Old Jenkyns, the butler who had served Wentworth's father before him, came in on silent feet with food . . . and Wentworth realized that the night had turned black and overcast. It was after nine o'clock. He rose to stretch his taut muscles, and the phone bell whirred again.
Jenkyns started violently, turned with his passive stride toward the phone in the hallway. At Wentworth's crisp signal, Jackson started the sonograph instrument to record the voice, as they had each time the phone bell had sounded. He strained his ears to catch Jenkyns' voice, his hand on the instrument at his side. This was part of a calculated plan to keep whoever called waiting on the wire as long as possible, so that the message could be quickly traced.
Jenkyns was in the doorway of the drawing-room, and the pallor of his face told its own story. Wentworth lifted the phone, and saw with a curious detachment that there was no tremor in his hand. Well, would he expect the long years of training to fail him now?
"Richard Wentworth here," he said quietly.
The instant the man spoke, Wentworth knew with a sharp sense of disappointment that it was not Munro. He pushed out words in a wild hurry.
"In one minute, Wentworth, tune your radio to twenty-three megacycles," he rushed. "One minute . . . twenty-three megacycles!"
Wentworth said steadily, "Would you mind repeating . . . ." He cut off then, for the man had disconnected. Wentworth came alertly to his feet.
"Ram Singh!" he snapped. "Out on the terrace. Use that directional loop and spot the direction from which that message will come. Jackson, phone the police radio-room direct and get their directional loop working on it. You got the wave-length . . . twenty-three megacycles!"
Wentworth sprang toward the radio, paid little heed when the telephone shrilled again. That would be the telephone company reporting on the whereabouts of the man who had just called him, and Wentworth knew now that was unimportant. He might have been sent miles from the hideout to make the call. But Munro would calculate that he could not trace the radio message without preparation . . . and he might be right! It was possible that he would speak from a car equipped with two-way radio, and in that case the directional loop would accomplish nothing. If the transmitter were stationary . . . .
Wentworth heard the slow warming of the tubes in his set and stood glowering down at the radio receiver. He tuned it to the specified wave-band. He shifted the sonograph so that he could record the voice that came from the radio and, abruptly, he stiffened. A startled cry leapt from his lips. A voice was coming from the radio.
"Dick!" it called. "Dick! Listen carefully . . . ." It was the voice of Nita!
"Dick, I am allowed to say only what has been written for me," she went on steadily, deliberately. "Listen carefully, for I may not repeat."
Wentworth's hands reached out impotently toward the radio. He shook his head, forcing sharp attention on Nita's words as she went on in that same deliberate way.
"These are the orders of Munro," she said. "At precisely nine-thirty, the
Spider
will enter the end of the Park Avenue traffic tunnel at Fortieth Street, on foot. He will walk through this tunnel to the south end."
Wentworth was only half-listening to the words, though his mind flashed ahead to the picture. That short tunnel, which once had been utilized by street cars, was used now as an auxiliary passage to carry traffic from the Park Avenue ramps that wove around Grand Central Terminal. After dark, it was closed, but only by a series of signs placed across its mouth. In its six blocks of darkness, the
Spider
must walk, and somewhere inside he would meet death!
That much was clear, but Wentworth's attention had been caught by something strange in Nita's manner of speech. He was alert for some secret message from her, under the cover of those words; a hope that had sagged dismally when she said she was reading a written message. But there was that strange something in her speech. Some of her words were drawled slowly, but others had a quick, staccato delivery. There was a rhythm there . . . .
"If the
Spider
fails to do this, I am to be killed, Dick," Nita went on, drawling now. "Bu-ut Mu-unro ha-as," Three slow words, now suddenly three swift words, staccato, sharp, "
allowed me to
s-a-ay thi-is a-added
thing.
Fo-orget abo-out me-e,
Dick, and don't te-ell the-e Spi-der.
Signing off. Goodnight, dear and . . . good-by!"
The hum of the radio station died out, and Jackson was instantly on the wire, calling police headquarters, but Wentworth stared before him blankly. Three slow words, three quick words, three slow words. Three dashes . . . Why, good God, Nita had been signaling in Morse code!
WENTWORTH whipped about to the sonograph and rapidly made the necessary adjustments to repeat the message. Once more Nita's curiously rhythmic voice sounded in his ears . . . but instead of clearing, Wentworth's bewilderment increased. He knew now that it was in Morse code, her message, and he knew what she had signaled, but it meant nothing, nothing at all.
Nita's secret message was: "S. O. S."
Jackson whipped about from the telephone. "Police got the message. The directional reading is one-eighty—three-sixty."
Ram Singh strode into the drawing room, his eyes gleaming fiercely. "
Wan, sahib,
let us go and destroy them!" he cried. "They are due south of us!"
"Or due north," Wentworth murmured. "You mean that your reading was . . ."
"One-eighty-three-sixty,
sahib!
"
Wentworth ripped out a harsh oath. Due to some accident, or design on the part of Munro, the two readings had told absolutely nothing of the exact location from which the station had broadcast. A north-south line through police headquarters and his own home would lead out over the water of the harbor and across Staten Island, into New Jersey, northward . . . Wentworth whipped about suddenly.
"Jackson, get Kirkpatrick on the phone!" he cried. "Tell him that Munro had access to the room in which the men were questioned, or overheard our conversation in the hallway! He knew that we were going to attempt a sonograph identification, and for that reason he did not send the message to me himself, but had it radioed by Nita! Tell him to make sure that none of Munro's witnesses escaped!"
Wentworth bounded toward his chambers, flinging an order at Ram Singh, "Get over to the pier, and warm up the motor of that seaplane!" he snapped. "Phone Jenkyns a number at which he can call you. Once the motor is warmed, keep it idling and stand by that phone!"
In his room, Wentworth made swift preparations. He snapped two broad rubber bands about his wrist and thrust under them a light, powerful automatic. His eyes were glittering like ice, and he whipped about when Jackson stepped inside the room. Jackson's broad face was set in stony lines.
"Mr. Kirkpatrick had left headquarters, sir," he reported. "I gave the message to Sergeant Reams. Reams was sore as hell, sir. Toley let the witnesses go home for Thanksgiving dinner. Police were sent to guard them . . . and one of the witnesses murdered his police guard and escaped!"
Wentworth choked down the oath that leaped to his lips. Always just too late! The man had been Munro without a doubt . . . and they had grasped only another phantom. Give that man ten minutes alone, and he would be a totally different character . . . . He laughed sharply.
"But they will have a sonograph chart of his voice!" he cried. "Jackson, you will stay here and await orders by telephone."
Jackson made no response. His faithful blue eyes looked stubborn. "Begging the Major's pardon, sir," he said stolidly, "Is the Major planning to . . . walk through that tunnel?"
Wentworth was suddenly very quiet. "Don't be a fool, Jackson," he said calmly. "It is the price Munro has placed upon Miss Nita's life!"
"Does the Major trust Munro?"
Wentworth shook his head, and a slow, grim smile built about his lips. "No, Jackson . . . but Munro will be there to make sure the
Spider
dies! He may . . . find matters not too much to his liking! He worked pretty cleverly, giving me too little time to make preparations to trap him. His own plans are undoubtedly fully arranged!"
Jackson stood very stiffly, "Begging the Major's pardon, sir, I wish to volunteer."
"You what?"
"I wish to volunteer, sir, to walk through that tunnel." Jackson's eyes burned steadily into Wentworth's. "You know, sir, that it is certain death. You . . . The Major won't stand a chance!"
Wentworth's eyes softened, and he dropped a hand on Jackson's shoulder warmly. "Thanks, Jackson," he said quietly. "You can serve me best here." His heart swelled at the loyalty of this man who served him, as thoughtless of self as was the
Spider
in his service to humanity. He shook Jackson's broad shoulder a little. "I've been in these deathtraps before, man, and . . . ."
Jenkyns was at the door suddenly. "Master Richie," he mumbled. "Commissioner Kirkpatrick is here. He wants you at once . . . ."
Wentworth stiffened. He had no time to talk to Kirkpatrick. Minutes were flying . . . and he had a rendezvous with death.
"Tell him . . ." he began harshly, and cut off. Kirkpatrick was standing just behind Jenkyns.
"Glad I found you in time, Dick," he said quietly. "I have a favor to ask of you!"
Wentworth moved a hand impatiently. "Any other time, Kirk," he said sharply.
"You heard that radio message from Nita, didn't you? Do you think I can let the
Spider
walk into a trap like that, and not be there to help him?"
Kirkpatrick's blue eyes did not waver at all, and there was grimness in the thrust of his jaw. "The
Spider
is a law-breaker," he said stolidly. "A killer . . . I am swearing you in as a deputy, Dick. I am calling on you as an officer of the law demanding the support of a citizen as he has the right to do. You will help me trap the
Spider!
"
Wentworth laughed sharply. "You're crazy, Kirkpatrick!" he said violently. "The
Spider
is risking his life to save Nita! He called me a few moments after that radio message and promised that he would. And you ask me to help trap him? You're mad!"
Kirkpatrick's jaw was stubborn, and his hand moved at his side. Four uniformed policemen stepped into sight beside him, guns in their fists! Wentworth knew then that he would have no choice of refusing! But, damn it, this was his one chance to save Nita, to snare Munro! Suppose he made a break for it, even in the face of those four guns? Then Kirkpatrick would track him down, and arrest him . . . as the
Spider!
And time was flying. Within a little more than twenty minutes, the
Spider
must start his stroll into that tunnel of death!
"I intend to settle this matter once and for all," Kirkpatrick said harshly. "If you are the
Spider,
then the
Spider
cannot appear if you are with me. Dick, you will either do as I say, or I shall clamp you into a cell under protective arrest!"
He frowned. "Well, Dick . . . which is it going to be? Will you help me trap the
Spider,
or shall I put you in my private escape-proof cell!"
Wentworth's eyes held the shine of desperation, but his voice was very quiet.
"A man would make but one choice, Kirkpatrick," he said curtly. "Where is this cell of yours?"
KIRKPATRICK'S face darkened at Wentworth's words, but he did not waver from his resolved purpose. He spoke crisply, and two of the uniformed men sidled into Wentworth's room and moved toward him, guns and handcuffs ready. Wentworth was aware that Jackson was watching narrowly for a signal, and he shook his head slightly. He knew that Kirkpatrick's patience had worn thin. There had been too many recent coincidental appearances of Wentworth on the scene of the
Spider's
operations. Moreover, Wentworth dared not risk receiving a wound! Too much depended on his remaining ready for the battle. But the time was so cruelly short . . . . Twenty minutes!
"All right," he said angrily, "come on with the handcuffs! Put me in this escape-proof cell of yours, and get on with your trapping of the
Spider!
If only I had a chance to warn him!"
The police snapped on the handcuffs and Jackson watched with a puzzled air; then resolution formed in his face.
"I'm sure, sir," he said, "that the
Spider
would expect some such trap as this, I'm quite sure it won't keep him from appearing!"
Wentworth's head whipped toward his man, and he read Jackson's intention in his direct blue gaze. Wentworth's voice still seemed angry. "You will not leave this apartment, Jackson!" he snapped. "I won't have the
Spider
thinking we are parties to the trap! You understand, Jackson, no matter how badly you wish to help the
Spider,
you will not leave this apartment—or you will leave my service!"
Jackson's face went pale. His voice was stolid, "Yes, Major!"
Wentworth jerked at the handcuffs, "Come along! Let's see this cell—or you'll be late for your treachery, Kirkpatrick!"
Worry gnawed at the back of Wentworth's brain. Jackson's intention had been completely plain. It had been his intention to don the robes of the
Spider
and walk into that tunnel of death, as he had volunteered to do before Kirkpatrick's arrival. It would be fatal, in more ways than one. Jackson was a grand fighting man, but he lacked the split-second brain of the Master of Men! If he escaped the attack of the criminals he would surely fall into the hands of the police, and that would be as disastrous as if Wentworth himself were captured in the robes of the
Spider!
Wentworth had made the choice of the cell with full knowledge that he might be dooming himself irrevocably. But if he went with Kirkpatrick, there would be no chance at all to appear as the
Spider
and Wentworth had not yet given up hope of keeping his rendezvous with death! He maintained a hard silence while the police took him down in the elevator and out where Kirkpatrick's car waited. Wentworth stole a glance at the clock on the dashboard of the car. Already quarter past nine! Fifteen minutes . . . .