The Spider-Robot Titans of Gotham

by Norvell Page

  * * *

  Just turning that corner, Wentworth detected the quickened stride and swore softly under his breath. He needed no more than that quickened step to tell him the policeman was an old-timer, and already suspicious. That would make his deception more difficult— but he was still determined to take the watchman a prisoner. It did not matter whether the man would talk or not; it would become known that he was a prisoner. Wentworth intended to let the man's criminal pals know who was responsible so that they would come for him—and walk into the Spider's trap!

  A long stride brought him close to the watchman, and he jammed the muzzle of the automatic against the man's ear.

  "Don't try no funny business!" Wentworth said hoarsely. "This is a stick-up!"

  His left hand ran deftly over the pockets of his prisoner, filched gun and a few crumpled dollar bills. In that swift moment, his plan was fully formed. He would rob the man, knock him out—and then play good Samaritan for the benefit of the policeman, and the watchman! It should not be too difficult to start for a hospital, and finish up somewhere else where the watchman could be held prisoner! But he wished the wind were not so loud in the narrow canyon of the street. It rattled the skeletal boughs of stunted trees . . . and drowned out the footfalls of the cop!

  "Listen, guy," Wentworth's prisoner whined. "Listen, you don't want to do this to me! It ain't healthy!"

  Wentworth's eyes narrowed. It had been no part of his plan to question this man now, but if he would talk . . . and the policeman did not arrive too soon!

  "Why not?" Wentworth demanded, and put a quaver in his voice. "I need the money more'n you! You gotta job!"

  "I got friends!" the watchman said arrogantly. "You give me that money back, and—"

  "What friends?" Wentworth snapped, hopefully.

  The watchman made a sudden sideways lurch, started to whirl and grapple with Wentworth. It was the one thing that Wentworth could not permit. If the man glimpsed him, there would be no chance to kidnap him under the policeman's nose. Instead, Wentworth's arrest was certain . . . arrest and disgrace! Wentworth's blow was off-balance, but fiercely positive. It slammed under the man's ear and checked his turn. Before the man could recover, Wentworth struck again—and caught the watchman before he could slump to the pavement.

  For an instant, Wentworth stood rigid, listening. He caught the tread of the policeman faintly. The cop was running toward the dead-end street! Wentworth swore raggedly, and his eyes flicked over the narrow cul de sac in which he stood. There was no place of concealment, no place to which he could flee, for the end, too, was sealed by a high wall. His eyes flicked toward the man whose unconscious body he held in his arms and Wentworth's eyes widened in amazement.

  He had not known when he trailed this watchman just which private agency the man served, but the name was plain on the badge which gleamed on his chest: The Drexler Protective Agency. Wentworth shook his head incredulously. He knew the chief of the agency, Frank Drexler; knew him well. He was an honest and courageous ex-cop. It was incredible that Frank Drexler could be involved in such horror as had taken place this night, and . . . Wentworth jerked the thought from his brain. That would have to wait. Unless he could escape from this trap, which a running policeman was rapidly closing, the investigation of this horror would be impossible for Richard Wentworth. He would be locked up in a cell!

  A grim smile touched Wentworth's lips. There was just a chance. . . . Without further delay, he heaved the unconscious watchman of the Drexler agency to his shoulder and broke into a staggering run— straight toward the policeman who at this instant rounded the corner from Sutton Place!

  "Help! Wentworth shouted as he ran. "Help! Police!" And he remembered then to slip the black mask from his eyes. . . .

  * * *

  The policeman jerked to a halt beneath the corner street light, and a finger of illumination glanced from a revolver in his right hand. It showed the bitter thrust of his cold-reddened jaw, the aggressive forward roll of his shoulders.

  "Thank God!" Wentworth gasped, and staggered against the wall with his burden. "Get that man, officer! I think he killed this watchman!"

  Wentworth sagged to his knees with the unconscious man, let him slump to the pavement. With his left hand, he ripped aside the watchman's loosened coat, gripped his shirt and tore it so that his fingers rested against the man's flesh. His voice sounded exhausted, and he felt the officer standing tautly over him. But Wentworth did not check his purpose. His left hand slid to a vest pocket and slipped out a cigarette lighter, thumbed open the base.

  Wentworth twisted his face up toward the policeman, meeting the narrow suspicious glare of the eyes beneath the visor. "A man was lying in wait for this watchman!" Wentworth gasped. "A man in a long black cape, with a black hat low over his eyes. He looked like he was hunch-backed or something. . . ."

  "What?" the cop gasped. "Say that again. . . . A hunch-back in a cape! Good God, man, do you mean . . . the Spider!" Wentworth said, blankly, "Spider?" He staggered to his feet. In the street-light glare, his face seemed pale. Certainly, his eyes were stretched very wide. "God," he whispered. "Do you mean I was fighting . . . the Spider? I saw this man in the cape knock this watchman down, and stoop over him. He ripped open the man's shirt, and seemed to search him" . . . Wentworth turned then, and stared down at his victim. The cop gasped hoarsely.

  Suddenly, the beam of his flashlight reached out and laid its dazzling circle upon the watchman's exposed chest. That chest was curiously marked. On it had been tattooed a strange and awful design. It seemed to represent a gruesome face sketched upon a modern steel helmet . . . but it was not that which the policeman indicated with a shaking finger. He pointed to a figure etched in blood-red vermillion, a thing that seemed a living creature of hairy legs and poison fangs!

  "Jeez, oh jeez!" he gasped. "You was right! See . . . the seal of the Spider!"

  Wentworth's lips moved in a secret smile and his fingers touched absently the slim cigarette lighter in his pocket with which he had imprinted that seal. He had taken the only way to convince the policeman that there had been another man in the dead-end street . . . for the street ended in high walls. The cop would never have believed a third man could vanish from that trap; any man except the Spider! But that other design on the victim's chest proved that a Drexler man was involved.

  "Listen," Wentworth said in nervous tones. "I want to get away from here. My car will be here in a moment. . . . There it is now! Suppose I take this man to the hospital and call for help for you. You can stay here and stand guard!"

  The cop was staring back up the length of the short dead-end street, toward the big limousine to which Wentworth had pointed. It rolled almost silently to a halt beside the curb. Its powerful motor made only a faint whispering beneath the long sleek hood. Wentworth gestured with a hidden hand to the man behind the wheel, indicating the unconscious body on the pavement. He needed to do no more than that, for the man behind me wheel was Jackson, his faithful comrade-at-arms who had fought through a hundred battles beside him. But even as Jackson stepped out of the car, the cop whipped about—and his revolver was pointed straight at Wentworth!

  "Just a minute!" The cop's face was drawn and white. "Just a minute, now. I don't like this. I don't like it at all. That car comes up too pat, and how do I know. . . ." The cop swallowed noisily. "How do I know . . . you ain't the Spider!"

  Nothing of the tension that jerked all his nerves taut showed on Wentworth's face. But the cop could have no genuine suspicion, of course, and there was no proof unless . . . unless the cop searched him! He would find no proof that Wentworth was the Spider even then, but he would find the gun taken from the watchman, and he would find a silken mask! Easy enough, of course, to knock out the cop despite the leveled gun, but the policeman's trained memory would not be so easily overcome. The cop had seen his face!

  Wentworth put exasperation into his voice. "Really! Of all the stupidity!" he said shortly. "No wonder there is need for such a man as
the Spider! I've been warned that the police were even harder on witnesses than on criminals, and I was only trying to help a fellow human being!"

  The cop had his shoulders against the wall and did not waver. He was close to the watchman, who was lying strangely quiet. Wentworth had used his fists too often not to know the efficacy of each blow he struck, and he knew that the watchman should be conscious now; should have been several minutes ago. He glanced covertly at the man's face and hid a smile as he saw that the eyes were too tightly closed. The man was shamming!

  "You can say what you like, mister," the cop said doggedly, "but you ain't going nowhere until I can get the chief here!"

  Wentworth shrugged slightly. "This is very easily settled," he said easily. "I saw this man here meet the Spider, and he's got the Spider's seal on his chest. They met on a dead-end street. It looks to me like this watchman is one of the Spider's assistants and they met by appointment, and had a disagreement over something. I'm entirely willing to go with you to headquarters. We will give that story out to the newspapers, and see what happens."

  Wentworth's eyes were closely on the watchman's face while he spoke, and he saw the eyes open a fraction, saw fright begin to draw taut the lines about the man's mouth. . . . If he could frighten the crook into striking the cop, and fleeing, it would be easy enough for Jackson to follow and take him prisoner. And the officer then would have no evidence and no complainant. . . .

  "If he's the Spider's man," Wentworth continued softly, "the Spider will come to free him. If he isn't the Spider's man, then he's a crook, for otherwise the Spider would not have attacked him. The newspaper story will make his crook pals think he's been two-timing them with the Spider . . . and they'll come after him, a different way! How does the plan strike you, officer?"

  The cop shook his head, "Listen, I don't get what you're driving at, but if it's some plan to trap the Spider . . ."

  Wentworth saw determination clench the watchman's jaw, and behind him, Wentworth motioned Jackson not to interfere. Then the watchman flung himself into action! His foot struck upward hard against the cop's gun wrist. The revolver sailed high through the air and, the next instant, the watchman was on his feet and racing for the mouth of the dead-end street and Sutton Place!

  The cop clutched his wrist in an agony of pain. "Catch him!" he gasped. "Catch that dirty louse and I'll crucify him!"

  Wentworth turned casually to Jackson, "You might see what you can do," he murmured, and he winked deliberately!

  Jackson needed no more than that for instructions. He snapped his hand up in salute, like the soldier he had been, and still was . . . though it was in the service of the Spider that he had enlisted now! As Jackson sprinted up the short street in pursuit of the fleeing watchman, Wentworth moved toward his car. The policeman was reaching for his revolver with his left hand, but Wentworth had no fears that he would be able to drop the fugitive. Jackson would overtake and capture him. This skirmish was won . . . and the story the policeman would give headquarters would help to notify the criminals behind these ghastly murders concerning the whereabouts of their vanished watchman! Meantime, Wentworth thought a call on Frank Drexler was indicated!

  Wentworth reached in through the window of his car and flicked on the radio—and in the same instant, he heard a man scream!

  Wentworth twisted about beside the car and stared toward the mouth of the street. The watchman had vanished around the corner into Sutton Place; he it must have been, who uttered that tearing scream.

  As Wentworth stared, Jackson flung himself at the corner and then—Jackson seemed to go mad!

  The whole scene was painfully clear in the bright pool of illumination beneath that corner street light. One instant, Jackson was hurling himself confidently forward in pursuit—the next, he was striving frantically to check his forward dash! He managed to grab the iron standard of the traffic light with his right hand, jerk to a standstill.

  For that first, terrible instant, Wentworth thought that a bullet had found its billet in his comrade's body. Then he saw Jackson's head lift stiffly and stare down Sutton Place! His head was just beneath the green eye of the traffic light, and its ghastly glare fell across his drawn cheeks. Jackson's strong jaw was knotted, but there was no mistaking the rigidity that gripped his body. Jackson, who had dared death gladly a thousand times to serve his master; who had fought through a great war . . . Jackson was afraid!

  Through the long instant, the tableau held, while the light still sprayed green across Jackson's face, while the scream of terror and despair sounded through the night. Then that scream broke, and Jackson wrenched himself free from the iron post. He began to claw for his gun. Jackson, whose draw was the swift strike of a snake, fumbled with a shaking hand for his gun! The traffic light changed to red, and the gun came free, began to spit its harsh thunder down the street. Beside Wentworth, the cop swore curiously and with his retrieved gun in his left hand, ran awkwardly along the dead-end. He had taken only three paces when a man whipped around the corner and charged into the street. The man ran wildly, with both arms flung high above his head, and the screams still came from his lips. It was the Drexler watchman.

  "The Iron Man!" he shrieked. "God save me! The Iron Man!"

  And abruptly, Jackson had abandoned his position beside the traffic light. He turned and ran swiftly toward Wentworth, and he was reloading his automatic. Twice he twisted his head about to stare back across his shoulder.

  "What is it, Jackson?" Wentworth snapped.

  He had his own gun in his hand and was striding to meet his comrade. The policeman already had passed him, was scrambling toward the corner. Wentworth knew the cold tightening of horror in his own heart, for he was remembering those looted homes and the distorted bodies of the four murdered men. They had been literally torn apart. And now Jackson fled, and a man screamed . . . "The iron Man!"

  Jackson whirled, and at the street's mouth, the policeman shouted hoarsely and unintelligibly . . . and then Wentworth saw— and he knew why the watchman had screamed, and why Jackson had been stiff with fright; and how four living men had been torn apart!

  The thing stood there for an instant beneath the swaying street light, a monster of steel, an iron man! Its head towered almost to that light, and the red glare from the traffic signal spilled like lucent blood across a gigantic torso. Arms swung from ponderous shoulders and the head—the head was a replica of the helmet tattooed upon the Drexler watchman's chest! Two blank eyes that were plates of glass glared emptily; the mouth had teeth like a steam-shovel—and the empty glare of those awful eyes was fixed upon Wentworth!

  Even as the Spider ripped himself free from the paralysis which that sudden apparition had placed even upon the Master of Men, the giant in steel lifted a ponderous foot and set it upon the sidewalk. And under that colossal trend, the concrete crackled and broke like ice! A hand moved carelessly, and wrapped about the iron traffic signal standard . . . and that post snapped off with a sputter of electric sparks!

  Once, twice, the robot whipped that heavy post about its head and then hurled it like a war-club at Wentworth's head!

  Chapter Two

  When Bullets Fail

  DEATH WAS VERY CLOSE TO RICHARD WENTWORTH in that moment. There seemed a weight in limbs and brain, stupefaction over this thing his eyes saw, but his mind could not quite believe. It is certain that any other man would have been caught by that steel club and died miserably in his tracks. Wentworth managed somehow to wrench his frozen muscles into action. He shrank aside by a hair's breadth and the wind of the missile's passage whipped his silk hat from his head, fluttered the tails of his Chesterfield.

  The policeman stood motionless, a paralyzed pigmy in the path of the steel monster. His gun was in his fist, his head wrenched back crazily to peer up at that travesty of a face. The watchman ducked behind Wentworth and crouched like a cowed dog and Jackson had his back flattened against the wall; automatic ready in his fist again.

  "This way, officer!" Wentworth'
s voice cracked like a whip and, even in that paralysis of fear which gripped the man, the cop heard the accent of command and discipline stirred within him. He jerked up his revolver and fired at the monster.

  "Retreat, man!" Wentworth shouted. "Come to me!"

  Wentworth whipped up his own automatic and took careful aim. He knew without further trial that the steel body would be impervious to bullets. Jackson's shrewd lead already had searched that out. One shot, Wentworth squeezed off. He knew that his lead flew true, caught the monster in one of its glass eyes—and nothing happened! The monster stood within a few yards of the policeman and slowly bent his head to stare down at the puny thing at its feet. A steel hand lifted casually. . . .

  With an oath, Wentworth leaped toward the Daimler. The policeman was fleeing in crazy, scrambling terror, and the monster was walking . . . slowly, ponderously. The tremor of that tread came through the pavement, seemed to vibrate in Wentworth's very bones.