The Man Who Stayed Alive

by John Creasey

  She paused.

  ‘Is there?’

  ‘There’s a place where you could both go,’ said Rachel quietly.

  “No,’ Eve answered quickly. ‘You’re too deeply involved already.’

  ‘Don’t you think I want to be?’

  ‘That doesn’t mean that you should be.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Eve,’ Rachel said, with complete calmness. ‘It’s the only sensible thing for you and for Mr. Whittaker to do. I’ve some friends,’ she went on, looking at Whittaker, ‘in Harlem. That’s about the last place that anyone will think of looking for Eve or for you. It isn’t far away from here, and it’s on the west side. You could drive or you could walk.’

  ‘I’ve work to do,’ Whittaker said, ‘but I’d like to think that Eve was in a safe place.’

  Neither of them spoke for a moment, but obviously he had switched their thoughts from Eve to him. He finished the sandwich, and leaned forward for another.

  ‘I want to see Pirran,’ he went on. ‘And I want to see a man named Ricky.’

  He knew, as surely as if they had both cried out, that the name meant something to them, and that something wasn’t good. He bit into the sandwich, pretending to notice nothing, for this was better unforced. For a few seconds, he wondered if they were going to explain why the name affected them so, but he did nothing to prompt them.

  Rachel moved forward, to pour out coffee.

  ‘What do you know of Ricky?’ asked Eve quietly.

  ‘He’s been mentioned twice,’ Whittaker said. ‘The man who went to see if Olive Johns had the packet said that Ricky sent him. The man who shot at you said that Ricky sent him. I’d be interested to know who Ricky is.’

  ‘Will you have some more coffee?’ Rachel asked.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And another sandwich?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Ricky,’ said Eve, slowly, and left the name hovering in the air for what seemed a long time; ‘I can tell you who Ricky is. He’s Nelsom Rickett. He owns the Owl Club, the Green Club, the Red Spider Club. He owns a dozen — or it may be a hundred — strip-joints and night-spots in New York and Jersey City; he owns more upstate, New York, he owns more in Atlanta and more in Florida, and he owns some in Chicago and some of the big cities in the Middle West. Bob’ — she brought her husband’s name out without effort and without a change of tone — ‘always said that he would die happy if he could break Ricky.’

  There was silence.

  ‘Is he that had ?’ asked Whittaker heavily.

  ‘He’s just — bad.’

  ‘Where can I find him?’

  ‘You’re not going to look for him,’ said Eve firmly. ‘Not tired and all washed up like you are now. That would be crazy. You need a good night’s sleep before you go anywhere else, and that’s what you’re going to have.’ She said that mechanically, and then added almost under her breath, ‘So it’s Ricky.’

  “That’s what they say.’

  All this time Rachel had been sitting there, listening, pouring coffee, eating. She cut the cheese-cake and put a generous slice on Whittaker’s plate. Then, looking from her sister to Whittaker, she said:

  ‘Eve’s right, Mr. Whittaker. You must have a long sleep.’

  He could argue, and it wouldn’t make any difference. They could talk from now until they fell asleep in their chairs, and they wouldn’t stop him from trying to see Ricky and Pirran tonight, but they needn’t know that. Tired though he was, a dozen different questions thrust themselves into his mind, and none was easy to answer.

  ‘Have it your own way,’ he said. The cheese-cake was delicious, and actually drew his thoughts. It had a dreamlike creamy flavour.

  ‘I can drive you,’ Rachel volunteered quickly.

  ‘We can get a cab,’ Eve said.

  ‘Where’s your car?’ Whittaker asked.

  ‘It’s down town.’

  He didn’t ask why.

  ‘We can walk. We don’t want to be seen by——’

  ‘I don’t know why you’re wasting tune,’ Rachel said. ‘I’m going to drive you.’ She smiled. ‘Joanna wouldn’t let you in unless I were there to vouch for you; she would think you were going to start living in sin! Will you have more cheese-cake, Mr. Whittaker?’

  ‘Well, thanks.’

  Eve said: ‘Rachel makes the best cheese-cake in New York. You’re a good judge.’

  ‘I can believe it,’ he said.

  Ten minutes later they were sitting in Rachel’s car, which was parked nearby; there was comfortable room for all three on the front seat. As far as Whittaker could see, no one watched; and no one seemed to follow.

  Whittaker made as sure as he could of that as Rachel drove off. She took the first opportunity for a U-turn, and then drove swiftly. It was after midnight, but there was still a lot of traffic about, especially on the parkway. She didn’t turn off for some time, and when she did it was into 130th Street. From then, Whittaker lost himself. They drove along streets which were brightly lit, past shops which screamed the usual slogans, past open restaurants and shadowy cafes. It might have been any busy section of New York, except for one thing which he soon noticed. He was an old friend of New York, he liked to think he knew it well, but he would never stop being surprised, almost startled and certainly fascinated when he drove here.

  Everyone he saw was coloured; it was as if he had been driven out of the white man’s civilisation that he knew, into one which had the same surface look, the same kind of buildings, lights, colours, bustle, vitality — but in a different country where white men were not known. He looked right and left as Rachel drove obviously with thorough knowledge of the streets, and was almost sorry when she turned into a darker street than most, and slowed down. Against the pale night sky, lit by the reflection of a million neon lights, he saw a tower with a lighted cross on top; and steps and a notice-board, an illuminated sign saying: First Church of the Gospel Truth.

  ‘Wait here,’ Rachel said, ‘I’ll see Joanna.’

  She got out and closed the door.

  Eve eased herself away from Whittaker, and stretched out for a cigarette, which stood in a small container fastened to the dashboard. If she felt the tension that he did, she hid it; but her calm was unnatural, and forced. The cigarette glowed. Whittaker was watching in the mirror. No car turned after them and he felt sure that no one had followed.

  Could he be sure?

  ‘Rachel’s full of good works,’ Eve said suddenly.

  ‘I can believe that, too.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone has more friends,’ Eve went on, ‘especially in Harlem. They love her, here.’

  He said, ‘She’s good to know.’

  Eve was better to know. She could sit here as calmly as this, hiding her fear. Of course, the full impact of grief had not hit her yet, it might not, until she had finished her search for Bob’s killer.

  She lit the cigarette. Two men passed, glancing into the car; both were coloured men. Whittaker’s muscles grew taut. They sauntered by. On the other side of the street a couple stood in a doorway, not watching the car, not interested in anything but each other.

  ‘They don’t get a lot of help,’ Eve went on. ‘Rachel does all she can to bridge a gap she says should never exist.

  Sometimes I agree with her, and sometimes I don’t.’ Her profile, lit up by the red glow of the cigarette, was quite beautiful. ‘Sister Joanna is the Minister of the church, and at the back there’s a kind of hostel, with room;; or cubicles for any who need them — and a lot of Harlem people need them.’

  Whittaker didn’t speak.

  Eve said in a quicker voice: ‘Here she comes. Mr. Whit-

  taker, I don’t want you to go out again tonight. I’m shaken

  deep down now that I know Ricky is involved. It doesn’t

  make any difference in the long run, but——’

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry.’

  His hand closed over hers, hi a kind of promise wh
ich he didn’t intend to keep. The night was too precious. Tomorrow he might not know where to find Pirran. He wasn’t sure that Ricky was of first importance, he was quite sure about Pirran. He knew what he wanted to do with the little fish-like man.

  ‘It isn’t often white people stay here by night,’ said Eve. ‘Even Rachel may find it hard to persuade Joanna that you should.’

  There was movement along the alley which led from the side of the church. Rachel came, followed by a shorter woman, plump, dressed in a dark robe which almost touched the ground, her hands held in front of her, almost as a nun might be. In the light from the illuminated signs, she was smiling gravely. Whittaker opened the door and got out.

  ‘Rachel said, ‘This is Sister Joanna, Mr. Gibson, and she will be happy to give you both hospitality for the night.’

  ‘It will be my very great pleasure, sir,’ said the woman, in a deep, soft voice. ‘My guest room is at your disposal.’ Her English was as good as if she had been educated at one of the universities, and she had a fascinating voice. Now, Whittaker saw her crinkly hair was braided and coiled, like Eve’s, and that some kind of semi-precious stones sparkled in it. ‘And also you, Mrs. Gann; I’m very pleased to see you again.’ She shook hands with each of them. ‘You are sure you cannot stay, Miss Rachel ?’

  ‘I don’t think I should,’ Rachel Defoe said briskly. ‘I’ll leave them to you, Sister.’

  She got into the car and drove off.

  Sister Joanna led Whittaker and Eve along a narrow alley, down a flight of stone steps, and then into a door of a building at the back of the church. They entered a wooden hallway. A door stood open, and inside were a dozen camp-beds, with a man on each; most of the men were asleep, some looked with tired, dark eyes towards the trio as they passed.

  At the end of the passage was another, leading to an apartment with several rooms. Gravely, pleasantly, Sister Joanna showed them their rooms, each tiny but sufficient; the living-room; the bathroom. Then she left them, as if she knew that she had done everything she could.

  Eve said quietly, ‘Neil, you haven’t promised me that you won’t go out.’

  He didn’t speak. He thought, ‘Neil.’ He made himself smile.

  ‘Haven’t I?’ he said.

  CHAPTER XIII

  NIGHT

  Eve stood very close to Whittaker, at that moment. It was easy to forget that the chief reason for the shadows in her” eyes was the death of her husband. It was easy to forget that tragedy had brought them together. Here they were, man and woman, and the attraction between them was so strong, so clear, that each sensed it, and each knew that the other did, too.

  Neither moved.

  ‘You wouldn’t understand,’ she said; ‘you don’t belong here and you can’t tune yourself in. Nelsom Rickett is — very powerful. Corrupt and merciless, too. Bob swore that he would get him, and now I think it’s obvious that he was much nearer than he thought. Knowing that Ricky is behind this makes all the difference. It isn’t a thing we can do in a few hours, or in a few days. It will be a long, long time.’

  ‘First,’ Whittaker said, ‘we have to make sure that Ricky is behind it.’

  Now her eyes flared with unexpected fire.

  ‘Both men said so! You—’

  ‘Eve,’ he said, ‘I’ve worked in New York before. I know perhaps more than you think. Certainly I know that there are Bob Ganns by the dozen in the police force, sometimes powerless because of the Nelsom Ricketts. The police hate the Ricketts, but they aren’t alone. Others hate them, too. The question I’m asking myself is simple: why did two men name Ricky? If he’s so powerful, would legmen like these two even know who they work for ? And if they knew, would they talk?’

  The flame died.

  ‘I see what you mean,’ Eve said, and turned away, and added in a low-pitched voice. ‘You could be right.’

  ‘For my money, Pirran could be the key to all of this,’ went on Whittaker. ‘He’s the man I want to talk to first, who might know all the truth, especially the truth about the contents of that packet, I’m told he’s at the Waldorf-Astoria, with Ricky. Does Ricky live there ?’

  ‘I’ve never heard it said that he does.’

  ‘We can make sure that Pirran is staying there,’ said Whittaker. ‘Or you can. You must know friends of Bob——’

  ‘I can find out where Pirran is,’ Eve agreed, and moved towards him. She took his hands; hers were surprisingly cool. ‘Neil, don’t go out tonight. Have some rest. You’re not fit to go out and risk more fighting, more running, more gunning. You had no rest last night. You’ve been on the run all day; you’ll burn yourself out.’ The grip of her fingers was very tight, and there was anguish in her voice. ‘You’ll burn yourself right out, and you mustn’t do it, not in a fight like this. Don’t go!’

  He understood, somehow, that she wasn’t only talking to him. She was talking to a ghost. She was saying to him what she had said a hundred — perhaps a thousand — times to Bob Gann. She had always been ignored; he could tell that from the hopeless look in her eyes. She believed that she was fighting a losing battle, as she had often done in the past.

  He said: ‘It’s nearly two o’clock. I’ll sleep until five.’ He grinned at her. ‘If I oversleep, that’ll be my trouble! You find out if Pirran has a room at the Waldorf-Astoria, and then go to bed yourself. You’re not looking at your freshest; it’s been quite a day for you.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said quietly, ‘it’s been quite a day. Take your clothes off, mind, and get into bed: don’t just doze.’

  She was probably sure that if he did that, he would not wake at five o’clock.

  ‘I’ll be in bed when you come back with the message about Pirran,’ he promised.

  He was.

  ‘Yes,’ Eve told him. ‘He’s there, in Suite 914.’

  ‘Suite 914,’ echoed Whittaker, and as he did so he remembered the stateroom on the Queen B., which he had left an age ago. A14 there; 914 here. Odd thing, coincidence, and you met it all over the world. Coincidence didn’t make sense; but then, little did. What sense did he make, lying here, watching Eve as she went out, seeing her face turned towards him as she closed the door, wishing, against all the beliefs he held, that she wasn’t going.

  Wishing. . . .

  Five minutes later he went out to make sure that her door was locked. It was.

  It was five minutes past five.

  Whittaker woke on the instant. It was very dark. He listened for any sounds which might have disturbed him, but there was none. Then he remembered. He got out of bed slowly, found his lighter, flicked it and then found the light switch. He dressed without any kind of haste. He knew that he needed ten minutes to wake up properly; in those ten minutes he would be as good as new — except for his jaw. That was stiff. A man who had named Ricky had kicked him, a kick which wouldn’t be forgotten for a long time.

  He wished he had a hot drink of tea or coffee.

  He lit a cigarette, although it made his parched mouth seem even drier, and went to the door. He opened it cautiously. There was no light on, except the one behind him, casting his shadow. Eve’s door was still closed. He tried the handle, for reassurance; the door was locked, of course.

  He crept to the front door. As he neared it, he heard a strange harsh sound, and realised that a dozen men were snoring. Some loud, some harshly, some on a low-pitched note — there was the night’s song of the down-and-outs who had come to Sister Joanna’s sactuary.

  He grinned.

  A light was on in the big dormitory, and the door was open. No one looked towards him as he passed.

  Outside it was cool, now.

  He went swiftly, making little sound along the alley towards the street; then, right, without knowing where he was heading. He reached a corner, read a sign and felt at home: this was Park Avenue. Most of the shops were brightly lit, but there were few cars about, except those parked in the side street and on Lennox itself. A cafe” was open, and he saw two coloured men sitting on stools, a
coloured man in a white chef’s hat serving them. If he went in there, he would be too noticeable; so far, he’d got away with it, and felt sure that he hadn’t been followed to Sister Joanna’s; he mustn’t add to risks.

  He walked past the restaurant.

  Two coloured policemen were standing together at a corner, watching him with the wary curiosity of the police everywhere.

  They would be more suspicious of a white man alone, here, at this hour. He could see their guns. He felt the temptation to hurry, but didn’t let himself. Shoulders hunched, he slouched past.

  They didn’t follow.

  He wondered if he would have luck with a taxi, when he saw four at a stand. The driver of the first was too eager to have a customer to worry about looking hard at him.

  ‘Where for, suh?’

  ‘Park and 48th,’ Whittaker said.

  ‘Sure thing.’

  So the City did sleep. Or, at least, it lived sluggishly in these early hours. Here and there a moving car, here and there an open restaurant. There were lights everywhere, lights of every colour and of brilliance, flashing lights, moving lights, dazzling lights, all fighting the dawn, which was coming fast. It was like a garish city of uneasy sleep — but as he drew nearer the heart, there were more cars, more people, more open doorways, more policemen. The cabby took him down Broadway for a while, and then switched off. The mass of lights near Times Square looked fantastic in their dazzling brilliance.

  ‘Park and 48th, suh.’

  ‘Fine!’ said Whittaker, ‘Thanks.’

  Two people, a broad man and a silver-haired girl, came out of the big hotel as he approached it. A patrol car crawled by. A commissionaire stood staring into the lights of the wide avenue. The windows outside the hotel were brightly lit, the models in them appealing to the night itself. Whit-taker felt absolutely secure in his anonymity; only people who had seen him would have any real chance to recognise him; the other risk was negligible. Yet he was on edge eve moment. He felt his automatic, and the gun which he had taken from the man outside Rachel’s apartment. One too many? Not in a thousand years. He went briskly into the hotel, and the commissionaire took no notice of him at all. The revolving doors squealed. Inside, it was almost empty and very bright. Three clerks stood waiting for customers who didn’t come. He ignored them and went to the bellboy’s desk. The ‘boy’ greeted him smartly.