THE SPIDER-City of Doom (53 page)

"They are victims, too," he said. "Be gentle with them. They are old!"

A policeman burst into the room. "Commissioner," he shouted. "They have tied up the subways! The train stopped and a whole column of them got down on the tracks and lay down. More of them keep piling down on the tracks, and singing, and lying down. The subways are stopped cold. We had to cut off the current to save their lives!"

The telephone shrilled. Moriarity picked it up and cursed. He repeated Littlejohn's orders, then slammed down the instrument.

"Same at Grand Central!" he rasped. "And they're tying up trains at Penn station, too! God! They'll tie up the whole city!"

Littlejohn was glaring from the window. Police were pushing out on foot into the jammed streets. They would pick up a man and carry him away. The man did not resist. He sang as he was carried away . . . and another man, or an old women, would take his place!

Littlejohn groaned. He turned a helpless face toward his men. "Call the Mayor," he said heavily. "Maybe he can talk them out of it. Nothing else will work. It will take hours and hours to clear the streets this way. These people have to be persuaded to move themselves."

Moriarity said, "Good God, Chief.
Look!
"

Littlejohn turned and looked where Moriarity pointed. A strange conveyance was lurching out of the side street. It was a platform, carried on the shoulders of boys! There were forty, fifty, a hundred boys . . . all of them supporting that flimsy platform on their shoulders. And each of them wore a black cape!

On it, were two men . . . and one of them wore the black cape and broad-brimmed black hat of—the
Spider!

Littlejohn ripped out a curse, dragged his revolver into his fist. But he hesitated. For the
Spider
was pointing to the man who was bound to an upright post beside him, a man with a great black shock of hair, bound hand and foot, and with a broad white gag tied across his mouth.

And the
Spider's
voice was reaching out, terribly loud, over a loudspeaker hookup that was invisible. He held a small microphone in his hand.

"Pension marchers!" cried the
Spider,
and his voice was flat and mocking, bitterly cold. "You can win your strike. You have won it . . . .
But what good will it do you if I kill your leader!
"

The singing faltered and died. The blaring of multiple horns was stilled. Thousands of civilians and hundreds of blue-coated police stood motionless and stared at the man who was the most hunted, the most dreaded killer in the world! The
Spider!

He stood there, his back twisted under that concealing cape, and spoke again into the microphone. His voice was a whisper, but it reached every man.

"Pensions marchers, there is one way you can save the life of Father Bennington!" he said. "Rise . . . and follow me! Rise, and follow your leader, or I will put a leaden bullet through your leader's skull!"

In that breathless moment, the
Spider
lifted his right hand. The automatic it gripped was heavy and black. Its muzzle rested against the forehead of the man bound to the post. And the man fought against his bonds, fought against the gag!

The microphone was lifted close to the gag, and the sounds of his struggle and his fear came to the ears of the thousands who lay prostrate in the streets. The gag slipped a little, and a deep voice, hoarse and scarcely recognizable, blasted into the loudspeaker:

"
For God's sake, rise and follow him, or he'll kill me!
"

The old people were swarming to their feet now. They moved in a slowly gathering stream toward the platform . . . but the platform was turning up Broadway now. The boys who carried it were moving more rapidly.

Littlejohn whispered, "That isn't Bennington! You can tell through the glasses. But it's working. It's working! The mob is breaking up . . . ." He swallowed stiffly. "Thanks to the
Spider!
" He faced his aide: "A general order. No man is to try to stop the
Spider
until that crowd is entirely inside the park. That's where he's leading them. Mounted troops and foot forces fall in behind the parade, flank them. Send motorcycles ahead to clear the way. Once they're in the park, close in! Let no one escape!

"Reserves! Rush all reserves to the park. Surround it, and close in from the north. I want that park sewed up until not even a bird can get out. Understand?"

Moriarity was repeating the orders to the radio man, rapidly, but there was a frown between Moriarity's brows.

"You're going to catch the
Spider,
" he said, when the orders were all sent out.

Littlejohn's face was a grim mask. "The
Spider
has done a great thing," he said. "Maybe the court will be lenient with him on that account. I'm just a cop, and I've got a hundred warrants for that man's arrest.
Catch the Spider!
"

Swaying on the light platform which the scores of boys carried easily on their shoulders, the
Spider
watched with quietly speculative eyes the slow gathering of the army at his heels. The man tied to the post turned his head and a grin spread over his features.

"How'd I do,
Spider?
" he whispered.

Wentworth's lips moved slightly, "It's the best performance you've ever given—on or off stage," he said quietly. "Do as well when you dismiss them, and I'll double that thousand dollar fee."

The actor nodded. "I'll wow 'em," he promised.

Wentworth let his eyes roam again over the assembled crowd. The police were closing in behind them. He glanced down a side street and saw galloping troops of horsemen keeping pace. There were motorcycle police ahead, clearing the way. The smile on his lips grew thin. Littlejohn was allowing him to solve the problem—but the police would be on hand afterward! He had planned to lead the march into the park. He saw now that was impossible . . . and unnecessary.

Ahead of him was a small truck, driven by Bill Sanders. As the boys approached it, they lifted the platform from their shoulders. When it rested on the truck, they looked up at Wentworth. The small capes about their shoulders mimicked the
Spider's.
They were very proud of them, these members of the
Spider
clubs whom Bill had rounded up from every section of the city.

Wentworth smiled slowly down into their perspiring faces, met the eager glint of their eyes. "Pass the word along," he told one softly. "When I give the signal, all of you run and scatter! You have done a great thing this day! You have done what grown men, and organized police could not do! You will never regret it! It was a great service. The word will be . . .
Spider!
"

Wentworth saw the eager whisper run along the line. The platform was supported now by the truck. That had not been possible in the square where a human barrier blocked all movements of cars. But the way was clear now.

Wentworth cried, "
Spider!
"

Like chaff before the wind, the boys broke and ran. They scattered in every direction, filtered through the trailing crowd of tiring old people, into building entrances, down side streets, into subway entrances. In less than a minute, there was not one of them in sight! But the platform trundled on. It was only three blocks from the park entrance now. Already, he could see the wide jaws of the police trap spread there. He turned to the actor.

"Make your speech here," he said, "but make it fast! Bill, stop the truck. When I give the word, clear out of here fast!"

Bill nodded, and the actor lifted his voice: "My friends!" he said. "My people! The plan has failed, and the fault is mine. Go to your homes now, and the
Spider
swears I will be allowed to go free! I know he tells the truth, and each moment you delay keeps me a prisoner that much longer. Go to your homes now . . . so that I may be free. Break it up. Go, each of you, to his home!"

The old people stopped, puzzled. Many already had fallen away from the fringes of the crowd. They stared at the bound prisoner on the platform, at the grim, twisted figure of the
Spider.
Hope died in their faces. It was a piteous thing to see how weary they were now that their dream was broken, now that they no longer sang. In bewilderment, they turned and looked at each other while the actor exhorted them again. Slowly, they began to file away. A man alone here, a couple there . . . small groups of three and four together. They were bitterly disappointed, they were baffled, and they were tired. Slowly, painfully, they limped away.

Wentworth turned to the actor and handed him money. "There is a statement there that I kidnapped you and forced you to perform this role," he said quietly. "It should prove that you can give no evidence against me. If you have trouble, my lawyers will help you."

The actor nodded. "That's okay,
Spider,
" he said. "I can see you're going to have a job getting away yourself!"

Wentworth called, "Bill! Scram!"

In an instant, the boy had jumped down from the truck's seat, and was racing away. The crowd swallowed him. Wentworth cut the actor free, but stood for a moment staring out over the dissipating crowd. The police were closing in more rapidly now.

Wentworth laughed. He leaped to the ground and dived into a subway entrance where many weary oldsters were moving heavily down the steps. He ran along the platform and leaped to the tracks . . . . The police were only minutes behind. They stared wildly around them. The weary old people were silent on the platforms. There were a half dozen wandering dully, like lost children, about the tracks.

"Hey, you!" a cop yelled at one old man, whose grey hair hung about his shoulder. "Hey, you see the
Spider
go this way? You ought to hate that guy! He busted up your strike. Say, did you see him?"

The old man merely stared, his mouth hanging open. His teeth had gaps in them; his face was seamed. The cop swore, "Here, grandpa, leave me give you a hand up before you get hurt!"

He reached down a hand and helped the old man to the platform. Then he stared at him questioningly. "Say, for an old one, you got a powerful grip! Say—"

From the old mouth came a whisper, cold as steel, "Shut up, copper, or die! That's a gun!" His right hand pressed hard into the cop's side, and his voice became cracked and ancient. "It's awful kind of you, officer, to help an old man. Now, if you can just get me through this crowd and up on the street!"

The gun urged the cop on, and so they went through the police lines. At a far corner, Wentworth unloaded the man's gun and gave it back to him. "If you make no outcry," he said quietly, "no one will know what happened. Remember that!"

He turned and leaped into a coupe parked at the curb. The motor roared and the car spurted away. For a long moment, the cop stood motionless, watching the escape of the
Spider.
It was only afterward that he thought about reloading his gun to try a shot; it was too late by then. He looked swiftly about. No one in sight. He hurried back toward the subway station.

Wentworth raced grimly through the crowded streets. Soon, he must walk into Moulin's trap . . . in Nita's room. There was no other way in which he could conquer . . . the Council of Evil!

The room where the Council of Evil met this time had no lavish walls of padded leather. The walls were brick and the room had the musty dampness of an underground cell. But there was the same long table, the same sheet of glass . . . and five men in black hoods.

Abruptly, the glass turned milky and the face of Moulin gazed out at them from beneath heavy-lidded eyes.

"Report!" his voice sounded.

Towan laughed comfortably. "We pulled off the rehearsal all right, me and Cassin. Took something like a million bucks out of them boxes at Roycroft. The cops wouldn't even of known it was missing, if it hadn't been for the
Spider.
He damned near messed us up. But we got that guy Jackson locked up. We can have some fun with him a little later on."

Moulin said, thickly, "We should accept Towan and Cassin!"

There were nods of assent and Moulin's head turned toward the man on his right. "Your identity is no longer a secret, it seems, Bennington," he said.

Bennington's voice burst out hoarsely, "It was perfect, my rehearsal! We tied up everything tighter than a drum . . . until the
Spider
stepped in. I can do it again, but not unless that damned
Spider
 . . ."

Moulin said slowly, "Bennington should be accepted. He did deliver . . . . As for the
Spider,
you need not worry about him any longer. Zero hour is at eight o'clock. I will give you all your instructions . . . . And at eight o'clock, the
Spider
will pay a visit to Nita van Sloan. My men will be there. My slave will be in the room with the woman. He will not escape—and we will all be multimillionaires!"

Towan leaned forward. "How?" he demanded roughly. "Where is there that much money?"

Moulin laughed, "Did you ever see the vaults of the big downtown banks?" he asked, "or the Federal Reserve branch, with all its gold?"

Towan breathed in noisily between his teeth, "Geez," he whispered. "Oh, geez!"

Moulin nodded slowly. "Zero hour at eight . . . by which time, the
Spider
will be in our trap! This time, he will not interfere!"

Nita Van Sloan lay back in her chair with her eyes closed. There was a corsage of velvety red roses on the stand beside her. She seemed utterly relaxed, resting. But there was no happiness, or content, in her face.

On the other side of the room a nurse sat with her head bowed submissively. Her hair was golden and thick. Her hands, idle in her lap, held a hypodermic needle filled and ready for instant use. It contained a green fluid.

Nita lifted her head and peered intently at a clock on the stand. Its hands pointed toward two minutes of eight.

"I'm not sure," she said heavily, "that I want to do this. It is like treachery."

The blonde nurse spoke in a monotone. "You cannot help a criminal. You must be sure. You cannot marry him unless you are sure. There is only one way to be sure."