of noise. Hepburn, his ears attuned for the welcome word of command, watched. An invisible line was wound in, tautened, and jerked. Suddenly came a loud and insistent hissing, and:
“Shoot!” snapped the voice of Nayland Smith. “Shoot that man, Hepburn!”
* * *
The shadowy shape at the window had not moved from that constrained, crouching attitude—two enormous hands, which appeared to be black, rested on the window ledge—when Mark Hepburn fired—once, twice… The sinister silhouette disappeared; that strange hissing continued; the muted roar of New York carried on.
Yet, automatic dropped beside him, fists clenched, he listened so intently, so breathlessly, that he heard it…
A dull thud in some courtyard far below.
“Don’t move, Hepburn,” came Nayland Smith’s crisp command. “Don’t stir until I give the word!”
An indeterminable odor became perceptible—chemical, nauseating…
“Sir Denis!”
It was the voice of Fey.
“Don’t come in, Fey!” cried Nayland Smith. “Don’t open the door!”
“Very good, sir.”
Only a very keen observer would have recognized the note of emotion in Fey’s almost toneless voice.
The hissing noise continued.
“This is terrible!” Hepburn exclaimed. “Sir Denis! what has happened?”
The hissing ceased: Hepburn had identified it now.
“There’s a switch on your right,” came swiftly. “See if you can reach it, but stay where you are.”
Hepburn, altering his position, reached out, found the switch, and depressed it. Lights sprang up. He turned—and saw Nayland Smith poised on top of the bureau. The strange weapon which vaguely he had seen in the darkness proved to be a large syringe fitted with a long nozzle.
The air was heavy with a sickly sweet smell suggesting at once iodine and ether.
He looked towards the bed… and would have sworn that a figure lay under the coverlet—a sheet drawn up over its face! On the pillow and beside the place where the sleeper’s head seemed to lie rested a small wooden box no more than half the size of those made to contain cigars. One of the narrow sides—that which faced him—was open.
There seemed to be a number of large black spots upon the pillow…
“It’s possible,” said Nayland Smith, staring across the room, “that I missed the more active. I doubt it. But we must be careful.”
Above the muted midnight boom of New York, sounds of disturbance, far below, became audible.
“I’m glad you didn’t miss our man, Hepburn!” rapped Nayland Smith, dropping on to the carpeted floor.
“I have been trained to shoot straight,” Mark Hepburn replied monotonously.
Nayland Smith nodded.
“He deserved all that came to him. I faked the bed when I heard his approach… Jump into a suit and rejoin me in the sitting-room. We shall be wanted down there at any moment…”
Three minutes later they both stood staring at a row of black insects laid upon a sheet of white paper. The reek of iodine and ether was creeping in from the adjoining bedroom. Fey, at a side table, prepared whiskies imperturbably. He was correctly dressed except for two trifling irregularities: his collar was that of a pyjama jacket, and he wore bedroom slippers.
“This is your province, Hepburn,” said Nayland Smith. “These things are outside my experience. But you will note that they are quite dead, with their legs curled up. The preparation I used in the syringe is a simple formula by my old friend Petrie: he found it useful in Egypt… Thank you, Fey.”
Mark Hepburn studied the dead insects through a hand-lens. Shrunken up as they were by the merciless spray which had destroyed them, upon their dense black bodies he clearly saw vivid scarlet spots—“Scarlet spots”—the last words spoken by James Richet!
“What are they, Hepburn?”
“I’m not sure. They belong to the genus
Latrodectus.
The malmignatte of Italy is a species, and the American Black Widow spider; but these are larger. Their bite is probably
“Shoot!” snapped the voice of Nayland Smith. “Shoot that man, Hepburn!”
* * *
The shadowy shape at the window had not moved from that constrained, crouching attitude—two enormous hands, which appeared to be black, rested on the window ledge—when Mark Hepburn fired—once, twice… The sinister silhouette disappeared; that strange hissing continued; the muted roar of New York carried on.
Yet, automatic dropped beside him, fists clenched, he listened so intently, so breathlessly, that he heard it…
A dull thud in some courtyard far below.
“Don’t move, Hepburn,” came Nayland Smith’s crisp command. “Don’t stir until I give the word!”
An indeterminable odor became perceptible—chemical, nauseating…
“Sir Denis!”
It was the voice of Fey.
“Don’t come in, Fey!” cried Nayland Smith. “Don’t open the door!”
“Very good, sir.”
Only a very keen observer would have recognized the note of emotion in Fey’s almost toneless voice.
The hissing noise continued.
“This is terrible!” Hepburn exclaimed. “Sir Denis! what has happened?”
The hissing ceased: Hepburn had identified it now.
“There’s a switch on your right,” came swiftly. “See if you can reach it, but stay where you are.”
Hepburn, altering his position, reached out, found the switch, and depressed it. Lights sprang up. He turned—and saw Nayland Smith poised on top of the bureau. The strange weapon which vaguely he had seen in the darkness proved to be a large syringe fitted with a long nozzle.
The air was heavy with a sickly sweet smell suggesting at once iodine and ether.
He looked towards the bed… and would have sworn that a figure lay under the coverlet—a sheet drawn up over its face! On the pillow and beside the place where the sleeper’s head seemed to lie rested a small wooden box no more than half the size of those made to contain cigars. One of the narrow sides—that which faced him—was open.
There seemed to be a number of large black spots upon the pillow…
“It’s possible,” said Nayland Smith, staring across the room, “that I missed the more active. I doubt it. But we must be careful.”
Above the muted midnight boom of New York, sounds of disturbance, far below, became audible.
“I’m glad you didn’t miss our man, Hepburn!” rapped Nayland Smith, dropping on to the carpeted floor.
“I have been trained to shoot straight,” Mark Hepburn replied monotonously.
Nayland Smith nodded.
“He deserved all that came to him. I faked the bed when I heard his approach… Jump into a suit and rejoin me in the sitting-room. We shall be wanted down there at any moment…”
Three minutes later they both stood staring at a row of black insects laid upon a sheet of white paper. The reek of iodine and ether was creeping in from the adjoining bedroom. Fey, at a side table, prepared whiskies imperturbably. He was correctly dressed except for two trifling irregularities: his collar was that of a pyjama jacket, and he wore bedroom slippers.
“This is your province, Hepburn,” said Nayland Smith. “These things are outside my experience. But you will note that they are quite dead, with their legs curled up. The preparation I used in the syringe is a simple formula by my old friend Petrie: he found it useful in Egypt… Thank you, Fey.”
Mark Hepburn studied the dead insects through a hand-lens. Shrunken up as they were by the merciless spray which had destroyed them, upon their dense black bodies he clearly saw vivid scarlet spots—“Scarlet spots”—the last words spoken by James Richet!
“What are they, Hepburn?”
“I’m not sure. They belong to the genus
Latrodectus.
The malmignatte of Italy is a species, and the American Black Widow spider; but these are larger. Their bite is probably
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