The Toff In New York (10 page)

 

Dando began to smile, and Russell began to grin. They stopped gaping at the Toff, and looked at each other. It was Dando who said, wonderingly:

“I'm beginning to understand what Cy Day meant. Sure. Dutch Himmy's snatched Wilf, and maybe he thinks that he can now make Valerie do what he wants, but he can't if he's lost track of Valerie. If she's just hiding, that's one thing; if she's been kidnapped . . .“

He began to chuckle.

The Toff said, mildly: “I don't know how much you know about the crime life of New York, but do they all let Dutch Himmy get away with it?”

“Come again,” said Dando.

“Is he the only bad man who matters? No competition, I mean?” said Dando.

Now, Russell's one visible eye took on a glowing delight. Dando lit another cigarette, shot smoke towards the ceiling, then answered very softly:

“No, sir. There are others. And if it were spread around that one of the other parties has snatched Valerie, just to muscle in on Dutch Himmy - do I understand you?”

“You understand me.”

“Toff,” said Dando, earnestly, “don't go back home. If you survive this day, stay in New York. We can use you. How soon can you make Valerie disappear, and where will you take her?”

Rollison stood up.

“Soon,” he said. “Somewhere.” He moved to the door, smiling amiably at them. “Cy Day is looking after Valerie at the moment; if you keep a check on him you'll find out when she's vanished.”

“Here, Toff!” cried Dando.

He wanted to learn more. He failed to, then. It seemed to him and to Russell that one moment Rollison was standing there in the doorway, and the next he had vanished. In fact, all the normal processes had been carried out, and he had even had time to smile at the timid girl who looked so much like Russell. He let himself out, and the luck was with him; the elevator was at this landing. He was at ground-floor level before Dando reached the front door of the apartment.

Sikoski was reading a book of strip cartoons with great intentness, spelling out the words which ballooned out of the characters' mouths. At sound of Rollison's approach, he folded this artistic gem, thrust it into his pocket, opened the door and started the engine, and he did all of those things in the same flash of time.

“Okay?” he asked.

“Okay,” agreed Rollison, solemnly.

“Okay,” said Sikoski. “Where now?”

“Arden-Astoria,” said Rollison, and promptly changed his mind. “Make it the Commodore.”

“So long as it's one at a time.”

At the Commodore Hotel, Rollison told the cabby to go back to his garage and wait for a call which wouldn't come for at least three hours, and then went blithely into the hotel. In five minutes he had arranged, via the Bell Captain, for a drive-yourself car to be brought round to the back entrance of the hotel; it was promised in twenty minutes. He next made his way to the telephone booths near this entrance, and put in a call to an old, old friend, who now had an American wife and owned a farm in New Jersey, not far from Jersey City. The call came through in some seconds under two minutes, and a clearly English voice said:

“Hallo, there.”

“Tim,” said Rollison in his gentlest voice, “you don't remember a guy named Rollison, do you?”

There was a pause; and then the flood.

“Rolly!” boomed Tim Mellish. “Is that you in the flesh? Mary said she'd heard something on the radio about you being in New York, so she, was right. Wonderful! Where are you? When can we meet? How”

“Easy, Tim,” pleaded the Toff, and so won a respite. “Do you and Mary still believe in taking risks?”

“Depends what they're for?”

Very briefly the Toff gave him the gist of what he wanted; and he won a respectful silence until he stopped, when Tim Mellish promptly and quite nonchalantly said:

“Glad to help, as always. When will you bring her here?”

“How long will it take me to drive from New York?”

“Well,” said Tim, “I don't know, exactly; it depends what the traffic's like through the city. Once you're this end of the Holland Tunnel it isn't too bad; say about an hour and a quarter from there. Allow two hours in all, for safety. Now, listen . . .“

He gave precise instructions, and soon the Toff rang off.

He went outside, at once. A sleek black Cadillac was already there, with a chauffeur. He gave Cy Day's name as a reference, paid two hundred dollars down, and was permitted to drive the car under the chauffeur's instructions. After the first few seconds, the chauffeur stopped instructing him, for it was obvious that Rollison was a natural at the wheel.

“Where shall I drop you?” he asked.

“Anywhere will do fine,” said the chauffeur, “but if you're going near Park and 36th, that would be just right for me.”

Rollison dropped him as he requested.

There was plenty of parking room out here, and Rollison soon pulled up near a cigar store, and went to a telephone. This time, he rang the Belle Hotel and asked for Valerie. It occurred to him uneasily that she might already have run into trouble; she hadn't, for she was still there, and wanted to see him.

“That couldn't be better,” said Rollison; “we want the same thing, Val. How do you like it there?”

“I hate it,” Valerie said, firmly; “I feel that I'm being watched all the time. Is there any news from Conway?”

“Not yet,” said Rollison, “but there's news of a kind. You are being watched all the time. I've got to get you out of the Belle Hotel without anyone knowing where you're going.” He paused to give her a chance to speak, but she didn't take it. “Will you walk out, in twenty minutes' time, and head towards Riverside Drive, near 77th Street? I'll be waiting for you in a black Cadillac, and as I slow down, I'll open the door. You hop in.”

“All right,” Valerie promised, without a moment's hesitation.

Rollison went out, and took the wheel, made immediately for the west side, and was tangled in traffic at Broadway. Traffic was much busier here on a Sunday than it was in London. He was thirty minutes instead of twenty getting to the rendezvous, and for the first time he was really worried.

Valerie was walking along, on the other side of the road.

Two men were a little way behind her, and it was easy to believe that they were Cy Day's. Rollison swung the car round in a U turn, and stopped alongside her. She was ready on the instant, and got in, slamming the door. He put his foot down and the car shot off; and as it did so, a green Buick pulled out of a row parked twenty yards behind, and moved after him.

Here was Cy's agency working at speed.

Rollison swung into 77th Street.

If he had luck at the lights, he would shake the car off quickly; if he was out of luck, it would take a long time. He glanced at Valerie, who seemed slightly flushed with excitement; that was all. He judged the lights nicely, sent the Cadillac forward and swung into Tenth Avenue, took a chance and turned into the next street, heading for Broadway. It was one way, and his way. On Broadway he went down to 72nd Street, then turned towards Riverside Drive again; and he could no longer see the green Buick which had started the chase. He went fast on to the Hudson River Parkway, and still didn't see the Buick; but he did know how thorough Cy Day's men would be; probably they had had a second car after him. He headed north; and at the first chance, near the pale, graceful span of the George Washington Bridge, took a sharp left turn, and was soon heading south again.

“I suppose you do know where we're going,” said Valerie, almost tartly.

“Oh, yes.” He smiled at her, but kept his gaze on the road. “To some friends of mine in New Jersey. English husband, American wife, three little Mellishes, and all modern conveniences plus life on the farm. You'll love it there, you won't be watched, and we'll be able to play bat-and-ball with Dutch Himmy.”

He didn't look to see, but it was easy to imagine the expression in Valerie's big eyes.

“What are you planning?”

He told her, briefly.

“Oh,” she said, vouchsafing neither approval nor disapproval. She was thinking it over, and that was as much as he could expect. He reached the signs reading Holland Tunnel and soon they were at the approaches to the entrance, with about five hundred other cars. They vanished out of daylight, and the tunnel, with its yellow lights and the red rear lights of all the cars and the sidelights of cars approaching from the other direction looked like a preview of hell. Valerie peered about her as if fascinated. The tyres rumbled, the tunnel seemed to be filled with a great wind. They dared not slacken speed, and seemed to be travelling much faster than the limit which was written in tall letters on the sides: 30. At different places, they saw policemen standing on raised platforms built into the wall.

On and on and on.

“Doesn't it ever end?” asked Valerie.

“It did the last time I was here,” Rollison said. “Have a nap, if you're tired.”

She startled him by bursting out laughing.

Soon, they saw the beginning of daylight; and soon the traffic spread out, and they were passed by some cars which seemed to fly, and they passed others which were going at a fair speed. New York was behind them, they were in New Jersey on the west side of the Hudson River, and according to Tim Mellish, an hour and a quarter's run from his farm.

Rollison didn't see the green Buick in the mirror.

He pulled into the side, to allow all the traffic to pass him; and everything in sight did pass. If he'd been followed, would the pursuing car have gone on?

A fantastic ribbon of road stretched out in front of them. He needed to slow down, and to make sure that he was on the right one; if he once got off it, he would lose much more time than he could afford. They came to the city limits of a little town, and he pulled into the side of the road, and took out the map.

“Won't be long, now,” he promised Valerie; “be patient for a little longer.” He offered her a cigarette, and she took one; he lit it for her, and then studied the map, oblivious of Valerie and the passing traffic and everything that was happening. It wasn't until he felt the wind steal into the car and glanced up, that he realised that anything odd was happening.

Valerie had opened the door.

She was getting out.

 

 

“Val!” Rollison exclaimed, and grabbed her.

In another second, he would be too late. Even as it was, he might be. He caught her arm and she tugged to get free, and when she couldn't, twisted round and struck out at his face. Her fingers just missed his eyes, and involuntarily he closed them and slackened his grip.

She was out in a flash.

He moved as fast as he had ever moved in his life, and caught up with her before she could run. He slid an arm round her waist, as if to hug her, and people looking on could have what ideas they liked.

“What's all this?” he demanded sharply.

“Let me go, or I'll scream!”

“Scream and I'll call the police,” Rollison said with great deliberation; “I'll tell them about Dutch Himmy and Wilf, and everything that goes with it.”

Until that moment, Valerie was taut and struggling in his grip; suddenly, she stopped, and went almost limp. She turned to look at him. The fire in her eyes made her almost beautiful.

“You beast, I believe you would,” she said.

“And how right you are.”

“You'd get Wilf killed!”

“You're going the right way about doing that yourself. Let's get back into the car and talk this out.”

“I'm not going to that farm.”

“Why not?”

“I want to stay in New York. I might hear from Brian Conway at any time; he knows I'm there.”

“How do you know that?” Rollison inquired mildly.

“He telephoned me,” Valerie said; “he told me Dutch - Dutch Himmy had heard you'd been to see that man Day, and he had the Belle Hotel watched. And I don't care what you say, when I know where to take the jewels, I'll take them. Then Wilf will be all right.”

“If Brian ever gives you that kind of message from Dutch Himmy, he'll be lying,” Rollison said, quietly.

“You only say that,” Valerie accused him, wildly; “you haven't liked Brian Conway from the beginning. How do I know that he's a fraud? I've only your word for it.”

“That's right,” said Rollison, sorrowfully; “you've only my word and your own wits for that and a lot of other things - including this: if you don't come to the farm and if you don't stay there without giving trouble, I'll telephone the whole story of Wilf's kidnapping to the police and the press.”

He wouldn't do that of course; but would Valerie call his bluff?

He waited, feeling almost as sad as he had sounded, but realising that he had been wrong to take her acquiescence for granted; he had reckoned without the mind that Valerie could truly call her own. Now, she had to agree or compel him to use a form of violence he hadn't anticipated and didn't like.

“If anything happens to Wilf, I shall always blame you,” she said, bitterly, and shrugged herself free and went back to the car. A moment later, they were sitting side by side.

“Val,” Rollison said, “there's a lot of evidence that Al Cadey wasn't really working for Dutch Himmy, but that he was cashing in because he knew that Wilf had been kidnapped. There's more evidence that you don't yet know what terms Dutch Himmy will demand for Wilf's release. I've checked as closely as I can, and come to the conclusion that you aren't safe in New York, that the wise thing is to get you out. I'll find out what terms Dutch Himmy will offer, and then we can talk business. Why not see it my way?” When she didn't answer, he went on: “You know, Wilf did give me a job.”

“Oh, I know!” said Valerie, and surprisingly melted suddenly and pressed his hand. It was a remarkable volte face, and almost suspicious. “Don't think I'm ungrateful, Rolly, but I just don't believe a word you say. You're simply trying to look after me. Well, I don't care about me; I'm only worried about Wilf.”

“My word on it,” Rollison said, “I think this is the best way to find out what Dutch Himmy will take in exchange for Wilf. Before we come to any terms, we have to be sure that Wilf's still all right, don't we?” That hurt her, and he let it sink in. “He probably is, but we can't be sure.”

“I suppose not,” agreed Valerie, in a muffled voice. “All right, Rolly. I'm sorry I tried to run off, but” - she gave a smile that was almost radiant - ”I knew it wouldn't be any good arguing with you.”

He chuckled.

They laughed.

He studied the map and, a little further on at a garage where hundreds of used cars were on sale, he left the Cadillac for some work to be done on imaginary pump trouble, and drove off again in a sky-blue Pontiac. When he reached the little village of Ridgway, where Mellish was to meet him, he felt quite sure they had not been followed.

It was fifteen minutes' drive to the farm, off the main road. The countryside looked rich and fertile. There were fruit-orchards. There were cattle and, at the farm, fowl and pigs. Tim Mellish was a matured forty-five, and his wife Mary an evergreen forty, with a natural native friendliness which made the world feel at ease. Within ten minutes, Valerie had settled down as if she was one of the family.

Outside, Mellish said soberly:

“How serious is it, Rolly?” When Rollison didn't answer, he added: “You sure you were right when you mentioned Dutch Himmy?”

“Yes.”

“Then it couldn't be much more serious,” Tim said. “I'd better be blunt.”

“Please,” said Rollison.

“If trouble looks like developing, I shall have to call in the police.”

“Don't wait too long,” Rollison pleaded; “don't take any chances, Tim. But with luck these johnnies haven't the faintest idea where Valerie is. I covered my traces, and”

“I'm not expecting trouble, but I had to warn you,” Mellish said. “And you - be careful. Dutch Himmy isn't going to take a slap in the face lying down.”

Thus it was made obvious that even this homely family on their remote little farm knew and feared Dutch Himmy.

The Toff drove cheerfully and almost gaily back to the garage where he had left the Cadillac, and paid a bill for work which had not been necessary; a modest bill, though, where he could easily have been fleeced. In the Cadillac, he drove less gaily, for he believed it possible that the car would be picked out among the hundreds which were going his way.

He studied the map again and, striking north, avoided Holland Tunnel and went over the Washington Bridge. By then, the first bright lights were showing in the fairyland of New York, the first touch of magic was in the evening air. Now, traffic was mostly coming out of town, not in. At the far end, he turned into Broadway, deciding to give the Parkway a miss, and he hadn't driven more than two hundred yards before a car swung across his bows.

He could swing the wheel, tear the bumpers and get away, or he could take what was coming. In broad daylight and with a hundred cars and several policemen in sight, he did not greatly fear.

Tall, ungainly Legs, whose real name was Leggatt, uncoiled himself from the Mercury and, grinning, came towards him.

“Been places?” he asked.

“Just sight-seeing,” said Rollison. “How's Cy?”

“Cy's fine. He wants to see you alive tomorrow.”

“May he live not to regret it.”

“Seriously, pal,” Legs said, and pushed his head further into the car. He had a leathery face with a droll expression, and rather narrow blue eyes. “You're in trouble.”

“With you or Cy?”

“Dutch Himmy has put a curtain call out for you.”

Rollison didn't speak.

“We picked up the call,” explained Legs. “It goes this way. Everything was working smoothly until you came along. True, there was some trouble with Cadey, who was striking out on his own - the way I've heard the story, Conway realised Cadey wasn't playing the game in the right way, but Conway's big mistake was letting you follow him. Conway's a Dutch Himmy man, and he's been told to do his next job better - or else.”

“Dutch a pal of yours?” asked Rollison, mildly.

Legs grinned.

“Cy Day's got his spies, even in Dutch's parlour. And Dutch made a point of passing word to Cy, so that Cy could tell you. Or” Legs stopped smiling just for a moment. “Or warn you. Dutch doesn't care about Cadey, who was double-crossing him.”

“Legs,” interrupted Rollison, “how many of Cy's agents were out looking for me?”

“Two at every tunnel and every bridge and every approach to them all,” Legs told him, flatly. “Cy just wants to save you from being hurt. He says that if you care to stay as his guest at the Belle Hotel, you'll be all right. You'd better tell him where you took Valerie, because if she's found by Dutch Himmy” Legs broke off.

“Legs,” Rollison said again more quietly, “tell Cy I'll never be able to thank him enough, but I'm going to play this my way. I think he over-rates Dutch Himmy and at the same time he under-rates himself. We'll see.”

Legs put his head on one side.

“Which do you prefer?” he asked. “Lilies or roses?”

“Please yourself,” said Rollison.

“Okay. While you're getting ready to die,” Legs went on, “keep this in mind, will you? Cy would like to see you, to tell you who Mark Quentin is.”

Legs grinned, and turned away.

But it was a night, the Toff decided, when Cy Day would have to wait.

Now, it was as dark as mid-town New York ever allowed night to be. It was noisy, too. In his suite at the Arden-Astoria, Rollison looked out of the window and saw the traffic and, in the distance, saw the glow of light in the sky. It was then a little after eight o'clock.

There had been no messages.

There had been no trouble.

There had been waiting, watching men.

He went out, and when he reached Park Avenue, he saw the faithful Sikoski at the wheel of his cab, intent on the comic art. The cabby looked up with a start and repeated the performance of folding the book and sliding it into his pocket.

“Okay,” he said.

“If you were me,” said Rollison, “where would you eat?”

Sikoski grinned. “You mean eat? Or look?”

“Can you manage both?”

The cabby put his head back, and grinned happily.

“Colonel,” he said, “you and me will always get along. Sure, there's a place down in the Village where you can eat good and see plenty.” He started off, and when they were a few blocks nearer Greenwich Village, he leaned back and asked nonchalantly: “You want to know something?”

“We're being followed.”

“Colonel,” breathed Sikoski, “the more I see you the more I like you. Do you want trouble tonight, or do you want to dodge it? I can give it you both ways.”

“As it comes.”

“Fine,” said Sikoski. “Just fine. Don't say I didn't warn you to hold on.”

He drove like a firecracker out of control. He weaved, looped and sometimes seemed to fly through and over the traffic. He took corners on two wheels and he sent Rollison, breathless and even scared, heavily against one door or the other. In twenty minutes he beat a dozen lights; and in twenty minutes he was slowing down in a narrow street in the only New York section with narrow streets which criss-crossed one another without plan. He wiped his forehead as he did this, and said:

“You want to know something?”

“Bud,” said Rollison, “we're being followed.”

“You never said a truer word, Colonel. You still want to eat?”

“Yes. And Bud . . .“

“Yeh?”

“If you telephone Cy Day, I won't be all that grateful. There are some games that have to be played a different way.”

“Okay, Colonel,” Sikoski said. “I'm your man.”

Five minutes later, Rollison went into a night-club called Sapelli's. From the outside, it was nothing but a doorway with a few photographs of a tease artist and a coloured singer. Down narrow stairs and along a narrow passage, was a small bar; beyond it, a circular-shaped room with tables round the sides, a space for dancing. Every table was placed so that every diner had a good view of the floor. No one was dancing, but a pianist, out of sight, was playing Viennese music. Two waiters took Rollison to his table, a blonde and a brunette at the bar looked his way but didn't rush him.

A man followed, almost on his heels, and came towards him. He was small and dark and swarthy. He carried a newspaper under his arm, and it wouldn't have surprised anyone if he carried a gun there, too. His eyes were narrowed; flinty. He walked very slowly and deliberately, and managed to make most of the diners and most of the people at the bar look edgy. One couple left the bar and went out.

The man paused in front of Rollison's table. A waiter, approaching, turned tail and hurried through the service door. In flight?

Rollison looked up into the swarthy face.

“Good evening,” he said, amiably.

The man took the newspaper from under his arm and dropped it on to the Toff's table. Then he turned and went to another table, opposite; from there he could watch everything Rollison did.

Rollison sensed the easing of tension and marvelled at the way it had come into the room. The pianist swung into lively, modern stuff. Two couples began to dance. Most of the diners glanced at Rollison, covertly; few took any notice of the swarthy man.

Rollison opened the newspaper. . . .

As the Toff, he had made the front page. So had two other stories - the death of Al Cadey and the finding of a body in a laundry basket which had been taken from the Arden-Astoria. There were photographs, of the basket and the body, and there was a description of the man and his name: Mark Quentin, partner in the accountancy company of Quentin, Tenby and Russell, Incorporated.

Van Russell's partner had died in Valerie's arms; and Cy Day had wanted Rollison to know.

Rollison looked up into the eyes of the swarthy man, who stared back without blinking. The waiter found his courage and brought half-a-dozen blue points with some brown bread and butter. Rollison ate, and then looked through the rest of the newspaper, from the sport to the society pages, and saw nothing else that really interested him. He folded it, when a grilled sole arrived. Delicious. He was through a steak so superbly cooked in a sauce which must have been conceived in Paris when the lights began to dim. He glanced across at the swarthy man, who had taken something from his pocket and laid it on the table, under a table napkin.