The Man Who Stayed Alive

  JOHN CREASEY

  The Man Who Stayed Alive

  Copyright Note

  This e-book was made by papachanjo, but was not scanned by me. Thanks to the original uploader.

  I am trying to create at least an ample collection of all the John Creasey books which are in the excess of 500 novels. Having read and possess just a meager 10 of his books does not qualify me to be a fan but the 10 I read were enough for me to rake up some effort to scan and create these e-books.

  If you happen to have any John Creasey book and would like to add to the free online collection which I’m hoping to bring together, you can do the following:

  Scan the book in greyscale

  Save as djvu - use the free DJVU SOLO software to compress the images

  Send it to my e-mail: papachanjo@rocketmail.com

  I’ll do the rest and will add a note of credit in the finished document.

  from back cover

  Augustus Pirran wanted protection - protection from the brutal killer who wanted him dead. So, for an exorbitant sum of money, he hired two of the toughest men in the business to do the job - Neil Whittaker, private investigator, and Bob Gann, a top agent in the F.B.I.

  But on the fourth night of a cruise from England to New York, Bob Gann was viciously murdered his skull crushed by a cruel succession of blows - while Augustus Pirran was left sleeping peacefully in his bed. It was then that Whittaker began to wonder just who needed the protection . . .

  John Creasey writing as Gordon Ashe

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Note

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XVI

  CHAPTER XVII

  CHAPTER XVIII

  CHAPTER XIX

  CHAPTER XX

  CHAPTER XXI

  CHAPTER XXII

  CHAPTER XXIII

  CHAPTER I

  THE MAN WHO STAYED ALIVE

  Two men watched as Pirran went up to the bar, unsteady on his feet, sparse, fair hair awry. The girl clinging to his right arm was responsible for that; she was a blonde, and one of the curvaceous kind, with a good complexion and a way of dressing to make sure she caught the eye. The girl clinging to his left hand was so demure that it did not look as if she could be responsible for anything. She was a brunette.

  The ship rolled, and they all swayed with it.

  ‘Whisky,’ said Pirran, with the gravity of a man who was near drunkenness,’ ‘n’ soda — shorry!’

  The roll sent him, gently, into the arms of the blonde, who helped him firmly and, when he and the ship had steadied, patted his hair again. The brunette, having let him go with the roll, took his arm again.

  ‘And for the ladies,’ went on Pirran, ‘just what they require. Anyshing. Any-thing.’ He brought out this last triumphantly, but something in his manner suggested that he was aware of some missing factor. He searched, and found it. ‘Pleashe,’ he said, with great deliberation, and then nodded his head as if to make sure that he was right.

  ‘At once, sir,’ said the barman, with the precision which English barmen have, and a look which seemed to say, ‘Haven’t you had enough?’ Whatever his scruples, he overcame them as he handled the bottles deftly.

  The ship rolled.

  Pirran grabbed the whisky-and-soda, a little of which spilt on to his right hand. Having secured the glass, he seemed content to let it stay where it was.

  Of the two men watching from a comfortable corner in the big bar, one was large and American, and the other was medium-size and English; although many would have wondered if there were any Irish blood in him. He had a vague look of the Irish; a pair of blue eyes not only ready but eager to laugh, a full mouth which was at the beginning of a smile much of the time. But this could be deceptive. When the smile vanished, the light and colour seemed to go out of his eyes, and he became a plain, undistinguished man, who could get lost in any crowd.

  That was one of his great assets; a personality which could flash and sparkle, then fade into the dullness of the nondescript. He had used it to advantage throughout his life, he owed his job and his life to it.

  The American was dark, with a blue-black jowl and an intense look: just then, it was almost one of disgust.

  ‘Well, we’ve brought him back alive,’ he said. ‘I’m not so sure he was worth it.’

  The Englishman said, ‘Why not?’

  ‘Look at him.’

  The Englishman, whose name was Whittaker, looked steadily.

  ‘I see what you mean, Bob,’ he agreed. ‘I’m not in a debating mood, but aren’t you counting your chickens too early?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Don’t you have that saying on this side of the Atlantic?

  ‘Counting chickens before——’

  ‘Just make the allusion clear,’ requested Bob Gann. ‘He’s alive, and we’ve done our job. We’re within a hundred miles or so of New York. We’ll berth in the morning soon after dawn. Nothing’s gone wrong, and there’s no reason why anything should go wrong now.’

  Whittaker said thoughtfully: ‘I hope you’re right. It still worries me. No one’s made any attempt to do him any harm. I don’t understand it, and I don’t like things I can’t understand.’

  ‘I was never sure they would try to get him,’ said Gann comfortably. ‘Don’t worry any more, Neil. It’s your night for the second watch; you can put your head down whenever you like,’

  Whittaker smiled. ‘Thanks,’ he drawled, sounding just a little too English.

  The ship rolled again.

  Pirran had turned away from the bar and was making his way with portly care towards a table near the dance floor. The dancing was over and the orchestra was in bed, or should have been; only the barman, half a dozen youngsters in a curiously subdued party near the door, Whittaker and Gann, and Pirran and his attendant shapelies, were still up. It was very warm, and one of the doors was fastened back; occasionally they could hear the swish of water against the massive steel sides of the Queen B.

  ‘Ooch!’ exclaimed Pirran, and sat down abruptly. He would have fallen but for the help and guidance of the blonde, who saw him settled in his chair, and then patted his hair back into position. She looked at him fondly, as if she really felt affection for him, but that was hard to believe.

  ‘Wanna go to bed,’ announced Pirran, suddenly.

  That’s a good idea,’ the blonde said. ‘Why don’t we help you ?’

  ‘Would you help me, honey?’ Pirran’s voice was suddenly honey-sweet.

  ‘Help you?’ said honey. ‘I would encourage you, Big Boy. You ever heard that story about two minds with just one idea between them?’

  Pirran seemed to purr.

  Whittaker, who had managed to make one whisky-and-soda last for one hour and still had a little left, tossed it down. He stood up quickly, although without any outward appearance of haste.

  ‘Our cue,’ he said to Gann. ‘I’ll be seeing you.’ He didn’t move away at once, but looked in the general direction of Pirran and the two girls. ‘Bob,’ he added, ‘I apologise.’

  ‘What’s all this?’

  ‘I believe this pair of cuties was born in England, so we can’t refuse them passports, but we could have warned your people not to let them have visas.’

  ‘They’ll find their level in New York,’ Gann said dryly.

  Whittaker moved away
from his corner and towards the open door. Pirran and the two lovelies were heading for another doorway which led to the big hall, the staircase and the lifts. It would take them five minutes or more to get Pirran down the stairs and into his stateroom, and possibly they would help him to undress. He had spent most of the four days they had been at sea trying to persuade one girl or another to ‘visit’ him; it looked as if he were about to get his own way. The puzzling thing was why they had waited until tonight.

  Whittaker was on edge; the job was so nearly done, but it didn’t take much to kill a man. One shot, one stab, one blow on the head — anyone could do it in a second or so.

  But a killer wouldn’t want to be found out, would he ?

  Danger came mostly from the unexpected places; and the two girls were surely too obvious.

  Whittaker stepped through a narrow passage on to the deck. Although it was covered most of its length, the hiss of the sea came clearly, and a warm wind blew from the bows. He ducked into it, hurried, and then stepped through another doorway and was immediately at the head of a gangway which led to the main staterooms. He went down, swaying with the rolling of the ship, light as a cat. He reached the wide passage of the more expensive stateroom section and saw a white-clad steward sitting in his cubby-hole, reading.

  ‘Good-night, sir.’

  ‘Good-night.’

  Whittaker moved, still quickly, until he reached a door marked A14. He took out a key, slid it into the lock and then pushed the door open. He was inside in a flash, and the door closed without a sound. He checked this first room, with its luxury armchairs, its luxury couch, tables, bookshelves, everything anyone could desire for comfort. He made sure that no one was in the bedroom, where the two beds looked comfortable enough for Ali Baba or even for Don Juan. The bathroom was empty, too; the whole suite was secure and ready for Augustus Pirran’s sleepy head.

  Why had the blonde decided to humour him tonight?

  Whittaker went out and into a stateroom opposite, which was shared by him and Gann when on watch, with the steamship company’s collusion. Nothing had been spared to enable them to do their job thoroughly. This room boasted a similar luxury to Pirran’s, and had a little extra; there was a spy-hole at an average man’s eye-level. Whittaker had to stoop in order to look across at A14. He heard nothing for some time, and there was just the gentle roll of the ship for company, a gentle, soothing rhythm. Then sounds came as the girls arrived, half-carrying Pirran. The blonde opened the door for him.

  She helped Pirran into the stateroom, and made a good, smooth job of it, as if she had been coping with drunks all her life.

  The demure brunette didn’t go in, but closed the door and looked as if she was quite happy to wish her girl-friend well. She walked away at once, briskly.

  A man said ‘Good-night’ in a deep voice, and Whittaker grinned when he recognised Gann. Gann’s head appeared, blocking his view; and a moment later Gann tapped sharply at the door of A14. He had to knock twice before he was answered, and when the door opened, he hid the blonde from Whittaker’s sight.

  ‘What do you want ?’ the blonde asked. Something akin to tension was in her voice.

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know!’ Gann said, and Whittaker could imagine his grin. ‘Out, sweetheart.’

  She began angrily:

  ‘You go and——’

  ‘Out, sweetheart,’ repeated Gann, and his right shoulder moved; a moment later, the situation had altered substantially, for the blonde’s back was towards Whittaker, her golden hair rippling to her shoulders, and Gann’s handsome, smiling face was visible above her head. I’ll put Papa to bed, you go and remind yourself that I’ve saved you from a fate worse than death.’

  He patted her cheek, then went in and closed the door.

  The blonde stood staring at it for some time, but she didn’t speak. Her shoulders moved as if she was breathing very, very hard. Whittaker wished that he could see her face, so that he could guess at her feelings through her expression. Was she simply angry because she was disappointed of her natural prey? Had she been working up to this last night on board, deliberately holding Pirran at arm’s length? Or had she meant to kill?

  Someone meant to kill Pirran, remember.

  Twice, before he had left England, Pirran had been within a hairsbreadth of death, and there was no doubt that murder had been intended. Twice, he had virtually been warned that he would not reach New York alive. In an unexpected and peculiar way, he had courage; he had not erupted into panic, but sought help.

  He had looked in two places, and had found results from each. Neil Whittaker and Bob Gann had joined forces to help him.

  He had put his cards on the table — or so he had said.

  He wanted protection, and would buy it at a high figure. Whittaker’s reputation on both sides of the Atlantic was good; he was one of the few private operators who worked in the United States as well as England, and knew many of the tricks and much of the conditions of both worlds.

  For Whittaker, it meant a first-class trip to New York and back, and generous expenses. In return, on the outward journey, he had to be obsessed by one thing only: keeping Pirran alive. ‘ For Gann . , .

  Gann was F.B.I, who had been in London on official business. It had brought him into contact with Whittaker; and Pirran, as an American citizen, could claim his country’s protection. Gann was authorised to give it. He and Whittaker had worked together as smoothly as Siamese twins. More than once, Whittaker had told himself they would make a wonderful team.

  They didn’t know why Pirran was in danger, but he had convinced them that he was.

  It was a matter of professional pride to each that their charge should reach New York alive, but as the voyage had progressed, each man had come to like Pirran less and less. Instead of making Whittaker worry less, it made him worry more; it would be easier to get slack over a man one didn’t like.

  Whittaker went out of the stateroom when the blonde had moved towards the main hall. She walked briskly, and didn’t look behind her; obviously she had no idea that she was being followed. Whittaker found himself smiling in recollection. Gann had done a smooth job; from the first moment of meeting, it had been obvious that he and Gann would get along.

  Now the partnership was nearly over; and in some ways that was a pity.

  It was odd that in four days you could get to know a man so well that it was possible to regard him as an old friend; to be sure that whatever happened in the future, you would keep in touch. He liked Gann for a number of reasons, and he was looking forward to visiting his home, in a place called Scarsdale; to meeting his wife, and meeting his two children. He would recognise them from colour photographs which Gann carried, and which had been on the locker of the double cabin which they shared.

  If the photograph of Mrs. Gann was a fair likeness, it made Gann a lucky man. She was the kind of woman who made any man look twice. Whittaker had studied the picture several times, and felt almost as if he knew her.

  The children looked happy and healthy.

  Everything considered, Gann’s family made a good advertisement for marriage.

  Whittaker watched the blonde go down a flight of stairs towards the cabins which lacked the luxury of those near A14. She walked well. She had behaved well enough after the rebuff, he supposed. He wished he had been able to see her expression, but imagination could fill in a great many gaps. Gann would look after everything that mattered until it was time for him, Whittaker, to take over; he would wake, because he could wake whenever he wanted. That wasn’t nature’s gift, but a matter of training.

  The blonde had vanished. Even now, it was easy to dwell upon her figure.

  Whittaker moved towards a passage at the other side of the big hall, where he and Gann had their sleeping cabin. It was close enough to A14 to be handy, not so near that anyone’s suspicions were likely to be aroused. He was reflecting that until tonight there had not seemed the slightest reason for fears for Pirran; nothing at all had happened to caus
e alarm. Pirran had not betrayed any particular uneasiness, except that tendency to get drunk early in an evening, and to stay that way until he went to bed; he was always in bed very late.

  Frightened men often feared sleep.

  Anyhow, the man would hardly pay good money, and a lot of it, for protection from an imaginary danger.

  Whittaker yawned;

  It was a little before two o’clock. He decided to go and relieve Gann at four. By six, the ship would be astir with that curious and contagious excitement which seemed to affect everyone, new travellers and seasoned ones, when they were within sight of the New York skyline.

  If it was daylight, they would be able to see the coast of Long Island even now. Would a turn round the deck be a good thing, or . . .

  He yawned again, decided ‘no’ and went into his cabin — and stopped before closing the door. There was the faint drone of the engines and the creaking of the sides of the ship, all the familiar noises; and there was one which wasn’t familiar in here; the sound of someone breathing. He was quite sure of that beyond any possibility of a mistake. He was outlined against the light in the passage, a clear silhouette; and if danger came leaping, an easy target. He heard just that breathing; saw no danger.

  He kept the door half-open, and switched on a light. The breathing continued, uninterrupted. He could see the head of one bed, and only the side of another. The first bed was empty. On the other, just in sight, was a woman’s hand, pale, slender, with long, well-shaped finger-nails varnished a bright red.

  Whittaker moved so that he could see more.

  She lay in his bunk, under the bedclothes, dark hair vivid against the pillow, pretty face turned towards him, nice, tanned shoulders bare. She seemed to be asleep.

  She was the brunette who had been so demure with Pirran.

  It was utterly unexpected; so much so that for a moment it put him off his guard. But not for long.

  CHAPTER II

  SLEEPING BEAUTY

  Once he had recovered from the shock, Whittaker leaned back and looked both ways along the passage. No one was in sight, and there were only the familiar, friendly noises of the ship. He stepped into the room and closed and locked the door. By that time he had completely recovered from the effect of the first surprise, his heart was back to normal, and a smile played about the corners of his lips.