Marvel Novel Series 08 - The Amazing Spider-Man - Crime Campaign

by Paul Kupperberg

  “That’s not what I mean, Pete,” Robbie said, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “It’s just that I could have sworn . . .”

  “Don’t keep me in suspense, man! What is it, already?”

  “Peter, as far as I know, and I think after all these years I know him better than most people . . .”

  “A credit, no doubt, to your legendary gift of patience!”

  “. . . Jonah Jameson was an only child!”

  “Come again?”

  “Jonah never had any brothers or sisters, Peter!”

  “Then how could Cindy be his niece?”

  Robbie shrugged. “Now, that is a good question, son.”

  Peter turned to look at the closed office door, his brow wrinkled in thought. It sure is, friend! But why would she lie to me about something like that? Being related to Jameson isn’t something you’d want to admit to, even if it were true. Better question still: Why the devil is J.J.J. going along with this?

  Boy, what I wouldn’t give to hear what’s being said in that office, right now!

  Jameson pointed to a straightback chair in front of the desk in the unoccupied office. “Sit!” he ordered Cindy, taking his own seat.

  “I’d prefer to stand, thank you, ‘Uncle Jonah,’ ” she replied icily.

  “Suit yourself. And you can cut the ‘uncle’ crap now, Ms. Sayers. We’re not trying to fool that punk boyfriend of yours now.”

  “You don’t like Peter very much, do you?”

  “Give me one reason why I should! He’s snide.”

  So are you, you old goat, she thought. But what she said was, “What did you want to talk to me about, Mr. Jameson? I thought I told you over the phone last night that I still haven’t learned anything.”

  Jameson stabbed a finger in the air. “Bingo!” he shouted. “You’ve been with him every day and most of the nights for the last two weeks. Don’t you think that’s plenty of time to have come up with something?”

  “Not if there’s nothing to come up with.”

  “There is. You just haven’t looked in the right places or asked the right questions.”

  “Every time I mention Spider-Man, Peter just gives me a runaround. I don’t think there’s any mysterious connection.”

  “Then explain all those Spider-Man pictures he manages to get when the closest anybody else in this city can come to the Wall-crawler is with a telescopic lens.”

  “Peter’s just lucky, that’s all.”

  “Maybe he is lucky. But so often?”

  Cindy shrugged. “You’re making a mountain out of less than a molehill, Mr. Jameson. Peter Parker, whether you care to believe it or not, is an excellent news photographer, and the only thing he’s doing is his job. Period.”

  “Then you do yours, Sayers.” Jameson rose and began pacing back and forth in front of the desk as he chewed on the already-shredded butt of his cigar. “I’m tired of throwing good money after bad on you. Either come up with something, or stop wasting my money!”

  Cindy put her hand on the doorknob. “I’m staying on, Mr. Jameson. Don’t worry about that. But you can bet the only reason for it is to prove you wrong about Peter.”

  “Lord Almighty!” Jameson groaned. “I just got it! You’re falling for that obnoxious little creep, aren’t you?”

  She glared her dislike at Jameson for several seconds, then yanked open the door and walked out. Yes, she was falling in love with Peter Parker. But, so what?

  Lost in her thoughts, she did not notice the strange way Peter looked at her as she approached. She wouldn’t have particularly cared if she had. She was far too ticked off at Jameson.

  “What’d Uncle Sharkface want, gorgeous?”

  “Nothing,” she said testily. “Come on, Peter, let’s hit the streets, huh? I don’t feel like hanging out here right now.”

  “Sure.”

  Peter put his good arm around Cindy’s shoulder as they walked to the elevator in silence.

  The famous Parker luck strikes again! After all the hassles I had with Mary Jane Watson and Betty Brant, you’d think I’d finally be able to settle down to a nice, normal relationship with a great girl like Cindy, instead of having to figure out why she’s lying to me!

  Maybe I should’ve become a monk!

  Seventeen

  No sooner had Peter and Cindy stepped into the street from the Bugle Building, than Peter’s remarkable spider-sense began tingling ever so slightly in his head. It was not the usual head-splitting throb of pain that heralded the coming of trouble. Rather, it was a mild warning that something bad was imminent. And when Cindy opened her mouth to speak, Peter knew what his unique sixth sense was warning him about.

  “You know Spider-Man, don’t you, Peter?”

  Her tone was one of innocent questioning, perhaps nothing more than mere curiosity.

  But Peter Parker knew better.

  “We’ve, uh . . . met, if that’s what you mean,” he answered, trying to keep his voice normal.

  “I know that,” she said. “But Uncle Jonah seemed to think you were a friend of his.”

  He laughed. What’s she after? “Guys like Spidey aren’t all that hot in the personal-friend department, Cindy. From what I can gather, he’s pretty much a loner.”

  “But you do know him?”

  “Uh-huh. Hey, you hinting you want me to get you his autograph?”

  She fluttered her eyelashes at him and feigned embarrassment. “Why, Rhett,” she said in her best Scarlett O’Hara voice, “you’ve found me out!”

  Have I ever, lady!

  “How long have you known him?”

  “Spider-Man?”

  “I don’t mean Howard Cosell, handsome. Of course, Spider-Man!”

  “A couple of years, I suppose.”

  “Is that why you’re the only photog in town he lets get pictures of him in action?”

  “I dunno. I figured: Why screw up a good thing by asking too many questions?” Peter was getting nervous now. He was not sure where Cindy was headed with her questions about his alter ego, but one thing was for sure: I hate it a lot!

  “Well, there must be a reason, Peter.”

  “Why all the sudden flurry of interest in Spider-Man, Cindy? You writing a book or something?”

  “No need to get testy, Pete. I’m just curious, that’s all. Spider-Man’s hot news in New York, and I figure the more I know about stuff like that, the better I can do my job. What’s so strange about that?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Oh, I get it,” she said, a smile slowly spreading across her face. “You’re worried that I’m trying to rip off your exclusive property, picture-wise.”

  “That’s stupid, nonsense-wise, Cindy. Spider-Man’s not my personal property. Anybody with $9.95 who wants to buy himself a Kodak can get all the pictures he wants of him.”

  “Only if that anybody happens to know where Spider-Man’s going to be at a given time.”

  Slow down, boy! This is getting a lot deeper into the subject than is smart!

  “Come on, Cindy,” he said. “I don’t want to talk shop all day. Why don’t we drop the subject, okay?”

  Dammit, she thought, he’s doing it again!

  “Okay by me, tall, dark, and handsome.” She smiled. “But only if you promise to buy me lunch.”

  “Swell. How does a hot dog in Central Park sound to you?”

  “Like a surfer who’s gotten lost.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Bad pun. Never mind.”

  Hand in hand, they strolled up Fifth Avenue toward Central Park, talking about everything but Spider-Man and pictures thereof. But Peter Parker could not forget that this girl was lying to him, deceiving him for one purpose or another. And he was convinced he knew her reasons! Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you, Peter!

  I think Jameson’s on to me!

  Eighteen

  He lived surrounded by silver.

  From the silver-threaded carpeting to the quantities of
the precious metal inlaid in walls and ceilings to the silver fixtures in the bathroom of his Westchester hideout, the master criminal known as Silvermane felt he was truly where he belonged. It was more than merely the market value of the metal that attracted him to it so. It was the smooth, cool feel of it, the almost starlight luster it possessed. He had lied to gain possession of it; he had stolen and even murdered to gain more than he already had.

  Indeed, Silvermane could never have enough of it.

  He liked the feeling of tranquility that came with sitting in his all-silver den behind a solid silver desk, on a silver chair before his myriad of silver belongings. Only there was his mind at ease, allowing his thoughts to fall into the proper, logical sequences and his plans to take form. For, of all the places in the large Westchester mansion, this was the one that was truly his, and none were allowed to enter unbidden.

  The last man who tried had died by Silvermane’s own hand.

  But the crime boss’s thoughts were not on that now; rather, he contemplated the growing division between himself and his rival, the Kingpin. The fat man could not be overthrown by force; of that Silvermane was certain. He was far too powerful in New York and had too many supporters in the criminal community there. If Silvermane wished to usurp the other’s throne, it must be through guile. And ensuring the failure of the Kingpin’s current plans was by far the simplest route.

  The silver-plated telephone on the desk buzzed softly for several moments before the silver-haired criminal heard it. “Yes,” he answered tersely.

  “There’s a guy here to see you, boss.”

  “I’m busy. Send him away.”

  “It’s Ian Forester, Silvermane. Says he’s got to talk with you.”

  Forester?

  How the devil did the veteran newsman ever find him? And what could he want from Silvermane? No matter, the crime boss thought as an evil smile spread across his sharp features, it merely saves me the trouble of bringing him to me!

  “Send him in.” Silvermane replaced the receiver in the cradle, caressing the cool metal under his fingers. He assumed a pose of calm indifference behind his desk, staring over steepled fingertips at the door as it opened, and Ian Forester hesitantly entered.

  The candidate walked toward the desk, his hand outstretched in greeting. “Silvermane”—he smiled in his best television smile—“I’m . . .”

  “I know who you are.”

  Forester nodded as he lowered his hand uncertainly to his side. “Yes, you would, wouldn’t you?” He looked about the sterling-silver den, waiting to be offered a seat, but, when he saw no such offer was forthcoming, he continued quickly. “You’re not an easy man to locate, Silvermane.”

  “I should be impossible to find, Forester.”

  “You very nearly were, but luckily I still have a few underworld contacts left from my days as a newsman.” He laughed nervously. “Hard to believe that was only two weeks ago—”

  “I assume,” Silvermane said quietly, “that you didn’t come here to discuss your life story, Forester.”

  “In a way, I did. Only it’s not the past so much as the future that worries me.”

  “Your future’s been all neatly mapped out for you. You’re going to be New York’s next mayor.”

  “You mean puppet, don’t you, Silvermane? With the Kingpin pulling the strings!”

  Silvermane said nothing. Ian Forester had come to him. It was still his move.

  Forester leaned across the desk, resting his hands on the highly polished surface. He appeared not to notice Silvermane’s slight flicker of distaste at this move. “Look, Silvermane,” he said earnestly, “it’s no secret that you and the Kingpin are the two biggest rivals for control of New York’s organized-crime families. Hell, man, he hates you. You hate him as much, if not more. And frankly, I doubt that he’s planning anything but killing you at the first chance he gets.” He paused, looking for a reaction from the hawk-faced man.

  “Go on,” Silvermane said, his voice betraying nothing.

  “Normally, I couldn’t give a damn if you both killed each other. Neither of you means anything to me.” Forester’s voice turned hard with suppressed anger. “But the Kingpin took my daughter away from me, Silvermane. He’s involved my little girl in things that she neither knows nor understands, and he’s threatened the lives of the rest of my family.

  “Yes, very suddenly, he’s become a threat to me and my family. And maybe there’s nothing I can personally do to him to make certain he can never carry out his threats. But you can, Silvermane!”

  The master criminal was interested in the candidate’s words, for Ian Forester, he knew, was leading up to the very thing Silvermane had planned. But let Forester think it was his idea. “Kingpin and I are allies in this, you know,” he said impassively. “He’s the one with the hold over you, not I.”

  “That could change.”

  “How? You don’t dare step out of line while Kingpin has your daughter as a hostage.”

  “What if he no longer had her? I wouldn’t be beholden to him then, would I?”

  Silvermane waved this aside. “Pure speculation, Forester. The Kingpin does have your daughter, and only he knows where she’s being held.”

  “You could kidnap her away from him, bring her back to me!”

  For the first time since Forester had entered his office, Silvermane displayed some emotion. He laughed heartily. “What do you expect me to do, Forester? Pull her out of a tophat like a rabbit? I told you, only the Kingpin knows where she is, and that’s the one aspect of this operation you can be sure he’s not going to tell anybody about, especially me.”

  Forester looked into the criminal’s eyes, his own steel-gray eyes flashing. “He’s got her somewhere in the city,” he said.

  “I suppose he’s told you, eh?”

  “No. But he called the place where he’s keeping her from my apartment the other night and he only dialed seven digits to reach wherever it is.”

  “So?”

  “Don’t you understand? If he’d hid her anywhere else but New York proper, he’d have had to dial an area code along with the phone number, a total of ten digits instead of just seven.”

  “I’d say that certainly narrows it down then, Forester,” Silvermane replied in a dry voice. “I assume you know that New York’s a fairly huge city. Where do you propose I start looking for her? At the Battery and work my way up?”

  “Don’t tell me a man with your resources can’t find one girl, Silvermane! I don’t believe it!”

  “All right, Forester.” Silvermane nodded. “Suppose I could find your daughter and get her away from Kingpin. Then what? He would’ve lost his hold on you and so would I, if I returned her to you as you ask. As far as I can tell, you’re the only one who wins in that situation.”

  “You’d win, Silvermane. If you could get my daughter back to me, I’d owe you an awful lot. And I’d deliver the whole damned city right into your hands the minute after I’m inaugurated!”

  Silvermane stroked his chin thoughtfully. What was Forester up to? Was he sincere, or was this merely a ploy to play the two criminal leaders against one another in the very definite hope that they would destroy each other, thereby freeing the candidate from any obligation to either man? Silvermane decided it was most probably the latter. But could he afford to pass up this chance to have Forester under his control?

  “Very well, Forester,” he said at length. “I’ll find your daughter for you.”

  The look of relief was visible on Ian Forester’s face. “Y-you will, Silvermane?”

  “I wouldn’t have said it, otherwise,” he replied coolly.

  “No. No, of course you wouldn’t,” Forester said quickly. “I-It’s just that these past weeks have been hell for my wife and me. I can’t believe that it’ll be over so soon.”

  Silvermane rose from his seat, signaling the end of the interview. “I’ll be in touch, Forester.”

  Ian Forester hurried to the door, his heart pounding like a jack
hammer in his chest. He found it even harder to believe, but he had done it! He had actually managed to snow Silvermane!

  Of course, compared to Kingpin, Silvermane was a street-corner punk, and Forester knew he could handle him. Hadn’t he just proved that by convincing the other to go along with his plan? Silvermane would undoubtedly have to kill Kingpin to get Amy Forester away from him, but that was all right. Silvermane would not hesitate to slay the Kingpin, and the fat man deserved no better. Afterward, when Amy was safely back home, the authorities could take care of matters from there. In all likelihood, Silvermane would wind up as dead as the Kingpin before this was over, but that fact did not both Forester, either, as long as the hawk-faced man remained oblivious to it until it was too late.

  Unfortunately, Silvermane was not as stupid as Ian Forester thought.

  Nineteen

  Monroe stared in wonder at the tall, distinguished man who strode from Silvermane’s private den, walking past him without any sign of recognition. He wondered what Ian Forester was doing here, of all places. Of course, he was just as happy that the candidate hadn’t noticed him, on the off chance he would report the fact of this visit to Monroe’s boss, the Kingpin.

  The armed man outside Silvermane’s door never took his eyes off Monroe or his hand from the butt of the pistol tucked in his waistband. Whatever Monroe’s stated intentions for this visit, it did not pay to take chances with his boss’s life. This man named Monroe had spent too many years working for Silvermane’s arch rival, and, frankly, he would feel safer killing Monroe then and there. But he was under orders.

  The intercom in the wall buzzed, Silvermane’s signal to send in Monroe. “You want me to come in, too, boss?” the guard asked, eyeing Monroe closely.

  “No need,” the crime boss said. “I think I can handle matters.”

  Monroe stood and walked to the office door, stopping before the armed man and raising his arms above his head. “Want to search me again just to make sure?”

  The guard gave Monroe a dirty look as he opened the door to let him in. Monroe brushed past him, laughing to himself. It was always fun to bait the goons, he thought.