by John Creasey
‘You know Mr. Pirran’s room?’.
‘Yes sir!’
‘Is Mr. Rickett still up there?’
‘No, sir, Mr. Rickett left two to three hours ago.’
‘That’s too bad,’ Whittaker said. He went towards the elevators, and there, standing with hollow-eyed hopefulness, was another ‘boy’. ‘Ninth, please.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Nine floors — four seconds.
Whittaker stepped out into the luxuriously carpeted passage, and saw something which he’d forgotten and which nearly beat him. The floor clerk. It was a woman, perky and bright in spite of her black dress, who look at him curiously. She had a pencil in hand and lists on the desk in front of her.
She also had a newspaper, open, with a photograph face upwards. His photograph.
‘Good evening, sir.’ She smiled.
‘Evening,’ said Whittaker. ‘Mr. Pirran?’
‘Are you expected, sir?’
‘Just tell him,’ Whittaker said. ‘It’s a message from Mr. Rickett. I’ll be at his door. Which way is it?’
She seemed to hesitate. If she glanced down at the picture, would she recognise him? It was one taken on board the Queen B., enlarged, good in its way. He was grinning broadly, though, and looked years younger than he was.
Suddenly she said, ‘To your right, sir, and then right again,’
His openness had fooled her, as it had fooled the others. But his certainty had been swallowed up in harsh doubts. He went to the nearest corner and turned it, then waited. He didn’t hear her on the telephone, didn’t hear her get up. Yes, he’d fooled her. He followed the directions, now, and saw the light over the door of 914. He waited outside it, listening. He could only guess what Pirran would do when he was disturbed by the telephone; he couldn’t guess how long it would be before the door opened. He waited for what seemed a long time. His ears were cocked, to pick up the slightest sound of anyone approaching from either direction. No one did. Then he heard a sound inside the suite, and he stepped very close to the door, with his left foot ready to move forward so that the door couldn’t be closed.
There were sounds as of a chain being moved; then the key turned in the lock. Next the door began to open, and he judged that it wouldn’t open far if the man there had his way.
He saw part of a face through the narrow gap.
‘Who——’
Whittaker put his shoulder to the door and it flew open. The man staggered back, off his balance. Whittaker slipped in, closed the door and locked it, slid the key into his pocket, and then went for the man.
It was the one who had been there to shoot Eve, who had kicked him in the jaw. He hadn’t recovered his balance and was still stumbling, but his right hand was groping for his pocket. Whittaker followed up, and the man folded, easily and neatly. He dropped on to the floor, still clutching the gun, and Whittaker took it from him and smiled tautly at the open door of the bedroom.
Pirran gaped at him.
‘Hullo, Gus,’ said Whittaker, and waved the gun he had just taken. One too many! He raked the outer room with his gaze, made sure that no one else was there and pushed Pirran into the bedroom. Pirran didn’t seem able to move or to speak; he just went back obediently like clockwork. He looked more like a dead fish than ever, and his neck veins worked like agitated gills.
No one else was in the bedroom, which was probably a disappointment for Pirran. There were two beds, one of them rumpled. A bathroom led off it, and with a hand at the back of Pirran’s neck Whittaker looked in this bathroom. That was also empty. He went back into the sitting-room, thrusting Pirran before him: the little man hadn’t yet started to make any sound. The gunman lay as if sleeping. Whit-taker took off the man’s coat, then put it on him again, back to front, and buttoned it up. Then he used the man’s own tie to fasten his ankles together.
Pirran gaped.
‘Lead the way back to the bathroom,’ Whittaker ordered.
Pirran gulped and obeyed.
‘What——?’
Whittaker took his right arm, twisted, then lifted and carried him. He lowered him into the bath, then ripped a linen towel into strips, tied Pirran’s wrists behind him, and next hooked the bound wrists over the big tap. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it would do him no harm.
Pirran seemed to be suffering so much from shock that he couldn’t speak. He had hardly any hair, his eyelashes were so fair that they were barely defined against his pale face. His eyebrows were almost colourless, too; an odd-looking man made odder now by what seemed an all-consuming fear.
But he managed to find words at last.
‘Yo — yo — you’re Whittaker!’
‘That’s right,’ said Whittaker. ‘I work for you, remember? How would you like to drown?’
Pirran echoed, ‘Drown?’
‘That’s right. All I have to do is turn on the tap, and hold you down. It wouldn’t take long, but it wouldn’t be nice.’
‘You — you daren’t. . .!’
Whittaker said savagely: Td dare, and I’d like it! You double-crossing little swine.’
He broke off.
Pirran was sweating.
Whittaker rasped: ‘Who did you do a deal with? Maisie?’
There was a long pause, as if Pirran were trying to make up his mind what to say. His lips worked. A little more pressure and he would crack wide open, but that would take time, and Whittaker hadn’t much time to spare here.
As it was, he should soon be on his way.
Pirran said huskily:
‘Sure, sure, I did a deal with Maisie. It was soon after she came aboard. She told me she was working with Camponi, but didn’t like the guy. She said I could rely on her and Olive — Olive Johns. I paid her a thousand pounds to leave me alone, Whittaker, so that I could — could live without fear. Any man’s got a right to live without——’
Whittaker broke in, ‘And Camponi found out?’
‘Yes, he — made Maisie talk. They drugged me and he took the packet. . . but you know what happened!’
‘Camponi killed Bob Gann and Maisie, yes,’ Whittaker said. ‘I can even understand him killing Maisie if she double-crossed him. But why kill Bob? And why try to kill me?’
‘I don’t know,’ Pirran said wheezily. ‘God’s truth, I don’t know!’
‘You know he got hold of a dummy packet, not the real one?’
That — that’s what Ricky said. I didn’t know until tonight.’
Whittaker leaned forward very lowly. He could read Pirran’s tension and his fear; time pressed very hard, but minutes spent now might save hours later.
‘So you didn’t,’ he said roughly. ‘Listen, Pirran, you were left alive, remember? Camponi seemed to run amok because of what you might have told me and Bob. That’s what he said to Olive. He knew you had certain information. He was afraid you’d told Bob Gann and me; so, he killed Bob. So — what did you know that mattered so much?’
‘It can’t be true!’ Pirran gasped. ‘He couldn’t have said——-’
‘It can be true,’ Whittaker said. ‘It could explain why you’re alive, too. Know what I think, Pirran? I think you know something which is deadly to Ricky, and Camponi discovered that. So Camponi kept you alive, but killed anyone you might have talked to. Camponi’s dead, but you’re living on borrowed time. Ricky daren’t kill you in case you’ve left that secret knowledge behind for the posterity. You could have left a sealed envelope at your bank, or somewhere safe, Pirran. What do you know?’
I tell you I don’t know a thing!’ Pirran gasped.
Whittaker’s voice roughened.
‘Why does Ricky suddenly come to terms with you ?’
‘He — he thinks I know where the packet is,’ Pirran said hoarsely; ‘thinks I’m the only one who can tell him, but I don’t know!’
Did he know?
Could he lie like that when he was so frightened?
Whittaker stood staring down at him. He looked as if he were choking, and would soon c
ollapse; and as if he were frightened of death.
Was there time to work in? Dare he stay?
Whittaker turned away, looked into the other room and made sure that the man there was still helpless. Then he returned to Pirran. He stood over him while Pirran gasped for breath.
Then Whittaker touched a tap.
He didn’t turn it, because he wanted Pirran to understand just what he could do; wanted the man to realise that his life was in a stranger’s hands. There was so little time, and it was possible that Pirran could tell everything that mattered in a few minutes. That was if Pirran could be put in the right frame of mind.
He had to be.
If he could withstand the strain of this and still be well enough to deceive Whittaker, he almost deserved to get away with it.
Almost.
‘What — what are you doing?’ he asked in a choky voice.
‘What——’
Then he broke off, for Whittaker turned the water on.
CHAPTER XIV
JUST A LITTLE RIDE
Pirran made a whistling sound as the cold water ran on to his back, and began to shiver, to try to stand up. He couldn’t. He looked piteously at Whittaker, who stood unmoving. The water ran, splashing now, and Pirran couldn’t stop shivering.
‘Where’s the packet?’ Whittaker asked flatly. ‘I tell you I don’t know! One was stolen from me, Ricky says it was a dummy. I don’t know where the real one is.’
‘What’s in the real one?’ Pirran’s teeth sounded like castanets. D-diamonds,’ he stammered. ‘A fortune in ice, a million dollars’ worth. They’re dynamite, Whittaker, and someone ‘has them, but I don’t know who.’
Whittaker couldn’t be sure, but he thought that Pirran probably meant what he said. The man was too cowed to lie; cowed, cold, craven. And if that packet contained a fortune in diamonds, it would well explain violence and sudden deaths: that could answer many questions.
It was enough to make Ricky hold his hand, too; if he thought that Pirran had hidden the packet away he would try to do a deal.
Whittaker said, ‘I’ll untie you; you can give yourself a rub down.’
He stopped the water, helped Pirran out and flung him a towel. The man’s ribs showed above his little pot-belly.
‘Keep talking,’ Whittaker went on. ‘Where’s Ricky now?’
‘He left here a couple of hours ago,’ Pirran said. He rubbed vigorously, but his teeth were still chattering. ‘He said he’d give me a day to think it over. He — he left Moyan to watch me.’
‘Is Moyan the man outside?’
‘Yes, yes. He — he’s dangerous, he——’
‘Not for a little while,’ said Whittaker brusquely. ‘Where can I find Ricky?’
Pirran stopped towelling. With a towel draped round his skinny body, he took on a queer kind of dignity.
‘Whittaker,’ he said, ‘Ricky is after those diamonds. He doesn’t know where they are. He’s mad. He’s a killer. Don’t cross Ricky. Don’t go and see him. Sure, he killed Bob Gann, or Camponi did, and Camponi worked for Ricky, but don’t take this fight to Ricky yet. Look for the diamonds. If you find them, then you can fight it out with Ricky. Then you’ll have something to fight with.’
There seemed a lot of sense in that, and Pirran meant it; that dignity sat well upon him.
Whittaker said: ‘We’ll see. Hurry up. We’re going for a little ride.’
‘What — what do you mean?’ Pirran’s dignity melted as fear came back. ‘Where?’
‘You’ll see.’
‘Ricky——’
‘Ricky will come after us both, won’t he?’ Whittaker said roughly. ‘You’re the juiciest bait. Don’t play your hand wrong, Pirran, you’re still alive.’
Pirran muttered, ‘Okay, I’ll get dressed.’
Whittaker followed him into the bedroom; He didn’t hurry, but neither did he dawdle. The other man was conscious and mad and scared: probably he was more scared of what Ricky might do, than of Whittaker.
Soon, Pirran was ready.
Whittaker said roughly, ‘Don’t forget, you’ll live while you play the game my way.’
Pirran didn’t speak.
He kept moistening his lips. Whether he had told the truth or not, it was obvious that he was scared. Did he expect anyone else here? Had Ricky a man outside in the passage? Or was Ricky or one of his men expected now ? The certain thing was that they couldn’t stay here. He had stayed too long already. He could try a downtown hotel, but that wasn’t what he wanted.
At heart he knew where to go for a start.
Rachel Defoe’s apartment would be safe enough, and Eve wasn’t there. The risk was obvious: that Ricky was having it watched. Well, “he could deal with Ricky’s men. if he could get near the apartment and check it for a watcher, that would do. He could deal with any man, then get Pirran inside.
‘Have you a car near here?’ Whittaker asked abruptly.
‘Wha — what’s that?’
‘Have you a car?’
‘Sure, I——’
‘What’s the number?’
‘New York, NYS741,’ Pirran said hurriedly. ‘It’s a brown Chrysler, parked in 48th Street, near Park. Wh — wh — why ?’
‘I’d like to borrow it,’ Whittaker said. ‘Mind if I take your keys?’ He waited until Pirran handed the keys over. He didn’t pull a gun or attempt to pull a fast one; he seemed completely subdued; beaten.
‘Which is the ignition?’ Whittaker asked.
‘The shiny one.’
‘Okay — let’s go!’ Whittaker said. He put a hand on Pirran’s shoulder and moved across the bedroom. When they reached the door, he said very quietly: ‘You can call for, help. You can run. You can kick me in the shins. Try any one of them if you want me to break your neck.”, Pirran said flatly, ‘You wouldn’t do it.’
‘You don’t have to believe me,’ Whittaker said. ‘Just put it to the test.’ He put a hand on the door. ‘We’re going out. We’re going to walk to the elevators, and you’re going to keep one step ahead of me: no more. You’re going to smile at the floor clerk and at the elevator boy, and at anyone who gets in our way. It’s going to look as if we’re buddies. Understand?’
‘I — I’ll do it,’ Pirran said.
Whittaker opened the door a fraction. No one was in the passage so far as he could see. He opened the door wider, then let Pirran go out ahead of him. Pirran turned towards the elevators. Everything went according to plan; the floor clerk, the elevator, the great hall, the revolving-doors and the street.
It was full daylight now, and the morning dimmed the radiance of the window signs and the street lamps, but they were still on. Several cars passed, several people were on the move, on foot.
Whittaker turned towards 48th Street, repeating the number which Pirran had given him. He was weighing up the risks of going to Rachel’s flat, and when he’d done it, knew that he had no choice; he had to start somewhere. Put Pirran to sleep, make sure that the apartment wasn’t watched, take Pirran inside.
Rachel would play it his way, if he judged her rightly.
He reached the corner of 48th Street, with Pirran by his side: a subdued, scared little man — whose acquiescence was almost suspicious in itself.
Would he make a break and run?
Whittaker tried to cover everything. He saw no one watching and kept his fingers crossed.
Then he heard footsteps behind him — quick, and drawing closer.
Now, he was being followed; by a woman, not by a man.
He turned into 48th Street and saw a shiny brown Chrysler parked about five cars down. Pirran’s. He crossed to it, with Pirran keeping a step ahead.
Whittaker reached the car and looked round.
Eve was coming.
Another car turned into the street and, as if it were a signal Pirran darted forward.
CHAPTER XV
PRISONER
The car was coming swiftly, and Pirran was right in front of it as he ran. Whittaker shot ou
t a foot. Pirran kicked against it and went sprawling. The driver of the car looked like a mask for Hallowe’en, mouth parted, teeth showing, eyes wide and bright with fright. His brakes squealed, the car skidded. Pirran, lying full length on the roadway, hadn’t a chance — if the car came on.
It stopped, shuddering and screeching.
Whittaker grabbed Pirran, dragged him up and held him tightly. Pirran was gasping for breath. The driver, more relaxed now, was sitting at the wheel, hat at the back of his head, one hand at his wet forehead.
‘Someone want to die?’ he asked weakly.
‘That was wonderful,’ Whittaker breathed. ‘I haven’t seen driving like it in my life. That was simply wonderful!’
‘I’ll say it was!’ Eve was by his side, and her voice throbbed. ‘I hope you’re all right,’ she went on, and ignored Whittaker as she looked at the driver. He was young enough to be impressionable. Whittaker forced a smile, waved inanely and, with Pirran still held tightly, he went to the brown Chrysler. Eve could handle this situation better than he. Eve was — well, Eve. He opened the rear door and let Pirran get in. Pirran had grazed his nose, and a little spot of blood had welled up on it; and there was also a nasty graze on his cheek.
He was shivering.
‘Good-bye, now,’ Eve said, and waved as the driver moved off. He was looking round at her, and nearly ran into the line of parked cars.
She reached Whittaker.
‘If I have to have a woman with me,’ said Whittaker, ‘let it be you.’ He gave that time to sink in before he went on: ‘I want a quiet place where we can talk to Pirran, and I wouldn’t mind giving him a ride in the boot until he’s in a talkative mood. Or a truthful one, he talks all right.’
Eve said, ‘Boat?’
‘The language difficulty will give me away before I’m finished,’ Whittaker said ruefully. ‘I never remember. Boot is English for trunk.’
‘I think I know the place to go where we can hide him,’ Eve said. ‘I’ll direct you. Shall I get in the back with him ?’