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, vigorously. 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.

‘What else?’ he insisted, more softly. ‘Hurry.’

Murray said, as if he had to force every word out: ‘I am to get in touch with all the newspapers, and find out if any of them have information which would help Craigie.’

Quick as a flash came the next question: ‘Help him with what?’

‘Finding out—who is behind this.’

‘Is that exactly what you mean?’

‘What else could he want?’ asked Murray roughly, and managed not to look down again, although the little man glanced at the floor just by his side, as if he had seen a scuttling movement. ‘He knew there was disaffection, he doesn’t know who was behind it, and newspaper correspondents often pick up information which don’t reach official channels.’

‘I think I understand you,’ the Cannan said, as if he was convinced at last. He lowered the gun a trifle, as if the pressure were off, and then went on in a flat voice: ‘Understand this, Murray. From time to time we shall ask you questions, and you will always answer us truthfully, for there are more painful things than the bite of a spider.’

Murray said: ‘How can we get rid of the damned things?’

‘Never mind that yet,’ said the little man. ‘I have other questions for you. First—where is Juanita Lang?’

‘I don’t know,’ Murray said sharply.

‘You expect me to believe that?’ the Cannan sneered. ‘Don’t take me for a fool, my friend; we shall get the girl soon, she cannot keep away from us for long. Tell me now, and it will save you from much pain and trouble. Also—it may be possible for you to help her.’’

He was watching narrowly, as if to find out whether that mattered to Murray.

Murray said: ‘A lot you care about that.’

‘Oh, yes,’ the little man told him, ‘we care about her. All that has happened is Craigie’s fault. We wanted only to question her and find out where her uncle is—but after you and Craigie’s man rescued her, it seemed better to kill her and make sure she didn’t tell you anything. We would still rather see her dead than in Craigie’s hands; but if we can get her back we shall not hurt her, Murray, we shall only make her tell us what we want to know,’ the man declared. He paused and then went on again, speaking softly and insidiously: ‘You are not a wealthy man, are you? Our leader Mikolas will pay you very handsomely for help in finding Juanita Lang—and she will not be hurt.’

So this was the trump card.

Murray couldn’t make up his mind whether it was better to let the man think he might accept a bribe, or to reject the offer out of hand.

‘Murray, let me tell you . . .’ the man began; but then he stopped abruptly.

Murray had heard nothing, but obviously the little man had. He shot a glance over his shoulder, and in that moment he gave Murray his first ghost of a chance to act. Murray grabbed it. He moved swiftly, swinging out his right arm to knock the gas-gun aside. He saw the man turn round. He saw a spider, close to them. He heard a little hissing sound, as if the trigger had been pressed, but it was only momentary. He swung his left arm and caught the little man on the side of the jaw. He felt the impact of the blow, jarring his arm, and saw the man go flying towards the couch.

The gas-gun dropped.

He saw the man fall, and then saw not one but two spiders, on his face.

The man from the Isle of Canna screamed; and went on screaming.

 

As the screams came, the front door of the opposite flat opened, and a man Murray had never seen before ran in, with Jane Wyatt just behind him.

 

Murray had known things happen quickly, but never more quickly than now.

The stranger saw what had happened, said: ‘Jane, get a razor or a sharp knife, quickly,’ and while speaking bent down and grabbed the Cannan’s wrists and began to drag him towards the landing door. The spiders were out of sight now. Murray was moving towards the door quickly, scanning the floor, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

Jane Wyatt came back, with a razor blade in her hand. She looked scared, all the serenity had gone.

The man said over his shoulder: ‘Doctor, now.’

‘I’ll telephone,’ Jane Wyatt said.

Murray scanned the floor again, but saw none of the spiders; the noise and the movement had scared them. The other man dragged the screaming Cannan on to the landing, and Murray slammed the door, to shut the brutes in. No one downstairs appeared to take any notice, but the door of the flat opposite was wide open, and Murray heard the woman’s voice, then the ting of a telephone being replaced.

The Cannan was struggling and kicking out wildly and beating the stone floor with his clenched fists. There were red patches on his face.

‘He’ll be lucky if he lives,’ said the stranger, and pushed the long hair back from his forehead. ‘You have the luck too, don’t you, Murray? I’m Mick Harrison—Craigie told you you’d be hearing from me.’

‘Oh. Yes.’

‘And you’re getting it rough,’ Harrison went on, but he didn’t seem to be thinking of Murray, for suddenly he bent down and cracked his fist against the screaming man’s jaw. He hit the right spot; the screaming stopped at once, and the man went limp. ‘If I hadn’t heard half of what he said to you, I’d say poor devil,’ Harrison went on, ‘but if ever a man asked for trouble, he did. What swine they are!’ He used the razor skilfully, cutting across the bites, and blood welled up. He squeezed the swelling cheeks, to quicken the flow.

‘Go and get a towel, will you—and a sponge? That’s Jane’s flat,’ Harrison added. ‘We discovered that one of these gentry was looking about this morning, and we were on the qui vive. Wanted to let them ask their questions and hope they gave something away, before we interrupted— didn’t bargain for the spiders, though.’

Harrison paused, and then went on jerkily:

‘Heard you come. Knew things were likely to move soon. Then he came, and you . . .’ He broke off.

He was a chunky man, with a broad face and a square chin, and he looked very strong, and now faintly amused.

‘Craigie always did say that some men were born for this game,’ he went on. ‘You must be one, you know the tricks instinctively.’

Jane Wyatt came out, with a bowl of water and a towel.

‘So does she,’ Harrison said. ‘Don’t you touch him, Murray; you’ve got those skin burns. If we could save his life we might make him talk.’

There was a sound downstairs, and a youngish man carrying a black bag came hurrying up; see a man with a black bag and say ‘Doctor’. This one reached the prostrate Cannan as Harrison told him what had happened, and he pulled a face.

‘Yes, Jane told me a bit. I’ll do what I can, and the ambulance is on the way,’ he went on, and then looked up at Murray. ‘New chum?’

‘Nigel Murray, Reggie Smith,’ said Harrison. He grinned. ‘Believe it or not, it’s a real name! We’ll leave this chap to you, Reggie; I don’t need to say that it would be a good thing if you could bring him round enough to talk. After that, the devil can have him for his own. Now I’d better get a spider exterminator squad,’ Harrison went on, and took Murray’s arm, but he espied the gas-pistol and sniffed it cautiously. ‘Don’t recognise it,’ he said; ‘better not use it. Just squeezed the trigger before you clouted him, didn’t he?’

‘I heard a hiss.’

‘Couldn’t have released much,’ Harrison said. ‘Well, let’s see how Jane’s getting on,’ he said. ‘Did I tell you that you were a lucky man?’

‘Er—yes,’ said Murray. He wished he could shake off the feeling, almost of numbness, that had set in since he had come out of the flat. He couldn’t. He knew that Harrison was aware of it, and suspected that the other man wasn’t surprised. ‘Yes, you did.’

‘I only told you half the reason; the better half is to come.’ they stepped inside the other flat, which seemed to be identical with the one across the landing. ‘You have made a hit with our Jane.’

‘Eh?’

‘Wake up. Our Jane. The one and only Jane, bless her dear heart. She said she didn’t think she’d ever met anyone with quite the same brand of apology for courage.’

‘Oh, nonsense!’

‘I believe you, but our Jane doesn’t,’ said Harrison.

Jane Wyatt appeared at the door of the kitchen. Her hair was a little fluffy, and her face slightly flushed, as if she had been bending over something hot. She wore a plastic apron over her yellow blouse and the same skirt that she had been wearing at the cottage. The serenity was back.

‘Stop talking nonsense, Mick,’ she said; ‘go and telephone, then mix Nigel a drink. Lunch will be ready in ten minutes.’

Harrison sniffed.

‘What’s cooking?’

Jane laughed. ‘You’re a complete fool! It’s nothing much, anyhow; I’m heating up lamb stew, with some frozen peas and canned potatoes.’

‘What life does to a woman in these sad days,’ Harrison said, as if glumly, and led Murray into the living-room. ‘Care to wash and brush up while I phone for the spider squashers and mix the drink? What’s it to be, by the way?’

‘Is there beer?’

‘I never mix beer.’

‘Is there?’

‘Abstemious Algy, are you? But I expect you’re wise,’ said Harrison. ‘Yes, there’s beer. Don’t be long, you may not have seen it in her eye, but Jane’s reputation for lamb stew is world-wide. She must have learned the know-how from the Arabs.’ He showed Murray into the bathroom, and then turned round, and Murray stood for a moment at the hand-basin, looking at himself in the mirror.

He was very pale, and it must be quite obvious to anyone that he hadn’t really recovered. It was more than obvious to him; if he heard a sudden noise, he believed he would jump a yard. He began to wash, and the cold water stung and refreshed him, but he didn’t hurry. He felt that he wanted to be right on top of himself before he joined the others, and he knew that it wouldn’t be easy to fool Jane Wyatt. She had a way of looking into a man as if she could read his thoughts and could sense his feelings.

Could she?

If she sensed them now, she would know that he was more frightened than he had ever been in his life. It might be the cumulative effect of shock; he would probably have been all right if he’d had a day or so to recover from what had happened at the cottage, but—the fear was in him. Even as he stared at his own pale reflection, he was seeing other things in his mind’s eye. Juanita, clinging to the side of the well; Juanita, in the water, her hair floating, and everything so silent and Juanita, lying on the divan and looking dead. Young Lieutenant Soames, mother’s pride and England’s pride brisk and efficient—and dead with the top of his head blown off. Oundle, so bright, with those big eyes and that lively manner—and Oundle, who might not live and certainly would be a hideous sight for the rest of his life, even if he survived.

The man at the corner, too.

Now, this.

Murray heard a radio voice, as he dried his hands and then went into the other room. A table was laid in the window, for three, two vegetable dishes were on it, with steam escaping round the lids. Harrison, with a small glass in his hand, was listening to the radio voice, heels together, eyes narrowed as he looked at the ceiling.

Jane came from behind Murray.

‘Mind out of the way,’ she said, and Murray moved quickly to let her pass him, carrying a huge dish of lamb stew, with carrots and onions and dumplings, clouds of steam rising, and the smell enough to make his mouth water.

‘. . . According to messages which have just reached London from the Island of Canna’ came the radio voice, ‘Rumours that the Governor of the Colony, Sir Meya Kamil, has been removed from office are causing grave disturbances, among many villagers, students, and other groups. A Colonial Office spokesman denies . . .’

Jane Wyatt, who had stopped quite still, moved slowly towards the table and put the dish down.

‘If we don’t find Meya Kamil soon,’ she said, ‘I wouldn’t like to say what’s going to happen to that island.’ She paused. ‘But it won’t help things if we starve ourselves; pull up your chairs.’