The Man Who Stayed Alive

by John Creasey

  Whittaker’s teeth gritted against one another so tightly that his jaws hurt. He dare not be side-tracked; dare not let himself think about the significance of Bob Gann signing a picture for Olive Johns.

  ‘Olive,’ he said, ‘so far I’ve been gentle with you.’

  She tossed her head back, and her hair with it. She didn’t move from the position near the radio. Her glowing eyes, dark and velvety brown, told him now how much she hated him for coming here; for doing what he had.

  ‘Just tell me where the packet is,’ he said.

  ‘If I knew where it was,’ said Olive Johns, ‘I’d throw it into the Hudson River before I’d let you touch it.’

  ‘You know. And you can get hurt, too.’

  ‘I don’t know where it is,’ she said. ‘Take that or leave it. I don’t know.’

  ‘You took it from Maisie.’

  “That’s right,’ she said, and gave a sneering laugh. ‘I took it from Maisie all right — and she took it from Bob.’

  Bob..

  ‘What did you do with it?’

  ‘It was collected.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘Whittaker,’ Olive said with soft venom, ‘even if I knew I wouldn’t tell you. Not now, not any time.’

  He believed that she meant it.

  He believed, also, that he could make her talk: it was one thing for her to be brave, while she doubted whether he would hurt her enough to make her talk. But if once she came to believe that he would be ruthless, she might crack. He had to make her crack. He was near the truth, and he sensed that as he had never sensed it before.

  ‘Olive,’ he said, ‘I’m not soft-hearted, or thin-skinned.’

  ‘Neil,’ she sneered, ‘you aren’t going to do a thing to me. I don’t know who she was; I just gave her the packet, as Bob asked me to.’

  He couldn’t keep back: ‘She?’

  Olive gave a scornful laugh; as if in spite of the danger, and what had happened, she could get a kick out of this.

  ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Another woman in the case — Bob’s other woman.’

  ‘Bob’s’ echoed in his mind, and for a moment he felt sick and stupid. She couldn’t mean what she seemed to mean. Take it apart. This was the second time she had talked of Bob as if she were on intimate terms with him. She could pretend, but why should she ?

  ‘And that’s all I know,’ she said clearly. ‘That’s all I know about the packet now. Shall I tell you some other things, Neil honey? — for instance, what a fool Bob made of you?’

  He thought: ‘No,’ but he didn’t speak, and didn’t look away from her. She was doing something which she probably didn’t intend: making him angry. She was sowing the seeds of doubt and mistrust in his mind, and that wasn’t healthy, because his own nerves and emotions were too raw to stand much of it. He could easily lose control.

  ‘Bob took the packet from Maisie,’ Olive said, ‘and he handed it over to me. It meant big money, and he knew what to do with it. Bob fixed it with Maisie and me, told us to string along with Pirran. He got the real packet two days before Camponi acted — and wasn’t Camponi mad . . .!’ She paused, as if to make sure that it all sank in; that it hurt as much as anything of the kind could hurt.

  Whittaker didn’t speak.

  The man on the bed stirred, but made no attempt to get off. Whittaker was within arm’s reach of him and could flatten him at a single blow, just as he could this girl. He could even break her pretty neck. One swift, savage blow, and he could snap it in two. He felt as if he wanted to.

  Olive said: ‘You work hard on this, Neil, and where will it get you ? Want her to know that Bob Gann wasn’t straight ?’

  He had sent Eve away, as if driven by a premonition of all this. It was something he would be glad about for the rest of his days.

  Olive put her hands to her forehead and thrust them backwards, drawing the glossy dark hair back tightly, throwing her face into sharp relief. There was nothing remotely demure or quiet about her; there was a wantonness no man could ever mistake; and there was desire to hurt, too; he could feel it as surely as if she had a knife blade in him, twisting and twisting.

  ‘That’s the way it was,’ she said. ‘Bob had slaved all his life for pin-money and couldn’t wait any longer for a big chance. The diamonds were too big for him. He knew it all: that Camponi stole them, operating for Ricky; Pirran took them from Camponi; and Maisie and I were to help Camponi get them back. But we preferred to work with Bob. I wouldn’t lie to you, Neil honey. Bob told me who would collect the diamonds in New York, someone who would hold them until they cooled off. And — she collected.’

  ‘And you didn’t know her?’ Whittaker asked in a hard voice.

  ‘She gave me half of a photograph of Boo. He’d given me the other.’ Olive pointed. ‘Go and see; it’s in that drawer.’

  It was in a drawer beneath Bob’s photograph. He found the two halves, and there was Bob Gann, handsome, easy, smiling. He wanted to tear the pieces across and across, but stopped himself from that as well as from showing any emotion at all.

  ‘What was she like?’

  ‘She had two legs, two arms. . . .’

  ‘Olive,’ he said, ‘don’t take too many chances.’

  She stopped, for the tone of his voice and the look in his eyes had scared her.

  ‘What was there between you and Bob?’ he made himself say.

  She didn’t answer, until he rasped:

  ‘Come on, let’s have it!’

  ‘Don’t come any nearer,’ Olive said urgently. ‘Don’t!’ He stood where he was, watching and hating her, as she went on: ‘We’d met in London, when Bob found out that Maisie and I were with Camponi. He’d been away from home for a long time, and he — he wanted someone who’d give——’

  She stopped. Then:

  ‘If you don’t believe me,’ she said, ‘look at that photograph. But don’t get it wrong. He told me he’d rather kill me than let me wreck his home. But you’d wreck it, wouldn’t you? You have to drag out all the truth!’

  She still gripped her head between her hands, the scarlet nails like blobs of blood against the dark hair. Suddenly she threw back her head and screamed laughter at him, as if she wanted to go on gloating until his breath died away.

  The music droned on.

  The man on the bed stirred.

  What was the use of arguing ? Whittaker asked himself. Of course it was true. There was no point in her lying. London — and later Bob — had wanted that packet, and had got it. He had used her as his messenger, and she had given it to ‘his woman’ — no, wait!

  ‘Olive,’ Whittaker said, ‘why give up a fortune when Bob was dead?’

  ‘Oh, she paid me,’ Olive said, swiftly. ‘And what good were they to me? With Ricky on one side and the police on the other, I wouldn’t have had a chance — not a chance in a million! So I collected ten thousand dollars, and was glad to.’

  Whittaker didn’t consciously think, ‘Eve?’ He wouldn’t let himself. He was sure that when the moment of shock was gone, and he could see more clearly, he would realise that it couldn’t have been her.

  Bob Gann had fooled him, though; completely.

  ‘He was worried about you,’ Olive was saying, hoarsely. ‘He thought Pirran had arranged for you to spy on him, thought you might guess what he was up to. I told him he needn’t worry, told him you were a blind fool, but he was still worried.’

  Whittaker said very softly, ‘Who is she, Olive?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you that,’ she said, and her voice quivered, as if she had trouble in controlling it. ‘I couldn’t tell you or anyone in this world, even if I wanted to. Ricky tried to make me tell. Blick’s from Ricky. Ask him!’ She stabbed a finger towards the man on the bed. ‘They’ve tried everything, but I can’t tell. I didn’t want to know; if I knew, it would put me on the spot. So I collected, and that’s all. I guessed I’d have a few bad days. But when everyone realised I didn’t know her — ‘

  ‘Wh
at was she like?’

  ‘She wore a veil, and she hardly said a word. I can’t tell you a thing more.’

  Whittaker said: ‘Listen. Bob Gann had a reputation. Perhaps he betrayed it. Perhaps he betrayed all the trust that was put in him, but it doesn’t alter the fact that he had a reputation for being on the square. So——’

  ‘Should I care now?’

  ‘Yes, you should care, because that reputation will die if the truth is told. But if I can get the packet——’

  ‘No,’ she said swiftly, ‘you can’t fool me like that, you can’t twist the words round. Bob asked me to give it to her, and I did.’

  She drew back slowly, giving Whittaker the impression that the strength had drained out of her. He stood watching. He hadn’t reached the stage of wondering what would happen if Eve ever learned the truth about Bob. He didn’t want to face that. He wanted those diamonds, and wanted to find out who worked with Bob, who the mysterious woman was. He wanted Ricky, too, but Ricky could wait. This unknown woman was the cog on which all this violence and all the murders had turned. It was all-important.

  ‘Olive,’ Whittaker said, ‘there are two ways of doing this: the hard and the easy. I believe you know more. Tell me, and you’ll get away with all the rest. I won’t tell the police where I got the information. If you need more money, I’ll see that you get it. I’ll see you through. But if you won’t tell me who took the packet, then you’ll get the whole works. First from me — and if I can’t break you, then from the police. . . .’

  ‘No one in the world could break me,’ she screeched, and flung herself bodily at him.

  He should have expected it, but he hadn’t.

  She launched herself forward like a stone from a catapult — a stone with sharp, razor-like edges. She clawed at his face, at his eyes, at his mouth. He tasted the salt of blood. She kicked at him and butted at him with her head, as if she had gone completely mad. For the first few seconds he had to give ground, could concentrate only on defending himself and saving his eyes. He fought for just a breathing-space, for this fury couldn’t last. If he hadn’t been so pent-up with the other things it would never have happened.

  He held her off.

  She still raged, but she couldn’t get at him.

  Then the man on the bed rolled over, leapt off the bed and grabbed the chair from the door. Whittaker couldn’t stop him; it all happened in a split second. He tried to push the maddened woman off, but she clung to him. He couldn’t even turn round. He knew that the chair was poised above his head, that the man meant to kill him. He hadn’t a chance while Olive clung like a leech; and death could come any second, any——

  He made a tremendous effort, and spun round with the woman in his arms.

  Blick brought the chair crashing down, and one leg caught Olive’s head.

  Whittaker heard the crunch. He saw her eyes roll. He heard the sound which he had once feigned, only a few yards (from this very spot. He felt her relax, and saw her fold up.

  Blick was nearly off his balance, but struck again. Whit-taker flung his left arm up to fend off the blow. A leg of the chair smashed against him; a bone seemed to crack. His arm dropped, lifeless, and he couldn’t dodge away because of Olive Johns in a crumpled heap; he saw the chair raised in the man’s two hands, saw it falling, knew that it was smashing towards the back of his head.

  He collapsed.

  He fell a fraction of a second before the blow came, and by dropping, robbed it of some of its force. But he couldn’t stop himself from falling, he couldn’t save himself if there were another blow.

  The chair smashed on the floor and broke.

  There was a moment’s pause.

  He heard running footsteps, then the radio music, gay and lilting, with a bright-voiced vocalist saying: ‘Oh, gee! it’s a wonderful wonderful wonderful world.’

  Blick had run off in panic.

  Was Olive dead?

  Would he live?

  CHAPTER XX

  THE PHOTOGRAPH

  Whittaker could hardly see. His head felt as if great wheels were inside it, grinding round and round, smashing at his nerves and making them scream. There were spots and vivid flashes in front of his eyes. His right arm was aching badly; he didn’t think much about it, because it all seemed part of the same pain, the same hopelessness. Something within him told him to hurry, but he could not; he did not think he could move without help.

  Someone was singing.

  ‘Oh, gee! it’s a wonderful wonderful wonderful world.’

  A man started speaking, and the music faded into the background. The man’s voice was very persuasive, and he seemed to be trying to raise a laugh. The only effect on Whittaker was to make him try to raise his head.

  There was — Olive.

  Bob Gann; Maisie Gregson; Olive Johns. They had all died in the same way; seeing the one with the savaged head was like seeing them all.

  ‘There’s no doubt about it, folks, the finest washing machine in this wonderful wonderful wonderful world. Why, you could say that it’s because of the Instanto washing machine that it IS a wonderful wonderful world! And, remember, there’s no obligation if you would like to try this wonderful machine in your own home. All you have to do . . .’

  Whittaker got to his knees.

  He heard a different sound, without knowing what it was. He put a hand to his forehead, and felt it warm and sticky. His right arm wouldn’t move freely. When he raised it as high as his shoulder, pain streaked through it, but he didn’t think of ‘broken’ — it was just part of all the rest of the pain.

  The girl started singing:

  ‘Oh, gee! It’s a wonderful wonderful. . .’

  A man bellowed from outside, ‘Do you want to shut that door or do you want me to come and shut it for you?’

  Whittaker thought, ‘What door?’

  Then he realised that the passage door was ajar, and that the caller was someone from one of the other rooms. The door was a long way out of his reach, and the man sounded as if he were drawing near. Whittaker got unsteadily to his feet and made himself cry:

  ‘Sorry! Sorry, a friend went out. . .’

  He staggered towards the door and pushed it; it slammed. He didn’t stop to think that it might also enrage the man who had reached the threshold. He moved as swiftly as he could and switched off the radio: luck made him turn the right dial in the right direction. The silence was like a benediction.

  ‘. . . That’s better!’ the man shouted. ‘Keep it that way!’ He stumped off.

  Whittaker looked down at the girl’s body and closed his eyes. He felt sick, but went to her and felt her pulse. There wasn’t a sign of life. Her head was a hideous sight.

  He turned away, and after a while wondered what he himself looked like. He thought of Eve, and there was another reason for dread: what would happen when she knew?

  Need she ever know?

  ‘ Not about Olive, anyway; he could stop her from knowing about Olive, couldn’t he? Destroy that photograph, and how could she find out? Vaguely, he thought of the man who had heard everything she had said, and who could tell Eve — but why should he? And what use were words? That photograph with the message of love was one piece of finite evidence which nothing could deny.

  There it lay.

  He managed to reach it and stand up with it. It swayed in his hand; he was swaying. He put it down and picked up a box of matches lying beside it. He tore off a match, and tried to strike it; the head broke off. He tried another, and the flame burnt his fingers. He winced, and dropped it, and the match fell on the photograph, on to the middle of Bob Gann’s forehead. That was all right. The third match flared normally, and he held it to a corner of the photograph until the print began to flame. He picked it up by another corner, and, holding it downwards so that the flame would spread, went unsteadily into the bathroom. He stood over the shower well, letting the flames lick around the photographs. Bob’s chin and mouth, his nose and eyes, began to blister in the heat, then to smoke, th
en to spurt flames. The wording perished. Whittaker held just a corner of the photograph in his hand; the rest was black crinkly ash on the floor of the shower and the water there was gradually drawing it out of its crinkly shape and into a black sludge.

  Gone.

  Whittaker glanced up and saw his own face in the mirror. The blood had run down from his temple to his neck and was like a blood-red waterfall. A little of it gathered about his collar, and he” could feel that it would soon run down his neck.

  He gulped.

  He ran water in the basin, and then drew back; he couldn’t bend his head. He took a bath-towel off the rail, draped it round his shoulder and then put his head beneath the shower. He turned on the cold water, gently at first; it spurted out more fiercely than he expected, and he winced and drew back, but in a moment he could stand it, and he felt the blood washing away. He backed away, raised the towel up round the left side of his face and dabbed until he felt that he was fairly dry. He looked at his reflection again.

  It wasn’t a bad job. There was still a red smear on his cheek and at his collar, but the river had gone, and the only real blood-red was at his collar. He dabbed again, then turned away from the mirror. He mustn’t waste time. He went into the bedroom and winced at the sight of the girl’s body as if he hadn’t seen it before. There wasn’t a thing he could do.

  Wasn’t there?

  He could search the room.

  He tried. Most drawers were empty, and Olive Johns had only three suitcases. He went through everything, but didn’t find a thing. He couldn’t make a real job of it. Soon he turned towards the door.

  If he could get up to the other room without being seen, to room 71 . . .

  No. That meant going upstairs and going downstairs, and he couldn’t make such a journey. He wasn’t sure that he was physically capable, for he knew that it wouldn’t be long before he blacked out. He stood looking about him stupidly, and then someone cam& along the passage.

  He felt like screaming.

  A man and a woman, walking briskly, purposefully.

  He stared at the door without moving.

  They passed.