Marvel Novel Series 01 - The Amazing Spider-Man - Mayhem In Manhattan

by Len Wein

  Actually, the first guard came up behind Spidey almost before the Wall-crawler was ready, his spider-sense warning him just a fraction of a second too late. The guard’s massive fist sent Spider-Man sprawling back over a desk, scattering papers everywhere.

  Coming up over the other side of the desk, Spider-Man rolled right into the fist of a second guard with a brass-knuckle punch. The Wall-crawler sank to his knees, his head reeling as the burly security man smashed a wooden chair across his back.

  Shaking the cobwebs from his head, Spider-Man overturned the desk before him, knocking his assailants off-balance, then vaulted over two other desks nearby. Triggering his web-shooters, Spider-Man fired a thick strand of webbing across the room to snare a three-wheeled desk chair, and with a savage yank, he sent it spinning across the floor to slam into the larger guard’s stomach.

  By now, the second security man had his gun drawn. He was struggling to get a clear shot at the Web-slinger without risking injury to any of the terrified women who still filled the room. Spider-Man sensed this, and turned to face his would-be assassin.

  “You pull that trigger, sport, and we’ll both be sorry. Just think of all the forms you’ll have to fill out in triplicate if you kill me. Be honest. Am I really worth all that bother?

  “Tell you what. You go your way, and I’ll go mine.”

  On which note, Spider-Man whirled and hurled himself headlong out a nearby window.

  Twisting violently in mid-air, the Web-slinger made contact with the Emerson Building’s exterior, thus halting his groundward plunge. Pressed flat against the building’s wall, he seemed to be sliding down the smooth concrete in a single liquid motion, though, in fact, he was moving comparatively slowly and deliberately.

  Glancing upwards, he saw the two guards he had been battling aiming down at him from the window he had just shattered, their fingers beginning to tighten on their triggers. Crumbs, they’re still after me. And pressed against the wall this way, I’m a sitting duck. Got to get out of their line of fire—which means I have to go back inside.

  And even as the first bullets ricocheted from the spot the Wall-crawler had occupied mere moments before, Spider-Man had smashed in a window on the building’s eighth floor. He found himself in a locked storeroom. Here, at least, he could rest for a few seconds, and gather his rapidly waning strength.

  The doors on the eighth floor elevator slid open, and a half-dozen other guards arrived via the stairs. All of them had their guns drawn and ready. “Check out all the offices. Spider-Man’s got to be here somewhere.” The security men split up, knowing a quick call could bring them all running should the need arise.

  Hie first office was locked, but a passkey swiftly let them in. There was no one there. They moved on, a second and third office proving equally empty. In the fourth office, they found only an office boy who was attempting to remove a large box from a high shelf in the storeroom.

  “You seen anybody lately, kid? A creep in a red-and-blue costume?” the gruff voice demanded. The young man looked down from his ladder, a little uncertain, a little bit frightened by the revolver the security guard waved in his hand.

  “No, sir . . . no one. I haven’t seen a soul.”

  The guard grunted a reply, slammed the door shut behind him, and moved on down the hall.

  For a moment, the office boy listened at the door. Then he breathed a sigh of relief and stepped forth from the closet. Hands in pockets, he headed for the elevator, whistling a tuneless tune.

  And moments later, still whistling, Peter Parker stepped out into the street.

  Seven

  “Awright, move it, will ya? You got yer photos, kid. Give a few of them other guys a chance.”

  Through the viewfinder of his camera, Peter Parker focused on the red-blotched face of the policeman standing impatiently before him. Then he snapped one more photo of the ruined room. “You’re sure this apartment belonged to the man they found squashed in Central Park, officer?”

  “Nah. The guy just busted up the place like this ’cause he needed the exercise.” Patrolman First Class Michael Winston snapped the wad of gum he was chewing, then went on. “You got the official press release just like everyone else, didn’t ya, kid?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “No ‘buts’. You know as much about this mess as we do then. Now why don’t you get moving, okay? I ain’t got all day to waste on you guys.”

  “Would you mind if I took a few more shots of the bedroom before I go?” Parker asked.

  “Just so’s you do it fast, kid.” And, with that, Parker hurried off, his Nikon humming.

  The master bedroom was glorious, nearly twice as large as Peter’s entire Chelsea apartment. Atop a wide mahogany dresser stood a framed photograph of a plump, cheerful-looking woman. A discolored area of the wall-to-wall carpeting revealed where the marriage cassone, which now lay shattered in the living room, had once stood. The rest of the room was equally well-appointed, a tribute to the woman in the photo, no doubt the wife of the late Allen Huddleston.

  Silently, Peter pulled open a drawer in the nearby armoire and ruffled through a stack of starched white shirts, none of which could have cost less than fifty dollars. The second drawer contained neady folded underwear, but it was the bottom drawer that sparked Parker’s curiosity. It seemed several inches shorter than the others, and a gentle inspection by supersensitive fingers soon revealed why.

  The rear of the drawer contained a hidden compartment, which Parker’s spider-strength easily opened. For several moments, Peter rifled through the sheaf of papers he found inside—until a wide, black shadow suddenly fell across them.

  Parker looked up to find Patrolman First Class Michael Winston filling the bedroom doorway.

  “Hey, I thought I told ya not to touch anything in here, kid. If yer looking for trouble, you’re doing a mighty good job of finding it.”

  A sheepish grin spread across Parker’s face. “Sorry. Guess I got a little bit carried away.”

  “They’ll carry you away in a stretcher, sonny, unless you get outta here, and now!”

  Parker got.

  The last dying rays of the sun shone through the spaces between the jutting skyscrapers, turning the Manhattan skyline into a magnificent mosaic of light and color. Crouched on a high rooftop, Spider-Man could take in most of the fabulous view in a single sweep. No matter how much crime continued to plague it, no matter how hopelessly filthy it became, no matter how close to the edge of bankruptcy it teetered, there was no place like New York. It was truly the Big Apple, a blending of every possible ethnic background, every possible industry, and every possible cultural event.

  Los Angeles might appear to be cleaner, its wide streets more comfortable to walk, but it lacked the gut-level kind of realism that was unique to New York. Phoenix had cleaner air, a better climate; San Francisco was certainly lovelier, with its pastel houses and rolling hills. But the concrete canyons of New York City still beat them all hands down.

  Where you might merely exist in any other city, you survived in New York. You had to fight for your place in this teeming metropolis of eight million. And in the fighting, you became part of the city, and the city became part of you.

  Eventually, you and New York became inseparable. Oh, you might curse the city for its endless economic disasters; you might even think you hated its dirty, grimy streets, but the worse it got, the more you’d know you could never leave it. New York was like the black sheep of the family—you loved it no matter what it did to you, and you always worked to make it a better place . . . a happier place.

  New York City was a challenge, and challenges are the thing that mankind seems to thrive on.

  None of these subtleties were lost on the high-flying Spider-Man as he spun his endless web, and swung high over Manhattan toward the offices of Allen Huddleston.

  Before long, the Roxxon Building loomed into view, and Spider-Man landed feather-light on its rooftop. Breaking and entering was not exactly his stock-in-t
rade, but this time he had no choice. Random notes in Huddleston’s private papers pointed to a problem that demanded further investigation, an investigation that might ultimately reveal who was really behind the murder Spider-Man stood accused of.

  The reception area was crowded with tall plants and striking lithograph prints, all highlighted by subtle ceiling lights that bathed the area in a calming sea-green. Plush leather couches lined two of the walls; a leather armchair was flanked by two magazine tables along the third; the secretary’s long white desk stretched to the left of the door.

  Spider-Man took all this in with a glance, then tested the door that led inside. It was, not surprisingly, locked. There was no keyhole in the door for the Wall-crawler to pick, but atop the secretary’s desk he noticed a small white button that could unlock the door electronically. The only problem was to reach the button without letting go of the door itself.

  Blast, thought the Wall-crawler, so near and yet so far. And so blamed stupid on top of it. There’s only one way around this mess, and it had better work.

  Fingering his web-shooter, Spider-Man fired a thin strand of webbing at the white button, pressing it ever so slightly. The insectlike buzzing that followed smothered the click of the door as it opened. Then with a single yank, the Wall-crawler pulled his webbing free. The office became silent once again as Spider-Man stepped into the inner room.

  It was a large, glass-lined affair, with windows overlooking Central Park. It was an impressive sight, one not lost on Spider-Man as his penetrating gaze picked out the wall-safe behind the Picasso that adorned one wall.

  Removing his gloves, he peeled up his mask, uncovering one ear. He would need all his incredible senses working unencumbered to accomplish his next task.

  Carefully, quietly, with a skill that would have made the finest professional safecracker jealous, Spider-Man picked the wall-safe’s lock and swung the door wide open.

  Within the safe, Spider-Man found several highly complicated contracts, a date book, and two small casette tapes, both dated the previous week. On Huddleston’s desk sat a Sony tape player, which accepted the casettes easily. The Web-slinger pressed the playback button, then sat back in Huddleston’s soft leather armchair and crossed his feet on the desk. He might as well be comfortable while he listened.

  Static crackled through the room, then the tiny sound of a telephone-muffled voice grew clear. “Mister Huddleston, have you considered my offer?” The voice was quiet, yet strangely forceful. Though it was obviously electronically altered, there was something about it Spider-Man recognized, a certain cadence to the words that struck a familiar chord.

  Huddleston’s voice responded to the man’s question. “Yes, I’ve considered it, and there simply isn’t enough in it for me. My answer is no.”

  There was a soft chuckle at the other end of the line. “You are making an unfortunate mistake, my friend. My scheme will continue with you, or without you. My men are all firmly situated at the other major oil companies. Ted Williams, head of the Research department at Argon, is my man, as is Daniel Shagan over at General, and others I need not mention. My men are everywhere, Huddleston. I’d like to number you among them.”

  Huddleston’s voice became agitated, his breathing heavy. “Look, I haven’t got time to argue with you. There would be too much risk involved for too little compensation. I’m my own man, and I intend to stay that way. I am simply not interested.”

  The other voice paused before answering. “I take it then you will not reconsider? That is unfortunate, Mr. Huddleston, most unfortunate indeed. I am afraid you will be hearing from me again, Mr. Huddleston. Good day.”

  And with that, the line went dead.

  Spider-Man sat up and pressed the rewind button. His fingers drummed against the desktop as he thought, Can’t place who that voice belongs to, but it’s definitely the same voice I overheard at that oil meeting earlier today. Which means that whoever is tied up with this oil crisis is also responsible for my problem.

  Something tells me I’ve just become an involved consumer.

  The bell in Saint Patrick’s Cathedral chimed two in the morning as a bleary-eyed Spider-Man swung high over Fifth Avenue. Traffic was surprisingly heavy for the late hour, and a small traffic tie-up slowed the cars moving south along Broadway. Up on Forty-third Street, Nathan’s was closing for the night, garbage bags stacked outside for early morning pickup.

  It was time to go home, time to catch some sleep, time to forget the previous night’s problems and make plans for the coming tomorrow. But for Spider-Man, the night was far from over. The tape in Huddleston’s office had mentioned two names. And before the weary Wall-crawler could call it a night, he had a couple of visits to make.

  On Thirty-eighth Street, a tatter-clad man lying in the doorway of a now-closed restaurant opened his rheumy eyes just long enough to see a blue-and-crimson figure swing high overhead, then disappear from view. The man grunted twice, muttered to himself, then rolled over and went back to sleep.

  His sleep was no longer a peaceful one.

  Eight

  Daniel Shagan’s penthouse apartment was dark, save for a single yellow bug light flickering on the long balcony which overlooked Fifth Avenue. Softly, Spider-Man landed on the balcony before the cut-glass French doors that opened onto the living room. The doors were locked for the night, but that was no problem for a man with the proportionate strength of a spider.

  Silently, the Web-slinger crossed the wide living room, stepping carefully around the modern Danish furniture, then making his way along a carpeted hallway to the bedroom. The door there was slightly ajar, and Spidey peeked through the narrow crevice to find Shagan lying in bed, his arm sprawled casually across the sleeping form of his wife Frieda.

  Cautiously, Spider-Man pushed the door open, waiting for the telltale squeak which would betray his presence. The squeak never came. Beneath his mask, Peter Parker exhaled softly. One problem down; one more to go.

  Spider-Man’s fingers curled toward his web-shooters, then froze as Shagan turned lazily in his sleep, his back now to his still-slumbering wife. I don’t believe it, thought the Wall-crawler. For once, it looks like Lady Luck is with me.

  Then, almost grinning, he triggered his web-shooters, spraying a tight gag across the sleeping Shagan’s mouth, stifling a growing snore.

  Instantly Shagan was awake, sitting bolt upright in bed, his eyes wide with horror at the sight of the gaudily-garbed apparition before him. Desperately his hands streaked toward his mouth, only to be bound together at the wrists by a sudden shot of webbing. Shagan attempted to scream, a rather futile gesture for a man who could barely breathe.

  Then, almost effortlessly, Spider-Man slung his helpless captive over his shoulder and strode out of the room, leaving Shagan’s wife still snoring softly behind them. A few moments later, and they were out on the balcony, where Spider-Man tore free the web-gag with a single jerking motion, as if tearing off a Band-aid.

  Shagan was obviously angry, but still his voice was uncommonly soft and understated. He was obviously a man who disliked drawing attention to himself. “Why have you come here?” Shagan asked. “What do you want from me? I’ve heard of you, Spider-Man, and you won’t murder me the way you killed Allen Huddleston.” His eyes were narrow slits as he spoke, his blond hair blowing casually in the late night breeze.

  “I didn’t kill Huddleston, bright-eyes, and I won’t hurt you. At least, not if you cooperate with me. I want you to tell me who your boss is. Not the clown at General. Your real boss!” Spider-Man’s voice made the chill breeze seem almost warm.

  If Shagan was surprised by the Web-slinger’s question, his steel-gray eyes did not betray any emotion. His face remained passive, taut. He was a thin man with an almost skull-like face, the skin drawn tightly about it. Spider-Man sensed he would not be an easy nut to crack.

  Shagan responded with a distressing calm, his voice controlled, his mouth turned up in a mocking grin. “Something tells me you’re not exactly i
n the best of all possible positions to be asking questions, Mister Spider-Man. You’re a wanted murderer, after all, hunted by the police. And, so help me, if you’re not off this balcony in fifteen seconds, I’m going to start screaming so loud that every cop in the tri-state area will be breaking down the door. Fifteen seconds, Web-slinger. One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . .”

  Spider-Man’s brow furrowed in astonishment. Here he was, investigating a murder, confronting a man who was almost certainly working for that murderer, a man who was definitely connected to the insane oil manipulations going on, and that man threatens to turn Spider-Man in to the police? Incredible!

  Spider-Man is supposed to be the hero, right? He isn’t supposed to be hunted by the law. He shouldn’t have to run from every two-bit punk he comes up against. But Shagan’s smile just grew wider. “. . . Nine . . . ten . . . if I were you, I’d get moving, Wall-crawler. You only have five seconds left. Eleven . . . twelve . . .”

  The Web-slinger vaulted to the balcony railing, turning his baleful gaze on the smirking Shagan. “You win this round, joy-boy, but I’ll be back. And next time, I’ll get what I came for—in spades!”

  “Sure you will, sucker, and the Easter Bunny brings fireworks on Christmas.” But this time, there was the faintest trace of fear in Shagan’s voice.

  “I’ll be back,” Spider-Man repeated. Then he was gone.

  A harsh chill skittered up Shagan’s spine as he stepped back into the warmth of his apartment, locking the French doors behind him. He leaned back against the doors, clenched his teeth to stop their chattering, and looked up to find a red-eyed Frieda standing across the room, drawing her bathrobe tightly around her.

  “Daniel, is—is something wrong? I thought I heard shouting out here.”

  Shagan smiled weakly and moved across the carpet to pull his wife to him, pecking her softly on the cheek. His voice was calm now, almost cloyingly sweet. He was, after all, a devoted husband. “It was nothing, honey, nothing at all. Just thought I heard somebody prowling around on the patio. Believe me, it was nothing . . . and it won’t be back again tonight. It won’t bother us again.”