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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!

 

 

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Framed