The Spider

by Fergus Hume

Vernon uttered a loud ejaculation, which made his guide shiver, and stepped into the dark room, holding the candle above his head. The next moment the door closed quickly behind him. He turned sharply, but already the key had clicked crisply in the lock. He was a prisoner. "And it's a plant; a plant," cried Vernon in a cold fury. "I'm trapped."

He certainly was, for there was no sign of the girl who had been supposed to send the telegram. All the terror and whispering of the woman had been a comedy to inveigle him into his prison. The place was a small kitchen, dusty and forlorn and unfurnished. There were no plates on the rack or on the shelves of the open cupboard, and no fire in the rusty grate. The room had not been occupied for many a long day, as the roof and corners were thick with dust and cobwebs. An iron-barred window glimmered straight before Vernon, and there was a small door near it. Through this he went, to find himself in a tiny scullery also lighted dimly by an iron-barred window. The door through which he had entered was fast locked, and he had no means of opening it. There was no doubt that he was a prisoner, decoyed to this lonely, unfurnished house by means of the false telegram.

"What the deuce does it all mean?" Vernon asked himself, and sat down on the dusty floor to think out his position. To save his dress clothes he made a cushion of his light overcoat, and sat on it, hugging his knees, with the candle beside him. The position was dismal enough, and decidedly mysterious, as he confessed. "What does it mean?" he repeated mentally.

The next instant the obvious answer flashed into his mind. "The Spider," cried Vernon, leaping to his feet and addressing the bare walls. "Yes, this must be The Spider's trickery."

And the more he thought of it the more certain he felt that he had, at the first blow, hit the right nail on the head. In some way The Spider had learned of the arranged trap, and had sent the wire purporting to come from Lucy Corsoon as a decoy. It had proved only too successful, and now here he was safely locked up in an underground room with no chance of escape, while Mr. Dimsdale, at "Rangoon," was left to face the ingenious scoundrel alone. "But that's all right," Vernon soliloquised, as he sat down again. "If I am not on the spot other people are, and when The Spider makes his demand, Mr. Dimsdale will probably raise the alarm. The Spider is not so clever as I thought."

This was poor comfort. The Spider, at all events, had been clever enough to ensnare a private detective who prided himself on his astuteness. One trap had been set by Mr. Dimsdale, and here was another set by The Spider, out of which it was impossible to escape. The bars of the windows were too strong to twist, the door was too stout to break down, so there was nothing for it but to wait. It was impossible that he could be kept in his dungeon for ever, and sooner or later he would be released. Besides, someone would have to bring him food, and if it was the white-faced woman who had so cleverly led him into the trap, Vernon promised himself grimly that he would seize her at the first opportunity and make her aid his escape. Finally, the taxi was still at the door, and the driver might become sufficiently alarmed if his fare did not reappear to speak to the nearest policeman. It was ridiculous that a man should be captured in guarded London in such a way. Vernon was angry with himself for having been tricked. But until the abrupt closing of the door he had never suspected that anything was wrong.

Meanwhile, he guessed that The Spider, having got him out of the way, was keeping his appointment with Dimsdale in the library. It was not probable that the blackmailing would succeed, as Dimsdale was quick-tempered, and as likely as not would simply seize the creature when he demanded his money, shouting meanwhile for assistance. Vernon wished that he was at his appointed post behind the screen; but he comforted with the reflection that Dimsdale would be able to deal with the matter unassisted. So far as he was concerned, being helpless, he could do nothing but wait.

For the next hour or so--he did not pay much attention to the time--Vernon wondered how The Spider came to know of Dimsdale's trap, and how he had so cleverly laid his own. The blackmailer seemed to know everybody's business, as his profession required, so in some way he had managed to learn of Vernon's love for Miss Corsoon. Only such a message from such a girl would have lured the lover into such a predicament, and The Spider had not only been clever enough to know this, but had been clever enough to utilize his knowledge. For the moment--it was a wild thought, and passed in a flash--Vernon wondered if Constantine Maunders had anything to do with the matter. But the idea was ridiculous, since The Spider was attempting to blackmail Mrs. Bedge, which Maunders certainly would not countenance. But if not Maunders, who could it be? Certainly Dimsdale might have talked to someone else about the proposed trap, since he was extremely frank and injudicious in his speech. Vernon resolved to question him on this point when next they met, and hoped from his reply to learn who had lured him to No. 34, Waller Street, West Kensington. Having arrived at this conclusion, he rested his head on the overcoat and tried to sleep, since it was foolish to waste his strength in beating his wings against the prison bars. After a time, so tired was his brain with hard thinking, that he actually fell asleep.

How long the sleep lasted he did not know, but he woke from a troubled dream with the idea that he heard soft retreating footsteps. The candle was burnt to the socket and the room was extremely dark, so Vernon sat up in a confused way, trying to recall his position. With alert ears he hearkened for the presumed footsteps, but as there was no sound save his own laboured breathing, he decided that he had been dreaming. It was lucky that he had a box of lucifers in his pocket, for the lighting of one enabled him to see the time. His watch revealed that it was one o'clock in the morning, and as he had arrived at nine he must have been imprisoned for four hours. His limbs felt stiff as he rose to his feet, and with a yawn he stretched himself.

"I can't stay here all night," he muttered desperately. "I'll try what shouting will do;" and shout he did with all the power of his lungs, only to receive no response.