The Toff In New York (11 page)

A gun.

Then, the girl came on.

At first glimpse, she was nice. Not very tall, but obviously with everything. Modest, though. She wore an ordinary three-quarter-length dress, black and silver; the silver part of it shimmered. She had long fair hair, brushed sleekly to her shoulders, nice arms and legs. The spotlight was on her. She began to dance, and as she danced there was a voluptuous rhythm in the music, and in her body; an unbelievable change. Her hands seemed everywhere; she was Eve, she was Adam and Eve, she was boy and girl, she was Sodom and Gomorrah. Her dress shimmered as she writhed, and she slid out of it gradually as a snake would slide out of its skin, and she went on and on stripping, in the light that was hardly light at all.

Throughout this, the swarthy man watched Rollison with the intentness of a snake.

The dancer drew nearer Rollison, writhing, the light just sufficient to glow on her fine, firm young body. She stroked the cheek of a man near Rollison, patted another's head, kissed another lightly, and seemed to be inviting them to hurl themselves at her. She came towards Rollison, and her smile was the smile of Delilah; she leaned over him and put her hands on either side of his face, then slowly and deliberately kissed him - and as she withdrew her lips, she said:

“There's a drunk at the bar; watch him, too. I'm with Cy Day.”

She drew away.

She went to a man two tables removed, and the man began to sweat. Women sat, as if fascinated. Then, the lights flashed on and the dancer shrieked and ran, as if taken completely by surprise, while the swarthy man looked at Rollison with that snake-like intensity, and a big, powerful man at the bar began to talk too loudly, as if he was rolling drunk.

There was dancing.

Rollison called a waiter.

“The original blonde at the bar,” Rollison said, “would she care to dance?”

“I'll ask her for you,” the waiter said.

The music was slow, sensuous, of the jungle; exactly the right music for the moment. The blonde and the brunette wouldn't lack custom, now; and suddenly there were several more of them; replicas. The waiter approached the one whom Rollison had pointed out, and she looked across and smiled. Ten years ago, she would have been rather easy on the eye. She came across and sat down, and Rollison ordered champagne.

“I'm not sure I'm going to be safe with you,” the girl said, “and I don't mean that the way my mother would. I'm Anita . . .“

“Thanks. I'm . . .“

“I can read the newspaper, too, Toff,” she said. “You want some advice from me?”

“Go back where I came from?”

She laughed. “All right, let's dance,” she said; “nothing will happen here.”

Rollison stood up, and they danced. She was very light on her feet, and he knew that she was one of the women who liked dancing for its own sake, not for the cheek-to-cheek and the pinching and the squeezing; once, she had been a really nice girl. They finished the dance, sat one out, emptied the bottle and ordered another, and started to dance again. The drunk at the bar got drunker, and no one interfered; the snake at the table sat as still as a man could, while eating and drinking and smoking. Rollison took the blonde in his arms and began to hold her tight, and she thrust her head back and said:

“So they're all alike.”

“Under the cloth on my table there's a hundred-dollar bill,” Rollison whispered; “all for you.” He hugged her until she couldn't be any closer, and he kissed her cheek and her ears - and when he was level with the swarthy man, he thrust her bodily into the table and the man. In the same movement, he grabbed a bottle and sprang across the dance-floor. He saw the drunk stop drooling, and saw his hand flash to his pocket, but it didn't flash fast enough. Rollison flung the bottle and caught him on the cheek, and then turned for the door by the side of the bar, for the passage, the staircase and, he prayed, Sikoski.

 

 

Sikoski was there.

It looked as if he had been waiting for trouble from the moment Rollison had disappeared, because the moment Rollison reached the car, the engine was turning. They were round the first corner before anyone else appeared from the club, and they were not followed. Sikoski took no chances this time, but hurtled towards the East River Parkway and then north, until even he must be sure that no danger threatened.

He turned off, at 72nd Street.

“New York exciting enough for you today?” he inquired, smugly.

“It's doing fine, pardner, real fine,” boomed Rollison, and they grinned. “If there's any life in this old dogie, take me to the Mil west Hotel, will you?”

“Sure, Colonel, sure.”

The” journey took twenty minutes. Traffic was not thick, but they had bad luck with lights. Rollison lit a cigarette, and smoothed down his hair, and pondered deeply. There were even more good reasons for thinking that Cy Day knew New York better than he did.

They were forced to stop by a news-stand, and he wound down his window.

“Night Telegram” he called; Dando's tabloid was more likely to give him what he wanted to read about than one of the other papers. The exchange of thick newspaper and a quarter was swift and easy, and the cab moved off. Rollison looked through the headlines, finding the light quite bright enough. He found what he wanted on the back page, guessed that earlier stories had been pushed off, and that in the next editions it would have most of the front page.

MILLIONAIRE PLAYGIRL KIDNAPPED

VALERIE HALL, PART OWNER ATYEO BUILDING

Mystery of Black Cadillac

There wasn't really much beyond the headlines. No one had connected the Toff with the kidnapping story, although he was on the same page. So was the death of Russell's partner, and that sobered Rollison. He tore off the outer pages, and left the rest on the seat, and sat back for five minutes. Then, they slid to a standstill outside the Milwest Hotel, which was near Central Park, and Sikoski screwed his thick neck round and said with a rush:

“You-want-to-know-something-we-ain't-bin-followed.”

“If you go on like this,” Rollison said, “you'll soon be buying yourself a new cab. One that will go fast.” He got out, knowing that he didn't need to tell Sikoski where to go; Sikoski would be at hand if there were another emergency. So far, no one had followed him. He didn't ask at the desk for Brian Conway, for he had Conway's room number. There was a sleepy coloured bell-cum-elevator boy who gave him a lazy, attractive smile and a husky: “You're welcome.” At the seventh floor Rollison stepped into the passage. He didn't go straight to Conway's room, for it was possible that he had been followed from the hall; two men had been sitting there. He gave them five minutes, and when no one arrived, decided that they weren't watching for him, or keeping a watch on Conway or Halloran. He went along to Conway's room, but didn't tap; he examined the lock, and realised that it wouldn't be easy, like that at Cadey's apartment; but it could be done.

It took him four minutes.

The lock clicked back, and it was possible that anyone inside the room had heard it. There was no sound. Rollison opened the door, on to darkness. He stepped inside swiftly, and flattened himself against the wall; if he had been heard, then Conway might be standing there, gun poised.

There was still no sound.

Rollison switched on a light.

This was a one-room apartment, reached through a little cubicle with three doors - one, behind him, one into a shower and toilet, one into the bedroom. He went in. There was a big bed, a chest and a wardrobe. Conway's clothes were still here, nothing suggested that the man had gone. Rollison ran through all he could find, and discovered nothing of interest, not even telephone numbers. He went next door, and repeated the whole performance, taking less time with the lock.

Halloran was still in residence, too.

Rollison found nothing helpful in that room, and went back to Conway's. He fixed the door, so that it did not show that it had been forced, and stretched out on the bed, smoking, looking at the ceiling, and waiting for the slightest sound. He told himself that it would be worth waiting for an hour, but in two minutes he was up again. Without closing the door properly, he went downstairs to a telephone call-box from which he could see the front door - and anyone who came in. He lifted the telephone, and called Tim Mellish.

The call came through with the familiar bewildering speed.

“Yes, Rolly, everything's fine,” greeted Mary Mellish; “you don't need to worry. I've been telling Tim that. And Valerie's a very lovely girl; we're getting along just like old friends. Right now, we're playing canasta, but we're going to watch television soon so don't call up any more, will you?”

“No, ma'am,” said Rollison, humbly. “Good night.”

He went back to Conway's room, which was still empty.

It was good to know that nothing had misfired with Valerie; he told himself that he could be quite sure that it wouldn't, now, because he hadn't been traced. But he was edgy. He called Cy Day's home, but there was no answer. He called the Belle Hotel and asked for Legs, and Legs answered very soon.

“Legs, did your men send in any report to say where I'd been?” Rollison asked.

Legs said: “Nope.”

“None at all?”

“Nope.”

“Thanks.”

“Sweet-smelling flowers,” Legs said.

Rollison was smiling when he rang off. He lit a cigarette, and was glad to relax.

He could be sure that he had made Dutch Himmy very mad by now; and if Dando knew his stuff, then Dutch Himmy would already be suspecting that rival gang. It ought to be worth buying every newspaper in New York tomorrow.

Then, he heard footsteps in the passage.

He swung his legs off the bed, and moved swiftly towards the wall, alongside the bathroom. A key sounded in the lock, and immediately afterwards, Mike Halloran said in that unforgettable voice:

“Sure, get some sleep, Brian.”

Another door opened.

Brian Conway came in, closed the door, put the chain into position instead, and then came into the room. By that time, there was no sound of Halloran. Rollison saw Conway's dejected shoulders, the droop of his mouth. Without glancing sideways, Conway went across to the bed, taking off his bow tie as he did so. Then, he turned round.

He nearly crumpled up when he saw Rollison, and might have fallen but for the bed. He grabbed it, to steady himself. His mouth dropped open and his eyes shimmered with fear. He tried to speak but made only a gibberish of sound.

“Hi, Brian,” said Rollison, pleasantly; “someone been giving you evil thoughts?”

“Wh - wh - what are you doing here?”

“I really wanted to inquire after your health,” said Rollison, sweetly, “and after your friends, of course. Especially Al Cadey.”

Brian Conway was at the old game; trembling violently.

“I - I don't know who you mean!”

“You mean to say you shot a stranger?” exclaimed the Toff, horrified. “My Brian, why? That's far worse; a little gun-play between friends may be forgiven, but a stranger - why, poor, poor Al.”

Conway didn't even try to speak.

“I needn't tell anyone in person,” said Rollison, earnestly. “I could just breathe a word to Dando of the Night Telegram, to look for your prints at Al's place. He'd publish it with pleasure, and then where would you be?”

“Rollison, I - I thought he'd kill Val Hall; I swear I did. I knew he was as bad as they come, and - and I couldn't risk it. I'd like to keep her safe; if I could get away from Dutch I would; why - why I named him. Didn't I? I told Val and I told you he was behind it, didn't I? I hoped you'd get Dutch.”

He broke off.

“I bet you hoped,” said Rollison, softly. “Why don't you come across, and admit that you like working for Dutch Himmy? You were planted to travel with Valerie, and to take her straight to Al.”

“That wasn't the way of it,” Conway muttered. “I had to get those jewels, that was my job, but she insisted on coming along. I”

He broke off.

Rollison glanced away from him, towards the door, and he felt something of Conway's flare of alarm. There was a sharp tap; then another, before there was any chance to answer. Conway looked imploringly at Rollison.

“See who it is,” whispered Rollison, and crept into the bathroom.

Conway moved slowly towards the door, and braced himself. When he called out, his voice was commendably steady.

“Who wants me?”

“Is that Brian Conway?”

“I asked who wants me?”

“I want to talk to you.”

“Who are you?”

“Just open up,” the man said, “or I'll break the door down and break you with it.”

It wasn't a powerful voice, but high-pitched and intense. It was familiar, too, in the way that Dando's had been. Conway gulped, and still looked at Rollison, who whispered:

“Handle it your way.”

Conway took a gun from his pocket. He was quick with a gun, and the fact that he had killed the night before hadn't made him get rid of this one; Rollison wondered if it was the same automatic.

“Wait a minute,” Conway called to the man outside.

He stood to one side, unfastened the chain noisily, so that whoever was in the passage could hear it, and then let it fall. It rattled. Gun poised, he stood to one side. The door was thrust open, but no one came in at once, for there was a sharp call out there:

“Hold it!”

Only Halloran had a voice so much like a closing steel trap.

Rollison was just able to see into the passage. He ought to have recognised the first voice as readily as he had recognised the face before. The man who had come ready to break the door down was Van Russell. His head was still bandaged, and he had a patch over his closed eye. He stood looking round at Halloran, who had heard the shouting and had come to Conway's rescue.

“You want to see Brian,” said Halloran; “so go on, see Brian.” He was out of sight; but his voice and manner suggested that he was carrying a gun.

Conway had the sense not to call out.

Russell came in, sideways. Halloran followed, and as he entered, Rollison dropped his hand to the other's wrist, wrenched, and took the gun away. It was as quick and easy as that. Halloran gave a grinding croak of protest, that was all. Conway didn't even try to put up a fight, just held his gun towards the floor, and waited until Rollison ordered:

“Mike, close the door.”

Halloran closed it, with his foot

Russell said: “What is this?”

“That's what I'd like to know from you,” Rollison said, chidingly. “I'm quite sure your sister Julie doesn't know you're out. What brought you to Conway?”

Russell said, in a very hard voice:

“In one way, you did. You told me about him and Halloran. Then I discovered that a friend of mine had been murdered. A partner and a friend of mine. I'll get this killer, if” He broke off, as if too keyed up to finish; there was a film of tears in his eye.

Rollison said mildly: “What made you think that Brian Conway might know anything about it?”

“I didn't have any other contact with Dutch Himmy.”

“But I don't know Dutch Himmy,” cried Conway. “Sure, I've done some jobs for him, but I don't know him!”

“How about your friend?” Rollison asked, softly.

“Me?” clanked Halloran. “No, sir; I did a stretch once for Al Cadey, who was a leg-man of Dutch Himmy. Why did I do it? I spent five years inside for a job I didn't do, Mr. Toff, because Dutch Himmy said he would put a finger on me if I didn't. Don't ask me anything about Dutch Himmy, I wouldn't know a thing if I knew everything.”

Russell went slowly towards the bed, and dropped on to it. He looked all in. It was easy to imagine that his rage had given him a false strength, that the desire for revenge had brought him here, raging; but now that he realised he had wasted his time, it was too much for him.

“Now let's find out if this is true,” Rollison said.

Half an hour later, he wasn't absolutely sure that it was true. He was sure that he wouldn't get any more out of Conway or Halloran.

Rollison gave Russell a helping hand into the lift; and a few seconds later, a hand out of it. Russell limped badly, but didn't say why; there seemed to be something the matter with his waist. This was a quiet street. A few cars were parked with drivers in them; otherwise no one else was about. Sikoski sat in his inevitable way, poring over a comic strip book; or else he was dozing, Rollison couldn't be sure which. He was fifty yards away, a good enough position - and obviously he wasn't expecting trouble.

Rollison would have been, but for his preoccupation with Russell.

“If I take you home,” he said, “can I be sure you'll stay there? Or would it be better if . . .“

“Just drive me back home,” Russell said, in a lifeless voice. “I'm all washed up, and I know it. Wilf Hall and Mark Quentin, the two of them.” There was something like a sob in his voice. “Just take me home, will you, and then”

That was the moment when Rollison first felt sharply suspicious; of Sikoski; or rather, of the man sitting where Sikoski should be. The head was still bowed. The skullcap was still tight. But there was no ring of dark curly hair beneath it. Sikoski wasn't in the cab; someone else was.

It was the only cab in sight; a red-and-yellow one.

“Russell,” Rollison said, very softly, “I'm in a jam. I'm going to have to run for it. I'll edge you towards a doorway, and you stay there; you'll be out of the way if there's any shooting.”

Russell straightened up. “What . . .“ he began.

That was all.

There was no time for Rollison to run. The driver who wasn't Sikoski straightened up, three men stepped like marionettes from dark doorways, and he was covered by three guns. If they'd come to kill, this was it.