The Black Spiders Read online

  He stood up.

  ‘If I go and make that coffee, will you be all right? I’ll only be a few minutes.’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Quite all right.’

  He thought she looked even younger, but that was partly because of her flushed cheeks, which made her complexion more like that of a child’s, a baby’s. It gave added brightness to her blue eyes, too. Now that her hair was fluffier, she was quite something to see.

  ‘Just call out if you want anything,’ he said, and smiled and turned away.

  The kitchen was on the other side of the tiny hall of the cottage. ‘Hall’ was really too dignified a term. The front door opened on to it, and to the right was the door of this room, to the left a door leading to the big kitchen and, beyond that, the scullery; immediately opposite the front door was the flight of narrow stairs which led to the two bedrooms. The cottage had recently been redecorated for use as a summer residence for the Abbotts, who owned it, and some time ago he had rented it for the winter, when the Abbotts were usually on tour abroad. One thought of them as the Abbotts, the most famous comedy team on the English stage.

  The cottage had also been wired for electricity, but the only running water was in the scullery, and there was no telephone. With the big house a mile in one direction and the village two miles or more in the other—due west, along the coast—it was as lonely a spot as one would find on the south coast of England.

  He stepped into the kitchen; he need only heat the coffee, stir in plenty of sugar, and then—

  He stopped thinking about that.

  He glanced out of the window, and caught sight of someone moving. He looked more closely. There was the back garden, the well was in sight, and the apple-tree with every branch bowed down with fruit and looking top heavy because most of the leaves were gone. For a moment nothing happened, but suddenly the movement was repeated.

  Two men moved from the cover of the hedge towards the side of the house, and Murray recognised one of them as the man whom he had caught, and who had escaped.

  So he had been wrong.

  Now his heart began to beat with a return of desperate fear.

  He saw other men, two of them near the well, carrying something on an old garden hurdle.

  It was the body of the little man whom Murray had shot. Nothing was covering the body, but the wound in his head was no longer crimson; it looked brown.

  Then the first two men appeared again, only to disappear from sight as they drew close to the wall of the house. He felt quite sure they were heading for the front door, intent on breaking in.

  ‘The ruddy nerve,’ he said aloud.

  His own words didn’t fool him, or hide the truth, that sight of these men and knowledge of their ruthlessness scared him.

  What would happen if they tried to get into the lounge, and the girl saw them?

  Murray moved swiftly into the other room, where the girl had her back to him. There was no immediate danger of the men getting in, and they couldn’t surprise him, for they would have to smash a window or break down a door. The mantelpiece clock said ten minutes past seven, so he had to keep them at bay for at least twenty minutes. But his mood had changed. He had a loaded gun, hadn’t he? He’d counted the bullets, and there were six in all. That ought to be enough to give him a chance.

  He saw a face at the window—the face of the man whom he had knocked out.

  It appeared there just for a moment, then the man dodged out of sight. Murray was in the doorway, and he didn’t think that he had been noticed. The girl probably hadn’t seen the man either; from where she was lying it would be difficult to see the window, and she didn’t appear to have turned her head.

  Then Murray saw the man again, with a gun levelled at the girl.

  Murray had his gun in his hand. Fear made his heart pound as he took aim, desperately frightened lest the man in the window got his shot in first. A split second could make the difference between life and death.

  Murray fired.

  His bullet shattered the window, and as it smashed, he flung himself into the room and to the girl’s side. Only one thing mattered: to drag her out of sight of the window and out of the range of the gunman. He saw the man dodge back. The hole that leapt into the glass was almost big enough to climb through, but great splinters stuck out from the side. He reached the couch, and saw the girl.

  She was staring at the window, transfixed with horror; as if everything that she had feared had happened and she knew that this time there could be no escape. She didn’t see Murray, who bent down and grabbed the couch and dragged it towards the wall—and the moment gave him desperate strength, for she was out of danger before he stopped, with one side of the couch close to the wall itself.

  He pressed tightly against the wall, so that he could not be seen, and edged towards the window. The man would probably try to get as near as he could, might take a chance and thrust his arm and head and shoulders through the window, and shoot at the girl from there.

  He didn’t.

  Murray saw something come through the hole in the window, curve through the air, and then drop on to the tiles round the fireplace. It shattered, like fragile glass, and a little wisp of vapour appeared, so tenuous that it was hard to realise that it might be deadly, that it was certainly intended to stop Murray from fighting back.

  4. The Gas

  Murray had so little time to think.

  Except for that half an hour after the girl had started to breathe again, he had not really had a moment’s peace since this had started. He felt exactly as he had when he’d been woken by the shot, and his heart hammered. The only difference was that now he knew what there was to fear.

  The man in the window, and the gas.

  He couldn’t be sure what the gas was, could only guess that it might be lethal. The little cloud still hovered over the shattered glass container, and he fancied that he could smell something faintly sharp and acid. If that gas spread he could be quite sure that he wouldn’t have a chance to help the girl, but it had fallen on the tiled hearth, very close to the fireplace itself; some of the grey vapour was curling towards the window, and some was being drawn up the chimney by the draught caused by the open door.

  Murray said: ‘Must cover it up.’

  The thought was no sooner in his mind than he acted, turning round, and pulled the top blanket off the girl. He knew exactly what risk he was taking as he took long strides towards the fireplace, with his back to the window. If the little man was waiting with his gun, this would be the end of his attempt to save the girl.

  He held the blanket out with both hands, and then threw himself forward. That might serve two purposes—evade a bullet, and enable him to hold the blanket at the right height to put over the fumes; he did not want to throw the blanket, or it might waft the fumes so that a dangerous quantity could escape.

  Almost gently, he placed the blanket over the fireplace, so that one side was on the floor, the hearth was covered, and the other side of the blanket nearly covered the chimney opening. Then he spun round. He couldn’t understand why he hadn’t been fired at. The broken window opened on to the trees and the garden, but no one was there, and no one appeared to be standing close to the wall just outside.

  What were they doing now?

  Then he heard a new sound, the engine of a car coming along the road.

  Who—

  The postman!

  He realised who it was almost as soon as he heard the engine. The man was early, not late; early. He always drove towards the cottage at sixty miles an hour, Murray knew, and pulled up just outside the little gate which opened on to a path leading to the front door. On two mornings Murray had been up to go and meet him.

  The van was slowing down.

  The men in the garden had turned from Murray to the newcomer; they would see their danger as quickly as Murray saw hope which could easily turn into disaster. He moved towards the door, and saw the girl staring at him with her eyes wide open, as if her terror was greater
than she had ever known. Her mouth was open, too, and he could just see her teeth. He doubted whether she really noticed him; she was just staring at the ceiling, holding her breath, too frightened even to breathe.

  ‘. . . be all right,’ Murray muttered.

  He reached the front door, and did not hesitate to open it, although he knew it could be fatal if he was wrong in believing that the men would keep to the side of the house —so that the postman would not see them until he was coming along the path. Obviously the van was going to stop here; in fact the engine cut out as Murray opened the front door.

  He thrust his gun forward.

  It was all right so far; no one was in sight, except the postman, who was already thrusting the door of the van open. He was a young, fair-haired, bright-eyed man, with a jaunty walk and lively wit and ready tongue, and obviously he was doing two things at once: selecting Murray’s letters, and opening the door of his van.

  He pushed the door wide open, and looked towards the cottage.

  Murray was already on the porch.

  The postman jumped down, and waved.

  ‘Get back in the van!’ Murray shouted, and he tried to make every word loud and clear. ‘Get back! Drive for help. I’m being attacked. Drive for help!’ he repeated desperately, as the postman stood there, listening and gaping, obviously quite unaware of his own danger. ‘Armed men; drive for help!’

  ‘Armed—’ the postman seemed to say, and then he must have realised exactly what Murray meant. Perhaps he also realised the significance of another car which was parked in the road; perhaps he saw one of the men crouching by the side of the house. Whatever the cause, he turned round as swiftly as a cat, and jumped towards his van.

  If he was fired at—

  He got in and slammed the door as a bullet struck the panel. The crack of sound from the side of the house was starkly clear. He seemed to start the engine and ease off the brake in the same instant, and the van began to move forward. Two more shots rang out, two bullets struck the van and gave off a hollow, booming note; then the van seemed to roar along the road.

  And the man who was shooting appeared at the corner of the cottage.

  Murray had expected him, and was waiting. He fired twice, then backed swiftly away. He heard what might have been a gasp, as if he’d hit the man. He slammed the door and put up the chain; at least the door was of solid oak, and it wouldn’t give way easily.

  But would the men stay? Would they make another effort to break in?

  He asked himself that as it dawned on him that one of them might have doubled back and shot the girl through the window. He had heard four shots, and only three had hit the side of the post-office van. The other might—

  He reached the lounge.

  She was still safe. Her face was buried in the pillow now, as if she was too frightened even to look at the window. He reached her, and pulled off several of the blankets, leaving just one round her, and nervously she peered up at him through her fingers.

  ‘Better go upstairs,’ he told her jerkily. ‘Postman’s gone for help; it won’t be long now.’ He didn’t know whether she had heard, and didn’t greatly care. He lifted her bodily, grunting with the effort, and then turned towards the door and the stairs. His ankle hurt more sharply, but still held him. He reached the foot of the stairs and went up steadily, reached his bedroom and went in. He kicked the door to, then put the girl on his bed, and went back and locked the door.

  ‘Oh, they haven’t a chance,’ he said, and he realised that sweat was pouring down his face, and that he was shivering again. ‘They just haven’t a chance; the police will be here in ten minutes or less. Don’t worry.’

  More likely it would be twenty before help came; allow five minutes for the postman to reach the village, five minutes or even ten to find the local policeman and probably other help, another five to get back. Yes, there were still twenty minutes to worry about; they certainly weren’t in the clear yet.

  But now that he and the girl were upsatirs, what could the men downstairs do? Toss more of that gas inside? He went and closed the window, and managed to grin at the girl as he passed her. Smoke them out? They seemed desperate enough to do even that, but he needn’t worry; even if they set fire to the place, the police and the postman would be here before they were driven out.

  He could take it easy.

  Two minutes later he heard the car engine start up, and believed that the men outside were leaving.

  They were.

  Murray stood by the window and watched them, three men in all, getting into the car, a big Austin, and he could even see the body of the man he had shot, huddled in a corner to make room for the others, in an oddly stiff position. Before the door closed, the car was moving off. He tried to make out the number, but it was covered with mud. He saw the Austin heading for the hill, and realised then that it must have coasted down, so that he had not heard it approach. It was going away from the village and in the direction of Cliff House.

  At least he needn’t fear that it would come back.

  He dabbed his forehead and his neck, and turned round towards the girl. The blanket fell loosely over her, but one bare leg poked out, slim and smooth; she had nice ankles and small, white feet. One arm was out of the blanket, too. Her hair, now nearly dry, was spread out over his pillow. He had dumped her down as if she had been a sack of potatoes, and she hadn’t moved.

  She didn’t move, simply looked up, her eyes asking the questions; but she was no longer so tense, something in his manner must have told her what the answer would be.

  ‘It’s all safe now,’ he said firmly. ‘They’ve really gone and you can be sure that they won’t come back this time. Don’t worry at all.’ He smiled down at her, and felt quite as cheerful as he sounded. ‘In ten minutes or so the police will be here, so there’s nothing to fear.’

  ‘There—there really isn’t,’ she said in a husky voice, and again she added: ‘Thank you.’ There was pathos in the way she said that, and there was something else which was much more puzzling. She didn’t behave as one might expect an English girl to behave: her words were too precise and she spoke too carefully.

  Give her a little make-up, and she would be really beautiful.

  He found himself with nothing to say, and with nothing to do. He felt limp and very tired as he sat on the foot of the bed and studied her. Odd situation. Both of them here, the vitality drained out of them, looking at each other without saying a word. There was nothing he wanted to say at the moment, except ask questions, and he made himself hold back; she had been through enough already, and there would be plenty of questions when the police arrived.

  They couldn’t be much longer.

  ‘Sure you won’t have that cigarette?’ he asked, and when she shook her head, he lit one for himself, and stood up, restlessly. He went to the window, turning his back on the girl, and looked out towards the sea. There it was in the distance, shimmering in the early morning sun. It was visible from here, but not from the ground-floor windows. Between the end of the garden and the top of the cliffs was meadow- land, and fringing the cliffs a stout fence, to make sure that cattle didn’t wander dangerously close to the cliff itself.

  In the distance were the rocks which stood out at Cliff Point, and on the point was Cliff House. The peacefulness of the scene, even to the cattle already browsing, made such a contrast with what had happened that Murray had found himself thinking of it almost as of a nightmare. But he had only to turn round and look at the girl to know how real it was.

  Real?

  There was a quality of unreality about her. It was not only that she looked so young and fresh, with her red. glowing cheeks and her blue eyes, but there was a simplicity which he didn’t quite understand—for instance, the way that ‘thank you’ always came out so oddly. He also remembered her fear even when she had been asleep, and how she had clung to the wall round the well, and what she must have felt when she had dropped down. There were the bruises round her arm to remember, too, and
suddenly thought of them made him angry. He turned round more quickly than he had before, and obviously startled her.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to make you jump. You are English, aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘I didn’t intend to worry you with questions,’ Murray went on, ‘but it’s just occurred to me that when the police come they’ll have to ask plenty. Would you care to tell me what it’s all about? Then I can tell them, and they needn’t worry you so much.’

  He waited, not very hopeful when she didn’t respond at once. But nor did she look away from him. He was surprised to know that she was English; that primness of speech would have been easier to understand had she been a Scandinavian—or anyone to whom English was not a native tongue.

  Then, she said quietly: ‘There is very little I can tell you. I have been living out of England for many years, with my relations.” She paused. ‘They have been very kind to me. A week ago my uncle sent me back to England. I do not really know why,’ she added, and frowned a little, as if she was trying to understand, ‘but my cousins told me that it would not be for long. I was to stay with an aunt of mine, in a part of London which I do not know very well. Is it Hamp- stead?’

  ‘It could be.’

  ‘I think it is called Hampstead. I took a taxi to Hampstead from the air terminal at Victoria, but when I arrived near the house strangers met me and I was compelled to enter another taxi with them. I believe that I was drugged,’ she added, and the way she said it made it sound like slapstick. ‘I am not sure, but I know that I slept very heavily. When I woke up, I was in another house, and these men asked me many questions.’

  She paused.

  ‘What about?’ Murray asked.

  ‘All of them the same question, perhaps in different ways,’ she told him. ‘They wished to know where my uncle was, and I could not tell them, because I did not know. Last night—’ She broke off, frowning, and looked at the daylight at the window and the brightness of the morning, and was quiet for what seemed a long time. Then she went on: ‘I think it was last night, but so much happened that I cannot be sure. I—I ran away. They had locked me in a room, but there was a small window, and I climbed out. They had taken my clothes, but ‘ She shrugged, as if that couldn’t matter less. ‘From the window I had seen this cottage, and I came here. When I was near, they reached me, and I tried to hide, inside the well.’