by John Creasey
Then, he could picture that open classroom, the laughing
Children . . . ‘I suppose you mean, if I’m with her and we’re attacked, would I go for the assailant first, or would I concentrate on saving her?’
‘That’s what I mean,’ agreed Craigie.
Murray found himself lighting another cigarette. He didn’t answer for some time, because it was absolutely essential to tell Craigie what he really felt, not what he would like to feel. It would be easy to take the heroic mood: ‘Oh, I would go for the assailant.’ But would he? Face it in cold blood: when the moment of crisis came and he had the choice between saving Juanita Lang or catching her assailant, what would he do?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said abruptly. ‘I’d rather not have to put it to the test.’
‘Fair enough,’ Craigie said. There seemed much more in the two words than that; he seemed to be saying that he asked nothing more of Murray but this searching honesty. ‘I’ll try to make sure you’re not put to it. But Juanita Lang is much more likely to talk to you than to anyone else. What we have to know,’ went on Craigie, going up and down on his toes as he roasted his back at the fire, ‘is every trifling thing she can possibly tell us. Every minute detail. There isn’t a better man than you to find out. Get her talking. Remember it doesn’t matter how far she goes back. Find out her opinion of Meya Kamil himself, of his relations—her own brother, for instance. It’s almost a case for psychiatry, but she wouldn’t be likely to respond to the ordinary consultant. So get her talking, and lead her up to the events of the last few weeks as soon as you can. Just how her uncle behaved, why she believed that he was in danger, whom did he see recently, were there any strangers, were there any letters—and don’t worry whether what you learn seems relevant. Over there’—Craigie pointed to one of the cabinets near his desk—’we have several hundred reports from agents on Canna and the nearer places in the Middle East. I’ve studied them all, and they’re indexed so that I can turn one up in a moment or two. You might be able to pass on some trifle of information from Juanita Lang which seems irrelevant to you, but when I get it, might tie in with something you don’t know about. In that way you could help us to get a clearer picture, perhaps the answer we need.’
‘I’ll do what I can,’ Murray promised.
‘I know you will,’ Craigie said, ‘and you know how desperately urgent it is.’
Murray nodded, abruptly.
‘Good,’ said Craigie, and then went out briskly, as if something that had happened in the past hour or two had taken away much of his fatigue, ‘and I think you’ll have to make sure that Juanita appreciates the urgency, too. I’d heard about the school outrage by radio, some time before Rondo arrived. The film taken by a news unit which was touring Canna is being flown here, and I hope to have copies this evening. Juanita had better see one projected.’
Murray said: ‘Yes, all right.’
‘I should go and see her again in the middle of the afternoon,’ Craigie said. ‘There’s a family conference of some kind going on. Charles Lang is probably arguing that she must be sent away, out of all possible danger.’
‘What would happen if he persuaded her to go?’
Craigie said simply: ‘We’d have to stop her. We don’t want to, mind you, and when you’ve talked to her again. . .’
‘I can’t promise to make a girl stay in a place where she will probably be murdered,’ Murray said roughly. ‘I can try, but. . .’
He broke off.
Something happened which he hadn’t seen before. A green light flashed in the carved surround of the mantelpiece. The light was about the size of a sixpenny piece, and it winked on and off half-a-dozen times. Craigie noticed it, probably because there was a faint buzzing sound all the time that it was flashing. Then it went out, and the spot where it had been seemed just like part of the carving on the mantelpiece.
‘That’s Loftus,’ Craigie said. ‘He’s been checking on a few things about Cannan people in England, particularly on the group who were at Cliff House. We found another place where they’d been, near Weymouth—that’s where the Spitfire came from. But they’d all disappeared. Do you know how long they’d been in Cliff House?’
‘Only a week or two,’ Murray answered. ‘The Abbotts were there during the summer, they were resting after their long tour, and I gather that they left at the end of September. They put it in the hands of an agent to try and let it furnished for the winter, and he let it for three months. I’d already leased the cottage, which once seemed my good luck.’
‘And was ours,’ Craigie said mildly.
By then, the door in the wall was sliding open, and Loftus was stepping through.
He was so large that when the door was opened at its widest, he had to turn sideways, they had had a lot of trouble getting Rondo out of the office to the ambulance. But it wasn’t Loftus’s size, or his rumpled clothes with the cigarette ash smeared everywhere, or his ruffled hair which caught and held Murray’s attention. It was the sombre look in his eyes, and the way his face was set.
The door slid to behind him.
He looked at Craigie, and seemed not to have noticed Murray, which in itself was strange. Murray felt as if he were stifling. He sensed that something as bad as that which Rondo had reported was coming; he seemed hardly to have time to breathe, things piled up so quickly. If this was the speed with which things were happening on the Island of Canna then the chance of saving the situation seemed to get more remote every hour.
Then, Loftus said:
‘Ned’s dead.’
Ned?
‘Oh,’ said Craigie, and seemed to flinch.
Murray studied them, first Loftus, then Craigie.
When Craigie had heard of the attack on the children, he had not looked anything like so shaken as he did now. Loftus had lost all his colour, and there was a glitter in his eyes which Murray hadn’t seen before; a murderous look. They were utterly still for what seemed an age.
Ned?
Oundle, of course. Ned Oundle!
Murray’s thoughts flashed back to the cottage, the Spitfire, the falling ‘ball’—and to Oundle exposing himself to the flames so that he could protect the girl. He had not paused or hesitated for a moment, it had not even occurred to him to try to save himself at the cost of her life; and he could have done so easily.
Then Loftus said abruptly:
‘Sorry, Nigel. Ned Oundle’s been with the Department for over twenty years.’
Murray didn’t speak.
‘Twenty years,’ repeated Loftus in a savage voice, ‘and he was going to retire at the end of this year. If I’d had my way, he would have retired a year ago. Now, his wife and those two boys. . .’
Murray wanted to shout: ‘Don’t go on, don’t torture yourself,’ yet he could only stand dumb and watch the pair, and feel something of the emotion going through their minds —grief and loss, and hatred for the people who had done this thing to a man who was their friend.
‘Well,’ Craigie said at last, ‘we’d better get on.’ He spoke very slowly, as if really he wanted to do nothing but stand there and let his mind roam over the past. But when the effort was made, he went on more briskly: ‘Was Rondo at the hospital when you went to see Ned?’
‘Yes.’
‘Any . . .’
‘He was dead on arrival,’ Loftus said. ‘Those insects pack quite a bite.’ The rough edge was harsh and ugly in his voice. ‘I gather that he managed to say his piece before he was bitten by the brute.’
‘Yes, said Craigie, ‘and I want to compare notes with you. Nigel knows what he’s going to do, now.’ He smiled at Murray, quickly, absently, then pressed another button in the carving, and the door slid open.
Murray stepped out.
He went quietly down the stairs and into the street, and a gust of wind caught his hat and nearly blew it from his head. He grabbed it. He saw the men on duty, and yet remembered how quickly the other side had discovered that he was at Dineley Street, so that even
though there was no report that the little door was being watched, he could not feel safe. And he could not be sure that even now he was being used by Craigie as a bait. His car—the Jaguar—was parked on the Embankment, and he walked that way. He wasn’t followed. There weren’t many people about here, and most who were clutched at their hats, and some of the women at their skirts, as the wind off the river blew gustily. It was much colder, and in the distance there were dark snow clouds.
There was never snow on Canna.
A news-van passed, with a placard pasted on the side; Terrorists Kill 9 Children. That would send a shiver of horror through the whole of the country, and. . .
He made himself change his thoughts. It was nearly one o’clock. He had some three hours to kill, and in that time he had to have lunch. He thought of Jane Wyatt and her lamb stew, and wondered if she was in, and whether she would expect him to lunch. It would be worth finding out. He reached the car, as another gust of wind came off the river, and this time lifted his hat off his head. He turned round to grab it, and missed. He chased it, feeling silly, as it kept dodging out of reach, but he rescued it, dusted it off, but didn’t put it on again. He opened the door of the car and dropped the hat on to the seat next to the driver’s, and started to get in. The hat fell on to the floor, and as it did so, it disturbed something which scuttled toward’s Murray’s foot, which was already inside the car.
Murray snatched his foot away; and had to clench his teeth to stop from crying out.
The spider didn’t touch him.
It reached the edge of the car, and felt gingerly over with one of its legs, and Murray could see it more clearly than ever before, each leg, the eyes the hard shell-like back. It crept over the edge.
He slammed the door on it.
‘Ugh!’ he muttered, and stood quite still, with fingers on the handle, staring down as if he couldn’t believe that he had killed it. Then he began to open the door, but he wondered if there were any more spiders.
He searched the car, and found none, but couldn’t be sure.
Someone had dropped the deadly thing into the car, knowing that it was his. Two men had died within an hour of being bitten by one of the spiders, and more of them might appear out of the blue, anywhere and any time. They could be put almost anywhere, too—through letter-boxes, windows, doors—at the house at Hampstead, his flat, his car, on a bus, anywhere that he might be; and anywhere that Juanita might be, also.
He still stood by the side of the car. Traffic passed noisily, and the wind blew more steadily.
Slowly, he opened the door again and stepped in.
He should have seen the truth from the beginning, of course, but it did not dawn upon him until now. Craigie’s men could catch a hundred spiders alive, and they would not help to trace the conspirators. And if the spiders were the only weapons of attack to be used against Juanita, then it might be that the rebels were offering her as a sacrifice, with no real hope of getting nearer the truth by her death.
Was that right?
Or was he trying to evade the issue; was his reluctance to put Juanita in danger really behind that argument?
He didn’t know.
He drove to Dineley Street, left the car outside, and then went up in the lift, and as he did so he looked about him, conscious of the danger, half fearful that a spider would appear in the lift, in the roof...
The ceiling?
He glanced upwards, quickly. It was a plain walnut ceiling, with no place on the shiny surface for a creature to hide, but the fact that he had reacted so sharply was an indication of his frame of mind.
The lift stopped.
He scanned the landing, the edges of the carpet, and the flight of stairs; and he shuddered again. This way, it would soon become an obsession. He was in no mood to talk to Jane for he would give his state of jitters away too easily. He let himself into his own flat, and began a search which he told himself was crazy, and which he also told himself was the only thing to do. He found nothing, but couldn’t be sure no spiders were here. He tried to recall what he knew about the habits of the creatures, and remembered reading somewhere that their favourite hiding-place was in warm, soft things. Clothes, socks, handkerchiefs. He had to clench his teeth when he went into the bedroom. Using a spare shoe-tree, he turned his shoes over, and then shook them; nothing fell out. Then he went through his clothes, and found nothing, but it was impossible to search every cranny.
There was ham, butter, bread, everything he needed for a meal, inside the larder. He would be much better on his own. He cut off some ham, smeared bread with butter, and ate hurriedly, glancing about him all the time. His nerves were usually pretty good; so if this affected him like this, how badly would people with weaker nerves feel?
Like Juanita.
It was half-past two, and he still had an hour to waste. He jumped up suddenly, and went across to Jane Wyatt’s flat. The bell rang more sharply than he had intended. He wondered if she was having an afternoon nap; women often did, and she had been almost as busy as he, the previous day. But no, she came to the door at once, and opened it a crack, recognised him, and opened it wider.
‘Hallo, Nigel. Come in.’ She seemed pleased to see him.
‘Thanks,’ he said, and went in—and glanced down, to make sure that no insect scuttled in with him. The door closed. He stood looking at Jane, and she waited without speaking; the very presence of her helped to settle his nerves.
‘Jane, I’m crazy,’ he said abruptly. ‘I just want to talk. . .’
So, he talked—of his doubts and his fears and the thing which was becoming an obsession, and Jane listened without interrupting. Somehow the burden was easier to bear, and he knew that he must go on with it all.
He reached the house in Hampstead at one minute to four.
17. Charles Lang
This time, Charles Lang opened the door.
Murray had little doubt that the man knew whom to expect; even less doubt that the antagonism in Lang’s eyes was more noticeable than before. The man stood aside for him to enter, nodding but not speaking, and Murray remembered the photograph of Meya Kamil on Craigie’s desk, and the likeness was more striking than ever—except that in one was arrogance, and in the other, older man, a great humility.
Murray said pleasantly: ‘Is Juanita here?’
‘She is resting,’ Lang said, ‘and I wish to talk to you before you see her.’
Murray said: ‘Yes, of course.’
‘In here, please,’ said Lang, and opened the door of the front room, which Murray hadn’t seen before. It was gloomy, for the Venetian blinds were down, but he could see the heavy, Victorian furniture, one large mirror over the fireplace, pictures hanging from picture-rails on the wall. Lang did not put on the light, but stood aside for Murray to enter, and Murray said:
‘Mind if we have more light?’
‘If you wish, but . . .’ Lang didn’t finish as he snapped the switches down.
Murray found himself glancing about everywhere, particularly on the floor, and yet it was a portrait which caught his eye. It was specially lighted, and the light came on with the main switch.
It was of Meya Kamil.
The photograph had been good, and lifelike; this painting was masterly. The old, pale face, the wispy white hair, the look of great compassion in the blue eyes, were all unmistakable, and even as he looked at it Murray found himself thinking not of Meya Kamil, but of the Good Man of Canna.
When he looked back at Charles Lang, he thought that he saw the trace of a sneer on the supercilious lips. Yet there were the fears of the spiders, and he could not free himself of them.
‘Sit down,’ said Lang, ‘and . . .’
‘Thanks, I’ll stand.’
‘Very well.’ Lang stood half-way inside the room, with the bright ceiling light shining on his head, and casting faint shadows from his jutting black eyebrows, over his eyes; it put the eyes into a kind of shadow, and yet they seemed very brilliant; glittering. He did not move, and he had th
e oriental’s trick of stillness, although in speech he was often more colloquial and much less formal than Juanita.
‘My aunt and cousins left the house until this is over,’ he announced abruptly. ‘They are too frightened to stay.’
Murray didn’t speak.
‘I have been trying to persuade my sister to leave also,’ Lang said, ‘but she refuses to go because you have made her think that she might be able to help to find my uncle.’
‘And so she might.’ Murray felt his temper rising.
‘You know that it is not true,’ said Lang; ‘you know that the old man is dead.’
Murray didn’t speak, but watched the other very closely. It was quite a face to study, with the piercing eyes and the jutting chin, the lips parted slightly now, and showing the strong white teeth; there was the dominant, hooked nose with the nostrils slightly distended because of the man’s tension. Lang stood with his hands in front of his waist, as if he longed for a belt into which to rest his thumbs. He was an inch or two taller than Murray, and a much larger man; and it passed through Murray’s mind that he might attack.
Was Harrison here?
No one else seemed to be in the house, but Murray made out the figure of a man in the front garden; undoubtedly one of Craigie’s agents.
Murray said, very quietly: ‘So you think your uncle is dead.’
‘Of course he is.’
‘I should very much like to meet the man who killed him,’ Murray said softly. ‘How do you know . . .’
‘If you are trying to suggest that I may have had something to do with his death, you are just being fanciful,’ Lang said impatiently. ‘Did you know him?’ That was abruptly challenging.
‘Only by reputation.’
‘Then you should know that if it were possible for him to reappear, to save Canna from disaster, he. . .’
‘He could be dead, or he could have been kidnapped.’
‘I am sure that he is dead,’ Lang said.
‘You can’t be sure. Or—can you?’
There was another long pause, and during it Lang lowered his hands, then turned towards the window, as if for a few moments he could not look at Murray. He began to speak while he was still looking away, and there was a different note in his voice; of resignation, almost of despair. He spoke more pedantically, too.