16. The Bait

It was half an hour before the office was back to normal; or nearly normal. There was still a bloodstain, turning brown now, where the blood had dropped from Rondo’s finger, after Craigie had cut open the spot where the spider had bitten the man, and squeezed the poison out. Rondo had lost consciousness within five minutes, and in spite of the speed with which Craigie and Murray had worked, his finger had swollen to twice its normal size before the doctor had arrived—a different man from the one whom Murray had seen the previous day.

After first aid, Rondo had been carried out, to an ambulance. There was no certainty that he would ever regain consciousness. The spider, crushed with a heavy book, had been preserved so that it could be dissected, and any poison remaining extracted and analysed.

Now, Craigie was standing with his back to the fireplace, looking only slightly harassed and careworn, but nowhere near panic.

‘You were saying that you told Juanita Lang . . .’ he reminded Murray.

Murray was pulling hard at a cigarette.

‘I hope you’ll agree that it was the best thing to do,’ he said. ‘I told her that we could hide her away so that she couldn’t be found or put in danger, but that if she was attacked while at Hampstead—or anywhere else for that matter—we’d probably be able to catch her assailant, and we desperately needed a prisoner.’

‘How did she take it?’

Murray drew harder at the cigarette. He couldn’t turn away from Craigie, whose grey eyes seemed to compel him to look into them; but he took his time answering, because he wanted to make sure that he said exactly the right thing.

At last he tossed the cigarette into the fire, and said:

‘I think you would say that she took it well. She was frightened, badly frightened. She doesn’t relish the idea at all, and knows that it’s a big risk that might prove fatal. But I think she thought it out before promising that she’d help. Probably a sense of duty plus a kind of compulsion— in fact I should say that as Juanita Lang she rebelled against the very idea, she thought she’d had enough, but as the niece of Meya Kamil, she decided that she must go through with it. And I think she will,’ Murray added with quiet deliberation. ‘But she still maintains that she had no idea where her uncle is. She knew he was worried, she knew that he’d made secret plans for her to leave, but no one else knew, or so Meya Kamil thought. The rebels found out, of course. Then she says he went to his room one night, just to pray—and she didn’t see him again. He’d made her promise to go to the airport at a certain day and time, and she went.’

Murray paused.

‘That squares with Rondo’s report,’ Craigie said. ‘Meya Kamil walked out of his home and vanished. Two of our men were watching, but he shook them off. The town near his home is a rabbit warren, and it was easy.’

‘You mean, he meant to go?’

‘Rondo thought so, but we don’t know,’ said Craigie. ‘Well now—you were quite right to say what you did to Juanita,’ he went on, as if that hardly needed saying. ‘What else?’

Murray told him about the English twin cousins, and about Charles Lang. He spent much more time talking about Lang than about the twins or Juanita’s aunt. He could still picture the handsome, arrogant face of Meya Kamil’s nephew, in striking contrast to the gentle face of the man in the photograph on Craigie’s desk.

‘I think that’s the lot,’ he went on.

‘Is it?’ asked Craigie quietly.

‘Yes, I think so. The thing that shook me most, apart from what I had to say to the girl, was that spider. The thing came from the outside, almost as if it knew where to go.’

‘It probably did,’ said Craigie dryly, ‘there was honey on the carpet of the hall, or on the door where the creature stopped—I’ve had a report from Harrison, from the house. The spiders can smell honey a long way off. There was a little on the doorstep and more in the hall; there’s no doubt what drew it in.’

‘How did the honey get there?’ Murray asked abruptly.

‘It could have been in the garden for days,’ said Craigie, ‘or it could have dropped out of a passing car, and been carried in by someone who trod on it. The house and the grounds are being searched in case there are more spiders.’

‘Well, you certainly don’t miss much,’ Murray said, ‘but . . .’

‘Nigel,’ Craigie interrupted, ‘there’s something you haven’t told me.’

Murray considered. Then: ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Sure?’ asked Craigie.

His gaze was very direct, and more than ever Murray had a sense of being in the presence of greatness. He did not think that he would ever be able to understand it, but it was as if the Chief of Department Z was probing into his inner consciousness, willing him to speak of something which he could not even recall. Had he forgotten anything? He stood there, half frowning, and then Craigie went on with a twist of his full lips:

‘How do you feel about the girl?’

Murray said heavily: ‘Oh. I see. I hadn’t realised . . .’

‘I know,’ said Craigie. ‘Personal feelings wouldn’t normally be in a report, but they could make a vital difference.’

‘I suppose so,’ Murray agreed, and found it surprisingly easy to talk; it was almost as if this had been on his mind, and he was anxious to talk about it, and so get it off. ‘I think I can say I’ve never felt quite the same about anyone, at any time. She—well, I suppose it’s a kind of infatuation. If she was anything other than a young girl, I’d say she was femme fatale, but with Juanita, that’s . . .’ He paused, seeking the right word.

Craigie said: ‘Unthinkable?’

Murray didn’t answer.

He couldn’t explain the attraction which the girl had for him, simply had to accept the fact that it was there. It had been, almost from the beginning. He could not get her, or her danger, out of his mind. He was desperately anxious that she should not die, as anxious that she should not suffer, and as he tried to examine his thoughts and his feelings, he knew that she was in some ways more important than anything he had yet heard about.

Then, he could picture that open classroom, the laughing

Children . . . ‘I suppose you mean, if I’m with her and we’re attacked, would I go for the assailant first, or would I concentrate on saving her?’

‘That’s what I mean,’ agreed Craigie.

Murray found himself lighting another cigarette. He didn’t answer for some time, because it was absolutely essential to tell Craigie what he really felt, not what he would like to feel. It would be easy to take the heroic mood: ‘Oh, I would go for the assailant.’ But would he? Face it in cold blood: when the moment of crisis came and he had the choice between saving Juanita Lang or catching her assailant, what would he do?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said abruptly. ‘I’d rather not have to put it to the test.’

‘Fair enough,’ Craigie said. There seemed much more in the two words than that; he seemed to be saying that he asked nothing more of Murray but this searching honesty. ‘I’ll try to make sure you’re not put to it. But Juanita Lang is much more likely to talk to you than to anyone else. What we have to know,’ went on Craigie, going up and down on his toes as he roasted his back at the fire, ‘is every trifling thing she can possibly tell us. Every minute detail. There isn’t a better man than you to find out. Get her talking. Remember it doesn’t matter how far she goes back. Find out her opinion of Meya Kamil himself, of his relations—her own brother, for instance. It’s almost a case for psychiatry, but she wouldn’t be likely to respond to the ordinary consultant. So get her talking, and lead her up to the events of the last few weeks as soon as you can. Just how her uncle behaved, why she believed that he was in danger, whom did he see recently, were there any strangers, were there any letters—and don’t worry whether what you learn seems relevant. Over there’—Craigie pointed to one of the cabinets near his desk—’we have several hundred reports from agents on Canna and the nearer places in the Middle East. I’ve studied them all, and they’re indexed so that I can turn one up in a moment or two. You might be able to pass on some trifle of information from Juanita Lang which seems irrelevant to you, but when I get it, might tie in with something you don’t know about. In that way you could help us to get a clearer picture, perhaps the answer we need.’

‘I’ll do what I can,’ Murray promised.

‘I know you will,’ Craigie said, ‘and you know how desperately urgent it is.’

Murray nodded, abruptly.

‘Good,’ said Craigie, and then went out briskly, as if something that had happened in the past hour or two had taken away much of his fatigue, ‘and I think you’ll have to make sure that Juanita appreciates the urgency, too. I’d heard about the school outrage by radio, some time before Rondo arrived. The film taken by a news unit which was touring Canna is being flown here, and I hope to have copies this evening. Juanita had better see one projected.’

Murray said: ‘Yes, all right.’

‘I should go and see her again in the middle of the afternoon,’ Craigie said. ‘There’s a family conference of some kind going on. Charles Lang is probably arguing that she must be sent away, out of all possible danger.’

‘What would happen if he persuaded her to go?’

Craigie said simply: ‘We’d have to stop her. We don’t want to, mind you, and when you’ve talked to her again. . .’

‘I can’t promise to make a girl stay in a place where she will probably be murdered,’ Murray said roughly. ‘I can try, but. . .’

He broke off.

Something happened which he hadn’t seen before. A green light flashed in the carved surround of the mantelpiece. The light was about the size of a sixpenny piece, and it winked on and off half-a-dozen times. Craigie noticed it, probably because there was a faint buzzing sound all the time that it was flashing. Then it went out, and the spot where it had been seemed just like part of the carving on the mantelpiece.

‘That’s Loftus,’ Craigie said. ‘He’s been checking on a few things about Cannan people in England, particularly on the group who were at Cliff House. We found another place where they’d been, near Weymouth—that’s where the Spitfire came from. But they’d all disappeared. Do you know how long they’d been in Cliff House?’

‘Only a week or two,’ Murray answered. ‘The Abbotts were there during the summer, they were resting after their long tour, and I gather that they left at the end of September. They put it in the hands of an agent to try and let it furnished for the winter, and he let it for three months. I’d already leased the cottage, which once seemed my good luck.’

‘And was ours,’ Craigie said mildly.

By then, the door in the wall was sliding open, and Loftus was stepping through.

He was so large that when the door was opened at its widest, he had to turn sideways, they had had a lot of trouble getting Rondo out of the office to the ambulance. But it wasn’t Loftus’s size, or his rumpled clothes with the cigarette ash smeared everywhere, or his ruffled hair which caught and held Murray’s attention. It was the sombre look in his eyes, and the way his face was set.

The door slid to behind him.

He looked at Craigie, and seemed not to have noticed Murray, which in itself was strange. Murray felt as if he were stifling. He sensed that something as bad as that which Rondo had reported was coming; he seemed hardly to have time to breathe, things piled up so quickly. If this was the speed with which things were happening on the Island of Canna then the chance of saving the situation seemed to get more remote every hour.

Then, Loftus said:

‘Ned’s dead.’

Ned?

‘Oh,’ said Craigie, and seemed to flinch.

Murray studied them, first Loftus, then Craigie.

When Craigie had heard of the attack on the children, he had not looked anything like so shaken as he did now. Loftus had lost all his colour, and there was a glitter in his eyes which Murray hadn’t seen before; a murderous look. They were utterly still for what seemed an age.

Ned?

Oundle, of course. Ned Oundle!

Murray’s thoughts flashed back to the cottage, the Spitfire, the falling ‘ball’—and to Oundle exposing himself to the flames so that he could protect the girl. He had not paused or hesitated for a moment, it had not even occurred to him to try to save himself at the cost of her life; and he could have done so easily.

Then Loftus said abruptly:

‘Sorry, Nigel. Ned Oundle’s been with the Department for over twenty years.’

Murray didn’t speak.

‘Twenty years,’ repeated Loftus in a savage voice, ‘and he was going to retire at the end of this year. If I’d had my way, he would have retired a year ago. Now, his wife and those two boys. . .’

Murray wanted to shout: ‘Don’t go on, don’t torture yourself,’ yet he could only stand dumb and watch the pair, and feel something of the emotion going through their minds —grief and loss, and hatred for the people who had done this thing to a man who was their friend.

‘Well,’ Craigie said at last, ‘we’d better get on.’ He spoke very slowly, as if really he wanted to do nothing but stand there and let his mind roam over the past. But when the effort was made, he went on more briskly: ‘Was Rondo at the hospital when you went to see Ned?’

‘Yes.’

‘Any . . .’

‘He was dead on arrival,’ Loftus said. ‘Those insects pack quite a bite.’ The rough edge was harsh and ugly in his voice. ‘I gather that he managed to say his piece before he was bitten by the brute.’

‘Yes, said Craigie, ‘and I want to compare notes with you. Nigel knows what he’s going to do, now.’ He smiled at Murray, quickly, absently, then pressed another button in the carving, and the door slid open.

Murray stepped out.

He went quietly down the stairs and into the street, and a gust of wind caught his hat and nearly blew it from his head. He grabbed it. He saw the men on duty, and yet remembered how quickly the other side had discovered that he was at Dineley Street, so that even though there was no report that the little door was being watched, he could not feel safe. And he could not be sure that even now he was being used by Craigie as a bait. His car—the Jaguar—was parked on the Embankment, and he walked that way. He wasn’t followed. There weren’t many people about here, and most who were clutched at their hats, and some of the women at their skirts, as the wind off the river blew gustily. It was much colder, and in the distance there were dark snow clouds.

There was never snow on Canna.

A news-van passed, with a placard pasted on the side; Terrorists Kill 9 Children. That would send a shiver of horror through the whole of the country, and. . .

He made himself change his thoughts. It was nearly one o’clock. He had some three hours to kill, and in that time he had to have lunch. He thought of Jane Wyatt and her lamb stew, and wondered if she was in, and whether she would expect him to lunch. It would be worth finding out. He reached the car, as another gust of wind came off the river, and this time lifted his hat off his head. He turned round to grab it, and missed. He chased it, feeling silly, as it kept dodging out of reach, but he rescued it, dusted it off, but didn’t put it on again. He opened the door of the car and dropped the hat on to the seat next to the driver’s, and started to get in. The hat fell on to the floor, and as it did so, it disturbed something which scuttled toward’s Murray’s foot, which was already inside the car.

Murray snatched his foot away; and had to clench his teeth to stop from crying out.

 

The spider didn’t touch him.

It reached the edge of the car, and felt gingerly over with one of its legs, and Murray could see it more clearly than ever before, each leg, the eyes the hard shell-like back. It crept over the edge.

He slammed the door on it.

‘Ugh!’ he muttered, and stood quite still, with fingers on the handle, staring down as if he couldn’t believe that he had killed it. Then he began to open the door, but he wondered if there were any more spiders.

He searched the car, and found none, but couldn’t be sure.

Someone had dropped the deadly thing into the car, knowing that it was his. Two men had died within an hour of being bitten by one of the spiders, and more of them might appear out of the blue, anywhere and any time. They could be put almost anywhere, too—through letter-boxes, windows, doors—at the house at Hampstead, his flat, his car, on a bus, anywhere that he might be; and anywhere that Juanita might be, also.

He still stood by the side of the car. Traffic passed noisily, and the wind blew more steadily.

Slowly, he opened the door again and stepped in.

He should have seen the truth from the beginning, of course, but it did not dawn upon him until now. Craigie’s men could catch a hundred spiders alive, and they would not help to trace the conspirators. And if the spiders were the only weapons of attack to be used against Juanita, then it might be that the rebels were offering her as a sacrifice, with no real hope of getting nearer the truth by her death.

Was that right?

Or was he trying to evade the issue; was his reluctance to put Juanita in danger really behind that argument?

He didn’t know.

He drove to Dineley Street, left the car outside, and then went up in the lift, and as he did so he looked about him, conscious of the danger, half fearful that a spider would appear in the lift, in the roof...

The ceiling?

He glanced upwards, quickly. It was a plain walnut ceiling, with no place on the shiny surface for a creature to hide, but the fact that he had reacted so sharply was an indication of his frame of mind.

The lift stopped.

He scanned the landing, the edges of the carpet, and the flight of stairs; and he shuddered again. This way, it would soon become an obsession. He was in no mood to talk to Jane for he would give his state of jitters away too easily. He let himself into his own flat, and began a search which he told himself was crazy, and which he also told himself was the only thing to do. He found nothing, but couldn’t be sure no spiders were here. He tried to recall what he knew about the habits of the creatures, and remembered reading somewhere that their favourite hiding-place was in warm, soft things. Clothes, socks, handkerchiefs. He had to clench his teeth when he went into the bedroom. Using a spare shoe-tree, he turned his shoes over, and then shook them; nothing fell out. Then he went through his clothes, and found nothing, but it was impossible to search every cranny.

There was ham, butter, bread, everything he needed for a meal, inside the larder. He would be much better on his own. He cut off some ham, smeared bread with butter, and ate hurriedly, glancing about him all the time. His nerves were usually pretty good; so if this affected him like this, how badly would people with weaker nerves feel?

Like Juanita.

It was half-past two, and he still had an hour to waste. He jumped up suddenly, and went across to Jane Wyatt’s flat. The bell rang more sharply than he had intended. He wondered if she was having an afternoon nap; women often did, and she had been almost as busy as he, the previous day. But no, she came to the door at once, and opened it a crack, recognised him, and opened it wider.

‘Hallo, Nigel. Come in.’ She seemed pleased to see him.

‘Thanks,’ he said, and went in—and glanced down, to make sure that no insect scuttled in with him. The door closed. He stood looking at Jane, and she waited without speaking; the very presence of her helped to settle his nerves.

‘Jane, I’m crazy,’ he said abruptly. ‘I just want to talk. . .’

So, he talked—of his doubts and his fears and the thing which was becoming an obsession, and Jane listened without interrupting. Somehow the burden was easier to bear, and he knew that he must go on with it all.

 

He reached the house in Hampstead at one minute to four.