by John Creasey
Yet he made a mistake. It was a grave one; and in some ways it was deadly.
He was not aware of it, then.
He stepped towards the girl, who lay so still and who looked so demure, even in sleep. She was a pretty little poppet, and he remembered that when she had been sunbathing on the boat-deck, and dancing in a gown which the conventional would call decollete, she had attracted the gaze of men for all the obvious reasons. There was nothing of the blonde’s sensuousness; she was ‘nice’.
It was easy to believe that she was asleep, and not pretending. He watched her for several seconds, but she didn’t stir.
‘Sweetheart,’ he said at last, ‘it won’t work.’
She still didn’t move.
‘Give it up,’ he said.
He spoke very quietly, watching her closely. Her dark eyelashes curled to her cheeks, and her eyes didn’t twitch. She still wore her make-up. For a split second, he wondered if she was breathing at all, and because the thought of death in such sweet beauty was hideous, his heart gave a sudden jump.
He saw her lips move, slightly.
‘Beautiful,’ he said, more loudly, ‘this was one of your big mistakes.’
She gave no sign that she had heard him.
The truth was — it was no excuse, and afterwards he never used it as one — that the sight of her intrigued him, especially the rounded, golden smoothness of her shoulders. There was nothing remarkable about that, for he was all man. It was as if she had just slipped out of her clothes and climbed into his
bed and dropped, exhausted, into sleep. Her dressing-gown and some nylon flimsies were on a chair, a pair of heel-less slippers on the floor beneath it. She was really something to see, and it wouldn’t be difficult to have fun. But that wasn’t the idea; not his, anyhow. The hard thing to believe was that
it was hers. He knew how easy it was to be taken in by a woman, knew that her friend the blonde wouldn’t have surprised him as this girl did, and yet——
‘Come on, wake up!’ he said, more firmly, and gripped her shoulder.
Her flesh was warm and soft, of course, but she didn’t show that she heard or felt him. Except where his movements made her, she didn’t move at all. Suddenly, he felt mad at her, but he didn’t let that affect him. He studied her closely, his thoughts racing. Then he slapped her face, not hard but sharply, and suddenly pulled the sheet down, ready to slide his arms beneath her, and lift her off the bed.
He did nothing of the kind; just stood still.
She wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing.
He swallowed hard. This was more than the wine of temptation; this was the champagne. She was beautifully formed, with a small waist and hips slim for a woman, long slender legs. There were the white marks where her bikini kept the sun off her skin, and this soft whiteness had its own peculiar kind of attractiveness. He felt his heart thumping and his pulse beating, as he looked down at her demure face and her relaxed body. It was easy to forget the job he was here to do, and that she was undoubtedly here to stop him from doing it. He stood staring down for a few seconds; they could not have been more than a few seconds, although a one dreadful way they were fateful ones. Even when his tension relaxed, he didn’t even begin to dream of the awfulness of his mistake.
Then another smile broke through the tautness of his eyes and his expression.
‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘Now I wonder what this is all about.’ But he knew what it was about, and just why she was here. Could anyone imagine him going out of the cabin, now? Most people would think she would keep him in here much more securely than any locked door.
She wouldn’t keep him.
He picked up a nylon stocking, gossamer thin but strong, held it between his hands, and then placed it on the pillow above her head, stretched tautly. Then with a swift movement he pulled it beneath her head, and for the first time her eyes opened, her body moved.
‘Wha . . .’ she began.
‘We’ll talk later, sweetheart,’ Whittaker said, and before he realised what he was going to do, he pulled the stocking round her face and knotted it over her lips. She was too shocked at first to struggle or try to speak, and when he had finished she couldn’t utter a word. With her rounded eyes wider open and her face flushed from shock, she looked even lovelier. She had a lot that the blonde hadn’t, and Whittaker found himself wondering what made her play this kind of game.
She was some mother’s daughter; and grief.
‘I won’t keep you long,’ he said, and lifting her bodily, carried her to a hanging cupboard in the corner, and thrust her inside. By then she was kicking, but her toes suffered more than his shin. He unhooked a coat from a hanger, held her inside the cupboard with one hand and draped the coat round her with the other.
‘Nice and respectable, aren’t we?’ he asked, and closed and locked the door.
She hadn’t a chance to get out, by herself.
She might get the stocking off, but she wasn’t likely to want to attract attention by shouting. She would wait for him.
Now his grin faded; grimness replaced it, as if he had some prevision of horror. He went towards the door swiftly, stepped into the passage and closed the door and locked it in one moment. He moved swiftly now, ignoring the gentle roll of the ship and all the sounds. He felt a sudden, desperate need for haste now that the girl was no longer here to mesmerise him. A steward coming along the passage from the hall stopped abruptly at the sight of him.
‘Goo — good-night, sir.’
‘Night,’ said Whittaker, brusquely.
He sped across the silent hall towards stateroom A14; as he reached it his key, a pass-key Gann had obtained, slid into his hand, and the cold metal was sharp against his sweating palm. He slid the key into the lock, turned it and opened the door — and everything he did was charged with that fear, and with the sickening realisation of the possibility of being too late.
He had taken too much time with the girl. Of course he had; he had even fooled himself. Anyone who knew him would know that he would see through the ruse, would expect him to leave the girl there, and hurry to Gann. They had calculated that she would delay him for a little while; that was all.
And they had.
He felt a fierce anger with himself, as well as fear. For a split second he thought that his fears had been groundless, that Gann was still there, and therefore Pirran was safe.
Then, Whittaker saw part of the horror.
Gann was still here; but on macabre guard, sitting in a chair which faced the door of the bedroom. He was fully dressed. Profile towards Whittaker, he had never looked more arrestingly handsome — if only one could forget the back of his head.
Standing there with the open door swinging gently behind him, Whittaker knew then that he could never forget, and never forgive himself for losing time. Gann’s skull might have been crushed by one blow or a dozen. Blood was on the back of Gann’s coat, on the back of the chair, on the pale-coloured carpet; the bright glistening red of newly-spilt blood. There wasn’t a chance that he was alive.
His right arm hung limp over the side of his chair.
Hardly aware of what he was doing, Whittaker closed the door and moved forward, stretching out for Gann’s hand. It was easier to look at him from the front — one could remember but not see the full horror of what had happened. The fingers felt warm. Whittaker’s forefinger pressed gently, but there was no pulse beat, no hint of life. He towered the hand gently, but the roll of the ship made it sway to and fro. Whittaker turned away, teeth gritting. While he had been looking at the girl, this . . .
He made himself go towards the bedroom door. It was closed. He hesitated outside it for a second, then grasped the handle and flung it open, quite prepared to see that this room was a shambles, too, and his mission an utter failure.
Pirran lay sleeping. Sleeping. His mouth was open in a fish-like pose. He feared the sun as he had seemed to fear the night, and his face was pale and flabby. He was snoring faintly, his lips quivering with
the intake of breath. He wasn’t undressed, but his shoes were off, and his black bow-tie had been ripped from his collar; the white dress-shirt gaped at the front, showing that Augustus Pirran was a flabby, hairless individual. Lying there, he looked like a fish in black and white, a spiteful caricature of a man.
He was alive.
Not only that; it looked as if he had come straight in here, kicked off his own shoes and wrenched open his own meek-band, and dropped down, exhausted. The blonde had probably helped him.
The blonde, remember. Only a few seconds passed while Whittaker stood there motionless, but they were seconds he would not want to live through again. They scorched themselves into his mind like words of a branding iron. He might have stopped this. If he had left the brunette on the bed, not trying to make her move, he might have reached Gann in time to save his life.
There was no way of being certain; there would always be the dread.
Now, he must act. There was a killer to find.
Whittaker looked back at the door. It had closed with the motion of the ship, but swung open again. No sound came. He didn’t realise that he had taken it from his case, but found himself drawing at a lighted cigarette. Then he looked about the bedroom, taking stock of everything in sight.
The chaos didn’t really surprise him, except for one thing; the search had been done so quickly.
Drawers stuck out of the dressing-chest, handkerchiefs, socks, ties, all the oddments a man would take round with him, were in jumbled heaps. The floor was littered. A tin of talcum powder, faintly-scented, lay on the carpet with a trail of powder showing upon the spot where it had fallen. Suitcases had been pulled from beneath the bed, and opened, but all of these seemed empty. A hide brief-case lay on a chair, open.
Whittaker picked it up; it was empty, too.
They had moved fast In fact, fast was hardly the word for it. Need he blame himself so bitterly? How long had he been gone ? Allow two minutes, at most, from the time he had turned into the passage and followed the blonde; well, say three to the time when he had opened his own cabin door. Then there had been the pause, when he had heard the breathing. A minute? It had seemed longer, but he doubted whether it had been as long; in moments of tension, time seemed to stand still. Then switching on the light, seeing the girl, staring at her, moving towards her. . . ,
How long?
There was no way of telling, but he had to accept one thing; he hadn’t really hurried. That blame was fully deserved. God forgive him, he had been amused. For the few vital minutes, he had felt quite sure that this was the first move in the game of seek-and-kill with Pirran, but his mind hadn’t worked fast enough or in the right direction. Something had happened to make the search of this room a sudden, vital need. Something had happened to make Bob Gann’s murder imperative.
Had Bob made some discovery dangerous to his killer?
Why leave Pirran alive? — the man who was to have been tilled. Had there been any change in their plans ? Any reason to kill Gann and leave Pirran alive ? No one could possibly have mistaken one man for the other, the killer had known whom he was killing.
They’d tried to make sure that the way was clear, the dark girl’s job had simply been to make sure that he didn’t come back — in time.
Well, she had a tongue. He could picture those inviting golden shoulders, the sheet lying on her so lightly; it had been done with the genius of a man who knew men, knew that he wasn’t likely to leave her at once.
Or a woman who knew them.
How long had he been away ?
He went back to the drawing-room of A14, where every-thing except the back of Bob Gann’s head looked normal. The blood sinking in the carpet had spread wider, and as he entered the room he heard a light splash.
He made himself look into Gann’s handsome face. As he did so, other faces seemed to superimpose themselves on to the dead man’s. He could picture Gann’s children in the colour photograph, but they were vague and misty. Not so Gann’s wife; he saw her face as clearly as in the photograph on Gann’s locker; every feature, every line, the fine eyes, the lips puckering into the beginning of a smile.
Mrs. Gann.
Widow Gann.
Whittaker wrenched his thoughts away. He knew that he was suffering from shock, that he was still losing precious time. Think.
Gann had been quite sure of himself. Pirran was in the bedroom; probably Pirran had been lying on the bed when be had entered. Picture the scene; the blonde helping Pirran to bed, and before she could make a job of it, having to open the door to Gann. Gann had sent her marching, gone in, probably found Pirran lying there in a drunken stupor. He had pulled the chair up and sat down for his vigil. To Gann, it must have seemed a mere formality, and yet someone had crept into this room, approached him without a sound, and struck with brutish fury.
He had meant to kill. There had been no time for anyone to wait until Gann dozed. That was the heart of the puzzle. How had it been done in the time? Gann had been wide awake, and on top of his job, had even cut down on his drinks because he had the job to do. He had been in a good humour, and cold stone sober; yet someone had got in, crept up on him, and given him no chance at all.
Whittaker looked about the room. He was wondering whether he could have made an even worse mistake; whether there was anywhere in this outer room for a man or woman to hide. The unbelievable thing was that anyone could creep up on Gann while he was wide awake. You didn’t become a top man of the F.B.I, by letting yourself go deaf. Gann could have been drugged, but how ? Thoughts came swiftly enough now. Poison in a drink meant help from the barkeeper, and few things were less likely. In cigarettes ? It was just possible. If Gann had lost consciousness then, through drugs, how long ago had he taken the stuff? And how was it they had taken effect at the vital moment?
There was no way of telling; and Whittaker believed that drugs were out.
Then how . . . ?
He went over everything he had done, and felt a little better; less tense and vicious with himself. There was nowhere here for a man or woman to hide, except places where he had looked. The only door led into the passage. The bedroom porthole was closed and the screw fastenings very tight.
He went to the passage door, and examined the lock on the inside, bending down and breathing on the shiny chromium. Finger-prints showed up — but even as he did it, he recognised that as a waste of time, there must inevitably be a lot of finger-prints, and he had no facilities to check them. The outside of the door would show scratches if the lock had been picked, and he began to open the door.
He closed it again.
He did not believe it possible for anyone to lock or unlock a door with a pick-lock without Gann hearing. A passkey or an ordinary key must have been used. It wasn’t difficult to get a key; one could ‘borrow’ one, make a soap impression and have a duplicate made in a matter of an hour or so, if one came prepared; and the certain thing was that the murderer had come prepared. An oiled key would make little noise, and the hinges were silent when he moved them. The simple truth was that Gann had sat there feeling absolutely secure, convinced that no one could get into the room without him hearing. Over-confidence could be deadly, and now that he looked back, he could bring him self to believe that Gann might have the fault.
Well, he, Whittaker, was cured of it.
He wished he could have seen the blonde’s face.
He made another quick search of the room, but found nothing that helped. He looked in the brief-case again, and satisfied himself that it was empty. One room in chaos and the other tidy suggested that the murderers had found what they had come for in the case; unless they had been scared off. That wasn’t likely. They had come to rob Pirran, remember, not to kill him; yet the original threat had been to kill.
When he had been entirely at their mercy, they had let him live.
It was time to talk to the girl in his cabin.
Time to make some move, anyway.
Whittaker listened at the door, made sure that
no one was approaching, and went into the passage. He stepped into the big room across the way, went to a cupboard, poured himself a whisky and tossed it down. He lit another cigarette, and as he stared at the glowing tip it looked like the back of Bob Gann’s head.
He opened the door again and this time turned towards the blonde’s cabin. He knew its number, he had seen her come out of it. She shared the cabin with the brunette. He leached the door, seeing the light on in a steward’s cubbyhole, but having no need to pass it; as far as he knew, he was not seen.
But one could never be sure, on board ship. Doors had more eyes and more ears than anywhere else. Doors were so often latched, and there were so many of them. A man or woman could open one and glance out and then withdraw into the room, unseen and unheard — yet a deadly witness. The stewards were trained to move quietly and to show absolute discretion; but they had alert ears and sharp eyes.
There was no absolute safety on board; no way of being sure that he could move anywhere without being observed.
Tonight, Whittaker was more edgy than he had ever been.
Standing at the cabin door, he felt his heart at its old, palpitating tricks.
What would he find here?
CHAPTER III
TWO . . . THREE
There was no light on inside the cabin, but that meant nothing. There was no sound but the sounds which belonged to a ship at sea. The light from the passage cast Whittaker’s shadow into the cabin, and it wouldn’t help to stay outside. He went in quickly and closed the door without a sound. Then he groped for the light switch, but it wasn’t in the position of the switch in his cabin, and he touched only the smooth wall.
He let his arm fall.
There was no sound of breathing, nothing here to give him cause for alarm.
