THE SPIDER-City of Doom (36 page)

"My home," Kirkpatrick told the driver quietly, "and make it fast, Cassidy."

Wentworth said nothing. His eyes bored straight ahead, and the police were close about him, with ready guns. He was tempted to strike out about him; to break from custody and take his chances later with convincing Kirkpatrick that his escape had been made in order to warn the
Spider.
No, better to wait, until he had seen this escape-proof cell of Kirkpatrick's! Strange that he had ordered the driver to his home . . . . He tried to keep his eyes off the slow jumping of the dashboard clock hands.

Wordlessly still, Kirkpatrick took Wentworth up the elevator to his own apartment, and now they were alone save for the driver, Cassidy. The man's pale blue eyes roved over Wentworth constantly, and Wentworth studied him secretly. Evidently, this man was to be his guard. His hopes rose . . . . One man on guard!

When he saw the cell, his heart fell. He remembered now that Kirkpatrick had mentioned once before a plan for safeguarding witnesses against criminal assault; the next time one was threatened, he would keep that witness in his own home! And this cell had been prepared for that purpose. It had no window, and only one door, which opened into Kirkpatrick's bedroom. That door was reinforced by a second gate of tool steel. And the locks were intricate and shielded by a broad plate of armor steel that precluded the possibility of Wentworth reaching it!

When the door clanged shut, Kirkpatrick stepped back from the grating, and his eyes pleaded for understanding.

"I have to do this, Dick," he said quietly. "Cassidy, I hold you entirely responsible." He touched a button, and a shield of bullet-proof glass slid out of floor sockets. "You will stand behind this shield, Cassidy," he said. "You will not stir from this spot until I return. Dick, it won't be long. In ten minutes, the
Spider
will appear . . . or I will know that you are the
Spider!
"

"And if anything should prevent the
Spider
from appearing," Wentworth said quietly, "you will have been responsible for Nita's death! Remember that!"

Kirkpatrick's face was grey and drawn. "The
Spider
always keeps his word," he said . . . and strode from the room.

Behind the shield, Cassidy stood rigidly, gun in hand, and his eyes rested a little fearfully upon Richard Wentworth. Wentworth stood motionless also. There was so little time. But, as Kirkpatrick had said, the
Spider
always kept his word! There had to be a way out. He still had the small automatic strapped to his arm; police had found and removed the others, but that glass shield prevented him from using the gun. Short of Cassidy's death, there was no way he could escape without the knowledge of Kirkpatrick, sooner or later; and that knowledge would be more condemnatory than if the
Spider
failed to appear! But Nita . . . God!

Wentworth did not delude himself with the hope that Munro would turn Nita free even if the
Spider
did appear, but it was his one last chance to make contact with a man as fleeting as a handful of smoke. He had to be there; had to capture Munro . . .
had to.
Wentworth's eyes were half-veiled by their lids as he studied Cassidy. There was still a way, perhaps. Cassidy was a genius at driving, but Wentworth remembered he had not done so well as a patrolman. Cassidy was frowning now with hard concentration as he gripped his revolver behind the shield.

Yes, Wentworth had one slim chance. He had battled against the will of master hypnotists himself; and had never succumbed unless drugs had been used upon him previously. It was the power of his mind against theirs, and it was the mind of the Master of Men that triumphed. That he had the personal magnitude for command he had proved time and again; every leader has to that extent the potency of the hypnotist. But could he . . . could he hypnotize Cassidy! Wentworth knew the theory of the art perfectly, though he had not himself practiced it. In the end, it reduced itself to tiring the optic nerves of the patient and overbearing his will power with your own!

Wentworth slipped a key ring from his vest pocket and began to twirl it around and around his finger. It caught facets of bright light, twinkled them against the bullet-proof screen behind which Cassidy stood. He twirled . . . and presently, he saw that Cassidy's eyes were following the flash of the keys. It was inevitable in a scene so otherwise devoid of interest that he should watch movement. For a long minute after minute, Wentworth twirled the key. Slowly, he lifted his hand toward his face . . . and Cassidy's eyes followed!

Wentworth waited until the keys were twirling squarely before his own eyes, and then he swallowed the keys with his hand. He had put his own gaze on Cassidy's, and he widened his eyes, concentrated all his will power on holding Cassidy's stare with his own! He saw Cassidy shiver a little; saw him try to took away . . . and fail!

Wentworth's eyes blazed with the living force of his will, and he flung that thunderbolt of his personality against the weaker mind of the man who confronted him, beyond that screen of glass. Presently, Wentworth's lips began to move, and his sibilant whisper reached across the room.

"My will above yours, Cassidy," he whispered. "My will is stronger than yours. You must obey me! You wish to obey me. Cassidy, you wish to obey me!"

Cassidy's lips quivered. His eyes were strained wide, and the gun was held as solidly as rock in his hand.

"Cassidy!" Wentworth's voice had the command of a trumpet. "
Cassidy, you must obey me!
"

Cassidy's lips moved again. His voice came out woodenly, "I—I must obey you!" he stammered.

Wentworth felt the wetness of perspiration upon his forehead, and he pushed out of his mind all thought other than domination of this man before him. He willed himself to forget the rapid flight of the minutes, and how much that could mean to him.

"We have been fighting men who deal in fire, Cassidy," Wentworth said softly. "They have set this place on fire. You can feel the heat of it. That is why the perspiration is on your forehead. That is why you are afraid, Cassidy. The place is on fire!"

Fright stiffened Cassidy's face. He said, shakily, "The place is on fire!"

"You must release your prisoner, Cassidy," Wentworth whispered. "If you let him burn to death, it would be murder! Kirkpatrick would fire you and you would never drive his car again. You would never again drive a car with the siren shrieking. So you must open the cell, Cassidy. Then you certainly will be a real hero!"

Cassidy went through a struggle then, and Wentworth's eyes burned and burned into his.

"You feel the heat," he said.

"I feel the heat!" Cassidy echoed. "The place is on fire."

"
The place is on fire!
"

"Cassidy," Wentworth ordered crisply, "unlock the cell and save the prisoner from the fire!"

Cassidy's lips opened. He shuddered . . . and stepped slowly around the glass shield. "Unlock the cell," he repeated woodenly!

Seconds later, the steel lattice swung open—and Wentworth stepped outside, a free man! He did not take his eyes from Cassidy.

"Cassidy, behind that glass shield, you will be safe from fire," he said softly. "If you step out from behind it, you will be burned! Stay behind that shield every minute, Cassidy . . .
and forget what has happened!
"

Wentworth bounded across the room, and he staggered a little as he ran, so intense had been the concentration of his mind. He felt as shaken as though he had fought a great battle . . . and God, time was so short! Impossible now to return to his home for the cape and garb of the
Spider!
He whirled toward Kirkpatrick's coat closet, and whipped out a long evening dress cape, lined with white satin. He found a black fedora and dragged it down over his brows. It was the best he could do . . . asbestos cape and fire extinguishers were at his home. He had one light gun instead of his two heavy arms. And he was going to a rendezvous with almost certain death—to capture the most clever, ruthless criminal he had ever fought!

Wentworth laughed, and the sound came out of his lips with thin self-mockery. He hurled himself down the stairs toward the street. He had three minutes . . . .

Within thirty seconds, Wentworth was hurling himself into a cab at the door of the apartment house.

"Down Park Avenue! Fast!"

The driver wrenched the cab out from the curb and sent it spurting down Park Avenue. Wentworth loosened the gun from the rubber bands at his wrist. The cape was thrown over his arm, the hat perched jauntily on his head. Nothing here for the man to recognize as the
Spider!
But he could not ride the whole way in this cab, lest a link be made between Kirk's apartment and the rendezvous of the
Spider
!

A half-dozen blocks down Park Avenue, Wentworth paid off the cab. He waited through feverish seconds while the machine tooled on, then Wentworth turned a corner and stepped toward another cab at the curb. The driver hopped out, and Wentworth moved in sharply. His left fist jolted upward solidly to the jaw, and he crossed the right neatly.

Wentworth stooped over to thrust a ten dollar bill into the man's hand . . . then sprang behind the wheel!

One minute was left before he was due to walk into that black tunnel, but it would be enough. A bare ten blocks to cover, and he cared nothing for traffic lights now! As he ground the accelerator to the floor, and felt the stubborn motor begin to catch, a familiar moving figure tagged his glance and his head swung about. He frowned in bewilderment at the thing he saw.

"Kirkpatrick!" he muttered.

He could not be mistaken in that jerky, decisive stride, the commanding aggressive poise of the shoulders. If he needed confirmation, a man in police blue stalked at his elbow! They were going rapidly up the steps and into the lobby of the exclusive Bonheur Hotel.

What business could Kirkpatrick have there at this particular time, Wentworth wondered. He was driving with a wide open throttle, weaving with sure hands through the dawdling traffic. The lights changed, but Wentworth let the cab rave on. He palmed the horn button and held it down. A cop whistled shrilly, but Wentworth ignored him, raced on. The high entrance to the ramp around Grand Central Terminal was just ahead. Beyond that, across the seven blocks that the viaduct spanned, and he would be at the entrance of the tunnel where he had his rendezvous with death! Yet his thoughts lingered back there with Kirkpatrick. There was an elaborate society ball being held at the Bonheur on this Thanksgiving night. The rich would be there in full panoply of jewels and satins—and he had seen Kirkpatrick enter.

Wentworth jerked his head. He could not think of that now. He must concentrate on the approaching battle. Kirkpatrick's arrival had prevented him using what little time had remained to him for making any plans for the capture of Munro. He could make none now; charge into the tunnel; locate Munro, and then . . . . Wentworth whipped the cab around the last right-angle turn of the ramp, bore down on the accelerator for the last two block dash to the entrance of the tunnel. He could see its black cavern arch, the signs set across its mouth to turn traffic aside. Somewhere a clock began to strike out for the half-hour!

The
Spider
was in time!

Wentworth dragged the cape about his shoulders, pulled the brim of his black hat low over his eyes, and rapidly bound a scarf across the lower part of his face. He gripped his light single gun in his fist, then . . . and once more bore down on the accelerator!

His eyes stabbed fiercely ahead, and a startled cry crowded out of his throat. As he watched, a cab swerved toward the mouth of the tunnel. Its door whipped open, and from its dark interior, there leaped a figure in a heel-length black cape, with a hat dragged down over its eyes. The figure ran with hunched shoulders, with great black guns gleaming in its fists . . . and it ran straight toward the entrance of the traffic tunnel.

Another
Spider
had kept the rendezvous.

Even as Wentworth realized what was happening, that Jackson had defied his explicit orders in order to save Nita and clear Wentworth of suspicion—his eyes flicked beyond the entrance of the tunnel, and he saw another thing that was like a blow between the eyes.

From the shadows of a building entrance, another figure was racing across the street toward that same tunnel . . . and it was
Kirkpatrick!

Wentworth's foot faltered on the accelerator, and horror seized him by the throat. He knew now that Munro was not inside the tunnel, and would not come there. His original fear was only too well justified; that Munro would strike with all his ruthless force at some other point while the
Spider
and police were both concentrating on this one spot.

Without a doubt, Munro had been the man he had seen striding into the Bonheur in the disguise of Kirkpatrick! That meant Munro was going to rob the Bonheur and would turn loose his murdering hordes, his fierce flames upon the hapless thousands who were crowded there tonight!

Only an instant did Wentworth hesitate, yet in that moment he had realized all the horror that sudden, liquid flame would create in that crowded hotel; and he had made his plans! He bore down on the accelerator . . . and sent the cab roaring straight toward that yawning black tunnel!

The cab struck the traffic standards and leaped high, sent them clattering and broken aside, the noise of the motor was suddenly deafening in Wentworth's ears. He whistled twice, an eerie, piercing note that he and Jackson had used as a signal before this. It would tell Jackson who roared into the tunnel behind him! He heard the whistle shrill back in joyous answer and, as if that had been a signal, hell broke loose there in that tunnel beneath the streets of New York!

In one instant, the entire walls of that tunnel were converted into flame!

Wentworth crouched over the wheel, feeling the shock of the flaming concussion even through the tightly closed windows. The heat reached through with the impact of a hammer blow. He shielded his eyes, and kept the cab rolling. Ahead, he could see the crouched figure of Jackson, a black, tiny huddled thing in the middle of that inferno. But Jackson had drawn over his head the asbestos-lined cape that the
Spider
had made with just such a trap as this in mind!