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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!

 

 

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Framed