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.