Spider (20 page)

The turbaned Hindu, the
Spider's
servant to the death, grunted, but made no other reply. To Ram Singh, all men who opposed his master were game for his swift, keen knives.
Wah!
Mice!

The
Spider
flung into a black, low-slung Daimler sedan and the Hindu leaped to the driver's seat, sent the powerful car almost silently through the woods lane. In the tonneau, the
Spider
dropped his hand to a button beneath the left half of the cushions. The seat slid smoothly forward, turned half about and revealed in its back a closely hung wardrobe. The
Spider
folded upward a mirror about which neon lights instantly glowed. He pulled out a tray filled with the equipment of disguise. . . .

Five minutes later, as the car slid to the concrete highway which skirted the front of Latham's estate, the
Spider
—who was the
Spider
no longer—slid the cleverly contrived wardrobe into place, lounged back against the luxurious upholstery and drew a cigarette from a platinum case. When the police stopped him a hundred yards further on, he leaned forward politely to speak to the sergeant.

"Identify myself?" he said in the rich baritone that was his natural voice. "Oh, decidedly, sergeant!" He drew out a wallet, extracted a card and presented it between two perfectly manicured fingers.

The sergeant scowled at first, then his face cleared. He actually smiled. "A thousand pardons, Mr. Wentworth," he murmured obsequiously. "I've heard of you in New York, working with the cops to stop some of them crooks. Something here might interest you, sir. Them vampire bats killed about twenty men over there. . . ."

Richard Wentworth listened attentively. This was no masquerade, but his true identity. Scion of a wealthy family—its last surviving member—he had long ago pledged himself to the suppression of crime. He had created that other sinister character, the
Spider,
so that the Underworld might be additionally cleansed by a healthy fear.

Richard Wentworth, clubman, sportsman and amateur criminologist, was a friend of Governors and of Presidents, a man eagerly sought after by Commissioners of Police whenever the ugly head of super-crime was lifted. He sat there, his bronzed, strongly chiseled face keenly intelligent as he listened to the sergeant's account of the deaths at Latham's mansion. Finally he nodded gravely, a pleasant smile on his firm lips, his gray-blue eyes merry.

"Thank you, sergeant," he said, "if you will pass me through the gates I would be glad to look over the scene."

It was wasted time, Wentworth—the
Spider
—knew, but it would be suspicious to pass without inquiry. He hurried the inspection as much as possible, on fire with eagerness to pursue his quest. It was pretty well known in police circles that Latham had a tie-up with Red Cullihane, a Philadelphia brewer who in prohibition days had been one of the leading big-shots of the East. Wentworth no longer believed that Latham was connected with the Bat Man, but it was pretty obvious that Latham had been a target for especial animosity. It might well be that Cullihane would next be the target.

After leaving the grounds, he stopped once on the way northward through Maryland to send a night-letter. It began
Ma Cherie
and was addressed to Miss Nita van Sloan, Riverside Towers, New York City. Part of the message said
Dinner Thursday at the Early Quaker.
The rest of it seemed to be lovers' words but actually it bade the woman he loved—his ablest ally in the battle against crime—to hasten to Philadelphia with his speedy Northrup plane and bring with her his chauffeur, Jackson, who was much more than a chauffeur in the plans of the
Spider.

Then the low, black car of the
Spider
sped northward again. To any one who gazed upon the man in its back seat, he would have seemed a bored member of the class of idle rich. To be sure there was a strength and intelligence about his face and a singular directness of gaze, a confidence of bearing that had nothing to do with a bank account, which might have surprised the onlooker. But, certainly, his face gave no evidence of the grim thoughts that were racing through his mind. . . .

Until now, Wentworth had had little opportunity to consider the events of the evening and now that he reviewed the attack of the bats, he felt a mounting sense of dread. There could be no doubt at all of human agency. Even without the wailing cry which had heralded the attack, the shrill squeaking as of a giant bat which had called the killers home, there was the spear which had smashed through the screening so that the bats would be able to enter and do their assassin's work. Yes, in that one venture, the
Spider
had confirmed his fear that a new menace had arisen for humanity.

Wentworth glanced at his watch, then leaned forward to turn on the radio. There was a news broadcast about now. . . . The announcer's voice came to him with unexpected harshness. There was excitement beneath the calm ordering of carefully enunciated syllables:

"Jack Harkins, ladies and gentlemen, bringing you the extraordinary news of the day. . . ."

Innocuous phrases, but the man's words were fraught with tension, with terror. Harkins had a stimulating voice. He talked in pounding short phrases that seemed to bring the action he described into the very room with his listeners.

"Does the world face another of those overwhelming madman's attacks which have struck terror to our hearts in recent years? May God in His mercy will that it is not so. But it looks as if it is. These winged horrors of the night, the vampire bats, have struck again! Twice tonight, in two widely separated parts of the country, they have struck. And, ladies and gentlemen,
one hundred and ninety-five people are dead!
Think of it, one hundred and ninety-five!"

Wentworth, listening to the hurried, staccato rhythm of the newsman, felt his hands clench in hard white knots. None could have detected the idler in his face now, for it was white and rigid with anger and his blue-gray eyes were almost black with fury. Then what he feared had already come to pass! The Bat Man had not been content with his attack upon Latham. . . .

"At first there seemed to be no danger except to those who were associated with horses in some way. It is a well-known fact that the vampire bat confines itself largely to horses, prefers their blood to most others. But tonight, that hopeful idea was dispelled once and for all, and terribly dispelled. In Centertown, Pennsylvania, the bats flittered down and kissed the throats of lovers in the parks, they tasted of the blood of brave policemen on their beats, brought their poison death to the gay crowd before the motion picture shows. A dozen people were killed in the panic, in the dash to escape, but many, many more were prey to the vicious poisoned teeth of these bloodthirsty little beasts. . . ."

There was more, much more of that sort of thing, all melodramatic, highly-colored and calculated to help the work of the Bat Man, whatever that was, by spreading the terror of the bats. Wentworth shook his head. There was no reason for the
Spider
to visit Centertown. Nothing to be gained by gazing on more bat-slain human beings. He must hasten to Philadelphia, hoping against hope that he had guessed right about the next target of the Bat Man. Abruptly his attention was pulled back to the radio. . . .

"And now, folks, to the most exciting part of the whole thing," the newsman went on. "And something you won't know whether to believe or not. The
Spider
was seen at Latham's place. Yes, sir, the
Spider
! And a girl whose brother was killed a week ago by the bats, says she saw the
Spider carrying a cage full of bats!
Now, what does that mean? Is it possible that the
Spider. . . .
"

With a grated curse, Wentworth shut off the radio and sat rigidly, staring straight ahead of him into the blackness of the night. No need to ask what lay ahead. Once more the nation would go mad and hunt the only man who could save it from the monster who had loosed his flying killers on the people. It would blame the
Spider
and throughout the country would ring the blood-thirsty cry of . . .

"Death to the
Spider
!"

A hard bitterness descended upon Wentworth. Damnable to have the very people for whom he had sacrificed so much—for whom he hourly risked death and disgrace—turn upon him in this way. He should have become accustomed to it by now, he who had served without stint in the face of persecution by law and criminal and civilian, but somehow the thought could still rankle. Not that the
Spider
ever wavered in his devotion to the pledge he had made so long ago. . . .

He caught up the speaking tube which communicated with Ram Singh. "I must be in Philadelphia within the hour," he ordered quietly

He saw the tensing of the Hindu's broad shoulders, saw the turbaned head bend a little more over the steering wheel and heard the bass thunder of the engine deepen a full tone. The wind whispered past the car, but there was no other indication of its great speed except the occasional whine of tires on a curb. Within the hour. Yes, it was necessary to hurry. Wentworth had not anticipated that the Bat Man would strike again so quickly. Now that he had shown his versatility, there was no reason why he should not attack Red Cullihane, Latham's associate, at once.

Wentworth realized that it was merely his assumption that Cullihane would be attacked, a slim thread of hope. But there was no other clue to follow. It was desperately necessary that he find some more definite lead to this Bat Man immediately. If he could only be on the scene when next the vampires struck, he had a plan. . . .

When Ram Singh drew the powerful Daimler to a halt on a street that paralleled Philadelphia's waterfront, it was not Wentworth who alighted from the car, but a hunched and sinister figure whose very appearance was a threat . . . the
Spider.
The
Spider
knew—it was a part of his self-imposed duty to know—much about Red Cullihane. He knew of his home in the Heights and his gambling salon near the Early Quaker hotel where Wentworth had appointed a meeting with Nita the next evening. Actually it had been Latham who ran the place with Cullihane to provide protection

Then there was a great, gaunt warehouse upon the hill overlooking the Quaker which was used as a depot for distribution of the Golden Stein beer which Cullihane now manufactured legally. It was this warehouse which Wentworth now approached for here was Cullihane's stronghold and, if he feared attack, it was the place where he would be most likely to barricade himself.

Swiftly, the
Spider
advanced on the building, invisible in the black shadows with which he merged himself, and, from an alley mouth across the street from Cullihane's warehouse, he stood watching. Three minutes passed and a black coupe cruised slowly past, turned a corner beside the warehouse and vanished. Four minutes later, it appeared again and followed the same course. The
Spider's
thinned lips parted a little, showing the white gleam of his teeth. He was right then. Cullihane was frightened. He had taken up his position here and the coupe was a patrol, a sentry on wheels, against attack.

When the coupe had crawled out of sight again, Wentworth darted across the street. . . .

"
Spider!
" It was a woman's voice, high, challenging.

Wentworth did not turn toward the call. It was too old a trick, that crying a name to attract attention, to cause a moment of motionless waiting while deadly lead was poured into a victim. He went flat down on the pavement of the street. The crack of a light automatic sounded strangely loud in the deserted street. The bullet splatted against the bricks of the warehouse. He had a moment to wonder at the attack, then he sprang to his feet. Jumping sideways, as the girl fired again, he charged straight toward her!

Dangerous work this, racing into the muzzle of an automatic, even though it was light in caliber and a woman handled it. But like everything the
Spider
did, it was a maneuver shrewdly planned in his lightning-swift mind. There was no cover for him there in the middle of the street. Within seconds, Cullihane's sentry would arrive at the scene. Only one chance and he took it, charging straight on the gun.

He had two hopes, one that his charge would confuse the girl. The other. . . . With his left arm, he billowed his cape wide to that side. In the darkness, his long cape, which almost swept the ground, would make him a confusing target as it spread out to one side—would make it hard for anyone to judge the position of his body.

The muffling folds of the cape served him in good stead. His charge did not frighten the girl, nor did the booming discharges of his automatic which he fired deliberately wide. But the cloak did the trick. The
Spider
felt two bullets tug at it. The failure of those bullets did what his charge could not. It terrified the girl. While the
Spider
was still twenty feet away, she turned and fled. . . .

Wentworth raced after her, his feet silent while hers beat a panicky tattoo upon the cement. The
Spider's
jaw was tight set. He sprinted at his best pace—and in his university days, Wentworth had broken an intercollegiate record! There was desperate need for haste. Any moment now, that prowling coupe with its two men, undoubtedly heavily armed, would be upon them. And that must not happen. It must not. . . .

The girl twisted her head about as she ran, saw his figure with the cape streaming from broad shoulders as he rapidly overtook her. She screamed, high, piercing sounds of terror. She fired blindly, uselessly behind her . . . and the
Spider
pounced upon her. He knocked the gun arm up, slapped an arm about her waist. He did not check his speed, but lifted her bodily from the ground and sprang toward a doorway a half dozen feet ahead.

Even while he hastened for the shadows that would mean life or death to them, the girl began to struggle. She could not strike with her fists, since her back was toward Wentworth, but she did use her feet. Her heels drummed against his shins. The
Spider
could hear the roar of the engine as the automobile he feared raced to the scene. He heard the squeal of skidding tires. . . . With a vaulting leap, he gained the doorway, thrust the girl into a corner and held her there.