammer. Beyond the roped-off line, the firemen crouched behind shields to play their hoses. The hundred pound pressure in the lines hissed and roared from the nozzles but the white gush of the waters seemed not to touch the flames at all. The roar of the roiling flames that bubbled from the windows; the black immensity of the tower of smoke blotted out every other conscious thought. Men stood in stupefied awe of the thing that man had created—and destroyed!

Even the police, bracing their shoulders backward against the crowd, could stare nowhere except at that black smear that was the roof. It had not crashed yet. Every other floor had fallen, but for the moment the roof still held.

"The man's done for," Sergeant O'Leary lifted his hoarse voice above the fire roar, above the murmurous thunder of the crowd behind him. "Not even the Spider could live through that!"

"A great pity," Officer McDonald yelled back at him. "A great pity, the fire had to take him . . . when every man here is straining to line that crook up between his pistol sights!"

Officer McDonald's uniform cap was suddenly snatched from his head and a woman's hands fastened in his hair!

"A pity is it, you dumb flatfoot!" the woman screeched. "A pity is it? The Spider has saved a hundred lives this night and you talking about your guns! You worthless, no good, dumb . . . .

O'Leary cut in heavily, "All right, there now, mother!" he cried. "Lay off or I'll run you in. Sure, the boy is young yet!"

McDonald ducked away from those vengeful hands, caught up his uniformed cap. His face was hot with something more than the heat, "He's a crook!" McDonald yelled. "I'm telling you . . . ."

"Easy, McDonald!" O'Leary said sternly. "Like I said, you're young, and . . . ." He broke off, cocking an ear as a siren wailed beyond the thick crowd. He burst out strongly. "Make way there! Make way! It's the commissioner himself! I'd know the commissioner's car anywhere, and the way that lad Cassidy plays the siren. Make way! Make way!"

McDonald thrust violently into the crowd, using his strong young back and his shoulders. The woman slapped him as he went past, glowered after him . . . and O'Leary grinned dourly. The commissioner was on the spot, surely. He was taking no chances where the Spider was concerned!

The crowd parted reluctantly and a car jounced and rocked over the hoses. Leaning from the window, Kirkpatrick's face showed stern and strained in the fierce red glow. He jerked open the door and strode ahead as the car rolled to a final halt beyond the fire line.

"Has he been seen recently, Sergeant O'Leary?" Kirkpatrick asked crisply.

O'Leary flushed at being recognized by the chief, but Kirkpatrick was always that way. Among eighteen thousand police who worked and fought under him, there were few he could not call by name—not as a trick to gain their loyalty but because he loved his men . . . .

"That he hasn't, Commissioner," O'Leary growled. "A shadow itself couldn't squeeze through our lines. All the people who escaped are being held apart so he can't pass off as one of them, but . . . ." He stared up where the roof was a faint black smear amid the boiling greedy tongues of flame. "Sure, the devil himself couldn't live there now!"

Kirkpatrick's harried eyes lifted to that high roof and his mouth stretched into a harsh line. "No," he said, and his voice was less crisp than usual. There was pain in his tones. "No, no man could live through that!"

Even as he spoke, there was a rending crash within the building. Fresh gouts of flame gushed through the windows, and sparks flew upward like a swarm of golden birds. The roof had fallen!

Kirkpatrick whipped toward O'Leary. "Sergeant, take a squad of picked men and work this crowd, fast! Pick up every character known to headquarters, or any other suspicious persons. Bring them here. If the Spider has confederates, this is the time to get them!"

Sergeant O'Leary saluted and spun into the crowd, shouting for men. Sure, the commissioner never forgot anything! And he was remembering now that Sergeant O'Leary had an eye for faces. Let him set his eyes on a crook and he never forgot him! O'Leary's eyes stabbed at the faces about him, and there was an aggressive, happiness in his movements . . . . Ah, but it was bad luck the Spider had met this night!

Standing rigidly beside his car, Kirkpatrick could not tear his eyes away from the joyous leaping of the flames. Dick Wentworth was in there, but he had not been trapped by the flames alone. Nothing so simple as a fire could trap him. The end had come as Kirkpatrick had always known it must; trapped through his great heart, helping people to the last . . . . He shuddered a little, and his jaw's line stood out whitely.

"A hell of a way to die," he muttered. "Was you speaking, Commissioner?" Cassidy piped from the driver's seat. "Sure, and ain't that a grand fire?"

Kirkpatrick's voice ripped out sternly. "Keep your ear on that radio, Cassidy! And speak when you're spoken to!"

Cassidy turned his pale hurt eyes on the commissioner's face, and Kirkpatrick swung away. Cassidy fumbled with the radio dials. Something was working on the commissioner, surely . . . .

Kirkpatrick's eyes whipped toward an ambulance, parked inside the lines. He saw a woman, with a half-completed bandage flying from her arm. She broke away and ran toward him, and there were tears streaming down her face!

"Do something!" she screamed. "Why don't you do something!" She reached Kirkpatrick and her frail fists beat on his chest. Her face was ravaged, and her hair streamed wildly. "For God's sake, Commissioner, the Spider's in there. The Spider . . . ."

Kirkpatrick's face did not change, but his hands were gentle as he set the woman back. "Easy," he said gently. "There's nothing anyone . . . ."

"He did something!" the woman cried. "He saved my life! Mine and my man's and my baby's! He saved hundreds . . . and you stand here and let him die!"

A policeman ran up, took her by the arm roughly. "Sorry, Commissioner!" he panted. "She broke through! Come on, you!"

The woman twisted in the cop's grasp. "Cowards!" she screamed. "All of you cowards! Letting a man die that way! Damn you, oh, damn you—you want him to die!"

"Take her away!" Kirkpatrick snapped. "And look to your duty, man!" He turned away, and for a moment his stern face was twisted awry . . . . He was glad when O'Leary came proudly forward, shepherding a dozen stumbling sullen men.

"Come on, there!" O'Leary growled. "Pick it up, you punks. It's the commissioner himself will be looking you over!" Kirkpatrick stepped up on the running board of his car to see them better, and his experienced eye leaped over their faces. Small fry, all of them, except . . . .

"Book that man, O'Leary!" Kirkpatrick snapped. "Dapper, you were ordered to stay out of New York! You'll get a year this time!"

O'Leary thrust the man into the waiting hands of a patrolman and Kirkpatrick's eyes raced on. "The rest can go . . . . Hold on there. Jackson! Jackson, come here!"

Kirkpatrick's voice rasped and a broad-shouldered man with a strongly-muscled jaw moved toward him rigidly, like a man lost in thoughts far away. His face was expressionless, but there was suffering in his eyes.

"Where's Wentworth?" Kirkpatrick demanded harshly.

Jackson was a soldier on parade, "At home, sir, I believe. He dismissed me for the night a couple of hours ago."

Kirkpatrick snapped, "You're lying, Jackson! Wentworth never dismisses you when he's working on a case."

Jackson's cheeks burned dully. His back stiffened, "If I'm a liar, sir, then there's no need asking more questions, is it?" He turned his back and started to march away. O'Leary stepped into his path belligerently, but Kirkpatrick motioned him aside.

"Come back, Jackson," he called. "I apologize. Not for calling you a liar, which God knows you are . . . but for trying to make you talk. But you stay here with me, my man, or I'll run you in. Understand? If Wentworth is counting on your help, he won't get it!"

Jackson's tortured eyes quested toward the building, and Kirkpatrick swore as his own fascinated gaze swung back that way. The flames were yielding finally to the hammer of the water, dying a little.

"All right, O'Leary," Kirkpatrick said quietly. "Good work. Get back to your posts."

Behind Kirkpatrick, Cassidy's shrill voice popped out. "Hey, Commissioner! Hey . . . The Spider's on the air!"

Kirkpatrick whipped about with a violent oath. Jackson restrained a shout that gushed to his throat. He stared toward the flushed face of Kirkpatrick's driver.

"Says he'll give you thirty seconds to get to the car, Commissioner!" Cassidy was babbling. "He's got something to tell you over the radio!"

Kirkpatrick's face was curiously twisted with relief, with anger, with incredulity. He said, sharply, "Cassidy, you're hearing things! You . . ."

Cassidy twisted a dial, and a voice leaped suddenly from the radio, loud and full, mocking, curiously vibrant despite its metallic, flat tones.

"Greetings, Commissioner Kirkpatrick! This is the Spider speaking!"

Kirkpatrick's hands set on the side of his car, and the knuckles glistened white as bone. Rigidity crept across his face. Behind him, Jackson let a fleeting smile touch his mouth. He closed his eyes for a moment, and something squeezed from under the corner of the lid, laid a crystal line across his rough, weathered cheek. He brushed at it with a sleeve, and his face went expressionless again. Couldn't fool him on that voice! He'd know it among a million. He was a fool to think the Major could be taken in any such thing as a fire! The Major? Phooey! The Major could walk through hell and come up smiling!

"Here's the message, Kirkpatrick," the Spider's voice went on easily. "The fire you are witnessing—and hoping had done for me—is the work of an arson ring! There will be more such fires unless your valiant officers learn to use their heads better than they use their guns! I can give you only a little help at this time, Kirkpatrick. Things have been a bit too hot even for me!"

Kirkpatrick twisted his head about. "O'Leary! Get direction loops tuned on this message. See if you can locate the source!"

O'Leary bounded toward the fire lines, but the news had raced before him. In the way of crowds, someone had been listening to that radio; someone had heard the name of the Spider! There was laughter and shouting beyond the police lines. Cops' uniform caps were suddenly sailing through the air and O'Leary, trying to break through those jumbled ranks, was tossed back like a boy trying to crash a varsity football line!

"Yea! Spider!" a man yelled thinly. "The Spider's alive!"

A hoarse and formless cheer lifted from the crowd. Beside the ambulance, a woman dropped to her knees and her head was bowed. In her arms, she clasped her children, and beside her stood a man. He lifted his face, and the red lights from the dying fire played across it, found two glistening streaks that coursed their way from his eye corners downward over his cheeks.

Kirkpatrick was aware of these things in the back of his mind, but his attention was riveted on the radio, and the Spider was still speaking:

"The arson ring operates as a fire insurance company, Kirkpatrick. The lads tried to stop me in the burning building and I had to . . . remove a few. I'll send you a Spider seal by mail as a memento. On one of them, I found a fire insurance policy. It seems normal, but, listen Kirkpatrick, it guarantees not to repay damages from fires. It guarantees that there will be no fires!

"Off hand, Kirkpatrick, I should call it a protection racket!"

A tall man in a silk hat and formal overcoat made his casual way through the crowd, smiling at its jubilation. There was no sternness on his face, nothing threatening . . . but he moved easily through the ranks that had hurled the police backward! Men glanced up at his touch on their shoulder, anger, jubilation, hysteria on their faces. They looked into his calming smiling eyes . . . and somehow, they made way for him, though he only murmured politely, "If you don't mind!"

He stood presently beside Jackson, and the Spider's voice still ran on with its undertone of mockery.

"This organization, Kirkpatrick," it said, "maintains a corps of fire inspection men clothed in white. I am convinced, Kirkpatrick, that these men actually make the racket collections. And the name of this fire insurance company, Kirkpatrick . . . are you listening. . . . . .

The man touched Kirkpatrick on the shoulder with his cane. "I really don't think, Kirk," he said easily, "that the Spider has much to contribute!"

Kirkpatrick whipped about at the echo of that voice. "Dick!" he cried. "Dick Wentworth. Why . . ." He twisted back toward the radio, from which the Spider's moving voice still sounded. "Dick . . . ."

"The Spider signing off. Kirkpatrick!" came the final words over the air. "When you need me, Kirk, don't bother to look for me . . . . I'll be there!"

There was a dying hum, and the voice was gone, but Kirkpatrick turned stiffly toward Wentworth and slowly his hand came up to knuckle the waxed ends of his mustaches, as always when he was puzzled or worried. He shook his head.

Wentworth was leaning on his cane, smiling easily, "A very minor contribution," Wentworth said dryly. "The Spider has only told you that the arson ring expects to profit through fires. Anyone could deduce a fire insurance company . . . .

Cassidy thrust out his carroty head. His hair stood up rigidly as wires upon his pink scalp. "The Spider is a right guy!" he said strenuously. "And he gave us the name of the company, too. The No-More-Fires, Inc. He said it while you was talking!"

"That will do, Cassidy," Kirkpatrick said crisply, but a smile lingered on his mouth. "Not too bright," he muttered to Wentworth, "but I've never had a better driver! Wentworth . . . . Damn it, man, I'm glad to see you!" He thrust out his hand.

Wentworth's tip-tilted brows were mocking below the line of his hat-brim. He accepted Kirkpatrick's handclasp negligently. "Why, that's kind of you, Kirk," he murmured, "but really, it's only been an hour or so since we met at the Hesperides Club. Or don't you remember?"

Kirkpatrick frowned, but let it pass. "Go along with me, Dick," he said. "I'm going to check up on that arson ring right now!"

Wentworth tapped a yawn, "Surely, No-More-Fires will wait until morning, Kirk," he said. "I confess to a touch of weariness. Afraid I'll have to beg off. Going home now, Jackson?"

Jackson faced Kirkpatrick, "Would there be anything else, sir?" he asked, and there was laughter in his eyes.

Kirkpatrick shook his head, and bewilderment was still in his eyes as he watched the crowd part once more to allow Wentworth to pass through. It occurred to him suddenly that he had not asked Wentworth how he happened to be near the scene of the fire, but . . . Kirkpatrick shrugged. It would accomplish nothing. If Wentworth were the Spider . . . But how in the devil could he be? The Spider had been speaking when Wentworth arrived!

Cassidy said truculently, "Imagine that lily-fingered guy throwing off on the Spider! What's he ever done . . . ."

"That will do, Cassidy!" Kirkpatrick said sternly. "Speak when you're spoken to. Find O'Leary. Tell him I'll need a squad of men. And find out the address of this No-More-Fires, Inc.!"

Sergeant Reams, who was Kirkpatrick's bodyguard, came running breathlessly. "I tried to get through to you, sir," he cried. "That mob out there . . . Commissioner, the Spider was just on the air! He got clear!"

Kirkpatrick glared at Sergeant Reams.

"It's the truth, Commissioner, so help me!" Reams blurted.

Kirkpatrick said dryly, "Are you sure, Reams, that it wasn't little Sir Echo you heard?"

He snorted and climbed into the car. Reams took off his uniform cap and scratched his head. He went toward the car. "No, now, listen, Commissioner, I'd be willing to swear . . . ."

In the crowd beyond the fire line, Wentworth's stride stretched out and Jackson swung up alongside of him. Their heels clicked on the pavement in regular rhythm, marching men together.

"You're going to that office, too, Major?" Jackson asked quietly. "Too bad Cassidy got the name."

Wentworth smiled. Jackson had got what Kirkpatrick had missed—that Wentworth had tried to keep him from hearing that name, No-More-Fires, Inc. "Quite right," he acknowledged, "I wanted the . . . enemy to hear that warning, but I didn't want Cassidy's pals on the scene too soon. We'll have to hurry!"

The last of the crowd was behind. Wentworth swiftly led the way around a corner. Jackson stretched his legs to keep pace. His lips were compressed and his eyes kept reaching up to the face of the man he served.

"In God's name, Major, how did you manage it?"

"The broadcast?" Wentworth asked absently. His mind was racing ahead to the work before him. The police would leave promptly, and he must reach those offices first.

"No, I know about the broadcast," Jackson said quickly. "You recorded the speech on one of those telephone gadgets that uses a wire for a record. But the fire, sir!"

"Oh, that," Wentworth said, his gaze still reaching ahead. "There were plenty of radio aerials to twist into a cable, a roof fifty feet away with a convenient chimney. Simply lassoed it . . . ." He rubbed a gloved palm gingerly. "I can think of more pleasant methods, however, than going hand over hand along such wires as those!"

Jackson spotted the coupe ahead—a coupe to which they all carried duplicate keys, and he leaped ahead to snap open the door. He started, "Ram Singh! What the devil! You were on duty guarding Miss Nita!"

Ram Singh glowered at him, "Wah, do I take orders from such as thee!"

"Quiet!" Wentworth snapped. "Have you cleared that record off, Ram Singh? Kirkpatrick may follow!"

"Even as commanded, master." Ram Singh's voice was a growl, and his eyes were on Jackson. "It has been drawn through the magnet and is innocent of thy voice!"

"Jackson, take the wheel!" Wentworth snapped.

Jackson swung around the car, and the three crowded into the coupe, which made a swift circuit of the fire area and bore southward at Wentworth's orders. Jackson drove at furious speed, but his eyes strayed now and again to Ram Singh's face.

"There's a knot behind your ear, you dumb heathen!" he ripped out at Ram Singh. "They took you! Good God, Major, they haven't got . . . Miss Nita!"

Wentworth's tightening lips were sufficient answer, but he told briefly what had happened . . . how Ram Singh had been called from the car by a voice that had seemed Wentworth's own, and knocked down; the fight in the building. Ram Singh's chest swelled with pride.

"Hadst thou been present," he said stoutly, "thou wouldst have seen two mighty warriors go into battle! Many of the sahib's enemies died under my hand!"

Jackson spat out the open window. "Pity you didn't start fighting a little sooner! Miss Nita taken!"

Ram Singh's voice burst out in a roar that showed his pain. "Now by Kali and by Siva, thou jackal . . . ."

"Silence," Wentworth said quietly. "We're on our way now to rescue Miss Nita. Our only chance is through Munro. By putting that Spider message on the air, I warned Munro that the police would be on his trail. If there's anything incriminating in that office, he'll clean it out. We'll find one of his men there. With any luck . . . Munro himself!"

Ram Singh laughed, "Wah, sahib! Let these two hands of mine . . ."

"Stop at the next corner, Jackson," Wentworth cut in. "Ram Singh, you will go home. I think there is a good chance that Munro will phone . . . to threaten about the missie sahib! I need a brave man there!"

Ram Singh glowered, "Nay, sahib, did I not fight well?"

"Like the warrior you are, my lion," Wentworth said quietly. "There is incense in thy beard!"

Ram Singh's teeth flashed through his beard, as the car stopped. "Wah, it is not to battle you go, Jackson!" he said contemptuously. "Were it battle, the master would prefer his warrior!"

Jackson's lips opened, but Wentworth's hand touched his arm, and he said nothing. The car spurted forward, and instantly Wentworth whipped open the compartment which hid his Spider disguise.

"Each man to his own trade, Jackson," he said, "You would not expect a corporal to command a brigade!"

"But Miss Nita, sir!" Jackson's words were a cry. Their loyalty to the brave woman whom Wentworth loved was only less than to their master; second not even to their loyalty to each other. Nita van Sloan could command Jackson and Ram Singh . . . and these were men who acknowledged few leaders!

Wentworth made no answer. His own heart was sore, and the battle ahead claimed all his concentration. The police would be there quickly. They had no such urgency to drive them as Wentworth's own, but Kirkpatrick would waste no time. The Spider had to get there ahead of the police. He had his own means of making prisoners talk, which the police could not employ. And there might be evidence there which would mean to the Spider the capture of Munro—and the release of Nita!

Jackson said slowly, "You may be walking into a trap, Major. Munro will be expecting . . . the Spider!"

Working on his disguise, Wentworth did not glance up. He said, quietly, "Of course, Jackson!"

Along the seventh floor corridor of the deserted office building, the man ran swiftly. He checked at a door whose glass was lettered: No-More-Fires, Inc. His knuckles played an eccentric tattoo, and the door was whipped open.

The man darted through the darkened outer office toward the inner room where a man with abnormally thick shoulders bent over a mass of papers. The floor was littered; a safe stood open.

"He's here!" the man gasped. "The Spider's here, Daley!"

The man called Daley jerked up his head. His black eyes stabbed into the face of the other, and they were ruthless, sharp eyes, contrasting strangely with the dapper dignity of his grey hair and mustache, his tailored business suit.

"You saw what?" he demanded harshly.

"At the service door," the man panted. "A coupe slowed down there and . . . and a sort of shadow crossed the sidewalk!"

Daley's dark eyes widened. He nodded briskly. "All right, you five take your stations. Strike a match at the window first, so the boys on the roof will be ready. Remember, do nothing until I give the signal! I don't want to get burned down like Mugsy Lugan!"

The man nodded, swallowed thickly. "The way that Spider gets out of traps . . . .

Daley said, quietly, "Shut up, Haskins!"

Haskins flinched, ducked his head. "Okay. Okay," he muttered. "You're the boss, but I wish Munro was here."

Daley bent over the papers without more words. He began thrusting some of them back into the safe, tucking others into an inside pocket. They made the breast of his coat bulge a little, and he frowned at that. The office was completely quiet, the men hidden in the huddled darkness of the outer room. He strained his ears and could hear nothing. It did not matter. Everything was ready. His mouth compressed against his teeth. He didn't understand this play of the Spider in using the police . . . .

He turned his back toward the doorway, and slipped aside the blotter on the desk. A ground-glass panel was exposed, and he depressed a button at one corner of the glass. A picture in strong blacks sprang into view in the glass panel, an overhead view of the outer office brought here by an infra-red light relay and television!

He could see what would be hidden in the darkness out there, could see the five men crouched out of sight behind chairs and the divan forming a semi-circle whose center was the door of the inner office. That was how he wanted it. The Spider must be allowed to enter. The difficulty would come when he tried to get out! For a moment, Daley frowned. He hoped the police wouldn't come too soon! But hell, a couple of fire bombs would block them out, and they had their guns . . . Daley shrugged, and kept his eye on the panel. Abruptly, he stiffened and bent sharply forward over the panel!

Now . . . .

The outside door of the office had opened . . . and a shadow stole inside! A shadow that was a man all in black, shielded by a long black cape that made the outlines of his body amorphous and somehow more menacing than a human shape would have been. Daley stared with slowly widening eyes while that figure poised inside the door. He saw the slow movement of the head as the man looked about him. The man . . . Good God, he was gazing on the Spider!

Daley's hand shook as he slapped the blotter back into place over the ground-glass panel. Leaning forward across the desk, he snatched up the telephone and dialed a number. The clicking of the mechanism seemed ridiculously loud. Daley was aware of the smallness of the office. Despite the dwindled heat of the building, it seemed very hot in here. A finger slipped under his collar, loosened it a little about his neck.

"Sprague?" he spoke into the phone, and cleared his throat of hoarseness. "Sprague, Daley speaking. Orders from Munro! The Spider has set the police on our trail . . . No, not yet! They're likely to raid at any minute. Listen, Sprague . . . Munro wants a meeting of all sub-heads in one hour! Sudden? Yes . . . Well, maybe you want to argue with Munro! Yes, I thought you'd see it that way. Munro says it's up to you to get the boys together in one hour at the room at the Man o' War. And Munro is getting leery of spies. Here's the password, and give it only to those who are called to the meeting. Ready? All right—'From my ashes, I arise again!' That's all, but see every one of the lieutenants is there!"

He slapped up the receiver, and behind him a voice spoke mockingly, "I'm afraid," it said softly, "that one lieutenant will be . . . indisposed!"

Daley had been expecting something, of course, but he started violently. He whipped about, and his hands clawed at the side of the desk. His cheeks quivered. He touched a tongue to his dry lips, just inside the door, stood the hunched and sinister figure of the Spider! From beneath the broad brim of the black hat, grey-blue eyes regarded him coldly, unwaveringly. Daley shivered, and the stiffness went out of him.

He said, incredulously, quaveringly. "The . . . the Spider!"

The figure did not move. "I see that you have saved me a lot of time," the Spider said softly. "I'll take the papers from your inside pocket. But be sure that you bring out only the papers, Daley!" The gun in the Spider's left hand moved slowly, a cold eye, but not more deadly than the grey-blue eyes of the Spider. It lifted, and centered on Daley's forehead!

Daley's hand moved jerkily across his breast, and drew out the papers Wentworth had indicated—and only the papers. His black eyes wavered away from the Spider's and fell.

"Don't . . . Don't kill me, Spider!" he whispered.

Wentworth laughed, and the sound was mocking, more menacing than any words. "Why, not yet, Daley," he said. "Perhaps, not at all! It will depend on you, Daley. On how much you know! You will notice, Daley, that I do not say how much you will tell . . . We know that, Daley." He was moving softly forward. His cape made his advance a silken, ominous glide. "Yes, indeed, we know that. You will tell everything, Daley! Turn around!"

Daley stiffened, turned on wooden feet. His hands were yanked down behind him, and rope bit into his flesh. He did not struggle at all. He was thrust into the chair behind the desk. His eyes followed the crisp movements of the Spider, the sure speed with which his gloved hands shuffled through the papers of the safe. Daley licked his lips. This was not going exactly as he had planned. This was the time when he should break for it, throw himself into the outer office and call on the others to shoot down the Spider. This was the time . . . Daley sat very still.

A thin distant wail sliced into the room and Daley stiffened. The Spider had not moved from his swift contemplation of the papers, but he spoke casually. "Ah, yes, the police," he murmured, "but don't worry, Daley. They won't get here in time to help . . . or hurt you!" He seemed to move almost idly, and yet the Spider was across the room in a bound, had yanked Daley from the chair and thrown his weight across his shoulder.

"We still have a little time, Daley," he said gently, "and I have further business. It may seem a shame to you to spoil this fine office, but I think a spot of fire here would be a good idea. You guarantee your clients will not have fires, don't you, Daley? Don't you think it may make your path more difficult . . . if your office is destroyed by fire?"

Carelessly Wentworth tossed Daley into the outer office!

He sprang back beside the desk then, and his hands moved swiftly. He whipped out several glass containers from beneath his cloak and smashed them against the walls. The reek of benzene struck across the office. Wentworth swept the papers from the desk, brought out his lighter . . . and paused, rigidly. He had swept aside the blotter, and he was staring down at the ground-glass panel!

Instantly, his keen mind leaped to the use of the panel. His hand flicked to the button and depressed it, and he gazed down at the infra-red view of the outer office. Daley, already freed, was being led across the office toward a place of concealment. As Wentworth watched, Daley's hands lifted, and he stripped off the wig . . . His whole face seemed to come off with the touch of his hands!

In still amazement, Wentworth watched. There had been terror in the crouch of those ambushers a moment ago, but now suddenly there was confidence in their poise. The guns lifted bravely in their hands. And Wentworth knew why! Daley had stripped off a disguise. Daley was . . . Munro!

Wentworth's lips twisted in a slow smile, and the expression of his face was ominous! He laid his guns on the desk before him, and his eyes quested over the thin partition of glass and wood that separated him from the outer room, shifted back to the view in the panel—and a curse leaped to his lips. Munro had faced toward him now, and for the first time he saw the man's face. He saw where a face should be. God! The man . . . The man had no face!

The flesh was welted and corded across his countenance as if by a horrible burn. The mouth was a twisted, gaping smear, and the eyes were red-rimmed, drawn to awful slits! If this was the face of Munro . . . Wentworth cut off his thoughts. The police sirens were shrieking to crescendo. In a few moments' time, they would be crashing into the building, and he had a score to settle first!

Wentworth looked down again at the ground-glass panel, looked toward the walls and deliberately lifted his two guns. He could not be absolutely sure of his first shot through those obstacles, but with the aid of the ground-glass panel he could soon get the range!

Wentworth thrust out his two automatics at arm's length, a thing the Spider rarely found necessary to do. Eyes on the panel, he squeezed the two triggers together!

The crash of the guns in the office was thunderous. The wooden partition of the wall held two torn and splintered holes . . . and in the infra-red panel, Wentworth saw the glass of the outer door crash to the floor! But Munro . . . Munro who had stood there a moment before, was flat on the floor behind a desk! The other men were on their feet, and their guns began to speak!

Wentworth smiled bitterly. Munro was for the moment beyond his reach, but when he arose again, the guns of the Spider would be more certain! He began to shoot!

At the same instant, he heard the window crash out behind him, and there was a muffled blast on the floor. He saw gouts of liquid flame hurtle past him—and in the same instant, the benzene which he had scattered against the walls caught fire! In a breath, the walls of the room were curtains of flame!

The end . . . .

Outside the office door, the guns of the killers were crashing! Wentworth saw a gun spurt upward from the spot where Munro lay, and suddenly the infra-red panel went blank! And the sirens of the police had wailed to a finish out in the streets.

Trapped . . . Doubly trapped by flames and the guns of these men outside, his advantage of the infra-red panel destroyed. And the police were outside. Wentworth lifted his two automatics, crouched in the shelter of the desk. Wentworth lifted the guns . . . and then the Spider laughed aloud!

Chapter Seven
Murder Conference

In that outer office, men heard the laughter of the Spider and clutched their guns more fiercely. The bright red glare of the flames lifted behind the partition, threw its light out through the ground glass of the door.

"Wait!" Munro's voice said harshly. "He can't see you now, and he'll have to come out. And don't worry about the police. I'll blast a way through them!"

Abruptly, the door of the inner office whipped open. The caped, hunched outline of the Spider glided smoothly forward, and guns reached out their red lances from its sides. With a hysterical fury, the guns of the gangsters answered! They cursed and shouted in the release of their tension, hurled lead with both hands. The figure of the Spider had stopped, and there were no more shots from him.

"I got him, Frenchy!" a hoarse voice shouted. "I got three bullets in him!"

"I got five!" Frenchy yelled back.

The guns, emptied once, began to hammer again . . . and still there was no answering fire. And yet, suddenly, the Spider laughed!

The eerie sound of that mocking mirth mounted above the fury of the guns, above the crackling roar of the fire within the inner office. It stopped the shooting; it cut off the voices of men. Then, with a shriek of pure terror, one man bolted out through the doorway. Another followed.

"You can't kill him!" he shrieked. "Oh, God, you can't kill him!"

That whole office was full of sudden panic, and men fighting to escape. From a remote corner of the office, a figure lifted—minus hat and cape—and the two guns in his fists rolled rhythmically. Three men went down in that huddle at the doorway, but the others escaped. Wentworth reached them in two long leaps, whipped them over on their backs and swore raspingly. The Faceless One, Munro, was not among them!

Fiercely, Wentworth sprang toward where the figure of the Spider apparently stood. He yanked cape and hat and flung them about his own body, sprang for the door with the cape kiting from his shoulders. Where the Spider apparently had stood, there was revealed a tall desk lamp standing upon a swivel, roller bearing chair. In their hysterical fear, the killers had mistaken that draped chair, with Wentworth prone behind to push it forward, to fire his guns that one time, for the figure of the Spider!

Beside the outer door, Wentworth paused for a single moment. He stooped, and his cigarette lighter glinted in his hand . . . and when he sped on along the hallway, be left a glistening challenge for Munro, a mockery for the police who at least would not have to solve this crime . . . . The Spider had stamped his signature upon his kill—the seal of the Spider!

But Wentworth ran with fury in his blood. Once more, he had been face to face with Munro, and the man had slipped between his fingers! He recalled that flame-seared countenance and something like a shudder traced its way up Wentworth's spine. If that was the face of Munro, it was no wonder the man had become a genius at disguise!

The battle was not yet lost. The police would be on guard below, warned by the crash of shots and the lurid glare of the flames! If he could contrive to throw Munro into their hands . . . .

Wentworth raced down the fire escape stairs by which he had ascended, and suddenly heard the crackle of shots below, and a muffled detonation that was followed by the mad screams of men in awful pain! He swerved out into the first floor corridor, and saw . . . hell! Three police men were down, motionless in death, and two others ran crazily for the exit with flame streaming from their garments! Even as Wentworth saw them, their companions reached for the men and hurled them to the ground to extinguish the fires—and Wentworth heard Kirkpatrick's sharply crisp voice rap out, organizing pursuit!

Wentworth ducked back into the stairway, raced quietly for the service entrance which his lockpick had opened for him a little earlier. He could do no more out there than the police were accomplishing, for Munro had once more made good his escape! But there was something he still could do . . . . He could attend the meeting of Munro's associates. He knew the place, the time, and the pass-word!

His black-caped figure merged with the shadows against the building, to appear presently beside the parked coupe where Jackson waited feverishly. The car leaped forward under Jackson's instant touch, sped northward.

"You called Ram Singh?" Wentworth asked sharply.

Jackson nodded curtly. "No word, sir."

Wentworth knotted his fists on his knees. "Munro is still ahead of me," he said swiftly. "He was waiting for me back there . . . and he has set another trap for me. Know where the Man o' War is?"

"A tough dive on the waterfront, sir," Jackson nodded. "What do you mean—a trap?"

Wentworth smiled faintly. "Munro was in that office. He saw me come in, by means of a television rig-up. Then he picked up a phone and gave me the information as to when, where, and how to enter, a meeting he was calling! That was in case his trap there did not succeed in catching me."

Jackson said frantically, "For God's sake, Major, must you go? That place will be alive with his killers! He'll be expecting you! Must you really go?"

Wentworth's head swung toward him, and there was surprise in his eyes. "Munro will be there," he said quietly.

The room above the Man o' War was reserved for the initiated. It was crowded now by more than twenty men who sat around wet tables and tossed their drinks. Their faces were a rogue's gallery of the unconvicted murder-men of the country's mobs. At the door, an emaciated man with a caved-in chest, a knife gash purple on one cheek, kept watch. It was to him the men whispered one by one, "From my ashes, I arise again!"

His voice was a whisper, but it was a whisper from which men shrank. There was a sardonic gleam in the man's eyes, and once when he turned quickly, the skirt of his coat lifted to show the sheath of a long-bladed knife. He was the guard, the auditor.

In a corner where little light shone, Sprague sat with both elbows spread on the table. He had a reddened, belligerent face, and his fists were knotted.

"One hour I get to haul all the boys in," he rumbled. "Hell of a note!"

"Pipe down, Sprague," one of his companions whispered. He twisted his wry neck about, made a snuffling noise in his nose. "Geez, you don't never know where Munro is going to turn up, or what he'll look like." His snuffling was like weeping. "Geez!"

"That's all right for you, Sniffer," Sprague growled. "Me, I'm responsible, and I wouldn't want to have to make no excuses to Munro!"

The third man at the table moved his thin lips in a smile, and lifted his glass daintily. "I never saw the lad at the next table before—the one with the glass eye. That might be Munro!"

Sprague wrenched about in his chair. "Where, Duke?" he whispered. Sniffer made faint worried sounds in his nose.

"Oh, him!" Sprague frowned. "Naw, I ain't never seen him before. It might be Munro . . . and then again . . . it might be the Spider!"

Duke set his glass down so suddenly liquor slopped on his hand, and he did not bother to wipe it off. "My God!" he said. "So that's what we're here for!"

Sniffer pushed his chair back. "Look, Sprague," he snuffled. "You don't want me here. You don't . . . ." The man at the next table looked toward him casually, and Sniffer slumped back in his chair. Sprague watched sardonically and Duke was using a silk handkerchief on his liquor-wet hand, frowning.

Sprague said, "The Chief arranged things so the Spider would be here. The Chief will be here, too. If we spot the Spider, we burn him down without waiting for orders. If we don't . . . the Chief will point him out."

Sniffer whined, "I don't like this business of not knowing who the guy next to you is! Geez, for all we know . . . ."

"Whiskey or beer?" a voice rasped at his elbow, and Sniffer jerked in his chair. He snuffled plaintively as he looked up into the bored face of a waiter.

"Whiskey, damn you, and quit creeping up on a guy!"

The waiter swabbed the table. "Knifer says everybody's already here, Sprague. You're to start the ball rolling!"

Sprague grunted, "Me!"

The waiter smiled and walked carelessly away. He had the slouching stride of a waiter, and the bored look. He didn't look at anybody, and he saw everything. He saw Knifer with his narrow shoulders braced against the door, that thin smile perpetually on his face from the tear of the knife-gash across his cheek. He saw the tautness everywhere, and he knew the whisper had gone the rounds. The Spider was coming . . . . Munro was coming. And nobody knew how either one would appear.

The waiter smiled slightly, and filled three more glasses with whisky. From his sleeve, a thin film of a whitish powder sifted into each glass. He slapped them down on Sprague's table, just as the man reared to his feet.

He beat on the table with his big fist. "All right," he growled. "It's lucky you mugs all got here on time. The Chief ain't taking no foolishness. The Spider has been acting up!"

There had been a noisy, half-apprehensive gabble a few moments before, but it died under Sprague's words. They sat stiffly at their tables, and their necks turned slowly, rigidly. They looked out of their eye corners at their neighbors. In the silence, the waiter moved carelessly away across the room. It was fortunate that the coat he had taken from the regular waiter of the Man o' War fitted him loosely. That way, the twin guns beneath his arms did not show!

Sprague was still growling out words, but Wentworth—the waiter—was paying little heed to them. He had been here for half an hour and still he had not spotted Munro. It might be anyone of them, from Knifer or Sprague to the man behind the bar.

"We got a little job to do," Sprague was saying. "Tonight, the Spider caused us plenty of grief. He turned the police on our tail, and we got to get our customers in line to see that none of them talks. Duke, you and Frosty will take the job. I'll give you the names. Come over here, Frosty! It's a simple business. We're just going to burn a couple of guys alive. After that, there won't be nobody to talk!"

There were loud guffaws from a few of the tables, but the other men waited uneasily. This was just the preamble. The real business of the night would come when the Spider showed himself. The Spider . . . . Their eyes slid about slyly.

The waiter was in a dark corner. It was necessary just now, for there was a terrible anger in his eyes! Burn two men alive . . . . He had to finish his business here quickly and protect those men.

Frosty was swaggering back across the room now from Sprague's table—a white-faced, white-haired killer who had never taken the rap. Wentworth knew him well and, as he looked at the man, his plan was swiftly made! Frosty would have to pass close to him . . . and with Frosty's help, the Spider would find Munro!

"Hey, Frosty!" he grumbled. "I got a word for you from . . . ."

He let his voice trail off and Frosty swung toward him, unsuspiciously. Wentworth held out the hand over which the wet cloth that he used on the tables was draped. He whipped that towel back , and a gun glinted in the dim light of the corner . . . and a ring gleamed on Wentworth's finger. It was a ring with a dark stone, but when he pressed on its undersurface as he did now, a red fire glowed in the heart of that stone—a red fire that held the shape of a Spider!

There was naked flame in the eyes of the Spider, too, and they struck against Frosty's.

"Come close to me, Frosty—," he said coldly. "If you whisper, you die! Now, into this side room!"

A hard trembling was on Frosty's body, but Wentworth scarcely touched him. His left hand flicked to the under-arm gun, whipped it out. A twist of that hand, and the bullets thudded softly to the floor. He thrust the gun into Frosty's hand.

"Now, Frosty," he said quietly, "we will go back into the dining-room. When we are inside, you will climb on a table, and you will keep that gun in your hand or you will have a neat little red seal printed on your forehead. Get the picture, Frosty?"

Frosty quavered, "What are you going to do? Geez, Spider, I ain't done nothing yet!"

"No, not yet!" Wentworth told him dryly. "Only three murders that I could be sure of, Frosty. Now . . . up on that table! Now, yell to make them look at you! Say, 'Hey, you mugs!' Nothing else!"

Frosty climbed fumblingly to the tabletop, and a few startled eyes whipped his way. The gun was in his fist. He opened his lips to shout, but it was Wentworth's voice that carried across the room from where he crouched in the shadows . . .

"Munro!" came the Spider's flat, challenging voice. "Munro! I have come for you! The Spider has come for you!"

Chairs slammed backward, tables were pitched forward to the floor while men flung themselves behind those barricades! In the same instant, their guns began to speak! They roared to a swift climax of fury. Lead hammered into Frosty's twitching body.

But unseen in the shadows, Wentworth crouched warily, and his eyes swept the room. His plan was simple enough. Once the Spider was exposed, Munro would have no reason for concealment. He would want to take charge and make sure that the Spider died!

As that first dread challenge of the Spider ripped out, and the deluge of bullets began, Wentworth saw Sprague whip to his feet. But it was not Sprague who shouted out clear orders, who swiftly hurled guards at all the doors, and organized the blockade of the windows so that the Spider should not escape!

It was the trembling man known as Sniffer!

And Sniffer's finger was pointing toward the shadows where the Spider crouched!

"Fools!" Sniffer shouted. "You're killing one of your own friends! There's the Spider . . . the waiter who has been serving you drinks!"

Wentworth sprang suddenly from the shadows, and about his shoulders was the cape of the Spider, whipped from the darkness of that small room behind him.

His two guns spat together in his fists, and the body of Sniffer—of Munro—jerked to the impact. He was picked up and slammed backward over a chair, behind a table!

That was the moment when the lights went out . . .

In the darkness, a voice rang out clearly while Wentworth crouched low and bounded toward the spot where Munro had fallen. And Wentworth knew that voice. It was the voice of Munro, and it was clear and unshaken with pain!

"Turn on the lights, you damned fools!" it shouted. "The Spider wants it dark! The lights . . . ."

Wentworth flung a bullet questing toward that voice, and near him a man shrieked to the pain of the lead. Somebody had been in the way . . . . Wentworth raced, and in the middle of the floor, he caught a glimpse of a pencil of light as a trapdoor opened. He caught a glimpse of a face that was seared by flame, twisted beyond human recognition: The Faceless One!

Wentworth checked and lifted both guns deliberately . . . and a chair crashed against his shoulders.

Instantly, Wentworth was on his feet, racing toward the spot where he had seen the trapdoor. There were screams and shouts behind him, and the flicker of crazy gunfire as each man shot at the shadows about him—the shadows that might hold the Spider! Wentworth groped with sensitive hands upon the floor. He found the ridge of the trapdoor, but it was already bolted fast from beneath! He cursed. His two bullets had hit Munro, he knew, but his voice afterward had been clear, and unstrained. Wentworth knew what that meant! Munro had worn a bullet-proof vest!

And now the Faceless One was making good his escape while death swept its dark silent wings through this meeting-room!

Wentworth whirled and went with long leaps toward the door. He needed light to tell him where it was! Over-turned tables were in his path, and once he sprawled painfully.

"That you, Duke?" a frightened voice.

"Yeah," Wentworth's tone was the sardonic voice of Duke. "That you, Sprague?"

As he spoke, he leaped . . . and struck with the barrel of his automatic. There was the crunch of the steel hitting bone, the thud as Sprague's head was driven against the door . . . and no sound as he fell because Wentworth eased him down softly. A moment later, he wrenched open the door and ducked out.

A bar of light slashed into the darkness and for that instant, the hunched, becaped figure of the Spider was clearly outlined. There was a blasting of guns, a concerted rush for the revealed opening. Wentworth locked the door and flung himself down the stairs, whirled back toward the rear of the Man o' War where the trapdoor had opened. He hit a door with his shoulder and it slammed open . . . and he was gazing into an empty garage, whose doors stood ajar. Overhead, there was a counterbalanced stairway and the locked trapdoor.

This way, Munro had fled . . . but he was gone past all capture now. And the press of gunmen was hard at Wentworth's heels!

Wentworth did not worry greatly about that pursuit.

Before Munro could get his men together, Wentworth must somehow save the men who were fated to be . . . burned alive! It did not matter that Wentworth knew the names of the two who were selected. Two more could easily be chosen! There was a hard-riding anger within Wentworth as he flung himself again into the coupe beside Jackson and ordered him harshly northward.

"A telephone, Jackson," he said quietly.

It was Wentworth himself who stepped from the coupe a few minutes later, Wentworth in dark tweeds, with a loose top-coat to shelter him from the sharpness of the winter wind, and neatly gloved hands. He moved swiftly, but more because of the complete efficiency of his every movement rather than because of hurried stride. There was an empty booth in the all-night drugstore which Jackson had chosen, and no one paid any heed to the quiet, self-contained man who slid into that booth. He snapped out the phone number of the district attorney.

Finally a sleepy voice came over the wire, "Wilton Toley speaking! Who is this?"

Wentworth laughed, "The Spider speaking, Toley. Are you awake yet you who sleep while crime ravages the city!"

Toley stammered, "What. Who? The Spider? Damn your soul . . . ."

Wentworth's voice cut in crisply, "In one hour, Toley, be at your office, and I will turn over to you one of the biggest cases of your career, complete with written evidence and witnesses. The police already are taking in most of the guilty men."

"What is it, man?" snapped Toley. Wentworth eased the receiver onto its hook. He did not need to say more, for Toley knew, as everyone knew, that the word of the Spider was inviolate!

Wentworth reached the coupe in a few swift seconds, long before Toley could get his befuddled senses together and think to trace the call . . . . Wentworth sat easily against the cushions, though he was beginning to feel some of the strain of the long night.

"Jackson," he said quietly, "I have in my pocket a list of the garages where the white fire trucks of the No-More-Fire Company are kept; also a list of their clients. I think if we borrow one of those white trucks, we will have very little difficulty in persuading the clients to accompany us!"

It was simple to acquire one of the trucks. There was only one man in the garage, for Munro's forces had been heavily depleted by the hours of battling against the Spider. Jackson slipped up and struck him neatly across the temple with a blackjack . . . . Afterward, two men wearing the long white raincoats of the No-More-Fire inspection service, and the red helmets, tooled one of the heavy fire trucks through the city streets . . . .

Wentworth made the first stop at an expensive apartment house, shouldered past the insistent doorman and left Jackson to watch over him. He hammered at a door then until an irritated man of middle age swung it wide. His sleepy eyes started wide, and he flinched back from the door.

"Jeremiah Wilton," said Wentworth in a hard voice, "you will come with me."

"I've paid off," the man stammered. "I paid off for the factory and for my apartment!"

"Come with me!" Wentworth ordered inexorably.

He allowed the man to pull on an overcoat from the hall closet and herded him to the white truck; and they pushed on to the next address. It was a shade over an hour later that the truck was blundering down Lafayette Street through the darkness of early morning. Wentworth had long ago abandoned the driving of the truck to his first captive, Milton; he had dropped Jackson at the last address. Now Wentworth stood at the extreme rear of the truck while Milton drove the last long way to the district attorney's office. Ahead of him were eleven other captives—all clients of No-More-Fires.

Wentworth began to talk quietly, but his voice reached clearly to every man on that truck.

"You think you are the prisoners of the racketeers that have been victimizing you," he said quietly. "You are wrong! You are the prisoners of the Spider!"

A moan went up from several of the men. They twisted about, and what they saw was no longer the white fireman with his red helmet. Instead, it was the Spider who stood erect in the rear of the truck.

"I will tell you the reason," he went on steadily. "If you obey me, you have nothing to fear! If you refuse . . . may God have mercy on your souls—for I won't! Gentlemen, we are about to pay a visit to the district attorney. You will tell him everything you know about No-More-Fires!"

"No," a man cried. "Oh, God, they'll kill us all!"

Wentworth said grimly, "It is not a question of that at all! It is merely a question of who kills you! Obey me, or you will find death close upon your heels. Perhaps, you have never seen the seal of the Spider!"

A few moments later, Wilton pulled the white truck to a halt before the district attorney's office. Instantly, a horde of police charged from the darkness. Brilliant lights played over the truck, and guns covered every inch of it!

A police lieutenant leaped to the running-board, grabbed Wilton by the collar. "Where's the Spider, you?" he snapped.

Wilton struggled in his grasp, twisted toward the rear. "Back there!" he said. "He was back there, and good God, the Spider is gone!"

The police searched, but there was no evidence that the Spider had ever been aboard that truck . . . . except that on its sign, there glittered the ominous red seal of the Spider! The police did not know that Wentworth had taken only twelve prisoners; they only noticed that thirteen men walked into the room where District Attorney Toley paced angrily up and down behind his desk. He stopped and glared toward the thirteen men.

"All right!" he snapped. "All right! You've been paying money to racketeers! The police know all about it! I'll take your names, and afterward you'll tell me the whole truth."

Complete silence followed his tirade, but one man, more completely dressed than most of the others, shuffled forward. His hair was pulled down over his forehead, and there was wildness in his straining grey-blue eyes.

"Listen," he said, in a high voice, "you can't do this to me! We're American citizens, and you can't do this to any of us!"

"What's your name?" Toley snapped.

The man backed up.

"Look!" he shouted. "Look, the Spider!"

He pointed toward the ceiling, and there, ghostly against the white of the ceiling, but clear despite the lights of the room . . . there danced the shadow of the Spider! Terror broke the voices of the men, and in the confusion, the laughter of the Spider sounded in the room!

Jeremiah Wilton dropped to his knees,

"I'll talk. God, yes, I'll talk—only don't let the Spider get me!"

In the bedlam over the Spider's laughter, the man who had first challenged Toley slipped from the room into an adjoining office. He ran through a series of connecting rooms then, and as he ran he adjusted his hair, stripped off the slight disguise he had worn.

In a room where Jackson had deposited them earlier, by racing ahead of the white fire truck after their last capture, he found his quiet tweeds and his topcoat and rapidly donned them. A douse of the acid he carried sufficed to set the disguise fuming. Soon they would be entirely destroyed. He glanced out to make sure that the hallway was empty, and strode toward the front door. He was just opposite the doorway of the hearing room when he saw the familiar crisp-striding figure of Kirkpatrick entering the building!

Wentworth whipped toward the door and beat on it with his fist. He was still hammering, unheard in the bedlam within, when Kirkpatrick strode to his side.

"What are you doing here, Dick?" he asked wearily.

Wentworth whipped toward him. "In God's name, get me inside there, Kirk," he demanded. "There's a white fire truck outside, and there are No-More-Fire witnesses inside. Kirk, I've got to hear them, got to find out about Munro!"

"He has added two more crimes to his roster, tonight," Kirkpatrick pounded on. "We found two clients of No-More-Fires burned to death!"

Wentworth felt the shock of fear and surprise run through him. He had thought he had found them all, had them safe! Damn Munro! For all he could tell, the fiend had simply picked up any likely victim. Easy enough to make them seem clients of No-More-Fires!

"That makes my news even worse, Kirk," he said heavily. "Nita was kidnapped by Munro!"

Kirkpatrick swore raspingly, and Wentworth gave him the details of how Ram Singh had been hit over the head, and Munro had taken his place. Kirkpatrick shuddered.

"The man is uncanny!" he cried. "God alone knows in what disguise he will appear next! Dick, you go home and let me handle this business inside. Toley isn't too fond of you, you know, and I promise that if there is anything definite that will lead to Munro, anything that will help you find Nita, I'll give it to you at once!"

Wentworth let his shoulders sag, "You are right, Kirk," he said. "I was half-crazy. On my way down to see you when I saw that white fire truck, and . . . ."

A door opened across the hall, and a man in police blue thrust out his head. "Mr. Wentworth," he said, "there's a call on this phone for you!"

Wentworth stiffened to a sudden certainty that he knew the nature of that call! Kirkpatrick was striding beside him as they crossed the corridor, but Wentworth's hand was stone-steady when he caught up the phone.

"Richard Wentworth here," he said.

He saw Kirkpatrick snatching up another phone, putting a tracer on the call, and the voice of Munro was rasping in his ear!

"Done a pretty neat job tonight, haven't you, Wentworth?" said Munro slowly. "Rounded up a lot of clients and forced them to talk, wiped out dozens of my men and thrown them into the hands of the police?"

Wentworth said mockingly, "That's good news, Munro, but I'm afraid you have the wrong party. I understand the Spider has done a few things this night!"

Munro ripped out an oath, and then the cool mockery returned to his voice. "Ah, I see, not you, but the Spider. Under those circumstances, I must change my plans a little. Your Hindu lad told me where to reach you, in case you're interested. But you are interested only in my message, aren't you Wentworth. In . . . Nita?"

Wentworth said coldly, "If you harm her, Munro, you will not survive the night!"

Munro laughed quietly, "Oh, I fancy I will. You will return to your home, Wentworth, and await further instructions from me via telephone. And, oh, yes, you'd better get in touch with your friend, the Spider, in the meantime. You see, Wentworth, I intend to burn Nita alive . . . unless you can persuade the Spider to put himself on the spot for you!

"Understand, Wentworth?

"Unless you can put the Spider on the spot, at a time and a place I will give you in three hours time . . . Nita will be burned alive!"

Chapter Eight
Hour of Sacrifice

WENTWORTH heard the click of disconnection and whipped toward Kirkpatrick, who was swearing bitterly at delays on the line, unable to get through to a telephone company official. Even while he working, Wentworth knew it was hopeless. Damn it, Ram Singh should have phoned him, and . . . Wentworth shook his head. Ram Singh had not known where he was. Munro must have seen him entering the building, or a spy reported it. The latter was more likely.

Wentworth weaved a little on his feet as he started toward the door, thrust out a hand to steady himself. Into the room bounced District Attorney Toley.

"I've got one thing to thank the Spider for," be chortled. "The biggest case of my career! Kirkpatrick, I want a complete round-up of that gang within twenty-four hours! I'll hold these men here, shove them into the grand jury first thing in the morning . . . I'll have indictments by noon. But don't wait for that, Kirkpatrick. Get busy!"

He bounced out of the room again, and Kirkpatrick crossed to Wentworth's side. "It was Munro, wasn't it, threatening Nita?"

Wentworth said, "Yes, he seems to blame me for what the Spider did." His voice was dull.

Kirkpatrick's voice was kind. "Go home, Dick, and rest. This is all cleaned up, I tell you! We'll have every man behind the bars in twenty-four hours!"

The laughter that pushed out between Wentworth's grim lips was bitter. "Aren't you forgetting . . . Munro?" he asked softly.

"We'll find men who will talk!" Kirkpatrick said, but his voice lacked confidence.

Wentworth shook his head. "They will describe to you a man called Munro—a man whose face has been seared and twisted by flame until it is scarcely human, whose eyes are red-rimmed, bleared sockets."

"No man like that can hide long from us!"

"You miss the point, Kirk," Wentworth said quietly. "No man like that could possibly assume the disguise of a normal face." His voice dropped, wearily.

"The semblance of the Faceless One is merely another disguise. Good luck in your round-up, Kirk, and if you can find out anything about Nita . . . ."

Kirkpatrick's arm tightened about Wentworth's shoulders. They made a strange picture in that scene of triumph. There was bounce to the stride of the district attorney's aides as they scurried about his business; even the police seemed to have a stiffer, more confident poise. But there was a perceptible droop to Wentworth's shoulders, and Kirkpatrick's face was gouged by lines of anger and frustration. His arm dropped and, slowly, he knuckled his waxed mustaches, as always when he was worried.

"As long as Munro is at large," he said gruffly, "we have gained very little by this round-up. His use of fire is a terrible weapon that he knows too well how to use. He will use it as long as he is at liberty."

"And only the more terribly because of this round-up," Wentworth agreed gravely. "We are chasing phantoms in the dark, and we find only the habiliments of trickery . . . empty disguises. If I may suggest, Kirk, it would be a good idea to take a talking-picture record of every one of the prisoners, especially watching the sonograph. A man may disguise his voice, but there will be peculiarities there that he himself will not know. The sonograph will show that in sound vibrations!"

Kirkpatrick's eyes narrowed. "You think that Munro is one of those men who are . . . supposed to be his victims?"

Wentworth lifted his shoulders in a slow shrug. "I do not know, Kirk. It would be clever, in fact the only way he could learn the exact status of the case against him. I have studied each of those men in detail and I can't identify Munro, but I think Munro will call me again about Nita. I will take a sonograph record of the voice . . . We must catch at straws to identify that man!"

Kirkpatrick said crisply, "I'll do it, Dick! If we can trap a man by the way his voice makes the air vibrate . . . ."

"Then we will have added a page to the science of crime-detection," Wentworth smiled slightly. "I hold out no great hopes, Kirk. It is predicated on the possibility that Munro is in that room. Make sure that Toley keeps them prisoners!" He nodded. "If you want me in the next three hours, Kirk . . . After that, you can leave any information about Nita with Ram Singh. I'll be . . . out!"

He strode down the broad corridor, and the eyes of the police followed him respectfully. There was a tangle of newspapermen outside the doors and they yelped eager questions at him. Wentworth shook his head.

"You'll have to see Toley, or Kirkpatrick," he said. "I came on private business."

They followed him to the Daimler, where Jackson waited behind the wheel, and he turned at the door there.

"You may quote me as saying that the Spider has done a great piece of work," he answered their barrage. "I envy him the accomplishment! Will you publish my request that the Spider communicate with me on a matter of vital importance . . . to me?"

He leaned back against the cushions then and Jackson slapped the door shut, drove swiftly, smoothly back toward Wentworth's apartment. Wentworth fought against the despair that closed in on his heart, and for the first time allowed himself to think deliberately of Munro's demands.

It was like Munro to phrase his demand as he had that Wentworth must put the Spider on the spot. Munro had no doubts that he and the Spider were the same man, though he had no positive proof of it. Wentworth allowed a faint smile to move his lips. Munro needed no proof. All any criminal needed was a suspicion. Well, he could make certain preparations. Munro had said he would call again in three hours time to tell Wentworth where and when the Spider must be sacrificed.

Somehow, he must contrive to turn that deathtrap for the Spider—into a snare that would accomplish Munro's death!

Munro was shrewd enough to guess in advance that he would make just such an attempt. So when Munro called, it certainty that he would allow only the slimmest margin of time . . . Round and round the cycle of weary thought raced.

It had been almost forty-eight hours since he had slept, and his food had been snatched inadequately. Body and brain had been functioning at super-speed, strained to their utmost. He . . . He was tired. And, dear God, the greatest battle lay ahead: the battle to destroy Munro and save Nita's sweet life.

Wentworth tried to exert his will toward rest, and his mind would not. Munro was not finished; his vanity would not permit him to drop the fight now that his superficial organization had been smashed. Wentworth stiffened at the conviction that this trap for the Spider was only a small part of Munro's plans. He would time it beautifully, and while the Spider was walking into a trap—somewhere in the city, Munro would strike a terrible blow with his weapons of living flame!

His hands knotting to slow, white fists on his knees, Wentworth realized that for the present he was utterly helpless to discover where Munro would strike. He could only guess at the nature of the crime . . . but he knew how shrewdly and terribly Munro could plan. It was a safe guess that it would entail a wanton slaughter of human beings to cover the final escape!

A crystal-clear chiming of bells broke across Wentworth's thoughts and he lifted his head to stare about him. The dawn was lifting greyly out of the East. There was a bitter, bracing cold in the air against which the few persons abroad moved swiftly, with heads bowed. The doors of a cathedral stood open and men and women were hurrying up the broad, shallow steps.

"This isn't Sunday," Wentworth said dully.

Jackson shook his head, and there was grief and pity on his face as he turned it for an instant while the car slid to a halt at a traffic light.

"No, Major," he said. "Not Sunday. This is Thanksgiving Day."

Wentworth fought down the mockery of the laughter that surged to his lips. Slowly, he forced himself to relax again against the cushions. Thanksgiving Day . . . .

The first hour that Wentworth spent at his home, high above Fifth Avenue where the wind was clean and sharp, was a time of violent activity. He had Jackson rig a recording-machine to take down the words of Munro, and the voice, when he called again. He made arrangements with the telephone company to trace instantaneously any call that came in over his wires. His car was parked at the curb, ready to race at an instant's notice, and he had Ram Singh rent a seaplane and fly it to the nearest pier in the East River, anchor it there.

Afterward, he sent Jackson after more of the flame-extinguishers and to purchase asbestos cloth with which to line the cape of the Spider and fashion a mask. For the moment, it was all he could do; Kirkpatrick would be pressing the questioning of the prisoners, rounding up whatever of Munro's associates could be found

Now, he could only wait.

Wentworth stripped and flung himself across his bed but, for a long while, even his powerful will could not drive his harassed mind into the nothingness of sleep. At the end of two hours, he awoke without summons. A cold shower, and a brisk rub-down, and he was as refreshed as from a full night's rest.

But no word had come from Munro and time passed . . . .

By A violent exertion of will, Wentworth forced himself to sit quietly in his drawing-room to await that call. His mind would stray . . . and presently he would find himself striding the floor with long, reaching strides, his hair rumpled from the quick, hard thrusts of his lean fingers through it. Somehow, he should be able to hit on the target of Munro's plans this day. The banks would be closed, and fire was not, anyway, a potent weapon against those structures built conventionally of stone and steel. He gripped his temples hard. Damn it, he could not think. But his every nerve was vibrantly alert. He knew that this day Munro would strike!

The day dragged out its weary course. Three times, Kirkpatrick called, but he was asking for information and had none himself to offer. In Wentworth's home, no one moved save on tiptoe. Time and again, Jackson would come to stand silently behind him, but he was not an articulate man. He could not proffer the sympathy he felt. There was a scowling rage on the face of Ram Singh, and Punjabi curses hissed through his lips. Even Jackson, who usually bantered him, did not cross him this Thanksgiving day.

Blue dusk began to gather in the streets and the western sky held low clouds, red as the flames that Munro raised so terribly and still there came no word. Wentworth fought against a feeling of helplessness and despair. He knew that all this had been deliberately calculated by Munro; that somewhere in the city he was making his dual preparations, to kill the Spider, and to loot when the hour was ripe. But Wentworth knew that, regardless of the fact that Munro had planned to keep him idle, his greatest hope of finding and destroying this wanton butcher was to do precisely that. When the telephone shrilled . . . .

Old Jenkyns, the butler who had served Wentworth's father before him, came in on silent feet with food . . . and Wentworth realized that the night had turned black and overcast. It was after nine o'clock. He rose to stretch his taut muscles, and the phone bell whirred again.

Jenkyns started violently, turned with his passive stride toward the phone in the hallway. At Wentworth's crisp signal, Jackson started the sonograph instrument to record the voice, as they had each time the phone bell had sounded. He strained his ears to catch Jenkyns' voice, his hand on the instrument at his side. This was part of a calculated plan to keep whoever called waiting on the wire as long as possible, so that the message could be quickly traced.

Jenkyns was in the doorway of the drawing-room, and the pallor of his face told its own story. Wentworth lifted the phone, and saw with a curious detachment that there was no tremor in his hand. Well, would he expect the long years of training to fail him now?

"Richard Wentworth here," he said quietly.

The instant the man spoke, Wentworth knew with a sharp sense of disappointment that it was not Munro. He pushed out words in a wild hurry.

"In one minute, Wentworth, tune your radio to twenty-three megacycles," he rushed. "One minute . . . twenty-three megacycles!"

Wentworth said steadily, "Would you mind repeating . . . ." He cut off then, for the man had disconnected. Wentworth came alertly to his feet.

"Ram Singh!" he snapped. "Out on the terrace. Use that directional loop and spot the direction from which that message will come. Jackson, phone the police radio-room direct and get their directional loop working on it. You got the wave-length . . . twenty-three megacycles!"

Wentworth sprang toward the radio, paid little heed when the telephone shrilled again. That would be the telephone company reporting on the whereabouts of the man who had just called him, and Wentworth knew now that was unimportant. He might have been sent miles from the hideout to make the call. But Munro would calculate that he could not trace the radio message without preparation . . . and he might be right! It was possible that he would speak from a car equipped with two-way radio, and in that case the directional loop would accomplish nothing. If the transmitter were stationary . . . .

Wentworth heard the slow warming of the tubes in his set and stood glowering down at the radio receiver. He tuned it to the specified wave-band. He shifted the sonograph so that he could record the voice that came from the radio and, abruptly, he stiffened. A startled cry leapt from his lips. A voice was coming from the radio.

"Dick!" it called. "Dick! Listen carefully . . . ." It was the voice of Nita!

"Dick, I am allowed to say only what has been written for me," she went on steadily, deliberately. "Listen carefully, for I may not repeat."

Wentworth's hands reached out impotently toward the radio. He shook his head, forcing sharp attention on Nita's words as she went on in that same deliberate way.

"These are the orders of Munro," she said. "At precisely nine-thirty, the Spider will enter the end of the Park Avenue traffic tunnel at Fortieth Street, on foot. He will walk through this tunnel to the south end."

Wentworth was only half-listening to the words, though his mind flashed ahead to the picture. That short tunnel, which once had been utilized by street cars, was used now as an auxiliary passage to carry traffic from the Park Avenue ramps that wove around Grand Central Terminal. After dark, it was closed, but only by a series of signs placed across its mouth. In its six blocks of darkness, the Spider must walk, and somewhere inside he would meet death!

That much was clear, but Wentworth's attention had been caught by something strange in Nita's manner of speech. He was alert for some secret message from her, under the cover of those words; a hope that had sagged dismally when she said she was reading a written message. But there was that strange something in her speech. Some of her words were drawled slowly, but others had a quick, staccato delivery. There was a rhythm there . . . .

"If the Spider fails to do this, I am to be killed, Dick," Nita went on, drawling now. "Bu-ut Mu-unro ha-as," Three slow words, now suddenly three swift words, staccato, sharp, "allowed me to s-a-ay thi-is a-added thing. Fo-orget abo-out me-e, Dick, and don't te-ell the-e Spi-der. Signing off. Goodnight, dear and . . . good-by!"

The hum of the radio station died out, and Jackson was instantly on the wire, calling police headquarters, but Wentworth stared before him blankly. Three slow words, three quick words, three slow words. Three dashes . . . Why, good God, Nita had been signaling in Morse code!

WENTWORTH whipped about to the sonograph and rapidly made the necessary adjustments to repeat the message. Once more Nita's curiously rhythmic voice sounded in his ears . . . but instead of clearing, Wentworth's bewilderment increased. He knew now that it was in Morse code, her message, and he knew what she had signaled, but it meant nothing, nothing at all.

Nita's secret message was: "S. O. S."

Jackson whipped about from the telephone. "Police got the message. The directional reading is one-eighty—three-sixty."

Ram Singh strode into the drawing room, his eyes gleaming fiercely. "Wan, sahib, let us go and destroy them!" he cried. "They are due south of us!"

"Or due north," Wentworth murmured. "You mean that your reading was . . ."

"One-eighty-three-sixty, sahib!"

Wentworth ripped out a harsh oath. Due to some accident, or design on the part of Munro, the two readings had told absolutely nothing of the exact location from which the station had broadcast. A north-south line through police headquarters and his own home would lead out over the water of the harbor and across Staten Island, into New Jersey, northward . . . Wentworth whipped about suddenly.

"Jackson, get Kirkpatrick on the phone!" he cried. "Tell him that Munro had access to the room in which the men were questioned, or overheard our conversation in the hallway! He knew that we were going to attempt a sonograph identification, and for that reason he did not send the message to me himself, but had it radioed by Nita! Tell him to make sure that none of Munro's witnesses escaped!"

Wentworth bounded toward his chambers, flinging an order at Ram Singh, "Get over to the pier, and warm up the motor of that seaplane!" he snapped. "Phone Jenkyns a number at which he can call you. Once the motor is warmed, keep it idling and stand by that phone!"

In his room, Wentworth made swift preparations. He snapped two broad rubber bands about his wrist and thrust under them a light, powerful automatic. His eyes were glittering like ice, and he whipped about when Jackson stepped inside the room. Jackson's broad face was set in stony lines.

"Mr. Kirkpatrick had left headquarters, sir," he reported. "I gave the message to Sergeant Reams. Reams was sore as hell, sir. Toley let the witnesses go home for Thanksgiving dinner. Police were sent to guard them . . . and one of the witnesses murdered his police guard and escaped!"

Wentworth choked down the oath that leaped to his lips. Always just too late! The man had been Munro without a doubt . . . and they had grasped only another phantom. Give that man ten minutes alone, and he would be a totally different character . . . . He laughed sharply.

"But they will have a sonograph chart of his voice!" he cried. "Jackson, you will stay here and await orders by telephone."

Jackson made no response. His faithful blue eyes looked stubborn. "Begging the Major's pardon, sir," he said stolidly, "Is the Major planning to . . . walk through that tunnel?"

Wentworth was suddenly very quiet. "Don't be a fool, Jackson," he said calmly. "It is the price Munro has placed upon Miss Nita's life!"

"Does the Major trust Munro?"

Wentworth shook his head, and a slow, grim smile built about his lips. "No, Jackson . . . but Munro will be there to make sure the Spider dies! He may . . . find matters not too much to his liking! He worked pretty cleverly, giving me too little time to make preparations to trap him. His own plans are undoubtedly fully arranged!"

Jackson stood very stiffly, "Begging the Major's pardon, sir, I wish to volunteer."

"You what?"

"I wish to volunteer, sir, to walk through that tunnel." Jackson's eyes burned steadily into Wentworth's. "You know, sir, that it is certain death. You . . . The Major won't stand a chance!"

Wentworth's eyes softened, and he dropped a hand on Jackson's shoulder warmly. "Thanks, Jackson," he said quietly. "You can serve me best here." His heart swelled at the loyalty of this man who served him, as thoughtless of self as was the Spider in his service to humanity. He shook Jackson's broad shoulder a little. "I've been in these deathtraps before, man, and . . . ."

Jenkyns was at the door suddenly. "Master Richie," he mumbled. "Commissioner Kirkpatrick is here. He wants you at once . . . ."

Wentworth stiffened. He had no time to talk to Kirkpatrick. Minutes were flying . . . and he had a rendezvous with death.

"Tell him . . ." he began harshly, and cut off. Kirkpatrick was standing just behind Jenkyns.

"Glad I found you in time, Dick," he said quietly. "I have a favor to ask of you!"

Wentworth moved a hand impatiently. "Any other time, Kirk," he said sharply.

"You heard that radio message from Nita, didn't you? Do you think I can let the Spider walk into a trap like that, and not be there to help him?"

Kirkpatrick's blue eyes did not waver at all, and there was grimness in the thrust of his jaw. "The Spider is a law-breaker," he said stolidly. "A killer . . . I am swearing you in as a deputy, Dick. I am calling on you as an officer of the law demanding the support of a citizen as he has the right to do. You will help me trap the Spider!"

Wentworth laughed sharply. "You're crazy, Kirkpatrick!" he said violently. "The Spider is risking his life to save Nita! He called me a few moments after that radio message and promised that he would. And you ask me to help trap him? You're mad!"

Kirkpatrick's jaw was stubborn, and his hand moved at his side. Four uniformed policemen stepped into sight beside him, guns in their fists! Wentworth knew then that he would have no choice of refusing! But, damn it, this was his one chance to save Nita, to snare Munro! Suppose he made a break for it, even in the face of those four guns? Then Kirkpatrick would track him down, and arrest him . . . as the Spider!

And time was flying. Within a little more than twenty minutes, the Spider must start his stroll into that tunnel of death!

"I intend to settle this matter once and for all," Kirkpatrick said harshly. "If you are the Spider, then the Spider cannot appear if you are with me. Dick, you will either do as I say, or I shall clamp you into a cell under protective arrest!"

He frowned. "Well, Dick . . . which is it going to be? Will you help me trap the Spider, or shall I put you in my private escape-proof cell!"

Wentworth's eyes held the shine of desperation, but his voice was very quiet.

"A man would make but one choice, Kirkpatrick," he said curtly. "Where is this cell of yours?"

Chapter Nine
Hell Below

KIRKPATRICK'S face darkened at Wentworth's words, but he did not waver from his resolved purpose. He spoke crisply, and two of the uniformed men sidled into Wentworth's room and moved toward him, guns and handcuffs ready. Wentworth was aware that Jackson was watching narrowly for a signal, and he shook his head slightly. He knew that Kirkpatrick's patience had worn thin. There had been too many recent coincidental appearances of Wentworth on the scene of the Spider's operations. Moreover, Wentworth dared not risk receiving a wound! Too much depended on his remaining ready for the battle. But the time was so cruelly short . . . . Twenty minutes!

"All right," he said angrily, "come on with the handcuffs! Put me in this escape-proof cell of yours, and get on with your trapping of the Spider! If only I had a chance to warn him!"

The police snapped on the handcuffs and Jackson watched with a puzzled air; then resolution formed in his face.

"I'm sure, sir," he said, "that the Spider would expect some such trap as this, I'm quite sure it won't keep him from appearing!"

Wentworth's head whipped toward his man, and he read Jackson's intention in his direct blue gaze. Wentworth's voice still seemed angry. "You will not leave this apartment, Jackson!" he snapped. "I won't have the Spider thinking we are parties to the trap! You understand, Jackson, no matter how badly you wish to help the Spider, you will not leave this apartment—or you will leave my service!"

Jackson's face went pale. His voice was stolid, "Yes, Major!"

Wentworth jerked at the handcuffs, "Come along! Let's see this cell—or you'll be late for your treachery, Kirkpatrick!"

Worry gnawed at the back of Wentworth's brain. Jackson's intention had been completely plain. It had been his intention to don the robes of the Spider and walk into that tunnel of death, as he had volunteered to do before Kirkpatrick's arrival. It would be fatal, in more ways than one. Jackson was a grand fighting man, but he lacked the split-second brain of the Master of Men! If he escaped the attack of the criminals he would surely fall into the hands of the police, and that would be as disastrous as if Wentworth himself were captured in the robes of the Spider!

Wentworth had made the choice of the cell with full knowledge that he might be dooming himself irrevocably. But if he went with Kirkpatrick, there would be no chance at all to appear as the Spider and Wentworth had not yet given up hope of keeping his rendezvous with death! He maintained a hard silence while the police took him down in the elevator and out where Kirkpatrick's car waited. Wentworth stole a glance at the clock on the dashboard of the car. Already quarter past nine! Fifteen minutes . . . .

"My home," Kirkpatrick told the driver quietly, "and make it fast, Cassidy."

Wentworth said nothing. His eyes bored straight ahead, and the police were close about him, with ready guns. He was tempted to strike out about him; to break from custody and take his chances later with convincing Kirkpatrick that his escape had been made in order to warn the Spider. No, better to wait, until he had seen this escape-proof cell of Kirkpatrick's! Strange that he had ordered the driver to his home . . . . He tried to keep his eyes off the slow jumping of the dashboard clock hands.

Wordlessly still, Kirkpatrick took Wentworth up the elevator to his own apartment, and now they were alone save for the driver, Cassidy. The man's pale blue eyes roved over Wentworth constantly, and Wentworth studied him secretly. Evidently, this man was to be his guard. His hopes rose . . . . One man on guard!

When he saw the cell, his heart fell. He remembered now that Kirkpatrick had mentioned once before a plan for safeguarding witnesses against criminal assault; the next time one was threatened, he would keep that witness in his own home! And this cell had been prepared for that purpose. It had no window, and only one door, which opened into Kirkpatrick's bedroom. That door was reinforced by a second gate of tool steel. And the locks were intricate and shielded by a broad plate of armor steel that precluded the possibility of Wentworth reaching it!

When the door clanged shut, Kirkpatrick stepped back from the grating, and his eyes pleaded for understanding.

"I have to do this, Dick," he said quietly. "Cassidy, I hold you entirely responsible." He touched a button, and a shield of bullet-proof glass slid out of floor sockets. "You will stand behind this shield, Cassidy," he said. "You will not stir from this spot until I return. Dick, it won't be long. In ten minutes, the Spider will appear . . . or I will know that you are the Spider!"

"And if anything should prevent the Spider from appearing," Wentworth said quietly, "you will have been responsible for Nita's death! Remember that!"

Kirkpatrick's face was grey and drawn. "The Spider always keeps his word," he said . . . and strode from the room.

Behind the shield, Cassidy stood rigidly, gun in hand, and his eyes rested a little fearfully upon Richard Wentworth. Wentworth stood motionless also. There was so little time. But, as Kirkpatrick had said, the Spider always kept his word! There had to be a way out. He still had the small automatic strapped to his arm; police had found and removed the others, but that glass shield prevented him from using the gun. Short of Cassidy's death, there was no way he could escape without the knowledge of Kirkpatrick, sooner or later; and that knowledge would be more condemnatory than if the Spider failed to appear! But Nita . . . God!

Wentworth did not delude himself with the hope that Munro would turn Nita free even if the Spider did appear, but it was his one last chance to make contact with a man as fleeting as a handful of smoke. He had to be there; had to capture Munro . . . had to. Wentworth's eyes were half-veiled by their lids as he studied Cassidy. There was still a way, perhaps. Cassidy was a genius at driving, but Wentworth remembered he had not done so well as a patrolman. Cassidy was frowning now with hard concentration as he gripped his revolver behind the shield.

Yes, Wentworth had one slim chance. He had battled against the will of master hypnotists himself; and had never succumbed unless drugs had been used upon him previously. It was the power of his mind against theirs, and it was the mind of the Master of Men that triumphed. That he had the personal magnitude for command he had proved time and again; every leader has to that extent the potency of the hypnotist. But could he . . . could he hypnotize Cassidy! Wentworth knew the theory of the art perfectly, though he had not himself practiced it. In the end, it reduced itself to tiring the optic nerves of the patient and overbearing his will power with your own!

Wentworth slipped a key ring from his vest pocket and began to twirl it around and around his finger. It caught facets of bright light, twinkled them against the bullet-proof screen behind which Cassidy stood. He twirled . . . and presently, he saw that Cassidy's eyes were following the flash of the keys. It was inevitable in a scene so otherwise devoid of interest that he should watch movement. For a long minute after minute, Wentworth twirled the key. Slowly, he lifted his hand toward his face . . . and Cassidy's eyes followed!

Wentworth waited until the keys were twirling squarely before his own eyes, and then he swallowed the keys with his hand. He had put his own gaze on Cassidy's, and he widened his eyes, concentrated all his will power on holding Cassidy's stare with his own! He saw Cassidy shiver a little; saw him try to took away . . . and fail!

Wentworth's eyes blazed with the living force of his will, and he flung that thunderbolt of his personality against the weaker mind of the man who confronted him, beyond that screen of glass. Presently, Wentworth's lips began to move, and his sibilant whisper reached across the room.

"My will above yours, Cassidy," he whispered. "My will is stronger than yours. You must obey me! You wish to obey me. Cassidy, you wish to obey me!"

Cassidy's lips quivered. His eyes were strained wide, and the gun was held as solidly as rock in his hand.

"Cassidy!" Wentworth's voice had the command of a trumpet. "Cassidy, you must obey me!"

Cassidy's lips moved again. His voice came out woodenly, "I—I must obey you!" he stammered.

Wentworth felt the wetness of perspiration upon his forehead, and he pushed out of his mind all thought other than domination of this man before him. He willed himself to forget the rapid flight of the minutes, and how much that could mean to him.

"We have been fighting men who deal in fire, Cassidy," Wentworth said softly. "They have set this place on fire. You can feel the heat of it. That is why the perspiration is on your forehead. That is why you are afraid, Cassidy. The place is on fire!"

Fright stiffened Cassidy's face. He said, shakily, "The place is on fire!"

"You must release your prisoner, Cassidy," Wentworth whispered. "If you let him burn to death, it would be murder! Kirkpatrick would fire you and you would never drive his car again. You would never again drive a car with the siren shrieking. So you must open the cell, Cassidy. Then you certainly will be a real hero!"

Cassidy went through a struggle then, and Wentworth's eyes burned and burned into his.

"You feel the heat," he said.

"I feel the heat!" Cassidy echoed. "The place is on fire."

"The place is on fire!"

"Cassidy," Wentworth ordered crisply, "unlock the cell and save the prisoner from the fire!"

Cassidy's lips opened. He shuddered . . . and stepped slowly around the glass shield. "Unlock the cell," he repeated woodenly!

Seconds later, the steel lattice swung open—and Wentworth stepped outside, a free man! He did not take his eyes from Cassidy.

"Cassidy, behind that glass shield, you will be safe from fire," he said softly. "If you step out from behind it, you will be burned! Stay behind that shield every minute, Cassidy . . . and forget what has happened!"

Wentworth bounded across the room, and he staggered a little as he ran, so intense had been the concentration of his mind. He felt as shaken as though he had fought a great battle . . . and God, time was so short! Impossible now to return to his home for the cape and garb of the Spider! He whirled toward Kirkpatrick's coat closet, and whipped out a long evening dress cape, lined with white satin. He found a black fedora and dragged it down over his brows. It was the best he could do . . . asbestos cape and fire extinguishers were at his home. He had one light gun instead of his two heavy arms. And he was going to a rendezvous with almost certain death—to capture the most clever, ruthless criminal he had ever fought!

Wentworth laughed, and the sound came out of his lips with thin self-mockery. He hurled himself down the stairs toward the street. He had three minutes . . . .

Within thirty seconds, Wentworth was hurling himself into a cab at the door of the apartment house.

"Down Park Avenue! Fast!"

The driver wrenched the cab out from the curb and sent it spurting down Park Avenue. Wentworth loosened the gun from the rubber bands at his wrist. The cape was thrown over his arm, the hat perched jauntily on his head. Nothing here for the man to recognize as the Spider! But he could not ride the whole way in this cab, lest a link be made between Kirk's apartment and the rendezvous of the Spider!

A half-dozen blocks down Park Avenue, Wentworth paid off the cab. He waited through feverish seconds while the machine tooled on, then Wentworth turned a corner and stepped toward another cab at the curb. The driver hopped out, and Wentworth moved in sharply. His left fist jolted upward solidly to the jaw, and he crossed the right neatly.

Wentworth stooped over to thrust a ten dollar bill into the man's hand . . . then sprang behind the wheel!

One minute was left before he was due to walk into that black tunnel, but it would be enough. A bare ten blocks to cover, and he cared nothing for traffic lights now! As he ground the accelerator to the floor, and felt the stubborn motor begin to catch, a familiar moving figure tagged his glance and his head swung about. He frowned in bewilderment at the thing he saw.

"Kirkpatrick!" he muttered.

He could not be mistaken in that jerky, decisive stride, the commanding aggressive poise of the shoulders. If he needed confirmation, a man in police blue stalked at his elbow! They were going rapidly up the steps and into the lobby of the exclusive Bonheur Hotel.

What business could Kirkpatrick have there at this particular time, Wentworth wondered. He was driving with a wide open throttle, weaving with sure hands through the dawdling traffic. The lights changed, but Wentworth let the cab rave on. He palmed the horn button and held it down. A cop whistled shrilly, but Wentworth ignored him, raced on. The high entrance to the ramp around Grand Central Terminal was just ahead. Beyond that, across the seven blocks that the viaduct spanned, and he would be at the entrance of the tunnel where he had his rendezvous with death! Yet his thoughts lingered back there with Kirkpatrick. There was an elaborate society ball being held at the Bonheur on this Thanksgiving night. The rich would be there in full panoply of jewels and satins—and he had seen Kirkpatrick enter.

Wentworth jerked his head. He could not think of that now. He must concentrate on the approaching battle. Kirkpatrick's arrival had prevented him using what little time had remained to him for making any plans for the capture of Munro. He could make none now; charge into the tunnel; locate Munro, and then . . . . Wentworth whipped the cab around the last right-angle turn of the ramp, bore down on the accelerator for the last two block dash to the entrance of the tunnel. He could see its black cavern arch, the signs set across its mouth to turn traffic aside. Somewhere a clock began to strike out for the half-hour!

The Spider was in time!

Wentworth dragged the cape about his shoulders, pulled the brim of his black hat low over his eyes, and rapidly bound a scarf across the lower part of his face. He gripped his light single gun in his fist, then . . . and once more bore down on the accelerator!

His eyes stabbed fiercely ahead, and a startled cry crowded out of his throat. As he watched, a cab swerved toward the mouth of the tunnel. Its door whipped open, and from its dark interior, there leaped a figure in a heel-length black cape, with a hat dragged down over its eyes. The figure ran with hunched shoulders, with great black guns gleaming in its fists . . . and it ran straight toward the entrance of the traffic tunnel.

Another Spider had kept the rendezvous.

Even as Wentworth realized what was happening, that Jackson had defied his explicit orders in order to save Nita and clear Wentworth of suspicion—his eyes flicked beyond the entrance of the tunnel, and he saw another thing that was like a blow between the eyes.

From the shadows of a building entrance, another figure was racing across the street toward that same tunnel . . . and it was Kirkpatrick!

Wentworth's foot faltered on the accelerator, and horror seized him by the throat. He knew now that Munro was not inside the tunnel, and would not come there. His original fear was only too well justified; that Munro would strike with all his ruthless force at some other point while the Spider and police were both concentrating on this one spot.

Without a doubt, Munro had been the man he had seen striding into the Bonheur in the disguise of Kirkpatrick! That meant Munro was going to rob the Bonheur and would turn loose his murdering hordes, his fierce flames upon the hapless thousands who were crowded there tonight!

Only an instant did Wentworth hesitate, yet in that moment he had realized all the horror that sudden, liquid flame would create in that crowded hotel; and he had made his plans! He bore down on the accelerator . . . and sent the cab roaring straight toward that yawning black tunnel!

The cab struck the traffic standards and leaped high, sent them clattering and broken aside, the noise of the motor was suddenly deafening in Wentworth's ears. He whistled twice, an eerie, piercing note that he and Jackson had used as a signal before this. It would tell Jackson who roared into the tunnel behind him! He heard the whistle shrill back in joyous answer and, as if that had been a signal, hell broke loose there in that tunnel beneath the streets of New York!

In one instant, the entire walls of that tunnel were converted into flame!

Wentworth crouched over the wheel, feeling the shock of the flaming concussion even through the tightly closed windows. The heat reached through with the impact of a hammer blow. He shielded his eyes, and kept the cab rolling. Ahead, he could see the crouched figure of Jackson, a black, tiny huddled thing in the middle of that inferno. But Jackson had drawn over his head the asbestos-lined cape that the Spider had made with just such a trap as this in mind!

That cape was smoldering on the surface, but even as Wentworth jerked on the brakes, and reached for the door, he saw a hand dart out from beneath the cape—and an area of flame blacked out instantaneously! White fumes swirled upward with the heat, crawled out across the floor, and Jackson wrenched out his hand again, and again, and hurled the flame extinguishers about him. Wentworth let the cab roll slowly forward into that area of blackness, and Jackson straightened, ran staggering toward Wentworth. The wig of the Spider was singed from his head, the makeup was striped with perspiration, and he was panting between the strangling coughs.

Wentworth hurled open the door and sprang to the pavement.

"One side!" he snapped above the roar of the flames, and the cab trundled forward in second gear, throttle yanked wide. Slowly, it gained momentum. The tires were blazing from the inflammables through which it had raced; spots of paint were flaming on its sides.

Wentworth seized Jackson by the arm and, in a half-dozen long bounds, reached an emergency exit that led upward by steel ladders to the streets above.

"We will wait here a moment," Wentworth said quietly.

Jackson nodded.

They stood there and their strangling breath filled the narrow way. The roar and heat of the flames was all about them, sweeping past the entrance to their cul-de-sac. Munro had done a thorough job of priming the walls with inflammables, so that even the stones seemed to burn. It would not last long, but it would last long enough to wipe out of existence any human being who dared it in ordinary clothing, and with any less powerful extinguisher than the ones that Jackson carried.

Wentworth listened tautly. Jackson said no word, but he had drawn himself up stiffly in his soldier's attitude. Wentworth did not speak to him, but his heart went out to Jackson. He had risked death before in the Spider's name, but this time he had done even more—he had risked being discharged by the master he loved better than life itself! He was waiting now for the blow to fall.

"Robe and hat," Wentworth ordered coldly. "Make-up kit? Good! Follow me!"

Wentworth swept on the robe of the Spider, and slowly, soundlessly, made his way up the escape ladder. When he was half-way up, he heard the crash as the taxi cab, kept straight by the close walls of the tunnel, smacked into the traffic stanchions at the far end of the passage. He heard the sharp shouts of the police, their shrill whistles; even the echo of pounding feet as they raced toward the spot.

"This will have to be fast!" Wentworth whispered to Jackson. "As soon as we are clear of this place, I'm going to expose myself to the police, and lead them away. You will then return to your post, according to orders. Understand this, Jackson?"

Jackson said, woodenly. "Yes, Major! I—"

Wentworth smiled slightly. "You will assemble four automatics, and a dozen hand grenades and await further instructions."

Jackson said eagerly, "Yes, Major!"

Wentworth thrust open the grating and slipped out—into the open air. The police guard for this exit was a half-dozen paces away, staring fixedly down the street toward where the taxi was wrecked against a lamp-post, a blazing wreck. Wentworth took two long strides, and his fist crashed against the policeman's jaw. He eased him to the ground, gazed piercingly about him. His lips smiled thinly as he saw Kirkpatrick's car, almost across the street!

In a single lithe movement, Wentworth vaulted the metal fence that girdled the Central park above the traffic tunnel. He was three-quarters of the way across the street before the driver of Kirkpatrick's car saw him, then the man stared openmouthed through a long moment before he stabbed for his gun. It was too late. Wentworth's fist lashed out again, connected with the man's jaw. Wentworth eased him out of the car, to the pavement, and slid in behind the wheel. He cut the siren loose, started the machine rolling, and executed a swift U-turn.

Police darted out into the street ahead of him, recognized the commissioner's car and hesitated. Kirkpatrick sprang out from a post at the entrance of the tunnel, and Wentworth headed straight toward him . . . swerved at the last moment.

Wentworth leaned out of the car then, and his scarf-masked face beneath the broad-brimmed black hat was secretly smiling.

"Follow me, Kirkpatrick!" he called, "and I'll lead you to Munro!"

A policeman gasped, "The Spider! It's the Spider!"

Then Wentworth drove down on the accelerator and the powerful car of the police commissioner leaped forward and took the ramp back toward upper Park Avenue. The smile that had touched his lips for an instant at sight of the complete bewilderment upon Kirkpatrick's face was gone now, and there was another, grimmer expression, God grant that he would lead the police after Munro in time! This was the swiftest way . . . for the police to pursue the Spider! They would not be slow to take up this chase!

Wentworth whipped the long limousine through the twisted lane of the viaduct, sent it bellowing down the slope and into Park Avenue. He wrenched the siren wide, and held it that way. His eyes burned ahead to the sedate facade of the Bonheur Hotel. It had been no more than five minutes ago that he had seen Munro, disguised as Kirkpatrick, enter those broad doors. Five minutes . . . . But a thousand men could die in that many seconds! Only, Munro had not yet released his flames upon the hotel. The blow might fall at any moment.

Wentworth swerved the powerful machine and rammed straight toward a red box, set upon a standard on the corner—a red fire alarm box! The front bumper caught it, slammed it straight down upon the pavement. The box split into fragments, bounced high . . . and Wentworth was racing on! That was one way to turn in a fire alarm, and he had no time to stop! He had killed the siren. The police behind him were getting under way. The first two radio cars dived down the chute of the viaduct with their sirens shrieking like women in pain. Wentworth clipped one more fire box, and then he swung the limousine in a whistling curve and slammed it to the curb in front of the Bonheur Hotel!

With a single long stride, he was across the sidewalk while the stupefied doorman still stared. He went up the steps in a bound, batted his way through the revolving doors . . . and bounded to the middle of the lobby!

A woman was smiling, leaning her shoulders against one of the marble columns as she looked up into the face of her escort. She frowned at the sudden cold that the Spider's swift entrance had brought, and turned her head. She screamed then, and pointed with a shaking hand. She screamed, "The Spider!"

A half dozen, then a score, then a hundred voices echoed that shout. Men and women were suddenly running from the lobby of the hotel! But Wentworth threw both arms high above his head, and his voice rang out clearly.

"Listen to me," he cried. "Listen to the Spider, and know that the Spider does not lie! This place is going to be robbed tonight, perhaps within a few minutes! The robbers will set the building on fire. The police and the fire department are on the way. Be calm . . . . Do not allow yourself to be stampeded!"

Hard-faced men wedged suddenly out of a narrow corridor to the left of the lobby, pounded toward him with hands reaching for their guns. Wentworth knew them for the squad of detectives maintained by the hotel.

"This way!" he shouted to them.

With an easy vault, Wentworth cleared the marble counter of the desk. His weight smashed against the staring clerk, carried him to the floor.

Wentworth crouched beside the terrified man. "Commissioner Kirkpatrick came in here a moment ago," he said harshly. "Where is he?"

The clerk's eyes, rolled up. "The manager!" he gasped. "The manager . . . . His office!"

His quivering hand pointed toward a door at one end of the desk alcove and Wentworth sprang toward it. A gun crashed from the lobby and he heard the deathly whisper of the lead past his head. He hit the door—and it was locked. No time for finesse now that the alarm was given! Wentworth's gun cracked twice in his hand, shattering the lock, and the drive of his shoulder hurled it quivering inward. His leap carried him two-thirds of the way across the office, and the smashing detonation of a gun greeted him; his automatic answered and a man in police blue stepped backward a half-pace. His head was punched backward so that he seemed, incredulously, to stare at the ceiling. Then his uniform hat slipped off and bounced on the floor, and his body let loose all at once. He slumped forward to the floor, a bullet hole between his eyes.

In a single all-inclusive glance, Wentworth took in the manager's office. A man in evening dress lay sprawled upon the floor with a bullet hole through the back of his skull. The safe gaped, and papers were strewn about . . . and a man was just rising with a valise stuffed full of money from before the looted strongbox. At the swift double crash of the guns, he whipped about—and Wentworth gasped!

Even when he knew the truth, when his unfaltering gun-hand was sweeping up for the final shot that would wipe Munro from the face of the earth, he felt a shock run along his nerves. In that first, curt glance, he would have sworn he was gazing into the face, and the eyes, of Commissioner Stanley Kirkpatrick!

It required a conscious effort to force his hand to close on the trigger, and Wentworth knew even as he fired, that he had missed! Great God, the Spider, face-to-face with a mass murderer, had missed an easy shot! His body had refused the clear order of his brain, because of the shock that Munro's resemblance to Kirkpatrick had given him. For once the Spider's highly trained reflexes had played him false! There was time for no second shot!

Wentworth saw mockery leap into those dark eyes that stared so fixedly into his. The valise swept across the desk, and knocked the telephone to the floor—and the room exploded!

Wentworth felt heat strike him like a moving wall. It plucked him from the floor and hurled him backward. Somehow, he managed to whip the asbestos-lined cape before his face, but the shock, the heat, almost overpowered him. Half-dazed though he was, he drove himself to his feet, fought his way through the swirling smoke, the leaping tongues of crimson flame. The gun quested like a hound's nose for its prey, and did not find it.

Behind him, he could hear the sudden screams of people, and he knew that the touch-off of the entire hotel had been hooked up with some electrical contact connected with the telephone. Munro's sweeping valise, loaded with loot, had set off a holocaust!

Wentworth smashed two of the flame extinguishers against the walls of the office, and then he could see an open door across its width. He hesitated, not in fear of what might lie behind, but with a divided sense of duty. All his being urged him to fling himself in violent pursuit of Munro now, while he knew in what guise the man fled. But there were hundreds, thousands of people trapped in the hotel. Wentworth hesitated . . . and there came to his ears the screams and shrieks of a dozen sirens. He heard the hoarse, long drawn wail of the fire engines; the whimpering, yelping thinness of police radio cars; the deeper ululation of the ambulances.

Wentworth laughed harshly. Between their eagerness to catch the Spider, and his own care to summon the fire department, there would be ample help for the people of the hotel within a space of seconds.

The Spider was free to hunt!

With that laugh, Wentworth thunder-bolted across the room and burst out through that closed door. A gun hammered furiously from the darkness at a corridor's end, a man was emptying a gun as fast as he could pull the trigger . . . and that was no way to shoot accurately, as Wentworth could have told him. He threw a shot across his chest toward that flickering snake-tongue of powder-flame . . . and it was extinguished. The Spider javelined. At least, after that first moment did not even pause. He bounded toward where a gleam of street lights showed an exit, whipped to the street!

A car was spurting from the curb and Wentworth's automatic lifted with deadly perfection toward the driver, who wore still the neatly formal derby that Kirkpatrick affected in winter—and then Wentworth swore, and did not fire! He had caught the yellowish green gleam of lights across the glass of the limousine, and knew that his bullet would be wasted. Bullet proof!

There was a crowded taxi rank, and Wentworth lunged toward the nearest cab, flung into the front seat beside the driver.

"After that car!" he ordered, and the cold incisiveness of his voice snapped the man from the lethargy of waiting. He jammed in the gear while his eyes flinched from the gaunt, caped figure beside him, from the cold glint of the gun in the Spider's hand.

Wentworth said quietly, "Wreck that car ahead! And don't worry about your job, or this cab. I'll pay for the machine, and give you a thousand dollar bonus . . . . But wreck that car ahead!"

The taxi leaped under the spur of the Spider's words, but the limousine already had a block lead. Wind drummed violently against the cab, hit it at the corners like a mighty sledge. Traffic skittered aside as the horn blared for right-of-way through red lights. Wentworth's eyes burned in his head. The scarf muffled him to the nose, and his hands were calm upon the gun. He slipped out the clip, fingered the bullets. Two shots left, and one in the chamber. A weak armament with which to tackle Munro! He could not waste bullets in chance shots at this high speed. And there was too much traffic. A stray bit of lead, a ricochet . . . .

"He's got a fast car, boss," the driver gasped. He was panting, his face streaked with perspiration. His eyes darted everywhere and the cab dodged like a rabbit. The limousine ahead took no such precautions. It slammed straight through across Broadway, across Eighth, boring steadily westward!

Wentworth shook his head, thinking fiercely. In a short while, the man must turn either north or south. If he hit the west side elevated highway, he would walk away from this cab. Their chance would come on the turn. Wentworth reached out and cranked down the right-hand window. The cold struck through the opening like a knife. Wentworth tugged his hat down firmly over his temples, knotted the scarf fast about his face and leaned out. He was crouching, countering the jars of their speed with flexed knees; ready to shoot . . . .

A cry leaped to his lips! Ignoring the blare of that screaming horn ahead, a small car pushed out across the intersection with Ninth Avenue. Too late, the girl who was driving saw the juggernaut of the limousine, tried to turn two ways at once . . . and clapped her hands over her eyes in despair. The limousine swerved a foot, caught the small car on the right rear wheel. The coupe looped, turned over, slammed upside down into an elevated pillar. The limousine was past . . . but the coupe was not through! It bounced from the pillar, fell to its side and spun slowly around—directly into the path of the taxi!

The cab driver stood on the brakes. He was half-erect, crouched behind the wheel. He flung the cab into a twisting turn to the right, and the tires screamed, skated across the wet pavement. He countered the skid with a wrench of the wheel, caromed off an elevated pillar with a shriek of torn metal. Glass showed across the front seat from a shattered window . . . and then the cab was roaring northward along Ninth Avenue.

"Left again!" Wentworth ordered, coldly. "I'll double that bonus! That man deliberately hit the girl's coupe. Deliberately, I tell you—to stop us!"

The driver's jaw was set and he whipped to the left, fought the car out of the skid, and floored the accelerator.

"Gawd A'mighty," he said. "Gawd a'mighty! She wasn't even screaming. She . . . ."

Wentworth shook his head. There was a stinging in his eyes, and a fury in his heart. If he lost the trail this time . . . . Damn it, he could not lose the trail! That poor girl in her shattered coupe. He had seen her at the last moment there. Seen her with the steering-post thrust through her frail body like a brutal, blunt javelin. At least, after that first moment of fright, she had not suffered. By God, Munro should suffer!

And there was Nita.

The taxi was hammering down the last straight stretch toward West Street where the elevated highway ran. No entrance at this corner, or the one below. At any moment, he should see the limousine flash past. Wentworth weighed his gun. Not a chance of hitting it in the brief while it would be exposed. He sat tensely forward and his hands fondled the gun.

"Must have turned south!" the driver shouted.

Wentworth nodded wordlessly, braced himself. The cab hit the smooth, shining pavement in a broadside skid, writhed between two of the highway supports and straightened out. Wentworth strained his eyes ahead . . . . Dear God, the street was empty!

Somewhere in those last few blocks, Munro had twisted aside, or else . . . or else he had driven straight into one of the piers that lined the water's edge! Wentworth's gaze whipped toward the docks and then, above the high hammer of the cab's motor, he caught another sound. It was a deep-throated roar, and there was a blustering quality to that tone that he recognized! Behind the walls of those piers, a seaplane was taking off!

"That pier!" Wentworth shouted, and pointed.

The cab broad-sided and lashed across the width of West Street toward the broad doors of the pier. They had been open, but they were closing now, closing swiftly. Wentworth thrust out his body through the window and leveled the automatic. He saw a hand, white against the edge of the sliding doors, squeezed the trigger once!

The hand jerked out of sight—and the door did not close any farther!

"Straight through! Fast!" he snapped.

The cab jounced violently at the short ramp, lunged through the opening. A machine-gun chattered viciously from the darkness but it came an instant too late. The car was already inside . . . and Wentworth's gun swiveled and blasted! The pale violent flicker of the machine-gun swept upward, higher . . . higher until it pointed at the zenith. Then it stopped . . . and the driver was standing on his brakes. The cab's tires howled on the wooden floor.

"Lie down!" Wentworth threw at the driver. "Lie down flat and don't move!"

His door was already open and the Spider vanished with his first long leap, into the black shadows that clustered thickly against the walls. If he made any sound at all, it was swallowed in the deep bellowing of the airplane engine. There was a narrow door open to the water, and the glisten of the greyer night came through. Across that opening, a black shadow flitted . . . and then, just outside on the water's edge, Wentworth checked. He had one bullet left in that light gun in his fist. One bullet . . . and the plane was already almost completely out of range now!

There was no time to delay. Wentworth could not see the pilot, shielded behind the crash-pad in the cockpit. But he knew this type of plane, knew where its gas tank was! Wentworth squeezed off his last bullet . . . and the plane charged on, tipped up on the pontoon step, and began its rush to the final take-off. It whirled northward into the wind, and the sound of the motor dwindled, became louder as the plane lifted against the sky. Wentworth stood for a long minute and watched the flicker of the exhaust as the ship climbed steadily.

Now . . . .

Wentworth stared, and slowly a hard smile moved the lips beneath the scarf mask. Nita had signaled SOS and the password that Munro had given in the offices of No-More-Fires, Inc., had been "From my ashes, I arise again!"

Wentworth's lips parted in the harsh, mocking laughter of the Spider. He whipped back inside the pier, and raced for the taxi.

"Get me to a telephone," he told the driver softly, "and then get me to Pier Seventy on the East River as fast as this cab will go." He laughed again, and there was triumph in the sound. "Tonight, Munro dies!"

Death . . . .

He flung himself into the cab, but the smile was no longer on his mouth, and there was a touch of fear in his grey-blue eyes as the taxi whined in a U-curve and spurted for the doors. Tonight, Munro would die, but . . . would he die in time to save Nita? Nita . . . .

Chapter Ten
Munro's Knife

IN the tight, small room in which Nita had been imprisoned day and night since her capture by Munro, she paced with quick, controlled steps. She still wore the evening dress of ivory satin, a gown of Grecian simplicity exquisitely molded to her body. The long skirt switched from side to side behind her slim ankles and her narrow white hands were clasped rigidly before her. Her violet eyes did not see the glistening white walls about her.

An hour now had passed; an hour since she had phoned that message to Dick over the radio with a pistol held against her skull. She had been able to do so little to warn him, to tell him the hideout of Munro, but it had been all she had dared. Fortunately, Munro had not been beside her at the time, or she might not have succeeded as well as she had! If only she had dared to blurt out the truth to Dick! She shook her head, laid her wrist against her forehead, and wearily thrust up her chestnut curls. No, that would not have done either. If those men had known she was signaling Dick her whereabouts, then she would have been moved . . .

Nita checked her swift pacing to stare fixedly at the wall. "Don't be a fool, Nita," she whispered to herself. "There is no hope!"

It was not that she doubted Dick, or his strength, but Munro had taken great delight in detailing to her the trap into which Dick would walk. She did not see how even his superb mind and body could save him. When it was over, Munro had promised her, he would come back . . . and 'execute' her!

Nita's head sagged slowly forward, and she dropped to her knees on the floor. Perhaps she prayed, but certainly it was not for herself. When she spoke, it was a dear name that was on her lips, "Dick!" Time dragged on wearily, and twice Nita lifted her head, thinking that she had heard the deep approaching hum of an airplane motor. She knew that Munro was using a plane tonight. When he returned . . . Nita's breast lifted in a slow, taut breath. Why, then, there would be an end of worrying! If only she had been able to tell Dick more, she might hope. But she knew only that she was on a large yacht. No glimpse outside of her stateroom had been vouchsafed her, but she could feel the lift and swell of the sea beneath the keel, and hear the mewling of gulls, and distant sob of whistles. There was a bell-buoy somewhere near that she could hear, mournfully clanging, when the wind was right.

A feeble clue, but her SOS meant danger at sea. Dick would recognize that. Beyond that, she must depend on his keen brain—if he were still alive!

Presently, Nita heard shouts on the deck of the yacht, heard the splashing and the drumming of a motor as a launch was lowered to the water. After a while, it returned, and it was not long afterward that she heard the key turn in the lock of the door. Nita rose slowly to her feet; her chin lifted, and she stood that way when the door was flung wide.

Two men stood, either side of the door in the narrow corridor, and facing her was . . . Munro!

As always at sight of that flame-seared face, those distorted eyes and mouth that seemed perpetually twisted in a savage leer, Nita could not repress a shudder. She saw amusement glisten in the eyes.

"You are quite right, mamselle," Munro said, with a calm that was gloating. "The time has come for you to be . . . executed. Come!"

Munro stepped aside, and the eyes of the four men were upon her. Nita's head lifted, and a disdainful smile touched her lips. As calmly as if she answered an invitation to dinner, Nita stepped across the raised sill of her stateroom and turned left along the corridor behind Munro. The men fell in about her in a square and the march of their feet made a regular soft thudding to the sharp rap of her own high heels. Nita felt coldness about her heart . . . but it was despair, not fear.

If Munro returned, it meant that Dick had . . . failed!

The corridor ended in a tight little salon and Munro turned sharply to the right, dropped into a chair that was isolated like a throne. But for the moment, Nita's eyes did not rest on him. The salon had been changed since the time, only a brief hour or two before, she had been marched through it to broadcast that warning to Dick. There was no furniture in it at all, except that lonely chair and . . . and what stood opposite it!

Nita drew in a slow, quivering breath as she saw the way she was to die, and afterward did not look at the thing at all. She did not need to. It was engraved forever in her mind. Her lips twisted a little. For her, 'forever' might be so brief a while!

A narrow tower of old stained wood had been erected against the wall. It was wedged tightly between ceiling and floor, and there was a knife between its side beams. A knife that was a triangle of glistening steel, sharpened to a razor edge and heavily weighted above. Munro had erected a guillotine!

The bulkhead behind it had been draped in canvas, and there was another strip spread beneath the guillotine itself. Nita could not repress a shudder. She knew the reason for those strips of canvas. When the knife fell . . . .

Munro chuckled. "I see you get the picture very completely, my dear," he said.

Nita's head came up and her eyes rested scornfully upon the hateful, scarred face of the man in the chair. There were other men in the room now. Nine of them lined the wall behind the chair, and there were guns in their hands. Munro, too, held a gun in his right hand . . . . Suddenly, Nita laughed!

"He escaped!" she said breathlessly. "You set your elaborate trap, and he walked into it as he said he would . . . but he escaped! And Munro, you are afraid! That is why you have guns in your hands!"

Emotion twisted the man's distorted mouth horribly, and his voice came out in a feral snarl. "Yes, the dog escaped!" he said harshly. "And he cheated me out of three-quarters of my loot for this night! He pursued me through the streets and put a lucky bullet through the gas-tank of my plane, so that it was wrecked. But I had time to call to my men by radio and have the boat lowered! He did all these things . . . and yet he shall not long enjoy even that partial triumph. Do you know why, you pretty fool?"

"Why, yes," Nita said quietly. "I know why. You intend to kill me." But the smile did not leave her lips. She even laughed a little, lightly. "Do you think you can harm me now? You did not kill him, and that is all that matters. You are doomed, you and all your men!" She shrugged her smooth round shoulders slightly. "You say I am to die. It does not matter. For I know that I shall be quickly avenged!"

Munro leaned sharply forward in his chair, and the rage was a living black fire in his eyes, but his voice came out softly. "As to that, we shall see," he said softly, "but just now I am more interested in your own brief future. My executioner will be here soon. He is arraying himself, for as you know I like things to be just so. Your executioner will wear formal clothing, my dear, and you will not mind if he wears a black hood? It pleases me to have him dress so."

Nita smiled. She no longer saw these men. Hope that would not die sang in her heart. So long as Dick was alive . . . .

"I think that is very nice of you, Munro," she said, in condescension.

Munro jerked to his feet. "I have made some other . . . nice arrangements!" he snapped. "You have already perceived that the drop of the knife will be shorter than is customary. I have compensated for that by a sharper angle of the blade, and extra weight. There is another little device which I rather like. When the plank to which you are strapped drops into place, there will be no delay. It will automatically release the knife! To compensate for the loss of those few seconds of anticipation, my dear, I have arranged for you . . . to watch the knife fall! When you are strapped to the plank, it will be face-up! But try to keep your features composed, my dear, for when you are dead, I shall deliver you back to this lover of yours! Your body will be shipped to Richard Wentworth! Your body—and of course your head!"

Nita fought the panic that spurted into her brain. She could not let herself think of the horror this man painted, lest she give him the satisfaction of showing her fear. She clung to her smile . . . and heard footsteps on the deck behind her.

"Ah, my executioner!" said Munro.

Nita turned then, stately as any Marie Antoinette facing the tumbril, and looked at the figure of the man who was to take her life. As Munro had said, he was clothed in formal evening dress, but it fitted him very badly. The black hood hung loosely about his throat, and eyes peered out at her from two slits that shadowed them darkly.

Nita kept the quiver from her voice. "Whenever you are ready," she said quietly.

The executioner was bending now over the plank, examining the straps. It was hinged to an extension of the foot of the platform, and Nita found herself examining it with an awful fascination. She would be strapped to that plank. A thrust would drop her backward, held immovable by those straps. When the plank slapped home between those two slides that guided the knife, then . . . then the blade would drop! Nita closed her eyes, felt that she swayed a little on her feet. The executioner moved toward her. She heard his feet, felt his hand touch her arm.

Nita was beside the upright plank. At the touch of the gentle hand on her arm, she turned her back to it. God, it was only seconds now. Seconds . . . Dick, Dick!

The sound was forced from her lips, and it seemed to her that in the fury of her desperation she had heard an answer.

"Courage, dear!" She said, "I am ready!"

Nita had stiffened her body into a kind of cataleptic trance, and what happened then registered on her mind only dimly. It seemed to her that she heard a shattering explosion, and sharp cries. And then she was hurtling backward!

Nita's eyes flew wide, and terrified, lifted toward the knife. In a split-second of time it would be swooping toward her throat! She stared . . . and did not see the knife! She struck the floor, and her hands flew up and she realized that she was not strapped to that slaughterous plank at all. She had fallen . . . to the floor!

While this incredible realization was flashing through her mind, she heard laughter.

It was a hard and terrible sound, instinct with menace, flat with mockery, but Nita heard it with a joy that seemed to swell her heart to bursting. A sob lifted to her lips, for that laughter . . . it was the laughter of the Spider!

Nita twisted her head then and saw what was happening in the room. Not a full second had passed. Those nine men had whipped about toward the door aft, where the explosion had sounded. Their guns were lifting that way. Munro had sprung from his chair, with his automatic ready in his fist. But that open doorway framed only blackness . . . and the laughter of the Spider came . . . . It came from the executioner!

Even as Nita realized that fact, the executioner whipped off his black hood and the bold, chiseled lines of the Spider's face were exposed. There was an automatic in each fist, and the laughter poured from his lips.

"This is the end, Munro!" he shouted.

Munro came to his feet, but in that same instant, death reached out its hot hand for the Spider!

Wentworth saw that Munro thrust down hard with his right foot, and guessed that he stood over some prepared trap. He tried to fling himself strenuously aside, and even the lightning-fast reflexes of the Spider were not swift enough to escape the hell that blossomed beneath him!

Flames fanned up beneath his feet, hot with the breath of the explosion that fathered it. In the same instant, he felt something brush past his face, strike against his arms. From overhead had dropped a hangman's noose!

But this time, Wentworth already was in motion, and triumphant laughter burst mockingly from his lips! His left hand snaked upward and clamped home about that rope, even as it snapped taut! By the sheer muscular power of that one-handed grip, Wentworth wrenched himself upward, and the rope missed his throat—but bound his gun hand to his side! And Munro was leaping toward him, the mad lust to kill glistening in his distorted eyes!

In the bight of the rope, his gun hand still bound at his side, Wentworth flung himself into action! Deliberately, he swayed back over that blossoming hell of flame that had burst beneath him. The hot draft swept up witheringly into his face, whipped his cape bravely. But Wentworth had achieved what he wanted. He got his feet against the bulkhead, and drove himself violently toward Munro!

An inarticulate cry burst from Munro's lips, his gun jerked up—but the Spider was too swift for him! The Spider's feet lashed out and caught Munro in chest and jaw, drove him violently away from where Nita swayed against that fateful guillotine. As Munro fell, Wentworth wrenched free his gun-arm, and began to shoot!

His first bullet raked upward above his head—and cut the rope! Even before it fell free from about him; even before his feet struck the floor, the Spider's automatics were speaking with the crisp deliberation of gun-beats on parade. At each bark of sound, a man crumpled. The man beside Munro's throne jumped backward like a man who has stepped upon a snake, but it was not a voluntary action. Lead had plucked into his belly, and he folded as he was hammered backward through the air. He struck the bulkhead behind him and, afterward, he bent slowly forward until his knees plumped to the floor. He stayed that way, with his forehead grinding into the deck.

A single lithe spring put Wentworth astride Munro's crumpled body.

"Drop your guns!" the Spider ordered.

One man defied that order. One man tried to wrench his gun about to bear upon the Spider as he crouched there. The Spider's eyes did not shift, did not appear to see him, but the gun in his left hand jerked against his wrist, and a shell clattered to the floor. The crash was single, rolling and loud. The man who tried to throw his gun on the Spider wrenched violently backward, lifted on his toes. His head struck a pane of porthole glass and shattered it, and afterward he sat down. Through perhaps twenty seconds, he sat there braced against the bulkhead, though he was already quite dead with a bullet through his head. Then he pitched sideways and moved no more. With his fall, the flare-up of rebellion died. The guns thudded to the floor, and Jackson came in steadily through the doorway, guns in his fists.

"Tie them up," Wentworth ordered calmly. He stirred Munro with his foot, and the man's body flopped limply.

"Can you come here, Nita?"

Nita's voice came hesitantly. "I think so . . . . Of course!" And then he heard her scream!

* * *

Wentworth whipped about. His gun swung up, but the flitting figure that darted across the room moved too swiftly . . . and Nita was just beyond! Wentworth leaped to the attack, but he was a split-second too late! Munro had been shamming those last few seconds, and now he was crouched behind Nita. He had her arms vised between his hands . . . and she was pressed against the upright plank of the guillotine!

"Don't move, you fool," Munro's voice struck strongly through the room, "or I'll throw her against this plank! The knife trigger will be sprung and Nita will be without a head!"

Nita stood rigidly in the grasp of the man, and Wentworth swore beneath his breath. He had been criminally careless, but he had struck hard enough to crack the man's skull! Of course! Munro, the artist in disguise, had altered the shape of his skull also . . . with padding! That padding had saved him from the Spider's lethal blow!

"Drop your guns!" Munro snapped. "Spider, if you move again, the girl dies!" he warned. "You forget there is a mirror in the ceiling!"

Wentworth's eyes lifted and the bitterness of despair raked through him. In the mirror that formed the lower surface of a skylight, Munro's evil distorted face grinned back at him. There was triumph there, and an evil gloating.

Wentworth's face twisted with anger. "You are the fool, Munro!" he rasped. "Two things betrayed you, and both of them were caused by your vanity. You do not credit other people with having brains!"

"Certainly not!" Munro snarled. "For the last time, drop that gun!"

Wentworth's lips were cold against his teeth. There was a chance, just one chance, and it would risk Nita's life; it would entail the finest shooting of a lifetime, and he could not take aim. It must be a snap-shot. There was a flat metal plate bracing the foot of the guillotine. If he could bounce a bullet off of that at precisely the right angle, it should knock Munro's legs out from under him!

"I said you underestimated your enemies, Munro!" Wentworth rushed on. "In your office, you gave a pass-word that was sheer folly. You were laughing to yourself when you did it, weren't you, Munro. You said, 'From my ashes, I arise again!' When I figured out that the whole meeting you had called was a trap, I knew that pass-word could not have been prearranged, but sprung to your mind spontaneously. Therefore, it was connected with something that was very prominent in your mind at the time."

"Are you almost through, Spider?" Munro asked coldly.

"Almost," Wentworth acknowledged, "and then you allowed Nita to broadcast to me, and she broke her words into a rhythm that duplicated Morse code—she signaled SOS! From that moment, I knew she was at sea somewhere, since that is a sea-call of distress. And then I remembered your pass-word . . . . And I knew that you had given a charade for the name of your yacht!

"'From my ashes, I arise again' obviously meant that legendary bird, the Phoenix, and it fitted in with your macabre sense of humor that, using arson as a means of crime, you should call your yacht after the fire bird, the Phoenix. That was a help, but it was that one bullet I fired which trapped you, Munro—the bullet that I fired, deliberately, through your gas tank!"

"It was a leak that would force you down ultimately," Wentworth said quietly. "You kept your motor turning over, so there could not have been too much gas in your tanks. Consequently, you would have to call to your yacht, the Phoenix, for assistance. When you called, I was aloft in my own seaplane. I heard a call for the Phoenix, and I ran down the bearing with my radio. After that, it was simple, just as it is going to be simple to kill you, Munro, for you see Nita has had special training. She has not flinched under your hands, nor moved. In just a moment, Munro . . . ."

Nita's eyes flared wide, and Wentworth knew that she had caught his instruction . . . and Wentworth squeezed the trigger of the gun. It jerked against his wrist, and Wentworth hurled himself forward in the same instant. He saw the white splash as the lead glanced from the metal plate at which he had aimed. And then . . . and then, Nita wrenched her body sideways. It was a jiu-jitsu throw over the hip, the use of the special training Wentworth had given her long ago; which he had prompted her to use with his few swift words!

Wentworth's gun was ready as Nita wrenched Munro sideways, but he did not fire again. It was not necessary! The ricocheting had batted Munro's legs out from beneath him, and Nita's throw did the rest. She staggered aside, but Munro went back first against the plank of the guillotine! It swung smoothly downward in its slot, downward beneath the knife!

Munro screamed. He writhed, and tried to throw himself sideways from that plank, but there was no time. At the last moment, as the plank slammed down on the trigger, he flung up his arms in a frantic effort to ward off the swoop of death and that, also, was too late! The knife swooped down, the knife with its extra angle and its extra weight to make up for the shortness of the drop. A hand thudded to the floor. Munro twisted his head aside . . . and the knife slapped home into its groove, its swift drop finished. There was a thud from beyond the guillotine, and Wentworth gathered Nita protectively into his arms.

Jackson spoke from the doorway, "Prisoners all accounted for, sir! The plane is moored to the stern, and the folding rubber boat you used is aboard. Pardon me, sir, but you'll have to hurry!"

Wentworth set Nita from him. "The deck, dear," he murmured. He bent over the guillotine, and on the blade he affixed the glistening scarlet seal of the Spider. And he looked beyond the guillotine and his face twitched a little as he turned away. Because Munro had not been strapped to the plank, the knife had not struck in quite the right position. No one would ever know now what Munro's real face looked like . . . .

Minutes later, the seaplane whirled into the wind and took off under the guidance of Jackson's expert hands. Rapidly, Wentworth explained about Kirkpatrick's action, and how he had escaped from the cell in Kirkpatrick's home.

"Kirkpatrick has been violently busy ever since that time!" he said somberly. "There is just a chance that I can get back before he does. If I fail . . . I'm afraid I will have to become a fugitive!"

Nita's hand closed tightly on his. "What do you want me to do, Dick?"

Wentworth told her quickly, and the plane roared toward Manhattan. And presently, the ship swooped low with an idling motor and Wentworth climbed out on a wing, and pulled the rip-cord of his parachute and let the pressure of the wind pull him off into space. He could steer the parachute by spilling air from one side or another, and the blustering wind of the earlier night had stilled.

* * *

Nita found Kirkpatrick leaning wearily upon his desk at headquarters, and she thrust by the door guards haughtily, sailed into Kirkpatrick's inner office.

Kirkpatrick's head snapped up. He staggered to his feet, and his smile was joyous. "Nita! Thank God! How did you get free from that devil! Thanks to the Spider, he didn't do much damage at the Bonheur. No lives lost, except that of the manager, and a couple of criminals that the Spider evidently killed."

Nita lifted a shoulder. "The Spider set me free," she said impatiently. "I was being held prisoner on a yacht and the Spider flew out there and killed Munro and some other men, tied up the rest and flew me back to New York . . . And I want to know when you're going to turn Dick loose from that ridiculous cell of yours!"

"If Dick is still in that cell," he said, "and Cassidy has been faithful to his trust . . ."

Nita said, acidly, "I thought this was an escape-proof cell!"

Kirkpatrick shook his head and said no more. He did not expect to find Wentworth in the cell. That, he knew, was the real reason why he had forgotten about Cassidy and his charge. For he had seen the Spider in action, and he had the Spider to thank that a hundred or more lives had not been snuffed out in the Bonheur fire. But, even in his life-saving, the Spider had killed two men!

Kirkpatrick found himself feverishly impatient, so that he darted ahead of Nita into the apartment house before he thought, and his apology was perfunctory.

From the locked cell door, Wentworth called out angrily, "Kirkpatrick, if you don't let me out of this damned cell, I'm going to sue you so fiercely you'll be kicked out of office. Damn you, can't you understand, Nita is in the hands of Munro, and . . ."

Nita came into the room then and Wentworth broke off with a glad cry and Nita ran to his arms. He clasped her through the steel bars, and Kirkpatrick heard her telling him rapidly the same things she had told him previously. His eyes were burning into Cassidy's, but the policeman met them steadily.

"Cassidy," he said sharply, "have you been out from behind this glass shield!"

Cassidy sighed, "Faith, Commissioner I haven't moved, but it's hard on my feet. You didn't give me a chair!"

Kirkpatrick frowned. "In other words, your eyes have never been off Wentworth, and he has not left that cell!"

Cassidy frowned, too. "Never a wink have I taken, Commissioner," he said, "and Wentworth has been standing right there where he is now the whole time!"

Kirkpatrick swung about toward Wentworth, took the keys from Cassidy. There was something that troubled him, and he could not place it. Cassidy had spoken with a straight-forward conviction, and plain sincerity. And yet . . . Damn it, he had seen the Spider! He unlocked the door of the cell.

"It seems, Dick," he said slowly, "that I owe you more apologies than I can ever muster up the words to speak. Tonight, I have seen the Spider with my own eyes, and I know that man in action. It could not have been someone else in disguise. And I had provided you with an unbreakable alibi." He smiled suddenly, and it lighted all his weary face. "Dick, from the bottom of my heart, I am glad! Now, there can be an end of fencing and pretense between us! Will you shake hands?"

Wentworth's heart gave him a twinge. He hated thus to deceive his friend, but his duty and his service to humanity demanded it. He clasped Kirkpatrick's hand warmly . . . and from the other room, the radio was suddenly loud.

"Attention, Kirkpatrick!" it called sharply. "Kirkpatrick, are you listening. This is the Spider speaking!"

Kirkpatrick smothered an oath and leaped to the doorway. Jackson was standing by the radio. He stammered, "I . . . I just wanted to see what the news was saying about the Spider," he said.

Kirkpatrick gestured him to silence.

"Kirkpatrick," came the flat and mocking voice of the Spider, "I have done your work for you once more. You'll find Munro dead, and his men, some dead, and some prisoners, on the yacht Phoenix anchored off the Coney Island bell buoy about a mile. Also, you will find a sonograph record of his declaration that Nita van Sloan was to die, and why. If you will check it with those I understand Wentworth had you make of certain suspects, you should have no difficulty in making sure that it was Munro speaking!

"And you can do me a favor, Kirkpatrick. Munro seems to make the same mistake that so many of you confounded imbeciles make. He confuses me with Wentworth. Now admittedly, Wentworth is a superior mentality, but he cannot compare with me! I always . . . . beat him to the kill!

"Do this little thing for me, Kirkpatrick, and give this sop to my vanity! Wentworth . . . phooey!"

Wentworth said violently, "Confound his impudence! He can boast! And here I was, sealed up in a cell . . . ."

Nita said, gently, "But he saved my life, Dick!"

Wentworth grumbled into silence, shrugged. What he muttered sounded suspiciously like, "The conceited ass!"

Kirkpatrick was smiling, and there seemed to be years taken from his shoulders. "I will make that clear for the Spider," he laughed, "and for you, Dick! To think of all these years, when I have been sure you were one and the same man!"

Ram Singh was waiting in the Daimler below, and the snow was sifting down softly in large, feathery flakes. He stood rigidly beside the doorway.

"It came over the air perfectly, Ram Singh," Wentworth said quietly, "have you already cleared the sound-track of the speech?"

Ram Singh salaamed, "Han, sahib!" he growled, "but this Spider said some defaming things, master. When I get my hands upon his throat . . . Ha!" Ram Singh threw back his head and roared out his laughter on the cold night air.

Jackson shouldered forward, "Pipe down, you heathen," he rasped, in top sergeant style. "You want to give the show away?"

Ram Singh cut his laughter short and scowled down at Jackson. "I will have thy ears yet, for my necklace, fool!"

Jackson snorted, "Only a weak sister like you would wear a necklace, and . . . ."

Wentworth laughed, knowing that this was the reaction from the tension of long battle. Nita's hand was light on his arm, and the night seemed suddenly kind. The drifting snow-flakes were like a benison.

"Jackson," he said curtly. "You disobeyed orders!"

Jackson stiffened, and his face went suddenly rigid and pale. He faced Wentworth, standing at attention.

"Begging your pardon, Major," he said stiffly. "Regulations say, 'When a superior officer is mentally or physically disqualified, it shall be the duty of the next ranking officer to take command, and to carry on to the best of his ability, disregarding any previous instructions if they shall interfere with what his knowledge dictates . . . !'"

Wentworth said, dryly, "That's a bit free in quotation, Jackson, but close enough. Jackson, you're confined to quarters for thirty days . . . and there will be bonus of a thousand dollars for you when you come out!"

Jackson saluted, and the laughter sparkled in his eyes. "Thank you, Major!" he said. His hand slapped against his thigh.

Ram Singh's teeth flashed whitely behind his beard. "Ah, hoo!" he chuckled. "And I shall be his jailer! Thou small flea . . . ."

"You heathen lummox."

Nita said softly, "You two brave splendid men!"

Jackson's ears turned red, and Ram Singh stiffened with pride . . . But Wentworth laughed and swept Nita into his arms, and climbed into the car.

"You splendid warriors are going to get your faces washed with snow," he said dryly, "if we don't get home inside of five minutes. In fact, I shall call in the Spider to perform the task!"

They were all laughing, as the car rolled northward along Park, swung westward toward home . . . At his window high up in the apartment building, Kirkpatrick watched them go, and shook his head wonderingly over Cassidy. Standing straight up, with his shoulders hitched against the wall, Cassidy was asleep, a faithful guard worn out by the too hard performance of his duty.

He would sleep for twelve hours as Wentworth had ordered him, under the spell of hypnosis, but he would never remember opening the door of that cell for Wentworth to leave; or locking him in again when he returned.

Kirkpatrick smiled, "And all these years," he said to himself slowly, "I have suspected Dick of being the Spider! What a fool I have been. What a fool!"

THE COUNCIL OF EVIL

Chapter One
Dark Portent

It was one of those neighborhoods found only in New York City. On one side of the street were exclusive apartments, their subdued lights glowing warmly against the blanket of cold fog. On the other side, there was rank squalor.

Here the buildings were unclean and condemned, tenement slums and cheap shops from which figures slunk with the cringing furtiveness of wild beasts.

The imported limousine seemed out of place in such a street, under the glow of the street lamp. Dark and sleek it stood there, its motor silent. Drops of fog condensed on its windows slid quietly down. There was no sign of movement from within.

Like the street, it waited.

The night waited. There were no sounds save the hoarse moan of fog whistles as tugs prowled through the murk of the East River and the far off rumble of elevated trams. Overhead, a row of dim lights crawled through mid-air, where other lights hung like drops of blood . . . . Queensborough Bridge.

There was a faint thin note in the air that seemed to come from above. It resolved itself into a whistled tune, but such a tune as this street had never heard before! It was weird, throbbing, with something of the eerie wailing of a Chinese flute . . . a sound that might have come straight from the yellow heart of the mysterious Orient!

Suddenly the waiting was ended!

In the limousine there was a hint of movement. A pale face showed against a window. It was a lovely face, shadowed somehow with tragedy and apprehension. From behind the car, a tall figure slid forward, a man with broad towering shoulders, arms folded across his chest. He made no sound. There was a turban bound about his proud head.

The whistle died . . . and abruptly there was movement where the shadows clustered most closely against the tenements. A hunched and crippled figure melted out of the blackness into the half-light.

It was a man muffled to the eyes in a long black cape that covered his twisted back and draped to his heels. He moved with a sideways, ugly shuffle. Beneath the broad brim of his black hat his eyes glittered coldly.

The turbaned man swept a low salaam before this sinister figure . . . and just around the corner, a police whistle shrilled in the night!

The man in the cape laughed softly, and a few crackling words in Punjabi issued from his lips as he sprang toward the car. The turbaned man salaamed again, sprang to the rear of the limousine. The door of the tonneau swung open. For an instant, the woman's face showed. Fear and apprehension were gone now. Instead, there was a welcoming smile on her lips.

The man swept off the hat as he leaped through the door. His hair dangled in lank, black strings upon his shoulders. His face was beaked, ruthless . . . a bitter, stern and remorseless profile. Then the door clapped shut.

A police radio car whooped into the street. Blue-uniformed police raced on foot around the corner, their feet loud in the moisture-laden air. The corner light glinted on their guns. They converged on the black limousine.

"Hey, you!" one snarled at the turbaned man. "What you doing here?"

The man straightened imperturbably. His bearded face showed nothing, but fierceness flashed in his eyes.

"Wah!" he said scornfully, "are you a fool to ask such questions? Use your eyes!"

A tire of the limousine was flat.

* * *

The door of the limousine opened and a light flashed on in the ceiling. In the rear sat a woman, beautifully gowned, and a man in evening dress. His silk hat sat jauntily on his head, and his face was pleasant, kindly, despite the strength of the jaw, the firm line of nose and brows.

The man opened the door. "Is anything wrong, officer?" he asked quietly.

"I beg your pardon, sir," the officer said, more mildly. "Did you see anyone pass here in a hurry? You see, there's been a murder."

The woman gasped. "Horrible!"

The man frowned. "Any number of people have passed, I suppose," he said. "But I noticed none of them in particular. No one running. My man took a short cut to avoid traffic, and we had that beastly puncture. It's a wonder the street department wouldn't sweep here once in a while . . . If I can be of any help to you, let me know." He fingered a card from a platinum cigarette case and held it out to the officer.

The cop frowned at it. "Mr. Richard Wentworth!" he said. "Gee, I didn't know it was you, Mr. Wentworth! You'd better let me leave a man on guard here until your tire is mended. This murder—it was the Spider done it!"

The girl in the car shuddered again.

"The Spider! How horrible!" she gasped.

The cop rubbed his jaw. "Yeah, well . . . . It's murder, like I said, but the guy what got it—"

"Who was it, officer?"

The cop started to spit, glanced at the woman and didn't. "He was a lawyer. Mortimer Hurd."

Wentworth nodded gravely. "I remember. He just beat some disbarment action against him. Supposed to have worked with a dope ring."

"Supposed!" snapped the cop. "Supposed! He was the whole works, if you ask me. Only he was too slick. The law couldn't touch him . . . . Well, I got to get going. I'll leave a man here until you're fixed up."

Wentworth said, "Thank you, officer." He closed the door, and the hand of the woman beside him slid into his. "Nita, my dear," Wentworth said, "your hand is quite cold! When will you get over being nervous over the operations of . . . the Spider? This wasn't even close."

Nita van Sloan shuddered a little, drew her fur-edged wrap more closely about her shoulders. "I . . . worry, Dick," she whispered.

Wentworth laughed gently. "You heard what the policeman said, Nita . . . 'He was too slick. The law couldn't touch him.' Still, I don't think the Spider intended to kill him. Not if he'd turn over all his money to the poor and leave the country. He preferred to be slick—and try for his gun. When the law can't act . . . the Spider will!"

Nita's hand twined within his. "Oh, Dick," she whispered, "you talk as if you . . . and the Spider . . . were two entirely different persons!"

Wentworth stared straight before him. His blue-grey eyes were not narrow, but wide and thoughtful. The smile on his generous mouth held regret, but no weakness. "Sometimes," he said softly, "it would be . . . nice if it were so. There's so much to do, so many criminals to be punished . . . ."

The turbaned man swung in behind the wheel, set the limousine in swift motion. Wentworth saluted the policeman on guard, picked up a microphone.

"Nice work, Ram Singh," he said softly and saw the turbaned driver bow briefly. "Switch on transmission . . . ." He pressed a button on the microphone, and knew that his voice, when next he spoke, would be broadcast over the car's two-way radio. He did not speak. Instead, he whistled softly a few bars of an old English folksong. Then he replaced the microphone, and he was frowning a little.

"I didn't need any of the precautions I took," he said. "Jackson wasn't necessary as a guard. I've just sent him home, with that signal. Of course, Hurd may have disbanded his force—"

Abruptly Nita caught Wentworth's arm. "Oh, look, Dick!" she whispered.

Wentworth's head jerked about where she pointed. In the darkness of a side street, a half dozen figures milled about. They were the figures of half-grown boys. They were attacking a man!

"What the devil!" Wentworth snapped. "Ram Singh—into that street!"

The limousine swung smoothly over, glided to a halt. Wentworth was already on the street. One of the boys turned and saw him, but he did not run. Instead, he flung himself fiercely into the fight again.

Wentworth saw that the man was trying to draw a gun!

"Wait! Stop this!" Wentworth lifted his voice. "What goes on here?"

Two of the boys whirled toward him, and the man got his gun free. He pointed it at the nearest of the boys. Before he could fire, Wentworth sprang forward. His leap was smooth as a lion's charge. The cane in his hand lunged forward like a rapier. There was the click of metal on metal . . . and the gun clattered to the pavement.

For an instant, the boys stood back. The man seized the opportunity. He ducked into a black doorway behind him. For a few moments, footsteps beat on wooden floors, then they were silent . . . . The man was gone. But the boys were circled around Wentworth, as ominously silent as wolves ready for the kill.

One boy muttered out of his mouth corner, "If he goes for a gun, slug him." Wentworth glanced at them in bewilderment. If these boys were a gang of hoodlums bent on robbery, they were the boldest he had ever seen. Usually, the mere arrival of an extra person would set such thieves running in all directions. But these stood their ground, and glared at him. This time, it had been the victim who had fled!

The keen grey-blue eyes of Wentworth inspected the boy who had spoken. He was perhaps sixteen, broad in the shoulders for his age, and dressed like all the other boys, in long trousers and a pullover sweater. It was almost a uniform. The boy's fists were knotted at his sides, his jaw was thrust out belligerently, and his dark eyes were hot and angry as they met Wentworth's unswervingly.

The boy muttered out of his mouth corner again, "Maybe he's one of them. He sure broke it up neat!"

One of the boys stooped swiftly and caught up the gun that had been dropped. His hand shook a little with the weapon. Slowly, Wentworth looked over the faces of the five boys . . . and he made his decision.

"I seem to have made a slight mistake," he said, "you weren't trying to rob that man, were you?"

"Rob him?" The boy who was plainly the leader was scornful. He spat. "Rob him, hell! We was trying to beat the living daylights out of him. Same as we'll do you if you don't come clean. What'd you butt in for?"

Wentworth felt a sharp urge to laugh. He kept his face sombre. Behind the boys, Ram Singh stood with folded arms. Nita van Sloan had opened a small gun-port in the window and the muzzle of an automatic glinted through it. Wentworth nodded toward her, toward Ram Singh.

"It's all right," he said quietly. "I'm just going to have a talk with these young men."

The leader whipped his head about, saw Ram Singh, caught the glint of the gun in the window. His face paled a little. It made the freckles across his nose startlingly strong. His eyes were wide, but he stood up to Wentworth.

"All right," he said hoarsely, "so you got us. So what?"

This time, Wentworth did laugh. He sobered quickly. "Son, I haven't got you at all. But I would like to know what this is all about. I don't believe you thought you were doing wrong, or you would have run. But I don't think you realize your danger. In another moment, one or two of you would have been shot. If that man made charges against you, you fellows would spend the next five years in a reform school!"

The boy said, uneasily, "He won't make no charges against us."

Wentworth said quietly, "I'm Richard Wentworth. Perhaps I can help you."

The boy's eyes widened, "Geez, are you! Richard Wentworth, hunh! Golly, you—you've seen the Spider! Look, I'm Bill Sanders. And this is Monk, and Pug, and Fats, and Deesie. They're my gang. Look, we know something the Spider ought to know. Can you get word to him?"

Wentworth leaned on his cane and looked at the five boys grouped eagerly about him. They had forgotten the fight of a few moments before, though their faces bore the marks of it. A cut lip here, a swollen and blackening eye. Bill Sanders limped as he moved closer, but his gaze was courageous.

Bill said, "That guy we was beating up was a racketeer. He shook down Deesie's dad for a whole week's take in his grocery store. Deesie's dad is scared to go to the cops, and they wouldn't do nothing anyway. They're all fixed."

"So you took matters into your hands," Wentworth said softly.

"Sure, we ain't afraid," Bill said eagerly. "We even know where they got their headquarters. It's the Mekookum Social Club down on Avenue A. We was figuring on taking that tonight, maybe, if we could get back the money for Deesie's dad. Only we needed some guns."

Wentworth felt coldness along his spine. These boys were fine, and strong and resolute. But they did not realize what they were facing. Guns, and a raid on racketeers . . . murder, death for themselves, reform school . . . . But Bill Sanders was a born leader!

Wentworth's voice was stern. "Bill, you've been a fool!" he snapped. "That's not the way things are done in America! You've been behaving like a hoodlum in one of these foreign countries where thugs in uniform beat up helpless people!"

Bill Sanders shook his head. "No. He was a crook!"

"You were taking the law into your own hands!" Wentworth's voice was still sharp. "That is not the American way!"

Bill Sanders' face was very serious. "You're dead wrong, mister," he said. "That is the American way. Look, I read a lot. When the law don't do things right, Americans take over and do things for the law. Us, we're just setting the law right."

Wentworth asked softly, "Have you given the law a chance? Have you gone to the police? They're pretty swell guys, most of them."

Bill Sanders started to hold out his left hand, hesitated. "Well, no, we ain't," he said slowly. "But, look. Look—the Spider don't go to the cops!"

"You're not the Spider, son," Wentworth said quietly. "The Spider has devoted his entire life to crime detection. He is a qualified judge. And he never strikes . . . unless the police have failed. But you, son . . . ."

The boy shook his head fiercely, "We're Spiders, too!" he said. "Look!" He held out his hand, and on his finger there glittered a silver ring, whose seal was black . . . and on that seal there glittered a figure of scarlet—a symbol of poised hairy legs and poisonous fangs: the seal of the Spider!

It was while Wentworth stared with mingled feelings of respect and dread, and a little of awe that his leadership could do such things . . . it was while he stared that he heard the thin, sliding whine of tires as a car rocketed into the street. Brakes howled. The car jerked to a halt. Four men jumped out and began to stalk toward them. Big shouldered men, tough men. Blackjacks dangled from their fists.

As they came forward, Wentworth heard the squeal of other brakes behind him and knew that another car had come from the opposite direction. Four more men! And Wentworth laughed softly!

"It seems, Bill," he said casually, "that your judgment was more or less right. We have to deal with gangsters. They have come to teach you a lesson. Get back toward the wall and let me . . . chat with these gentlemen.

"There are only eight of them."

Chapter Two
Against Odds

Sight of Wentworth and his car did not check the men at all. He heard Nita call out softly, and shook his head at her. She knew that he meant she was to help only if he called on her.

Ram Singh's teeth flashed behind the thicket of his beard. "Wah, Sahib!" he muttered in his strong, nasal voice. "Do not you soil your hands with these vermin. These many days, thy servant has had no battle to warm his blood!"

A smile moved Wentworth's lips. "No deaths, Ram Singh," he said. "This is not the time nor the place."

Seeing that Wentworth did not flee, that he leaned only casually on his cane, the eight men drew to a halt. Behind him, the five boys seemed scarcely to breathe. They were huddled against the wall, waiting. Ram Singh stood against the left fender of the car, arms folded across his swelling chest. There was no one behind him, for the rough semi-circle of the men ran from the front of the car almost to the tenement wall.

"Gentlemen," Wentworth said equably, "you walk as if you had some business to attend to. Do not allow me to detain you." The silk hat was jaunty over his right eyebrow. The smile on his lips was mocking.

"Shove off, buddy," one of the men growled. "We're just going to run in this bunch of hoodlums. They tried to rob a guy."

Wentworth said, "My, my! Rough customers, these boys, since it takes eight of you to handle them. You made remarkably good time getting here from . . . the Mekookum Club!"

The man started, and his eyes narrowed beneath the snap brim of his hat. He didn't say anything, but the eight men leaped forward as if geared to one throttle of hate. In the same instant, Wentworth and Ram Singh struck.

Ram Singh touched a hand to the hood of the car, vaulted over it and drove his feet into the face of the end man. Wentworth's cane balanced in his hand and his whole body extended in a straight line behind it. The cane caught the leader between the eyes. His body arched backward while his legs were still carrying him forward. His shoulders thudded to the pavement. His heels clumped down afterward. Wentworth made a long leap forward, bounded entirely over the man's prostrate body, and pivoted easily. Twice more he lunged, and a man doubled over the knock-out punch the cane had administered to the solar plexus; a second caught the ferrule against his jaw and cart-wheeled to the earth. Ram Singh had disposed of another.

In those two swift seconds of action, five of the eight men were stretched helpless on the ground!

"We have destroyed the left flank," Wentworth murmured, "and broken through the centre. An encirclement of the right flank is indicated!"

He and Ram Singh were side by side now, and the three men retreated warily before them. Their heads swung as they sought a way to escape, and there was none. The huddle of boys was against the wall on their left.

In a single bound, one of the men reached the boys. He seized one as a shield, and a gun glittered in his hand.

"Nita!" Wentworth called. "The shoulder, please!"

Nita's gun blasted from the gun-port of the car, and the man pitched to the ground, carrying the boy with him. But Nita had had a clear shot. The remaining two men broke and ran. Wentworth made two long leaps and his cane struck once, and then again. One of the men hit the pavement. The other cringed under a blow across his shoulders. Wentworth's cane twirled in the air, fiercely. Two, three, four blows he laid across the man's back.

"In the future," he said harshly, "leave these boys alone. Understand? You may carry that word to the Mekookum Club!"

The man stumbled down the street and Wentworth tucked the cane under his arm, dusted his hands, before he turned back to the boys. Ram Singh was scowling over the prostrate bodies of the men. One of them was stirring, but he made no effort to rise.

"Wah, master," grumbled Ram Singh. "It was a good fight thy servant needed. This was not worthy of perspiration."

Wentworth clapped him on the shoulder, but his face was stern as he turned to the worshipful boys against the wall.

"Geez," whispered Bill Sanders. "Oh, geez, you fight like the Spider himself!"

Wentworth shook his head quietly. "The Spider . . . kills," he said. "You will go to your homes, and you will make no further attacks on these men. I hope you aren't known to them."

Bill Sanders took a hesitant step forward. "But we can't, Mr. Wentworth," he said. "Don't you see? The cops can't do anything unless somebody will talk, and the victims are all scared. We're scared to go to the cops, too. It ain't only Deesie's dad. There's lots of others. We followed the collection gang. Gee, Mr. Wentworth . . ."

Wentworth bent toward the earnest boy, and his face was gentle. "Yes, Bill," he said. "I see . . . but I did not mean nothing would be done. Get all the information you can, but don't disturb these men actively again. I can sometimes get in touch with the Spider. I will send him to you! Now, hurry! Get away from here before there's more trouble!"

Wentworth motioned the boys away. They looked at Bill Sanders, and abruptly he nodded. "Okay, Mr. Wentworth!" he said.

In a trice, the five boys were racing away down the street, Bill Sanders leading. He angled across the street, swarmed over a wooden fence. Wood echoed hollowly as his gang followed. He reached a piling beside the wharf, looked around at the four panting boys behind him.

He nodded then, and motioned them over the side. One by one, they bellied over the edge, swung under and disappeared. Bill Sanders stood for a moment peering at the damp darkness around them, listened to the hoot of tugs on the East River whose waters washed the pier.

Then he nodded to himself and swung down into the darkness after the others. It was like a cave under the wharf. One boy had lighted a stump of a candle, set it on a soap box. For moments, the boys panted in silence, their eyes big as they looked at each other.

Presently, Bill Sanders pulled the captured revolver out of his pocket and thumped it down on the box. "We got an arsenal now," he said, and dragged a sleeve across his forehead. "Geez, can that Mr. Wentworth fight!"

That started it. They all talked at once, but presently Bill rapped on the box with the gun. "Spiders, we got to be ready when our chief comes. He'll go to the Mekookum Club and bust it wide open. We'll scout out the neighborhood there, hunh?"

They clamored their assent. They stole out of their dark cave, and slipped through dark side streets toward the club. They didn't see that there were six men in the shadows of two parked cars, nor see those cars roll toward them quietly.

The cars picked up speed while the boys were sliding along a blank warehouse wall. They closed in and made a trap. Suddenly, the men were among the boys; six men armed with blackjacks and clubbed pistols, attacking boys.

There were shrill shouts. The boys dodged like imprisoned dogs. They slammed against the two autos that formed the trap. One jumped into a car. Another slid over a hood. But one lay already on the pavement, and did not stir. And men held the other two. Their blackjacks were lifted. They were glaring down at their helpless prisoners.

That was why they did not see the figure that seemed to materialize out of the very shadows itself. A twisted figure with hunched shoulders, whose body was draped in a long cape. They did not see the man, but they heard him! They heard him laugh!

The sound was grating and low and mocking! It was sinister with the imminent threat of death!

And the men whirled with screams of terror. They had heard that laughter, too, and always when it had sounded, a criminal had died. It was the laughter of the Spider!

The thugs leaped for the cars in sudden terror . . . but there were two forty-five calibre automatics in the fists of the Spider! They whipped out their own weapons, began to blast to ribbons the wet darkness of the night.

The two weapons in the fists of the Spider spoke at the same instant, and two of the men were hurled to death under the heavy impact of the lead. The others leaped into one of the cars. The motor roared as they wrenched the sedan free and sent it charging down the street at heedless speed.

The Spider pivoted easily, and once more his two guns spoke together. There was no more shooting from the car. It skidded around the corner and vanished. Its motor howled against the night. The Spider moved with his curious limping gait that covered ground so swiftly. He stooped tenderly over the boy on the ground.

It was Deesie. A blow had torn his scalp. He was unconscious and his breathing was labored. The Spider lifted his head and the boys shrank back. He whistled softly, and a car poked its nose out from the corner behind them. It rolled swiftly forward, a dilapidated coupe whose motor had a deep whispering note of power.

"It is not for work like this," the Spider said sternly, "that I allow you to organize my clubs. This is work for men who know how to take and mete out death. You have all walked very close to death tonight. In the future, you will obey orders implicitly. And keep out of sight!"

The coupe drew to a halt and a man whose entire face was covered by a black mask swung to the ground. "The hospital," the Spider ordered. "Take the car the thugs abandoned. It is war."

The masked man saluted silently. He lifted the unconscious Deesie in tender arms, stalked toward the crooks' car, and sped away. The Spider faced the boys. "Go to your homes," he said quietly. "This is no mere minor racket you have run across."

"But . . . Bill . . ." one of the boys said, and his voice was almost a sob. "Bill . . . I saw him jump into that car!"

The Spider swore softly. If Bill Sanders had jumped into the car that got away, then he was a prisoner of the killers! They would not be mercifully inclined after tonight. He would have to move swiftly. He glanced at the boys. Their faces were white and frightened, but there was no flinching there. The Spider nodded.

"I will need a guide," he said. "Someone may perhaps have to drive the car. Come with me."

He sprang behind the wheel of the coupe. The boys piled after him, gazing with awe at his grim profile.

"We go to the Mekookum Club," the Spider ordered softly.

His voice was expressionless, and beneath the steel mask that hid his face, his mouth was bitterly set. He blamed himself for that boy's injury, for the kidnapping of the other. He should have sent them into protection at once. But it had been necessary to remain behind, to don the robes of the Spider in order to trail the thugs when they recovered.

Presently, they parked a block away from the Mekookum Club which filled the entire fourth floor of a loft building. Its windows glowed with light and great black letters had been painted on the glass, spelling the club's name.

"This is our battle plan," the Spider said softly. "That adjoining building will be easy to enter. I can get to the roof of the club. Fats, you can drive. You stay near the car. Pug, you will go on the other side of the block and keep out of sight. Monk, you'll go with me. If any one of you hears me whistle like this," he piped three failing notes. "Call the police at once!"

"The cops!" Monk gulped.

The Spider nodded, and as he slid from the coupe Monk was at his side. He was visibly puffed up with pride at his assignment to go with the Spider.

"Geez," he whispered, "I've had dreams like this! Only, couldn't I have a gun? I got my old sock with half a brick in the toe, but it ain't like having a rod!"

A smile stirred Wentworth's lips. "Your job, Monk, will be to keep lookout, too," he said softly. "It's possible that, when I'm once inside, the others won't be able to hear me whistle. You will repeat the signal if you hear it. I'm giving you a post of great importance, Monk. You'll have to guard my line of retreat!"

Monk said happily, "Oh, that's swell, Spider, and if anybody tries to stop you, I'll—I'll—"

"You'll call the police, Monk!" the Spider ordered.

It was simple to gain entrance to the taller loft building and, five minutes later Wentworth was looking down upon the roof of the Mekookum Club two stories below him. With a deft movement, he slid a coil of silk line from a pocket of his cape. It was fine stuff, no larger than a pencil, but it had a tested strength of hundreds of pounds! Rapidly, he looped it about a chimney pot, let the end dangle down toward the roof below.

"Now, Monk!" he warned. "Keep out of sight, even here. Listen for my signal. Remember, my life and the life of Bill Sanders may depend on your following orders strictly. This is my line of retreat!"

Monk nodded eagerly. "I'll hide here!" he said.

He faded back into the dark shadow of the roof kiosk and was invisible except for the white blur of his face. Wentworth nodded and stole toward the rampart and his silken line. His lips were harshly drawn. He would have to move fast indeed to save Bill Sanders. The boy probably had been brought here only a few moments before, but gangsters like these didn't waste time!

The Spider took a rapid turn of the silk about his thigh and arm and began to slip down the face of the building as silently as the creature whose name he bore. He was half way down when he felt a tremor run through the silken line. He wrenched his head back.

Silhouetted against the sky, was a man! Not Monk—for this man wore a felt hat—and there was the glitter of a knife in his hand!

He was preparing to slice the Spider's web and drop him to his death!

Wentworth swore softly and wrenched out his automatic, but he hesitated to fire. If he shot, there would be a general alarm, and no chance at all to rescue Bill Sanders! Wentworth loosened his grip slightly on the silken line, sped more rapidly toward the roof.

Above him, there was a muffled thud, a cry. Something flashed down past him. It was a knife!

Wentworth peered upward again. There was a silhouette up there, but this time there was no hat . . . only rumpled hair. Monk's voice came down to him clearly.

"Retreat's okay!" he called softly. "I used the old brick in the sock!"

Wentworth felt his throat tighten. They were great kids, these boys in the Spider club. If anything happened to them . . . Wentworth cut off the thought. He had reached the roof of the Mekookum Club! Two strides he took, and the shadows swallowed him.

Presently, the balustrade at the back of the club took on a distorted, humped silhouette. It was only for a moment, and then all was normal again. On the roof above, Monk strained his eyes and ears. In the streets below, two boys waited . . . and in a room of the Mekookum Club a half dozen armed killers waited!

In the room where Bill Sanders lay, bound and spread-eagled upon a table top, there was only one man. The others waited outside the doors, guns in their fists, anger and bitter hatred in their eyes. They were afraid. They would strike all the more viciously because of that! Bill Sanders had been stripped to the waist, and the man who stood beside him had a grin on this thick lips.

"So you won't make a nice noise, eh bud?" the man said. "A nice little scream now, like I was hurting you, so the Spider will come in a hurry. Of course, I'm not really hurting you." He put the heel of his palm on Bill's nose and ground down. It hurt excruciatingly. Bill set his teeth on his lip.

"Got to have guts, don't you, Bill?" the man purred. He seemed to like his job. "Let's see how a thumb in the eye works."

Bill felt a sob jerk into his throat. He didn't make a sound. The gangster slapped him across the mouth and stood back, scowling at him.

"I guess I gotta get tough," he said happily. He lighted a cigarette! "A little touch of hot-nose, let's say!" he laughed. "By golly, that's a good one. I'll have to tell the boys. Hot-nose! It's simple. You just get a cigarette going and shove the hot end up the nose. How about that, now, Bill? Going to yell?"

There were tears in Bill's eyes. He hated himself because of them. He said, with breath between each word: "You . . . go . . . to . . . hell!"

The gangster nodded amiably. He had the cigarette going to his satisfaction now. He'd get a scream out of this brat. The Spider would come dashing in. There were six of the hoods. Six guns. Oh, they'd finish him off all right!

He leaned toward the helpless boy, the cigarette coal glowing redly. He jeered. "Not going to yell, hunh?"

Bill yelled. He screamed at the top of his lungs before the cigarette reached his nose. The gangster jumped with surprise, straightened . . . and something soft as silk dropped over his head! It didn't feel like anything until it touched his throat, then it tightened like a band of steel!

The gangster tried to yell, and he couldn't get breath past that circle of steel. He whirled, clawing for his revolver, clawing at his throat. There was a crouching black figure there on the window sill—and a face that was like judgment day.

The gangster tried to speak. Words pushed at his throat: "The Spider!"

He didn't make a sound. The silken web, noosed about his throat yanked him forward and he thumped to the floor.

"Scream again, Bill!" whispered the Spider.

Bill screamed, and suddenly, it seemed to him that the gangster was talking over him again.

"That's fine," the voice said. "That's just fine. Now a couple more good screams, just to prove you don't really like a hot-nose."

Bill saw it was the Spider talking while he rapidly unfastened Bill's bonds. But he wasn't looking at Bill. His eyes were everywhere about the room. This was an office. There was a desk, a typewriter. There was a safe. On this safe the Spider's eyes lingered. And all the while, he talked.

"So you're going to get stubborn after those nice screams, are you?" he said raspingly. "Come on now, scream nice. Scream pretty. So your pal, the Spider will come popping in. Scream!"

Bill screamed. His hands and feet were free now and the Spider was helping him toward the window. He was whispering. "I'll lift you until you can reach the roof," he said. "Monk is on the other roof above this one. He'll help you get up . . . with the Web. Wait for me there!"

Bill's hands clutched the edge of the roof. Strong hands gripped him below the knees, lifted him until he could grab the roof edge. It wasn't hard. He got over, and he lay there panting. He poked his head down to give a hand to the Spider, but the Spider wasn't there in the window any more.

Inside the room, the Spider moved swiftly toward the safe. He was still talking in the voice of the strangled gangster on the floor. "Damned little fool, what the hell did you faint for? I haven't started hurting you yet. I'm just playing with you. Come on now, wake up, before I really go to work."

His hands rested against the safe door. His fingers were long, and their tips were sensitive. He twirled the dial rapidly, nodding his head now and again as he felt the tumblers click. It was a very simple box, one of the large old-fashioned kind. Within a space of moments, he had the door swung open. Money there, and papers. He riffled through them rapidly and cold light glittered in his eyes. He stuffed papers and money into pockets inside the cape.

It was when he straightened afterward that he felt the fan of a draft across his shoulders. Only one thing could cause that—the opening of a door! The gangsters had spotted him!

Wentworth knew that, even before his eyes flicked to a bawdy picture hung upon the wall, whose glass served as an excellent mirror. In that dark mirror he saw that not one, but both doors had opened! There were three men in each, and they had guns in their fists!

Even as he spotted them, a harsh voice rasped an order:

"Give it to him! Kill the Spider!"

Then gun-sound tore the quiet of the room to shreds!

Chapter Three
Without Quarter!

The Spider, in that deadly instant, had the advantage of only a split-second warning. If he hesitated, if he whirled to fight, that moment was wasted . . . and he would be a dead man! But the Spider did not hesitate! As always, the perfectly trained co-ordination of body and mind chose the only possible action—and performed it!

The glimpse in the glass was enough. He dived behind the steel door of the safe, twisting as he leaped. His twin automatics smacked into his palms, and one blasted. The light went out!

That was while the first gunshots ripped across the room, while the rasping echo of the killer-leader's voice still echoed. After that first blast, there was an instant of silence.

Into that silence, the Spider flung his mocking, ominous laughter!

The guns went wild then. The men flung a hail of bullets into the darkness. The steel door rang again and again to the impact of lead. Fear had got the better of their hatred. A Spider they could not see along their gunsights was as deadly as invisible death itself!

The Spider concentrated on one door with his right hand automatic. He lifted it, smiling thinly at the flashes of the guns there. When he pulled the trigger, it was as if there had been one long gun-blast, so swiftly did the three bullets fly! The guns in that doorway did not fire again. There were two heavy solid thuds as bodies were punched to the floor by the Spider's deadly lead.

The third man screamed terribly. His gun clattered down. His feet made fumbling, broken steps across the floor. It was possible to hear them in the silence that his scream had caused. Three, four dragging steps . . . and a long pause. The scream stopped. There was a final thud . . . and silence!

Wentworth weighed his automatics in his palms and crouched lower behind the door, listening. He heard a whisper, and knew what it portended. They thought he would make a break through that one door which his bullets had cleared. Well, that was as he had planned it!

Wentworth's eyes quested over the room. Grey light came in dimly through the oblong of the window. He could see the dark shadow of the torturer he had strangled . . . the silk line was within reach of his hand. Wentworth laughed inaudibly behind his steel mask. He drew the silk line to him, got the slack in his hand and tossed it into the darkness. His aim was perfect. It settled across the top of the door his bullets had swept clear of enemy guns!

Then the Spider began, softly, slowly, to tighten his silken line. The body of the dead gangster began to slide across the floor toward that empty doorway!

Abruptly, the guns began to blaze again. Two of them hammered from beyond the doorway he had cleared. The third was within the room. Wentworth groped within the safe, found a box heavy with silver currency. Unerringly, he threw the box. There was a jangle of silver as it struck, a hard rain upon the floor. The gangster gasped. His body thudded to the floor.

The other two guns were still crashing, and they had not seen the source of that missile. Slowly, Wentworth raised to his feet. He lifted his two guns . . . was on the verge of leaping forward to still those last two gunmen.

At that instant, gunfire burst into the darkness from the window! Streaming lines of crimson powder-flame gushed into the room. Without thought, Wentworth's right gun swivelled that way. A cry rose in his throat . . . and he did not fire!

That was a boy that dangled, head-first, from the roof. Bill Sanders had come to the rescue!

Even as Wentworth spotted the fact, the two gangsters leaped to the door of the room. Their guns blazed . . . toward the window!

With fierce speed, Wentworth whipped his guns around and blasted. He leaped forward as he shot, snapped two more shots after the first. Dimly, he saw the black lumps that were the gangsters in the shadows. They were driven backward against the walls. The shots pinned them there, seemed to flatten them.

When the Spider's automatics ceased, those two killers remained erect through long heart-beats of time. Then they pitched forward to the floor. In the darkness, there was no sound now except the slow scrabbling of a dying man's last convulsions, the hoarse breathing of the gangster who had been slugged. The reek of gunpowder stung the nostrils, brought moisture to the harrowed eyes of the Spider.

"Don't shoot again, Bill," he called softly.

He heard Bill gasp, "Thank God! I thought you were a goner! That's why we called the cops!"

Wentworth swore softly, lifted his head to listen. Yes, the police were already on the way. Those thin siren screams were just on the edge of audibility. They swelled rapidly . . . but there was still work to do here!

The Spider flicked on a small pocket flash. Its brilliance spilled across the floor, and he strode toward the man he had struck down with the box. He would label him so that his crooked days would be finished forever!

From his pocket, the Spider slid a slender platinum cigarette lighter. He thumbed open its base, stooped toward the man and ground it against the unconscious gangster's forehead. When he straightened, his light remained focused on the forehead of the man. Where he had touched, a crimson symbol sprang to life; a thing of hairy legs and poison fangs: the seal of the Spider!

Abruptly, Wentworth swore and bent toward the man. He used the heel of his palm to scrub at the man's forehead . . . and then a sense of utter incredulity struck across his mind. He stood stiffly, staring down at the upturned face, hearing the hoarse breathing of the stunned man. But it was no illusion.

On the man's forehead . . . were two seals of the Spider!

There could be only one meaning. This man was one of the half dozen criminals upon whom Wentworth had placed his seal but allowed to survive with that brand upon his flesh and soul!

Rapidly, Wentworth canvassed his memory. This huge frame, the shaggy hair across the brow, the bluntly brutal features . . . . Damn it, this man was one of the most cruel tyrants that had burgeoned in the age of the rackets. It was Big Gannuck! Wentworth laughed, stooped toward the prostrate body of Gannuck . . . and Bill Saunders called hoarsely from the window.

"Spider, the cops are surrounding the block! There must be a hundred of them!" Wentworth swore. He could not carry Gannuck through that cordon. He weighed his automatic in his hand, shook his head. The Spider had killed many men, but only when they faced him, weapon in hand. It was a foolish chivalry perhaps, but it was part of the Spider's code. He could not kill Gannuck; there was no time to revive him to give Gannuck his chance; no way to carry him out a prisoner.

The Spider laughed softly. Gannuck's entire force had been destroyed. The man himself was double-branded. He thought that Gannuck would be finished. Wentworth dipped his gun muzzle in the stains upon the floor. On the white wall, he scrawled:

"Flee, Gannuck! Next time, you die!" And beneath it, he imprinted the seal of the Spider!

Once more, Bill cried out anxiously from the window and then Wentworth ran that way. He gathered the length of the Web that had strangled the torturer and carried it with him.

"All right, Bill!" he called softly. "Stand aside!"

From the sill, Wentworth leaped upward. His powerful hands clamped on the edge of the roof, and he swung his body through an accelerating arc as he levered upward. He thrust his legs and half his body over the edge . . . was on his feet on the roof in an instant.

With long strides, he raced across the roof toward where his Web dangled. He could see the silhouette of Monk against the sky. He swore under his breath as Bill raced beside him. He could hear the police now. More and more sirens were whimpering into the district. The place was alive with cops. It was going to be hard enough to escape alone, and now he had to rescue these two boys!

A slight and gentle smile moved his lips. It took the young to stand by so loyally! Men, growing older, were more selfish of their own safety. But these boys . . . . At the foot of the gangling Web, Wentworth whirled toward Bill. "I'll tie this loop about you," he said rapidly, "and go up first to lift you. It's a trick to climb a rope as thin as this!"

Bill nodded. He was gasping for breath from his run. The Spider's breathing was scarcely hurried. Once the Web was secure about Bill, he gripped the line with his hands, running it in and out between his fingers. He gripped the loose end between clamped heels. When he closed his fist, the silken line could not slip. He hauled up, clamped his heels, slid his hand higher for another grip, repeated that process. It was a feat that would exhaust an ordinary athlete. Wentworth scarcely heeded what he did. So many times, so many walls he had scaled thus. His muscles knew their task. His brain raced to the job ahead. These two boys must escape!

Moments after he reached the higher roof, he had hauled Bill Sanders to his side. Then he raced across to the outer balustrade and stared down into the street. He saw a slim tall man, erect as a soldier. He was in civilian clothes, but the abrupt movements of his hands, the instant obedience he commanded identified him at once.

Commissioner Stanley Kirkpatrick had taken personal charge!

A smile touched Wentworth's lips. Kirkpatrick was his personal friend; and he was the Spider's deadliest nemesis! His keen brain would make the cordon air-tight against the escape of the Spider!

His plan was simple. A line of police, backed up by a rope, was being strung entirely around the block. There was only one exit, and that was where Kirkpatrick stood. He intended to inspect personally every person brought out of the buildings!

Wentworth's smile widened. He turned to survey the rest of the block. On the opposite side were tenements. There would be many people there. There was a way out . . . . It would be thick with dangers, but danger was not new to the Spider!

He turned toward the two boys, who were watching him with wide, awed eyes. He nodded toward them.

"Follow me," he said. "This is a very fine police cordon. It may give us some trouble!"

Rapidly then, he ran across the roofs. Once more they had to use the Web to drop to another level. There Wentworth left it, and to its end he affixed his long black cape, his broad-brimmed hat. At a little distance, it looked quite lifelike. The breeze made it sway a little.

Two roofs farther on, he darted into a tenement building. There was an empty room on an upper floor. He went in there. Swiftly, he stowed the money and paper from the safes about his person. He found a ragged pair of trousers, a torn shirt. From a leather girdle about his waist, he took out a compact kit to make-up . . . . Moments later, he emerged from the room to confront the boys.

They glanced at him, then looked away. One of them whistled self-consciously. "We're just waiting for a friend," said Bill.

Wentworth's eyes twinkled. It was no wonder they did not recognize him. His wig was gone, and his normal hair was greyed with make-up. There were lines of age about his mouth, denting his cheeks . . . and his eyes were the weak, reddened eyes of the aged.

He laughed softly, and the two boys whirled toward him. Wentworth nodded and spoke to them in the voice of the Spider. "We are going to the streets now. I am your grandfather. I am determined that you shall not become gangsters and I am teaching you a lesson. Follow my lead."

They went swiftly down the steps and, just inside the outer door, Wentworth took each of the boys by the ear. His eyes, behind their disguise, were quick and sharp. If he were caught, and identified . . . . He shook his head. He must not be! Too many men lay dead under the seal of the Spider! It did not matter that each one of them richly deserved death. In the eyes of the law, he was guilty!

For a moment longer, Wentworth hesitated. His mind flashed back to Gannuck. It was remarkable that the man should return to New York after the lesson he had had once before from the Spider. Was it possible that he had some new and strong protection that he should dare the Spider's wrath? He knew, with a certainty born of long years of battle against the Underworld, that Gannuck had not come back for any such minor racket as the small protection paid by local grocers. Something big was afoot . . . and that meant something that was terribly menacing to the people Wentworth served.

Wentworth cut his thoughts short and strode out into the street. He lifted his voice, and it was the cracked and aged voice of an irritable, domineering old man.

"You young rapscallions!" he said harshly. "So you want to be gangsters, do you? I'll show you what happens to gangsters! I'll show you that you can't put things over on old Grandpap!" He tweaked Bill's ear. "Well, why don't you say something, Capone?"

Bill writhed, and said something in a whining voice. A cop at the cordon rope grinned and waved him back.

"You can't go outside the ropes, grandpap!" he called.

"Don't want to," Wentworth snapped. "Want to stay inside the cordon. I'm going to show these young rapscallions what happens to gangsters. Saw the Spider shoot hell out of them over there and a good job, too . . . ."

"Where is the Spider?" the cop snapped.

"Up on the roof, I suppose," Wentworth said. "He was sneaking across the housetops a little while ago. Up there!" He nodded toward the roof where the cape and hat of the Spider still dangled in lifelike fashion.

The cop shouted, and a half dozen officers bolted toward the house Wentworth had indicated, but the cordon was still as strong as ever. Wentworth tramped along, grumbling, fussing at the two boys he still held resolutely by the ears. Kirkpatrick was only a half block away, winnowing out a group of people caught within the cordon. Wentworth's eyes narrowed, and then one brow lifted mockingly.

He had disarmed the policeman with a laugh. It was a fact that men could rarely take seriously any person at whom they laughed. If he could only carry out that idea in the presence of Kirkpatrick . . . . He was only a hundred feet from Kirkpatrick now, and he lifted his voice, saying again that he would show the boys what happened to gangsters.

"Where's the boss of this she-bang?" he demanded of a cop. The man grinned and nodded toward Kirkpatrick. Wentworth hurried the two boys that way. "I want to get permission to go in there where the Spider killed them men," he said thinly. "I want to show these two young fools what happens when people think they're smarter than the law. I just want to let them see."

Under his breath, Wentworth whispered to the two boys. "When I say 'rapscallion' again, you two break free, run right at Kirkpatrick, the tall man there, dodge around him, then run on. Understand?"

He did not wait for the two boys to answer. They were only a score of feet away now, and Kirkpatrick was glancing toward them with a frown.

"Mr. Police Chief," Wentworth lifted his voice, "I want permission to take these two young rapscallions . . ."

As he spoke, Bill and Monk, by one concerted twist wrenched free of Wentworth's grip and raced toward Kirkpatrick. Wentworth stumbled to one knee. He got up and stumbled after them, shouting, waving his arms.

"Stop them!" he cried. "Stop them, Mr. Police Chief! I'm going to teach them a lesson, and . . ."

Kirkpatrick made a grab for Bill, but Bill dodged the grip. Monk jostled Kirkpatrick from the other side. They dodged behind the Commissioner as Wentworth ran up, limping.

"You young rapscallions!" Wentworth shouted. "You just wait until I get my hands on you! Knocking your old grandpap down!"

Kirkpatrick said furiously, "That's enough of that! Stop it, you young fools!"

Wentworth dodged past Kirkpatrick and gave him a stiff thrust with his shoulder. Bill tripped the commissioner and Kirkpatrick went sprawling to the ground. Instantly, Bill and Monk were running frantically from Wentworth as he hobbled after them, shouting, waving his arms. Cops were hiding grins on their faces. One of them made a halfhearted grab at the fleeing boys.

Kirkpatrick was already scrambling to his feet. Wentworth, in spite of his hobble, made surprisingly good time. He was already through the cordon, hurrying toward the darkness into which the two boys had disappeared.

Kirkpatrick's voice reached out fiercely: "Stop him, men!" he cried. "Stop him, I say. It's the Spider!"

But even as he shouted, there was a fierce, heavy outbreak of gunfire on the roof where the Spider's cape and hat dangled from a silken line. His words were blotted out in the sound. Men's attention was divided. Kirkpatrick pulled out his long-barreled revolver and sent a bullet whining into the darkness where Wentworth was running. It was close, damnably close. It brought the attention of the cops back to their Commissioner.

"It's the Spider, I tell you!" Kirkpatrick shouted. "Damn it, we should be accustomed to his tricks by now! Stop him!"

Cops stared for an amazed moment at the shadows where the bent and hobbling old man had disappeared. When they recovered, they still didn't use their guns. They couldn't quite believe what the Commissioner shouted. They began to run . . . and Wentworth, gasping now, made the last long leap into a darkened doorway.

"This way, Spider," the voice of Bill whispered. "I know the way. There's a hole in the fence, and a cellar window . . ."

Kirkpatrick's voice rang out, "Widen the cordon! Encircle the next block! Damn it, don't let the Spider get away!"

The police were running fiercely, but without guidance. Their eyes stared blindly at the darkness. They called to each other. They saw nothing of the hobbling old man they sought. They heard something . . . a voice that came to their ears faintly, mockingly . . . the laughter of the Spider!

Chapter Four
Hell's Invasion

The three were huddled in the small sitting room behind the family grocery store; father, mother and daughter. The yellow light laid its yellow path between the cretonne curtains into the dimmer shop. Out front, the sign was lighted, inviting late customers . . . begging for one last late patron.

It could have been a cheerful family group there about the stove. The man's face was made for laughter with those fans of wrinkles about his eye corners, the humorous quirk to the mouth. But his eyes were haunted now as he pored over the day's receipts. The woman's eyes glanced toward him anxiously now and again, but rested most often on the brown curly head of their daughter, bent over her studies. Hard on a girl her age, not having money for nice things . . . .

The man muttered an oath under his breath. There was a jeer in his voice when he spoke. "If this keeps up," he said harshly, "we'll have almost enough money to pay protection day after tomorrow!"

The woman sighed and bent lower over the sewing in her lap. The girl's head snapped up. "Dad, why don't you go to the cops?" she demanded. "These cheap racketeers—"

The woman said, "Sssh, Doris!"

"Well, I don't care! It's pretty awful to just make enough to pay them! I'm tired of doing without, and everything!" She tossed her brown curls, her face was flushed.

Her father came slowly to his feet. His movements were those of an old man, though his hair was still crisp and black, his flesh still firm. "Yeah, Doris. That's right. But they said . . . they'd take you. They'd do it, too, by God! . . . There must be a way out of this. There's got to be. This is America, and . . ."

The tinkle of the shop door's bell whipped him about, and there was terror in his eyes. He started toward the cretonne curtains, but before he reached them, those curtains stirred slightly. A package of money thudded in the middle of the floor.

"Your money, Markham!" The voice spoke from the shadows, a flat monotone. "The money you gave the racketeers. You won't have to worry about them again. They're dead!"

The man had stooped unconsciously to pick up the money. He stood stroking it with shaking hands. The girl arose.

"Dead!" whispered Markham. "Dead! But who are you?"

He took a slow step forward, then he stopped and recoiled. He had glimpsed the twisted figure in the shadows, the figure draped in a long black cape.

"The Spider!" he whispered. "The . . . Spider!"

The girl began to dance up and down. She held a hand over her mouth to keep back the shouts of joy. A slow smile crept over her mother's face. The woman got up and put her sewing down in the chair.

"Come in, Mr. Spider," she said timidly. "I . . . won't you let me fix you a cup of tea?"

Behind the drape, Wentworth's lips curved in a slow smile and his eyes were gentle. It was in an entirely different voice he spoke then.

"I'd like to, mother," he said softly, "but I have other calls to make . . . . Good night!"

The three in the room heard no sound of footsteps, but in a moment the doorbell tinkled faintly again. A twisted shadow of a man glided across the window and was gone.

In the room behind the store, Markham clutched the money fiercely in his fists. There were tears on the woman's cheeks and Doris no longer held her hands over her mouth. She danced up and down.

Markham said stiffly, "I knew there had to be a way . . . in America. God bless . . . the Spider!"

The door bell rang again. It was not a soft tinkle. It was a jangle of vehement entrance. Markham thrust the money hurriedly into his pocket. There was a man in the door whom he had never seen. Doris stopped her dancing, but the joy on their faces was a complete revelation. The man laughed, raspingly. He was a big man, with a hat dragged down very low over his brows. His lips had a brutal solidity.

"Celebrating, hunh?" he said softly. "Celebrating because you think somebody got the best of Big Gannuck! Nobody does, for long! You talked!"

Markham gasped, "No! As God is my witness! We didn't talk! Nobody talked!"

Gannuck laughed again, raspingly. He turned on his heel and went out. The door bell jangled again. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder as he went toward a car.

"He's been here, too," he said to the driver.

There was a truck parked at the curb.

It was not a large truck, but its sides were solid. As he spoke, a panel slid open in the side. Gannuck leaped to the front seat and slammed the door. Only then did the man who had opened the panel take action. He flung something at the shop front. The glass jangled to the street. There was a pause while a man might count three.

The front of the store blew out! Red and yellow flames streaked out their hungry tongues into the darkness. A woman screamed high above. The front of the building began to settle. From the side of the truck the ugly snout of a machine gun jutted. It began to jitter. A blue mist of flame guttered at the black mouth. Bullets lashed the debris as the dust and smoke roiled. Once, twice, three times, it swept the interior of the shop. Then the truck swept forward.

As it raced forward, the front of the tenement building in which the shop was located subsided into the street. The roof tipped slowly forward, hung like a ragged curtain. There were people in the wreckage. They tumbled over and over like children in a snow-slide. They screamed. They tumbled into the basement and the debris kept falling. It covered them over gradually. The screams stopped.

Up the street, two hundred yards, there was the blast of another bomb!

One of the fast, solid-sided trucks slewed into the street from a side alley, whipped around broadside and stopped. An instant later, a police siren yelped. It came around the corner fast. Flame leaped from the side of the truck. The ugly chatter of a machine gun filled the street. The police car whirled like a wounded man. It leaped the curb and rammed into a building. Within it, no one moved.

The truck rolled on, slowly, carefully, as if it picked its way . . . as if it were a beast of prey, searching for a victim. In sight, within a few blocks of the street, were three such trucks.

A half dozen blocks to the north, the Spider heard that first blast of the bomb. He twisted about behind the wheel of his car and saw the slaughter of the police, the second bombing. For an instant, even the Spider's swiftly co-ordinating mind was stunned. He stared at the wreckage, at those prowling trucks. Horror had its cold way with him.

Markham, his wife and daughter . . . They were in that first shop. But he had wiped out Gannuck's mob! Men had died in the street fight, and others in the Mekookum Club. Gannuck himself had been within the cordon of the aroused police no more than an hour ago!

While Wentworth groped for an explanation, one of the trucks suddenly put on a burst of speed and headed straight for his car!

The Spider laughed . . . and the sound of it was coldly sinister.

He reached to the dashboard and took up a microphone, tripped a switch. "Avenue A," he said into the mike. "Armored car attack. Full police alarms. Full war."

Then he slid a hand into a compartment and drew out a grenade!

Under the touch of his foot on the throttle, the coupe leaped forward like a living thing! The powerful motor beneath the dilapidated hood hurled the car like a plane from a catapult. Wentworth was thrust back against the cushions. He took the corner on screaming tires. By the time the truck reached the turn, he was already at the next corner.

But the Spider was not running away. So great was his speed, yet so sensitively controlled that, within seconds, he had made the circuit of the block and was rapidly overtaking the armored truck! Over the throttled roar of his engine, he could hear the multiple whine of police pursuit. Radio cars were racing into the district from all sides . . . but Wentworth winced at memory of what had happened to that first car!

He reached for the microphone again, twisted a dial until he spoke over the police wavelength. "The Spider calling," he said rapidly. "Warning to all police cars. The killers are in bullet-proof trucks. They attack with machine guns without warning. Proceed cautiously!"

Then all his attention turned, white-hot, on the truck ahead. The truck had spotted him. It began to swing broadside in the street! Wentworth stamped on the accelerator and once more the incredible power of the car hurled it forward. Before the truck could complete its turn, Wentworth was beside it. When the slide port in the truck's side opened, he threw the hand grenade!

Men screamed horribly in that enclosed body. There was the dull thuds of fists beating on steel . . . then the explosion let go. It was strangely muffled. Small streaks of flame shot from ports. The whole truck lifted a few inches from its wheels and slewed sideways. Then it rolled gently forward and nuzzled into a light post. The post crumpled, crashed to the street.

Wentworth left the coupe and raced toward the doors of the truck. He wrenched at one, and it resisted his grasp. The men in the front seat had been merely stunned for the moment. The heavy automatic in Wentworth's fist spoke, and the lock shattered. He wrenched again and the door came open.

In an instant, Wentworth had hurled the unconscious men aside. He reached down to strike each one across the base of the skull. Their bodies jerked once, and were still. They would be out for an hour. Wentworth wrenched at the wheel and swung the truck back toward the street where wholesale murder was being enacted. His jaw was cold and grim. Bitter fires burned in his eyes.

Ahead of him, he could hear the multiple chatter of machine guns. A bomb let go with a blast that made the air shudder. He heard the heavier explosion of a police riot gun, and the scream of a man. Then he rounded the corner.

There were four police cars in sight. A police emergency wagon had jammed across the street and men were behind it. They had donned the armor the truck carried. Sub-machine guns were blasting . . . but the killers—the killers were rolling steadily down the street! There were eight of the trucks in sight now. Two abreast, they rolled up the street. Bullets spewed from a dozen machine guns. A store was bombed. Even as Wentworth watched, he saw a long, thick spurt of flame lash out from the foremost truck . . . and heard the scream of a cannon shell!

The shell burst against the emergency wagon. There was a high flash of flame, a roiling tower of smoke. When it cleared, the emergency wagon was a mass of wreckage and mangled men screamed in the ruins!

Wentworth whipped the armored truck backward. This machine carried no cannon. It could not stand against the assault of a shell. There was a groan in Wentworth's throat that came from his soul. In God's Name, what hell had been loosed upon the city? He had started out to combat a minor racket. He thought he had destroyed its organization and its headquarters in two hours of swift work . . . and this was the answer!

These criminals were organized like an invading army!

Wentworth laid the truck close against a building wall and waited. All about him the street was crowded with men and women who ran in shrieking terror. Buildings spewed out their inmates by dozens, by scores. But they ran away from the scene of carnage. Wentworth thought they would be safe.

That was before the first of the trucks trundled past the intersection. As soon as it reached the corner, the machine guns opened up. Men and women fell in screaming windrows of death!

With a harsh curse, Wentworth pumped gas into the motor of his captured truck. He laid his automatics on the seat beside him and braced himself against the wheel. He had no weapons that would penetrate those steel bodies, no weapon save one!

With desperation, Wentworth drove straight for the side of the truck that carried a cannon!

The driver of the truck saw him coming and tried to swerve aside. That was perfect! Laughter was on the Spider's thin lips. He drove for the cab of the swerving truck. A slide opened in its side, but the machine gun bullets bounced futilely off the armor.

The truck seemed to leap forward as if it felt the surge of Wentworth's hatred. There was a rending crash, a slamming jar of heavy metal. The front wheels mounted the side of the truck, towered toward the heavens. For that single instant they poised . . . . Then the rammed truck pitched over on its side.

* * *

Wentworth's truck settled astride the fallen juggernaut. Other trucks were slamming toward him. Bullets beat a constant tattoo against the cabin. The bullet-proof glass was shattering. Wentworth reached across to the far side of the truck, and slid toward the ground. There was one weapon which these fiends in armor could not oppose, one barrier they could not pass!

Wentworth crouched low and his automatics spat twice in his hands. From the gas tanks of the overturned and wrecked trucks fluid leaped. The stench of it was strong in the air. Wentworth's laughter rasped in his throat, the fighting laughter of the Spider!

He flung a match into the gasoline!

Ahead of him, the street had been swept clear of the police. Behind him was the incessant chatter of machine guns . . . but the wrecked trucks formed a barricade. Behind that shelter, Wentworth fled. His black cape streamed out behind him with the speed of his running. Yellow flames towered upward above the armored cars. Little leaping tongues of fire ran across the street. The buildings hooded the glow, beat it back upon itself. The illumination grew!

Wentworth flung through the doorway of a house, whirled with his guns ready.

He was just in time. As he whirled, the doors of the overturned truck were flung open and men spilled to the street. They jumped up and began to run. The illumination was excellent. The Spider's lips were cold and hard against his teeth. He lifted his automatic and let it drop into line.

The man was running when the bullet struck his spine. He doubled backward in mid-air. His body sailed like a loose-legged doll through the air. It fell and did not rise. Wentworth's second bullet caught a man in the doorway of the truck and the quarter-ton impact of .45 calibre lead drove him back upon his fellows.

They lost precious seconds throwing him out and Wentworth nailed a second fugitive. His bullet drove the man against a lamp-post and the killer grasped it with both arms, swung around it. His legs went limp and he groveled on the pavement.

And the flames reached the gas tanks!

Fire vomited toward the heavens. The trucks leaped upward and fell to earth in twisted masses. The fire settled, died for an instant, then leaped higher than ever. It danced weirdly over the wreckage of the truck. Wentworth stood for a moment with his guns ready . . . and there was no target.

Behind the flames, the other trucks were blocked. The air was alive with the yelp and scream of sirens. But Wentworth's face was pale. They could do nothing against those trucks. He had destroyed their cannon, but they carried other terrible weapons. Swiftly, Wentworth whirled and raced through the dark hallway. Moments later, he emerged in the next street. His reinforcements should be here by now.

He flung his eerie signal whistle into the night, and two cars spurted from a dark side street. One was his heavy limousine, and behind its wheel was Ram Singh and in the rear, Nita van Sloan was hunched forward with a sub-machine gun in her lap. The other was a coupe and the man who drove it wore a black mask over his face.

Wentworth ran toward them, sprang into the limousine. "Get to the fire station," he yelled at the black-masked man. "Tell them to rush chemical equipment only! Ram Singh!"—he whirled to his turbaned driver—"Get me to police headquarters. Gas is the only thing that will work against these criminals. Gas and flame!"

He ripped at his disguise. "Nita," he said fiercely, "you should not have come. This is Armageddon. I have never seen such an attack by criminals. Modern warfare methods applied to rackets! And such a petty little racket. It is like a dress rehearsal for hell!"

Nita's face was pale. She shook her head. "I knew from your message that the danger was terrible. I wanted to be at your side."

Her hands, gripping the sub-machine gun, were fully competent. Her smile was faint upon her lips, but there was worship in her eyes as she gazed upon Richard Wentworth. He had stripped off the disguise now. His guns were in his fists.

Nita gasped, "Look, Dick!" she cried. "There they are!"

Nita pointed ahead and Wentworth's head whipped that way. The trucks were streaming across the street where two gasoline filling stations threw a deluge of light. They were in full retreat, but as they went, they were destroying. A police car, rocketing toward them, was smashed with bullets and crashed wildly against a building. A bomb wobbled into a doorway and blew out the front of a tenement.

Suddenly, Nita screamed. Out of the street, ahead of the trucks, rolled a gasoline truck!

Even as she cried out, the trucks raced past. From the last one, two bombs were tossed. They struck the street and wobbled eccentrically over the pavement toward the gasoline truck, small, bobbling, black objects in the street. They looked like lopsided baseballs. They were horror!

"Quick, Ram Singh!" Wentworth cried. "Turn around. Get away!"

Ram Singh wrenched at the wheel, and Wentworth saw that it would not be in time. He reached across and seized the wheel, sent the limousine slamming, head-on, toward a broad doorway. A uniformed doorman shouted, waved his hands, and leaped aside.

The nose of the car struck the glass door, flanked by ornate panels. It drove through. The top caught, crumpled. Wentworth had an arm around Nita. He flung her down upon the seat, protected her with his body . . . .

Suddenly, the air was sucked from his lungs. His head expanded, all his body was expanding. Then his ears were driven inward. He was aware of being lifted, of floating, of falling. The air was crushing him, constricting every inch of his body. He tried to cry out, and there was no sound. No sound in all the world. There was only darkness. It swarmed in upon his brain and curled there. It exploded . . . .

Chapter Five
Disaster

There was a weight of horror upon Wentworth's consciousness as he fought slowly back from the dark depths into which he had been plunged. He struggled upward through nightmare memories of wanton slaughter, wholesale destruction . . . . Good God! The gasoline truck!

With that recollection, and the knowledge that it was its explosion which had blasted out his senses, Wentworth burst the last bonds of darkness . . . and once more became conscious of his surroundings. About him was a bedlam of terror. The scorching odors of superheated masonry and metal seared his nostrils. Wentworth realized drunkenly that he lay in the wreckage of his car.

"Nita!" he said hoarsely. He groped out blindly.

All about him lurid light danced in waves of brilliance and shadow over the lobby of the apartment house into which he had charged his limousine in a desperate effort to escape. The fire-dance showed a white flood of faces. It glistened on terror-stretched eyes as people poured toward the wreck of the car, and over it, fighting their way from the apartment building toward the presumptive safety of the streets. But there was no sound at all. None that Wentworth could hear.

He shook his head violently, called once more for Nita. Suddenly, he could hear . . . and wished that he could not! The night was horrid with screams, agony and fear and desperation, in a blended cacophony out of hell. There was the crackle and roar of the flames; the omnipresent wail and shriek of sirens; the shouts of men.

"Nita!" Wentworth cried again.

Frantically, he peered about him. Nita was not in the car!

Desperately, Wentworth fought his way out of a shattered window of the car. Against a column, he saw the limp body of Ram Singh. A leg was doubled grotesquely, where there was no joint. Wentworth reached him in a plunge through the streaming fugitive crowd. The plucky Sikh was unconscious.

Wentworth swung the heavy, inert body into his arms and let the pressure of the escaping people push him to the street. His eyes swept about. Nowhere in the wreckage was any sign of Nita! But where, in the name of God, had she disappeared?

For an instant, stark terror shook Wentworth. Was it possible that the butchers who were responsible for the holocaust had carried her away? But if that were so, surely he never would have liked to know she was missing! They would not have left the Spider alive . . . . and stolen away the Spider's mate—without some special purpose!

An ambulance racketed to a halt and Wentworth staggered toward it with Ram Singh, while horror still raced through his brain. He turned the Sikh over to the doctor, saw the man start his ministrations. He swung away then, and let his eyes quest over the horror of the street. An entire block of apartment buildings had been deluged with flame from the explosion of the gasoline truck. Flaming tatters of burning liquid had been hurled through crashed windows. A great pillar of living fire that writhed and twisted in a gargantuan dance lifted above the corner where the filling station and gas truck had been. Even as Wentworth stared, another minor blast thrust out an arm of flame toward a new building. Bricks were crumbling in the heat. The asphalt of the street had melted and was burning in thick, odorous clouds.

Wentworth was beaten physically backward by the incredible heat. But there was no work here for the Spider. The people already had taken alarm and were fleeing their homes. A dozen, a score of fire trucks had catapulted into the area. Men in asbestos suits were using chemicals on the gasoline.

But Nita! Where was she?

* * *

Wentworth reeled drunkenly away from the fire, used a steaming wall as a shield to regain the lobby of the apartment. The last of the residents had fled, and the place was wrecked. But nowhere in the ruins was there any trace of Nita. Wentworth shook his head, moved heavily away.

Was it possible that, stunned by the blast, she had arisen and roamed off in a daze? It must be that. What else could it be? Wentworth began to run. He doubled the corner, his eyes questing everywhere. There were fleeing hordes, in every stage of dress. There were women with streaming hair and men with blackened faces and staring eyes. Somewhere amid this multitude . . . was Nita!

Wentworth reached another corner, saw a woman swerve suddenly into a dark doorway. For an instant, he thought that it was Nita, and the manner of her entrance puzzled him. It was almost as if she had been . . . yanked into that dark doorway! Wentworth bounded forward . . . and heard the woman scream!

As he sprang forward, a gun stabbed flame at him. He felt the bullet pluck at his clothing, then he plunged into the darkness! The woman screamed again. She staggered out into the light. Her hands were holding together tattered clothing. There was a bloody tear on her throat.

"My jewels!" she gasped. "My jewels—he took them!"

It wasn't Nita.

But Wentworth saw that only in a glance as he sprang to the attack. Dimly, he could see the man crouched in the darkness. His left hand slapped out and the second gunshot lanced past him, beneath his arm. His right fist smacked against the man's jaw solidly, drove him out of the doorway into the street. The gun was on the pavement now. The man crouched . . . leaped fiercely toward Wentworth!

The suddenness of the attack caught Wentworth off guard. He was driven backward; he tripped and fell. But the swift co-ordination of his powerful body stood him in good stead. As he pitched backward, he seized the lapels of the man's coat. His feet stabbed upward at the man's belly. It was a quick, shrewd fall; a jiu-jitsu throw. The looter's body arched through the air. He screamed, terribly, just before he crashed head-on into the wall of the building!

Wentworth pushed wearily to his feet. The woman had fled. The looter was dead. Wentworth stood staring down at him. It was a filthy crime, looting in the wake of such horror. His lips drew thin and cold against his teeth. From his vest pocket, he slid out his cigarette lighter, stooped over the slain man and ground into his forehead . . . the seal of the Spider!

When he straightened again, and looked around, he uttered a glad cry.

A score of feet away, staring at him, was Nita!

His joy faded instantly. There was blood on Nita's face. It had scrawled a crazy pattern across the silk of her dress. Wentworth sprang toward her.

"Nita!" he cried, anxiously. "Where have you been? Are you hurt?"

For a heartbeat of time, Nita stood staring at him. Her eyes were wide with shock and horror. Then, as Wentworth reached her, she screamed! She turned and ran!

Wentworth caught her by the shoulders, whirled her into his arms. "Nita!" he cried. "It's Dick! Don't you understand?"

"You murderer!" Nita gasped hoarsely. "Let me go! You—you killed that man! I saw you . . . ."

Wentworth seized Nita by the shoulders, gazed into her wide eyes. They were glistening with fear. Her lips were awry with loathing and fear. And there was utterly no sign of recognition in her face!

"Nita!" Wentworth cried despairingly.

Nita struck at his face with clawed fingers. "You murderer," she cried. "Let me go! I saw you kill that man! You put—you put a spider on his forehead!"

At that instant, Wentworth heard hard, positive footsteps running toward them. Nita heard them, too.

"Help!" she cried. "Help, police! This man is a murderer!"

Shocked incredulity gripped Wentworth. This blow, coming after so much else, left him without coherent thought. He realized that the concussion of the blast had done something to Nita, but that was only a dimly conscious dictate of his mind. The rest of him was too stunned by this reaction actually to understand what possessed the woman he loved.

But he heard the voice behind him. A man's voice. It rasped, "Let go that woman, you fiend!"

* * *

Wentworth's head whipped about. A policeman had checked beneath a street light. He held a revolver lifted in his hand, was sighting along the barrel! With a desperate effort, Wentworth flung himself aside. Nita screamed again, and ran toward the policeman!

"Save me!" she cried. "Save me! He killed that man! He put a spider on his forehead!"

For a moment, Wentworth wavered. If only he could make Nita understand . . . . The policeman's gun came up again. His whistle was between his teeth and he made it shrill wildly in the night, even as he fired. Wentworth felt the wind of the bullet. Frantically, he flung himself toward the door of a house. It was locked. He flung his weight against it blindly, and the police gun crashed again.

The cop was yelling now. "The Spider!" he shouted. "The Spider! Surround that house. It's the Spider! He killed a guy and tried to kill this woman!"

Wentworth was sobbing drily. This was the maddest mockery of all. He crushed his body into a corner of the doorway and stilled the hammering wildness of his thoughts. He knew now what had happened to Nita. The shock had brought on a temporary amnesia, a forgetfulness of everything save the present. She had seen him kill. Naturally, she had been terrified. That was all. He told himself that, but the shock of Nita's horror at him, and of her flight, still was a pain that blocked rational thought.

He remembered then that he had guns in his armpit holsters. He yanked one out and drove two bullets through the lock of the door. It was high time for action. Other policemen were charging into the streets. A bullet whanged past him, flattened against the bricks. The glass of the door was suddenly shattered in a design of death. Splinters of glass cut his cheek as he hurled himself once more at the barrier. It yielded, and he catapulted into the dark hallway.

But the police were just behind him. Wentworth ran blindly. He caromed against the stairway, staggered against the opposite wall. His feet beat raggedly as he ran on, off balance. He leaped against another door, fell to the floor. Gun-flame brightened the hall fitfully behind him. The lead beat on metal ahead of him. A pan jangled to the floor and drummed as it spun on edge. Plaster dust roiled into the darkness. He felt it burn his throat as he raced on. Another door, locked. But the key was in it. Somehow he locked the door behind him and fled on.

It gained him a few seconds. He was in the open air again, running beneath a sky that was red with fire. A fence . . . his heavy body went over it, but he landed off balance, stumbled to his knees. He was up again, dodging, running. A dog began to bark savagely, snapping at his heels. He vaulted another fence and felt pain stab through his hand. A nail. He fell, and for a long moment he could not lift himself from the ground.

In staggering pain, he lumbered toward the rear of the house that must give on the next street. He reached up and struck with his gun at the glass of a window. It did not break. God, was he so weak? He struck again, and glass showered down into his face. Laboriously, he grasped the sill and muscled his weary body upward. Somehow, he was through the window, was stumbling through a room where every step brought him against a new piece of furniture. Upstairs, a woman was screaming.

Another door, and another . . . the blessed air of the street. He forced himself to check and lean against a wall. He was fleeing in blind panic—he, the Spider! He forced himself to stare about him, to seek his bearings. The police were at least two blocks behind him. He could hear their shouts. There was a sudden crash of gunfire as they raked a suspicious shadow somewhere.

There was an auto parked at the curb right in front of him.

Wentworth staggered toward it.

The door was locked. He put his shoulders into a heave on the doorhandle, and the lock snapped. He flung himself behind the wheel. His fingers were shaking as he reached to the leather girdle about his waist. There was a tool there . . . . He stabbed the lock-pick at the ignition switch, and missed.

He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe slowly. He crushed his shaking hands together, held them firm with an effort. Slowly the madness went from his brain. When he reached for the lock again, he was stone cold inside. His eyes held their old keenness. The police were rounding the corner, a half block away, when he maneuvered the car into motion. Their bullets drummed against the metal back of the car. One punched through the window, and made its hole-centered star in the windshield. Then he whirled a corner and was leaving them behind.

Wentworth knew now where he was going. Regardless of danger to himself, he must get to Commissioner Kirkpatrick at once and tell him how terribly these killers were armed. The police must be organized on a new scale, equipped with new weapons. In God's name, what sort of organization was this that devastated a section of the city for the sake of a petty racket!

There was no way of guessing, but the threat they constituted needed no analysis. The people must be protected against any recurrence of such horror.

Wentworth eluded the police in a space of a half dozen blocks and headed straight for police headquarters. He remembered dimly that he had ordered his masked ally, Jackson, to speed there after giving his message to the police. Perhaps Jackson had managed to get through to Kirkpatrick. It was a thing that must be done . . . quickly.

Wentworth bore the accelerator to the floor, wove through confused traffic as he raced for headquarters. A block away, he abandoned the car. The license number might have been spotted. The bullet scars were a betrayal in themselves. Wentworth raced on afoot. There was a dilapidated coupe parked before headquarters and as he saw it, he uttered a gasp of thankfulness. Jackson was here first, then. He had carried the message!

Wentworth darted toward the car and uncertainty shook him. The right front tire was flat. There were bullet-pocks on the armored sides, and the windshield had great frosted blotches where lead had hammered on its protective thickness. He swerved toward the coupe, whipped open the door.

On the cushion was a dark stain. Slowly, Wentworth touched the spot. It was still wet and his fingers . . . were red!

The sound of a man coming out of swing doors fast made Wentworth whip his head toward the entrance to police headquarters. A stiffly erect figure in a Chesterfield and derby was coming rapidly down the steps. He caught the set, saturnine profile of Commissioner Kirkpatrick and gladness thrust through him. He would be in time, then, with his message. He took a single stride forward . . . then checked.

That limousine sliding to the curb where Kirkpatrick had stopped was not the police commissioner's machine. It bore the license plates of the Mayor of New York!

Even before the car slid to a halt, the door batted open and the bounding, energetic figure of the mayor leaped out. His deep voice had a rasp.

"Kirkpatrick!" he snapped. "I'll expect your resignation by tomorrow morning. You're suspended as of this moment!"

Kirkpatrick stiffened under the shock of the words. His metallic, crisp voice was angry. "I'll discuss that with you later, Mr. Mayor," he said coldly. "Right now, there is an emergency which must be handled at once."

The Mayor caught Kirkpatrick's arm as he strode past. "Just a moment, Kirkpatrick," he said harshly. "I said you were suspended. I have already appointed your successor. Inspector Littlejohn will be acting commissioner."

Wentworth winced at the name. Littlejohn was a competent man, all right, but completely ruthless. His pursuit of the Spider, and his sure but proofless conviction that Wentworth and the Spider were one amounted almost to an obsession. With Littlejohn in control, there would be no co-operation between the police and Wentworth. His knowledge would never be used.

The Mayor was saying, "There is no time now to discuss the details. The charges will be preferred if you demand it. For the present, I'm busy!"

He whipped toward the car, and the dour-faced Littlejohn stepped down. Wentworth peered into the interior of the limousine. There was a large and bulging figure there he recognized. Daniel Flagg, boss of a political machine. But Wentworth's eyes lingered there only a moment. They centered on the woman who was alighting, her hand resting upon Littlejohn's.

It was Nita!

"Nita!" Kirkpatrick cried. "Confound it, Littlejohn, have you already started your persecution?"

But Nita was staring at Kirkpatrick in a dazed way. "Am I supposed to know you, too?" she asked emptily. "But I am not being persecuted. I saw a man commit a murder, and they tell me he is a notorious criminal called the Spider. I am going to try to identify him for the Mayor and Inspector Littlejohn."

She pressed her hands to her temples. "I have the queerest feeling. This is what they call amnesia, I suppose. I remember nothing except that I was walking along a street near a big fire and saw this man commit murder and put a red seal on his victim's forehead. He seemed to think I should know him, too. He called me by my first name . . . . He was horrible. There was blood on his hands . . . ."

Littlejohn took her arm and urged her toward the doors of headquarters. Quietly, Wentworth slipped into the wrecked coupe. There was a twisted smile on his lips. Nita, afflicted with amnesia, and prepared to identify him to a hostile police commissioner! Kirkpatrick out of power when the city needed his efficiency most! And a deadly group of butchers striking with the efficiency of a German Blitzkrieg!

Wentworth pressed his hands hard to his head. He would have to go into hiding, of course. But he would lose not one hour in striking against the criminals, against Big Gannuck and the rest of his army of destruction. But first, he would have to find them . . . .

Wentworth shook his head wearily. He had destroyed the only headquarters of which he, or those brave boys, knew. He—abruptly his eyes narrowed. He stooped and picked up from the floor of the coupe a short billy such as policeman carry. He turned it over slowly in his hands. There were stains on it. Wentworth's face grew stern and cold. This club had been used against Jackson. But it was not a police billy. It did not bear the tell-tale initials N.Y.P.D. which all police equipment carried.

Abruptly, Wentworth's head jerked up. His hands clenched on the stained billy, and from his unsmiling lips, there came a mocking sound that promised destruction to the criminals who had done these deeds of horror. Soft and mocking, flat and ominous, it sounded there in the darkness of the wrecked coupe . . . the laughter of the Spider!

Chapter Six
Council of Evil

It was a long, lavishly furnished room.

The walls were covered to the ceiling with pale green leather and the ceiling itself was of tinted soundproofing blocks. Furniture consisted of a long table of gleaming mahogany and six chairs.

There was no chairman's seat at the head of the table. That space was blank. But, seeming balanced upright on that end of the table, there was a sheet of glass! It was translucent, blank and, for the moment, meaningless. It was not intended as a protection, for it was not thick enough to be bullet-proof. A panel in a corner opened soundlessly and a girl walked in. Her golden hair lay in metallic neatness down her nape. There was something of the Orient about the girl, though her features and coloring were pure Caucasian. Perhaps it was in the style of the high-necked gown of soft rose which she wore, perhaps in the utter submissiveness of her bearing. Her head was bowed. Her shoulders were . . . yielding. She moved up the length of the table until she stood beside the pane of glass. She touched it with her fingers, softly.

She went back to stand beside the door. She opened a panel in the leather covering of the wall and took out a folding chair. She sat on that chair, with her hands folded in her lap. Her eyes closed and her lips moved. She might have been praying . . . to a sheet of glass!

Long minutes dragged past and the girl did not stir. Presently, there was a faint, blurred drumming on the door. The girl rose to her feet and opened a peephole. Outside stood a man who was shrouded from crown to toe in an all-enveloping black robe. He was a large man and his movements were brusque. He lifted his left hand and dragged the hood back from his masked face so that his forehead showed.

Against the swarthy, lined brow, a symbol glowed bright crimson. It was the seal of the Spider!

Without a word, the girl opened the door. The man recovered his forehead and slouched toward one of the chairs. He stared with slowly moving eyes about the room. When he saw the sheet of glass, he grunted skeptically. Then, he settled into his chair to wait. The girl composed herself upon her folding chair by the door.

In a space of minutes, the muffled drumming was repeated and once more she peered through the peephole, and a robed-and-hooded man outside bared his forehead, and a Spider seal, for her inspection. Four times more, she repeated the process, and four other men gave the required identification. The only deviation was when the broad, bony forehead of the sixth man showed not one, but two Spider seals!

The man growled an oath. "Open up, you empty-faced fool," the man snarled. "You know me well enough. It's just that I had another little run-in with that scum of hell, the Spider!"

For an instant the girl hesitated, then she seemed to consult within herself. Presently she opened the door and the sixth man filed to his seat about the council table. None of them spoke to another. They stared with fixed suspicion at each other, glared at the plate of glass at the head of the table. The room was not so well lighted now. It was windowless and the glow of illumination that came from somewhere near the ceiling faded a little.

The six men stiffened in their seats. For the glass at the head of the table was no longer translucent. A milky whiteness was spreading over it. It intensified, grew, permanent and fixed . . . and a face made itself visible there!

It was a thin-jawed face of utter ruthlessness. Cruelty drew the line of the lips; the eyes were heavy-lidded and sinister. There was a corpse-like pallor, an utter rigidity.

One of the hooded men leaned forward with a harsh oath. "Moulin!" he gasped. "Moulin! But, damn it, you're dead! I saw the Spider kill you!"

The lips of the face moved very slightly and clipped, thin words slid out. "No, Gannuck," it said, "I am not . . . dead. You have something to report, I believe, before we shall accept you as a member?"

Gannuck pushed his hood back from his forehead, bearing the double imprint of the Spider's seal. He swore and dragged a sleeve across his brow.

"God!" he said. "God—it's like the dead talking. I tell you . . . ."

"Report!" Moulin snapped.

Over by the door, the girl had a notebook on her knee and she was inscribing rapid hooks and curves upon it. Her lips moved as if she voiced to herself the words she wrote.

Gannuck mumbled, "Okay, okay." He sounded cowed. "The Spider acted up and caused me some losses. About ten men, maybe more. Haven't counted up yet. He also wrecked two trucks including the cannon. But that didn't stop me. We smashed through a heavy cordon of police, killed a bunch of them. I think I proved my motorized unit can handle anything that's put up to it. It was a swell rehearsal."

Moulin's head nodded. "I agree, Gannuck! The rehearsal was adequate. I cast my vote for admitting Gannuck. We will need him on X-day."

Five heads nodded, and Moulin's voice lifted. "Mildred, record the vote as admitting Gannuck!"

Mildred looked up, startled, beside the door. She quavered, "Yes, Lord Moulin."

For a long moment the men stared at the submissive, blonde girl. Then her head bowed, and she was writing again with moving lips. The men looked toward the face in the mirror.

"Flagg," said Moulin. "Report!"

"Kirkpatrick has been removed," the man's flat voice said unctuously. "Littlejohn is in his place. An unimaginative man who knows only routine. A deadly enemy of the Spider. There will be no trouble with him."

Moulin nodded again. "I vote admission for Flagg," he said. "Now, then, Towan!"

The man he addressed was a little smaller than the others. He started nervously. "Me—me, Moulin? But I haven't done my job yet. You said it could wait until tomorrow. But me and Cassin got a swell job figured out together, haven't we, Cassin?"

Another hooded figure nodded silently, the man addressed as Towan leaned forward on the table. "Tomorrow, Moulin . . . but listen here, Moulin. You're checking up on our jobs! What about yours? You was going to put the Spider out of the way!"

Moulin smiled with a slight cold movement of his lips. The eyes remained hooded. "My report will be ready in a moment, Towan. See to it that your job tomorrow is a good one. There is no expulsion from this brotherhood save by one means. You know that, Towan."

Towan cowered back in his chair. "Sure, sure, I know that, Moulin," he said hoarsely. "I don't want my neck cracked."

Moulin nodded, faced toward the sixth hooded figure. "I won't mention your name," he said. "I know you. Report."

"Tomorrow," the man's voice was deep, rich . . . an orator's voice. "I will be ready on X-day, I and my thousands. The demonstration, the proof, will come tomorrow!"

Moulin smiled slowly. "That is fine, gentlemen. Excellent. If Towan's and Cassin's are right; if this demonstration is successful, I shall give the signal at once. Tomorrow will be X-day! And the day afterward, you will all be multimillionaires! Gentlemen, those who have failed in the past have failed for this reason: They tried to collect their money over long periods of time. They laid themselves open to growing carelessness, to leaks, to mistakes. We shall not do that. We shall strike once . . . and it will be long enough to last us our lives!"

Towan muttered something, repeated it in a louder tone of voice. "What about your report!" he insisted.

Moulin snarled, "Shut up, Towan! You have yet to prove yourself . . . ." His voice grew confidential. "All of you have suffered at the hands of the Spider. All of you are great in your lines, but you failed through trying for a long haul. I have sought you out because you had a great hatred, and it would solidify you. Because you have great skills which, pulled into a cohesive whole, engineered by myself, can make us all rich! . . . But you asked for my proof. The Spider is not yet in my hands. I have one of his chief lieutenants. I am destroying him. I have also the daughter of a wealthy man you all know. He has grown obstinate over ransom.

"But I am planting a trap for the Spider, gentlemen. He is fanatical about rescuing his associates. When he comes, he will fall into a trap from which he will never emerge. Gentlemen . . . my report!"

As he spoke, the glass was suddenly no more than it had been before—a sheet of translucent material. The voice was gone, too . . . but the end of the room was opening on darkness beyond, a slow and deliberate folding back of the leaves of leather-covered wall. They moved slowly, and the six hooded men held their breaths and stared intently at the pitch blackness beyond.

When the doors were fully opened, light blazed suddenly in the room beyond. The hooded men drew in a slow, tortured breath. There were, as Moulin had foretold, two prisoners there—a man and a girl. One was Wentworth's stalwart ally, Jackson. The other was a lovely, dark girl, whose face was strained with terror. The two prisoners were bound rigidly to rough beams of wood. They were stretched upon the beams by bonds that secured arms and legs and drew them in opposite directions.

But that was not the thing that made Towan start to his feet with a smothered cry, nor what made Gannuck push back the hood from his heavy brow and drag his sleeve across the beaded sweat there. It was the means that Moulin had devised for these two to die.

The prisoners were gagged. Beside them stood two men hooded in black as were the six about the table. Those two men gripped the opposite ends of a long, fine-toothed saw.

As the six watched, those two hooded men turned toward each other. They pressed the saw down against the breast of the girl, against the naked, swelling chest of Jackson. They set their shoulders . . . and waited for the signal. They were going to saw the two prisoners in half while they still were alive!

In the darkness, the voice of Moulin spoke, softly, "Are you ready, gentlemen?"

In the instant when he spoke, there was another sound in the still quiet of the room. It was scarcely audible, but it sent a chill of paralyzing horror through the men who waited.

It was laughter . . . the laughter of the Spider!

Even as it sounded, a shaft of light slashed down into the room from above. A trapdoor had opened there! And down through it, black cape whipping out behind him like great, sinister wings, leaped . . . the Spider!

"Strike!" Moulin shouted. "Kill!"

The man with the saw heaved. The girl screamed against her gag as the silk of her dress split under the sharp saw teeth. Jackson surged against his bonds, trying to lift the cruel blade away from the girl . . . but the two heavy guns in the Spider's hands spoke as one weapon!

They drowned out the startled shouts of men about the table. They blew the two sawyers away from their weapon of torture death. They were tossed like broken dolls by the quarter-ton impact of lead. They were hurled to the ground. The saw fell across them, and the edge struck the beam on which Jackson lay with a strident musical note.

Even as it sounded, Wentworth was in action again. He sprang wide of the table, whirled to bring his shoulders against the leather cushioned wall. The guns in his hands quested for prey . . . and there was none!

The six hooded men had vanished like wraiths of fog! Wentworth swore harshly and leaped forward. Not only the men had vanished, but their chairs were gone too. That could mean only one thing. They had been dropped through prepared trapdoors in the floor. Wentworth flicked out a pocket torch, sprayed its illumination over the floor. He sent a bullet toward the circular trapdoor he spotted. The bullet rang on steel, ricocheted upward to scar the edge of the mahogany table.

"You will not escape alive, Spider!" came the harsh voice of Moulin. "You have fallen into my trap!"

Wentworth could find no source for the voice. Only one person, besides the prisoners, remained in the room. On her folding chair near the door, the blonde girl bowed her head into her hands and rocked slowly backward and forward. She made no sound. She was passive, unresisting, foredoomed!

Wentworth approached her, curious. He pulled up her head, stared into her pale stricken face. No, there could be no disguise here. This was a woman. Her face bore not even a trace of makeup. Moulin had callously and deliberately left her behind!

Wentworth hesitated. Then, gently, he prodded certain nerve centers in the girl's throat. She slipped unconscious to the floor. He could not afford to have even this timorous ally of Moulin at liberty in the room while he worked. He knew what peril he risked. He had chosen this way deliberately, sure of victory. He was frowning as he sprang toward the two prisoners on the beams. In a space of seconds, he had sliced through Jackson's bonds. He thrust the knife into his hands.

"Free the girl," he snapped. "Web through the trapdoor. By the window and Web to the roof!"

He sprang back upon the table, and his guns kept watch like restless snakes. Jackson staggered a little as he moved toward the girl. He was not badly hurt. The girl had fainted chiefly from terror. He began slicing her bonds.

"You killed Moulin, Major," he said, applying the title by which he first had known Wentworth when they fought as soldiers together. "I'll swear I saw Moulin die. But that was his voice!"

"It was also his face," Wentworth said softly. "Hurry, Jackson! We can't have more than a few moments!"

"Coming, sir!" Jackson sprang upon the table, the girl in his arms. Wentworth held his cupped hands and Jackson stood upright in them, slid the girl through the open aperture in the ceiling. Then he sprang up himself, reached down a hand for Wentworth.

One last glance Wentworth flung around the room . . . but there was only the unconscious girl. He did not need her record of what had been said in this room. He had heard it all. He knew now whom he had to oppose—an alliance of men whom he had defeated before but who, organized, were deadly, as Gannuck already had proved!

"I knew you'd find us, sir," Jackson said as he helped Wentworth through the trapdoor. "I didn't know how; or even where we were . . . ."

"This is headquarters for a private police agency," Wentworth told him quietly. "One of the fools left a billy in the coupe. It didn't have a city police initial on it, so I knew it must be a private agency. It was then only a matter of elimination. It took two hours, damn it!"

Jackson had the girl in his arms again. He was staring toward the window. "You go first, sir," he said.

Wentworth laughed shortly, "Up the rope, Jackson!" he snapped. "No time for debate. I'll tie the girl on for you to lift . . . I still have business here!"

Jackson started to demur: "I'll fight with you, sir!"

"The girl, Jackson!" Wentworth snapped, "She must be safe first. Afterward, you can return . . . if there is time. Take her to safety."

Jackson saluted stiffly, his heavy jaw set in resistance. He began the high climb up the strand of silken rope. It stretched three stories straight up from the window to the roof. Jackson climbed as Wentworth had. The muscles rippled across his shoulders. Wentworth already was tying the girl to the end of the silken line.

His eyes quested over the office in which he stood. Somewhere here was the key to all this mystery. He knew all of the men who had been in the room below except the one unidentified by Moulin. That orator's voice had awakened memories, but he could not place it definitely. Not yet.

That did not matter. There were six—no seven—men in this building who owed the Spider their lives. Who owed humanity their deaths! As soon as Jackson had lifted the girl to safety Wentworth would . . . Jackson yanked twice on the silken line, and, very gently, Wentworth swung the girl over the window sill. Her body lifted toward the roof.

At that very moment, the voice of Moulin spoke mockingly in the room! Wentworth whirled, with gun raised, but could discover no source for the sound!

"It is useless to try to find me, Spider," Moulin said, in his thin, sinister voice. "It is also useless for you to attempt to escape from this room. It is lined with steel and triple-locked. My guns command the one window. You will have no chance to turn your deadly automatics upon my cohorts! No, no, Spider, I am much too clever for that!

"The men who are coming to take you prisoner, Spider, are men you cannot wound. You don't shoot at policemen, do you, Wentworth? A little weakness of yours." Moulin laughed. "It is the police who are coming for you, Spider. The police under Commissioner Littlejohn! Prepare yourself to meet them, Spider!"

The voice ceased speaking and Wentworth leaped to the door. In a trice he had picked the lock. But the door resisted. He could tell that bars had been dropped across it. Steel bars! The trapdoor! That, too, was locked from below! He sprang to the window . . . and a hail of bullets swept across the aperture!

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!

Chapter Seven
In the Trap

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."

"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.

Chapter Eight
Death's Rehearsal

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.

"Trying to protect yourself, aren't you, Wentworth?" Littlejohn sneered.

Wentworth's smile was faint and thin. "Not at all, Littlejohn. I am entirely willing to appear for identification by Miss van Sloan at any proper time and place, but I will not stand for you heckling her again. The doctors would not approve. If you ignore their orders, I shall reinforce them myself. I hope you understand fully!"

Wentworth swung on his heel and strode down the broad steps of the hospital. He heard the whispered curses of Commissioner Littlejohn behind him. He found a taxi and flung himself in it. For moments, his anger sustained him. Then the extreme fatigue of the long hours of constant battle swept over him. It left him shaken and weak.

His voice was leaden as he gave the taxi driver instructions. There could be no rest for the Spider. Not yet. He must gain some clue to the plans of Cassin and Towan for tomorrow; some hint of the X-day that threatened. He had only one connection: The blonde secretary of the agency known as Mildred!

After the furor of the police hunt for the Spider, Wentworth doubted that the girl would have left. Not yet at any rate. If he moved swiftly . . . God, he was so tired! He relaxed against the cushions and closed his eyes. He could snatch ten minutes' sleep . . . .

The taxi driver's first word snapped him back to full consciousness. "Here you are, boss."

Wentworth paid off the man and climbed, a little heavily, to the street. There was still a police car in front of the building. That meant Mildred had not yet left. Wentworth crossed to an all-night restaurant, ordered black coffee, and went to a phone booth to call his home. Jackson's sturdy voice answered him at once.

"I was worried about you, sir," he said, "for a short while . . . until I heard the police chasing you through the streets. I got the girl home all right. Her father sent her to Honolulu on a plane."

"Fine," Wentworth agreed. "Jackson, sleep for three hours, and then relieve me." He told him how to make contact, made his way to where he had parked another of the coupes he kept scattered about the city for emergency use. He settled down to keep watch. But at the end of three hours, when Jackson relieved him, the girl had not shown herself.

Wentworth stumbled home to sleep, awoke within three hours as he had planned. After the sting of a cold shower, he was fully revived.

"Jackson called, sir," Wentworth's aged butler, Jenkyns reported. "About two hours ago. He followed somebody and gave me the address."

Wentworth said, "Excellent!" He ate hurriedly the ample breakfast that Jenkyns prepared and already his mind was racing ahead. This might be X-day!

Wentworth's jaw clamped grimly shut. He tested his two automatics before he holstered them beneath his arms, and strode toward the door. He saw that Jenkyns had disposed of the hat he had purchased the night before and a smile touched Wentworth's lips.

"I see that you disapprove of my new headgear, Jenkyns," he said.

Jenkyns' lined face was pained. "It was ghastly, sir!"

Wentworth laughed. "Get a half dozen of the latest novels and send them to Miss Nita at the hospital," he directed. "You know the rose she prefers. Keep her supplied. Fruits also."

Jenkyns' eyes, which had softened at mention of Nita's name, grew suddenly perturbed. "You will be away . . . for some days, Master Richie?" he asked heavily.

Wentworth's eyes were grave. "I'm afraid not, Jenkyns. I'm very much afraid the battle will be over today! Be ready to relay all messages. Jackson or I will phone here."

As he drove swiftly across the city toward the address that Jackson had relayed, the planes of Wentworth's face grew taut and bitter.

X-day!

Wentworth parked near the address Jackson had given, an ordinary six-story apartment house in the upper eighties. His faintly whistled signal brought Jackson striding from the shadows. His square, rolling shoulders looked very competent.

"Hasn't left yet," Jackson reported crisply. "This is the only exit. Probably, she'll sleep late." He nodded toward Mildred's window.

"I think not," Wentworth said softly. "No, I think we cannot allow her to sleep late. We must work fast."

Jackson's eyes sharpened. "How do we work it, sir?"

Wentworth removed something that glittered from his vest pocket. It was a detective's badge. "Keep in the background," he ordered.

Wentworth's sharp ring on the girl's doorbell, his knocking, brought no response, but the name-card, Mildred Shaner, indicated Jackson was right. Wentworth did not hesitate. His lock-pick quickly released the bolt, and he slid into the apartment. He swore softly. It was a one-room apartment, and the day-bed had not been slept on. Hurriedly, he peered into the bathroom, the kitchenette, and then inspected the clothes closet.

It was a singularly barren room, and it had an empty odor. No perfume, or soap; no ordinary odors of living.

"This apartment is a blind," Wentworth said quietly. "Either this room, or the building itself, has a second exit."

"Not the building, sir!" Jackson was firm, though there was worry in his eyes. "I saw her come to the window and open it! She was in here, and there's no other way out of the building."

Wentworth nodded. "Quite," he agreed, "but unless I'm gravely mistaken, there's a second exit to this apartment . . . into another building! That wall is blank, flush up another building!"

There was a high secretary placed against the wall. The couch was in a corner . . . the closet ran to the same structure. With Jackson's help, Wentworth swiftly eliminated the possibility of an opening behind either article of furniture. The closet remained.

It was a work of moments to slide the clothing that hung on neat racks. "See how the silk is misshapen by pressure of the racks?" Wentworth said. "None of them has been removed for quite a while." He began a minute inspection of the end wall, and presently he laughed softly. He lifted the shelf, twisted the clothing rod . . . and the end wall of the closet swung inward.

In a long, swift leap, Wentworth was through the opening, his gun in his fist. But this apartment was as empty as the one they had searched!

"Just a trick," Jackson growled, "for dodging trailers! I'm a damned fool! I should have made sure the girl was in the apartment!"

Wentworth shook his head, but his eyes were keenly speculative. "No blame attached to you, Jackson. I want you to get to that office. Make sure, first, that the girl has not arrived and then take up your watch there. As soon as you spot her, let me know."

Jackson saluted, and ran hurriedly back through the secret doorway and so to the street. For a short while longer, Wentworth quietly and carefully searched the room. This, too, showed no signs of occupancy. It was obvious that this was just what Jackson had called it, a trick for evading surveillance. Wentworth stood rigidly in the middle of the room. The girl was his only means of finding the criminals he sought. He knew that Commissioner Littlejohn had undertaken their apprehension, but the morning papers had brought no word of success.

His only course was to keep watch over this locality and try to spot some suspicious person, perhaps the girl, or one of the hunted men; perhaps merely some criminal whom he knew. But, damn it, the attacks planned for today could not be long delayed. It was possible that he might be able to figure out something from the known capacities of the men he hunted.

Back in the car once more, Wentworth switched on his radio to listen to news broadcasts. There was nothing to hold his detailed attention, though the tale of carnage the day before was more awful even than he had feared. The news man clicked off, and another voice came on the air, the deep, stirring voice of an orator.

"My friends," he said, "members of the Bennington Pension Club, I address you directly. We have been refused the right to parade today. We are being deprived of our privileges guaranteed under the immortal Bill of Rights! The right of free speech, free assembly and free petition. We shall exercise those rights, none the less! Await the call of Father Bennington!"

Wentworth listened with a strained attention. That voice had struck a dimly responsive chord. It was possible that the man who had spoken, apparently some one known as Father Bennington, had been the sixth hooded member of Moulin's band! Wentworth knew something of the movement. It was one of the multiple pension plans advocated for aged persons, on whom the "clubs" preyed. Too often, they were merely sucker traps for collecting small membership fees from large groups. Concerning the man, Bennington, Wentworth knew nothing specific . . . but if he were the sixth hooded man, he had an important part in X-day!

For an instant Wentworth hesitated, then he jumped from the car and hurried to a telephone, called his own home. "Jenkyns, set the telephone recorder to repeat messages over the wire," he said rapidly, "then go out and join the Father Bennington Pension movement."

Jenkyns assented at once and Wentworth hurried back to the car, took up again the problem of Cassin's and Towan's plans for the day. An expert in explosives, and a clever disguise artist . . . impersonator. Wentworth's eyes narrowed. The two of them together could loot a bank of incalculable wealth! There had been no mention of a gang working with them . . . Wentworth smiled slowly as he canvassed the neighborhood in which he parked.

He would keep his radio tuned to police calls. Meantime, there were two banks in the neighborhood which he could watch at the same time he kept the two-apartment escape route under surveillance. Jackson was waiting near the detective agency office for the blonde girl to reappear. For the present, it was all that he could do . . . .

Hours dragged past while Wentworth kept watch. It seemed futile and yet he had an uneasy certainty that he was on the right trail. Once an hour, he checked by telephone with his home, but there was no report from Jackson. He became apprehensive about the necessity of leaving his post even for those few minutes. Finally, he put through a call to the leader of the boys who had served him so well before . . . Bill Sanders.

As a consequence of this, it was necessary for him to assume a partial, nondescript disguise. He could not allow helpers, summoned by the Spider, to know Richard Wentworth! It was while he was awaiting Bill Sanders and the rest that the first suspicious happening electrified Wentworth!

He saw a criminal he recognized enter the Roycroft bank with a fat briefcase under his arm!

For a single instant, Wentworth leaned tensely forward, then, with a quiet smile, he forced himself to relax. It was merely that this sudden confirmation of his deductions made him long for action. Instead, he waited . . . and presently spotted the freckled and resolute Bill Sanders striding toward him past the bank with his red-headed companion dubbed Monk. Monk's face was wrinkled in a concentration that showed plainly the origin of his simian nick-name.

Wentworth's soft whistle brought them swarming eagerly into the coupe, and a few moments later, he was able to dispatch Bill on the trail of the departing criminal with the briefcase. He was gone only a few minutes before he returned with the address to which the man had gone.

It was Mildred's apartment!

Wentworth's jaw set grimly. There could no longer be any doubt that the Roycroft bank was the target of Moulin's hooded Council of Evil. He penciled a note, signed with his seal, and told Monk how to locate Jackson . . . and as Monk started away, Wentworth saw another criminal he recognized with a briefcase walking slowly toward the Roycroft bank!

He could delay no longer. He had no way of knowing just what was going on in the bank. Obviously, it was not a stickup. But equally plain was the fact that the criminals were successful!

Rapidly, Wentworth penciled another note to Jackson. "He'll be here within minutes after Monk gives him my first message," he told Bill. "This note will tell Jackson you're all right. Give him this message: 'The rats are going to the nest you discovered. Watch the other hole?' Can you remember that?"

"Geez, yes!" Bill exclaimed. "It's code, ain't it, Spider?"

"It's code," Wentworth agreed with a slight smile that could not change the grimness of his eyes. "You stay right here and keep watch. If you hear my whistle signal, start the car and roll it toward me. Got it?"

"Got it!" Bill cried, "and good luck, Spider!"

The man with the briefcase was just turning in through the broad main doors of the bank. A grey-uniformed guard glanced toward him, but did not appear interested. Wentworth hurried in his wake. He knew better than to loiter in the entrance. He went straight to a glass counter, obtained a blank deposit slip. He turned it over and began to add up a column of figures, frowning as he worked. But his eyes were on the criminal with the brief case.

The man apparently was attending as strictly to business as was the Spider. He walked directly to the bronze-barred gate at the rear which closed the steps leading down to the safety deposit boxes! Wentworth watched him narrowly, and his heart began to pound with long slow strokes in his throat. Roycroft was close to a very wealthy neighborhood and contradicting its apparent smallness, its safety vault section was one of the largest depositories in the entire city!

But how were these criminals gaining entrance?

Wentworth watched, and an officer walked quietly up to the gate, peered at the criminal's face and nodded. He opened the gate to the man with the brief case who went immediately down the steps into the vault!

For an instant, Wentworth stared in amazement, then he laughed softly. There were two possible explanations. Either both these criminals had legitimately rented boxes here—or Towan was at work! Towan who was known as a genius at impersonation!

Even as the explanation struck Wentworth, he was striding across the bank toward the president's office. He had a frowning memory of the fact that many men with briefcases had entered the bank this day. How long had the pilfering of the safety boxes been going on?

"The president at once," he snapped at the man's secretary . . .

The girl's head lifted indignantly, but when she met the Spider's eyes, she surged at once to her feet. "Yes, sir," she gasped. "At once, sir!"

Moments later, a fussy little man was hurrying toward Wentworth at the railing. "That man on the safety-deposit gate," Wentworth asked quietly, "are you sure of his identity?" He held out his hand and exposed against the palm the fraudulent detective badge.

The bank president's eyes widened. He stared toward the man in question. "Hawkins my cashier?" he asked in a strained voice.

"Are you sure that's Hawkins?" Wentworth pressed.

The president shrugged, glanced irritably up at Wentworth. "Really officer," he began . . . and then his eyes met those of Wentworth. It was not for nothing that the Spider was known as the Master of Men!

"Yes, sir!" said the president. "I'll make sure right away!"

He opened the gate in the marble balustrade that cut off the offices from the floor, and led the way toward the bronze grill that gave entrance on the safety-vault steps. Hawkins, or the man who looked like the cashier, was standing at the head of the stairs. He seemed to be staring absently at the floor. Abruptly, he frowned, turned and hurried down into the vault!

The bank president swore mildly. "It doesn't matter," he said. "I have a key. I can't see why you should question Mr. Hawkins' identity. It certainly looks like Mr. Hawkins in every way. The way he stared at the floor then, frowned, and went down stairs. I've seen him do it many times."

Wentworth's lips were grim and he did not answer. It was possible that he was mistaken, but he did not think so. Towan had earned fully the reputation he possessed, a genius . . . . The president jammed his key into the lock, swung the gateway open and Wentworth strode through behind him. Abruptly, Wentworth checked.

"Do you smell that?" he asked sharply. "Gas! There must be a leak in a gas main! It's very strong!"

The president paused, trembling. "Yes, yes! I smell it!" he gasped.

"Call the emergency!" Wentworth snapped, "and the police! I'll get people out of the vault!" As he spoke, Wentworth hurled himself down the steps. The smell of gas grew stronger!

Wentworth bounded toward the vault itself, and abruptly the grill was flung wide. A gun blasted at him! Wentworth wrenched his body aside in mid-leap, drew his own weapon. Even as he leveled it at the doorway, the lights in the vault blacked out!

Up above, there were shouts and the sudden pealing of a clangorous alarm. Wentworth laid two bullets across the doorway to the vault itself, then checked. Dimly, he could see the figure there . . . and that figure was sagging at the knees. Arms and legs dangled limply! Whoever was standing there in the doorway was holding an unconscious man before him as a shield!

And the stench of gas was stronger than ever!

Wentworth swore and leaped to the attack. The gun blasted again. He felt lead pluck at the sleeve of his coat and then his shoulder drove into the limp body poised there in the vault entrance! Wentworth drove to the floor with the unconscious man, tossed him aside and struck out with his clubbed automatic. He struck nothing. There was no sound, no movement anywhere about him!

Wentworth whipped out a pocket flash and spilled its light about the wide, aisled vault. Within his range of vision, every safety drawer had been forced; each hung open and empty!

On the floor, lay four men and two women, unconscious and bound hand and foot. One of them was a grey-uniformed bank guard!

Wentworth stared down at them, and sucked in a deep breath. He coughed rackingly. He saw that there was a pinkish flush in the faces of the unconscious people on the floor. Their breathing was shallow, noisy. They were suffocating from the gas!

Yet, while he stood there, the guilty man or men were escaping up the steps!

Wentworth paused only an instant. After all, he knew where those men would go. And by this time, Jackson would be on watch! Swiftly, he stooped over the unconscious people on the floor. He heaved the two women to his shoulders, staggered erect and lumbered at a trot toward the steps that led upward from the vault!

When he reached the top, the bank president was standing there with a nickel-plated gun in a trembling hand. "I got the police," he jabbered, "and emergency! They're on the way!"

"Who came up these stairs?" Wentworth snapped.

The man shook his head, "I didn't see anybody!"

Wentworth swore and dived back down the steps after more of the unconscious victims of Towan and his gang. He had not forgotten that Cassin was at work here, too. Cassin who had the skill of a demon with locks and safety devices . . . and a wide knowledge of explosives!

The Spider's mind was working furiously as he caught up two more of the unconscious people and staggered up the steps. Did the bank president's failure to see anyone leave mean that no one had left? Beside the women, Wentworth stretched out the two men he had carried up. But their faces were unfamiliar. Certainly, they did not resemble Hawkins! Could one of them be Towan?

"Guard those people!" Wentworth snapped at the bank president. "Don't let them get away! And clear everyone out of the bank! There may be an explosion!"

He did not mean a gas explosion, but it was the only thing which would convince the man without long explanations. There was no time for that! With the last two victims of the criminals slung across his shoulders, Wentworth made the heavy trip up the stairs. He was breathing heavily. The gas had made him dizzy. He reeled up to the grill at the head of the steps, staggered, through and pushed on toward the main doors. Men and women were hurrying out of the bank, without hats or coats. At least the president had followed his instructions to the letter.

Wentworth laid his last two charges upon the pavement and set the outer bank guard to watch them. He peered intently at their faces. No sign of makeup or disguise there. Wentworth shook his head and raced back in. He might be wrong about the explosion, but he did not think so. Almost certainly, Cassin would attempt to cover up the evidence of their depredations by wrecking the vault!

Suddenly, Wentworth understood! That was the reason for the odor of gas! It was not a genuine leak at all. It had been framed to give an excuse for the explosion that would follow! The strength of the odor meant that there were only moments to spare!

Wentworth shouted at the bank president. "Get out, now!" he cried. "The place may blow up at any moment. I'll attend to the people who are unconscious!"

Wentworth stooped toward them, then straightened with an oath. "I told you not to let any of them get away!" he said savagely. "One of the men is missing!"

"One of the men," the bank president said stupidly. "Oh, you mean Frank! The vault guard! But he said he felt sick! He went toward the front doors while you were making your last trip!"

Furiously, Wentworth caught up the remaining victims and ran with them to the street. The bank president trod on his heels, anxiously.

"But you didn't mean Frank, did you?" he cried. "Not Frank!"

Wentworth lunged out into the street. The sirens were whining now, police closing in. Now that it was too late to help. Now that the criminals had flown! Wentworth swore harshly as he stood there on the curb. Towan had been clever, too damned clever! He had forced the Spider himself to carry him out of the vault!

It was true that Wentworth had more than half suspected the means employed. He himself had too often used the device of seeming to flee, and then remaining behind in an innocuous guise! But he should have sent someone else into the vaults to do the rescue work, remained himself to guard the six supposed victims!

There was no more time to be lost. Towan—for there was no longer any doubt that it was Towan—had escaped in the uniform of the vault guard after having first assumed the identity of the missing Hawkins. It was probable that he was going to Mildred's apartment . . . .

Wentworth whistled shrilly, and saw Bill Sanders roll his coupe out from the curb. He whirled toward the bank manager. "Let no one go into the bank," he snapped. "Tell them it is likely to explode at any moment!"

He hurled himself at the coupe as it slid to a halt, heard the bank manager cry out hoarsely. He ignored the shout, and the coupe just cleared the corner before the police rocketed into sight.

"The rat nest, Bill," Wentworth said softly. "That's the address to which you followed the man!"

Bill Sanders nodded, his face flushed with excitement and drove swiftly. Their goal was near. Wentworth leaped out, ran toward the entrance of the second building into which the secret doorway led. He looked around sharply, whistled the eerie signal for Jackson.

From an alleyway, a boy's round head popped out. Monk grinned and ran toward him.

"Uniformed guard went in that other building there," he said. "Ain't seen him come out yet."

Wentworth smiled his thanks, but his eyes continued the search. Then he sounded the signal once more. In all the district, nothing moved. No one answered. The sirens were raising hell near the bank.

But Jackson . . . did not answer!

Wentworth ripped out an oath.

He raced into the apartment building and when he went through the door into the girl's room, he had his heavy automatic ready in his fist. The room was empty, of course! He manipulated the secret doorway, sprang through. Nothing but emptiness here, too!

As Wentworth stood there, staring blankly about him, the windows suddenly crashed inward . . . all the windows. A rolling concussion jarred the pictures from the walls, shook him dizzily!

The bank had exploded!

Wentworth's face was pale. That explosion had been terrific. He hoped that the police had followed orders. Even in the streets, they might well be in danger from that heavy blast! Methodically, he began a search of the apartment. It did not matter now if there were signs of his invasion. He knew that the set-up had served its purpose and would not again be revisited. As he searched, he heard the increasing bedlam of sirens. Ambulances clanged past; fire department sirens mounted to incredible pitches!

Wentworth's lips grew hard and thin against his teeth. Damn Towan and Cassin! They were completely callous to human suffering! There was no longer any doubt that people had been hurt . . . and there was nothing in this apartment. Nothing at all.

He glanced frantically about him again. His eye caught the disturbed pictures on the walls, and his gaze narrowed. It was a curious fact that every one of the pictures depicted some famous actor or stage scene. He shook his head. Perhaps it had some meaning, but just what it was . . . .

Wentworth sprang to the telephone. Perhaps Jackson had followed the men to some headquarters. Damn it, Jackson must have succeeded! Except for that, the trail ended here . . . and the trail was cold!

Rapidly, Wentworth dialed his home. Instead of the recording device, it was old Jenkyns who answered the phone.

"I went to that Bennington Club place, Master Richie," he reported. "They wanted me to join in some sort of fool parade this afternoon. They kept talking about civil rights and civil disobedience to obtain their pension. I'll admit they have a great speaker in this Father Bennington. I think if I had remained another ten minutes, he might have convinced even me!"

Wentworth's eyes narrowed over Jenkyns' report, but he could not see how that connected with his battle. "Any other calls?" he asked.

Jenkyns' voice grew soft and troubled. "Miss Nita called. She wants you to come and see her. At eight this evening. Her voice sounded . . . strange."

"Exactly what did she say, Jenkyns?"

Jenkyns hesitated, and his voice conveyed his embarrassment. "She didn't know me, sir. Of course. I'll try to remember . . . . Something like this. 'Please request Mr. Wentworth to call on me this evening at the hospital at eight o'clock. I have to be sure, you know. And the voice keeps telling me—'"

"The voice!" Wentworth interrupted.

"Her words, sir," Jenkyns said heavily. "I didn't understand. Then she almost seemed to be listening to somebody there in the room. She said, 'Is eight o'clock the best time? Yes . . . all right, eight o'clock.' Then her voice got . . . hysterical, I believe. She said, 'I can't stand the voice! I've got to be sure!' That was all, sir."

Wentworth's eyes were coldly furious. Without any question, they were trying to strike at him through Nita . . . and, of course, eight o'clock would be the zero hour of their X-day!

He became aware that Jenkyns was talking again, mentioning Jackson's name. He flung a sharp question and Jenkyns repeated slowly. "Jackson called," the aged butler said. "It was a very strange thing. He sounded excited. Said he had overheard a conversation. Something about a parade. But he hung up before he finished what he was saying. Just cut off in the middle of a word!"

Wentworth swore harshly. Jackson had never hung up without completing his report and making sure that Jenkyns understood. Something about a parade!

"What time was the Bennington Club parade?"

"About quarter of five, sir," Jenkyns said, "in Times Square."

The hour when the multiple subway tunnels beneath the streets were choked with the homeward rush of people!

He hung up woodenly. Towan's "rehearsal" had succeeded, and the parade at five o'clock was the final experiment before zero hour. He still did not know what Moulin's plans were for his raid that was supposed to garner a loot of millions. He knew only that those poor pensioners, ordered to march by a man whose voice could sway them intolerably, would be used somehow.

And at eight o'clock the Spider was supposed to walk into a trap!

There was a final ugly blow that had been struck, and it had stripped him of his ally on the brink of battle. That interrupted telephone call made by Jackson could mean only one thing. Jackson had been overheard.

Jackson was a captive of Moulin!

Chapter Nine
Jaws of Doom

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.

"They are victims, too," he said. "Be gentle with them. They are old!"

A policeman burst into the room. "Commissioner," he shouted. "They have tied up the subways! The train stopped and a whole column of them got down on the tracks and lay down. More of them keep piling down on the tracks, and singing, and lying down. The subways are stopped cold. We had to cut off the current to save their lives!"

The telephone shrilled. Moriarity picked it up and cursed. He repeated Littlejohn's orders, then slammed down the instrument.

"Same at Grand Central!" he rasped. "And they're tying up trains at Penn station, too! God! They'll tie up the whole city!"

Littlejohn was glaring from the window. Police were pushing out on foot into the jammed streets. They would pick up a man and carry him away. The man did not resist. He sang as he was carried away . . . and another man, or an old women, would take his place!

Littlejohn groaned. He turned a helpless face toward his men. "Call the Mayor," he said heavily. "Maybe he can talk them out of it. Nothing else will work. It will take hours and hours to clear the streets this way. These people have to be persuaded to move themselves."

Moriarity said, "Good God, Chief. Look!"

Littlejohn turned and looked where Moriarity pointed. A strange conveyance was lurching out of the side street. It was a platform, carried on the shoulders of boys! There were forty, fifty, a hundred boys . . . all of them supporting that flimsy platform on their shoulders. And each of them wore a black cape!

On it, were two men . . . and one of them wore the black cape and broad-brimmed black hat of—the Spider!

Littlejohn ripped out a curse, dragged his revolver into his fist. But he hesitated. For the Spider was pointing to the man who was bound to an upright post beside him, a man with a great black shock of hair, bound hand and foot, and with a broad white gag tied across his mouth.

And the Spider's voice was reaching out, terribly loud, over a loudspeaker hookup that was invisible. He held a small microphone in his hand.

"Pension marchers!" cried the Spider, and his voice was flat and mocking, bitterly cold. "You can win your strike. You have won it . . . . But what good will it do you if I kill your leader!"

The singing faltered and died. The blaring of multiple horns was stilled. Thousands of civilians and hundreds of blue-coated police stood motionless and stared at the man who was the most hunted, the most dreaded killer in the world! The Spider!

He stood there, his back twisted under that concealing cape, and spoke again into the microphone. His voice was a whisper, but it reached every man.

"Pensions marchers, there is one way you can save the life of Father Bennington!" he said. "Rise . . . and follow me! Rise, and follow your leader, or I will put a leaden bullet through your leader's skull!"

In that breathless moment, the Spider lifted his right hand. The automatic it gripped was heavy and black. Its muzzle rested against the forehead of the man bound to the post. And the man fought against his bonds, fought against the gag!

The microphone was lifted close to the gag, and the sounds of his struggle and his fear came to the ears of the thousands who lay prostrate in the streets. The gag slipped a little, and a deep voice, hoarse and scarcely recognizable, blasted into the loudspeaker:

"For God's sake, rise and follow him, or he'll kill me!"

The old people were swarming to their feet now. They moved in a slowly gathering stream toward the platform . . . but the platform was turning up Broadway now. The boys who carried it were moving more rapidly.

Littlejohn whispered, "That isn't Bennington! You can tell through the glasses. But it's working. It's working! The mob is breaking up . . . ." He swallowed stiffly. "Thanks to the Spider!" He faced his aide: "A general order. No man is to try to stop the Spider until that crowd is entirely inside the park. That's where he's leading them. Mounted troops and foot forces fall in behind the parade, flank them. Send motorcycles ahead to clear the way. Once they're in the park, close in! Let no one escape!

"Reserves! Rush all reserves to the park. Surround it, and close in from the north. I want that park sewed up until not even a bird can get out. Understand?"

Moriarity was repeating the orders to the radio man, rapidly, but there was a frown between Moriarity's brows.

"You're going to catch the Spider," he said, when the orders were all sent out.

Littlejohn's face was a grim mask. "The Spider has done a great thing," he said. "Maybe the court will be lenient with him on that account. I'm just a cop, and I've got a hundred warrants for that man's arrest. Catch the Spider!"

Chapter Ten
Treachery

Swaying on the light platform which the scores of boys carried easily on their shoulders, the Spider watched with quietly speculative eyes the slow gathering of the army at his heels. The man tied to the post turned his head and a grin spread over his features.

"How'd I do, Spider?" he whispered.

Wentworth's lips moved slightly, "It's the best performance you've ever given—on or off stage," he said quietly. "Do as well when you dismiss them, and I'll double that thousand dollar fee."

The actor nodded. "I'll wow 'em," he promised.

Wentworth let his eyes roam again over the assembled crowd. The police were closing in behind them. He glanced down a side street and saw galloping troops of horsemen keeping pace. There were motorcycle police ahead, clearing the way. The smile on his lips grew thin. Littlejohn was allowing him to solve the problem—but the police would be on hand afterward! He had planned to lead the march into the park. He saw now that was impossible . . . and unnecessary.

Ahead of him was a small truck, driven by Bill Sanders. As the boys approached it, they lifted the platform from their shoulders. When it rested on the truck, they looked up at Wentworth. The small capes about their shoulders mimicked the Spider's. They were very proud of them, these members of the Spider clubs whom Bill had rounded up from every section of the city.

Wentworth smiled slowly down into their perspiring faces, met the eager glint of their eyes. "Pass the word along," he told one softly. "When I give the signal, all of you run and scatter! You have done a great thing this day! You have done what grown men, and organized police could not do! You will never regret it! It was a great service. The word will be . . . Spider!"

Wentworth saw the eager whisper run along the line. The platform was supported now by the truck. That had not been possible in the square where a human barrier blocked all movements of cars. But the way was clear now.

Wentworth cried, "Spider!"

Like chaff before the wind, the boys broke and ran. They scattered in every direction, filtered through the trailing crowd of tiring old people, into building entrances, down side streets, into subway entrances. In less than a minute, there was not one of them in sight! But the platform trundled on. It was only three blocks from the park entrance now. Already, he could see the wide jaws of the police trap spread there. He turned to the actor.

"Make your speech here," he said, "but make it fast! Bill, stop the truck. When I give the word, clear out of here fast!"

Bill nodded, and the actor lifted his voice: "My friends!" he said. "My people! The plan has failed, and the fault is mine. Go to your homes now, and the Spider swears I will be allowed to go free! I know he tells the truth, and each moment you delay keeps me a prisoner that much longer. Go to your homes now . . . so that I may be free. Break it up. Go, each of you, to his home!"

The old people stopped, puzzled. Many already had fallen away from the fringes of the crowd. They stared at the bound prisoner on the platform, at the grim, twisted figure of the Spider. Hope died in their faces. It was a piteous thing to see how weary they were now that their dream was broken, now that they no longer sang. In bewilderment, they turned and looked at each other while the actor exhorted them again. Slowly, they began to file away. A man alone here, a couple there . . . small groups of three and four together. They were bitterly disappointed, they were baffled, and they were tired. Slowly, painfully, they limped away.

Wentworth turned to the actor and handed him money. "There is a statement there that I kidnapped you and forced you to perform this role," he said quietly. "It should prove that you can give no evidence against me. If you have trouble, my lawyers will help you."

The actor nodded. "That's okay, Spider," he said. "I can see you're going to have a job getting away yourself!"

Wentworth called, "Bill! Scram!"

In an instant, the boy had jumped down from the truck's seat, and was racing away. The crowd swallowed him. Wentworth cut the actor free, but stood for a moment staring out over the dissipating crowd. The police were closing in more rapidly now.

Wentworth laughed. He leaped to the ground and dived into a subway entrance where many weary oldsters were moving heavily down the steps. He ran along the platform and leaped to the tracks . . . . The police were only minutes behind. They stared wildly around them. The weary old people were silent on the platforms. There were a half dozen wandering dully, like lost children, about the tracks.

"Hey, you!" a cop yelled at one old man, whose grey hair hung about his shoulder. "Hey, you see the Spider go this way? You ought to hate that guy! He busted up your strike. Say, did you see him?"

The old man merely stared, his mouth hanging open. His teeth had gaps in them; his face was seamed. The cop swore, "Here, grandpa, leave me give you a hand up before you get hurt!"

He reached down a hand and helped the old man to the platform. Then he stared at him questioningly. "Say, for an old one, you got a powerful grip! Say—"

From the old mouth came a whisper, cold as steel, "Shut up, copper, or die! That's a gun!" His right hand pressed hard into the cop's side, and his voice became cracked and ancient. "It's awful kind of you, officer, to help an old man. Now, if you can just get me through this crowd and up on the street!"

The gun urged the cop on, and so they went through the police lines. At a far corner, Wentworth unloaded the man's gun and gave it back to him. "If you make no outcry," he said quietly, "no one will know what happened. Remember that!"

He turned and leaped into a coupe parked at the curb. The motor roared and the car spurted away. For a long moment, the cop stood motionless, watching the escape of the Spider. It was only afterward that he thought about reloading his gun to try a shot; it was too late by then. He looked swiftly about. No one in sight. He hurried back toward the subway station.

Wentworth raced grimly through the crowded streets. Soon, he must walk into Moulin's trap . . . in Nita's room. There was no other way in which he could conquer . . . the Council of Evil!

The room where the Council of Evil met this time had no lavish walls of padded leather. The walls were brick and the room had the musty dampness of an underground cell. But there was the same long table, the same sheet of glass . . . and five men in black hoods.

Abruptly, the glass turned milky and the face of Moulin gazed out at them from beneath heavy-lidded eyes.

"Report!" his voice sounded.

Towan laughed comfortably. "We pulled off the rehearsal all right, me and Cassin. Took something like a million bucks out of them boxes at Roycroft. The cops wouldn't even of known it was missing, if it hadn't been for the Spider. He damned near messed us up. But we got that guy Jackson locked up. We can have some fun with him a little later on."

Moulin said, thickly, "We should accept Towan and Cassin!"

There were nods of assent and Moulin's head turned toward the man on his right. "Your identity is no longer a secret, it seems, Bennington," he said.

Bennington's voice burst out hoarsely, "It was perfect, my rehearsal! We tied up everything tighter than a drum . . . until the Spider stepped in. I can do it again, but not unless that damned Spider . . ."

Moulin said slowly, "Bennington should be accepted. He did deliver . . . . As for the Spider, you need not worry about him any longer. Zero hour is at eight o'clock. I will give you all your instructions . . . . And at eight o'clock, the Spider will pay a visit to Nita van Sloan. My men will be there. My slave will be in the room with the woman. He will not escape—and we will all be multimillionaires!"

Towan leaned forward. "How?" he demanded roughly. "Where is there that much money?"

Moulin laughed, "Did you ever see the vaults of the big downtown banks?" he asked, "or the Federal Reserve branch, with all its gold?"

Towan breathed in noisily between his teeth, "Geez," he whispered. "Oh, geez!"

Moulin nodded slowly. "Zero hour at eight . . . by which time, the Spider will be in our trap! This time, he will not interfere!"

Nita Van Sloan lay back in her chair with her eyes closed. There was a corsage of velvety red roses on the stand beside her. She seemed utterly relaxed, resting. But there was no happiness, or content, in her face.

On the other side of the room a nurse sat with her head bowed submissively. Her hair was golden and thick. Her hands, idle in her lap, held a hypodermic needle filled and ready for instant use. It contained a green fluid.

Nita lifted her head and peered intently at a clock on the stand. Its hands pointed toward two minutes of eight.

"I'm not sure," she said heavily, "that I want to do this. It is like treachery."

The blonde nurse spoke in a monotone. "You cannot help a criminal. You must be sure. You cannot marry him unless you are sure. There is only one way to be sure."

Nita rolled her head fretfully. "You sound like . . . The Voice," she said dully. "I wish I could remember. I must be sure, but I do not like it."

The door of the room was closed, but the sound of footfalls came through readily. It was the visiting hour and many patients were receiving. A loudspeaker called a doctor's name tinnily. Nita, with her eyes closed, did not hear the door open. She knew only that the loudspeaker sounded suddenly much louder, and then was pinched down again. She opened her eyes, and gasped.

Just inside the door stood a hunched figure. Its twisted back was toward her, and the whole body was covered in a long black cape. The figure turned slowly about, and she had a glimpse of a lipless mouth, of commanding eyes beneath the brim of the black hat. The nurse still had her head bowed.

"Who are you?" Nita gasped.

The Spider took two slow steps toward her. His voice came out flatly. "Wentworth will not be here," he said. "I came in his stead, so that you could be sure!"

Nita's hands grasped the arms of her chair rigidly. Her head was pressed back painfully, and there was fear in her face. Wentworth's own face, behind the mask of the Spider, was twisted in torment. He hated to shock her this way, but he had made his decision. Nita must hate him too much ever to become involved in his perils again. His heart was leaden inside him; his cold will was like steel.

Hidden, his eyes flicked about the room. The nurse sat as she had been at his entrance, and his eyes narrowed at recognition of her. She was the same who had taken notes on the meeting of the Council of Evil!

Suddenly, Nita was relaxed again in her chair. Her hand went out to the roses beside her on the table. Her eyes were still strained wide. She knew now. She had been right. The nurse was right to insist she must make sure and then allow her to notify the police. The sight of this twisted figure of a man was terrifying, but somehow she was sure that underneath that disguise was the man, Richard Wentworth. She could not have told how she knew it, but she did. There could no longer be any doubt.

Richard Wentworth had killed a man!

Nita shuddered a little at memory of that moment when she had seen the red seal ground into dying flesh. She said, slowly, "I am glad you came. All this time I had suspected Mr. Wentworth. It was wrong of me. He has been very kind; he sent all these flowers . . . ." She lifted the bouquet in her hand.

Wentworth said in his normal voice, "So now, you are sure."

He took a step nearer her. His hands were clenched at his sides. Out of his eye corners he still watched the motionless nurse. Where were the men of Moulin? They must be somewhere around . . . . But Nita would have been told a lie, of course. She wouldn't help gangsters to destroy him. She would think it was the police she served.

"Has The Voice spoken to you recently?" Wentworth asked.

Nita winced. "No, no!" she said. "I do not want to hear The Voice. It is always speaking to me. Even when my nurse is here, it speaks to me, but she cannot hear it . . . ! But what do you know about The Voice?"

Wentworth shook his head, bending toward her. "Only that it lies!" he said softly. "Come, Nita, there is danger here! You must go away with me!"

Nita gasped, "No!" She held the roses tightly as if they were a weapon. "No, I dare not!"

"I will protect you," Wentworth said quietly. The continual quiet, the motionless figure of the nurse worried him. There was terror and danger breeding here. For himself, he was ready to face it. But if the killers failed this time—and Wentworth intended that they should fail!—they might carry Nita away to bait him into a trap. And the result for Nita would be horrible . . . .

"You must," he said, and laid his hand on her arm. "Come with me, now!"

Nita gasped, "No! No, I tell you! You must go—"

Wentworth said hoarsely, "Nita!"

She lifted the corsage of roses and crushed them against his face!

For an amazed instant, Wentworth did not move. Then the heady odor of the roses revealed itself as deeper, more cloying than was normal. It clogged his nostrils, burned in his throat. Good God . . . gas! Wentworth hurled himself backward. He clawed for his gun, and his hand had no feeling in it at all. He could not tell whether he found his gun or not. Desperately, he wheeled toward the window. This was the one thing on which he had not counted. In his love and trust of Nita, he had not seen how she could be swayed. He had not thought that she would attack him!

Wentworth found that his feet were wooden, too. He glanced down at them in surprise, and found that he was on his hands and knees on the floor. He glanced up at Nita, and her eyes were wide, frightened. She was crouched back in her chair, her feet drawn under her.

It was while Wentworth was staring thus that he felt, more than heard, the step of the nurse beside him. He felt the burning sting of a needle. He thought he cried out. Then darkness seemed to spread out from that needle puncture. It contaminated every sense; it spread rapidly through his brain and his brain soaked it up hungrily, gratefully as if it were nepenthe.

It brought forgetfulness and a curious lack of any concern. He knew that he was stretched out, flat on his back, on the floor. He knew that the passive nurse had injected drugs into his veins and that he was incapable of movement. The gangsters would come presently to destroy him . . . and the zero hour of X-day already had struck. He knew all these things, and it did not seem to matter.

He was floating in the midst of a greenish cloud. He was without thought, without feeling. The rosiness turned dark, turned black. It enveloped the brain of the Spider, and he lay helpless awaiting the killers' guns!

Chapter Eleven
The Trap Is Sprung

Nita cringed back in her chair and watched the Spider struggle against the drug, vainly, like a man trapped and drowning in deep water. Gasping sounds came from his throat, but all his movements were lethargic.

Behind him, the nurse stood motionless. The needle dangled from her fingers; her head was bowed, and there was utterly no expression in her face. She merely watched.

It was only when the Spider's powerful body stretched in final helplessness upon the floor that the nurse moved. She turned toward the door.

"Wait!" Nita gasped.

The nurse turned. "He will answer your questions now," she said in her monotonous voice. "I go so that you may question him."

Nita said urgently, "Wait! You must wait! I cannot question him like that! Help me . . . the wheel chair!"

For an instant, the nurse hesitated. Then she stepped forward to help Nita. Together they struggled with the inert body, lifting it fumblingly toward the chair. Nita's brain was numb. She was not thinking. But something told her that she must not desert this man upon the floor. Her heart was wrung with pity and with dread.

Finally, the Spider was in the chair. The nurse settled her white starched uniform and moved toward the door. And Nita did not want her to go. She could not allow her to go!

Nita took a hesitant step toward the nurse. "You must stay here," she said in a muffled voice. "I will not be left alone here."

The nurse did not answer her, but took a quicker step toward the door.

She sprang ahead of the nurse, set her shoulders against the door. "You cannot go," she said, in a fierce low voice. "Why are you so anxious to go?"

There was a pain that enveloped Nita's entire brain. It was blinding her. But she wasn't thinking at all. It was wrong for the nurse to go . . . for some reason she could not phrase.

"No," she whispered, "you can't go!"

The blonde girl stood staring at her with empty eyes. The needle still dangled from her fingers. She looked down at it, and reached into her pocket. She pulled out a handkerchief and wrapped it around the hypodermic. The handkerchief was bright red.

"Very well, Miss van Sloan," she said submissively. She held the red handkerchief in her hand . . . and moved toward the window!

Nita stared at her blankly, then she flung herself across the room. Her soft silken negligee floated backward with her speed. Her feet were in ridiculously unstable silken mules, with little tufts of maribou across the instep. Her eyes were strained wide as if she listened to some inner voice.

But her hands, clasping on the nurse's shoulders, were competent and fierce. She whirled the blonde girl away from the window before she was visible. The nurse staggered backward two long steps. Her white cap tumbled off. The mass of her blonde hair slipped.

Nita said, fiercely, "You were going to signal someone! That's why you wanted to get out. That was why you carried that red handkerchief!"

The nurse did not speak. Her eyes shuttled over the room. Wentworth was slumped in the wheel chair against the far wall . . . and Nita stood between her and the door. Nita was panting. The low silken neck of her gown strained taut across her breasts. Her face was intent, concentrated as if thought cost her a great effort. It did. Her skull ached, ached.

"You . . ." Nita whispered. "You made me trick him. You are a traitor. You drugged him and tried to make a signal. The police! That is it—you are a spy for the police!"

The nurse said, pacifyingly, "Miss van Sloan, you should not excite yourself. I am not connected with the police."

For an instant, her quiet tone soothed Nita . . . but the nurse nodded and moved toward the door. And suddenly Nita was in action again. She set her shoulders against the door, spread her arms.

"You are not going out!" she whispered.

The nurse stood still for a moment. Then she put her hand in her pocket again. When she drew it out, she gripped a small automatic.

"Step aside, Miss van Sloan!" she ordered.

Nita drew in a slow breath, and let her arms drop to her sides. Her shoulders sagged a little, too. After all, why was she making all this trouble? She had seen this man in the wheel chair commit a murder. Of that she was sure now. It was only just that the police should take him, even though they had tricked her. That was what she told herself consciously . . . but in the same moment, she knew that she was not going to let the police take him! She would not!

Nita van Sloan took a dragging step away from the door . . . and leaped!

Her hands flew at the nurse. With her left she tried to twist the automatic away. She did turn its muzzle away. Her right arm hooked beneath the nurse's chin. It was without thought that she threw the girl across her hip, sprawled her upon the floor! Nita's mind did not know, but her muscles and her reflexes had remembered that jiu-jitsu throw!

The nurse struck flat on her back. Her head jarred and the gun skated from her fist. But Nita stood, staring in amazement, down at the girl. The unwinding coils of blonde hair made a halo about her head.

Nita said, uncertainly, "I've hurt you, but you should not have tried to get out."

The nurse rolled her head, struggled laboriously to her knees. Suddenly, she leaped up and ran toward the automatic! Nita was after her. One of her mules fell from her foot, and she kicked off the other. Barefooted, she hurled herself at the nurse, just as she straightened with the automatic. Their struggling bodies braced. They reeled stiffly from side to side like drunken people. Nita's roseate robe fluttered and kited behind them. The modeling of her arm muscles stood out strongly.

"You shall not!" she whispered. "You shall not give him to the police! I will not allow it, do you hear? You may kill me, but you're not going to turn him over to the police!"

The nurse said nothing. She fought with fierceness. She struck with her knee and Nita shoved her backward off balance, suddenly took the gun wrist with both hands. She found a leverage that her muscles knew, exerted it.

The nurse gasped with pain. Her free hand clawed at Nita's back. Silk ripped. Her desperate eyes centered on a crockery vase. She threw her weight sideways and they staggered against the dresser.

"Give up the gun," Nita gasped. "I'll break your arm!"

The nurse found the vase with her groping, awkward left hand. She struck sideways at Nita's head. Nita cried out in agony. Her brain was on fire, on fire! She slumped to her knees. The nurse ran toward the door. Her hand was on the knob!

"You shall not betray him!" Nita whispered.

Her hand found one of her discarded mules. She was blind with pain, but she flung the mule. She heard a cry and staggered to her feet. She groped toward the door. A blow glanced past her temple, and the nurse's gunwrist struck her shoulder. Nita's hands clamped on that wrist.

The gun went off.

Nita's head jarred sideways under the violence of that concussion. A smothered scream rose in her throat and red agony blotted out all consciousness of action or feeling or thought. She was fighting in that hell of darkness. She twisted, heaved. Through the soaring, pounding pain in her skull, she heard a woman's gasping cry. The shock of a body falling . . . silence.

Presently, Nita heard an imperative knocking at the door. She heard herself saying calmly, "Everything is quite all right. A screen fell over. Go away, please!"

And slowly the whirling room cleared before her eyes. She was not aware that she had ever seen the room before. She stared around her in amazement. She remembered the multiple blast of guns, remembered that Dick, beside her, had leaned far forward to seize the wheel from Ram Singh and wreck the car. There had been an explosion . . . .

When had all that happened! It might have been no more than a moment ago. It might have been a week, a month . . . . Nita gripped her pounding temples and tried to remember. It was all so vague.

So lifted her head and looked around again. Across the bed, blood trickling from her temple where it had struck the metal post, lay the prostrate body of the nurse. Nita did not remember hurling her there by a jiu-jitsu throw. She did have a whirling memory of a battle, of pain in her head.

She smothered a cry. Her glance had reached beyond the hospital bed. There was the Spider!

"Dick!" Nita whispered. "Oh, Dick!"

She ran toward him, took his flaccid face between her palms, felt for his throat pulse. He was alive. That small swelling in his throat . . . a hypodermic needle had made that! Drugged! But why, and by whom?

Nita whirled like a pantheress at bay, heard the knocking at the door renewed.

"What is it?" she called quietly. "kindly go away. You are disturbing my patient! She became a little violent, that's all!"

There was a moment of silence, and then footfalls retreating slowly. Nita stood rigid and felt the violent tremors of her muscles. Yes, there had been a battle. Apparently, she had overcome the nurse. Her own clothing was in shreds. And Dick was drugged.

Nita's mind was working powerfully now. She remembered nothing of what had happened here in the hospital room, but the evidence was plain before her. Dick had been drugged . . . and she had been fighting, had overpowered the nurse! Therefore, Dick was in danger.

Nita pressed her temples to still the clamoring pain inside her brain. Yes, she must get Dick out. But how? Only a moment longer did Nita hesitate, then she set efficiently to work. And as she labored, her head rapidly cleared. She stripped off the nurse's clothing and put them on herself. She draped a sheet over Wentworth, tucked a blanket about his knees and drew it up tightly under his chin. Then she slipped to the locked door, and listened.

Moments later, she wheeled Wentworth out into the corridor. Once she was fairly away from the door of her room, locked now from the outside, she was fairly safe. She was a nurse wheeling a patient along the corridor. A floor superintendent or a doctor might challenge her, but for that, too, she had an answer. If everything else failed, there was the small automatic in the pocket of her dress!

The elevator operator made no objection, only once glancing curiously at the relaxed form beneath the robes. There was a ramp that led down to the ambulance entrance. Nita glanced carefully about. No one was in sight. Swiftly, she eased the wheeled chair down the ramp, left it there a moment while she scouted the way ahead. There was an ambulance in the courtyard. The driver was in a waiting room off to the right, frowning over a newspaper cross-word puzzle.

Nita did not hesitate. She stepped calmly into the room. "Driver," she said quietly, "help me get my patient into the ambulance."

The driver got to his feet, grumbling. "That ain't my job," he said shortly. "Geez, a guy never gets no off-time around this place . . . ." He was moving toward Nita as he talked. As he stepped past her, Nita removed the gun from her pocket, ready.

The driver stared at the limp figure in the chair, looked around. "Hey, what is this?" he said. "Where's the doc?"

Nita shoved the gun hard against his spine. "That's a gun," she said. "Carry him to the ambulance!"

The driver stood motionless, trembling. When Nita jabbed him with the gun, he stumbled forward. He seemed too weak to handle Wentworth's inert body, but he succeeded finally. He staggered to the ambulance, deposited Wentworth on the stretcher.

"Now, get behind the wheel . . . and drive!" Nita snapped.

"Yes, ma'am!"

He started toward the driver's seat, but suddenly broke away and ran toward the hospital. He shouted wildly. "Thieves! Kidnappers!" he yelled. "Help! Police!"

Nita gasped her exasperation. In a moment, she was behind the wheel of the ambulance herself. She stepped on the starter, whipped the car into gear and sent it bellowing toward the gateway. She cleared it before men came out of the hospital. The tires whined in a turn. She dodged a coupe loafing along the street, jammed down on the accelerator, and roared eastward toward the river.

* * *

Behind her, there were shouts . . . and then a dark, swift car lunged around the corner in her wake. A gun blinked its red eye of fire from around the windshield. She did not hear the bullet.

She concentrated all her attention on driving. Dick had taught her to drive, as he had taught her many things. There were few who could equal her skill. She went around a right-angle turn accelerating. She did not brake at all. She reached the next corner before pursuit was in sight, doubled northward. She dared not use the siren . . . but she had heard no siren behind her!

Nita caught her breath. It was not, then, the police who were chasing her. It was the Spider's underworld enemies!

She took another corner fast, spotted the dark recessed doorway of a warehouse, whipped the ambulance into it and doused all lights.

At the other end of her dark street, another car blared past. She caught the silhouette of men crouched forward venomously. Yes, killers from the Underworld! Two car loads . . . and how many more?

Moments dragged past without sighting any more trailing cars, and once again Nita set the ambulance under way along the dark side street. Would it be possible to get Dick to his home, where he could have proper care and protection? How well were the criminals organized? If only she could know.

Nita tooled across the north-south street without spotting anyone suspicious, and drove on into the next block. She was half way through it when a dark car whined into the far end of the street, coming the wrong way! Guns blasted from its windows!

Nita crouched lower over the wheel and drove on. The killer car whipped broadside across the narrow street. Men scattered from it, their guns blasting. Nita laughed softly, and in her own ears the sound held a faint mockery, as if . . . as if the Spider were laughing! She thought of Dick, lying so helplessly in the back of the ambulance, and there was a prayer on her lips as she drove toward the ambuscade!

She could hear the punch of bullets slamming against the metal body of the ambulance. She coaxed more power out of the engine. The ambuscading car was only a hundred feet away . . . only fifty . . . twenty-five!

Nita stood up behind the wheel and wrenched it over. The ambulance heeled wildly, but it answered the steering gear. It humped over the curb stone. A man crouched behind a fire hydrant leaped erect with a wild yell and tried to flee. The nose of the ambulance caught him. There was a dark blur before the windshield, then he was gone. She whipped the car back into the street.

When Nita could fling a glance into the rear-vision mirror, there was one gun still winking at her. The car was overturned. She was past that barricade!

Into the next avenue, Nita hurled the ambulance. She had a glimpse of cars to the north and south of her, closing in. She flicked on the radio.

She managed to whirl northward for two blocks on the next avenue, and then doubled back on her trail. Once more, she sought hiding. There was a dark, vacant lot, with a signboard. She couldn't get behind the board, but she parked close against it. At least, she was out of sight.

The radio came to life; an announcer was speaking: " . . . and anarchy seems to have broken out in the Bronx and upper Manhattan. There is a big blaze sweeping through three tenement houses, and the fire is plainly of incendiary origin.

"The firemen were hampered in reaching the locality by some of Bennington's pension marchers.

"There is a warrant out for Bennington, but so far the police have been unable to locate him!"

Nita shook her head dazedly, and turned to police signals. She wondered if this was part of the battle that Dick was fighting, but she could not see how fires and pension marchers could be part of a crime wave.

Nita gasped. This explained why there was no police concentration rushing to her assistance. They must be rushing reserves into the area of the fire. That was it . . . and it must be a decoy movement. If only Dick were able . . . Nita peered toward him, but he lay as motionless as a dead man upon the cot to which she had strapped him. Nita choked down a sob as a police signal crashed in. Detective cruisers and police cars were being rushed northward. A bank vault had been blown up.

Nita peered about her fearfully. There was a sudden burst of gunfire at the end of the street. She spotted the white top of a police radio car. But two other machines were crowding in on it. There was the heavy, fatal hammer of a sub-machine gun. Then the two cars were racing away, and the police car remained motionless in the middle of the street.

How long could she escape the net the killer had thrown about the district? It was apparent that she could expect no help from the police, even if she dared to ask for it. Nor could she count on them to create a distraction so that she could escape. She sat up suddenly very straight in her seat. A distraction!

She peered about her with more purpose now. She knew this neighborhood! Not two blocks away was a garage in which Dick had one of his coupes parked! She swung to the ground, and a voice whispered tightly from the shadows.

"Don't you move!" it ordered, shakily. "Don't you dare to move an inch!"

Nita frowned. That sounded like a young boy speaking. She turned slowly toward the voice, peered into the shadows beneath the sign board.

"I been following you!" the boy said, more firmly. "Now you get out of here. You're not going to kidnap the Spider!"

Nita almost laughed aloud. She could see the pale blur of the face now, the determined line of the jaw, the tumbled black hair. "Bill!" she said. "Bill Sanders, you blessed boy! I need your help! Don't you remember me? I was with Mr. Wentworth on the street that night when those thugs from the Mekookum Club tried to beat you up!"

The boy wriggled out from under the signboard. "Geez," he said. "Geez, I thought you was that nurse. Listen, where is the Spider? How does he feel?"

Nita said slowly, "He's unconscious, Bill. Drugged. We've got to save him, you and I. And the killers are all around us!"

Bill said eagerly, "I could get my gang here in half an hour!"

Nita shook her head. "There's no time for that! But the Spider has a car hidden two blocks from here. If you can get that car, and drive it here, we'll get him away between us!"

Bill nodded his head quickly and Nita told him how to reach the car. "Drive slowly," she ordered him. "If there's any shooting, go around it. If anybody follows you, don't come here!"

Bill ran off into the shadows without a word, and Nita climbed into the back of the ambulance where Dick lay.

Nita bent low over Dick, and laid her smooth soft cheek against his. His breathing was deep and even, his pulse strong. But his great brain was asleep . . . and the city needed the Spider this night! Nita crooned to him like a child.

"I'll save you, Dick," she whispered. "You've saved me so many times. Can I do any less?" But there was a sob in her throat as she straightened and set to work to do what she must do. When Bill came a few minutes later in the old, but powerful coupe, Nita had disappeared . . . . In her place stood a figure in the sinister habiliments of the Spider!

Bill stared at her in amazement, but Nita's face was calm, her lips firmly set. "This is the plan, Bill," she said quietly. "I'll drive out of here in the ambulance and lead the killers away. When they're gone, you drive the Spider in the coupe, to some place along the river. You'll find a boat. Take him in it, and row out on the river! It's the only place I can imagine where he'll be safe now."

"All right," Bill acknowledged grimly, "but, geez, you oughtn't to go out like that—not against them killers. They're pretty bad. You let me be the Spider and you drive him off. The won't catch me in the ambulance!"

Nita smiled and rested her hand on Bill's shoulder. "You're a fine young man, Bill," she said, "but I can drive like a demon and I'm almost as good a shot as the Spider himself. There's a chance they won't catch me. There's a big chance! You have the big job, guarding the Spider. Here's a gun . . . . Now, let's get going!"

At Nita's orders, they carried the Spider's limp body to the coupe, and Nita hesitated for an instant there. She leaned over and kissed his lax lips, and stood there for a moment.

"Take good care of him, Bill," she said, "and tell him I'll see him at his home."

Bill said, "Sure. Sure . . . . Oh, geez, let me go instead of you!"

Nita shook her head and jumped behind the wheel of the ambulance. An instant later, the motor roared and she swept it out into the street.

Behind her, Bill Sanders sat in the coupe beside the unconscious Spider and watched the ambulance. As it wheeled the corners, guns blasted out. A car spurted toward the ambulance. From the crouched figure in the cape, a heavy blast of gunfire answered. The charging car swerved and rocked aside. It went out of sight, and there was a crash of a wreck. Another car streaked past the corner in pursuit. The ambulance siren shrieked its hoarse defiance.

"Oh, damn them!" Bill whispered. "Damn them! But they couldn't get her. Not her!" He said that, but he knew he did not believe it. No siren . . . . He turned the coupe toward the river, and he had trouble seeing where he went.

The radio under the cowl rasped, " . . . wreck of ambulance on East End Avenue . . . gunfight . . . investigate . . . ."

Bill choked on a sob and was unashamed. The radio kept squawking. Another bank raid in upper Manhattan . . . .

Chapter Twelve
Zero Hour

There was a cold wind over the river. It made little icy waves slap against the side of the boat. Bill Sanders couldn't see much. He was perspiring from the effort of getting the Spider into the rowboat. His hands on the oars were stiff with cold. His back ached.

Bill rowed and experienced a great loneliness that put a weight upon his heart. That swell dame was dead or captured. The Spider lay like a dead man. For an instant, fear sucked out his breath. Was the Spider dead?

Bill stopped rowing and listened for the Spider's breathing. The little waves kept up their cold laughter. A tug hooted mournfully a hundred yards away, and the wash of her propeller made hissing sounds. The fog swirled slowly, coldly.

Bill whispered, "Spider? Hey, Spider!"

He went down on his knees and the cold bilge made his bones ache. He leaned close to the Spider. Yes, he was still breathing.

Fumblingly, Bill took up the oars again and bent his back. He rowed slowly, steadily. The back of his neck ached. For a long while he saw nothing.

It was an explosion that pierced his trance. Bill felt the vibration beat against him. He stopped rowing, and turned his head. He was aware now of the great blob of red against the northern sky. That was fire. But the explosion had come from somewhere on his left.

He stared toward the profile of lower Manhattan. There was another explosion. He saw streamers of fire, fragile as sunbeams, lance out of the base of one of those solid-seeming spires. Moments later, flame broke out above the dark low line of tenements nearer the river.

Bill straightened his stiffened back and tried to make sense out of what was happening. They had been attacking way up north on the island at first. Now they were down here. Down in the financial section of Manhattan, where all the big banks were located.

Suddenly, Bill cried out. He knew now. Those were guns. And that singing . . . those damned fool old pension marchers . . . and those explosions like at the bank.

Bill found himself on his knees. He was calling the Spider's name over and over, shaking him, pleading with him. He took a cupped handful of water and flung it in that gaunt, sharp face.

"Spider! Spider!"

Suddenly, Bill Sanders caught the glitter of opened eyes, and a voice answered him thickly. He began pouring out words. He babbled about the fire and about the ambulance and the boat.

Wentworth heard Bill's voice as from a great distance. He had been aware of many things dimly for a long time and his brain felt abnormally clear and acute. He didn't know why it was his own voice was so thick and labored. He could see the dim sky vaguely. He still could not move. But his ears absorbed eagerly the things that Bill was telling him. Nita . . . dead, or captured? The lower city ablaze. Guns. Singing . . . . "Those loony pension marchers . . . ."

The Spider's lipless mouth became a straight and bitter line. He was helpless . . . and the city was being looted, destroyed . . . and Nita. Helpless? The faint echo of harsh laughter formed in Wentworth's throat. He had his brain, and his will! It was his will that he called on now, the will of the Master of Men!

Perspiration sprang out on his forehead. A twitching ran through the muscles of his face. There were small spasmodic jerks of his arms and legs.

It was terrible to watch him. His eyes stared straight up in seeming blindness. The cords made steel ridges in his throat.

"Flask, Bill!" he cried hoarsely. "Flask . . . my pocket!"

The rolling of his head, the jerks became more strenuous. The boat was rocking wildly now. Bill braced a hand against each gunwale, and stared. He could not stop staring. If only the Spider would stop trying.

"Flask!"

Bill was shaking as he moved toward the Spider. A convulsive foot struck his shin. The hands jerked. Bill couldn't see very well. He didn't know he was crying. He didn't hear himself say, "It's all right, Spider. It's all right. Don't try so hard. Don't . . . ."

He found the flask, and tried to pour brandy into the Spider's mouth. It dribbled out. His larynx moved stiffly once, again. He twisted his head away, lay panting. The twitching stopped. Then Bill felt the Spider's hand gripping his shoulder. It was like iron, yet it fumbled as if the fingers were without feeling.

The Spider sat up.

"To shore!" he whispered.

Bill retreated. "They'll kill you," he said wildly. "They'll kill you! You—"

"To shore!" Wentworth repeated.

Bill started to row. The Spider sat like a man of stone in the stern-sheets. The twitching was starting again, but now the movements had direction. The Spider lifted his right hand in a series of jerks against an intolerable weight. He lowered it and raised it again. While he drove his will to the task of physical resuscitation, his brain already raced ahead to the task before him.

How great that task was, even the Spider had not realized. The mass of flames stretched across the city and the feeble multiple voices of the aged lifted in thin chants. A multitude, lying flat on their backs, and singing. They formed an incredible human barrier against the few police reserves available. And below that line, which against the police was a more effective barrier than barbed-wire, the killers were looting!

The Spider saw that picture in his mind. His right hand moved like a quivering derrick, beam across his chest to reach his gun. He lifted it and lowered it, lifted it again. There was a faint tingling in his hand, but no other sensation. His old skill in throwing bullets without aim, by balance and super-practiced reflex was gone. He would have to aim each shot, slowly . . . .

"Row!" he whispered. "Row fast!" The Spider could not swerve . . . .

In the mayor's office at City Hall, a frantic clerk tried to answer the ever-ringing telephone. The Mayor had gone up to the scene of the trouble in the northern part of the city. Commissioner Littlejohn was up there with the fire department's controlling staff, and . . . .

"Mayor's office!"

"Listen!" The voice came through quickly. "Can't talk much. My throat . . . is bad . . . . This is the Mayor."

"Yes, sir!"

"Put me through the office exchange to Governors' Island!"

The clerk jittered, and put through the call. He listened in with fright, heard that heavy, slow, labored voice go through the struggle of reaching the commandant of Governors' Island. Finally, the connection went through.

"Mayor Gogan speaking," he said hoarsely. "For God's sake, send troops! There is a battalion of crooks looting the financial district of Manhattan. They've set half the city on fire. We can't get through to them. They're bombing police boats. Got cannons somehow. National Guard would take too long to organize. You must strike at once! I'll take all responsibility!"

The wire went dead.

The police labored to remove the prostrate men and women from the streets so that fire fighting equipment could go through, what there was of it. The aged ones lay flat on their backs, singing with cracked voice their interminable hallelujahs. They didn't fight, but nothing would make them move. Some of them had died from the heat of the flames. Others seemed drugged.

Commissioner Littlejohn had phoned that he was rushing south. It was to take him twenty minutes or half an hour. By that time . . . .

Suddenly, a metallic voice came crisply from the radio loudspeaker circuit. It was harsh with authority, and it spoke very slowly.

"This is Kirkpatrick. The Mayor has asked me to take charge here. Men, soldiers from Governors' Island will attack the looters from the rear—the waterfront. Leave your cars. Go through on foot. Carry sub-machine guns, shot guns, pistols. Carry hand grenades! Forget the tear gas. Go through in squads, but keep scattered. Start moving forward at once! Firemen, get dynamite! Forget your useless equipment. Go through on foot and blast out the fires! Blow down buildings in the path of the fires! March! Go forward at once!"

Behind the line of fire, the crooks heard that hoarse voice, too. Gannuck's men, secure in their armored cars, grinned at each other. They began to patrol the inner face of the fire line. Machine guns quested for the first of the police who should drive through.

Soldiers from Governors' Island? They laughed.

A gaunt figure strode out of the shadows among the looted buildings. Gannuck, in a cannon-armed truck, saw the man and swore.

"Moulin!" he gasped. "God, I never expected to see him in the flesh!"

Moulin was pale with a yellowness that was corpselike. There seemed to be no blood in him. His head bulged baldly up from thin, colorless eyebrows. He wore the long black robe of the Council of Evil.

"Gannuck!" His voice came harshly. "Hold out for half an hour. That's all we need. And don't worry about the soldiers from Governors' Island. We'll wait until they're all at sea and then sink them. That's what those two planes are for. The boats are ready at the pier. Most of the gold is already aboard. And our escape craft is on the way. A half hour, Gannuck!"

Gannuck swallowed thickly. "Right you are, Moulin! The signals?"

"Three explosions at intervals of fifteen seconds," Moulin said. He turned back into the shadows.

From the darkness, a single gun cracked. Gannuck whipped his head that way, peering through the narrow vision slit of the truck. There was no further shot.

In the darkness where the gun had spat, a gaunt figure in a black cape lifted itself. Beside him was a boy, and the man's hand rested heavily on the boy's shoulder.

"Missed!" the man whispered. "I was only fifty feet away, and I missed."

The Spider moved like an automaton with a slow swinging of his legs that involved a tremendous strain of his entire body.

"Follow Moulin!" Wentworth whispered. "Keep out of sight, but follow him. Then come back here for me!"

The boy hesitated. "Are you all right, Spider?"

The Spider laughed. The sound was ghastly. Bill Sanders shivered a little. He turned and ran off into the darkness. In the black shadow of the doorway where he stood, Wentworth did not move for a long minute. He had been sure Moulin was dead, that this appearance in the glass pane at the Council of Evil was a trick. But the man walked, lived.

Wentworth pushed out a slow oath. Apparently, the killers had a way of preventing the Governors' Island troops from getting through. Everything depended on the police. Wentworth turned his head heavily about. There was a motionless car at the curb. His lips twisted. It was a ten minute job to reach the car. He spent another five minutes unlocking the ignition and starting the engine.

Gannuck's cannon truck was still there a half block away in the shadows, lying in wait for the police. Already a dozen blue-clad bodies lay there in the edge of the fire zone.

Wentworth ripped off the sleeve of his shirt and dipped it into the gasoline tank. He closed the tank and attached the sleeve to its outside, set it afire. Then he started the car rolling down the street in low gear. It gathered speed slowly. Wentworth let himself fall in the street and got his gun leveled with painful slowness. When the car had almost reached Gannuck's truck, he fired one bullet.

For a long moment nothing happened.

The car swerved and sideswiped the armored truck. It teetered around, ground to a halt. The flame on the gas tank seemed a little larger. It dripped small flames to the pavement. Suddenly, there was a stream of fire there. It spread a lake upon the ground. Then there was a roaring concussion.

Gannuck's truck heeled over on its side. The flame began to lick at the gun-slits! The Spider lay where he had fallen. He had his gun leveled again, his finger tight on the trigger. He waited. When they burst out, he might get one of them. He must save his bullet for Gannuck.

The doors in the upper side of the overturned truck were thrown open and men climbed out laboriously. Wentworth smiled thinly. Perhaps he could shoot twice!

Painfully, he sighted along the barrel and willed his finger to pull the trigger. He could feel only a slight tingling still. The gun leaped wildly in his hand. The man screamed and dived into the pool of flame! Wentworth's right hand was trembling violently. With tremendous effort, he pulled it back in line and sighted at the door. One man had escaped meantime, but another was showing himself. Wentworth waited until he was fully exposed, then squeezed the trigger again.

It was maddening to have to shoot like this. Gone was his old facility for pumping bullets with both hands, without conscious aiming, but with a deliberate certainty that each bullet would find the intended mark. The gun kicked out of Wentworth's hand. He got his man, but he was still groping for the weapon when Gannuck popped out and fled into the darkness.

Three policemen ran through the smoky fringes of the fire zone and ranged forward with machine guns at their hips. Wentworth lay motionless, and they threw him no more than a glance as they went past. When they were gone, he began his weighted, slow march. Impossible now to wait for Bill Sanders to come to him. The police had made their breakthrough, thanks to his attack behind the criminal lines. They would be pouring through the gap—and the Spider could move only at a crawl.

The Spider moved toward the wrecked truck!

The gasoline was burning itself out, and there would be items in that truck which he could use. If he could find three grenades . . . . He had no means of reckoning the length of time it took him to enter the truck. He gained time by letting himself fall through the door. He found the grenades, a half dozen of them.

Then he threw one, blindly, out into space. He kept his eye on his watch. Exactly fifteen seconds later he threw a second, and then, at the same interval, a third! It was the signal.

With intolerable effort, Wentworth lifted himself from the doorway of the truck and rolled to the ground. He levered himself to his feet, and turned his face in the direction Moulin had taken. He could hear, faintly, the roar of many motors. Apparently, for this part of the line, his signal had worked. But the gold was ready to load in the craft which they would use to escape. He must find that place quickly. But if he could find Moulin first . . . .

Through the choking smoke that swept low over the financial district, through the black shadows, the Spider lurched in his methodical automaton's walk. There was some feeling now in his legs. His hand began to feel the gun a little more. If the battle lasted an hour longer, he might be able to fight well!

Bitterness was brassy in Wentworth's throat. He faced the greatest test of his career, and he was a cripple! He guided his steps toward the Federal Reserve Bank. It was there the chief treasure was stored, so that he might expect to find Moulin there. Moulin was always one to stay near the gold!

Wentworth tried to drive his flagging body into a run. His shamble became more difficult. That was all. The gun hung heavy in his fist. He dared not hold it any way except at ready. Otherwise, too long would be required to lift it. Already, he could see the bulk of the Federal Reserve Bank. There was an armored car at the corner, stationed to guard the street along which he ran!

Wentworth checked and drew out one of his grenades. He ordered his muscles through the slow business of drawing back his arm. He pulled the pin there . . . and threw! The grenade arched lazily through the air, hit short of its mark and trickled along toward the truck. Abruptly, a sub-machine gun blasted. Wentworth slid to the ground for protection, watching the slow grenade . . . . Then a shout lifted to his throat!

He tried to cry a warning, but he could not make himself heard. Running toward the truck, from the opposite side was Bill Sanders!

Even as Wentworth spotted him, the grenade let go. The front end of the car lifted high into the air. The whole thing wobbled over sideways and plopped in the street. Smoke lifted darkly. The Spider lay, motionless, and searched the smoke. He could no longer see Bill!

A hot rage surged through Wentworth. He could hear men running, shouting, in response to that bomb-blast. He heaved to his feet, and there was a gun in each fist. As the first man darted through the smoke, he squeezed the trigger and saw him slammed to the ground! And he had not aimed!

At last, he was beginning to get back his fighting ability! But Bill . . . Poor little Bill Sanders. Gallant, brave . . . . Wentworth's thoughts cut off. There, in the smoke, was the man he had hunted. There was Moulin!

The hot and angry laughter surged into Wentworth's throat, and he squeezed the trigger! He knew where his bullet would strike. The head! And Moulin went down! He plopped down backward, feet high, behind the truck. The Spider crouched behind his ready guns, and knew the thrill of conquest. He had to find Bill. He staggered forward.

Wentworth reached the foot of the overturned car, and a sudden, overwhelming roar of motors beat upon his ears. His head wrenched back. Overhead was a great flying boat, a Transatlantic Clipper! She was settling toward a landing in the Hudson River! Wentworth stared and cursed and knew in that moment, that this was the escape craft of the killers!

At that moment, movement caught his eye. Movement on the ground within a few feet, where Moulin lay! Wentworth's head jerked about, and he was looking into the lifted muzzle of a revolver!

Moulin's face was expressionless. There was a rip in the side of his head, but he was far from dead.

"You have failed, Spider!" he said harshly. "My hour of victory has come!"

Chapter Thirteen
Hour of Doom

Wentworth stared into the gun and knew that Moulin spoke the truth. The Spider's guns were in his fists, and the Spider's brain knew what to do. He could do nothing. The lethargy gripped his arms woodenly. The surge that his anger had given him was gone.

Moulin laughed, lifted the revolver a fraction of an inch . . . Wentworth saw a sudden spurt of light near Moulin's feet. And Moulin yelled loudly, furiously. His gun blasted, but the bullet missed. And now Wentworth could move.

But Moulin was gone. He had fled because . . . Wentworth looked down at the ground. He saw a grimy hand projecting from under the propped up front of the overturned armored truck. On a finger gleamed . . . a Spider ring! Even as he stared, an impudent face grinned up at him.

"Bill!" Wentworth whispered. "Bill, I thought you were dead!"

Bill wriggled out from under the truck. "Nuh-uh," he grinned. "No grenade can kill a Spider! I was knocked down, but then I crawled under that front part of the truck. When I saw that guy wasn't dead, I didn't know what to do. But I stopped him, didn't I, Spider? I kept him from shooting you!"

"You certainly did, Bill," Wentworth said. "You're a smart lad, and—"

A hail of machine gun lead sweeping down the street made Wentworth lunge heavily to the earth. The police were coming!

"Quickly!" Wentworth whispered. "The killers are getting away in that big clipper ship they've stolen. Only one thing left to do now—get to Governors' Island, steal an army plane . . ."

They crawled off through the shadows while the police made their cautious way along the street. Over on the Hudson River, great motors were roaring. The clipper would soon take off, carrying away the criminals and their looted treasure. Out of reach of the police, Wentworth surged to his feet. He could run now, heavily, with a hand on Bill Sanders' shoulder.

An interminable interval passed before he reached the edge of the water. He stumbled as he ran along the wharfs, seeking a boat. "I know where there's an outboard motor boat!" Bill cried. "I got a pal who races 'em."

"Get it!" Wentworth snapped.

Now the motors of the great clipper ship bellowed into top speed. The heavy plane taxied in a graceful half-circle, picked up speed. Wentworth swore hoarsely.

His eyes were straining toward the lifting clipper, and he was scarcely aware of clambering into the outboard motor boat and heading for Governors' Island. He knew that he directed Bill where to go and that, presently, they were stealing through the shadows toward the hangars. Planes were warming on the line. Two minutes later, Wentworth heaved himself into the front cockpit of the nearest, while Bill flung himself into the rear cockpit.

There were dim shouts and then the blast of the motor drowned out the voices. The plane scooted across the field, lifted into the air in an incredibly short while and bored almost vertically into the sky.

For minutes, the Spider held the plane in a steep climb. He turned its nose in the direction the clipper had been taking when last he had seen it. He had the advantage on the massive sea-plane by a hundred miles an hour.

Swiftly, he overhauled the clipper. It was making no effort to dodge or avoid him, merely ploughing its deliberate way across the silver and black of the sea. Finally, the monster plane was just beneath him. Wentworth clicked the switch of his radio.

"Calling the clipper," he said quietly. "The Spider speaks. Land on the sea and surrender or I'll blow you out of the air!"

There was a silence for an aching space of time, but presently the slow and mocking voice of Moulin answered:

"Before you blow us out of the sky, Spider, look down at our upper hatch . . . and see whom you will kill first!"

Wentworth swore raspingly, leaned over the side of the cockpit. As he stared, the upper hatch of the big clipper was opened, and a silhouette appeared there. A silhouette which presently was illumined by a flashlight. Wentworth was completely still, wordless, as he peered down into that upturned face.

It was Nita!

Nita's lips were moving. He knew she shouted something above the roar of the engines, and he knew what she would say, brave soul. "Forget me, Dick! Bomb them out of the skies!"

Wentworth shook his head. Grief shook him. He pulled back on the stick and vaulted the ship high into the air. He whipped it in a steep, vertical bank. When he came out of it, he was dropping straight at the big plane!

The hatch in the roof was suddenly a brilliant square of light. Then a man replaced Nita. He saw the flickering serpent tongue of flame at the muzzle of a machine gun. Wentworth's gun-sights were on the man. He did not fire. Deliberately, he pulled the nose forward until the sights showed him the further outboard motor on the left wing. Not until that moment did he squeeze down on the trigger trips.

Tracers streaked from the multiple muzzles of the ship's machine guns, and down those illuminated corridors through the air, screaming, piercing steel was poured! The motor vomited black smoke. The propeller became visible, an eccentric, wavering wreck. That was all Wentworth saw, for once more the stick was back in his lap and the powerful engine was clawing toward the moon-silvered vault of the heavens!

He felt his speedy plane shudder this time to the beat of machine gun bullets punching into it. A strip of aluminum covering fluttered from the wing and was ripped off by the speed of his dive. But once more, his sights were centered on the second port motor. The tracers performed their deathly dance against the blackness, and as he lifted, the second motor was spurting black smoke.

The clipper would have no choice now. It must land!

Wentworth pulled up and circled warily. The clipper's two right hand motors pulled awkwardly about so that it skidded across the sky. Its rudder was cocked over at an extreme angle. Even as Wentworth peered toward the ship, the clipper began to settle. Its other two remaining motors were idling now.

He cut the motor. His voice sounded dull and muted. "Bill, I'm going to land on top that plane. Get hold of the seat cushion. It's a life preserver. When I put the wheels down, get on our wing. Drop off as soon as we've slowed enough."

Bill twisted about. His eyes were strained wide, but with excitement, not fear! "Boy, did you get them!" he caroled. "Did you get them!"

Wentworth smiled slightly. "Once you've done your job, lie flat and grab at the torn metal of a port nacelle. There'll be shooting!"

Bill nodded. He shook a small automatic in the air. "Miss van Sloan gave me this!" he said. "You'll have help!"

Wentworth had to gun his motor again, to pace the gliding clipper. The top hatch was open again. He saw the machine-gunner stick up his head; he plucked out his automatic and fired in one swift movement. The man was driven backward against the forward edge of the hatch. He writhed there for a moment, then dropped from sight. His machine-gun skittered across the whale back and plunged downward toward the sea.

It was only then that Wentworth realized he had drawn and fired with his old swift movement!

An exultant shout lifted to his lips, then the clipper hit the water. It bounced once, then its hull caught solidly . . . and Wentworth tipped his ship's nose down. The clipper was still taxiing through the water at better than sixty miles an hour. His plane's landing speed was seventy miles . . . . Wentworth touched his wheels to the plane's back so gently there was scarcely a jar. Bill, clinging to the cushion with one hand, was already on the low wing of the army plane. The fighter ship ceased rolling and Bill dropped off, scrambling for a motor housing.

Wentworth's left wheel dug into the clipper's back, flipping the tail into the air. Wentworth was pitched out, but he landed flat on his stomach atop the clipper's hull. The pursuit tilted sideways and slipped into the sea. Billy was clinging nearby . . . and the Spider's guns were in his own fists!

The mutter of the motors had died. The clipper was still slapping along through the waves, but its momentum was dying. The heave of the ocean swells was more noticeable. No sound save that. Bill began to crawl toward him, but Wentworth motioned him to be still. His two guns centered on the lighted square of the open hatch.

Then he heard a woman's clear voice call. It was Nita!

"Come ahead, Spider!" she said. "I've got them under my gun!"

Wentworth's lips smiled thinly.

He turned his head, "Crawl slowly toward the hatchway, but don't go in or show yourself!" he whispered.

Then, as the big ship slowed to a halt, Wentworth let go and dropped feet-first into the water beside it! He was up in an instant, and within moments was aboard the stub-wing that served as a hydro-stabilizer.

In two lithe strides, he had reached the companionway that led upward. He was smiling thinly. The effects of the drug had at last worn off! His guns were in his fists. The wet, slow drip of water from his clothing was the only sound. He went up the companionway quickly. The door at the top stood open. Whenever Nita called him Spider, it was a warning of danger!

He could hear now the dull slow steps of Bill walking along the cabin roof. He eased up another step, another. He could see the whole cabin now. The blonde nurse stood behind Nita, with a gun against her spine! Grouped tautly below that trapdoor hatch, automatics and machine guns in their fists, were five men. Bennington, with his benign wrinkled smile; the wily Flash Cassin; Big Gannuck, massive head thrown back while he held his machine gun carelessly; the pompous Dan Flagg, his thick lips loosened by fear . . . and Mark Towan!

Towan had an automatic in each fist, and his glittering, bitter eyes were focused upward. His back was toward the companionway that Wentworth climbed.

"Freeze, gentlemen!" Wentworth snapped. "The Spider is behind you!"

Big Gannuck roared an oath and whipped his machine gun around. Wentworth cleared the last steps in a leap. His left gun reached out and slapped the blonde across the skull. She went down in a heap, and Nita grabbed her gun in the same instant. Wentworth's other automatic jammed hard against Towan's spine!

Only one man made an effort to shoot. That was Flash Cassin. He stood well back against the wall, clear of the obstacle offered by Towan's body. As he swung his revolver around, Wentworth's left gun blasted.

Cassin took the slug through his breastbone. It hurled him back in a convulsed knot against the cabin bulkhead. He fell that way, and his head struck first.

Wentworth laughed, softly. "Excellent, gentlemen!" he said. "Kindly deposit your weapons on the floor! Just drop them. Gannuck!" Steel rang under his pronunciation of that name. Gannuck started and hurriedly dropped the machine gun. After that, Flagg and Bennington did not hesitate. Their weapons dropped.

The Spider stood in his old, battling crouch behind Towan, and his guns were big and formidable. But more menacing even than those sure weapons was the cold stab of his eyes!

"Nita," he said softly, "collect those guns. Then take Mildred into the cockpit. There is no one else aboard?"

"No one," Nita whispered. "Bennington was the pilot."

"Bill!" Wentworth lifted his voice. "You can come down now . . . Nice work, Bill."

The boy dropped down through the hatch without touching a step. He stood staring in wonder at the men around him, then his eyes fell on Nita. His eyes grew even wider, and a slight flush touched his cheeks.

"Get the guns, Bill," Nita said softly.

Bill stooped to pick up the weapons, sliding skilfully in behind the crooks. Wentworth sent Towan reeling across the room with a hard thrust so that he stood with the other four.

"Revive that girl," Wentworth whispered to Nita. "I did not hit her hard . . . and watch her reaction. She, and she alone, knows Moulin!"

* * *

He was silent then while Nita and Bill carried the sagging blonde girl into the cockpit. Even after that, he waited with his narrowed, cold eyes surveying the four who lined the cabin. The water dripped with the slow emphasis of clock ticks upon the deck. Only Flagg and Towan seemed out of countenance. There was a sneer on Big Gannuck's face. Bennington had the benign attitude of a martyred saint.

But Wentworth's eyes roamed over them ceaselessly. His guns were ready in his fists . . . and the water continued to drip, drip, drip.

Flagg broke the silence! "Damn you!" he whined. "This ship is going to sink! Why are you keeping us here like this?"

Wentworth made no answer and presently Bill strolled into the main cabin with his hands in his pockets. He leaned a shoulder against the side wall, and there was a happy grin on his face.

Bennington smiled his slow, lovely smile, and spoke with his orator's voice. "When you are pleased to begin," he said gently, "would you mind shooting me through the heart? I rather fancy my forehead."

Wentworth laughed on a low flat note. "Only one of you will die by my hand," he said coldly. "The man who posed as Moulin!"

Gannuck's sneer increased. "Don't hand us that, Spider. Ain't none of us Moulin. Look, you cracked in on one of our meetings. You saw all of us, and that mug's face at the same time. He's meeting us somewhere along the line, only he didn't say where. And we didn't care!"

Wentworth shook his head, smiling. "What you saw in the glass screen was a projected image of a disguised man, made up to represent Moulin," he said. "The camera was placed behind the glass. It's an old trick, used in motion picture studios to build an artificial background."

Towan said nervously, "Look, I heard him talk. I heard Moulin before. It was Moulin."

Wentworth's lips smiled faintly. He stepped backward and holstered one gun. From beside the radio transmitter, over which Moulin had spoken to him a short while before, he picked up two wires which ended in flat pads. He tucked these inside his collar, threw a switch. Then his lips moved . . . and the voice of Moulin came from his throat!

"You fools!" he said. "Do you think you can trick the Spider with anything as simple as the motion picture Sono-vox!"

There was amazement in the faces of the four men who faced Wentworth. He snapped the wires from contact with his throat, tossed them back upon the radio.

The Spider slowly surveyed the men. "I will give you two minutes to tell me," he said slowly, "which one of you is Moulin!"

Bennington shook his head in a frenzy. Gannuck's face grew pale. But Flagg fell upon his knees and Towan cowered and covered his eyes with his hand. The Spider's gun muzzle had lifted in menace!

"Moulin should be bullet-marked," Wentworth continued softly. "Except for the thick covering he wore to increase the size of his cranium, he would be dead! My bullet did not cut deeply enough into that covering. I am sorry, gentlemen. It will be necessary for me to shoot all of you, in turn, should you refuse to talk. Bennington!"

Bennington drew himself up tremblingly. "I swear to you, Spider," he said harshly, "I do not know. That Sono-vox device fooled me completely!"

"Let me assist you," the Spider said softly. "You will see plainly that it is some one familiar with motion picture technique, a disguise artist, a man who could be in two places at once by that device, who could argue with himself. In fact, the only man among you who had the courage to argue with Moulin!"

Bennington's brows lifted slowly. He turned his head stiffly.

"Talk, Bennington!" Wentworth snapped.

Bennington opened his lips, snapped them shut again. He shrugged and faced Wentworth. "Hell, I don't know," he said.

Wentworth pulled the trigger of his right hand gun. He was very sure of his aim. His bullet just grazed the temple of Bennington, but it slammed him to the floor. It put blood on his temple. It looked as if he were dead.

"It's too bad he was stubborn," the Spider's cold voice said softly . . . but loudly enough to be heard in the pilot's cabin where Nita held the blonde captive. "It looks as if I shall have to shoot each of you in turn. You're next in line Towan!"

Towan had a cringing, whining voice. "Why are you picking on me, Spider?" he said. He clasped his trembling hands together and Wentworth watched him closely. "You got nothing on me!"

Wentworth laughed metallically, ominously. "Everything I have laid down as a characteristic of Moulin fits you perfectly, Towan," he said. "And you have a brown spot on your right shoe . . . . But I'll pardon you, if you'll name for me this Moulin!"

Towan turned and pointed a shaking hand at Flagg.

"There he is!" he cried. "He's Moulin!"

Flagg threw himself down on his knees. "No, no!" he screamed.

Every man in that room looked toward Flagg, even the Spider. It was natural. Flagg was on his knees, pleading. Towan's trembling left hand pointed toward him . . . but it was his left hand. And Towan was right handed!

At the same moment, there was a gasp and stamp of feet in the pilot's cabin. The blonde bolted to the doorway . . . but Nita was right behind her, with a gun.

Double distraction . . . nicely planned.

Under cover of that movement, Towan's hand blurred with speed as he snapped out a hidden gun!

Nita screamed. Bill cried out as his head whipped around . . . but the Spider laughed!

As Towan's gun jerked into line, the Spider fired! His bullet caught Towan dead center between the eyes. It jerked his whole body into a rigid line and slammed him backward against the wall of the cabin. He folded in the middle, sat down, pitched sideways. The blonde screamed. She screamed and ran toward Towan. She dropped down on her knees beside the crumpled body.

Wentworth said softly, "Thank you, Nita. That was well timed."

"She was trembling from the moment you mentioned Towan," Nita said quietly.

Wentworth nodded. "She was the voice of Moulin. Her lips moved but it was apparently because she was phrasing what she wrote down in her book. Actually, she was reading, not writing. You will remember, you other fools, that she was always present when Moulin spoke!" He peered toward the slain Towan. "I'm afraid I won't be able to put the seal on his forehead," he said. "He hasn't any . . . now."

He turned to Nita. "Hold them under your gun, my dear, while I tie them up. The police or the army will be after them very soon. We will leave them, with the looted gold. It will be enough to condemn them. I noticed in the cabin below that they brought along a small motorboat. It will just accommodate the three of us, you and me . . . and Bill!"

It was ten minutes later that they launched the small boat. Wentworth turned its nose toward shore, and through the darkness of the night that had fallen when the moon drifted into a high bank of clouds, they sped to safety. Airplane motors were muttering faintly overhead, and presently with the dawn they would spot the clipper and her guilty crew.

Wentworth sat very erectly in the sternsheets, his hand on the tiller, with Nita beside him. On the midthwart, Bill Sanders sat with his chin on his fists. There was worship on his face.

Wentworth smiled at him, "My friend, Wentworth, will want to do something for you, Bill, to repay you for helping to save his fiancée, Nita. I would suggest that you let him finance your education."

Bill grinned eagerly. "I don't want nobody to give me anything," he said, "but I would like to study up on how to help you, Spider!"

Wentworth's smile faded. He shook his head slowly. "No, Bill," he said quietly. "You do not want to be the Spider," he said. He was quiet for a moment, and the high whine of diving airplane motors came to his ears. "If those men could see me now," he said, "they would use their machine guns. And I am a lonely man, Bill. There can be no life for me save this life of ceaseless battle. No home. No . . . love."

Nita's head was bowed. She drew in a slow, long breath, and there was a glisten in her eyes. But she lifted her head again and smiled straight before her, and there was pride in her smile.

"There can be only one Spider, Bill," Wentworth said, "and he must walk always alone!"

Bill's face showed his sombre grief. A plane swooped low, and his white face turned up fearfully.

"Cover your face!" Wentworth snapped. "They can see it! That's all they need . . . as a target!"

Bill shuddered and looked down.

"It is always like that," Wentworth said softly, "for the Spider! There are those who chant my praises, and even while they eulogize me . . . others are seeking my life. No, Bill, you do not want to be the Spider! But you shall lead a life of service, if that is what you want. You have served me greatly this night!"

Nita sensed that Wentworth wanted the subject changed, for there was heaviness and grief in his voice when he spoke of the life that lay ahead of the Spider . . . the lonely struggle, without reward, other than the knowledge of a task well done, of a pledge of service fulfilled. A thankless task, but noble! He would not desert it, or change . . . not even for her love!

Nita's voice was tender, though her words were merely curious. "Dick, you knew Towan was guilty in there," she said. "Your logic proved it. You only wanted him to make a break so that you could . . . eliminate him once and for all."

Wentworth said, quietly, "Yes, Nita."

Nita nodded. "I knew . . . because you mentioned a brown mark on his shoe. But what did you mean?"

Wentworth laughed. "Bill did that for me," he said. "Towan was lying on the ground, feigning death, in order to ambush me. Bill was hidden nearby and he forced Towan to betray himself, and miss his aim . . . and at the same time, he marked him for future identification!"

Bill said, "Golly, did I do all that?"

Wentworth nodded gravely.

"But how?" Nita insisted.

Wentworth grinned slowly. "He stuck two matches into the welt of Towan's shoe . . . and touched them off."

Nita said "You mean that Bill . . . ."

"Bill," said Wentworth solemnly, "gave a murderer, with a gun in his hand—the hot-foot!"

Nita's silvery laughter pealed into the night. Her hand was warm in the clasp of the man she loved. To her, in that moment, even the swooping roar of the hunting planes overhead seemed remote and harmless. But the planes were there; those who hunted the Spider would always be there! And his only reward would be in the worshipping eyes of such boys as Bill Sanders.

Nita's laughter broke on a gasp that was half a sob. Humbly, she thought, "That is all his reward, but . . . for him . . . it is enough!"

AFTERWORD

One Lonely Knight

by Joel Frieman

Research. That's what Norvell W. Page was doing that night a week after the incident at Gavagan's. Being in a good mood after Carroll John Daly had filled him in during lunch at Scoop's on East 43rd Street, Page decided to accept Daly's invitation. After all, she knew who was trying to kill him and why.

It was all very simple. Susan Fleming works for "The Office," a new agency headed by "Wild Bill" Donovan, an old friend of Daly's. She got to the bottom of it by, among other things, interviewing Harry Donenfeld, who was partial to lanky blue-eyed blondes.

As Daly put it, words just flowed from the expansive Donenfeld, and the truth finally surfaced.

"Get this," Daly said choking down a laugh. "Her job is keeping tabs on certain accounts on deposit with Intercommerce Credit Trust, one of those clandestine banks registered in Monaco with branches in Europe, New York and the Middle East—and close ties to the Nazi Ministry of Finance."

Daly took a sip from a squat glass filled with amber liquid and continued, "In the final months of 1940, some noticeable activity in Mexico appeared on the horizon concerning the account of the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem, a leading Nazi sympathizer known for recruiting Moslems for the SS. After careful investigation, all indications revealed that a team of assassins had entered the United States from Mexico through extra legal channels. Two German and eight Moslem Nazis. Of course, now there's only one German and seven Moslems to worry about. But, you were not their target."

"You mean," Page asked incredulously, "this has all been a case of mistaken identity?"

"Not quite." Daly took a deep breath and went on. "You see, the secondary target was Harry Donenfeld. Why? Because Hitler seems to have a problem with Superman, especially one that isn't Aryan. Since Donenfeld keeps promoting himself as 'The Man Who Owns Superman,' he became an easy target. Susan wasn't at liberty to tell me who's the primary target."

"Where do I fit in?" Page wondered.

"On their arrival in New York," Daly replied while pondering the details, "the Nazi assassins somehow ran across Donenfeld at one of his watering holes. That's where Susan had located him later on. She had heard what had happened from several sources before cornering him."

Taking another sip, Daly added, "Donenfeld had a problem on his hands. One of the top Detective Comics writers had been complaining. To keep him happy, Donenfeld decided to take him out for supper and a few drinks. Accent on the drinks. During the evening, while under the influence, the writer whined that he wasn't receiving any credit for something that he helped to create. Donenfeld, who was further along in his cups, took this as some cue and all of the sudden tore open the front of his dress shirt—buttons were flying everywhere—and yelled at the top of his lungs, 'You think you have troubles. Because those fools took The Spider story, I could lose this!' Then Donenfeld pointed to his blue T-shirt with the red letter 'S' insignia."

Daly fixed his gaze on Page and said, "The next thing out of his mouth was, 'I'd pay $10,000 to anyone who kills Norvell Page!' Sobering up immediately, the writer ran out. Seems he's a fan of yours. On the other hand, the group of Nazi assassins must have overhead this and took it literally. They're not going to kill Donenfeld until they collect that $10,000. It's a fortune where they come from."

In any event, Daly was supposed to meet Susan Fleming some place where she was staying at over the weekend in Princeton, and had asked him to come by on Friday night around eight. Daly begged off, but said that he would appreciate her seeing a friend who was also a writer, instead. And that's how Norvell Page wound up meeting her.

Cursing the Sinclair gas station attendant in Newark who provided him with the road map and directions, and the arcane New Jersey highway system, too, Norvell Page eased his new black Chrysler sedan to the curb in front of the 112 Mercer Street house shortly after 9:30.

As he got out of the car, he took his black fedora from the passenger side of the front seat, and closed the car door. While placing the fedora on his head, he glimpsed a shadow on the porch vanishing through the front door.

The front gate off the sidewalk was open, and he headed down the walkway, and up the stairs to the porch. The front door was slightly ajar.

Hearing the sound of a lightly tread step inside, Page automatically entered, only to be greeted with darkness. As his eyes adjusted, he began to focus and saw someone slowly ascend the stairs. It was a man.

Always game, Page decided to silently observe. As the man neared the top of the stairs, Page carefully placed a foot on the first step and started up.

At the top of the stairs, the man started abruptly when someone turned on the landing light above him. Alert, he withdrew a Walther P-38 from inside his overcoat and brandished it about, covering the area in front of him. Page thought to himself as he advanced quietly up the stairs, "So, this must be the German."

Alighting on the landing, the man halted as Page was several steps from the top.

Approaching from the bedroom doorway, Susan Fleming was toweling her hair and wearing a man's bathrobe. She halted immediately when she spotted a pair of men's shoes from her downward angle of vision. She dropped the towel. Agape, the man dropped the pistol.

Just then, the ever ready Page started up the stairs, tripped, toppled, and skidded right into the middle of things, his black fedora flying off and landing near Susan's bare feet. Just as the man started to bend, Page recovered and grabbed the pistol. The man continued his bow and gallantly said, "Otto Skorzeny at your service!"

Now flipped over on his back, the writer without his trademark hat pointed the pistol at the assassin without his weapon and proclaimed, "Norvell Page at your service!"

Susan swooped down, plucked up the black fedora, rose as she placed it on her head, then angrily exclaimed, "I didn't ring for service!"

Skorzeny then leaped across the landing to, into, across the bedroom, and crashed through the window.

Suddenly, seven swarthy bearded men wielding Samurai swords came charging up the stairs.

Still flat on his back, Page aimed the Walther P-38 9mm Parabellum eight-shot double-action automatic pistol in their direction and pulled the trigger.

"Click!"

As the Nazi Moslems rushed furiously towards Page, Susan Fleming closed the front of her robe, grabbed the belt, and tied it firmly. Then, she reached into the weighted down pockets of the bathrobe, whipped out two .45 automatics and started blasting the thugs into the next world.

Before Page could start breathing normally, the slashing Samurai sword-wielding assassins had breathed their last. The aroma from burnt cordite fumes permeated the air. As he looked up, Susan Fleming looked down, and they both began to laugh as he bolted up from the floor to a standing position.

"What did the person who lives in this abode do to have those guys pay a visit?" Page asked.

Placing each .45 automatic back into its corresponding bathrobe pocket, she glanced at the now silent seven and responded, "They must have followed you here."

Then, approaching the corpses, she reached down, opened the suit jackets of two, then a third, retrieving two working Radom 9mm pistols and handing them to Page.

"They look like Brownings," observed Page. "Thanks. They make nice souvenirs."

All business, Susan started to run down the stairs as she ordered, "There's no time to waste! Follow me."

Dashing down the stairs, Page called out, "Can I have my hat back?"

Susan paused before the door, then turned to Page as he reached her, and said, "Yes, when I'm through with it!"

Then, she opened the door wide, quietly ran towards the street, the cold sidewalk stinging her bare feet. Not knowing what was going on, Page still followed her. When they came upon his new black Chrysler, Page saw that, on the street side of the vehicle, there was a four-door wood-paneled wagon doubled parked and hemming him in. Susan headed for it and got in, still wearing his black fedora. The key was still in place, and she started the ignition while she spoke to him through the open car door, "Take a walk around the block and see if there's anything suspicious. And, be careful!"

Susan silently drove off. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that the Woody Wagon did no damage to the Chrysler. Page began his walk with each hand in each overcoat pocket, gripping each respective pistol.

When he turned the corner, Page spotted a black Town Car parked in an unlighted area. As he approached the car, the rear door opened. Instantly, he realized that he was mistaken for Skorzeny. He got in, taking his hands slowly out of his overcoat pockets. The door remained open, because he was pointing one pistol at the person on the backseat and one at the driver.

Just then, the Woody Wagon screeched to a halt at an angle, blocking the front end of the Town Car. Done so expertly, behind the steering wheel, wearing that hat, Susan could easily be mistaken for a man, if she did not turn around.

Making sure that nothing would spoil the illusion, such as the driver turning on the Town Car headlights, Page threatened, "One move out of either of you and you both get it!"

The man next to him was wearing a gray three-piece business suit. From around his scrawny neck eerily hung that medal presented by Adolf Hitler.

Perplexed, the man quietly asked, "What happened to Mr. Skorzeny?"

"He's probably half-way to Canada," Page retorted, then, "What's a nice 'pacifist' like you doing in a place like this?"

"Do you know who you're talking to?" the elderly industrialist then asked indignantly.

Hefting the loaded pistols in his hands while spying Susan in the car ahead looking at the rear view mirror of the Woody Wagon for the approach of her backup team, Page finally had the chance to say it.

"Frankly, I don't give a damn." Then, he added, "I drive a Chrysler!"

THE END

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THE SPIDER-City of Doom

Table of Contents

FOREWORD
The Man Who Invented Hard-Boiled

by Joel Frieman

THE CITY DESTROYER

Chapter One
"I Am The Spider!"

Chapter Two
Ram Singh Falls

Chapter Three
When Thousands Died

Chapter Four
Flight From Doom

Chapter Five
The Second Calamity

Chapter Six
The Hot Trail

Chapter Seven
Lull Before the Storm

Chapter Eight
The Spider Draws Blood

Chapter Nine
Prey of the Master
Chapter Ten
Briggs' Confession

Chapter Eleven
A Dangerous Game

Chapter Twelve
The Game Is Lost

Chapter Thirteen
"Let Me Kill Him!"

Chapter Fourteen
Mcswag Pays

Chapter Fifteen
A Strong Man Falters

Chapter Sixteen
Briggs the Hero

Chapter Seventeen
The Spider Wages Battle

Chapter Eighteen
Two Thousand Will Die!

Chapter Nineteen
The End of the Murder Master

THE FACELESS ONE

Chapter One
Death-Trap for the Spider

Chapter Two
Where Death Waits

Chapter Three
The Spider At Bay

Chapter Four
The Flame Master

Chapter Five
The Mouth of Hell

Chapter Six
Street Scenes Of The Damned

Chapter Seven
Murder Conference

Chapter Eight
Hour of Sacrifice

Chapter Nine
Hell Below

Chapter Ten
Munro's Knife

THE COUNCIL OF EVIL

Chapter One
Dark Portent

Chapter Two
Against Odds

Chapter Three
Without Quarter!

Chapter Four
Hell's Invasion

Chapter Five
Disaster

Chapter Six
Council of Evil

Chapter Seven
In the Trap

Chapter Eight
Death's Rehearsal

Chapter Nine
Jaws of Doom

Chapter Ten
Treachery

Chapter Eleven
The Trap Is Sprung

Chapter Twelve
Zero Hour

Chapter Thirteen
Hour of Doom

AFTERWORD
One Lonely Knight

by Joel Frieman