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!