The Black Spiders

by John Creasey

  ‘How can I make you understand that I know this thing? How can I make it clear?’ He pressed the tips of his long fingers against his forehead, as if calling upon some hidden strength to help him answer his own questions. His uncle was a mystic; did he believe that he was, too?

  Was he one?

  He turned to face Murray, lowering his hands.

  ‘The impossible task is to make you think like me, feel like me, understand as I understand,’ he said in a deep tragic voice. ‘Isn’t it time that you realised that the East and the West cannot understand each other?’ When Murray didn’t answer, he went on more quickly: ‘I can feel that he is dead. It is in the atmosphere and it is within me; I know.’

  ‘When did you first find out?’ asked Murray dryly.

  ‘I have known for days, I. . .’

  ‘Now listen, Lang,’ Murray said abruptly. ‘I can guess how you feel about Juanita. That’s fine, of itself. I don’t think you can guess how I feel, but I’d cut off my right hand rather than harm her, and . . .’

  Lang interrupted him quickly, eagerly, almost unbelievingly. He moved forward, as if he was anxious to look into Murray’s eyes, and so read the truth. He actually gripped Murray’s shoulders as he asked in a strained voice:

  ‘What is she to you?’

  ‘She isn’t anything to me,’ Murray answered deliberately. ‘I doubt is she ever will be, but I tell you that I would rather have my right hand cut off than allow anything to happen to her. And I would rather know that I was going to die tomorrow than let Canna be taken over by the terrorists.’

  The pressure of the man’s fingers on his shoulders increased so much that it began to hurt. Lang didn’t move. His eyes were very close to Murray’s and their intensity had a kind of metallic brightness, a glitter which seemed a reflection of some fire. And he was taller, remember. Stronger? He seemed to be trying to influence Murray simply by staring at him, seemed to think that he could hypnotise him; and Murray felt the influence of those eyes and of the pressure of the powerful fingers, fought against it—and wondered how deeply it might affect some men.

  ‘Murray, why don’t you tell your masters that Meya Kamil isn’t the only man who can save the island?’ Lang cried. ‘I can. If the islanders were told the truth, that he is dead and that he named me to succeed him, then all would be well.’

  Well, one thing had come into the open, anyhow; he was a man with dazzling visions of his own greatness.

  Murray said quietly: ‘Did your uncle ever talk about you succeeding him?’

  Lang didn’t answer.

  Murray went on: ‘You can’t seriously believe that the people would accept you or anyone else as a substitute.’

  But—did young Lang really believe in himself as heavensent?

  ‘If the English Government sponsored me, they would have to,’ Lang said. He spoke almost venomously, and there was a bubbling of froth at the corners of his mouth. ‘Only that is needed, nothing else at all. If the Colonial Office will nominate me as Meya Kamil’s successor, I can take over the island at once, and the people will follow me as loyally as they followed my uncle. Go and tell your masters that, go and . . .’

  He stopped, abruptly.

  The pressure at Murray’s shoulders eased, and it was not difficult to shrug himself free. Murray backed away a little, for he felt uncomfortably close to the man. Thoughts were flashing through his mind like lights in the street as a car passed swiftly by, illuminating different things. This man really believed in himself, there was a touch of megalomania, perhaps a genuine mysticism, perhaps a kind of madness. If Charles Lang believed that he could save the island, if he believed that he had a divine right to succeed to his uncle, then he might be behind the terrorism, he might have decided to kill the old man, and then hold Great Britain to ransom.

  What was the thing to do?

  Call him a liar, call him a fool, call him a murderer?

  Or, encourage him?

  18. Desire

  Lang moved away from Murray, slowly, putting his hands up to his face. Then he turned towards the window and stared out, and his pose was almost laughable; here was a tragicomedy, pathetic because there might be a measure of genuine belief in what he said. He was behaving now as if he realised that there was no way of persuading anyone to heed him seriously.

  He said, in a husky voice: ‘And I could save my people.’.

  My people.

  Murray didn’t speak, but moved forward; he believed that Lang was watching him out of the corner of his eye, trying to see if he’d made any impression. Perhaps this was nothing but pose, and the man was behaving simply for effect. Murray drew within a yard of him, and then spoke softly.

  ‘Do you really believe you can?’

  Lang lowered his hands slowly.

  ‘What is the use of talking? I have told you . . .’

  ‘Listen to me,’ Murray said, in a sharper voice, and he seemed to be badly shaken. ‘How long have you lived on the island? How well do the islanders know you?’

  ‘As they know no one else but Meya Kamil!’

  ‘When were you last there?’

  ‘I am there most of the time, I came here only because my uncle sent me here.’

  Whether that was true or not did not seem important now. The important thing was to fool Lang, to make him believe that at least he, Murray thought that there might be something in this claim to being Meya Kamil’s successor. It would keep Lang on a piece of string at least long enough to give Craigie time to test this new angle, time to deliberate and to decide what it was best to do.

  ‘Did he know you hoped to succeed him?’

  ‘He wanted me to,’ Lang said, and suddenly his eyes were bright and his voice was eager. ‘Why did he take me with him most places that we went? Why did he always consult me on matters of policy?’

  ‘Did he do that?’

  ‘Of course he did!’

  ‘Lang,’ said Murray, and he looked at the man with rounded eyes, as if he was beginning to see the real significance and the tremendous possibilities of this revelation, ‘before you do anything at all, even before you speak to your sister, let me talk to my superiors. It won’t take long. You might have told me something they didn’t know about, this might . . .’

  ‘Go and talk to them!’ Lang cried. ‘Go and tell them what I say, that I can save Canna whether they believe it or not. I know that Meya Kamil is dead, I can feel that he is dead and that he is willing me to go to Canna so as to save the people.’

  Murray said, as if hoarsely: ‘All right. I’ll see what I can do.’

  Then, he saw something which he hadn’t noticed before, and which he was quite sure that Lang hadn’t seen. The door was ajar. He saw no shadow, and instinctively he found himself glancing down at the floor, for there was room for spiders to squeeze in. Nothing moved. He told himself that this was probably the morning in reverse, with Juanita listening.

  There was a glowing light in Lang’s dark eyes.

  ‘Then hurry,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Murray, acting as if he did not quite know what he was saying, or what to do; as a man might behave if he had seen a vision. ‘Yes, I’ll talk to them, but—I came here to see Juanita.’

  ‘She will be here when you come back.’

  Murray said: ‘Yes. Yes, of course, but—listen, Mr. Lang.’ He paused just long enough for respect in that ‘Mr.’ to register on the other’s mind, and to add a little to the sense of overweening self-importance. ‘You know how necessary it is to carry out orders. I am here to talk to your sister; if. . .’

  ‘Then talk to her! Hurry.’

  ‘Yes, I will,’ said Murray, and went on thickly: ‘I think if I took her with me back to town, we could talk on the way, that would save time, and. . .’

  ‘Do what you like,’ said Charles Lang, in a resonant voice, ‘but hurry.’

  It seemed as if he was trying to look like a man inspired. And he had shown how little he cared for his sister.

  Juanita w
as outside the door, and she made no attempt to conceal the fact that she had been listening. Murray could not quite understand her expression as he closed the door, and then took her arm. He suspected that Lang was likely to stand in that trance-like exaltation for some time, there was no desperate haste, and he hadn’t had time to decide what best to do.

  ‘Will you come with me?’ he asked Juanita.

  ‘Yes. I told you that I would do whatever you thought best.’

  ‘Will you come at once?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, ‘I need just a few minutes to put on a hat and coat, but . . .’ She hesitated, eyed him thoughtfully, and then turned and walked quickly up the stairs. She made little sound, and he watched her, feeling a tightening at his breast at sight of the slender beauty of her legs, at the way she walked, at the way she carried herself.

  Regally.

  He heard a door open and glanced round, and Harrison looked out, smiling.

  ‘You got the Big Shot going nicely,’ he said approvingly; ‘I’ve got a little mike fixed up, tape-recorder and all that kind of thing, and we’ve a record. Good show!’ He kept his voice low, but his eyes gleamed, as if he was really enthusiastic. ‘But you don’t want to cut things too short with Juanita. If you can woo her into a mood to talk, you might be sorry if you had to break off. So I’ll send the tape to the office. It will speak for itself.’

  ‘Fine,’ Murray said. ‘Do that soon, please.’

  ‘Like a shot. Between you and me,’ the Department Z agent went on brightly, ‘I’ve had my eye on Charley Boy for a long time—since I first came here, in fact. There’s the dictator in embryo for you, the man who believes that he has a mission to rule, and that nothing he does or says or even thinks can be wrong. Divine inspiration, blah, blah. Mind you, mine not to reason why, mine just to keep fit and spry. Like to telephone the office and tell them what you’re doing? She’ll be five minutes at least,’ he added; ‘you might think that she’s a sweet and simple maid, but she knows no lady goes out without make-up. Yes?’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Murray.

  He was glad to talk to Craigie; glad of the confirmation that he could trust Harrison implicitly; glad that Craigie had said:

  ‘You might have something, Nigel. Keep at it.’

  Murray rang off, and went back into the hall. Harrison was there, carrying a small attache case, presumably the tape recorder. He went outside when Murray arrived, and Murray was alone in the hall when Juanita came down.

  She walked slowly.

  She was pulling on a pair of kid-skin gloves, and it was almost as if she was doing that so that she could come slowly, and impress him. She wore a coat like Jane Wyatt’s of leopard skin, with a wide-brimmed hat to match; her shoes were trimmed with fur.

  He watched each step, and his heart hammered.

  He did not speak when she reached the hall, but turned with her, and led the way to the door. Harrison was coming in briskly, and he missed a step when he saw this vision of Juanita, but all he said was:

  ‘See you later.’

  They went out.

  It wasn’t until Murray saw the small car which started up after them, that he realised how utterly the girl had taken possession of him. For that moment, he had forgotten the danger to her.

  He wouldn’t again.

  He drove slowly, knowing that he had to make sure that the other Department Z driver could keep him in sight. He knew that this was the beginning of the fatal trap—that Juanita was more vulnerable than ever now; that the spiders did not present the only danger.

  His mood of sharp self-approach faded as he glanced at her. She wasn’t smiling, and did not appear to be glancing about her, just looked ahead without any apparent fear. She was still fiddling with her gloves, too, smoothing out wrinkles.

  Murray had a feeling that she had become utterly unapproachable. The na’ivete, frailty and the candour were qualities which had faded, and a new unassailability had been put on, as a coat.

  She had been wise to wrap up well. The clouds were over the whole of the sky now, the wind was blowing more fiercely, and there seemed to be a little rain in the air.

  Murray headed for Dineley Street, and they were in Regent Street before they spoke of more than trifles; then Juanita said:

  I have been making myself think of every little thing that my uncle told me in recent weeks.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Murray awkwardly. ‘That’s fine. Anything new?’

  ‘I can’t think of anything. Looking back, I know he was badly worried, perhaps frightened, but at the time I thought he was just tired, because he worked so hard.’

  Murray glanced at her; she seemed to mean exactly what she said. He crawled behind a large van, making sure that the little escort car was still behind them, but the chances of an attack out here were very slight. If there was danger, it would come when he reached the cul-de-sac; or even when he got upstairs to his flat.

  He had room to park outside the hotel.

  He helped Juanita out, and they stepped towards the entrance of Number 5, but before they stepped inside, Juanita exclaimed:

  ‘Look! Look!’

  He spun round, fearing . . .

  There was no need for fear. Juanita had caught sight of a newpaper ‘boy’ a man of sixty or more, who was coming out of the house next door with his newspapers under his arm, and a placard fluttering about his legs, reading: New Outrage. Children murdered.

  ‘In Canna?’ Juanita asked huskily, as if she was afraid of what the answer would be.

  ‘Yes,’ said Murray. ‘It’s getting worse every day.’

  Every hour.

  As they went up in the lift, he began to feel that it would not be necessary to show her the film; she would tell him everything she knew, without that. The way she had reacted jolted him out of the mood which had been so dangerous. He knew that the little escort car had passed the end of the street. His flat, as well as Jane Wyatt’s, would be closely watched. Craigie wouldn’t let another Cannan be in there, would he? He wouldn’t try the same trick again.

  Jane’s door was closed.

  Murray unlocked the door of his own flat, then glanced down, clutched by the fear of danger from those scuttling little brutes. He tried to tell himself that ‘they’ would probably use some other kind of weapon now; but they hadn’t against Juanita, there had been no attempt at all to stop her from coming with him.

  Juanita looked about her as he took her coat and gloves, but made no comment. Murray went to the kitchen and put a kettle on, and when he came back, she was smiling more freely than she had at any time today. She had shaken her gleaming hair free of the flattening pressure of the hat, too, and all hint of sophistication had gone; she was the eager, lovely girl.

  ‘What’s funny?’ Murray asked.

  ‘Oh, not funny, Nigel! Nice. You always seem to be making tea or coffee for me; you’re so very domesticated. I like that.’ She looked round the flat again, and went on: ‘I like this, too. How long have you lived here?’

  ‘Not long.’

  She looked at him as though she wanted to say something but couldn’t bring herself to speak, and Murray couldn’t make himself look away from her. He remembered every sentence of his talk with Craigie, remembered the way he himself had brought out the phrase ‘femme fatale’. She was sitting on the couch, with her glorious eyes half hidden by the sweeping lashes, and with her lips parted a fraction; he couldn’t see her teeth. She wore a bright green dress, beautifully cut, and with a deep, plunging neckline.

  He had a job to do.

  There were children, slaughtered; men and women murdered; countless others in danger. There were great issues at stake. Perhaps at this moment the Minister for Colonial Affairs was being evasive in the House, perhaps at this moment there were hurried consultations in Downing Street. Perhaps Craigie was getting more messages. Perhaps more men were dying, like Oundle, like Rondo. All these things were possible, and yet the outside world was a million miles away.

  Did Juanit
a know what she was doing to him?

  Was she deliberately making him lose his head?

  It wasn’t easy. A dozen women had tried, and hadn’t succeeded, so far he’d been woman-proof. Woman-proof! He wanted to kiss her, to hold, to possess her. He stared into her face, every nerve on edge, not knowing what would happen if he gave way to this almost irresistible desire.

  He had to make her talk, and to remember.

  Remember.

  19. Juanita Remembers

  ‘Nigel,’ Juanita asked quietly, ‘did you believe my brother?’

  Murray had not been thinking about her brother; had felt as if he was losing his very identity and all his power of will in the all-embracing beauty of Juanita Lang. She seemed to absorb and to engulf him. Yet there was the simple candour of her blue eyes, back again now, and she seemed unaware of the seductive softness of her shoulders, of the swell of her breasts, of the way her lips were parted as she looked at him.

  Her words were like a douche of cold water.

  ‘Did I believe him about what?’ he asked, and turned round almost angrily, needing an excuse to avoid facing her, and stepped towards a box of cigarettes on a coffee table.

  ‘Anything,’ Juanita said.

  ‘I didn’t know what to believe,’ Murray told her. He put a cigarette to his lips and lit it, then turned round. He was able to look at her quite steadily, after all, but kept his distance. ‘How much of it was true?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Juanita, very simply.

  She could be devastating; and she was, as she damned her brother quite calmly and almost sweetly; she actually smiled a little.

  ‘You mean, he didn’t go about with Meya Kamil?’ Murray demanded.

  ‘Sometimes he went with my uncle, visiting different parts of the island, but it was always because he asked to go, and Meya Kamil did not like to refuse. Unless you knew him, you could not even begin to believe the kindness of Meya Kamil’s nature. He knew that Charles was very anxious and he tried to help, but he also knew that Charles had no judgement. I am quite sure that he would not regard Charles as the right person to succeed him.’