by John Creasey
‘All right,’ she said wearily, ‘all right. Maisie and I were on board to make a fool of Pirran. There was a packet, wrapped in brown paper and sealed — and we had to get it.
‘We — we couldn’t.
‘Pirran pretended to be a lecherous old man, but he wasn’t really, and most certainly he wasn’t a fool. But Camponi kept pressing us to get that packet, and when the last night at sea came, he got desperate.
‘He — he thought Maisie could get into Pirran’s cabin that night, and Maisie had fixed Pirran’s drink so that he would drop off into a drugged sleep. He knew one of you would be watching and told me to go to your room and keep you there. How I hated it!’
It was almost possible to be sorry for her.
‘Go on,’ Whittaker said stonily.
She closed her eyes for a moment, then went on slowly:
‘I didn’t know what happened until afterwards, when he came and released me. He was absolutely crazy. He’d found a packet, but it was empty. He didn’t say what he expected to find; just said he had to get the real one, and that — that he’d kill Bob Gann and would kill you. And — he would have done. So would Blick. Blick’s a friend of his; I saw him in England once.’
Whittaker said quietly, Take it easy, Olive.’ He gave her another drink and she gulped it down. Gasping a little, she went on. ‘While you were out he came to your cabin to kill you, and heard me. I managed to bang the door a little. He let me out and kept saying that he’d come to kill you. He seemed — mad.’
‘Because he’d got the wrong packet?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he tell you he had killed Maisie ?’
‘He — he said he’d teach her to double-cross him. He
thought she’d made a deal with Pirran, but——’
‘Had she?’
‘I don’t know!’ Olive cried.
Whittaker didn’t speak at once. If he had to bet on her, it would be that she had told the truth; but he wasn’t sure she had told all of it. Blick believed that she had that mystery packet which was so important that the dead Camponi had lost his head, his nerve and his life over it.
A lot of questions were answered.
If Whittaker judged Olive right, she couldn’t take any more punishment now, so he didn’t try to give her any. He picked up the room key which he had shaken from Blick’s pocket and handed it to her.
She looked puzzled.
‘It’s number thirty-four — next door,’ he said. ‘Go and sit back in there for ten minutes. I’ll join you soon. Don’t try to run off, or the police will want to know why.’
She started to get up.
‘All right, but’ — she hesitated. ‘Can I have another drink?’
Whittaker said, ‘Something’s corroding you, Olive, and it could be whisky.’ He handed her the flask, and a minute later watched her go out. He knew that she might be listening at the door, so he waited for two minutes, studying Blick all the time, then he went silently to the door and opened it abruptly.
Olive wasn’t there.
Whittaker locked the door and turned to Blick. He didn’t speak as he took out the ear-plugs. He was not only physically powerful; there was a hardness in his expression which Blick undoubtedly recognised. Ruthlessness looked the same in any man. Whittaker raised his hands and bunched them. He seemed to tower over Blick; and even if Blick had been standing, Whittaker would have been inches taller.
He said, ‘I could tear you apart.’
Blick didn’t speak, just moistened his lips and looked as if he would like to shrink further away.
‘And it wouldn’t take long,’ Whittaker said.
Blick muttered, ‘I——’ but couldn’t go on.
‘Who sent you to me at Mrs. Gann’s?’ asked Whittaker, without raising his voice. ‘Remember, I want the answer, and if I don’t get it fast I’ll hit you. And this time I’ll hit hard.’
Blick said: ‘No, don’t do it! I——’
‘Who sent you to Scarsdale?’
‘Listen,’ Blick said, and his expression was pitiful; his voice was so hoarse that the words seemed to run into each other. ‘I don’t know why they sent me. Ricky sent me. He — he thought you might turn up there.’ Blick gulped. ‘He had a nose in a newspaper office who told him you’d escaped.’
‘Hurry!’ Whittaker urged harshly.
‘I — I could run into big trouble with Ricky,’ Blick muttered, and looked as if he were really afraid of the man behind the name. ‘He told me I was to find out what you knew about Pirran. And when I thought I’d got it all, I had
to——’
He stopped again.
‘A rub out?’ Whittaker demanded.
Blick made a movement of his head; it wasn’t enough to be called a nod.
‘You had to find out what Pirran had told me ?’ Whittaker echoed. ‘You mean, you had to find out if I knew what was in that packet and where it was?’
Blick gasped.
‘Yes, yes, that’s it!’
‘Don’t shout!’ warned Whittaker, and went on:
‘Where can I find Ricky?’
Blick cried:
‘I don’t know!’
‘Blick,’ said Whittaker softly, ‘I’ve never known a man ask for trouble the way you do.’ He clenched his fist again and moved forward, and his expression told Blick what to expect.
‘I daren’t give Ricky away,’ Blick almost sobbed; ‘I’d be——’. He stopped.
The telephone bell rang.
It was so unexpected that it made Whittaker slew round and stare. The telephone was on a table beside the bed, and the chair in which Blick sat was by the window. The head of the bed was against the wall opposite the window. Whittaker moved round, watching Blick all the time, knowing that the man had recovered enough to try to get away.
This was Olive’s room, remember; not his.
He lifted the telephone.
‘Hallo,’ he said, ‘who’s that?’ And it might have been a man named White talking.
A girl spoke briskly, laconically.
‘If you’re a friend of Miss Johns, okay — you can tell her that the cops are on their way up to see her. I’m just giving her time to think it over.’
‘Thanks,’ said Whittaker. ‘You’re a real friend.’
The line went dead, the girl at the desk had done her good deed. If- was a deed which Blick didn’t know about. The police would come here and open the door and find him in the middle of the mess he had made. There was only one snag; that he might run in time.
Whittaker said, ‘If you ever get out of jail, give my love to Ricky.’ He moved; and before the terrified man could dodge, struck him again on the side of the chin.
Blick would be out of this world for minutes, at least; the police would have plenty of time to wait for him.
Whittaker went to the door.
He opened it and stepped into the passage; and as he did so the elevator door whined open, and he knew that the police were only just round the corner.
CHAPTER X
RUN
Whittaker heard a door open just behind him; the door of Blick’s room. He stepped backwards, ready for anything that Olive could do. All she did was to make room for him, and close the door. She leaned against it. There was something akin to desperation in her eyes, and she looked young — very young. He stared at her as the police tramped along the passage, and as one man knocked heavily against the door of the next room.
She was young.
She had made up too much aboard the Queen B.s and he had taken it for granted that she was as old as she looked. Until the night of the murders, he had not really studied her. Now, he saw that she was probably still in her teens; at most, twenty-one or -two. Her lips were unsteady, and she seemed to want to say something that wouldn’t come out.
‘Why — why are those policemen next door?’ she whispered.
They were opening the door — it crashed back against the wall, and the sound spoke for itself. Men’s voices wer
e raised, in surprise and perhaps in shock, at sight of Blick.
‘They wanted to see you,’ Whittaker said flatly.
‘They — they questioned me for hours on the ship. I — I’m so scared,’ she said, and now he believed that the few minutes on her own had put fear into her. Time to reflect was time to panic. ‘Don’t — don’t let them start on me again.’
‘What particular thing will they start on, Olive ?’
‘Questions, questions, questions.’ She actually shivered. ‘The same questions you’ve asked. Did Maisie get anything from Pirran, and — I simply don’t know.’ She kept her voice on a low key and kept glancing towards the wall which separated her from the police. ‘I tell you I just don’t know.’
‘But they think you might, just as Blick does.’
‘If Maisie knew anything, she didn’t tell me!’
‘All right,’ said Whittaker, ‘I hope that’s true. Now listen. The New York police aren’t so tough or so rough as you think. They won’t manhandle you. And if you get really scared, remind them that you’re a British citizen and ask for help from the Consulate. You’ll get it. You may get even more than you deserve,’ he added sardonically. ‘And when the police do start questioning you, tell them what you know about the voyage.’
‘I have,’ she said, almost piteously. ‘I tell you I have! It’s just the — the old affair I’m scared about.’
Even if he wanted to, there wasn’t a thing Whittaker could do to help her about that; and he wasn’t sure that he wanted to. He thought it possible that the police would tell her that she couldn’t stay in New York and would ship her back to Southampton; but that was guessing. The hard fact remained: police were in the room next door, and the moment they set eyes on him he would be neck-deep in trouble.
‘Olive,’ he said suddenly, ‘do you have any money?’
‘You mean — dollars ?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve only about a hundred — Maisie gave them to me,’ Olive said; ‘she was going to give me more when we got here. I can’t stay more than a few days.’
Whittaker took out his wallet, selected two hundreds and handed them to her. She looked bewildered, but took them. She stared at the notes, then at Whittaker: at last she tucked the notes into the shallow V of her blouse. She swallowed hard; he could see the muscles of her neck working. He hoped that the gift would pay dividends some time in the future, and if they didn’t there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.
‘Be a good girl,’ he said. ‘Now I’m going.’
The sounds in the passage had quietened; men were talking in the next room. Olive moved. Whittaker opened the door cautiously. The other room door was open, but no one was in sight.
He couldn’t stay in Blick’s room in case that was searched.
He stepped into the passage and started to close the door. There were ten yards between him and the corner, and the odds were on him making them before anyone came out of the girls’ room.
He started with a long stride.
Then a door opened, nearly opposite Olive John’s room, and a policeman appeared behind him.
Whittaker didn’t try to hide from the fact; he was in as , tight a jam as he’d ever known. As he had run, he had made the case against him as black as it could be. He heard the policeman shout: ‘Here he is, boys! Watch yourselves.’
The policeman had a gun, but wasn’t in the right position to shoot.
Whittaker had Blick’s automatic but didn’t try to use it.
Other men moved fast. Whittaker didn’t see them, but guessed that they came tearing out of the room into the passage. He rounded the corner, knowing that the policeman behind him was approaching swiftly. If that wasn’t bad enough he found another New York cop in front. This man’s hand was at his revolver, his feet were planted wide apart, guarding the doors of the elevator. These were closed. The cop looked broad and tough and his gun looked deadly.
‘Just hold it,’ he said. ‘Don’t rush me, son.’
More men came hurrying from behind Whittaker, and there wasn’t any doubt that they would be armed and ready to shoot.
‘Okay,’ Whittaker said and forced a grin. ‘I won’t make any trouble.’ He stopped moving and his voice sounded tired. He was three yards away from the armed policeman ahead, and the others were almost on top of him. He leaned against the wall and held his hands high in token of surrender, as two men in plain clothes swung towards him.
One exclaimed, ‘It’s Whittaker!’
‘Just call me Neil,’ said Whittaker in that tired voice. ‘And ask your friend to put away his gun, will you ? I get nervous of people with guns.’
‘I can think of another way of making you nervous,’ said the second plain-clothes man. He was big and tall, almost another Bob Gann; he was Bob’s type, too. He eyed Whittaker up and down, and the uniformed policeman waited for instructions, while the first plain-clothes man, gun in hand, moved towards Whittaker.
‘Watch him,’ he said.
‘Don’t crowd me,’ Whittaker said. ‘There’s no need.’
He saw all three of them, yet nothing was clearer than the face of Bob Gann’s wife, which was in his mind’s eye even then. He knew that she was going out for vengeance, and was sure that nothing would stop her from trying. He didn’t think that by herself she stood a chance in a thousand. If he were caught and taken to the police headquarters, it would reach the Press, and the Press would spread if over the front pages. He couldn’t gag them even if he wanted to. It would take a long time to get a friendly word from New Scotland Yard — and that might not help much when it came; it would take plenty of time to persuade the New York police to believe his story.
It would take much too long.
The three men were drawing closer, warily, as if they expected him to make a fight, and could guess what that fight could do to them. They had seen Blick, and they had seen the man on the stairs of the Queen B. with his broken neck. Only fools would be careless, and these men weren’t fools.
Whittaker coughed.
He put a hand to his chest suddenly, and twisted his face as if he were in acute pain. Then he leaned back against the wall, gasping. The uniformed policeman drew back, one of the others stopped with his hand outstretched. The man who reminded Whittaker of Bob Gann said sharply:
‘Who are you trying to fool?’
Whittaker said, ‘No fooling.” He screwed up his face again, clenched his hands and held his body rigid, as if he were in agony. They weren’t sure of him; wary but worried. He began to crumple up, knees sagging, head drooping, and he made a noise in his throat. Some of these men had heard that noise before; anyone who had heard death come to a human being had heard that kind of rattle.
Whittaker, eyes open and head lowered, saw their legs and feet, saw the way they stopped, could imagine the sense of horror in them. There was a gap between the two plain-clothes men — and through the gap, the staircase.
He was bent almost double.
Then he sprang, the only way he could, thrusting his lean body forward with his hands outstretched. He heard the exclamations, but didn’t know whether he had won the respite he needed. He put one hand flat on the floor and turned head-over-heels m a handspring which carried him to the stairs. His body swerved downwards. He saw the stairs looming up, got both hands down again and somersaulted, and that brought him to a turn in the stairs. He landed on one foot, and for a split second feared a twisted ankle or a twisted knee; anything that might hold him here. He knew that once they had sight of him they would shoot; they weren’t taught to take this kind of desperation lying down, and had good reason to believe that they were dealing with a killer.
He glanced up and saw a gun, a hand and a foot.
He jumped down the next half-flight of stairs. A shot roared, and in the confined space it was like a cannon going off. Chippings from the wall showered about his head. He leapt the next half-flight of stairs, and then luck first threatened and next swung round in his favour. A huge carton
filled with rubbish stood on the landing and nearly trapped him. He evaded it, stood by for a second and then grabbed the carton and tilted it, then tipped it over. The police were running down the stairs. They would run into the rubbish and the box, and he would gain seconds; but seconds might not be enough.
Down again. .. . One flight of stairs to go.
Footsteps sounded like thunder.
He didn’t tempt fate, but ran down these. The bottom landing was larger, there was carpet on the floor, and the door which led to the lift also led to the hall. He drew a deep breath and thrust them open. He saw one lift standing empty, the doors of another closed; and they might open at any moment, letting the police spill out. He didn’t run but strode across the hall, startling a little man who had taken over from the blonde at the desk. He also startled a family, just coming in, cursing them under his breath. A man dodged out of his way. The elevator door stayed closed, and no one burst through the other doorway.
Whittaker thrust the double doors open, and stepped into the street.
Heat struck at him.
No one was in sight, right or left, except on Broad,way. There a stream of cars snarled past traffic lights. Immediately opposite the Lamprey Hotel was a gap in the parked cars, and he went through this. He heard the whine of a bus on Broadway and broke into a run: no one was surprised to see a man running for a bus. As he reached the corner it stopped to let a woman get off. He leapt for it. He didn’t know whether anyone else had come from the hotel yet. He jumped aboard and had hardly taken a step before the driver closed the doors and started off, jolting Whittaker forward to beat the lights. Whittaker twisted his head. Men streamed out of the hotel as the bus passed; ‘streamed’, looked right; there were three of them at least, and they seemed to spill into the street. They stopped, as men on the hunt will stop, to look right and left. They split up, one coming towards Broadway, the other towards the opposite corner.
The bus carried Whittaker out of sight.
There was plenty of room. He dropped into a seat and let himself flop there, his chest heaving. He sensed the curiosity of other passengers, but didn’t give them a serious thought or a glance. His mind began to work again. The hue-and-cry would have been great enough before, and it would be doubled now. New York was so hot for him that he dare not be recognised moving about the streets. Hotels and restaurants would be danger-spots.
