by John Creasey
‘Did he name anyone at all?’ Murray asked abruptly.
‘No, not to me,’ said Juanita. ‘He was very . . .’ She paused as if seeking the precise words, then went on very slowly, and thoughtfully: ‘He was very lonely, Nigel. Few people understood him, few people knew what a strain he lived under. There were so many differences of opinion among the politicians, so many people to conciliate. Outwardly Canna was very contented, but underneath there was much discontent. The people were always wanting more; always a little more than he could give them.’
Murray didn’t speak.
Juanita leaned forward on the couch and held her slim hands in front of her, and looked at Murray and yet did not seem to be interested in him. Her brother had tried to look exalted, tried to look as if forces within him were too great to be controlled, and it had obviously been pretended. With Juanita, now, it was quite different. She sat with her eyes misty and her lips slightly parted, and it was easy to believe that she was seeing visions. What was she? One moment girl, one moment woman of the world, one moment saint and mystic.
That was when Murray first began to realise that he would never really know Juanita.
‘They were always wanting more, and he gave them all that he thought they should have,’ she said. ‘Everything. Sometimes when I was with him I felt as if I was in the presence of someone holy, as if he knew beyond all doubt what was good and what was bad for others. He is a very simple man, for he believes in simplicity and is sure that one of the causes of the failure of men to live together in happiness is their desire for greater wealth and riches. He believes that man should live closer to the soil, and closer to the spiritual values of life, that their preoccupation with the material things inevitably leads to disaster.
‘Sometimes he persuaded me that he was right, but . . .
Juanita hesitated.
Murray kept quite still, for fear a movement should break the spell which memory had cast upon her. He did not think that he had ever seen anyone more lovely, or anyone more unreal. Ethereal? Saintly? Each was quite right, as words went, but that was all. Transformed? Inspired? He only knew that the effect on him was almost stifling, and that he dare not interrupt.
‘. . . and sometimes I believed that he was wrong,’ went on Juanita quietly. ‘It is quite true that he made sure conditions were much, much better in the homes of the people than they had ever been before, and some of the older people were quite content. But the younger people always wanted more. They longed to emulate the Western countries; that was the reason for much of my uncle’s anxiety and his troubles. He thought they were wrong.’
She stopped again, this time looking at Murray as if she remembered that he was there, and that he had asked her to recall everything she could.
‘It was a difficult choice to make,’ she said.
‘Choice?’ echoed Murray.
‘Yes, of course,’ Juanita said. ‘He could have given the people much more than they have now—as much or more than they wanted.’
Murray didn’t understand what she meant, but it wasn’t the moment to interrupt.
‘That was the greatest of his anxieties,’ Juanita went on. ‘To decide whether he was right to keep material riches away, from the island, or whether he should give the younger people the wealth they craved, and try to help them to use it in the right way.’
What wealth?
Murray still did not speak aloud.
‘Sometimes I believe that he only talked freely to me after my father died,’ Juanita said. ‘My father was his one confidant. They were more than friends, much more like brothers. They had a complete identity of outlook, too. Did you know that? The great English lawyer and the inspired Cannan visionary.’ She paused after that, as if there was something magical in the word ‘visionary’, and Murray felt as if he was on the threshold of a great discovery.
‘They lived only for Canna,’ Juanita went on in a faraway voice. ‘Meya Kamil told me time and time again that if it had not been for my father, the island would not have prospered as it had. The Colonial Office was greatly influenced by my father, and it was he who really secured the measure of self-government we now have, who persuaded the British Government to place the power in the hands of the people, to have a native Governor—Meya Kamil—to leave the administration almost entirely in the hands of the House of Representatives. For a while they made it what it was, a beautiful island whose people were contented with their work in the fields, growing nearly all they needed for their own welfare, selling abroad their grapes and their wines, their fruits and their grain. It was to be a paradise, and for a while it was—but that was long ago. Even before he died, my father knew that changes were inevitable. Meya Kamil tried to delay those changes, but. . .’
She broke off.
Murray watched tensely, almost fearfully, praying that she would not stop.
Then she said more quickly, as if she were coming out of the trance:
‘Should he have prevented change and progress? Should he have kept the wealth from the people?’
She stopped again, and now was the moment when Murray had to speak.
‘What wealth?’ he asked, in a husky voice.
Juanita didn’t answer.
‘What wealth?’ Murray repeated, but he didn’t move, and felt now that it might be wrong to question her. But he was impelled to go on; he must get the answer to that question. ‘Juanita, what wealth are you talking about? What is there on the island?’
She looked at him vaguely, her eyes more misty than before, rather as if she was not quite sure what she was saying.
‘After the earthquake,’ she said, ‘they found gold.’
She closed her eyes.
Gold?
‘After the earthquake,’ she repeated in a softer voice, ‘they found the gold. They found rich deposits in the rocks on the south-western part of the island, the part which has never been cultivated. A small group of men, with my father, went to relieve a hillside village which had been cut off by the earthquake, and they found the gold then. Hills had been split asunder to reveal it. They reached the village, and then there was another tremor, and all except two men —one of them was my father, the other Meya Kamil—were killed. Afterwards, there were the spiders.’
She clenched her hands and lost much of her colour, as if the fear of the creatures pierced her consciousness even now.
‘Everyone feared the spiders, which came out of the broken rocks,’ she said, ‘and it was barren land, so no one ever wanted to go near, and no one did. Because of the spiders, a law was passed that no one should go into the hills, and for many years no one went there. But in recent years some did go.’
She stopped again.
Murray found himself asking chokily: ‘Did they find the gold?’ When she didn’t answer, he made himself repeat: ‘Juanita, did they find the gold?’
‘I do not know,’ said Juanita, ‘but the trouble in the island began after the old law had been disobeyed. Meya Kamil tried to enforce it, but some of the people defied him. . .’
‘Which people?’
‘I do not know,’ said Juanita; ‘Meya Kamil told me of this, I did not find out for myself what was happening, because I did not go to the hills.’
‘Did your brother go?’
‘Yes, my brother went there.’
‘Do you know of anyone else who went to the hills?’
‘No,’ said Juanita, ‘I know of no one else—except Meya Kamil. He went there, and when he came back he told me that I must leave the island because he thought it would be better for me to live in England for a while. That was when he told me what I had to do.’
‘And was that all he said?’
‘Yes,’ answered Juanita. ‘But I believe that at the time he was very frightened.’
Murray watched her, seeing the way she leaned back, as if talking had exhausted her. She moved to the end of the couch, where a cushion was placed awkwardly beneath her head. She drew her legs up, and snuggled down—and looked
no more than a child, about to fall asleep. He placed the cushion more comfortably, and she did not seem to notice. It was as if she had fallen into a trance.
She looked so peaceful.
Soon she slept.
Murray went out, across the landing, leaving his front door open—and pressed the bell of Jane Wyatt’s flat. He did not want to leave Juanita alone even for a moment, but he had to see Craigie. While he waited, he felt uneasy at the thought of leaving both women alone here. Craigie and Loftus had told him that the flats were closely watched, but he had seen no evidence.
Jane opened the door.
He told her—
‘Of course I’ll come and stay with her,’ Jane said at once, ‘and when she feels better, I’ll bring her to my flat. Don’t worry, Nigel; we’re watched all the time.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ said Murray, then added almost jerkily: ‘Take care of her.’
Jane didn’t speak, but followed him into his flat. Then Murray left, hurrying to the car; and this time he made sure as he could that no spiders were there before he got in and drove off.
Craigie and Loftus were in the office, Loftus at one of the filing cabinets, Craigie with a mass of papers spread out at one of the large desks. On a small table by his side was a relief map of the Island of Canna, and stuck into this in many places were small red flags, showing localities where outrages had taken place. Pinned to the map were the cables which had come in today, or notes of telephone messages which had been received since the trouble had begun.
Craigie was studying all the reports which had come from the island with a concentration which helped to explain his profound knowledge of what was happening there and in the rest of the Middle East. His memory bewildered most people who knew him.
Loftus’s face was set and hard.
Craigie seemed to be in a different mood, as if the number of outrages was beginning to alarm him and he was working under too great a pressure and against time. Now and again a telephone bell rang; whenever it was one with a red light on it, Loftus stopped and watched until Craigie finished speaking, put down the receiver and then picked up another small red flag and pinned it into another spot on the map.
In half an hour, between five o’clock and five-thirty, he had put in four.
Another telephone light showed—the direct line to Number 10. Craigie picked it up, slowly, and Loftus turned round an took up an extension.
‘Craigie. . .’ Craigie said.
The Prime Minister’s voice was usually slow and very carefully modulated, but now it held a note of urgency and he spoke very quickly—at times it was difficult to understand everything he said.
‘. . . very great anxiety indeed, Craigie. . . . Alarming indications that the uprising has been planned to take place all over the island simultaneously, and many members of the House of Representatives are in danger of their lives. . . . Yes . . . yes, it is being put about that these members were behind Meya Kamil’s dismissal. Nonsense, of course, the whole claim is, but . . . Yes . . . No, we have had no indication at all, we were hoping that you . . . Yes, of course, I know you will, but I can’t emphasise too heavily the dangers and the delicacy of the situation; already there are reports of minor outbreaks of trouble in some of the other colonies; when a thing like this happens there’s no telling how quickly it can spread. Yes. . . . Now, there’s another thing, this matter of Charles Lang as successor to Meya Kamil; there are influential groups in the House of Representatives who think that it might be possible, but others are bitterly opposed; young Lang has a mixed reputation. . . . No, I know you didn’t recommend it, but everything has to be considered, and the situation is one of desperate urgency. . . . Yes, yes, the moment you have any news, tell me—never mind what time of day or night, or what I’m doing, interrupt me. ... I’ll leave instructions. . . . Oh, we shall be having a Cabinet Meeting early tomorrow morning, and will call one tonight if the situation gets worse—Yes—Thank you Craigie.’
The Prime Minister rang off.
Craigie put the receiver down slowly, and Loftus dropped his with a clatter, then scowled as he perched on the corner of Craigie’s desk. Another telephone light glowed: red. ‘More trouble?’ Loftus almost groaned and watched Craigie lift the receiver. He listened for thirty seconds, then said: ‘Thanks, yes,’ and put the receiver down, but he didn’t speak to Loftus, just picked up another little red flag and stuck it into the dot on the map which represented a small town on the southern coast of the island.
‘Bad?’ asked Loftus.
‘Home of the English Officer of Customs stoned, wife shot at, child saved from kidnapping, a nursemaid killed,’ Craigie said in a clipped voice.
‘They really think they can force us out.’
‘Looks like it. The two regiments of the Guards have arrived,’ Craigie went on, ‘but if the rest of this rising is handled as well as the beginning, two regiments won’t be nearly enough, and sending the troops will inflame the situation—a lot of islanders who are keeping out of it now will jump in if we start too much force.’
‘Damn it, we’ve got to use force!’
Craigie said quietly: ‘That’s one of the things you and I have never really agreed about, Bill, but you’re as near right this time as you can ever be. Usually it can be stopped before force is needed, the use of force is usually an admission of the utter failure of administration, but normally we’re able to warn the Government of what’s coming, too. The shocking thing now is that no one appears to have the slightest inkling of how serious it was.’
‘Too smug,’ said Loftus abruptly. ‘Took it for granted that everything would carry on smoothly as it always had. Even Rondo only reported one or two firebrands talking a lot of nonsense.’
A faint buzzing sound came abruptly, and both men looked round to see a green light shining in the mantelpiece. Only when a caller pressed the concealed button outside, through the crack in the handrail, would the green light show. Craigie pressed a button in the desk, one controlling the inner door in the wall, and a moment later it opened to reveal Harrison,
He came in, quickly.
‘Hallo, Mick,’ Craigie said, as the door slid to behind the stocky agent.
‘’Lo,’ greeted Harrison, gruffly. He was frowning, looking as if he was weighed down by the knowledge of what was happening on Canna, and his own impotence. ‘Thought I’d better come and report this one in person—Victor’s taken over at Hampstead, I’m due for a spell of rest.’ He lit a cigarette, and stood by one of the armchairs; there was not even a suspicion of the flippancy which he had shown to Murray. ‘This Charles Lang is all phoney,’ he announced, abruptly.
‘Yes,’ said Craigie.
‘He’s going about looking as if he’d come into a fortune,’ Harrison went on, ‘and he keeps raising his hands to heaven and thanking the fates for the power about to be placed in his hands. He seems to take it for granted that he’ll be successor to Meya Kamil.’
‘Does he?’
‘Yes. And God help us or Canna if he ever gets his hands on the job; the fellow’s a lunatic,’ Harrison growled. ‘If I had my way I’d make sure he was never allowed to set foot in Canna again, he’s enough to make a simpleton want to cut his throat. Nauseating,’ said Harrison, and gave a bark of a laugh.
‘That’s one thing. You got that tape recording, didn’tyou?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not much more I can say,’ declared Harrison, ‘not about that, anyhow. Murray did a good job, no flies on Nigel Murray. But he has one fault in common with some of the rest of us, but not in common with you, Gordon.’
Craigie sat very still behind the littered desk, and with a hand touching one of the little red flags on the map of the island.
‘What fault’s that?’
‘He’s human,’ Harrison blurted out. ‘Made of flesh and blood. Remember what it was like when you were? And he wouldn’t be human if he didn’t feel ready to drop everything for the sake of Juanita Lang. Now that I’m out of the house
I can be nearly objective,’ went on Harrison, ‘but whenever she wants to, she can turn me round her little finger. And Murray. He was looking at her this afternoon as if he was quite ready to bow down and worship.’ The bark of a laugh came again. ‘Oh, he fights against it, but he can’t help it. The girls seems to be able to switch seduction on and off. She . . .’ Harrison banged a clenched fist into his palm just as Rondo had done earlier, and he looked almost as distressed as Rondo had—’Well, I’m trying to be objective. I sometimes think she doesn’t know what she’s doing, that she’s fey, and at others I think she’s doing the old Circe trick—switching the influence on and off and having fun because she can make strong men do what she likes. I’ve known that kind of thing before, some of the female vampires get sadistic pleasure out of making a man make a fool of himself, but Juanita—she doesn’t seem to be aware of what she’s doing, she seems just a natural seductress.’
Harrison broke off, gave the bark of a laugh again, and then walked towards the desk.
‘Well, it’s off my chest,’ he said. ‘The fact is that while the girl’s about, I don’t feel that I can trust myself. I’m not sure that Murray or anyone else could be proof against her influence. If there hadn’t been these two attempts to kill or capture her, I’d begin to wonder whether she was everything she pretended to be.’
He looked at the map and the red flags, and his eyes narrowed and his lips were pressed very tightly together. Words seemed to force their way out.
‘Bad as that? How many?’ He began to count. ‘Seventeen. In twenty-four hours, why it’s . . .’
He broke off.
A pink light glowed on a telephone, and Loftus plucked up the receiver, as if glad of something to break the tension which Harrison had heightened. He hung on for a moment, then picked up a pencil and began to scribble, writing in such a way that Craigie could see what he was putting down. He used a form of shorthand which each of them knew, but which no one else could easily understand. The message read: