The Black Spiders

by John Creasey

  ‘If you let them get as near to her as they did to me . . .’ Murray began.

  ‘We won’t,’ Craigie interrupted. ‘And if she goes to Hampstead, with her relations, she’ll feel much better. We’ve surveyed the house, of course. It’s flanked by a block of flats on one side and another house on the other. There’ll be a large concentration of people there to look after her—and to look after anyone who dares make an attempt to get through to her.’

  There was a pause. Then:

  ‘You know the odds,’ said Murray abruptly.

  ‘You keep on going as you’ve started,’ said Craigie. ‘Take the night off, too, this pick-me-up which I’ll send round, and in the morning go and see Juanita.’

  ‘All right,’ said Murray. ‘Thanks.’

  When he rang off, he wondered gloomily whether Juanita was in fact as safe as Craigie made out.

  There was one simple and inescapable fact: Juanita had to be used by Craigie, Craigie simply had no choice. Unless she did know where her uncle was, Juanita’s chief value was as bait.

  Face it.

  ‘Murray said aloud: ‘All right, I’ve faced it,’ and turned savagely towards the window—and then heard a different bell ring. This was the front door. He didn’t want to speak to anyone just then, and he stood looking at the closed door of the living-room, trying to guess who it was, wondering whether the caller would go away if he didn’t answer. Then he moved slowly towards the door. He was getting childish. This might be Craigie’s men, might be an important caller—and it might be another man carrying spiders.

  He went briskly to the door, hand at his gun, and opened it an inch—and saw Jane Wyatt.

  ‘I wondered if you’d like to have a cup of tea with me,’ she said. ‘I’m just making some.’

  ‘Oh, happy thought!’ Murray took the chain off the door. He felt a little foolish, but she appeared not to notice that, and he had been told that he must take every possible precaution. ‘Here or in your flat?’

  ‘In mine; I’ve laid the table,’ Jane said.

  Murray closed the door of his, and went across with her. Now, a low table was laid for two in the window, there were sandwiches so thin that he had almost forgotten they could be cut like that, tea, some small cakes, obviously home made. He found himself studying Jane, and realising that she was much nicer looking even than he had noticed before.

  He told her about the night off.

  ‘So I should think,’ Jane said; ‘the one fault I’ve ever had to find with Gordon is that he sometimes thinks that a man can live without sleep—just because he seems to!’ Her eyes crinkled attractively when she smiled. ‘What show were you thinking of doing?’

  ‘What’s it called?’ Murray said, and frowned. ‘The Abbotts’ new show; something about colour . . .’

  ‘Penny Coloured,’ Jane said, her face lighting up. ‘I’m told it’s wonderful, but I doubt if you can get a seat.

  They’re always a sell-out. I remember when I was in Malaya they were out with a show for the troops, with a really big company, too.’

  Murray chuckled.

  ‘So big that they often charter a small cargo-boat, and man it with the company itself.’

  ‘You know them as well as that?’

  ‘Oh, that’s information which just got around, Abbott doesn’t boast about it,’ Murray said. ‘I met them in Cyprus on one of their tours—he’s quarter Cypriot—and we’ve met once or twice since, most recently about that cottage. I’ll ring them,’ added Murray. ‘If there were any seats, I’m sure they’ll fix it. May I make it for two?’

  ‘Of course.’ She seemed really pleased.

  ‘Fine,’ said Murray.

  He called Lester Abbott, who answered the telephone himself, and sounded surprised that Murray was back from the cottage; so nothing had been said to him, yet. Sooner or later, probably sooner, he would have to be told. Craigie might be able to keep the story out of the newspapers, but he wouldn’t be able to stop village gossip, and that had a habit of travelling fast. He ought to suggest to Craigie that he told Abbott.

  He made his plea for seats.

  ‘My dear chap, of course,’ Abbott said readily; ‘no problem at all, we always keep half-a-dozen up our sleeve and don’t let them go until just before the curtain rises. Call at the box office for them, and then come round and see us after the show; I’ll tell the stage-door chappie. Hope you like it. The notices have been rave, but Lilian and I think there are weaknesses . . .’ He talked for at least five minutes, for he had only one love: the stage.

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ Jane said, when Murray told her.

  Murray telephoned the Department Z office, when Jane had gone. It was the first time he had dialled the number, which was changed every week, and it was the first time he had announced himself by spelling his name backwards; but somehow it did not seem even slightly like play-acting.

  Loftus answered, and Murray was slightly disappointed.

  ‘Oh, good thought,’ agreed Loftus, when he’d said his piece. ‘Gordon and I were talking about it; someone ought to tell Abbott, soon, and make sure that he doesn’t make a fuss when he finds out. He’ll be compensated, of course, tell him that. And try to get some information about the Cliff House tenant, without making it too obvious. Thanks, Nigel.’

  Murray forgot that feeling of disappointment.

  He had a snack with Jane, and they reached the theatre in good time. The seats were front-row stalls. There was the usual buzz of expectancy and satisfaction before the curtain went up, the usual hush, and the burst of applause when Lester Abbott wandered on to the stage. Then, the audience began to laugh. It went on laughing. Plot, title, staging, and decor all seemed to merge in one long riot. The tunes, mostly South American with a lot of rhythm, were all catchy. The cast was magnificent. Some white, some negro, a few between colours—hence the title. It dealt with the colour problem in a way which could offend no one. Lester Abbott, as an absent-minded doctor, and his wife Lilian, a blonde who was full of good works, were sponsoring a hostel and club for students from overseas. Some of the lines had a sting, for Murray; but generally it was an absorbing piece of nonsense. If it were ever taken on tour it would have the troops in hysterics. There wasn’t a moment when the action looked like flagging.

  It was good to laugh.

  It was good to hear Jane laughing, too.

  Yet . . .

  It was almost frightening, in its way, that he could see the horrors he had seen that day, and yet could laugh like this in spite of the play’s theme. Reaction? He didn’t know. The thought struck him almost painfully as he made his way out of the auditorium towards the dressing-rooms.

  Lester Abbott had seen and acknowledged him from the stage, and he mustn’t seem quiet or preoccupied, but— well, the fact that he could do this seemed almost callous.

  Jane was looking at him thoughtfully. Worriedly?

  ‘If the Abbotts suggest we have supper with them, what would you like to do?’ asked Murray.

  ‘I don’t think we ought to be late,’ Jane said, and undoubtedly ‘we’ meant ‘you’.

  The dressing-rooms at the Glory Theatre were tiny, and two friends were already with the Abbotts. Lester, who was approaching fifty and on the stage looked nearer thirty, was tall, big, and good-looking in an aristocratic sort of way. Lilian was short, and plump, pretty and gay. Roguish. There was champagne, a babble of talk, delight in everyone who had anything to do with the play.

  ‘We did a bit of re-plotting; just what it needed,’ Lester Abbott explained to Murray. ‘One or two scenes seemed a bit anti-colour, if you know what I mean; wouldn’t do on the stage. That’s why I was edgy this afternoon, sorry if I seemed offhand. All’s well now. You really liked it?’

  ‘It was wonderful.’

  ‘Wonderful! Have a drink.’ Abbott turned excitedly to Jane, who was talking to someone who hadn’t been introduced and who looked as happy as if he had put a fortune into the play, then back to Murray.

  It
was going to be almost impossible to have a quiet word with him, but it had to be done.

  ‘So you really liked it,’ Abbott said, and looked as if he was sated with satisfaction. ‘Really?’

  ‘It was first class.’

  ‘Have a drink?’

  ‘Lester, can you spare . . .’

  ‘Bottles, of it, old boy. I say,’ went on Abbott, and leaned forward confidentally, ‘if you don’t mind my saying so, that’s a very nice pretty you’ve brought along with you. As nice as any I’ve seen for a long time; comforting, if you know what I mean, reassuring. Just like Lilian isn’t! Tell me, honestly, what did you think . . .’

  At last they were on their own in the dressing-room, the Abbotts ready to leave, the theatre practically empty. Then Murray told them about the destruction of the cottage, very quietly, not sure what their reaction would be and hoping that he hadn’t been wrong to take the responsibility of telling them.

  ‘But, damn it, it’s not in the evening papers,’ Abbott protested, after an understandable show of bewildered astonishment. ‘Aircraft crashed on—good lord! And you were in the cottage.’

  ‘Nigel!’ exclaimed Lilian, and then looked at his bandaged hand. ‘Was that. . . ‘

  ‘I’m all right,’ Murray said hastily, ‘and the plane was on a secret trial; that’s why it’s hush-hush. You’ll get ample compensation.’

  Abbott stared, as if puzzled, and then unexpectedly began to smile.

  ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘Hear that, Lil? We’re going to get compensation for the cottage, and the next time we buy or build, we’ll make sure there’s running water!’ He laughed. ‘Pity it wasn’t Cliff House! I let that to a rum crew who answered an ad. in The Times. Did you see anything of them?’

  ‘No. What was rum about them?’

  ‘They said they were Cypriots, but I had my doubts,’ said Abbott. ‘Still, their money’s good! So’s the Government’s! Okay, Nigel, but thanks for tipping me off. What a bit of luck, though!’

  ‘Luck?’ Obviously Abbott couldn’t help much with the tenants.

  ‘A newspaperman on the spot, you must have a story strong enough to blackmail yourself back on to the Post-Dispatch.’

  Murray chuckled.

  Lilian said: ‘Lester, I’m famished, really. Are you sure you two sweet people won’t come and have supper with us? We’d love you to.’

  In fact, both she and Abbott were tired. The first few nights of a new show were a strain, and teething troubles in this play had obviously worried them. Abbott himself looked as if he could go to sleep on his feet. It wasn’t difficult to make excuses, and it was as easy to agree with Jane that it would be a pity to eat out, they could have a sandwich at the flat.

  It was good, being with Jane.

  The ‘pick-me-up’ had been delivered before they had left, and Murray took a dessertspoonful, as directed, just before getting into bed. Trust Craigie, even to having something that could soothe away nerves and shock symptoms. Trust Craigie. It wasn’t difficult to do that, either.

  Trust Craigie.

  Even with Juanita?

  Murray slept soundly, until after eight o’clock. He bathed, shaved, boiled some eggs, and made some toast, and at half- past nine left for the house in Hampstead, and for Juanita Lang.

  He felt alert, wary, watchful, but his nerves weren’t ragged as they had been, and he felt completely confident, almost as if he had had a long rest, and was ready for the fray.

  He began to whistly softly, under his breath, as he sat at the wheel of a Jaguar which had been outside the house; Harrison had telephoned to tell him it was there. He felt the controls almost affectionately; driving was one of his few hobbies. It responded perfectly, and he drove through thickening traffic towards Hampstead.

  Approaching the house where Juanita was staying, he saw some workmen at a corner, digging at an electric main. A window-cleaner was busy at a small block of flats nearly opposite. Several tradesmen’s vans were in the road. He couldn’t be sure that these were Department Z agents, but it was pretty safe to say that some of them were.

  Murray pulled into the carriageway. The house was large by modern standards, and the garden beautifully kept, with a small circular lawn and some rhododendron bushes which looked fresh and beautifully shaped. He remembered reading about Judge Lang’s passion for gardens and for big lawns, and the old man had lived here for much of his life.

  No one appeared at any of the windows; everything seemed normal.

  Murray got out, and approached the porch. He felt his heart quickening at the thought of seeing Juanita, and he told himself again that he was crazy; but he hadn’t known anything like this since he had first met his wife. Remember, he would soon be middle-aged, and Juanita . . .

  Forget it; he had a job to do.

  He stepped on to the porch, and put a finger on the bell-push. He could not bear the bell ring inside, but didn’t expect to; the domestic quarters would probably be at the back. Then, he heard an aeroplane approaching, and it was a propeller-driven craft, he couldn’t mistake the sound. Thought of the Spitfire flashed into his mind, and he swung round, jerking his head upwards.

  The plane was flying high over the Heath and did not seem to be heading this way.

  Then, the door was opened by a pleasant-looking, middle-aged woman, and as she started to speak, Murray looked down at some swift movement; and saw a black spider.

  It scuttled over the step and into the house.

  14. Relations

  There was a pale, beige-coloured carpet stretching from wall to wall, and Murray saw the spider scuttle towards a door, almost as if it had some uncanny sense of where it wanted to go. Then, it stopped at a closed door. The woman was staring at Murray in astonishment, for after that first moment he hadn’t even looked at her.

  ‘What. . .’ she began.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Murray. He pushed past her, swiftly. She uttered a sharp exclamation of protest, and turned to watch him as he went racing forward. The spider stayed quite still, and the carpet muffled the sound of Murray’s approach. Then quite suddenly a man appeared from another room, and said:

  ‘All right, Murray.’

  It was Harrison.

  Murray saw him point what looked like a small water- pistol at the creature, saw the creature start to run towards the stairs. Now the woman saw it, and cried:

  ‘Ugh, what’s that?’

  ‘Big spider,’ the man answered promptly, and seemed intent on chasing the spider, but suddenly it turned over on its back, going flat and lifeless.

  ‘Oh, how horrible!’ the woman said. She was big-bosomed, fluffy-haired, and quite attractive.

  ‘Knew there were some about,’ said Harrison. He spoke affably, and his manner was almost foppish, very different from the side he had shown to Murray before. He dropped a handkerchief over the spider, and then calmly picked it up. ‘Nothing to worry about now.’ He smiled reassuringly at the woman, whose face had lost colour as she stared aghast at the handkershief in his hand. ‘This is Mr. Nigel Murray, Mrs. Lang.’ He glanced at Murray. ‘Mrs. Lang knows that Juanita’s in danger, and that’s why I’m here.’

  ‘I’m sorry I scared you,’ Murray said, and smiled hopefully at Juanita’s aunt. ‘It scared me for a moment.’

  ‘I should think it did,’ Juanita’s aunt said, and dabbed at her forehead. ‘Dear me, I feel quite faint.’ Already she struck Murray as being something of a poseur, and certainly her voice was affected and her manner almost melodramatic. She dabbed again, and sighed. ‘Well, it certainly can’t be helped, Mr. Murray. I think Juanita is expecting you.’

  ‘How is she?’ Murray couldn’t keep the eagerness out of his voice.

  ‘Oh, she is very well, and this morning she is much better than she was last night.’

  ‘Good,’ Murray said fervently. ‘That’s fine.’

  ‘Please wait one moment,’ said Mrs. Lang primly.

  Murray told himself again that he was a fool, it was crazy that his heart should
play tricks like this; but it did. He wondered what his reaction would be when he saw Juanita perhaps she would strike him as being so young that it was madness . . .

  The older woman went into a room on the right. Murray stared at the door, and then looked away, annoyed with himself. He saw something on a small shelf which was fastened to the wall; it looked unusual, and he made himself step across and examine it. It was a small model of a building in white marble, and beyond it were miniature rocks and hills. He didn’t understand it until he leaned forward and read three words on a small brass plate screwed on the shelf.

  Judge Lang’s Tomb

  Of course.

  He had never seen this building, but when he had been on the Isle of Canna, he had heard about it. After Lang had died, Meya Kamil had raised funds, by public subscription among the poor people of the island, and they had given with eagerness and generosity, so that this tomb—in fact a mausoleum—had been built, and Judge Lang’s remains interred there. The tomb was in the foothills of the mountains which had been torn asunder by the earthquake —after which Lang as well as Meya Kamil had played a heroic part. More of what he had learned came back to Murray. It was Judge Lang who had sponsored a public subscription in England for the victims of the earthquake—

  Murray heard a movement, and turned round quickly.

  Juanita came out of the room, with her aunt just behind her.

  Murray hadn’t quite known what to expect—whether she would be in bed, or resting in her room, or downstairs. He knew now. She had on a dress which was simplicity itself; a kind of glowing red, not bright or scarlet, and it fitted perfectly. He’d seen her in brassiere and panties, he’d seen her in a pair of borrowed pyjamas, but this—he would have to go a long way to see anyone with a figure to compare with Juanita Lang’s.

  Her eyes were glowing, and she came forward, obviously delighted to see him.

  ‘Mr. Murray,’ she greeted. ‘I was afraid you were going to be late.’

  She held out her hands.