by John Creasey
a longer vacation, he——’
‘Rachel,’ Eve said, ‘I don’t want to talk about it any more. I just don’t want to talk.’ She peered out into the street, and a car turned the corner and came speeding. ‘There’s a car. It — it’s slowing down. It’s stopping. Rachel!’
CHAPTER XXII
HOPE
The doctor was a tall, grave-faced man with grey hair and dark skin; skin so dark that in some lights it was almost black. His full lips were pursed as he examined Whittaker, and for a long time he did not speak. Then, his dark hands, with the pale filbert-shaped nails explored the wounds, very gently, cautiously. They looked jet-black against Whittaker’s pale skin.
Eve watched.
Rachel, waited, as a nurse.
The doctor moved away from the bed and said:
‘He should be taken to hospital, of course, and it can be arranged quickly.’
‘No!’ Eve exclaimed. ‘No, he must stay here.’
The doctor looked at her gravely, hands raised and spread a little, stethoscope hanging round his thick neck. He wore a dark grey suit with the coat buttoned in spite of the warmth of the night. He had something of the look of Sister Joanna.
‘My sister is very anxious that he shouldn’t have to be questioned,’ Rachel said. ‘If you can help him here, please.’
‘Yes,’ said the doctor, ‘I can help him. But there is much risk, Miss Rachel. If he should die, then . . .’ he shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands. ‘I am the doctor; I will be blamed. Is the reason great enough for that ?’ His gaze was on Rachel, not on Eve.
She didn’t answer.
‘Can you wait ?’ Eve asked desperately. ‘Can’t you wait to see how he is in the morning? Can’t you?’
Rachel said slowly: ‘It could be an error of judgment, if anything goes wrong, couldn’t it? You thought that he would be all right until morning, or until tomorrow night.’
The room was very quiet.
Whittaker lay still, pale as death.
‘Yes,’ said the doctor, ‘it could be an error of judgment. But you forget that there is more than that — a man’s life might be at stake. If he stays here he may possibly die: if he is moved to hospital for X-ray and thorough examination, I feel sure that he can be saved. Is it worth taking such a risk, Miss Rachel?’
Rachel turned.
‘Is it, Eve?’
‘Yes,’ said Eve. She spoke stiffly, as if the word had to be forced out. ‘Yes,’ she repeated, ‘he would think so. Please do all you can for him, here.’
The doctor bowed.
‘I shall need a nurse, Miss Rachel,’ he said, quietly, ‘and this room must be turned into a theatre. It can be said that I believed it would be fatal to move him. Yes, it can be said,’ he repeated, and he seemed easier in his mind. ‘I would like to use the telephone.’
Rachel turned and led the way.
There were mists.
Whittaker did not remember where he had seen them before; did not recall that he had pictured them as coming over the peaks of high mountains, to roll down and engulf him as if they were choking the life out of him. All he knew was that there was mist, and he could not see. It was as if his head was filled with it, and the room he was in. He did not think consciously about it, or about anything else; he was just aware of it, as one would be aware of clouds on a high mountain.
There was pale light.
Whittaker knew that it was a light which he had seen before, and which was important to him. . . . A distant, silvery light, like that of dawn at the moment of a fine day.
It was very clear. He did not feel pain, and he could not see, but he knew that he was awake, and alive.
There were shadows, which moved against the light, shapes which he could see, without realising that they were there. There were sounds, too, of voices pitched on a low key. He knew that people were in the room with him. He was not aware of pain, and yet he was aware of strangeness, in his left arm, and on the right side of his head; as if he had neither left arm nor right temple. That was really the beginning of recollection, the beginning of new hope. He had not consciously thought he was dead, but there had been that vivid feeling of dying before he had lost consciousness. Now, he knew that he was alive, and sensed exhilaration and the hope that he would stay alive. He was comparatively free from fears; those he had were of nebulous things, not of men like Ricky’s boys, or of women like Olive, or of photographs. He lay in a semi-conscious state for a long time, gradually remembering, and most vivid of all was his memory of Eve.
“Yes,’ said Eve, ‘you’re still here, at Rachel’s apartment, and you can stay here for as long as you like.’
Whittaker looked at her.
The blinds were drawn so that hardly any daylight came in, and he couldn’t see her clearly, but he didn’t forget a single feature of her face. Her voice was subdued, too, and calm. He remembered how he had felt panic when the policeman had helped him into the car, and he remembered everything that she had done for him.
He said, How long have I been here?’
‘Five days.’
‘Five days?’
‘And you can stay five weeks or five months.’
He didn’t answer. It shocked him to think that there was a gap in his mind of five whole days. He did not want to stir himself too much, or to grapple with the significance of that, but — five days.
‘Has anything — happened?’
‘Nothing you need worry about. I had to let Pirran go, but that was all. I’ve not been threatened; there’s been no trouble.’
‘The police? Have they——?’
‘They haven’t been here. Why should they come here?’
‘What about — the Lamprey?’
‘Neil,’ Eye said firmly, ‘it isn’t going to help you if you start agitating yourself. You’ve got to forget all that, and get well. The doctor thinks he can get you on your feet again in another ten days if you’ll do everything he tells you, and one of those orders is — don’t worry.’ She stood up. ‘I mustn’t stay any longer. Is there anything you want?’
He didn’t answer.
‘Is there anything you want?’
Whittaker knew that he was frowning. He couldn’t help it, because of the effort of memory. He stared at her, wishing he could see her face more clearly, and yet for the moment that wasn’t the most important thing.
‘The — the packet of diamonds ?’ he said huskily.
‘Don’t think of it, don’t harass yourself about it!’
‘Is it found?’
‘No,’ she said.
Whittaker looked about the empty room. The Venetian blinds were open slightly, so that the sun could shine between the slats and make patterns on the carpet and on the legs of chairs which stood in the way. He could hear the noises of the street. He knew that the room had become part of his life, and that in some ways it was the most important part. Eve, quiet-voiced and quiet-moving, Rachel with the same kind of grace and quietness, had been his only companions, except for the tall, handsome coloured doctor, with his assurances and his slight hint of anxiety, as if his gravity were caused by something more than his knowledge of the patient’s health.
He had been awake for half an hour.
His head felt quite clear again, and there was no suspicion of an ache in it — nor in his arm. His arm was in a plaster cast, of course: the chair had broken it. But he was assured that it would mend, and that in a short while he would hardly know that it had been seriously damaged. There was nothing to worry about there. The head wound was healing, too, and he had recovered much of the lost blood. There was no danger left: all he had to do was to take things quietly, when he was up and about again. Eve had talked about a cabin she had in the Adirondacks, somewhere near Lake Placid, but they had not gone into that seriously.
He wondered when she would come. He wanted to see her, although he knew that when she came there was a risk that they would clash again.
He wanted to know about — e
verything.
All he knew was that there was no news about the diamonds, as far as Eve was aware. No arrests had been made. The news of the murder of Olive Johns had screeched from the front pages for a day, and since then other crimes and other sensations had driven her story to small paragraphs. He had seen some of these and they meant less than nothing. He knew that the Queen B. had been back to England, had been here again and was halfway across the Atlantic by now.
He knew that when Eve released Pirran, Pirran had gone off; he didn’t know where.
As far as he knew, nothing had happened to Ricky, Blick, or Moyan; nothing that the newspapers had reported, anyhow.
He kept thinking of Olive Johns and her story; her talk of having given the packet to this veiled woman whom she couldn’t identify. Who had been to the Lamprey Hotel, to take the packet? Who . . .
He must find Pirran again, or get to Ricky. There was something to puzzle out. Once he had been knocked out and Olive dead, the trouble had stopped: Eve hadn’t been in any further danger. All had been quiet. Did that mean that Ricky had found the packet? Was it all over? Had Olive said something that had given Blick a vital clue?
If she had, what could it be?
Just the diamonds had been given to a woman whom Bob Gann had known?
If it was someone whom Bob Gann had known, then it could be Rachel.
* * *
Whittaker was alone in the apartment for the first time. He wasn’t well, but he was much better. He knew exactly what he wanted to do, and he knew also that this was next to Rachel’s room. He’d seen hers, and he knew that this had once been a dressing-room. It was at the back of the building, too, and quieter than the larger rooms at the front.
For the first time Whittaker got out of bed unaided. He wasn’t steady on his feet, but he kept upright. He went into the big bright room beyond, with its large bed, its silks, its colours; and he reached a writing-bureau. He sat at it, breathing heavily, until he felt he could screw himself up to further effort. It had a flap which, when lowered, made a level surface for writing; but it was locked.
Soon, he picked at the lock.
In five minutes he had it open.
He rummaged through the papers, found nothing which offered any evidence; nothing which even hinted at it. He kept on, tapping the sides and the roof and the base of the recess in the bureau.
Then he found the tiny indentation, only large enough for a finger-nail. He pressed and discovered what he wanted; the false compartment.
There it lay.
He stared at the packet unbelievingly. It answered the description: a sealed, brown paper packet. He felt quite sure what it was, and yet didn’t really believe it. Here.
He forgot everything, until——
He heard a key in the front door.
For a moment he was in a sweat of utter panic. Physical weakness made it worse, and he could hardly think, he couldn’t move. Then the door opened and closed, and Eve ‘I’m back, Rachel!’
Whittaker put the packet back, then pushed the lever, and the compartment fell into position, but — it wasn’t locked. He had time, he must have time.
‘Rachel! Are you there?’
Eve was nearer.
Whittaker closed the drawer and moved away. He hardly knew how he got to his bedroom without falling. He reached the bed and collapsed before getting in. His whole body was wet with sweat, and for all he knew Eve was already in the room, looking at him.
If she were she didn’t speak to him.
Somehow, he got into bed. The plaster cast made difficulties and his weak legs made more; the springs creaked; but he got there and lay down.
Bob’s accomplice was Rachel.
Eve. . . .
Eve mustn’t know. She was in the other room, he realised, and hadn’t come in here. He could still hear her in there.
What was she doing?
Whittaker was still weak from the exertions. Drugs had kept his nerves quiet for a long time, but he had done much more than he should, and could not regain full self-control. He listened intently, sure that Eve hadn’t come into this room, but puzzled by the quiet and by the fact that she hadn’t come to see him.
He still heard movement in Rachel’s room — the room where he’d been, where it was.
It was repeated.
What was Eve doing there?
Eve in Rachel’s room.
The sound came again; and somehow it seemed furtive. Was that his imagination? Had the need for swift escape, added to the shock of the discovery, made him imagine . . .
There was a subdued kind of thud, then tapping as of fingers on wood, and — after a long pause — a squeak.
He had heard that squeak when lifting the lid of the bureau. What was Eve doing?
Squeak.
Whittaker eased himself up on his elbow, and that in itself cost considerable effort. He shouldn’t do it; he hadn’t recovered enough. He felt clumsy and fearful in case he taxed himself too much. He tried to peer through the partly-open door, but couldn’t see anything except the carpet and the foot of a chair or a table.
Tap — tap — tap.
What was Eve doing?
Did she suspect that Rachel and Bob . . .
He had to find out; and there was only one way; to get up again. The thought was agony in itself, but it had to be done.
His heart was banging.
He pushed back the bedclothes and fought against the nausea which the thought of the effort brought on. He beat it. The bedclothes were back at last, and he could put one leg over the side of the bed and grope for the floor.
Tap — tap——
Then he heard a stifled exclamation and had no doubt what it meant. Eve had found the secret panel; she was staring down at the packet as he had done.
Then he heard another sound, a fearful one, because it was so utterly unexpected.
Another key in the front door!
He caught his breath.
This would be Rachel, and Rachel would go straight into the room next door, would find Eve at the writing-bureau.
There was a flurry of sound in the room next door, as if Eve were in a desperate hurry as he had been. What could he do to help her?
Rachel, from the hallway, called clearly, ‘Where are you, Eve?’
There was no answer, just the flurry of movement in
Rachel’s room. Only he could help Eve now; if he could
attract Rachel’s attention, calling out, and bring her straight
in here——
He hadn’t raised his voice for weeks.
‘Rachel! Come — come and help, come!’
He stopped abruptly.
The communicating door opened wider, and Eve appeared: a frightened Eve, her face red, her eyes strangely bright, as if by burning. She held the packet in her hand — the one he had seen. It.
‘Neil, be quiet——’ she began.
‘Eve!’ exclaimed Rachel.
There was another flurry of sound as she drew within Whittaker’s line of vision. Eve turned round. The two sisters faced each other, with Eve holding the packet and Rachel holding a gun.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE PACKET
Eve had her back to Whittaker, and he could just see Rachel over her shoulder, and at her side. By her side, Rachel held the gun. It was a small automatic, probably .22; as deadly as a revolver in the right hands. She wore a hat and a linen suit; Eve had on a dress of powder blue.
It was hard to believe that there could be such silence and such lack of movement.
Whittaker, still on his elbow, and with one foot out of the bed and pointing towards the floor, had to move one way or the other, his arm wouldn’t stand him. He eased himself upwards, to a sitting position, and then sat up in the bed. Now, he could hear the breathing of the two sisters. He wished above all things that he could see Eve’s face, but he could not.
Rachel spoke.
‘Neil,’ she said, ‘don’t get out of bed.’ Another silence followed befor
e she went on: ‘So you guessed, Eve. How did you guess ?’
Eve didn’t answer.
‘Why don’t you tell me ?’ Rachel asked. ‘In the long run, it won’t make any difference. How did you guess ?’
Eve said quietly: ‘I didn’t just guess, Rachel. Neil talked a lot in his sleep. When he was in a fever, too. He kept saying it was a woman who knew Bob. I couldn’t make it out at first, but gradually I began to understand. Bob knew about the diamonds and had played some part in all of this. It was hard to face,’ Eve went on in a remote voice. ‘But I had to face it. I had to think. I went over all his friends, all the women he knew. And then the police questioned me.’
Rachel caught her breath.
‘They asked me to call on them,’ Eve said evenly, ‘and when I arrived there was a man with them — one of Ricky’s men, named Blick, Blick had talked; Blick had killed Olive Johns, and had told them all she said to him. They told me this,’ Eve continued, as if each word hurt; then, ‘So I knew a great deal.
‘Then, last night, when you were out, a man telephoned. He asked for you. Something in his manner made me wonder what he really wanted, and I pretended to be you.
‘He said, “If you don’t bring those diamonds, you’re as good as dead.” That was enough. I had to search, and find out if the diamonds were here.’
She stopped.
‘It’s a great pity you pretended to be me,’ Rachel said, after a long pause; ‘it would have been much better if you’d never known.’
Eve said, ‘But now I know.’
Whittaker wished that she would turn round, longed to see her; that was more important than what he heard them say, although this was the end of the story.
She didn’t turn round.
‘I don’t understand,’ Eve went on, and she spoke slowly, as if she were truly baffled. ‘I just don’t understand it, Rachel. Why should Bob work with you? Had you been associates for — for long?’ A long silence. ‘Didn’t I give him everything? . . . everything?’
