The Black Spiders Read online

  He took them, and reminded himself harshly what he had to do: find out exactly what this girl knew, find out if there was anything she could tell him that would help to trace Meya Kamil. Now, it seemed absurd to think that she was even associated with Canna, or the troubles, or the murder of men.

  ‘Hallo, Juanita,’ he said, and he hoped that he could get away with that. ‘It’s good to see you.’

  Standing close to him, she didn’t make any attempt to take her hands away.

  ‘Yes, good is the word,’ she said, ‘and—how do I even begin to say thank you?’

  ‘Oh, please! Forget . . .’

  ‘I have been told exactly what happened,’ she said, ‘and twice you saved my life. How on earth do you expect me to forget?’

  Her directness was almost naive.

  There was something else. She had made him forget, momentarily, that Harrison was still here, watching, and that her aunt was, too. Here was Juanita, and she was quite lovely, and capable of driving thought of everything else out of his mind.

  And yet—the rebel Cannans would kill if they could not capture her.

  She took her hands away, and asked:

  ‘Do you know how the other man is?’

  Oundle.

  ‘No,’ Murray lied, ‘I haven’t heard.’

  ‘You’ll tell me if there is any news, won’t you?’ asked Juanita, then turned towards the room from which she had come, and smiled at her aunt, who was already standing by the doorway. ‘Do come and meet my cousins.’

  Murray already knew the family set-up; it had been part of the briefing which he’d had from Craigie. Mrs. Lang was the sister-in-law of the Judge—Lang’s brother had married a woman much younger then himself. There were Juanita’s two cousins here, as well as her brother, Charles.

  The cousins were boy and girl who probably believed that because they were in early twenties they should be regarded with some importance, and the brother was probably ten years older than Juanita.

  She had taken after her father, but Charles Lang was sallow, almost swarthy-skinned. It would be easy to believe that he was wholly Cannan—as easy to see that he was the nephew of Meya Kamil. The likeness was startling, except in one respect—in size. The Good Man of Canna was short and small, but this was a tall, oddly, arrogant looking man, with his Roman nose and his dark, almost fiery eyes.

  And it was obvious that he had little time for Juanita’s new friend.

  The atmosphere was stiff and formal, and Murray didn’t like it. The trouble probably started from the aunt, who had undoubtedly given her own children a set of false values. Here was artiness and a veneer of culture which affected a conscious superiority, and it particularly affected their voices. They were twins; and Murray would have enjoyed seeing them get a sharp rebuff. They neither liked nor disliked him, they were simply indifferent, present here obviously out of a sense of duty, because this was the man who had saved their cousin’s life.

  Charles Lang was very different.

  He said little, but what few words he uttered were courteous and to the point. He was an Asian as they were European, and there was no doubt that a sense of duty dictated his behaviour, too.

  Murray wondered if Juanita was aware of all this.

  Then one after the other the relations excused themselves, and he was alone with Juanita.

  It would not have surprised him had she talked about her cousins or about Charles, but she stood by a window overlooking a wide lawn in perfect condition, with a herbaceous border at each of three sides, tidied for the winter, but with a few chrysanthemums giving it a spark of colour. There was a brick wall, and the gnarled trunks of two vines winding their way about it. In the background were trees, and in the distance the roof of another house. He could see a man working at the window of that house, and had no doubt that this was another of Craigie’s agents, keeping watch.

  Then: ‘Have you heard about the troubles in Canna?’ Juanita asked quietly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you know of it yesterday?’

  He looked surprised. ‘Not until I’d come to London.’

  ‘You knew nothing?’

  ‘What makes you think I did?’

  ‘I suppose I am just wondering,’ said Juanita slowly, ‘but you behaved almost as if you were prepared.’ When she smiled, she looked more beautiful than ever. ‘Oh, it is only Charles; he is always suspicious.’

  ‘What about, this time?’ asked Murray.

  Now, her eyes began to laugh at him, as they had once or twice yesterday morning.

  ‘Well, perhaps I talked too much about you,’ she said. ‘Charles is rather old-fashioned about women, in the Eastern fashion. But it really doesn’t matter.’ She sat on a window-seat, and patted the place by her side. ‘How are you, Nigel?’ She pointed to his hand, and he wondered who had told her his name. ‘Is that a bad burn?’

  ‘Only a trifle, and I’m fine,’ he assured her. ‘I wanted to come yesterday, but you were too well guarded.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Juanita. ‘There is some fear that because I might be able to give information about my uncle. I am in danger. It’s nonsense, of course. I know nothing. But —did you know about this protection for me?’

  ‘The police hinted at it. They said they had to make sure you were properly looked after.’

  ‘The police,’ Juanita echoed. ‘Of course, that is who they are—plain-clothes policemen! Eric and Muriel seem to think that is all a lot of fuss about nothing, but Charles is very worried.’

  ‘So am I,’ said Murray.

  She looked out of the window, her head raised a little so that he could see her profile at its best. She was beautiful whichever way one looked at her, and her beauty hurt him. It was almost impossible to believe that he had pulled her up from that well, a rung at a time, and that he had worked himself to a standstill in bringing her round.

  ‘Nigel,’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If the police really think I am in danger, what are they doing about it?’

  ‘The house is closely guarded.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Juanita, and there was a look almost of scorn in her eyes as she turned to him. ‘It could not be guarded any better than the cottage, could it? Before I went to sleep, I saw all the soldiers about everywhere, I told myself that there could not possibly be any more danger, but— look what happened. And there is that comical man here, Harrison. Does he really think that everyone is stupid? He might fool my Aunt Phoebe by talking of a Canna spider so lightly, but no one who had ever lived on Canna would be deceived.’

  Murray said: ‘So you heard that.’

  ‘Of course, and saw it in his handkerchief. The door was ajar.’ She drew her legs up under her and sat back with one arm against the window-ledge; she could not even begin to know how wonderful she looked, in that pose. ‘Charles says that there’s only one way to save my life.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By taking me away to some place where I can’t be found.’

  Murray said: ‘That might not be so easy as it sounds.’

  ‘I could leave the country,’ Juanita said, and suddenly she moved, and put a hand over Murray’s. ‘Nigel, what do you honestly believe? Am I safe here?’ When he didn’t answer at once, she went on: ‘I don’t want to die, you know.’

  She didn’t want to die.

  Murray looked at her steadily, and was smiling a little, but there was no humour in the smile; it was drawn out of his admiration for her, and he was thinking of her spirit now, not her beauty or her body.

  ‘I do not want to die.’

  She had everything that life could possibly offer, and yet was as close to death as if it was standing at her side.

  She was the bait for the plotters of Canna, too.

  ‘What are you thinking? ‘she asked abruptly.

  ‘I was trying not to think,’ Murray told her; ‘I don’t like thinking of the danger.’ He felt the pressure of her hands; she had placed them both in his again,
as if asking him to protect her. ‘Juanita, did you expect outbreaks of trouble in Canna?’

  ‘In a way.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘My uncle told me that there were people on the island trying to make difficulties.’

  ‘Did he name any of them?’

  ‘No, he did not.’

  ‘Did he say what kind of trouble he expected?’

  She said slowly and hesitantly: ‘No, but I am sure that he was gravely worried. Once or twice I asked him what was on his mind, and he told me that it was nothing with which I could help, and asked me not to speak of it to anyone else. But for the—the emergency,’ she went on,’ I would not have talked even to you about it.’

  ‘Didn’t he give you any hint?’

  ‘No,’ she said, and withdrew her hands. After a long pause, she went on: ‘Why are you asking all these questions? They are practically the same questions that two other men have asked me.’

  Murray said grimly: ‘I suppose they are.’

  . . .He stood up suddenly, because he could not withstand the searching candour of her eyes. He turned his head as he moved—and but for that he would probably not have noticed the movement at the door. It was almost imperceptible, and he saw it because the bright morning glinted on a polished handle. He stared at the door, and then glanced at Juanita.

  Her colour was heightened, and proved him wrong in one respect; she could become lovelier. She moved off the window-seat and went across the room, reaching the door with hardly a sound. Then she pulled the door open.

  A man exclaimed.

  She said quietly: ‘Charles, why are you listening?’

  Although he moved towards her, Murray could not see her brother. He heard a sound of movement, in spite of the carpet. The girl stood frowning and looking into the hall, but as Murray drew level with her, her brother disappeared up the stairs; all he saw was the ends of his trousers and his brightly polished brown shoes.

  Juanita turned round slowly, and closed the door. ‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘He seems as if he is afraid of everyone and everything. I have never known him like this.’

  ‘Would he know where his uncle is?’ Murray asked quietly.

  She hesitated, looking at him with that searching candour, and then went to the window. Was she offended? Did she suspect more than she had said—or had he made it too obvious that he hadn’t questioned her spontaneously? This wasn’t his kind of job, he told himself angrily; action in a crisis was one thing, handling a girl like this was another; and he wasn’t natural with this girl, she affected him as no one else he had ever known.

  That was sober fact.

  But Craigie . . .

  There was one thing which Craigie had said, and which he hadn’t thought much about. That there were times when no set of rules, no briefing, no guidance, could be of any use, when an agent had to make his own decision, and act upon it quickly. And only the agent could judge the moment, only the agent could make the decision. It was part of the responsibility. It had seemed like almost platitudinous guidance at the time, but there was nothing platitudinous about it now.

  Juanita turned to face him.

  ‘Charles told me not to trust you,’ she said abruptly. ‘He told me that you were the Nigel Murray, of the Post-Dispatch, and that you would do anything for a story.’

  That came out flatly.

  Murray took out his cigarette case and opened it, almost without thinking. He found himself smiling. He found himself wanting to step forward and take her in his arms and kiss her—and it was no use telling himself that it put him next door to a lunatic. He’d known her for a few hours, and . . .

  Forget it.

  The cigarette gave him something to do with his hands.

  He could see that she was disappointed that he hadn’t denied the story, could see that she was already half persuaded that Charles Lang was right. Later he could worry about what prompted her brother to suggest this, even how Lang had been so quick to discover that he was Murray of the Post-Dispatch; but just now that wasn’t important. Only one thing was, and it mattered much to Department Z and to this investigation, this fight against the threatened disaster; it was vital that she should not be hostile, that she should co-operate in every way she could.

  Juanita began to turn away; she looked hurt, as a child might at some great disappointment.

  ‘Your brother was only partly right,’ Murray said quietly. ‘He didn’t know—he couldn’t know—that I left the Post-Dispatch last week. I was at the cottage trying to get myself back on an even keel—I’d been with the newspaper for over fifteen years. I had no idea of what might happen at the cottage, I’d never heard of you, I knew about Canna in the way that every experienced newspaperman knows about most places. I’d been there twice, never for more than a few days. But after that. . .’

  He broke off.

  Eagerness came back into her eyes.

  ‘Afterwards,’ repeated Murray quietly, ‘I was asked to help, because of the situation in Canna. It’s ugly and it’s dangerous. You’ve heard enough about it to know that, but you don’t know everything. The police are trying to find out who is stirring up the trouble, but they’ve no idea at all. They must find out, before it grows too big and gets completely out of control. And I was asked to help them to find out.’

  ‘How?’ asked Juanita quickly. ‘If I knew anything I would tell you. I don’t, Nigel.’

  ‘The police think you do,’ Murray told her quietly. ‘They think there will be other attempts to kill or to kidnap you. They haven’t managed to capture anyone on the revolutionary side who knows anything. Do you know of a man named Mikolas?’

  ‘I know a dozen, a hundred,’ she said; ‘it is as common in Canna as Smith is here.’

  ‘A politician named Mikolas who comes from Cairo?’

  ‘No, not a politician,’ she said, and persuaded him that was the truth.

  ‘Well, the police have no idea who the revolutionaries in England are, but if you are attacked again they think they can capture at least one of the assailants,’ he told her. ‘From there they might be able to get at the others.’

  Would Craigie agree that he was doing the right thing? Would Loftus? Never mind what they thought; had he really been wise? He’d told her plainly that she was a bait, and felt quite sure that she would be quick to see all its implications.

  She dropped on to the window-seat again. Murray stopped playing with the cigarette, seeing that he had rolled it round and round so much that the tobacco had spilled out at each end. He put it into an ashtray and took another cigarette and lit it, letting the flame of his lighter burn for a moment before putting it out.

  ‘Did you come to tell me this?’ Juanita asked quietly.

  ‘I was asked to find out everything I could from you, and to get your help,’ Murray told her, ‘and was told that I could do whatever I thought best. I think this is the best way—for you to know what is needed so desperately, and to know how you can help.’

  There was a long pause. Then:

  ‘What I told you was true, Nigel,’ Juanita said. She was paler now, and there was a different kind of brilliance in her eyes; he had seen something like it when she had realised that cottage was being attacked. ‘Do you—do you really think it can help, if—if I am attacked again?’

  ‘Yes,’ Murray said.

  She gave an involuntary little shiver.

  He moved towards her and slid his arm round her shoulders, and quite suddenly she moved round, and pressed closely to him, her cheek against his breast, her fingers very tight about him. He held her firmly, and felt her shivering, and wondered if there was any real point in frightening her like this.

  She looked up.

  She had been crying, although he had not realised it. She seemed to be searching for some message in his eyes, and when he didn’t speak, she asked him huskily:

  ‘Is the trouble on Canna really so serious?’

  ‘Nine people have died already,’ Murray said, ‘and if there
is a general uprising, women and children will probably suffer badly, and the island—Juanita, you don’t need telling what can happen. It could be disastrous to Canna itself, apart from its effect on us in England and on Western defence.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said slowly. I can see that. Yes.’ She freed herself, and this time she seemed to become remote, as if she was seeing things which he could not see or even imagine. ‘Yes,’ she repeated, ‘of course I will help in any way I can, but I do not know where my uncle is.’

  At last he could question her freely now.

  And he could wonder why her brother had tried to eavesdrop, too.

  15. Man from the Island

  Murray walked up the stone steps which led to the door of the Department Z office. This was the first time he had come here unescorted. Behind him was the picture of Juanita and the echo of her voice, and closer at hand, the sight of the men in the street, watching the little doorway which it was so easy to pass. The staircase struck cold, but that might be partly because he was suffering a sharp reaction from his mood of the morning. He could almost hear Juanita saying:

  ‘I do not want to die.’

  And he had been a party to taking desperate risks with her.

  He stood at the first main landing, and ran his fingers under the hand-rail. He felt what seemed like a little crack in the wood, and pressed the nail of his forefinger into it. Immediately he heard a faint sigh of sound, and after a moment the wall slid back. It was better concealed than he had expected; he would not have dreamt that there was a door there had he not known.

  It closed behind him, and he was trapped in the wall; but then the other door began to open.

  Craigie was at a desk, and the armchairs were empty. Loftus wasn’t here, but a fat man whom Murray hadn’t seen before was pacing up and down. The opening of the door obviously interrupted what he was saying, and he brought a clenched fist down into an open palm.

  ‘ . . . hideous,’ he said, ‘I tell you . . .’

  He stopped at a sign from Craigie, and looked round. Clearly, he was exasperated by the interruption.

  Murray stepped into the room, quickly feeling the glow of the fire, which was much brighter than it had been yesterday. The door closed behind him. Craigie said: ‘Hallo, Nigel,’ and the other man glared, as if wishing him a long way on the other side of the door.