The Black Spiders

by John Creasey

  Copyright & Information

  The Black Spiders

  First published in 1957

  Copyright: John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1957-2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of John Creaseyto be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2012 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

  Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  EAN ISBN Edition

  075512393X 9780755123933 Print

  0755131614 9780755131617 Mobi

  0755131622 9780755131624 Epub

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron.

  Creasy wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the ‘C’ section in stores. They included:

  Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.

  Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the One Party Alliance which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.

  He also founded the British Crime Writers’ Association, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing. The Mystery Writers of America bestowed upon him the Edgar Award for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate Grand Master Award. John Creasey’s stories are as compelling today as ever.

  1. Night

  Murray woke, with a start.

  There had been a sound, and he was aware of it, but he heard nothing now except the rustle of the wind in the trees.

  He lay on his back, his eyes wide open, sleep forgotten, and feeling a kind of uneasiness; that all was not well. Yet there was just the one sound, as a lullaby, and there were the outlines of the trees against the starlit sky; peace and quiet and—

  Crack!

  It came sharp and clear and unmistakable; a pistol-shot. It came from just outside, too, from underneath his window. Now his heart hammered. He flung back the bedclothes and stretched out a hand for the bedside lamp, then snatched his hand away, remembering that light could bring danger. Now that he was on his feet and stepping towards the grey outline of the window, it was almost possible to believe that he had imagined that sharp crack of a shot. Yet it echoed in his ears, and he strained to hear another shot, half fearful that it would come.

  He reached the sash-cord window, which was open at the top, not at the bottom, and then heard a different sound; as of a man, muttering. Beyond the tree was the garden, beyond the garden the field, and beyond the field the cliff and the sea, a hundred yards away. He was alone in this cottage, and no one else lived within a mile of the spot.

  He pressed close to the window, trying to see into the murky greyness, and he could make out the shape of bushes and of smaller trees, a hedge, even the old well with its wooden roof; but there was no sign of a man; or of men. He stood quite still, his heart-beats steadying, telling himself that it was absurd to think of danger for him, that he might even have imagined—

  A white light shone out.

  Its beam was narrow close to the bright round orb, and gradually broadened, losing its whiteness in a kind of mist. It was uncanny to stand there and watch it move round, the beam lighting up those things which had been almost black, and turning them to silver. He saw the heads of flowers, the rose-bushes, the well. The light hovered about the well, moved on, and then darted back again, as if the man who held it thought that it might hide whatever he was seeking. Now it was held steady over the well, and the man holding the torch—just a dark shape behind the whiteness of the light—began to move forward. He walked steadily, and although the beam wavered a little, it did not once shift from the well.

  Then, another beam shot out, this time from almost directly beneath Murray—a torch held by someone underneath the bedroom window. This light also aimed towards the well, and the two beams met by the well itself, throwing the old bucket near it into sharp relief, the wheel, the roof and the two stays, and—the hands.

  Until that moment, Murray had only vaguely understood what was going on, and he had taken it for granted that the cottage was to be burgled. Now he believed that he knew differently, for he could see two hands clutching the wall of the well. Someone must be hanging at arms’ length. There was no ledge inside the well, he knew, but at one side—not far from those clinging hands—there were iron rungs, forming a kind of ladder leading down into the water. That water was never less than thirty feet deep.

  Now the two men carrying the torches advanced towards each other, as if they were stalking prey. There was no sound except the rustling, while the beams carved light out of the darkness.

  And the light showed the guns, one in each man’s hand.

  One man, facing the cottage, became clearly visible; short, slim, clad in black or dark grey, wearing a trilby hat which was pushed to the back of his head. The light made his eyes shine, and showed up his aquiline features and pointed chin. The other was more silhouette, and Murray could not see much of him.

  They were about equidistant from the well, no more than ten yards away from either side; and the hands were still there, becoming more vivid as the light drew nearer and consequently brighter.

  All of this revealed itself to Murray in a fleeting moment; and during it each man took three or four slow steps. Then suddenly one of the clinging hands shifted, the fingers waved, the whole hand showed for a moment, as if it were beckoning and whoever was there was making some kind of despairing plea. Then it vanished beneath the edge of the well.

  Murray flinched.

  Anyone clinging on with one hand could only last for a minute or two, at most.

  There were the two armed men, an unknown victim, and the dark night—and Murray had no gun here, nothing he could easily use as a weapon. Yet he had to distract the attention of those men, and he had to get down to the well, and help the unseen victim.

  How?

  He had no weapon, remember.

  He was hardly aware of conscious thought as he moved to the bedside table and the bedside lamp, twisted the lamp-bulb out of its socket, and went back to the window. By standing on tip-toe he could toss the bulb out through the gap at the top of the window, making no sound. He threw it as far as he could, then ducked back inside the room and went for the bulb in the ceiling light. As he groped, he kicked against his shoes, actually a pair of open sandals. He tried to get the bulb out and slip his feet into
the sandals at the same time, waiting every moment for the first bulb to explode—but it did not.

  It must have caught in the branches of the tree.

  He got the other bulb out, and his feet were in the sandals. He scuffled along, almost desperately. Now the two men were within two yards of the well.

  He had expected them to be nearer, but they were as cautious as ever, as if they feared that danger waited in the darkness for them, too.

  He looked anxiously towards the well.

  Both hands were in sight, and—-

  A sharp, cracking shot broke the night’s quiet. The torches went out, a man gasped, and then there came silence in the blackness. It was impossible to tell whether either of the men was moving, whether either had been hurt.

  But now Murray had a little precious time, and cause for hope; help of a kind was near, and fear of further shooting would probably keep those men in the darkness, while he made for the well.

  He pushed the bottom part of the window up. It didn’t squeak, and so did not attract the attention of anyone down below. He kept the bulb in his pocket, for it might be invaluable soon—the explosion as it burst would startle the two men, and give him some advantage.

  Who had fired at them?

  A light glowed for a moment, just long enough for Murray to make out a man crouching behind a garden seat not far from the well. Next moment, a shot cracked, and Murray saw a flash at a comer of the cottage.

  The torch light went out.

  Murray climbed backwards out of the window, then lowered himself at arms’ length. His feet dangled close to the ground-floor window; it wasn’t really a long drop, but the concrete path beneath could do a lot of harm.

  He dropped, bending his knees, and touched the concrete. He jarred his left ankle painfully, and almost fell, but he swayed into the wall, and steadied himself.

  All he could see now were the stars in the blackness, and the outline of bushes and trees. He heard no movement at all, and could imagine the two men staring towards the corner from where the shot had come, fearful of another.

  His ankle hurt slightly, but not enough to stop him from moving freely. Almost at hand was the back porch, and close to this a little lean-to, where forks and rakes, spades and other gardening tools were kept. A garden fork could be a useful weapon.

  Abruptly, shooting came again, four or five shots in quick succession. There were flashes from three different points, including the corner. Murray heard a sound, as of a man falling. Almost at once, two torches shone out again—and their beams converged on the corner and shone upon a man who lay crumpled on the ground.

  Dead?

  One of the men carrying a torch hurried towards the corner, and the man lying there made no move.

  Murray turned towards the well.

  A beam of light shot out towards him, but it struck the window beneath his bedroom; he was outside its range. He bent low, and made for the hedges which separated the vegetable from the flower garden; it offered some cover.

  He could not be absolutely sure, but believed that the two men knew he was in the garden, perhaps had heard what little sound he had made.

  If they shone a light upon him—

  A single shot cracked; he saw the flash, and heard a bullet hit the wall of the house. Bad shooting, but it didn’t help his nerves. These two men were shooting to kill—and someone was in the well.

  Still holding on?

  He took the light-bulb out of his pocket and hurled it towards a far corner, then stood unmoving. He heard it make a funny slither of sound, and then the explosion came, far louder than a shot.

  He found himself clenching his teeth slightly as he crept along by the hedge. The light of a torch was shining towards the spot where the bulb had burst. If he had had a gun he could have picked the man off.

  The beam of light swivelled round, slowly, but the other man didn’t switch on his. Why? At least neither of them was paying much attention to the victim in the well.

  Murray straightened up, momentarily safe from the light, but it soon came creeping towards him.

  Somewhere near here was an apple-tree, old and gnarled, and if he could get behind it, he would be safe from the light. How near was it? He stretched up his left arm and felt the branches and twigs, a few drying leaves, then an apple. He didn’t think about that until he reached the trunk of the tree and sidled round it. The light moved faster, and it shone upon a privet hedge, where a bush was cut in the shape of a man. As the light fell upon it, the man standing in darkness, nearer the well, fired. So one was picking out the target, the other waiting to shoot. They didn’t waste another bullet; probably they realised what they had done.

  Murray leaned against the tree. The one beam of light sent a pale glow beyond its sharp edge, and now he could make out the crouching figure of the man who had fired— and he was no more than five yards away. Given a gun, given anything that he could throw, Murray could deal with one man and stand a chance with the second.

  The light was coming nearer; in a few seconds it would shine on him, and the hedge no longer gave shelter.

  Any missile would do, any—

  Apples!

  He stretched up, eagerly. The tree was laden, he had looked at it only that evening. He groped about and felt several apples; two of them fell almost at a touch. He caught them. The glow of light was very near now; but for the trunk of the tree, he would be seen. And the light showed up the man who stood in darkness, waiting to shoot.

  At five or six yards he couldn’t miss.

  Murray hurled the apples, one after the other. There was a rustling sound as they went, which must have puzzled both men. Then he heard an apple strike home, heard a cry, heard the second strike with the same crunchy sound as the first. The man was obviously off his balance, and he showed up as the torch beam moved up and down. His arms were waving, and he was dangerously close to the edge of the well. He wouldn’t fall down it, but if he struck the edge he would probably lose his balance.

  Murray leapt towards him.

  The other man couldn’t be many yards away, and now Murray was in the full light of the torch. If shooting began afresh, he wouldn’t have a chance. He was aware of that, but didn’t realise its full significance. The gap between him and the man by the well vanished before the man recovered his balance. Murray crashed into him, and grabbed at his right wrist. If he could get that gun, there would be a chance of driving both men away. If he failed, he probably wouldn’t live to know what it was all about.

  Body pressed against body in the desperate struggle, and the light was upon them as the other man came running up. Murray’s fingers tightened about a thin, wiry wrist, and he twisted savagely. He heard the other gasp, knew he was much shorter, felt him trying to bring a knee up into the pit of his stomach.

  Then the other’s hold on the gun relaxed.

  Murray snatched the gun, brought it down smack on the back of the man’s head, and pushed his victim away. Then he swivelled round on his left foot. The pain at the ankle almost made him cry out, but his foot didn’t give way.

  The light was only two yards away, shining in his eyes. He saw the second man’s gun. It flashed. He fired in turn, felt a pluck at his shoulder, fired again, and heard a gasp; then he saw the light swinging wildly, as if the man holding it was drunk. But although the light described circles in the darkness, like a giant firework, the man still came on.

  He lunged forward, and Murray tensed himself for another struggle—and then realised the truth.

  This man had no fight at all left in him, he leaned limply against Murray, and after the first relief, Murray felt something wet and warm drip on to his hand.

  So this man was wounded, and offered no threat.

  The other was still on the ground, but probably wouldn’t be unconscious for long; there was no time to spare if Murray was to help whoever was hanging down the well.

  Or had the victim fallen, and been drowned?

  2. Body in the Well

  Alth
ough the man leaning against Murray seemed very small, he was dead weight. Murray pushed him off, gasping for breath, and he showed no sign of life—just slid to one side and fell, heavily.

  The other man didn’t move.

  There was no light, no way of seeing if those clinging hands were still there.

  Murray bent down and groped about; a torch couldn’t be far away, and it might still work. He touched the body of the man whom he had knocked unconscious, then patted his coat—and felt something inside one of the pockets.

  He slid his hand inside.

  This was a torch.

  Murray pressed the switch on even before he drew it out, and bright light shone into his own eyes, dazzling him. Fool. He swung the beam towards the well, and the centuries-old brick wall which surrounded it—the wall to which the victim had been clinging.

  There were no hands in sight.

  Murray winced, as if in physical pain, but quickly took a step towards the well. He stopped abruptly, for the glow of light fell on to the face of the man who had fallen against him, and the sight of the crimson splash on the forehead told its story. There was death.

  Murray shivered; but he hadn’t time to waste, hadn’t time to be squeamish. He shone the torch on to the other man, who might come round and attack him while he was at the well. The man’s eyelids were already fluttering. He had dark hair and aquiline features; and he was darker-skinned than most.

  Murray bent over him, yanked off his tie, then turned him over on his face and tied his wrists behind him. He let him fall back and, torch in hand, stepped to the side of the well. He almost prayed that he had been wrong, and that the hands were still in sight, but they were not. He reached the edge and shone the torch down into the cold darkness. For a few seconds he seemed only to see a kind of mist; that was light reflected from the water, shimmering on the surface.