by John Creasey
He put a hand to the uninjured side of his head, which seemed to be aching more than the other; as if blood had given some release from pain. He had to face it; he couldn’t go upstairs and then down, and he wasn’t much good on his own. If he appeared at the elevator like this, he would have everybody screaming for an ambulance, and the police would be here before he could get to the swing doors. If he had ever needed help in his life he needed it now.
He moved heavily, reached the bedside table where the photograph had laid, and stared at the telephone. Then he picked it up. Almost at once a man answered.
‘Desk clerk, help you?’
‘Room 71, please,’ Whittaker said and repeated, ‘71.’
‘ ‘Right away.’
Whittaker heard the number being plugged; and then he was plagued by two doubts. Was it number 71 ? Was that the number Eve had given him? He couldn’t be sure, not absolutely sure, now that he started to think about it. There was another thing: supposing she had gone? How long had he told her to wait? Half an hour? It was much longer than that, wasn’t it, much longer than that?
Tck tck tck the plug went in and out.
‘Sorry, can’t get any reply,’ the clerk said.
‘All right,’ muttered Whittaker. ‘Thanks.’ He put the receiver down slowly. He felt as if his world had come to an end, because he had so much to do, and it seemed more than he could manage. It was like relying on a boulder on a high mountain peak, putting one’s whole weight on it, and then finding it give way.
Well, he’d have to manage by himself. The trouble was to get across the hall. If he went into the ill-lit restaurant he might have more chance; there would be that welcome dimness, and the soft-footed head-waiter, the bar, and the crooner. Yes, that was his best chance.
He turned towards the door.
It was opening.
Whittaker was half the length of the room away from the door, and he couldn’t do a thing. He was incapable of swift action, now. His right arm hung limp and the strength had gone out of his body; a child couldn’t have felt more useless, more helpless. He stood staring at the moving door. When he had slammed it in the face of the irate neighbour, it had latched, but he hadn’t turned the key in the lock, and there was no way of stopping it from opening.
He had to take what came.
It opened wider, and he saw a woman’s hand; and then Eve.
Eve.
He stood swaying, putting a hand out towards the wall, which was too far away for him to touch. Eve. He saw her face very clearly, saw the expression of alarm on it, the quick flash of dread. Then she came towards him. She didn’t speak, but her right arm went about his waist, and suddenly he had someone to lean against. He didn’t try to say a word; there was no need. To reach him, she had stepped over the girl’s body, and he didn’t think she had looked downwards after the first glance.
‘Neil,’ she said, when he was steady against her slender strength ‘we’ve got to get to the car. I’ll help you to the elevator, and we’ll go from the elevator to the restaurant, because that’s the quickest way. Now you’ve got to do it, do you understand?’
He nodded; and his head began to scream.
‘If we had a hat,’ she said, ‘if only- — ‘ She broke off, with an exclamation, and he wondered what she had seen; and then, with the delayed action which he could do nothing about, he thought, ‘The door.’
It wasn’t the door.
On a post at the foot of the bed was a hat; just a lightweight hat; the other man’s.
‘See that,’ Whittaker said hoarsely. ‘Hat.’
‘Don’t talk, Neil.’
‘Hat.’
‘Come on,’ Eve said.
She didn’t add that they should pray that no one chose to walk along the passage at this moment, or that no one came to their floor when they called the lift. Every second was going to hold its menace and its acute danger. He tried to brace himself. Eve’s arm was still around him, and he thought vaguely that they must look funny. Then they began to walk.
The door.
The passage.
The corner.
The elevator.
It opened.
Whittaker felt his heart turn over and felt a shiver run through Eve’s body. They stood still. The doors opened wide, and the elevator light was very bright. A shadow appeared, and then a man of middle-age, rounded and sleekly dressed, with a woman who was considerably younger. The woman averted her gaze but Whittaker hardly noticed that; he just noticed the couple who were within a few feet of him. They stepped out of the elevator and turned right, towards the room which Whittaker and Eve had left. The man had brushed close to Whittaker, his head within six inches of the ugly wound in Whittaker’s temple.
‘Step in,’ said Eve steadily, and helped him.
The slight jolt of the lift as it started downwards threatened to lift Whittaker’s head from his shoulders. He thought, foolishly, that he was much worse than he had thought. He wasn’t so much worried as annoyed by that; he resented being helpless, even if he was being-helped by Eve,.
They stopped and the doors slid open.
No one was immediately in front of them, waiting to go up, and when Whittaker turned towards the restaurant, his wounded side was towards the wall. Two women in the corner might be puzzled because Eve was supporting him, the head-waiter might wonder why that was necessary, but — they wouldn’t see the blood on his coat, would they ?
‘Would you like a cab, ma’am?’ the head-waiter purred.
‘No, thank you,’ Eve said. ‘The car’s just along the street.’
Whittaker knew that the man opened the street door for them, and suspected that he stood and watched them, but he didn’t care. His head seemed to be swelling. The pain in his right arm was getting worse now, because she kept knocking against it. He couldn’t blame her, but there it was; every time they took a step it was as if someone had twisted his arm, and two broken ends of a bone grated.
They reached the corner.
He swayed helplessly.
‘Neil,’ Eve said desperately, ‘you’ve got to keep on your feet until we get to the car. You’ve got to.’
‘Feet,’ he said. ‘Hat. Feet, eh?’
‘Come on,’ she said, ‘it’s green.’ She took a step and seemed to be taking his arm with her. He groaned. He heard footsteps, but was not aware of the way people stared at them. He hardly realised that Eve was dragging him across the road towards the car.
CHAPTER XXI
FEAR
Whittaker was still conscious. He knew that he stood by the side of the car, and that Eve was speaking to him, but he didn’t understand what she wanted him to do. It was as if he had lost complete control of his mind, as if nothing would signal from his brain to the rest of his body.
‘Neil, step in — you must step in!’
He heard the edge of fear in Eve’s voice, and could easily understand it. He wanted to help her to get rid of it, but that wasn’t so easy. Then he realised that the door was opened.
‘Help you, lady?’ a man said.
Whittaker felt Eve’s arm tighten round his waist. Thank God, she was on the other side now! His right arm wasn’t hurting so much; it was painful, but not being twisted, not scraping and screaming at the same time. And now, someone else was here.’
‘Help you, lady?’ And Eve stiffened as if she were suddenly frightened.
It was a cop.
Eve said: ‘Would you be that kind? I’m afraid I’ve had a little, trouble with him.’
‘Sure, I can see,’ said the policeman bluffly. ‘You ain’t the only one to nave that kind of man-trouble, lady. You go get in and help pull from the inside.’
‘Thank you very much,’ Eve said.
Pull?
In a panic Whittaker thought, ‘Don’t leave me!’ But she had gone. Instead of her firm arm, there was the massive arm of the policeman slapped round his waist like a band of steel. The policeman had no finesse at all, but treated Whittaker as he would a sack of corn leaning
his weight against him but hardly touching that right arm.
Eve called, ‘All right, now!’
‘Here he comes,’ said the policeman.
Whittaker didn’t know how the man did it, would probably never know. It was a combination of shoulder action, arm action, and leg action. One moment he was leaning heavily against the policeman, possessed by the despairing fear that he would never be put inside the car; the next, he was on the edge of the seat being pushed along, ,and something was grabbing at his left arm, pulling his arm.
‘No!’ he screamed.
The cop had withdrawn from the car. Eve, who had pulled his arm, dropped it as if it had burned her. Whittaker sat there with the pain sawing up and down, in his arm and head, knowing that he shouldn’t have screamed, knowing that it might change the cop’s whole outlook on the incident, knowing that he, Whittaker, couldn’t do a thing about it. Sweat ran down his forehead and into his eyes, down his cheeks and into his mouth.
‘Say, he sounds hurt,’ the cop said.
‘It’s an old trouble,’ Eve told him swiftly. ‘He put his shoulder out playing football.’
Whittaker distinguished the words, without being able to tell whether they were convincing or not. He heard nothing else. He just sat there, oozing sweat, and feeling the pain and the waves which ran up and down his body. He couldn’t take any more of it. They must stop, they must stop, he must rest, must . . .
There was vibration, movement, a jolting which made him gasp again, but he didn’t scream this time. Good work. He didn’t scream. He mustn’t scream any more. Here he was sitting next to Eve in a car and being driven along — to where ?
They went over a manhole, and jolted his arm.
He cried, ‘No, no, no!’ in a moaning kind of way.
He didn’t see how Eve looked at him, he didn’t see the lights, except those which were tinged with red; everything was because of the mists in his eyes. He felt the movement only because of the pain it brought; pain and fear. He didn’t know what the fear was, at first, but something happened to make him understand.
It was fear of death.
No!
So this was how it came.
He found himself gritting his teeth, as he had often done since he stepped into stateroom A14 and seen the back of Bob Gann’s head. This was how it came, this was the process of dying. He had often faced it. His wife and now Eve had cried that he would go on until he let himself get killed, and that was what he had done. He could feel the coma creeping over him: He could feel a choking sensation in his throat and a tightness in his lungs. He remembered the sound which he had heard from Olive, and the sound he had made himself, when he had pretended.
He had mocked life then.
He had fought as if he could never die, but here was death coming to him, and he hated and feared it. Then, although it had in fact been close, it had seemed a million miles away. Now night was close upon him, like a cloud rolling over the mountains of the world towards him. And in his fear he fought against it with useless sweat and grunting and groaning and writhing.
•He knew that the car stopped.
He knew that the door opened.
He did not know that five minutes passed between those two incidents, or that when the door opened Eve and her sister were together. Eve drew him out of the car, pulling his other arm now, and that didn’t hurt. Then Rachel took his left side, and Eve went to the other. She hurt, but not so much as she had before; she knew what she was doing, now. They didn’t have to go far; just to the elevator. He sensed that he was in it, and his head seemed to lift off when they started up, but there was nothing he could do about it.
He heard words.
Morphia — doctor — hospital — bed. All of these were jumbled up 1n his mind, and they were all meaningless, because he was sure that he was going to die. He still feared that; he had never known anything like the fear. It seemed to him that there was a yawning gap in the life he knew, that it was too wide to span, and that in trying to get to the other side he would have to drop into death.
He writhed.
He sweated.
He felt coolness upon his arms, and then a sharp prick in one arm, and he didn’t quite know what it was — but he did know he was going to die. He could feel death creeping over him, in waves. Those billowing clouds were coming down the mountain; he couldn’t get out of their way. He wanted to shriek and to turn and run; he wanted to do anything except wait and let them bring their darkness, but he couldn’t move. He was being held down, someone was pressing against him harder and harder.
He screamed.
He felt the clouds about him now, in his mind, in his heart.
This was death.
He couldn’t resist it any longer.
Eve stood away from the bed where Whittaker lay, and put a hand to her damp and quivering lips. Her sister, calmer than she, was moving away from the bed. She went out of the room and Eve stood looking down on Whitaker’s desperately pale face, on the closed eyes, on the ugly wound in the temple. He seemed hardly to be breathing, but she knew that he was alive. The morphia had brought him relief from pain, but had also given him the fear which his final convulsive shout had revealed. She knew what he feared; it was as if death stretched out and touched her also.
Rachel came back.
She didn’t speak, but moved nearer to Whittaker, and put a damp towel lightly on his forehead, then wiped his glistening cheeks and lips; next she put a wet cloth between his lips. He was just breathing. She stood back from the bed and said quietly:
‘Eve, don’t just stand there.’
Eve didn’t move or speak.
‘I’ve telephoned for Dr. Glister,’ Rachel said. ‘He’ll be here in twenty minutes. He’s the only one we can rely on not to go running to the police. You know that. Now, relax, Eve; you’ve done all you can.’
Eve said: ‘I told him not to go. I did everything in the world to stop him, and he wouldn’t listen. He just wouldn’t listen to me; he——’
‘Eve!’
Eve turned away slowly.
‘All right,’ she said in a dull and empty voice, ‘I know, I’m being foolish; I’m sorry, Rachel.’ She moved away from the bed, and seemed as if she would blunder into the open door. Her sister moved a hand to guide her. ‘Somehow, it was as if I were looking at Bob, and not at a stranger. It’s as if Bob were dying.’
‘He’s not dying,’ Rachel said.
Eve raised her hands. ‘Don’t just say that.’
‘I’m not just saying it! I believe it.’
‘You — you don’t think he’ll die?’
‘I don’t think he’ll die,’ Rachel declared firmly. ‘Eve, you must go and sit down. I’ve never seen you anything like this. If you go on this way, you’ll have a collapse, and then I’ll have the two of you on my hands. Come on, let me give you a drink, and you’ll feel better.’
She led the way into the living-room.
‘After all,’ she said practically, ‘he isn’t Bob. It’s no use taking on so.’
‘No,’ said Eve. ‘He’s not Bob. Bob’s dead, and Neil’s going to die. Of course, he’s going to die.’
Rachel was in a corner, pouring out brandy. She brought the glass across, and held it to her sister’s lips. Eve sipped. She hardly noticed what she was drinking, and she looked blankly past Rachel. Neither spoke. Close together like that, the likeness between them was quite remarkable; had Rachel been a little taller, a little deeper-breasted, they would have looked identical.
‘If you’re so worried,’ said Rachel, ‘why don’t you call a hospital?’
Eve said: ‘I can’t do that; you know I can’t. The girl was dead; there was no evidence that anyone else had been in the room, I know — but add it all up, Rachel — add every thing up. What could save him ? Even if he were ah under cover man for Scotland Yard it wouldn’t help, not after all that’s happened. At heart, Neil knows it; he always knew it, and yet he took the chances he did because he’d met Bob, and——�
��
Rachel said, ‘Or because he’d met you.’
‘No,’ said Eve in a low voice. ‘No, it wasn’t that; it was something deeper, finer.’
‘He’s a man,’ Rachel said.
Eve moved towards the window, pulled the cord at the side and opened the Venetian blinds so that she could look into the street. No cars came near. No shadowy figures lurked. The only movement was in the distance, on the Parkway and on the River.
‘How long did Dr. Clister say he’d be?’
‘He won’t be long.’
‘Rachel,’ Eve said, ‘if he dies I don’t know what I shall do.
I just don’t know. It’s as if——’
‘Why don’t you pull yourself together ?’ Rachel demanded roughly. She came striding across, and actually pulled at her sister’s arm to make her turn round. ‘You’ve just got to do that, Eve. Can’t you understand what’s happened? You’ve projected Bob’s personality on to this man Whittaker. He isn’t Bob, but you see him as Bob. When you heard that Bob had died you didn’t believe it. Oh, you did with your mind and your reason, you knew it was true, and you’ve seen him lying in a morgue, but your heart rebelled. It was something you’d always feared, but it couldn’t really happen. That’s what you told yourself subconsciously, and — that’s why you feel like this. Whittaker is Bob to you — but he isn’t Bob. He’s a complete stranger. He comes from a different country, from a different world. If you’d met him with Bob, you wouldn’t have thought twice about him, he would be just another man. Now he’s a sort of personification of Bob, almost a deification. You’re coming near to worshipping him; it — it’s hideous, I can’t stand by and let it happen. He’s not Bob.’
Eve just looked at her, with her eyes glinting as if silver had been poured into them.
‘Eve,’ Rachel cried, ‘don’t look like that!’ She took her arm and shook her. ‘I know what will happen if he dies. You will do just what you were doing before. You’ll go home. You’ll live with young Bob and Mimi. You’ll live the life you’ve always lived. Bob’s only been home for a few weeks here, a little time there, just a series of vacations, and you know it. You won’t be looking forward to his coming home; that’s the only difference. You’ll be wholly self-sufficient, and you’ll know it — you’ve not realised it before. Bob was a dream, a hero, someone you saw in your mind, and he was never home long enough to destroy the illusion. That’s the truth, Eve — why don’t you see it? His dying won’t make much difference to you, not really, not in living day by day. He’s dead. Make yourself think that he’s having
