The Toff In New York (12 page)

 

 

None of them fired.

Rollison sensed that they would if he ran; wasn't sure that it would serve any purpose if he let them take him. He hadn't much time to think. If they had set out to kill, would there be any point in taking him away first? They could shoot and leave him here.

Couldn't they?

One man said: “Okay, Toff, get in.” He moved swiftly, gripped Russell's arm, and sent him staggering away from the cab. “Just get in, with your pal,” the man ordered Rollison.

‘Pal' meant Sikoski.

Another man opened the door.

There were people on the other side of the street, and there were the double-parked cars; none of the people in sight could have guessed what was happening. Rollison had lost any chance he ever had. He got in, and nearly stumbled over Sikoski's body.

Body?

A man pushed him, and climbed in after him. He was thrust into a corner. The fake cabby took the wheel and they started off - with a private car in front, the taxi next, another private car behind; this explained the double parking. The lights of New York slid by them, but Rollison didn't see many of them; he didn't see the first movement either, but felt the smashing blow on the nape of his neck.

He went out.

When he came round, there were subdued lights. He was on his feet, and being dragged along; his legs were actually working a little, so the reflexes were in good order. One man was on one side of him, another on the other.

He was too dazed to think beyond what he just glimpsed; he did not even remember how this had happened. But as his head cleared and he began to think back, they reached the doors of an elevator.

One was open.

Rollison looked right and left. He saw empty passages on either side, and unlit glass windows. It was like a street within a building but without open sky above. As he was pushed into the elevator he realised what it was: the concourse of one of the skyscrapers of the city.

Which one?

Did it matter?

He leaned against the glossy wooden sides. The doors closed. The elevator gave a little whining sound, and they started to go up. Head still whirling, Rollison saw the indicator built in one side - the floor indicator.

10 - 20 - 30 - 40. . . .

There were 90. Ninety. The lights flashed as they passed each tenth floor. He knew enough of the tall buildings to realise that this was an express lift, missing all but every tenth floor.

They slid to a standstill, and the doors opened automatically. He was half pushed and half dragged out, but the journey wasn't yet at an end; just along the passage was another elevator, and the sign sticking out from it said: Local. Floors 90 to 101.

They went in.

This elevator was much slower, and the journey seemed to take as long as the first. Rollison couldn't be sure whether it did or not. His head was screaming, and when they pushed him out, he almost fell. They saved him. He was aware of lights in the distance, and darkness close by. Lights and darkness, shadowy figures, white stars above and a rainbow of stars below. He leaned against the wall and took in deep, shivering breaths, hoping that it would help to clear his head. It did. They left him alone, now. He straightened up, and saw that there were several figures, just the heads and shoulders of men against the strange distant light. Stars above and stars below. He moved slowly towards one of the shadowy figures, which moved to one side, to let him pass. He realised that he had come up against a wall of glass; it was glass from about the height of his waist upwards, anyhow. With his nose against the glass he looked out and saw the street lights below, something like the view from an aircraft. Red, blue, yellow and green, lights everywhere, pools of light, lanes of light, and great patches of darkness.

He looked up, and saw the same silent stars above him; either there was no roof just there, or it was of glass.

In a way, the worst of all this was the silence. No one spoke. There were the lights below, a hundred and one floors below, and the stars above. Rollison looked right and left. Two buildings, one with a red star and the other with a blue light, seemed about on a level with this one; others, with yellow lights still at their windows, were much lower than the spot where he stood. One hundred and one floors . . .

The Atyeo Building had exactly that number.

Rollison looked round again. The shadowy figures stood still and silent. Why didn't they speak? They were trying to break his nerve, of course; but it would take a lot of this to succeed. If only he could sit down. If only there was some light. If only they would speak.

He couldn't stand here any longer.

He began to move towards the right, and almost prayed that someone would call out, to stop him, but no one said a thing and no one moved. Outlined against the windows were the heads and shoulders, like dummies, standing there to watch him and to make sure that he knew that he wasn't alone. The silence seemed to scream at him. There was no sound from the streets, from the countless moving lights - and none from the green and red lights of aircraft which moved across the sky.

Rollison saw a light over a doorway, which said: Elevator. He passed it. No one followed him; it was as if they knew that he couldn't get away, and that there was nothing to worry about if he tried. He walked slowly. There was a waist-high wall, and windows above it, and he saw the whole of New York spread out beneath him. He came again, in the semi-darkness, to the sign marked Elevator, and knew that he had walked right round the top of the Atyeo Building. What did they call it? The Observation Tower - and only one in New York was higher.

He went to a window again and looked out, and still no one spoke.

Why didn't they speak?

Were they men? Or dummies? Was this some hideous dream? He remembered being struck over the head, he could conceivably be having illusions.

He approached the nearest man, and opened his mouth - and then closed it again. Once he spoke, it would break the spell, and that was what they wanted; to unnerve him. Let them try! He put his hands to his pockets for a cigarette; his packet wasn't where he usually kept it. He tried the next pocket; it wasn't there, either. In something like a panic, he tried again and again, feeling in pockets where he never kept cigarettes; and there was none.

He had his lighter.

He let it drop back into the pocket, and started another walk, clenching his teeth this time but determined not to let them break his nerve. He drew level with one of the silhouettes, passed - and kicked against an outstretched leg. He went sprawling, and banged an elbow and his chin. He lay on the floor for a few seconds, glaring round in the darkness. Then, he picked himself up, savagely. His arms were rigid by his sides as he walked on, taking every step very carefully. He heard no sound - except one that was coming to his ears clearly now, the sound of men breathing. There was nothing really odd about it, and yet it had an eeriness which began to play on his nerves. It was as if they were all breathing in at the same time, and letting their breath out at the same time, too; softly and hissingly. He found himself thinking about that so much that he kicked against another outstretched leg, without remembering that one might be there.

This time, he banged his forehead painfully.

He took longer to get up, and when he did stand again, he peered about him. His own breathing was now so hard that it drowned the sound of the other; he couldn't hear it at all. Yet he could see the heads and the shoulders and felt that he wanted to rush at one of them and strike the man, beat at his face, try to break his neck.

That was what they wanted.

He must keep his nerve.

He started off again, walking very slowly, and made two complete circuits of the observation tower; nothing happened. Then, he heard a different sound; a rustling. He sprang round towards it, and something struck his face, and burst. In that first moment, he was aware only of anger; and then something bit at his eyes and his lips and his nose, and the pain was so great that he wanted to scream; but he would not. He staggered back, and for a while they let him put his hands to his eyes, let him gasp and fight for breath, until at last he felt easier. The last of the stinging eased.

Clenching his teeth, he started off again.

This time, he hadn't gone ten feet before they struck at him - and now they were in earnest. They used sticks, whips, fists, and feet. He whirled and struck out, but it was useless; he could not save himself. He covered his face with his hands and crouched, trying desperately to keep away from the worst of the blows. He remembered two men kicking Van Russell. . . .

Here, there were no lights; no one to shout for the police; no help at all.

As suddenly as the assault began, it stopped.

A man said: “Rollison, I want you to answer a few questions.”

 

 

The Toff heard, but did not answer.

He was dazed and badly bruised, and there was a sharp pain in his left shoulder, but he heard the question, which came slowly into the quiet after the assault. Yet the blood pounded in his ears, and it was as if a great wind was blowing outside this mighty tower.

If they started again . . .

He wanted time; time, to recover; time, to stiffen his resolve; time, to think. If they started again, he would find it hard not to surrender completely, but . . . “Rollison,” the man said again, “I want to ask you a few questions.”

The Toff didn't answer.

A minute would help; three or four minutes would be invaluable. He felt more on top of himself even now. This man wanted to ask questions, and that was like a shining light into the future - for he wouldn't kill until he'd had his answers.

Would he?

The voice was hard, but not metallic like Halloran's. It had the edge of cruelty, too. The Toff had an impression that it came from the corner of the man's lips, that the speaker didn't open his mouth properly; but that could be no more than an impression, for it was still dark.

“I can wake him up,” another man said.

The first speaker answered quickly.

“See if he's okay.”

A light went on, and Rollison sensed it, although it could not fall on his eyes. He lay almost at full length, with one knee bent. They had turned him on his back, his face towards the ground, his body limp. Was it torchlight? It grew brighter, and he knew that it was a torch which might strike his eyes at any moment. Then, a man knelt down, took his right shoulder and pulled him round. The light stabbed into his closed eyes, but he had the second's warning that he needed, and he kept his eyelids still.

A hand groped and found his pulse.

“He's alive,” said that man who had offered to wake him.

The voice seemed to get further away as the man stood up; the light was diffused. Rollison's head still ached but he was less dizzy, and now he wouldn't be such easy game. He let himself fall back limply, in spite of the pain at his shoulder. There were whispers, movements, metallic sounds, and he tried to guess what they were doing. The vital thing at the moment was that they wanted him alive because of those questions, but - what would they do to try to make him answer?

Footsteps.

There was a splashing sound, and then water struck him in the face, powerfully enough to hurt. He winced, and turned his head, and his eyes nickered. The water ran into his eyes, his nostrils and his mouth, soaking his shirt and collar. He didn't ‘come round' at once, but lay there as a man said:

“He's awake.”

“Sit him up,” said the man with the hard voice.

Now, two of them took his shoulders, and the pain at the left shoulder was very bad; he grunted with it. They dragged him to his feet and then towards one side of the promenade, and dumped him into a chair. It was a relief to sit. His head was much clearer, but he let his chin fall to his chest, as if he was still semi-conscious; he must look like a drowned rat.

“Shall I give him some more?” the man asked.

“Yes.”

Well, cold water was refreshing, wasn't it? Once the shock was over, Rollison told himself that he would feel better, and that he would have gained more time. If he had needed telling how badly this man wanted the answers to his questions, this was it. He braced himself. This time, the water was held above his head and poured out in a steady stream; he clenched his teeth against the first impact, and then tried to raise his head and flickered his eyes, as if he was really coming round.

Water dripped off him; everywhere.

He blinked about him, able to see much more than he pretended. There was a dim light, not good enough to show very much, but he could make out the figures of a group of men, one of them a little apart from the others. He wore a wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes, a raincoat which seemed out of place, for it was warm; and a mask. The mask didn't pretend to be anything else; it was just a child's plaything, shiny red and pink; there was even a painted moustache. It covered every part of the stranger's face; and that might be to make sure that the men didn't see him - not simply to make sure that the Toff had no chance to identify him.

“Rollison,” he said, “who brought you over here?”

That question Rollison could answer, but not yet. He could gain more time. He was feeling very much better, even felt that he had control of his arms and legs; the pain at his shoulder was slightly easier, too. He raised his head and peered at the man as if his eyes were hurting him, and he licked his wet lips.

“Wha - what?” he croaked.

“Who brought you over here?”

“You - you did,” said Rollison, as if foolishly. “Men attack - men attacked me.”

“And you know what it will be like if they attack you again,” the man said. His voice was still hard, slow and measured; an assumed voice, of course, he meant to make sure that no single feature was identifiable. “I don't mean who brought you up to the top of the building, I mean who brought you to New York.”

Rollison gulped, and looked dull and stupid.

“Who brou' - oh, now I un'erstand!” He paused, to breathe very heavily, as if it was an effort to talk. Time. He was even beginning to wonder what would happen if he made a dive for the elevator. He could see it, with the doors standing open; there was a pale white light inside. Closer to him, the light seemed dimmer, now, and was an unflattering greeny-blue. It was possible to see the stars and in the distance the lights of the environs of New York. “Wilf - Wilfred Hall,” he added.

The man said: “Okay, I know that's true. Did Hall name anyone he was nervous about?”

So that was it; they wanted to know how much Rollison knew. He might have a chance to stall, to keep them in a state of uncertainty, but if they believed he could answer and name one of them, they would be merciless.

At first play foolish; dazed.

“It was Wilf Hall,” he muttered. “Sent me a cable, then - wrote to me.” He paused and gasped again. They stood round him, apparently unimpressed, all full of menace. “Asked me to look - to look after Valerie.” He opened his eyes wide and stared straight into the slits of the mask. “Wilf's sister.”

“I know who Valerie is,” the man said. “Did he name anyone?”

“Eh?”

The man kept patient. “Let's get it straight. When did Hall write to you?”

“ ‘Bout a week - 'bout a week ago,” Rollison answered, and his hand moved towards his pocket. “I've

He snatched his hand away.

Two of the shadowy figures, moved so swiftly that he flinched; one grabbed one arm, the other stood over him with an automatic.

Rollison flung his left arm up, trying to shake the man's grip, and for the first time since he had come round his voice held a note of shrill defiance.

“What's the matter with them? I'm only going to show you the letter!”

“Do you have it with you?” The man sounded eager.

“Should - should be in my pocket.”

“Okay,” the man said, “get it, but don't try any tricks with palm guns or any of the little gadgets you're fond of at home.”

Rollison found a slow grin; as if that pleased him.

He could show the letter, which named no one, and that couldn't do anything but good.

“You been reading about me?” he asked, and slid his hands towards his pocket again. He sensed the tension of the other men, and heard one breathe:

“Dutch, you don't want to take any chances.”

Dutch.

Rollison didn't stop what he was doing, even at the sound of the name. He took out his wallet, and the thin airmail letter was folded inside. He started to unfold it, but Dutch Himmy stepped forward and snatched it away. Then he backed, as swiftly; and it was obvious that he had trained himself never to risk being attacked. He stood further back than he had, and read the letter under one of the dim lamps.

So, here was Dutch Himmy.

Here was the man whom New York knew as well as Chicago had once known Al Capone. Here was the man who could even confine the activities of Cy Day - and whose reputation could stretch out long arms and scare a little homesteader like Tim Mellish. There he was in person, his face behind the mask, head covered, hat brim pulled down, shapeless raincoat hiding his figure. He was no more than six feet away from the Toff.

A man stood at each side of the Toff, both armed, and there wasn't much doubt about what would happen if he leapt; and yet - what kind of blessing would it be if he could kill Dutch Himmy?

He had never been a man with illusions.

He knew that there was a sound chance that they didn't intend to let him get away alive; if they thought he had dangerous knowledge, they would kill him.

Forget it; wait; win more time. He had made a good start, hadn't he? He had given a truthful answer, and it was demonstrably true.

Dutch Himmy lowered the letter.

“What did he say in the cable?” he asked, flatly.

“Just asked if I was free.”

“Did he name anyone?”

“No.”

“That true?”

“All he told me was in that letter,” Rollison said.

“Did he telephone you from New York?”

“No.”

“All right,” Dutch Himmy said, “and it had better be true.” He seemed to have relaxed, in those few seconds; as if he had been reassured by the letter he'd read - and that meant that one of his great fears had been that Wilf Hall had named him. Therefore, Wilf Hall knew him. Easy. Kindergarten. Wilf Hall knew or suspected the identity of Dutch Himmy, and in one way that could be a help. Wilf Hall probably knew five hundred people reasonably well, and thousands by sight, but - it was a help. If the police could start working on that angle, they might get results which had been denied them before. How to let the police know was a matter to deal with later.

Dutch said, in his hard voice: “Did you shoot Al Cadey?”

“Who?”

“Cadey. In the apartment on 13th Street.”

Rollison said slowly, suspiciously: “No. But Cadey had it coming; he was trying to get too personal with Valerie Hall.”

“Who shot him?”

“That's a question I don't answer,” Rollison said, flatly.

The man who had named Dutch Himmy moved forward restlessly.

“Dutch, I . . .“

“When I want help I'll tell you.” That was a reproof. “Rollison, you can start thinking again! I want answers. Where did you take Valerie Hall?”

That was a shot in the dark, of course; it couldn't be anything else. But it made Rollison's heart contract, and he hoped that his voice was steady when he answered:

“Where did I take her? You're crazy. I thought you”

“You took her away from the Belle Hotel.”

“You're dreaming,” Rollison said, and his voice grew loud. “You”. He broke off, and raised his hands, as if imploringly: “Didn't you kidnap her?”

He sounded aghast; bewildered.

Dutch Himmy stood two yards in front of him, staring out of those empty eye-holes. There was a change in the mood; a change in all of them. This was the crisis point. Whatever else he had done wrong, he knew that he had been right in reasoning that above everything else, Dutch Himmy needed to find Valerie; that while she was missing, the man was stymied. That was half-way good.

If he felt sure that Rollison knew where to find her, that wasn't good at all. That would mean they would stop at nothing at all to make him talk.

“Rollison,” Dutch Himmy said, “I know you took her away. Don't keep me waiting. Where is she?”