The Man Who Stayed Alive

by John Creasey

  He would have to see her, soon.

  As it was, he stood on one side of the bench where Bob Gann lay. His face wasn’t touched; it was easy to think that he was not dead, but asleep. There was a hint of vitality, even in death.

  Morrison was watching Whittaker closely.

  At last, he said, ‘We’d better go.’

  The Master-at-Arms put a hand on Whittaker’s shoulder, and kept it there as they turned towards the door. At first it didn’t mean a thing; Whittaker was just seeing those faces in his mind’s eye, and wishing with a kind of desperate folly that the dead man could come alive again. Then, as they reached the passage, the grip on his shoulder seemed to become tighter; as if it were not going to be slackened, and was in fact the grip of arrest.

  Whittaker fought back the impulse to shake himself free.

  ‘Mr. Whittaker,’ Morrison said, ‘you’ve told me that you were employed by Pirran to guard him because of attacks on his life, and that Mr. Gann was doing the same thing. I know that you had made arrangements with the owners, and I want you to understand that I’m not complaining about anything you’ve done up to now. But there is one thing I want to say to you.’

  Whittaker didn’t speak, just waited; and the pressure at his shoulder grew tighter — there was no longer any doubt the Master-at-Arms was gripping him with a purpose.

  He waited, looking into the Captain’s eyes.

  CHAPTER V

  WARNING

  ‘From now on, you can forget your job,’ Morrison said at last. ‘From now on, I will watch Mr. Pirran and anyone else who may need watching. I may need to question you again, but whether I do or don’t, I want one thing to be clearly understood. You are to keep away from Pirran’s cabin. Don’t start investigating on your own account.’

  Here was welcome relief again, almost assurance that Morrison was not yet suspicious. He was a private eye; doing his job, and being warned not to carry on with it while he remained on board. Obviously they were going to leave him to his own resources. That was fine.

  ‘May I have your assurance that you’ll leave well alone?’ Morrison asked, sharply.

  Whittaker didn’t speak, but took his cigarette-case out of his pocket. Morrison shook his head when it was proffered, and Whittaker lit a cigarette. They had started to walk on again, and turned into an empty cabin at a word from the Captain. In the past few seconds. Morrison’s manner and that of the Master-at-Arms had hardened, but it didn’t matter; in some ways it was a good thing.

  Everything Whittaker did had to be directed towards one object: getting ashore.

  ‘I don’t want there to be the slightest misunderstanding,’ Morrison said. ‘I want your full assurance that you won’t attempt to see Pirran or make any inquiry on your own account. If you don’t give it, Mr. Whittaker, I shall have to make sure that you can’t do either thing.’

  Whittaker let himself smile, tautly.

  ‘So it’s an order.’

  ‘It’s an order.’

  Whittaker drew deeply on his cigarette.

  ‘I don’t know how much you know about my job, Captain Morrison,’ he said, ‘but you know plenty about yours; you’re in charge of this ship, and whatever the risk to yourself, you always try to make sure that every passenger and every member of the crew is safe. Isn’t that so ?’

  Morrison’s eyes were narrowed and steely.

  ‘Supposing it is ?’

  ‘I just want to show you what you are asking,’ Whittaker said. ‘I am a private inquiry agent. Most of my jobs are humdrum, but every now and again a big one crops up. This is a big one. Pirran is paying me a lot of money. If I let him down I let myself down, and in some ways that is more important. I have to be sure that no one is taking the slightest risk with Pirran.’

  ‘No one will be.’

  Whittaker drew on the cigarette again.

  ‘That’s easy to say. But I would like to know what kind of precautions you propose to take, Captain Morrison. You may not think so, but I’m an expert at my job. You might overlook something that’s important.’

  Morrison smiled faintly, and the Master-at-Arms had a more shaggy and amiable look than ever.

  ‘I don’t think you need worry,’ Morrison said. ‘Mr. Corbin here was with the Surrey County Police for twenty-five years and you might call him an expert, too. You needn’t worry about Pirran.’

  ‘How are you going to protect him ?’

  ‘I don’t feel called——’ Morrison began.

  ‘Don’t misunderstand me,’ Whittaker said, reasoningly. ‘I can’t make you tell me any more than I can stop you from putting me in irons, but unless I’m satisfied that Pirran is safe, I’m not making any promise to you or to anyone else.

  That way, my conscience will be clear. The other way——’

  he shrugged. The cigarette was already burned halfway down, and he could feel the warmth against his lips; but he didn’t look away from the Captain’s eyes.

  Morrison glanced sharply at the Master-at-Arms. Then:

  ‘Mr. Pirran will be confined to his cabin until we reach New York,’ he said. ‘No one will be able to see him without full authorisation — and that includes you. Does your job finish at New York?’

  ‘Yes, it does.’

  ‘Then you haven’t to be patient for long.’

  ‘All right.’ Whittaker became brisker. ‘I won’t try to see him, you have my word on it. But you may be making a mistake, after all.’ He grinned at the ex-policeman, Corbin, ‘At least, I warned you.’

  Corbin smiled back.

  ‘ ‘Pirran may know a lot more than he’s told me,’ Whittaker said. ‘After Gann’s death, he’ll probably be more frightened even than he is now. If anything has been stolen from him, it might loosen his tongue, but — how do we know that he’s not playing some game outside the law ?’

  ‘We don’t know.’

  ‘That’s the right answer,’ Whittaker agreed. ‘We don’t know. If he’s a criminal, he certainly won’t talk to you. He isn’t likely to talk to the police, either — but he might talk to me. For one thing, he knows that I’m in his employ. For another, he’ll probably think that anything he told me would be in confidence.’

  Whittaker paused.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be ?’ asked Morrison, dryly.

  ‘I’m under no obligation to Pirran or anyone else to keep material facts from the authorities,’ answered Whittaker smoothly. ‘I’ve reason to believe that Pirran keeps within the law, that’s one thing; if I’ve reason to believe that he looks like stepping outside it, that’s another. In any case, if I were to withhold information which might lead to the arrest of a murderer, I would never be able to keep my office open in London — Scotland Yard would make sure of that. The issue couldn’t be simpler. Pirran might talk to me, but almost certainly won’t talk to you. Why not let me have a go at him?’

  The Master-at-Arms was smiling faintly.

  ‘At the moment he’s asleep,’ said the Captain. ‘It’s a drugged sleep, too. The ship’s doctor doesn’t expect him to come round until the morning. That gives us time to think over your suggestion, Mr. Whittaker.’

  ‘I think it’s a good suggestion,’ Whittaker said.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind knowing your real reason for making it,’ put in the Master-at-Arms unexpectedly. He looked massive, and amiable, but it was obvious that he could be dangerous and the danger might be close. ‘You wouldn’t be more interested in catching Gann’s killer than finding out more from Pirran, Mr. Whittaker, would you?’

  He was no fool.

  Whittaker said quietly, ‘That job ought to interest you, too, Mr. Corbin.’

  He wasn’t surprised when both men chuckled.

  ‘You go and get some rest,’ Morrison said. ‘We shouldn’t need to disturb you again, Mr. Whittaker.’

  Whittaker said, ‘Thanks,’ but didn’t turn towards the door at once. He made it clear that there was something else on his mind, and they waited for him to speak. He took his time. He lit anot
her cigarette, and as he did so, told himself that he would be safe until morning unless the breaks went the wrong way. It wasn’t likely that they would find the blonde Maisie until the morning.

  They would probably wait before questioning any other passengers, but they would talk to the crew. They would find out from the bar steward that Pirran had been with the blonde and the brunette, and then they would start asking questions among the stewards — and they would learn that he had come out of Maisie’s room.

  He had to decide just how far to go.

  If he told these two about Maisie and the other girl and Pirran, they would have reason to believe that he was being wholly frank, and above everything else wanted to help. Get it straight. If he told them about the blonde and they did go and find her dead, surely it would be in his favour; they wouldn’t expect him to tell them about a girl who was dead in her cabin and whose death might lead to him.

  ‘What is it ?’ Morrison asked.

  Whittaker said: ‘You’ll probably say that it’s none of my business, but Pirran got drunk tonight. If he’s drugged and right out, then the drug could have been put in his drink.’ He gave a quick grin at the ex-policeman. ‘I know I’m teaching my grandmother, but there’s one thing I can tell you that you may not know yet. Time saved is sometimes a help in investigation.’

  ‘Try to save us some,’ urged the Master-at-Arms.

  ‘There were two girls with Pirran in the bar,’ Whittaker said. ‘They helped him to his cabin. A blonde, whose name was Maisie, I think, and a brunette whose name I didn’t catch. I was very interested in them, thinking they were probably after Pirran for any money they could get. But there was a chance that they were the people I was looking for. Gann and I agreed about that. He was on duty, and watched them as well as for Pirran.’

  The Master-at-Arms said warmly: ‘That could be very useful. Thanks.’

  ‘I didn’t want to leave anything undone, either,’ Whittaker ‘said.

  He turned towards the door.

  He had got away with it so far; but he might have put a rope round his own neck. He kept outwardly cool while he was with them; but as soon as he left them and walked towards his own cabin, he felt choked. He didn’t hurry. He actually went up on deck for a few minutes, looking at the dark mystery of the swirling sea, where it shone like black oil in the lights of the ship. There were more lights on land, too, as they drew nearer to New York itself.

  He went back to his cabin.

  He knew, within a second of stepping inside, that it had been searched; the Master-at-Arms had almost certainly arranged that to take place while he was being questioned. A wide-awake man would have discovered that a girl had been in that bed recently, but he couldn’t guess much else. The things which had been disturbed had been put back almost in the same place, but one which had been moved was the photograph of Bob Gann’s wife.

  It was too near the edge, now.

  Whittaker touched it, to push it to a safer place, then felt impelled to pick it up and study the dark hair, the fine eyes, the clear-cut features. She was smiling faintly, as if at someone who mattered to her. There was a touch of intimacy which couldn’t be mistaken.

  He put it down, slowly.

  Yes, he wanted Gann’s killer. First and last.

  Unless they went to look for the blonde at once, he had given himself a chance to find him.

  In half an hour, he was in bed, and no one disturbed him.

  He had opened the door of the cabin once, and seen a sergeant-at-arms in sight; that might mean they were watching him, might simply mean that they were being very careful. He kept thinking of everything — Gann, his wife, the dead blonde, the man whose neck he had broken . . .

  All that faded.

  How could he get away ?

  How could any passenger get ashore ?

  Could he swim for it? The coast of Long Island wasn’t so far away.

  He rejected the notion as soon as it came; he was a fair swimmer, but that attempt would be crazy.

  How could he get off the ship ?

  Suddenly, he saw a possibility, and it made him grin in the darkness. He listened intently, and heard footsteps. He got up and went to the door, opened it a crack, and looked into the lighted passage. There was the sergeant-at-arms, talking to a steward. The sergeant-at-arms was in navy-blue uniform, and was a man of average size and build; Whittaker’s size. He was likely to be there for a long time, certainly until dawn; and when he left, he would almost certainly be replaced by another man.

  Unless Maisie’s body were found there would be no drastic action until the Queen B. berthed. So, he had a little time. If he judged the right moment and played his cards well, he could leave the Queen B. as a uniformed sergeant-at-arms, carrying all the proper authority and as safe from suspicion as anyone was likely to be.

  He needed a little rest first, but could wake when he wanted to start out.

  He needed some luck, too.

  CHAPTER VI

  CUSTOMS CUTTER

  Whittaker looked out of the porthole towards the calm sea and the fabulous skyline. He couldn’t see enough of it. In earlier years he had seen it passing gently by a dozen, times, and could feast his eyes as often as he got the chance More than once, having settled in his New York hotel, he bad taken the ferry to Staten Island, so that he could watch the skyline going to the island and coming back. He could look at the Statute of Liberty without feeling stirred, but that skyline . . .

  The sun shone on the tall buildings.

  He knew that the ship was moving slowly, and that police as well as the pilot and customs were on board. He could imagine what the scene was like, on the main decks, the indignation and disappointment of passengers, the shocked comments when the truth began to spread.

  Had Maisie been found?

  Whittaker didn’t know yet, and didn’t want to know. His chance was here, now, and he wouldn’t have another. At the awful worst, he would hang for a murder he had not committed. At best, he would be taken back to England and probably stand trial; and he would have no chance to find Pirran; to find a murderer; to avenge Gann.

  If he could get ashore . . .

  If he tried and failed, he might damn himself — but no more than Maisie’s body and the steward’s evidence would.

  He was in his pyjamas when he opened the door. The sergeant-at-arms looked round promptly.

  Whittaker stifled a yawn, then managed to grin.

  ‘Spare me a moment, will you?’

  The sergeant-at-arms came at once; no kind of danger appeared to threaten. Whittaker yawned again and stood aside. The other man hesitated on the threshold, as if reluctant to go in.

  ‘What——’ he began.

  Whittaker gripped his wrist, twisted, and brought him into the cabin. No one else was in sight. He sent the man spinning across to the bed, closed the door swiftly, and went after his victim like a bullet.

  Two sharp blows, and the sergeant-at-arms collapsed.

  The man’s clothes fitted Whittaker.

  He had a special customs and dock pass.

  * * *

  The pass took Whittaker through the customs shed, which had a forlorn and deserted look, in spite of the dozens, probably hundreds, of uniformed examiners who stood about waiting for the passengers. By now, this shed should be a seething mass of activity; as it was, no luggage at all had been brought ashore. The officers stood about in little groups, talking, smoking. Porters, most of them coloured men, looked disconsolate. Whittaker took his pass to one of the officers, had it countersigned, and then went to the lift which took him down to street level. No one showed the slightest suspicion of him.

  It was half-past eight, and already warm.

  A long line of taxis waited, and at sight of him, a dozen drivers braced themselves, as if they believed that the long wait was over at last. The first was broad and bow-legged, hatless, and wearing a linen coat.

  ‘Cab, sir?’

  ‘Thanks. Hotel Commodore, please.’


  ‘Sure,’ the cabby said.

  It didn’t take long. There, behind Whittaker, was the mass of shipping in the Cunard docks, and, some distance offshore, the Queen B. She would soon be alongside. The sun blazed on the Hudson River, on masts, on funnels, on tugs, on the glass in the buildings in New Jersey, on a million television aerials. An aeroplane droned. Traffic was thin for the first few hundred yards, until they turned into 42nd Street; immediately, it began to thicken. Cabs, cars, trucks seemed to be trying to pass one another at the same time. Everyone seemed in a hurry, every driver looked as if he hadn’t a care in the world. That was a nonchalance that Whittaker enjoyed; and a freedom he could hardly believe in. But he had it, and he also had his one great asset:.the ability to get lost in a crowd. He never stood put as an individual unless he wanted to.

  Above him were those tall buildings.

  Whittaker was never tired of gaping; never failed to be surprised that the really tall ones were few and far between, dominant overlords. Even now. Held up at cross-roads, he saw the square, pale might of the RKO building and Rockefeller Centre. Then, lights changed, the line of traffic leapt; he seemed to be swung right and left and left and right before they pulled up at the hotel. It looked huge; it didn’t give an inkling of what there was inside.

  He went into the hotel, casually acknowledged by a porter who looked Irish, up the steps, and into the enormous central hall. It looked like an orange grove; what must surely be real orange-trees, standing in huge yellow tubs, were dotted about; the fruit looked too real to be tied on. He found himself smiling; nothing had changed although everything had changed. He didn’t linger, but walked briskly towards the entrance to Grand Central Station. He walked along the concourse, past the shops and news stands, past a dozen snack-bars where men and women were having breakfast. He reached the station itself, stepped into the mammoth main hall, and looked up at the giant advertisements, unbelieving, as he always was when here.