by John Creasey
He didn’t know whether he would be in time.
He kept telling himself that the scream had meant that there was a spider in the flat, or something as frightening, but he couldn’t be sure. But he was sure that it had been Juanita. Jane might cry out but wouldn’t scream in that way, wouldn’t give voice to such terror. He stared at the corner of Dineley Street, and everything seemed normal, there were no crowds, no police, just a home-going crowd of soberly-dressed people. Then they swung into the cul-de- sac.
Everything seemed normal.
But that scream, and that silence . . .
The driver said: ‘What number, sir?’
‘Half-way along, on the left,’ Murray said. He was already opening the door of the car, and as it slowed down, he pushed the door open wide and began to jump out. ‘Be careful; this could be murderous,’ he warned, and jumped.
He just avoided a lamp-post, its light glowing.
The front door of Number 5 was closed, everything looked so peaceful that it was still hard to believe that cry of fear. He had his key out as he reached the door, thrust it into the lock and twisted. The door didn’t open properly. He pushed, and it wouldn’t yield more than an inch. He put his shoulder to it, and the driver and his companion came hurrying. There was only room for two of them at a time, and Murray and the driver put all their strength against the door, which gradually opened until there was just room for Murray to squeeze inside. Inside, it was dark. Everything in him screamed: ‘Be Careful!’ but there was no thought of his own danger.
He pressed a switch, but no light went on, yet he could just see.
There was Harrison doubled up on the floor, with his right hand five times its normal size.
Harrison lay quite still and Murray believed that he was dead. That swollen hand and the redness told its own story, Harrison had died like the sharp-featured Cannan and like Rondo—from the bite of the black spider, fn spite of the awful urgency, Murray found himself scanning the floor and the stairs, but he saw none in the poor light.
The driver had squeezed through after him, and said: ‘Be—be careful, sir; he—he’s been stung by something.’
‘Yes,’ Murray said, ‘I—isn’t there a bootmaker’s at the corner?’ Hope flared with an idea.
‘Yes, sir but . . .’
‘Go and see if anyone’s in, knock ‘em up if needs be, and try and get some riding boots, size nine or bigger,’ Murray said urgently. ‘Riding-boots and some gloves if you can. Hurry.’ He was already at the door of the lift, but could hear no sound and could see no sign of the other men, or of either of the women. He pressed the starter button, and nothing happened. He switched the power-switch up and down, but it made no difference, the lift was out of order. Was the electricity cut off?
He darted into the hall, towards the stairs. The staircase, in a poor light, wound up the three floors.
The driver had gone, but a car was drawing up outside; this might be more of Craigie’s men.
A hell of a lot of use . . .
Murray started up the stairs two at a time, and as he went he looked about for signs of the spiders, but saw none. He reached the first landing. He was already breathing hard, but did not slacken speed as he turned the curve in the stairs.
Then he saw a spider, crushed; and a man, dead.
Half-way up the stairs were several more spiders, also crushed. Then he reached the next landing—and here were two more men, on the floor, one with his face horribly swollen, one with a foot twice its normal size.
Oh, God!
Murray kept going, but the horror of what he saw was as bad as the horror that he feared. At the next landing another two men were lying as if dead, and several of the creatures, all crushed. It looked as if the Department men had trodden on them, taking a desperate chance to try to save Juanita.
He tried to put the thought away from him as he went up to the next landing; his, and Jane Wyatt’s. This was where he had left them, this was where . . .
He saw both his door and that of the other flat wide open.
He heard a sound, as if someone was pushing against a door; it was very like the sound he had heard downstairs when he had pushed Harrison’s body out of the way. He reached the landing itself and looked desperately right and left, then realised that the sound was coming from Jane’s flat.
Jane would have taken Juanita in with her, and . . .
Then he saw the spiders; not one but hundreds. Hund-dreds, crawling everywhere.
That was all he could see in the light from the street.
They swarmed about the floor of the flat, on chairs, on tables, an invasion of the creatures, enough to kill people by the hundred. A few were still close to the door, and looked as if they might turn towards Murray. He didn’t move, but stared in mounting horror, then heard that sound again: thud, thud, thud. Something was pushing at a door, he felt sure of it, but how could he find out?
‘Jane!’ he cried. ‘Jane!’
There was a momentary pause in the thudding, and then it went on again.
‘Jane! Juanita!’
There was no answer; he could hear just that sound and a strange undercurrent of a different noise, also—like a faint scratching. And he knew what caused it: the scuttling mass of spiders on the wooden floor. He knew more. Someone was trying to batter his way into the bathroom, which led off the bedroom; it was the only door of the flat which couldn’t be seen from the front door. So, someone was locked in the bathroom.
Juanita and Jane?
Between him and the bathroom was this carpet of horror.
He heard someone else coming up the stairs, and glanced down. It was the driver, carrying two pairs of riding-boots, but he did not appear to have any gloves. There were other sounds, as of other men entering the hall.
‘Throw them up!’ Murray shouted, and as the man stopped and began to obey, he added gaspingly: ‘Tell the men outside that the place is swarming with spiders. Tell them to get a ladder up to the bathroom of Flat 6. Got that? Ladder up to the bathroom of Flat 6.’
He clutched at a shiny brown leather boot, and it slid through his fingers and fell behind him. He caught the second.
‘. . . no gloves,’ the man cried, then turned and raced down the stairs. Murray heard him talking to someone as he began to kick off his shoes and to drag the boots on. As he did so, standing on one foot, a spider came scuttling towards him. Murray tugged until he had one boot on, and then he struck the creature away with the other.
It turned over on its back; dead.
Murray dragged on the other boot. The thud-thud-thud was still going on. He gritted his teeth as he went forward, right hand in his pocket about the pistol, left hand clenched. The floor was thick with the spiders, but he had to tread on them, and felt one crunch. He drew nearer the bedroom door, and the thudding seemed to grow louder. Then he heard a different sound; perhaps a stifled scream.
Juanita?
Jane?
Murray reached the bedroom door, as the creatures crunched and squeaked beneath him and scuttled in every direction. He saw the explanation of the thudding, too, and it was all that he had feared. Two men were pushing at the bathroom door. They were in policemen’s uniform, but they were no more police than the dead Cannans at the cottage. A flash of understanding told him what had happened. The uniforms had been enough to persuade Harrison to open the door, and once the front door had opened the men had released the spiders.
What else could have happened?
Forget it!
The bathroom door was already open a crack; he could just see that. Open. The two men wore thick rubber gloves and waders, and were in no danger, but the spiders were massed on the floor, as if they wanted to help to break the door down, so as to get in.
It opened a fraction of an inch wider.
One of the men was looking over his shoulder, and as Murray appeared, he stopped pushing and flung off his glove. Murray saw the little, spray-shaped gun on a table within easy reach, but the man had no chance to reach it. Murray
shot him in the chest, and he reeled and staggered and then, screaming, he crashed down; and in a moment he seemed to be smothered by the creatures, and he screamed again.
The other man kept his shoulder at the door, although he had turned his head and could see what was happening. He didn’t try to get at a gun, didn’t try to defend himself, all he wanted was to get that door open, and he was succeeding. It opened nearly an inch, now, and Murray saw several spiders pushing their way through, heard another cry from inside the bathroom, and then shot the second man in the back.
The same thing happened.
And as the man fell, and was swarmed with the creatures, the door slammed shutting the rest of them out. But . . .
Some spiders were inside.
22. Two Women
Jane Wyatt thrust her weight against the door, straining every effort to keep it from opening, but she knew that she couldn’t keep it closed for very long. Nor could Juanita. The younger woman was pushing as hard as she could with both hands, but there was little strength left in her; she was deathly pale, and looked as if she would drop. They had been pushing against this door for what seemed an age; from the moment that Juanita, behind Jane at the telephone, had screamed and made her look round in alarm. There had been the spiders, streaming in. She had been in the bed-room; the one thing in their favour, and she had thrust Juanita into the bathroom, followed her, and slammed the door.
She did not know how the spiders had been introduced into the flat, she had not seen the men—but within seconds someone had tried to force the door open, and the first massive onslaught had weakened the brass bolt which held it in position.
There was no key, and the door could not be fastened from the outside.
Then she and Juanita had tried to stop the door from opening, but every second had been more difficult, and now there was pain in her arms and legs, her wrists ached, her jaw hurt where she had clenched her teeth. She was really doing this on her own now, there was hardly any strength left in Juanita’s effort.
She did not think there was any hope.
The pressure continued and the door kept shaking beneath continual blows. The tiny bolt held only by one loose screw; if she removed her weight it would crash in almost, and once those creatures were in there would be no chance.
Juanita made a gasping sound, then fell against the door her arms slack by her sides; she was gasping and powerless.
A good light came from the street.
Jane said fiercely: ‘Get into the bath, step into the bath!’ The spiders could not climb up the smooth sides, there was still a way to retreat and a way to fight; but the men out there would make sure that they didn’t hold out for long, once the door was open.
‘Get into the bath,’ Jane ordered, shrilly; ‘hurry, hurry!’
Juanita looked at her, almost stupidly.
‘Get into the bath!’ cried Jane and then left the door for a fraction of a second and bundled the girl towards the bath, half lifting Juanita in. She heard the creaking at the door, saw more wood splinter at the little bolt, and then flung herself at it.
A spider crawled in.
Another.
She had to stand against the door and pray that these two would not bite her, or jump away and try to get into the bath, and let that awful swarm come in.
Then, she heard the sharp report of a shot; a pause; and another shot. There were other sounds, but they did not matter for there was one blessed relief—the thudding at the door stopped.
Jane leaned against it, sweat pouring down her forehead and into her eyes, her mouth open as she gasped for breath, momentarily forgetful of the horror that was still close. Then she caught a glimpse of a little moving black form. She cried out, and jumped away.
How many had come in? She had seen just the two, but there might have been more. She snatched up the bathroom stool, upturned it, and brought it down on one of the creatures which had stopped, in fright. She could not see the other. Juanita was leaning against the wall, and the shower was dripping a little on her head. Drip, Drip. Drip. She had her face buried in her hands, and her shoulders were moving convulsively.
Jane watched every part of the floor.
Where was the thing?
There were no curtain, no hidden corner, not. . . .
She saw it, lurking just behind the pedestal hand-basin. While it stayed there she could move, and the bath was opposite the hand-basin; she need not go near it. That was the extent of her relief now—she need fear no others coming in, and a spider could not climb up the smooth side of the bath.
She crept towards the bath watching the shiny black shape all the time. Juanita was sobbing. There were sounds outside, but she couldn’t distinguish them at first; then she heard Nigel Murray’s voice.
‘We won’t be long! Don’t come out! We won’t be long!’
Don’t come out. . .
That could mean only one thing: that the spiders were still in the bedroom, and that if the door was opened they would swarm in. Jane could remember how the Cannan had shrieked as he had fallen, she could still hear the shrieking of the men outside.
‘All—all right!’ she called. ‘All right!’
She edged towards the bath, where Juanita was quieter. Outside was a street lamp, and she could see a window across the street, where a curtain was drawn. The bright light of the lamp outside shone on the spider, making it look like polished ebony.
Jane was within a foot of the bath and the thing hadn’t moved; she need have no fear now.
She reached the bath.
‘It’s all right,’ she said, and there was a sob in her voice as she climbed in, still watching that shiny black shape. ‘It’s all right, we’re safe, it’s all right.’ She stumbled on the curved bottom of the bath, and fell against Juanita and put her arms round her, but she didn’t stop saying: ‘We’re safe, we’re safe, we’re safe.’ She could think of nothing else, and feared that any moment she might burst into a giggle.
This was hysteria.
Then, she saw a man’s foot, at the window.
She stopped shivering, the tendency to giggle vanished, and she stopped muttering: ‘We’re safe.’
It was a foot in a brown shoe. Someone was climbing down from the roof: she could make out the shape of his legs now, and she saw the other foot come to rest beside the first.
Was this—Craigie’s man?
There had been no reassuring cry, nothing to suggest that the man wanted to reassure her. She saw the window opening slowly, and caught a glimpse of a swarthy face, dark, glittering eyes—and she knew that this man did not come from Craigie, he came from the Isle of Canna.
‘Nigel!’ she screamed. ‘Nigel, hurry!’
The spider moved, suddenly, and it went towards the door, and then squatted there, as if it knew that it had trapped her. The man at the window was having some, trouble, obviously his hold was precarious; but if she climbed over the bath again, the creature which was leering at her might dart upon her.
‘Nigel!’ she screamed.
Murray heard her.
He had been standing among the spiders, kicking them aside, treading on them, trying desperately to clear a way to the door, and then making sure that no one could go into the bathroom. But as fast as he cleared some, others came back. They crawled over his boots and tried to climb up, but kept falling down. He didn’t stop moving, and he was close to the door, surrounded by them, when he heard a sound from outside the flat.
There were three men whom he didn’t know.
For a moment he feared that they were hostile, for he saw the squat, spray-shaped pistols in their hands, but they started to spray the floor; one of them told him to keep still, and as the pistols hissed and a little vapour cloud came out, the spiders began to turn over on their backs; he had seen locusts die like this, in a moment of time. The men were swinging their guns from side to side, and there was a sickly sweet smell; Murray didn’t know what it was, but that didn’t matter, for the creatures were dying in their do
zens, and some of them seemed to be scurrying away to get out of the range. But he could reach the door, and the dozens of the brutes which were crouching by it.
Then, Jane screamed.
One of Craigie’s men came closer, and squirted the poison along the bottom of the door, and the spiders tumbled over, one by one. Outside there was Loftus’s voice, raised as if angrily; or else desperately.
‘Nigel!’ Jane screamed.
He pushed the door open. He saw the window opening, and a man there with a gun. He fired from his pocket, as the man turned towards him, there was a sharp report and a burst of flame, and then the man toppled backwards off the window-ledge, and he disappeared; strangely, without a sound.
Jane was standing in the bath, looking almost as white as the porcelain itself. Juanita stood by her as if she could not raise her head.
‘All right, all right, Jane,’ Murray said thickly, and as he spoke Loftus came limping in. ‘All right, Jane—Juanita, it’s all right, it’s all right.’
But . . .
Was it all right, for her?
She took her hands from her face, and for a moment he wished that she had not, for there was terror in them— the kind of terror which she had known when she had seen a man shoot at her from the window of the cottage. It possessed her. It made her lips go stiff as they quivered, it made her whole body tremble, it made her eyes look as if the devil possessed them, and it drew a ravaging hand across her beauty.
Loftus stood by Murray’s side and said: ‘She’s got to talk; she’s got to tell us where Meya Kamil is.’
But—could she?
She looked as if shock had turned her mind.
Below, men of the Department bent over the body of the man who had been shot and had fallen to his death.
In his wallet were papers giving his name: Mikolas.
That was all.
23. The Raid
Craigie came into Jane Wyatt’s bedroom.
This was the first time that Murray had seen him out of his office. He looked brisk and alert, yet so tired that his eyes were glassy. Murray and Loftus were in the doorway, Jane was standing by the side of the bed, looking down. Juanita lay there, frail and white-faced, with her eyes closed; a sleeping beauty who looked as if she might soon be dead. Obviously shock and fear combined had driven her into a coma. She did not move, and did not seem to be breathing.
