The Black Spiders

by John Creasey

  They stepped into a narrow street on Whitehall.

  Oddly, Murray had hardly noticed that the door was there; he had passed it a hundred times, and driven or walked along Whitehall a thousand or more, and yet had never paid any attention to this particular door. It was painted a drab grey, and seemed almost to be a part of the wall.

  They turned left, towards Whitehall, then left again towards Scotland Yard.

  Murray had a queer impression; that although Miller appeared to be looking ahead all the time, he was actually looking about him in all directions. Two men were on the other side of the street, one at the wheel of a small car, another walking briskly.

  ‘Seen ‘em?’ asked Miller, in a grunting voice. ‘Our chaps always make sure we’re not followed.’ They turned towards Parliament Street and New Scotland Yard. ‘Always try to make sure; somehow can’t always manage it. Never know in these political jobs; the people you think are as safe as houses are fanatics at heart. If there’s anyone I distrust, it’s a fanatic. Also,’ added Miller, and he glanced almost stealthily at Murray, ‘you can have all the do-gooders for my money. Never did have much time for the people who get a big following among the people, they can soon become rabble rousers. Rabble rousers,’ repeated Miller, as if he relished the phrase. ‘Ever come across any?’

  ‘Such as Sir Meya Kamil?’ Murray said dryly.

  Miller looked down his nose.

  ‘Don’t have to tell you what two and two come to, that’s obvious. Well, Meya Kamil might be all right, but what’s he disappeared for? That’s what I’d like to know. I’ve been a copper for a long time now,’ Miller went on—’I was a senior inspector before Cragie took on his first agents, that tells its own story—and there’s one thing I’ve always known. Didn’t take me long to discover it, either.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The obvious suspect is usually the right one,’ answered Miller flatly. ‘I’d want to know why Meya Kamil disappeared before I worried about much else in this job. Still, you’ve got to hand it to Craigie. Genius. That’s what he is,’ Miller went on, and there was real feeling in his voice. ‘Genius, no other word for it. He sticks in that blasted office day in and day out—why, I’ve known him spent ten days there without getting a sniff of fresh air! —and when you see him he looks as if he’s so tired he couldn’t say boo to a goose, but nine times out of ten, he’s got the answer before you have. Genius,’ added Miller, as if he were going to make the repetition wearisome, and then he continued portentously: ‘is the infinite capacity for taking pains. That’s what someone said. Forget who it was, but he was right on the mark. That’s Craigie. He’s got a kind of card index instead of a mind—can’t keep everything tucked away, of course, but he’s expendable, I suppose; but if he popped off, Loftus would have to have a staff of three or four to keep records that Craigie stores in his head. Not that I’ve anything against Loftus, but Craigie’s the one who matters.’

  ‘I can believe it,’ Merrick said.

  ‘You’d better,’ said Miller, as they reached the corner of New Scotland Yard. To Murray’s surprise, he shook hands. ‘This is where we part company,’ he declared, ‘as far as I can tell you, we weren’t followed, and if the other chaps had noticed anyone showing any interest in us, they would have warned us by now. We’ve got a system,’ Miller added heavily. His big hand was very powerful. ‘Go straight to that address Craigie gave you, 5 Dineley Street, and you’ll get a further briefing. You’ve got plenty to remember as it is.’

  ‘Plenty,’ agreed Murray.

  He turned away, and Miller went stamping between the big iron gates at the Yard, being saluted by two uniformed constables, who stood on duty.

  Murray looked across the road, to Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. Big Ben was free of the scaffolding which had surrounded its tall tower when he had last spent a few days in London. The whole building had a brushed-up look. He hesitated, and then turned towards Westminster Bridge, and walked over it, simply so that he could get the view from the other side. To him, this was the beauty and the purpose of London. It was a perfect day for walking and seeing, with a bright sun, a nip in the air, and only the faintest of hazes on the river itself. The gothic majesty of the Houses of Parliament was reflected in the smooth water of the Thames, and in the other side were many fine buildings, the new and the old contrasting. On the river itself some slow-moving barges and, moored for the winter yet resplendent in bright paint, the pleasure-steamers which would ply in the spring and summer.

  Murray walked back over the bridge.

  He had stolen fifteen minutes, and yet as he drew nearer the Parliament buildings he felt a deep satisfaction and a sense of purpose. Here was not only the heart of London but the heart of Commonwealth He felt almost like the Powers That Were of the Post-Dispatch, could almost call it the heart of the Empire. Jingoism? Its days were not quite over but undoubtedly they were numbered, and meanwhile it was a fact that the picture he now saw in reality was familiar to millions of people throughout the world as a symbol of the aim of all men; freedom. Not the only symbol, but perhaps the first which had become so widely known; certainly there was none greater.

  In there, probably today, there would be a Question on the Order Paper: ‘Will the Minister for Colonial Affairs inform the House what steps are being taken to make sure that the regrettable incidents on the Island of Canna, so long renowned for its loyalty, do not develop into serious disorders?’

  And the answer?

  ‘I am satisfied that the necessary steps are being taken and can reassure the House.’

  Nonsense.

  Dineley Street was a cul-de-sac, off Jermyn Street, and within a short distance of Piccadilly, although there was no direct approach to Piccadilly itself. It was a short street, with thirty tall houses in it, all terraced, all in good repair, most of them recently painted. Three, with a single front entrance, had the sign Dineley Hotel. Murray expected to find that was Number 5, but Number 5 was next door, freshly painted cream and black, with some flower-boxes already filled with wallflowers ready for the spring, shining windows, spotless curtains. Nothing suggested that it was an apartment house until one got inside, and in the hall was a small board with names printed opposite the flat numbers.

  5. Mr. Nigel Raymond Murray, O.B.E.

  Murray chuckled.

  ‘They beat the band,’ he said.

  There was a small, self-operated lift. Flat 5 would almost certainly be on the top floor, and he pressed the button. The doors slid to, just like that in the wall of Craigie’s room, and again he found himself chuckling. When he stepped out, he didn’t feel surprised by the visiting-card which was fitted in a small bracket close to his door.

  He might have been here for months.

  He unlocked the door with a key which Craigie had given him, and stepped inside. As he did so, he heard a sound just inside the flat, a soft, furtive movement.

  Now, his heart hammered.

  He had been told that he would have the flat to himself; yet someone was inside.

  He dropped his hand to his pocket and his fingers closed about the automatic pistol which Loftus had given him.

  If he went out again, closing the door, he would warn whoever was inside that he had heard the sound. If he went forward pretending to have noticed nothing, there was at least an even chance that he would run into serious trouble. This had come so quickly upon the quiet reflection by the river that it was hard to think clearly.

  He went inside, closed the door, and then opened it again without making any sound; and he left it ajar. At least there was a way of retreat open.

  He stood in a small hall, much the same shape as that at the cottage, but larger. Three doors led off it, two closed and one open. He would not have heard the sound through a closed door, would he? Danger, if it was danger, would come from the room with the open door.

  He began to whistle softly, dropped the gun into his jacket pocket, took off his raincoat and hat and hung them inside a wardrobe cup
board which took up much of the space in the hall. His heart wasn’t beating so fast now, but he was still very much on edge.

  He opened one of the closed doors; it led to the bedroom, and beyond it he could see the tiled surround of a bath. So the open door led into the living-room.

  Murray took out the gun and opened the door very briskly, and went straight in, glancing right and left—and seeing nothing. Nothing. He didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved, but he felt silly. He was dreaming things up; the events of the morning had been too much for him. He dropped the gun back into his pocket and looked round the room. It was pleasantly furnished, there was a radiogram and a television, everything a modern man could expect for comfort. Two of the etchings on the wall near the door were very pleasant.

  He glanced at his watch. It was a little after one o’clock. Less than twelve hours ago he had gone to bed without dreaming of what would be coming later in the night. He’d read until one, he could remember getting up, stretching, yawning . . .

  Then, he stopped abruptly.

  There was something on the floor by the window, scuttling along the edge of the carpet.

  It was a black spider, its body the size of a sixpence.

  The creature stopped, as if it was aware that Murray was looking at it. There was a shivery feeling running up and down his spine, at sight of the thing. He had never seen one like it in England; you didn’t find them in England. If this was a Canna spider, its bite could kill, and would certainly be serious. The thing moved again, as if to get out of his sight, and then stopped—and as it did so, Murray saw another movement beneath a three-seater couch.

  Another spider, shiny, black, with hair growing over its squat body. The black spiders of Canna were deadly, remember . . .

  From behind him, a man said: ‘Do you not like my pets, Mr. Murray?

  Murray heard the voice, and his body stiffened, but he didn’t turn around. The spiders hypnotised him. He was used to the huge insects of the hot countries; normally he would have known what to do, but two spiders here—and there might be others—was something so shocking that he wasn’t yet in control of himself.

  ‘Don’t you?’ the man repeated softly.

  Now, Murray turned round.

  It was a small man. Murray had seen him before, at the cottage. He had sharp features and thin lips, and when he smiled his teeth showed, pointed and sharp. His eyes were large and almost black, and his eyebrows were sharply defined, his hair was jet black.

  He held a gun.

  Murray saw that, and knew that it wasn’t an ordinary pistol; it had a short barrel and a curious muzzle, rather like the old type blunderbuss—or like the top of a small flower vase. In the small, pale brown hand it was very steady. The man had come from the bedroom, for he was standing just in front of it, and the door was ajar.

  ‘Surely you are not struck dumb,’ the Cannan murmured, and he glanced down towards the couch. ‘Don’t you like my pets?’

  Murray, his hand inches from the gun in his pocket, his heart thumping, and trying to see the spiders out of the corner of his eye, managed to speak calmly.

  ‘I prefer them to you,’ he said.

  The man’s black eyebrows shot up.

  ‘How very English of you, Mr. Murray, to find a way of being insulting even in circumstances like these. Have you ever been bitten by a Cannan spider?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Murray said.

  ‘So calm, so phlegmatic, so English.’’ Somehow, the man turned that into a sneer. ‘That is about right, Murray, ‘not yet.’ There is plenty of time to find out how painful it is. How many have you seen? Two—yes, I suppose so. There are six in the flat altogether, and they are very fond of honey. Did you know that? Like ants. If I were to leave you here, perhaps with your shirt open and a little honey smeared on your manly chest, it would be salutary, wouldn’t it, Murray? Oh, they would bite. The poisonous wound is very, very painful. And don’t imagine that I couldn’t do that; I assure you that one little puff from my gun would put you to sleep, and afterwards you would not be able to protect yourself. For myself, I am protected.’ He put out a foot, and showed that he was wearing boots which fitted snugly round his ankles, and seemed to go some distance up his calf.

  Murray said roughly: ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Ah, that is better,’ the little man said; ‘that suggests that you realise how unpleasant this could be. I want the truth from you, Murray. Did the girl Lang tell you where to find Meya Kamil?’

  Murray said, very slowly: ‘No. She said she didn’t know.’

  ‘So, she said she didn’t know,’ echoed the sharp-faced man, and he frowned; it wasn’t a pleasant sight. ‘That is what she told us. I shall have to believe it soon, no doubt. All right, another question—does Craigie know where Meya Kamil is?’

  12. The Spiders

  The question stabbed through Murray like the point of a dagger. It told so much: that this man knew of Craigie, which meant that he also knew of Department Z; that he also knew that Murray had been to see Craigie, and might know what Craigie could tell him about the Good Man of Canna. The shock was almost great enough to make Murray forget the spiders for a moment; but not for long.

  One of them darted towards him.

  He drew his breath, sharply.

  It seemed to be coming straight at him, and he kicked out at it. It actually ran over his shoe, then scuttled away; but it stopped while still in sight.

  And there were six of them here.

  ‘You see, they are interested in you already,’ the Cannan said smoothly. ‘I’m sure they would derive a lot of innocent enjoyment from biting you. Of course, we would wait until you had regained consciousness before smearing the honey on you; it would be a waste of opportunity if they were to bite you while you were unconscious, wouldn’t it?’ He paused and then asked again: ‘Does Craigie know where Meya Kamil is?’

  Murray could say that Craigie didn’t, and probably convince the man that it was true, he didn’t think that would be difficult, but—what would the consequences be? This man, and the forces whom he represented, were desperately anxious to find the Good Man of Canna, would do anything to get him. If they could be sure that Craigie did not know where Meya Kamil was, it might help them; certainly they would know that they had time to look for the man. Their great weakness was that Meya Kamil might be produced at any moment; if he was, he could disprove their propaganda, and quieten the islanders.

  ‘I don’t know what Craigie knows,’ Murray said abruptly.

  ‘Have you not seen him?’ When Murray didn’t answer, the sharp-faced man took a step forward, thrusting the gun closer to Murray’s face. ‘Answer me; you have seen Craigie, I know that. You were taken to him by the policeman, Miller, and afterwards you were with Miller in Whitehall. In between this two times you saw Craigie. Admit it!’ His voice rose to a screech. ‘Admit it!’

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen Craigie,’ Murray conceded.

  ‘And are you to work for him?’

  A movement beneath the couch caught Murray’s eyes again, and he shivered involuntarily; he couldn’t be sure that another spider wasn’t behind him. There were six of them, remember, and he had only seen two. Only one was still in sight; for all he knew, the other might be touching his foot, might dart up his trousers, on to his leg.

  ‘Answer me,’ said the Cannan harshly; ‘if you don’t. . .

  ‘Yes, I’m to work for Craigie.’

  ‘What are you to do?’

  ‘I am—to translate and interpret for him,’ Murray improvised, and prayed that it sounded reasonable.

  He was sweating, and there was icy coldness at his forehead and at the back of his neck. He saw the other man’s quick frown, realised that the answer was the last thing that had been expected, perhaps in its way it had scored him a triumph, but...

  He felt something touch his trousers.

  No!

  He twisted round. He couldn’t see anything, and there was nothing on his leg now. He shook it, vigor
ously. Pain shot through his right ankle, but that was the old sprain, it was nothing to do with a spider; he had simply imagined the touch on his leg.

  He turned to face the Cannan again.

  ‘An interpreter,’ the man echoed. ‘Because you know the Cannan language, yes.’

  ‘I know Arabic, Swahili, several African dialects, Hebrew, and Spanish,’ Murray said. ‘Languages are my strong point. Craigie is working on reports from Canna sent in several languages.’ The lie was bolder now, and perhaps even more effective. ‘He needs help with translation, and as I was already involved, he sent for me.’

  ‘Is that all?’ There was doubt in the near black eye, and a sneer in the set of the thin lips. ‘Tell me, is that all?’

  Was it enough?

  Would he believe it?

  Could he do what he had threatened with the black brutes which were hidden under the furniture?

  Cold fear made Murray shiver.

  ‘Is that all?’ the Cannan demanded, and now he raised the gun so that it pointed directly at Murray’s face, as if he would spray gas from it at the touch of the trigger. He was out of arm’s reach; there was no hope of getting at him and knocking the gun out of his hand.

  ‘No,’ Murray said, and licked his lips.

  ‘What else are you to do?’ asked the Cannan, very softly. ‘Tell me everything, Murray, and remember how painful . . .’

  He broke off—and glanced down at Murray’s feet.

  Murray moved his foot with desperate speed, felt the rise of panic again because he felt sure that one of the creatures would be there; it wasn’t. When he looked up, the little man was grinning; on his face there was a hint of a cruelty buried deep in him.