The Black Spiders

by John Creasey

  ‘What else?’ he insisted, more softly. ‘Hurry.’

  Murray said, as if he had to force every word out: ‘I am to get in touch with all the newspapers, and find out if any of them have information which would help Craigie.’

  Quick as a flash came the next question: ‘Help him with what?’

  ‘Finding out—who is behind this.’

  ‘Is that exactly what you mean?’

  ‘What else could he want?’ asked Murray roughly, and managed not to look down again, although the little man glanced at the floor just by his side, as if he had seen a scuttling movement. ‘He knew there was disaffection, he doesn’t know who was behind it, and newspaper correspondents often pick up information which don’t reach official channels.’

  ‘I think I understand you,’ the Cannan said, as if he was convinced at last. He lowered the gun a trifle, as if the pressure were off, and then went on in a flat voice: ‘Understand this, Murray. From time to time we shall ask you questions, and you will always answer us truthfully, for there are more painful things than the bite of a spider.’

  Murray said: ‘How can we get rid of the damned things?’

  ‘Never mind that yet,’ said the little man. ‘I have other questions for you. First—where is Juanita Lang?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Murray said sharply.

  ‘You expect me to believe that?’ the Cannan sneered. ‘Don’t take me for a fool, my friend; we shall get the girl soon, she cannot keep away from us for long. Tell me now, and it will save you from much pain and trouble. Also—it may be possible for you to help her.’’

  He was watching narrowly, as if to find out whether that mattered to Murray.

  Murray said: ‘A lot you care about that.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ the little man told him, ‘we care about her. All that has happened is Craigie’s fault. We wanted only to question her and find out where her uncle is—but after you and Craigie’s man rescued her, it seemed better to kill her and make sure she didn’t tell you anything. We would still rather see her dead than in Craigie’s hands; but if we can get her back we shall not hurt her, Murray, we shall only make her tell us what we want to know,’ the man declared. He paused and then went on again, speaking softly and insidiously: ‘You are not a wealthy man, are you? Our leader Mikolas will pay you very handsomely for help in finding Juanita Lang—and she will not be hurt.’

  So this was the trump card.

  Murray couldn’t make up his mind whether it was better to let the man think he might accept a bribe, or to reject the offer out of hand.

  ‘Murray, let me tell you . . .’ the man began; but then he stopped abruptly.

  Murray had heard nothing, but obviously the little man had. He shot a glance over his shoulder, and in that moment he gave Murray his first ghost of a chance to act. Murray grabbed it. He moved swiftly, swinging out his right arm to knock the gas-gun aside. He saw the man turn round. He saw a spider, close to them. He heard a little hissing sound, as if the trigger had been pressed, but it was only momentary. He swung his left arm and caught the little man on the side of the jaw. He felt the impact of the blow, jarring his arm, and saw the man go flying towards the couch.

  The gas-gun dropped.

  He saw the man fall, and then saw not one but two spiders, on his face.

  The man from the Isle of Canna screamed; and went on screaming.

  As the screams came, the front door of the opposite flat opened, and a man Murray had never seen before ran in, with Jane Wyatt just behind him.

  Murray had known things happen quickly, but never more quickly than now.

  The stranger saw what had happened, said: ‘Jane, get a razor or a sharp knife, quickly,’ and while speaking bent down and grabbed the Cannan’s wrists and began to drag him towards the landing door. The spiders were out of sight now. Murray was moving towards the door quickly, scanning the floor, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

  Jane Wyatt came back, with a razor blade in her hand. She looked scared, all the serenity had gone.

  The man said over his shoulder: ‘Doctor, now.’

  ‘I’ll telephone,’ Jane Wyatt said.

  Murray scanned the floor again, but saw none of the spiders; the noise and the movement had scared them. The other man dragged the screaming Cannan on to the landing, and Murray slammed the door, to shut the brutes in. No one downstairs appeared to take any notice, but the door of the flat opposite was wide open, and Murray heard the woman’s voice, then the ting of a telephone being replaced.

  The Cannan was struggling and kicking out wildly and beating the stone floor with his clenched fists. There were red patches on his face.

  ‘He’ll be lucky if he lives,’ said the stranger, and pushed the long hair back from his forehead. ‘You have the luck too, don’t you, Murray? I’m Mick Harrison—Craigie told you you’d be hearing from me.’

  ‘Oh. Yes.’

  ‘And you’re getting it rough,’ Harrison went on, but he didn’t seem to be thinking of Murray, for suddenly he bent down and cracked his fist against the screaming man’s jaw. He hit the right spot; the screaming stopped at once, and the man went limp. ‘If I hadn’t heard half of what he said to you, I’d say poor devil,’ Harrison went on, ‘but if ever a man asked for trouble, he did. What swine they are!’ He used the razor skilfully, cutting across the bites, and blood welled up. He squeezed the swelling cheeks, to quicken the flow.

  ‘Go and get a towel, will you—and a sponge? That’s Jane’s flat,’ Harrison added. ‘We discovered that one of these gentry was looking about this morning, and we were on the qui vive. Wanted to let them ask their questions and hope they gave something away, before we interrupted— didn’t bargain for the spiders, though.’

  Harrison paused, and then went on jerkily:

  ‘Heard you come. Knew things were likely to move soon. Then he came, and you . . .’ He broke off.

  He was a chunky man, with a broad face and a square chin, and he looked very strong, and now faintly amused.

  ‘Craigie always did say that some men were born for this game,’ he went on. ‘You must be one, you know the tricks instinctively.’

  Jane Wyatt came out, with a bowl of water and a towel.

  ‘So does she,’ Harrison said. ‘Don’t you touch him, Murray; you’ve got those skin burns. If we could save his life we might make him talk.’

  There was a sound downstairs, and a youngish man carrying a black bag came hurrying up; see a man with a black bag and say ‘Doctor’. This one reached the prostrate Cannan as Harrison told him what had happened, and he pulled a face.

  ‘Yes, Jane told me a bit. I’ll do what I can, and the ambulance is on the way,’ he went on, and then looked up at Murray. ‘New chum?’

  ‘Nigel Murray, Reggie Smith,’ said Harrison. He grinned. ‘Believe it or not, it’s a real name! We’ll leave this chap to you, Reggie; I don’t need to say that it would be a good thing if you could bring him round enough to talk. After that, the devil can have him for his own. Now I’d better get a spider exterminator squad,’ Harrison went on, and took Murray’s arm, but he espied the gas-pistol and sniffed it cautiously. ‘Don’t recognise it,’ he said; ‘better not use it. Just squeezed the trigger before you clouted him, didn’t he?’

  ‘I heard a hiss.’

  ‘Couldn’t have released much,’ Harrison said. ‘Well, let’s see how Jane’s getting on,’ he said. ‘Did I tell you that you were a lucky man?’

  ‘Er—yes,’ said Murray. He wished he could shake off the feeling, almost of numbness, that had set in since he had come out of the flat. He couldn’t. He knew that Harrison was aware of it, and suspected that the other man wasn’t surprised. ‘Yes, you did.’

  ‘I only told you half the reason; the better half is to come.’ they stepped inside the other flat, which seemed to be identical with the one across the landing. ‘You have made a hit with our Jane.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Wake up. Our Jane. The one and only Jane, bless her
dear heart. She said she didn’t think she’d ever met anyone with quite the same brand of apology for courage.’

  ‘Oh, nonsense!’

  ‘I believe you, but our Jane doesn’t,’ said Harrison.

  Jane Wyatt appeared at the door of the kitchen. Her hair was a little fluffy, and her face slightly flushed, as if she had been bending over something hot. She wore a plastic apron over her yellow blouse and the same skirt that she had been wearing at the cottage. The serenity was back.

  ‘Stop talking nonsense, Mick,’ she said; ‘go and telephone, then mix Nigel a drink. Lunch will be ready in ten minutes.’

  Harrison sniffed.

  ‘What’s cooking?’

  Jane laughed. ‘You’re a complete fool! It’s nothing much, anyhow; I’m heating up lamb stew, with some frozen peas and canned potatoes.’

  ‘What life does to a woman in these sad days,’ Harrison said, as if glumly, and led Murray into the living-room. ‘Care to wash and brush up while I phone for the spider squashers and mix the drink? What’s it to be, by the way?’

  ‘Is there beer?’

  ‘I never mix beer.’

  ‘Is there?’

  ‘Abstemious Algy, are you? But I expect you’re wise,’ said Harrison. ‘Yes, there’s beer. Don’t be long, you may not have seen it in her eye, but Jane’s reputation for lamb stew is world-wide. She must have learned the know-how from the Arabs.’ He showed Murray into the bathroom, and then turned round, and Murray stood for a moment at the hand-basin, looking at himself in the mirror.

  He was very pale, and it must be quite obvious to anyone that he hadn’t really recovered. It was more than obvious to him; if he heard a sudden noise, he believed he would jump a yard. He began to wash, and the cold water stung and refreshed him, but he didn’t hurry. He felt that he wanted to be right on top of himself before he joined the others, and he knew that it wouldn’t be easy to fool Jane Wyatt. She had a way of looking into a man as if she could read his thoughts and could sense his feelings.

  Could she?

  If she sensed them now, she would know that he was more frightened than he had ever been in his life. It might be the cumulative effect of shock; he would probably have been all right if he’d had a day or so to recover from what had happened at the cottage, but—the fear was in him. Even as he stared at his own pale reflection, he was seeing other things in his mind’s eye. Juanita, clinging to the side of the well; Juanita, in the water, her hair floating, and everything so silent and Juanita, lying on the divan and looking dead. Young Lieutenant Soames, mother’s pride and England’s pride brisk and efficient—and dead with the top of his head blown off. Oundle, so bright, with those big eyes and that lively manner—and Oundle, who might not live and certainly would be a hideous sight for the rest of his life, even if he survived.

  The man at the corner, too.

  Now, this.

  Murray heard a radio voice, as he dried his hands and then went into the other room. A table was laid in the window, for three, two vegetable dishes were on it, with steam escaping round the lids. Harrison, with a small glass in his hand, was listening to the radio voice, heels together, eyes narrowed as he looked at the ceiling.

  Jane came from behind Murray.

  ‘Mind out of the way,’ she said, and Murray moved quickly to let her pass him, carrying a huge dish of lamb stew, with carrots and onions and dumplings, clouds of steam rising, and the smell enough to make his mouth water.

  ‘. . . According to messages which have just reached London from the Island of Canna’ came the radio voice, ‘Rumours that the Governor of the Colony, Sir Meya Kamil, has been removed from office are causing grave disturbances, among many villagers, students, and other groups. A Colonial Office spokesman denies . . .’

  Jane Wyatt, who had stopped quite still, moved slowly towards the table and put the dish down.

  ‘If we don’t find Meya Kamil soon,’ she said, ‘I wouldn’t like to say what’s going to happen to that island.’ She paused. ‘But it won’t help things if we starve ourselves; pull up your chairs.’

  13. Friends

  It was after four o’clock.

  Murray was back in his own flat, alone. He did not know whom Craigie had sent, but someone had killed the spiders, gassing them, and he had seen all six before they had been taken away for examination. It might be possible to find out for certain where they had come from, as there were differences in the species which came from different lands. He was sure they were the Cannan spiders.

  Murray felt calmer, and more himself.

  He knew that much of that was due to the steadying influence of Jane Wyatt. Harrison had helped, as far as it went, but the woman was a controlling factor, and he was quite sure that Craigie and Loftus found her invaluable because of the way she could calm men. Her friendliness, her naturalness, and the way she refused to be flustered, were all quite remarkable; and as he studied the instructions which Craigie had given him, he kept finding himself thinking about her.

  It was nearly half-past four when he finished learning off by heart the contents of certain papers that Craigie had sent to him; codes, the way to get in and out of Craigie’s office, the way to telephone, whom to call at Scotland Yard if he needed emergency help, how to establish himself as a Department Z man with provincial police forces, if it became necessary. He had not heard from Craigie again, but knew that once he had learned all of this by heart, he was to destroy the papers. He burned them in the living-room fireplace, and then went and stood by the window, looking out towards Jermyn Street. He saw the stream of traffic and the hundreds of people, and none of them dreamt what was happening in their midst. So many people would probably shrug their shoulders, anyhow, as if the Island of Canna didn’t really matter.

  It not only mattered, it was vital.

  Yet Murray did not find himself thinking only about the island’s political and possible military significance.

  There was Juanita.

  The Cannan who had come here had believed that she knew where to find Meya Kamil, and it was brutally clear that she was in acute danger. If Mikola’s men could not kidnap they would kill her.

  Murray didn’t know where she was. At least, it seemed as if they didn’t know yet, either.

  Jane—he no longer thought of the ‘Wyatt’—had told him that the girl was all right, and there was no need to worry. That was easy to say, less easy to accept. Murray would have said that he was quite safe until he had stepped into the flat. He had been used as a bait by Craigie, too; and might by now have been just a name in a book, ticked off in black.

  He shivered.

  Forget it.

  He was to see Juanita again soon, he knew, and he found himself looking forward to it with a curious excitement. She couldn’t be more that twenty-one and he was thirty-five, but —she excited him. Perhaps it was because he had admired her courage last night, admired the way she had taken any risk to escape, as if courage came naturally to her.

  Where was she? Safe, remember, so far.

  And did she know where her uncle was?

  The telephome bell rang.

  It was the first time he had heard it ring since he had been here, and it made him jump. So his nerve wasn’t as steady as he wanted it to be. The instrument was on a table by the fireplace, where the papers were still smouldering; he ought to put some newspaper beneath the embers and make sure that nothing remained.

  He moved to the fireplace and lifted the receiver.

  ‘Murray speaking,’ he said.

  ‘Craigie,’ said Craigie, and then to make sure that there was no doubt, he added: ‘E-I-G. . .’

  ‘I’ve got it,’ Murray said ‘Spelt backwards.’ That was a simple kind of identification, but presumably it worked.

  ‘Good,’ went on Craigie in his unemotional voice. ‘Two or three items of news for you, Nigel.’ The use of surnames seemed unpopular in this organisation. ‘First, the gas at the cottage isn’t widely known or used, but it is one of the most deadly of
the poison gases, and only one thing saved you and Juanita Lang.’ He paused, while Murray felt the old tensions coming back, and wondered what would happen next. ‘It is liquid when stored, and the gas is created by contact with the air,’ Craigie went on. ‘You put that blanket over it, and stopped it from gasifying.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Murray blankly. ‘Harrison was talking about my luck.’

  ‘That’s one word,’ said Craigie dryly. ‘The next—those spiders do come from Canna. There aren’t many of them, most have been exterminated on the island, but there are still several colonies in the mountains in the south-west of the island.’

  Murray said: ‘I know. What’s new?’

  ‘We couldn’t save the man.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Murray, and looked blankly out of the window.

  No one had put it into words, but he knew just how desperately it had been hoped that the Cannan’s life would be saved, so that he could be asked questions. Luck didn’t always blow the right way. But it blew the right way sometimes, and he remembered the moment when a spider had run over his shoe, and the other when he had felt something at the bottom of his trousers.

  Craigie said: ‘How are you?’ as if Murray’s silence worried him.

  ‘Jittery.’

  ‘You’re going to need a rest,’ said Craigie, ‘and we’ll send you a pick-me-up. Take the night off and see a show, or do anything you like. We’ll have you covered all the time.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Murray.

  It would be a good idea to get his mind off the danger, if only for an hour or two—but he doubted whether there was a play in London which could do that. Unless the Abbott’s new farce—the first night had been wildly received, he remembered. He put that thought out of his mind, and asked:

  ‘How’s Juanita Lang?’

  ‘She’s perfectly all right,’ said Craigie, ‘and she’s going to stay with her relations at Hampstead.’

  Murray exclaimed: ‘What? Good God, that’s asking for . . .’

  ‘We’ll run into trouble whether we ask for it or not,’ Craigie interrupted quietly; ‘we must get more prisoners, and we’ll make quite sure they don’t harm her.’