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  "I carry armament, too," he told her gayly, "part of which you would probably disapprove. It is a knife strapped to my left forearm."

  Nita said briefly, "Knives have their uses. Ram Singh has saved my life a dozen times over with his. Is the rest of your armament a revolver? If you have no firearms, I have an extra one in my purse for you."

  They were in the car by now—Stoking's own, with a respectful chauffeur at the wheel—and the machine, which was a rakish Minerva, was muttering at close to top speed through the deserted streets. Stoking lounged on the cushions beside Nita and she noted with approval that he had the same manner of facing crises that so distinguished Wentworth, a calm, bitter readiness. Nita herself was tense.

  "Don't you want to tell me about it?" he suggested quietly.

  "You'll have to know if you're to help," Nita conceded, as if reluctantly. She told him of Wentworth's flight, the crash, and of Ram Singh's being sent away in a stolen car. "Ram Singh knew that he was supposed to be a decoy," she went on, "and when the Bat Man's crew didn't pursue, he stopped. He heard some fast, deliberate shooting and recognized Dick's guns. Then he heard Dick cry out. . . ." Nita paused, pressing her hands tightly down on the bulging black handbag in her lap. "Ram Singh does not scare easily, but he said that it . . . it sounded like a devil's death cry."

  "Dick isn't dead," Stoking said quietly. "You would have known it, if he were."

  Nita's voice was very low. "Yes, you do know me, Fred. You're right, I would have known. What Ram Singh said confirms it. He saw Dick and Jackson carried into two planes and flown away. Ram Singh tried to steal the third plane, but found the propeller had been bent in landing. He just escaped the Indians and came to phone me. He's in Flemington. We're flying there. Have to make a landing in a field with magnesium flares."

  "I've got a two-seater Lockhead Vega," Stoking said casually. "I'm an indifferent pilot, but I understand you can handle ships."

  "I have a thousand hours—transport license," Nita replied, tight-lipped. That was Dick's doing, too, teaching her to fly. Dick had been thorough. . . .

  "I want to apologize again," Stoking kept his tone light, "for trying to caveman you. It was not the right tactic—not at all!"

  Nita felt her tension easing a little beneath his banter. He was doing his part well, but even he knew that the ultimate effort must be hers. Well, she had never failed Dick yet.

  The Vega was fast as Nita could have wished, but it seemed scarcely to move toward Flemington. She made a safe, though rough, landing on a meadow near the town and Ram Singh raced up in a car while they still clambered from the plane. The Hindu hesitated at sight of Stoking but, at a sign from Nita, accepted him and began to spill what supplementary news he had in a virtual downpour of words.

  "What were the Bat Man's planes used for?" Nita asked abruptly.

  Ram Singh lifted his shoulders in token of ignorance. "Perhaps, missie sahib, to distribute bats. There was a cage of them in the plane left behind."

  Nita laughed exultingly. "To the field quickly, Ram Singh!" she cried as she sprang into the car Ram Singh had brought. "We must have that cage of bats!"

  The car was fast enough, but scarcely comfortable. Stoking and Nita jounced miserably as the intrepid Hindu streaked over dark Jersey roads. He battled curves with squealing tires and motor roaring wide open, flew through unlighted anonymous towns that were no more than sounding boards for the car's engine.

  "Why this wild enthusiasm for bats?" Stoking inquired mildly. "I must confess the poisonous little beasts don't interest me in the least."

  "Later," Nita snapped. "Look for barbed-wire fences. If you see one, sing out. Ram Singh, stop at the first cry. Stop, Ram Singh!" Nita sprang from the car, groped in a pocket of the front door and got pliers, then strode to a barbed-wire fence on her side of the road. Within brief minutes, she was back with a coil of separate strands of wire. But still Stoking had no time for questions. Nita demanded his handkerchief, then the lining from his coat. Finally, she tore the upholstery of the car with the pliers and pulled out gobs of curled hair and padded cotton.

  Ram Singh was traveling more slowly and silently. Everything in his manner suggested that they were near the field and that no

  chances must be taken of discovery.

  "Bring me the cage of bats," Nita ordered.

  Ram Singh sprang from the car and salaamed profoundly, lifting cupped hands to his forehead as he bowed in respect. Wah! This woman was a fit mate for his master—a tigress whose claws were as deadly as those of the old one himself. Bring back the bats? He would bring back heaven and hell, let her but command it!

  As he strode off into the darkness, Nita sprang from the car and took the cap off the gasoline tank. She had fastened the torn bits of cloth to strands of the barbed-wire and now she dipped each one into the gasoline. When Ram Singh returned, she was ready. At her command, the Hindu maneuvered out one of the bats and held it so it could not bite. Nita fastened a string made of torn cloth through a small slit she made in the bat's inter-femoral membrane. The string was attached to wire, which in turn wrapped a bundle of gasoline-soaked cloth.

  All climbed back into the car, then Nita touched a match to the gasoline rag and ordered the bat released. With the torch blazing behind him, the bat rose bewilderedly straight upward for a short distance. Then, with side excursions in which it tried to shake off the blazing tail that had been given, it made a laborious way southward. Nita watched until the ball of fire gave her the right direction, then she sent Ram Singh forward.

  The Hindu was smiling broadly. Wah! Had he not said she was a veritable goddess? Wentworth sahib had sprayed bats with luminous paint and followed them. The missie sahib lacked the paint, but did that hinder her? By Siva, no! They would follow these bats to the hiding place of this unclean creature who flew through the air, then, by Kali, the destroyer, there would be an accounting! A hand stole to the hilt of the keen knife at his sash. . . .

  They traveled five miles southward before Nita released the second bat. That left her three more. When they were gone. . . . But before that, they must have a clue to the Bat Man's whereabouts. They must! One by one those bats with their trail of fire fought upward into the sky and winged their way off into darkness, charting a course for the Bat Man's headquarters. The way was still southward. The next to the last bat had almost escaped them when the rays of an approaching car's headlights blinded them, but finally they detected the flying creature deviating from a straight, southern course, heading slightly eastward. They were near now, very near. That much was obvious, but how would they find the place with only one more bat? They might arrive within a hundred yards of the place and then. . . .

  Resolutely, Nita prepared a larger bundle for the torch, burdened the final bat until it could scarcely lift itself toward the sky. It would be forced to fly slowly; the longer burning of the torch would help. Nita signaled a stop, alighted and stepped behind the car to dip the cloth in gasoline. As she struck a match to the torch, she breathed a little wordless prayer. If this hope failed them. . . . The bat struggled upward. Nita watched it go with aching eyes, then whirled as footsteps grated in the roadway. Flashlight glare assaulted her eyes and a gruff voice that carried the obvious burden of authority, rasped at them to: "Put them up!"

  "We've got you, you damned murderers!" another man rejoined. "You was seen turning loose them bats along the road. Guy passed you and saw you. And now we catch you at it."

  One man was on the running board with a gun against Ram Singh's side. Nita did not answer. She barely heeded them or realized their presence now, for she was watching the ball of fire that marked the bat's heavy flight as it moved directly eastward. . . .

  "You're completely wrong about this," Stoking said sharply. "We have nothing to do with the poisoned bats. We. . . ."

  A policeman's stocky figure came out from behind the light and his billie slapped Stoking unconscious to the ground. "Any guy that would turn loose them bats. . . ." he muttered, then turn
ed to Nita.

  Nita realized abruptly that, though she had at last approximately discovered the hiding place, at least of adherents of the Bat Man—the spot where possibly Dick was held prisoner—she was now helpless to render him any assistance. She caught the policeman by the arm, tried to explain what they had been doing. He only scowled and growled at her.

  "Listen, baby," he said. "Only one thing int'rests me. You was turning loose them bats and you are going to jail. Come along!"

  Nita gazed despairingly into his face. He couldn't mean what he said—but it was obvious that he did. She must get away. She had to save Dick—who must be very close now.

  With a wrench, she freed herself from the policeman's hand and darted for the shrubbery at the side of the road. She reached it, but the bushes were thick and blocked her retreat. She snatched for the automatic beneath her arm, her breath sobbing in her throat. Dick never fired on police, not even to save his own life, but, but . . . this was for Dick!

  She lifted the automatic. The policeman's stick slashed down on her wrist. Agony raced up her arm, then the policeman had her. Her arm was twisted behind her back until she moaned with the pain of it. She was tripped and thrown flat on her face, then handcuffs pinched home on her wrists. She lifted her head and saw Ram Singh unconscious on the ground beside Stoking. That hope was gone, too.

  "Baby," growled the policeman, "when I say jail, I mean jail!"

  Utter despair shook Nita. Sobs rose in her throat, but she choked them down. Surely, this time, destiny conspired against Dick! Was this, then, the end which the Spider and his mate had known must come some day . . . ?

  Chapter Ten

  In The Vampire's Cage

  IT SEEMED TO WENTWORTH, in the cage of the vampires, that he and Jackson had fought for hours against the bats. His arms became leaden with the ceaseless flailing against never-tiring wings. The upper half of his body was bleeding from half a hundred tiny wounds, but as yet, none of them was serious. Both men were panting through brassy throats.

  "Can't . . . keep it up . . . much longer, major!" Jackson gasped beside him. The ceaseless whipping of his arms lagged for an instant and five of the brown furry beasts broke through his guard and darted at his face and throat. Jackson shouted, seized one in his fist and beat at the others with it. The captured bat squeaked and squealed and other vampires drew off, fluttering just out of reach of the defending arms of the men.

  "Make it keep on squealing," Wentworth ordered sharply. Jackson did, and while the bat shrilled its fright, the others held

  back. "It won't last long," Wentworth panted. "No, and there's no way out . . . unless Ram Singh comes." Wentworth shook his head. "Sent him to Philadelphia. We'll have

  to get out of this ourselves." It was as if he knew that at this minute, within five miles of the house, Nita and Ram Singh and Stoking were helpless in the hands of the police. He knew a sickening despair. If he could only think. . . . Already the truce of fright was ending and the bats were fluttering to the attack again. Through their black cloud, Wentworth gazed toward where June Calvert still sat watching. She was leaning forward, her face cruelly smiling.

  "Behold your love, Jackson!" he cried, "how she enjoys your torture!"

  Jackson, flailing again with weary arms, peered toward her and, even in the midst of pain, Wentworth saw that she still drew him; that the strange attraction held. A glimmering of an idea began to shine in his brain.

  "Jackson," he said quietly. "We're going to the door, back to back. You face the door. . . ."

  Jackson turned a bewildered face toward him. "We'll be more exposed, sir."

  "Quite," Wentworth conceded. "I'll stand first. Set your shoulders to mine and we'll walk across to the door."

  Jackson was used to obedience. He knew that if Wentworth spoke, it was in furtherance of some definite plan. He did not question the strategy. After all, he had been a soldier. As Wentworth stood, Jackson sprang to his feet, and set his back against Wentworth's, walked slowly toward the door while they both struck out with their arms and kicked off the bats that flew low to attack their legs. They reached the grilled opening and Jackson pressed against it.

  "Now, what, major?" he asked. His voice was strained and difficult.

  Wentworth struck down a bat that bit at his face, caught another in his hand and held it, loudly squealing, before him. For a while the others held off. Wentworth laughed.

  "Behold, Jackson," he cried, "the woman you love!"

  Jackson did not answer, but Wentworth could hear his heavy, strained breathing. The bats continued to circle and with regular sweeps of his arms, he drove them back. He waited. It was a faint hope that he entertained. Jackson's instantaneous, passionate interest in the woman was a strange thing, but its reason was clear. The woman herself was intense, strongly emotional. The sight of her fancied enemy undergoing the torture of the bats made her breasts heave quickly. If she saw Jackson's overwhelming fascination, was it not barely possible that she might respond?

  Jackson was a vigorous, handsome man, with a rugged, wide-jawed, wide-browed face. His chest was banded with muscle and the glistening perspiration caught every high-light, emphasized every ligament contour. There was something primitive about both of them: this savage fighter who had been an incorrigible in the army until he fell under Wentworth's firm hand, and this woman who could delight in torture and death. Elemental, both of them.

  The Spider could not turn to watch the woman's face or actions. The bats would not permit, and even a glimpse of his own watching eyes might disrupt the spell he sought to weave. He could feel the quicker pumping of Jackson's sides, and finally, because he strained his ears through the ceaseless squeaking of the bats, he caught June Calvert's whispered words.

  "Why . . . do you look at me . . . like that?"

  Jackson made no answer. If he had guessed at Wentworth's plan, he gave no sign of it. Wentworth supposed that he was too much preoccupied with emotion to think at all.

  The woman spoke again, more strongly. "Why do you look at me like that?"

  Jackson boomed out his deep laughter. "Because I hate you!" he cried.

  Wentworth's eyes tightened and he nodded slowly. A bat broke through his guard and fastened on his throat. He tore it loose and felt his flesh rip, too. He laughed softly, battled on. The woman's voice was closer now.

  "You don't hate me," she said. "You don't! I can see it in your eyes!"

  Jackson said nothing and when the woman spoke again, Wentworth started, she was so near!

  "Why do you look at me like that?" she whispered.

  No sound from Jackson, no more from the woman. Wentworth could hear the breathing of both. He seized a bat and made it squeal in pain. The sound was piercing, hurt the eardrums, but it no longer drove back the vampires. They lanced in over Wentworth's arms. One got past him and fastened on the side of Jackson's throat; but Jackson did not move to knock it off.

  "The bat!" the woman whispered. "There's a bat on your throat. Take it off; please take it off!"

  Jackson laughed again. "There will only be another. Let him stay and take his three ounces of blood."

  "Please take it off," June Calvert cried. "Oh, there is blood on you, all over you."

  Deliberately, Wentworth allowed another bat to slip past him and fasten on Jackson's upper arm.

  Jackson spoke to the woman. "Come in here."

  "No, no!" The woman was panting.

  Jackson laughed, triumph in its sound. "You must."

  After that, long silence, then Jackson's laughter again, the muscles tightening across his back. Presently, the woman sighed.

  "You're hurting me," she whispered. "The bars. Wait, I will open the door."

  Her footsteps hurried away. Jackson's weight sagged against Wentworth's back. "She's a devil," he whispered. "She takes my strength away. God, she's wonderful, wonderful . . ."

  Wentworth said nothing, his mouth tightening as he continued the battle against the bats. Not much longer, thank God. A little more
and they would be out of this cage of death. Even then, there would be fighting—but against humans, and a limited number of them—not against the winged vampires. . . . He made a mental note that Jackson, after this, would be useless to him against the Bat Man.

  The woman's footsteps were running when she returned. "I had to kill the man," she sobbed. "I had to. He wouldn't give me the keys."

  Metal rasped and Jackson sprang through the door. Wentworth whirled and went after him, slammed the cage shut. Jackson thought nothing of his escape. There was still one bat fastened to his arm, but it was the woman, leaning back in Jackson's embrace, who removed that. She pinched the vampire's throat and held it for a while, then dropped it to the floor. There was a smile on her red lips as she looked up into Jackson's face. She would have to go with them, Wentworth thought, or the Bat Man would put her in their place in the vampire's cage. He cast swiftly about the black-walled room for a means of escape.