Norvell Page

“ The Spider whirled swiftly to the door, jerked it open. Outside all was deep, dark silence. No police whistles skirled in the streets; no sirens smote his ears; no one shouted. The acrid odor of gun powder drifted past his nostrils, and the Spider glanced swiftly at his watch.
He still had four minutes before Ram Singh would call the police. Four minutes before a radio alarm flashed out and swift two-seated cars sped through the crooked east side to seize John Harper with his stolen jewels.
A swift smile crossed the Spider's lips. No one would ever arrest John Harper now. ”

“ Yes, injustice angered him. He flew to the protection of its victims with such anger as a man feels when he sees a dog kicked viciously, or a dray horse beaten senseless as it struggles against a heavy load.
His mind flicked back to the case in hand. Forgery of bonds—well, the Spider knew where that pointed. John Harper prospered by that racket. And John Harper's pawnshop lay just ahead of him, its back windows barred and forbidding, its heavy iron door a veritable Gibraltar. ”

“ At those two words, “The Spider,” the pigjowled pawnbroker's eyes widened until the white showed completely around their evasive blue irises. His mouth opened and he swallowed audibly. But no sound came from his dry lips. He touched his tongue furtively to them, swallowed again.
“My God!”
There was grim amusement in Wentworth's voice. “Let me have those bonds—at once.”
“But I haven't got them, I haven't!” the man cried. ”