The Man Who Stayed Alive Read online

  She wasn’t there.

  His relief was so great that he felt sick. He clutched the side of the door, swaying; and stared about him. He could see every corner, and the girl wasn’t here.

  Unsteadily, he turned to the room.

  He was sweating freely and he felt physical nausea. He had been so positive in his own mind that it was almost impossible to accept the truth.

  Here was the truth.

  Whatever had happened to the brunette, she wasn’t in here, dead.

  Not like the blonde.

  Not like Bob Gann.

  ‘Take it easy,’ Whittaker said to himself. ‘Just take it easy.’ His head was swimming, but he didn’t think that would last for long.

  Now if only he were given a little time, he might stand a chance to cover up his own traces, and be free to get on the trail of the killer.

  Just give him time.

  CHAPTER IV

  SLEEPING PARTNER

  Whittaker sat smoking and looking across at the cupboard. The cabin was quiet. He made himself sit there, within hand’s distance of whisky, but keeping his hand still. His head was much better; his fingers were sore, that was all. .

  He had been granted a little time. Not enough, yet, but already he was better able to cope.

  He heard people moving along the passage, several of them at a time, and was quite sure that the body of the dead man was being carried along towards the ship’s mortuary. He heard the shuffling footsteps, and the way a man said ‘Careful’ as if it could matter whether the dead man knocked against the wall or not. Reality was back; he could think logically, the dread had quite gone.

  The sounds faded into the distance. The ship creaked a little.

  Whittaker stubbed out his cigarette and then helped himself to a whisky-and-soda; a weak one. He was able to smile wryly. The great ship was very steady, not at all as it had been when Pirran had stumbled across the dance floor, supported by the brunette and the now dead blonde.

  It was a little after three o’clock,

  Whittaker didn’t try to force his thoughts into any particular channels — just let them drift. That way, the unimportant ones would vanish of their own accord, the vital ones show up. In fact, the process didn’t take long; and what was left gave him plenty to worry about.

  Fact one, Gann was dead and Pirran was alive.

  That mattered most and hurt most. Reason told Whittaker that no matter how quickly he had left his cabin, he would have reached A14 too late; but reason and logic didn’t help. He might have been in time. He couldn’t blame himself, even remotely, for Maisie Gregson’s death, but. . . be couldn’t forget the steward with his knowing nod which bid been almost a wink, and the inescapable fact that this man had seen Whittaker come out of the cabin where, sooner or later, the dead girl would be found.

  The inevitable consequence was obvious suspicion of

  murder. It could be taken a step further; a charge of murder on the high seas.

  Whittaker sat very still.

  The whisky did him good, warming him where he had felt cold. He could think of his own danger now, and that was a healthy sign. Half an hour ago he had scared himself because he had wanted to turn his back on the past and the future, and to run. Now, he wouldn’t run away from anything — but he might run into even more trouble.

  While he was on board, there was so much to do; but how long dare he stay? How long would it be before he was questioned, perhaps detained?

  There were a thousand things to do, remember. So many people to see.

  Augustus Pirran, for one; try to find out more from film, and never mind the fact that Pirran was paying him. He must make Pirran talk more freely, soon.

  There was another must.

  Find the brunette, so demure Olive Johns, and make her talk. too. She would know plenty, and she should be easy to scare.

  Work fast..

  But — dare he stay on board? Wouldn’t the hunt be up for him? There were three ways in which he could be associated with the murders, and one of the three was certain to make him vulnerable.

  Could he get off, even if he wanted to? This was the trouble; indecision. What was the wise thing to do?

  Remember . . . Gann was dead and Pirran was alive. If Pirran had ever been in danger of murder, it had been tonight; surely danger to him could be forgotten now; there was no need to think of staying simply out of loyalty to Pirran. Gann’s death had changed all that, hadn’t it?

  Face facts.

  Soon, the ship’s officials would be questioning him, and once that started they were likely to keep it up. The pressure might not be hard at the first questioning, but once that steward named him or the man by the stairs, then they would start hotting it up.

  There was no shadow of doubt: he ought to get ashore.

  But if he did, what could he do ? He knew New York as well as most people, but wouldn’t be able to use his normal contacts; in fact, once he had left the ship, suspicion of him would turn into virtual certainty. There was no real safety ashore.

  What alternative was there ? He could stay aboard, hoping that when the dead man was identified, it would lead to the truth of that attack; and if that were established, his story about the others would be believed more readily.

  Would it?

  He could have killed Gann and Maisie; he had had the opportunity, as the ship’s officers would find out. He would probably find himself locked as tightly as in a vice.

  At least the vacillation had done one thing; forced him to look at every angle. He had no reasonable chance aboard. So, whatever the risks, he had to try to get ashore; at least he would have some kind of chance in New York. Newspapers would tell him a lot, and he would be able to find Olive Johns.

  He had her address, hadn’t he?

  He could find out where Pirran went to in New York, too. Don’t forget Pirran might have the key to the mystery from start to finish. Not ‘why was he dead?’ but why was he alive?

  Was there a chance to get off the ship?

  Whittaker got up, and looked at himself in the mirror. His blue eyes lacked their sparkle and their colour. Good. He had plenty of experience, and could mix with a crowd easily enough, but would have to overcome passport and customs difficulties, which were formidable in New York.

  Unsurpassable?

  Then, he heard a sound at the door. It wasn’t loud, but it seemed to detonate something inside him. He swung round sharply — and saw the door handle moving. Then the door opened. So someone else had a pass-key.

  He moved swiftly to one side, but wasn’t quick enough. The door opened wider, and a man stood there.

  He had no knife and no gun, and presented no obvious danger, but he wore a uniform.

  Whittaker recognised him at once: the Master-at-Arms, the man responsible, under the Captain, for security and safety on board the great Queen B. He had the look of a St. Bernard, kindly, shaggy, yet carried menace. The difficult thing was to look genuinely surprised, even a little annoyed, but to do nothing which might heighten suspicion. Yet a fact remained: they were after him already. Any chance seemed slimmer and more dangerous now.

  The man didn’t look abashed at his uninvited entry.

  ‘Evening, sir,’ he said bluffly. ‘Just making sure you’re in. Captain Morrison would like a word with you; he’ll be here in a minute.’

  Whittaker said, ‘Who?’ just to gain time. He didn’t think he had let himself down, yet. The Master-at-Arms repeated, ‘Captain Morrison, sir,’ and then gave a broad grin. ‘Mind if I come in ?’

  Whittaker waved a hand.

  ‘I don’t see how I can do anything about it, and since you’re here you might as well be comfortable. I hope it won’t be too long. I was just going to turn in.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be many minutes, sir.’

  ‘That’s something.’ Whittaker waited until the Master-at-Arms had closed the door, and then said, ‘Care for a drink?’

  ‘Not now, sir, thanks.’

  ‘Mind if I do?�
� asked Whittaker, ‘or I’ll start nodding before the Captain gets here.’ He poured out a whisky-and-soda, not too strong, and sipped. ‘What have I done to deserve the Captain’s personal attention?’

  ‘He’ll tell you, sir.’

  ‘Hm,’ said Whittaker, as if he were fighting down his annoyance; ‘I suppose he will. Anything to do with the trouble on the staircase?’

  The Master-at-Arms didn’t answer, but turned to the door instead. A man was approaching with quick, firm footsteps; the approach of a man who knew just what he was about.

  The Master-at-Arms opened the door, and the stocky Captain of the Queen B. stepped into the cabin. Morrison had the weathered appearance to be expected of a sailor, and that other curious quality of looking as if he was always awake; that he never slept. His eyes were honey-brown and bright; the crows-feet at the corners looked as if they had been there from birth. At five feet eight he was shorter even than Whittaker, yet his breadth of shoulder and thickness of chest stopped him from looking small. He had full lips and a broad, broken nose. It was in his power to send Whittaker below, to keep him prisoner until they got back to Southampton and the police could take over. He was the absolute authority here — and he felt that there were good reasons for coming in person to see Whittaker.

  ‘Ah, Mr. Whittaker,’ he greeted. ‘I don’t think we’ve met.’ He made no attempt to shake hands. ‘As I believe you know, there’s been a most unfortunate occurrence here tonight.’

  Was he too bluff? — too hearty?

  Whittaker said dryly, ‘Yes, I gathered so.’

  ‘Did you see anything of the occurrence?’ That was blunt and to the point, touched with formality, and it was easy to answer convincingly.

  ‘No,’ Whittaker said flatly.

  ‘Have you ever seen the dead man?’

  That held a plain enough implication — a man had been found, and obviously it was the man on the stairs. Not Gann — yet. Not the blonde. They had got on to him because of the ‘occurrence’ which he had thought least likely to point his way.

  ‘Not to my knowledge,’ he said.

  ‘I’d like you to see him,’ Morrison said. ‘Have you any objection?’ He wasn’t going to waste time; he was going to use all his authority, and it looked as if he were very sure of himself. This might be a time to react badly.

  ‘None at all,’ Whittaker said coldly, ‘but I don’t see why it’s necessary to come to see me at this hour. If I can help, I will, but I hope it won’t take long. Where is he?’

  ‘Just outside,’ Morrison said, and didn’t even begin an apology.

  In fact, the dead man was on a stretcher which rested on a trolley in the passage. Sailors were at either end of the stretcher, two sergeants-at-arms near them. In its way, this was quite a show of strength. The dead man’s face was uncovered, and there was no sign of injury; no blemish.

  Morrison and the Master-at-Arms watched Whittaker intently, as if they meant to take a mental photograph of his expression, and make sure that they couldn’t forget it.

  ‘Know him ?’ asked Morrison.

  ‘I’ve seen him about on board,’ Whittaker answered, ‘but I’ve never spoken to him. Who is he?” That was the simple truth. He was still curt, and acting as if he were annoyed.

  ‘Just a passenger,’ said Morrison. ‘Until tonight we’d no reason to suspect him of any form of crime or subterfuge. However, tonight he was seen to go into a cabin where two men were.” Morrison paused, as if to let that sink in, but almost certainly to add to Whittaker’s uncertainty. Whittaker couldn’t escape the obvious question: why had they come straight here ? It wasn’t chance. Out of a thousand people they chose to question him.

  Morrison went on, in the same smooth voice, while looking down at the dead man:

  ‘He is suspected of killing one of those two men and robbing the other. Certain articles found in his pocket prove to have come from Mr. Pirran’s. . . .’

  Whittaker had just enough warning to know what to do; how to change his attitude. In one way there was cause for relief, for now he knew why they had come to him so quickly.

  He burst out, ‘Pirran’s cabin?’ He moved swiftly, and grabbed Morrison’s arm. For the moment he must have looked so menacing that the Master-at-Arms moved to intercept him, and he told himself that no one could even suspect that he knew about Bob’s death: And he kept his head. He flashed words out which should fool them completely. ‘Pirran? Is he dead? Is he?’

  Morrison was still watching intently, but Whittaker felt an easing of the tension. He had admitted reason to think that Pirran was dead, had shown not the slightest indication that he knew about Bob.

  If they had come to find out whether he knew about that, then he had fooled them.

  Morrison moved back a little, before he said in a quieter voice, ‘No, Mr. Pirran isn’t dead.’

  Whittaker began to speak, and then stopped. Behaving like this was almost an offence to the dead, but he had no choice because he was in such desperate need of time and a chance to get off this ship. In a hard, abrupt voice he said

  ‘Not Gann?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, Mr. Whittaker,’ Morrison said, and looked as if he hated bringing the news.

  Whittaker simply stood there, tense-faced, bleak-eyed. He didn’t move, and he made the silence uncomfortable.

  Then:

  ‘Where is he?’ he demanded.

  ‘Mr. Gann is still in Pirran’s room,’ Morrison said. “There is a lot of evidence that the other dead man went in, killed Gann, and searched the room. He had a pass-key, and would have no trouble getting in.’ Morrison paused, then asked quietly, ‘Were you a close personal friend of Gann?’

  Whittaker could answer this in a way that might lead to trouble; in fact, he had been so intent on making them think that he had no idea that Bob was dead, that he had overplayed his hand. Would a man show such a reaction to the news of the death of a man he had known only for a few days ?

  He had to make the best of it.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Not an old friend, but——’

  ‘You were working together, weren’t you ?’

  Morrison must have known that they were.

  ‘I’d been given instructions to leave the two rooms at your disposal,’ Morrison went on, ‘because Gann had some kind of official position in Washington. What were you doing on board?’ Now, Morrison’s manner was completely relaxed, and Whittaker began to believe that he had escaped any urgent danger, and had won himself time.

  Whittaker hesitated, and let them see that he didn’t like the question. That wouldn’t matter; if he began to talk as if what he said didn’t matter, they might take it as a sign of nerves. He had to decide not only what to tell them, but also how.

  Slowly, and with a kind of reluctant deliberation, he told part of the truth. As he did so, he tried to see how the minds of these two men would work, now that he had established ‘close friendship’ with Gann. He believed that he had won their respect, and that whatever suspicion they’d had was gone for the time being. But he had probably been seen near the staircase, and they might know more than they’d let him think, and they hadn’t yet explained just why they had come here. Even if he had fooled them for the time being, he mustn’t fool himself. At best, he had gained a few hours’ respite, but even that wasn’t certain, and they might hold him; confine him to his cabin, if no worse.

  When Maisie’s body was found and the steward questioned, there would be no option; he would be held. Whatever he, did must be between now and the time they found the blonde, and he might not have long.

  They might even have searched his cabin already; might be playing cat-and-mouse.

  He fought down that fear, but was almost at screaming pitch when Morrison said quietly: ‘I see. And there’s been no cause for alarm about Pirran until tonight?’

  ‘No. Not even tonight.’

  It was all right; he had fooled them.

  ‘Has this man,’ Morrison pointed to the body on the stretcher, �
��been near Pirran?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’

  ‘Did Pirran tell you why he was in this danger?’

  ‘No,’ But one of these days he would — if he, Whittaker, could get at him now, he’d talk all right.

  ‘H’m,’ grunted Morrison. ‘Well, we’ll have to tackle Pirran as soon as we can.’ His attitude had changed completely, and the way he said that almost brought Whittaker within the scope of the ship’s personnel. The simplicity of Whittaker’s answers had probably helped to make Morrison better disposed. Keep him that way, but remember one thing was certain: it wouldn’t be long before he got round to Maisie the blonde, and he would soon want to question her. When he searched, his mood would change in a flash.

  Whittaker said abruptly:

  ‘Mind if I see Gann?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Morrison said.

  So they weren’t going to keep him in his cabin.

  In fact, as they left together, he sensed a softening in Morrison’s attitude; as if the Captain were dealing with a man who was suffering an acute personal loss. The Master-at-Arms was more like a St. Bernard than ever, as if he were eager to come to Whittaker’s rescue. It wasn’t difficult to keep up the impression — and it wasn’t -pretence of any kind.

  Gann had mattered to him.

  A man you had known for a few days could be as real a friend as one whom you had known for years.

  There was a lot about Gann which Whittaker didn’t know. His friends, his habits, his recreations, his hobbies. And there was a lot about Gann’s family that he didn’t know, either; but as Whittaker stood in the cabin which had been turned into a morgue, and looked down at the dead man, he felt as if he had known not only Gann but his family for a long time.

  A picture of Gann’s wife kept coming into his mind’s eye.

  It had done, from the time he had first seen it; it wasn’t one of those things that could be put into words, but here was a woman whom he could get to know quickly; who, in an odd way, he did know. He could tell the rest of the world about it, and the rest of the world would laugh, but he knew that he was talking sense to himself.