The Toff In New York (14 page)

“News gets around in three days,” the nurse said. She stood and watched as if wondering what the effect of that would be.

 

 

Three days . . .

Rollison looked intently at the nurse, then at the window and the drawn blinds, then at the newspapers. After the first shock, he glanced again at the newspapers. There was the Night Telegram for four nights in a row, starting at the night he already knew. There were the New York Herald Tribune and the Mirror for three days. On the first, the headlines were of the rescue from the top of the Atyeo Building. There was his photograph - a studio portrait doubtless supplied by Cy Day and a picture of him on the edge of the first floor - another of him being put into an ambulance. He looked like something out of the jungle. In the Mirror and the Night Telegram there were pictures of what was left of Lew. There were reconstruction stories which reached the heights of improbability, but there was one significant thing; only the Night Telegram mentioned Dutch Himmy and that simply in passing.

Police, he was given to understand, were watching by his bedside.

He found himself smiling, twistedly. Cy and the police worked as closely as anyone could.

“Think I can leave you, now?” the nurse asked.

He blew her a kiss.

He glanced through several of the newspapers, and then leaned back and closed his eyes. He was much more tired than he had expected to be, and was glad to relax. He hoped Cy would give him a little time to recover. Three days on his back was a clear indication that he had been in a bad way. He wondered if anything was broken, and how long he would have to stay here. He was so numbed that he didn't really care, and hardly gave a thought to three lost days.

A doctor came, but Rollison was tired again, and soon slept. It was two days before he was anything like himself.

When he woke up, it was dark outside and a small lamp burned in a corner. He felt much better. He even wondered how many more days had passed since he had last come round, and began to feel anxious about the time that was passing, and the fact that Dutch Himmy was still able to look for Valerie. There was that nagging worry, too; that Valerie might have been found since he had asked Legs.

There was a tap at the door. First a doctor and nurse came, and he submitted to the examination, was told that he was lucky, but would do. Later, a different, elderly nurse came in, and said quietly:

“You've some visitors; the doctor's approved of that.”

“That's fine,” Rollison said, and nearly meant it.

She helped him to sit up; helped him. He was glad of it. He was comfortable. He knew that he was unshaven, but it didn't matter. He remembered what had happened when he had first come round, and he looked for the newspapers again; the only addition were two more Night Telegrams and Mirrors, so only hours had passed. He heard nothing, but the door opened, and he realised for the first time that the room was sound-proof.

Cy Day and two other men came in; tall, powerful-looking men, one of them a young Adonis, the other more like a veteran of the Seven Seas. Cy introduced them - Captain Morris and Sergeant Hannington of the Homicide Bureau. They had a ‘few' questions to ask. In fact, the veteran began to ask them and the sergeant took notes. The questions came easily and smoothly, almost to pattern; how had it all started, and why?

Rollison told them everything; that he had left the Milwest Hotel, and Brian Conway and Halloran, with Russell and walked into trouble. There was nothing he needed to keep back. Morris made it obvious, in his slow-speaking way, that he now knew that Wilf Hall had been kidnapped, that there had been talk of ransom; so there was little that Rollison felt hesitant about. He'd been to see Conway and Halloran because he thought they might know how to get to Dutch Himmy.

He told them about how Quentin had died in Valerie's arms; and what he had done.

He told them about the visit to Cadey, but not that Conway had shot the man.

As he talked on, his head began to swim, and his voice grew hoarse. He was glad when the door opened and the nurse came in; equally glad that Morris didn't argue. They let him rest again. But it wasn't a long rest; not as long as he wanted, for when he came round again, there they were, and Morris started more questioning. His quiet, pleasant voice was disarming; he put his questions as if he had been examining witnesses all his life.

Probably he had.

And then came the question which Rollison had been waiting for:

“Where is Miss Hall, will you tell me?” Morris had small, dark blue and very bright eyes; smiling and friendly.

Rollison said: “No.”

“We can make a big job of searching for her,” said Morris; “she might be able to hide from Dutch Himmy, but she can't hide from us.”

“If you want to find out where she is, you look,” Rollison said, “and if Dutch Himmy finds and harms her, you tell your children how proud you are about it.”

Morris was smiling faintly; amusedly.

“If we don't know where she is, we can't protect her.”

“That's right,” said Rollison.

“Do you know where she is?”

Rollison said: “I'm beginning to wonder.”

Morris changed the subject with a grin which seemed to say: “We'll come back to it soon. You'll never hold out.” He asked: “Mr. Rollison, what did Dutch Himmy look like? Can you help us to identify him?”

“Not very much,” Rollison said, and told him what he could. The handsome young sergeant made more notes, and Morris asked a few quick additional questions; none of them helped. Finished, he leaned back and said with a one-sided smile:

“You're the only man I've ever spoken to who claims to have seen and spoken to Dutch Himmy,” he said; “and that's a good reason why we think your life's in danger.”

Rollison didn't speak.

Morris went on: “We picked up what there was left of the man who fell over the edge, Mr. Rollison. Papers in his possession showed that he was a Lew Anderson, living in the Bronx. We're finding out all we can about him, but in five days we haven't found much. Can you give us any further help?”

“There was a man they called Midge.”

“Midge,” Morris echoed, and shot a glance at the sergeant. “Midge,” he repeated. “Fine. That might help.” He stood up, and stretched. “Mr. Rollison, you've done plenty that makes you a hero, but” - his smile was as charming as a smile could be - ”you won't find the police in New York so obliging as they are in London. We don't know you so well. I'm just giving you time to think things over. Remember we want to know where Valerie Hall is.”

“Captain, I don't want you to think I like playing a hero, but I took a lot of punishment refusing to answer that question when Dutch Himmy put it to me,” Rollison said. “You can use what pressure you like, but it won't make me give that away. Don't take that personally. I just don't trust anyone in the wide, wide world.”

Throughout all of this, Cy Day had sat looking on and listening, but not saying a word. He stood up as Morris turned and went out, with the sergeant behind him. He closed the door on them, and then turned and looked down at Rollison, his full lips puckering. He lit a cigarette and handed it to Rollison, who took it and said:

“Thanks.”

“Rolly,” Day said, “you'll have to trust the police sooner or later.”

“Perhaps,” said Rollison.

“How is it going to help if you keep quiet?”

“Cy,” said Rollison, “I don't want the wrong people to know where Valerie is.” His voice was very quiet and his gaze steady; and he went on bluntly: “We've known each other a long time.”

“Sure. Whatever you think, you can tell me.”

“I'm getting ready to. You had all your leg-men out to look for me when I took Valerie away. You covered the city. I slipped you, but it wasn't your fault. You screened Sikorski for me, and that meant that you had reports of all my movements. You've known more about what I've been doing than anyone else since I came to New York. You knew - Legs Leggatt made that obvious - that I'd been to New Jersey, that I went out through the Holland Tunnel and came back over the George Washington Bridge. Is that right?”

“It's right.”

“Dutch Himmy knew that, too,” said Rollison. “That's why I don't trust anybody.”

All that Cy Day did was to take the cigar from his lips, glance at the ash, and then look back at Rollison.

They were silent for several minutes.

There was no sound from outside - in the street or in the hotel.

It seemed as if each was determined to wait until the other broke the silence.

Cy Day did.

Cy Day stood up, smiled faintly, and put his cigar down on the ashtray. He looked very big. He was dressed in a pale brown suit which fitted perfectly. In his way, he was handsome; perhaps just a little too obviously prosperous, a little too much like Wall Street; that was all.

“If there's one thing I like,” he said, “it's talk straight from the shoulder. Do I look like Dutch Himmy to you?”

“You're too big.” Rollison smiled. “Physically.”

“Thanks.”

“Cy,” said Rollison, softly, “that's being smart. This isn't a thing to be smart about. Perhaps I sound ungrateful. Perhaps I've annoyed you. Well, if that annoys you I can't help it - there's a lot at stake. I can't afford to make any more mistakes. I'm telling you that within an hour or two of my return to New York, Dutch Himmy knew the way I went and the way I came back. Either he had a man watching me and followed me both ways - which no one did - or he got a report. Legs greeted me near the George Washington Bridge, and knew plenty. How far do you trust Legs Leggatt?”

“All my operatives are reliable,” Cy said.

“So reliable that I won't tell you or anyone else where to find Valerie Hall,” Rollison said, “and if you want me to say I'm sorry, okay, I'm sorry.”

Day was still smiling, faintly.

“I wouldn't have you any different,” he said. “All right, Rolly, there could be a leakage my end. I can't swear that I haven't an operator who won't squeal if the corn is ripe enough. Not Legs - Legs is much too good and safe. And since you've been laid up here, he's been busy.”

“Looking for Valerie?”

“No, doing what I promised you - tracing Wilf's last movements.” When Rollison's eyes quickened with interest, Day went on: “Here's good for evil. I'll tell you what Legs has found out about Wilf. His last known movements. Ready?”

“Waiting,” Rollison said eagerly.

“Fine. He was at the Arden-Astoria two hours before he set out for Idlewild Airport. He wasn't followed, as far as we know. He ran low on gas on the other side of the Queensborough Bridge. They were only using the lower level that night, the higher level was being repaired. You know what it's like coming down off the lower level. Not much traffic about, the big arches, one of the darkest parts of New York. There was a nearby gas station where he pulled in for gas. They filled his tank, and then found that it had a leak. He hired another car from that gas station, and from there he was followed. He didn't go straight towards the main highway and Idlewild, he probably tried to dodge his pursuers, because he must have known that something was wrong by then. The car he hired was found half a mile from the gas station. It was in a wrecker's yard, and it wasn't until last night that we found it. Like to know what we found in it?”

Rollison caught his breath.

“Not - Wilf?”

“No,” said Cy Day, quietly, “not Wilf, but a lot of dried blood.”

 

 

Rollison was silent for a long time; for minutes. He was trying to see not only what this could mean to Valerie, but its significance from the very beginning. Had Wilf been killed that first night? If so, why? Would a man kill and then demand a ransom? Weren't they likely to keep him alive for a while, so as to be able to prove that he was alive if proof was needed? A living victim was more likely to yield big dividends than a dead one.

Dried blood could mean a fight; injury; or death in that car.

“You wouldn't know Wilf's blood group, would you?” asked Rollison, at last.

“Group O, but that doesn't mean much - it's the largest. Like the group of the blood in the car.”

”Nothing else found?”

“No.”

“Anything discovered from Dando or Russell?”

“Nothing more. They just get mad. Since Russell discovered that his partner had been murdered, he's been” Day hesitated, and stood up, waving his hands.

“Well, he's behaving as if he's lost everything.”

“Just what happened after I left him?”

Day grinned. “That's a way to put it! He was knocked out and bundled into a doorway, and when he came round, everything was over. He got a cab and went straight home - and his sister says that she can hardly get a word out of him. He's not badly hurt, but”

Day hesitated. “It was just a case of David and Jonathan with him and Mark Quentin.”

“What made Russell go to see Conway?”

“You'd named Conway, and Russell simply lost his self-control when he heard about Quentin.”

“Dando didn't look after him very well,” Rollison said, dryly.

“Dando's doing his own job - for the Night Telegram as well as for Dando himself. Russell was just one of the people who might help. So were you. Dando”

Cy Day waved his hands again as he searched for words - “Dando's crazy about one thing: finding Dutch Himmy. He's been at the door downstairs five or six times a day. He's been told that you're unconscious, but now he's seen Morris and me come in he'll know that you can talk. Want to see him?”

“I've no objection.”

“Give yourself a rest first,” advised Day. “Morris is enough to wear anyone out, and then you've had me to deal with. Anything else you want to know?”

“Cy,” said Rollison, “I'd like you to keep tags on Conway and Halloran, on Dando and on Legs Leggatt - and anyone else you think might be of interest. That's one. Then I'd like you to look for any reason why Wilf Hall should be murdered; not kidnapped, murdered. If we can get a motive . . .”

“I was born,- too,” Day said.

Rollison grinned.

“Fine, we both know about motives! And then we need to screen all the people who knew Wilf. That's quite a job, but it may be the only way to get results. I told Morris, and I wasn't joking, that Dutch Himmy's one great fear was that Wilf might have named him in his other identity. There's reason to believe that Wilf knew or knows who he was - and that could be motive enough in itself. If Wilf was going to talk” He broke off, shrugging. “Can you think of a better motive?”

“Yes,” said Day, and smiled easily.

“Well, if you prefer to keep it to yourself, I couldn't blame you,” Rollison said.

“We can share it. The police know it. Wilf Hall is Big Business. Wilf Hall bought the Atyeo Building. Wilf Hall has a lot of enemies, in the way that all successful men have. Find someone who hates his guts, someone he's given a raw deal. I don't say it happened that way, but you asked for another motive.”

“Thanks,” said Rollison.

Day went nearer to him. “Rolly,” he said, “who don't you trust? Legs - or me?”

Rollison eyed him steadily for a long time, then said very softly: “Sorry, Cy. There's just one man in the wide, wide world I trust at this moment.”

“Meaning, the Toff.”

“That's the man.”

“Toff,” said Day, smiling only faintly, “sometimes I think you're the biggest big-head the world's ever known. Sometimes I think you're just crazy. Sometimes I think you ought to get the Victoria Cross and the Purple Heart on the same day. And sometimes I think you're dead right. This is one of the times when I think you're dead right. I don't like admitting it even to myself, but what you told me about Dutch Himmy's knowledge of the way you left Manhattan and the way you came back, has shaken me badly. I'm going to comb my own operatives, starting now. And I'm going to work on this as I've never worked on a job before. And when it's over, you're going to buy me the best dinner in New York, and say ‘sorry' with each course.”

He went out.

The nurse and the doctor would not allow Dando to see the Toff that day.

Dando came, next morning. He asked a lot of questions, but he had nothing new to say. The newspapers had banner headlines about the discovery of the car which Wilf Hall had hired, the fact that the petrol tank in his own car had been holed pointed straight to a plot to delay him. There were stories, none of them really reliable, that Wilf had been afraid of trouble for a long time.

Dando said: “You're the only man alive, as far as we know, who's ever talked to Dutch Himmy. That makes you precious to a lot of people, especially to Russell and to me. Be careful when you're ready to leave here, Toff.”

“I'll be careful,” Rollison promised.

There was a succession of visitors. Morris and his sergeant again, Cy Day, Dando, other newspapermen, friends who had known him in England, Morris again, doctors, nurses - and these, Rollison knew, were now largely superfluous; Morris and Cy were deliberately playing up his injuries, and making out that he was worse than he was. Nothing else was discovered. Halloran and Conway stayed at the Milwest Hotel, and still seemed nervous, went out very seldom. The police and Cy Day were going through lists of Wilf Hall's friends and acquaintances; but there were hundreds of them, few with any conceivable motive. The revenge possibility did not reveal any new line.

On the seventh day, Rollison was pronounced well enough to go out, if he took things carefully.

On the ninth day, just before he left the Belle Hotel for a walk, knowing that he would be followed wherever he went, there was another visitor. He saw her from the window of the drawing-room where he had been sitting. She walked briskly. She was very small, her name was Julie, and she was Russell's sister. Even at a distance, there was something about her which won compassion; she looked so nervous, so timid. Rollison felt quite sure that she was here to see him, and went downstairs to greet her. Eagerly. By the time he reached the hall, a bell-boy was speaking to her.

She looked up at Rollison; nervously?

“Hallo, Miss Russell,” he said; “come to see me?”

“Yes,” she said quickly. “Yes, please. Can I talk to you?”

“Of course. Would you like to talk here or shall we go out?”

“I - I don't mind,” she said; “anywhere. It - it's about my brother. I hope you aren't angry with me for coming.”

“Not even slightly angry,” Rollison assured her. “I'm glad you've come.”

It was warm outside, and pleasant, and he had been looking forward to some fresh air. He reminded himself that Cy Day's men would protect him as if he was a Crown Prince. And probably the girl would feel that she could talk freely only when they were out of earshot of anyone else.

Just across the road were the gardens of Riverside Drive, the shade of trees, the cool breeze which came off the river. They strolled out. Cy Day's men were there all right, and one man said:

“Don't do anything without warning us, Mr. Rollison.”

“Just a stroll.”

“Okay.”

A taxi was drawn up not far from the hotel; the nearest vehicle in sight - a red-and-yellow taxi. Rollison glanced across, and Sikoski raised a hand. Rollison waved back and called out: “See you,” and then went across the road with the girl. She already seemed more reassured.

“Now, what's the real trouble?” Rollison asked, and his manner and his smile put her completely at her ease.

“It's Van,” she said quickly; “I just want to help Van, but he - he's almost crazy. I've never known him anything like it. He says that you're the one man in the world who could identify Dutch Himmy and he's going to make you, somehow.” She was breathless again, and she gripped Rollison's arm tightly. “Do you know Dutch Himmy?

Rollison said: “I wouldn't know him if I saw him.”

Her great brown eyes were very near his, and in them he saw the last thing he had expected: relief.

“Thank God for that,” she breathed.

Rollison said, startled: “What makes you so thankful?”

“If you knew the man you might tell Van,” she said, “and if he knew, then he'd try to kill for himself. I - I just don't want to lose my brother.”

Rollison smiled down into that pale face.

“Julie,” he said, “if I ever find out who Dutch Himmy is, your brother will be the last man I tell.”

Her eyes lit up.

“That's wonderful to hear,” she said. “Just wonderful. I've been so worried because of Dando . . .“

“Why Dando?” Rollison asked, sharply.

Julie said: “I think he's gone mad since - since his brother died.” Recollection of the boy she had loved brought tears to her eyes, but she went on: “He's always egging Van on, always telling him that he must find out who Dutch Himmy is. It's Dando who seems sure that you know but won't tell anyone. Van would be bad enough by himself, but with two of them” She broke off. “But if you promise me that . . .”

Such golden simplicity.

Rollison said: “I'll come and see your brother and try to convince him that I don't know, Julie. Now, supposing we get a taxi for you, and”

He stopped.

He saw the car swing into the road, and tear towards the Belle Hotel. He heard a shout, as of warning, from one of the watching men. He grabbed Julie and flung himself behind some trees, but was a split second too late. There was a burst of shooting. He felt Julie shiver in his arms. As the car roared past and he crouched against the tree, unhurt, she was a dead weight against him.

There was an ugly wound at the back of her head.

Van Russell stood by the window in the living-room of his apartment. Dando was sitting on the arm of a chair. Rollison stood near the door, watching Russell, seeing the way his eyes stormed, his lips worked. All the bandages were gone, now, but his arm was still in a sling. He looked like a man in torment, as if he couldn't control himself.

He had been told that Julie was dead.

“I can't believe it,” he said hoarsely, “I just can't believe it; she was so sweet, she was such a honey! Oh, God, why do you let it happen? God, let me find Dutch Himmy, let me avenge her. Let me . . .“

“Van,” Dando said, in a cracked voice, “the man who can help you find Dutch Himmy is right here. He's talked to him, he's seen him. You can believe that line that he couldn't describe the man if you like, but I don't believe it.”

Dando stopped; and there was a glitter in his eyes, a lean and hungry look on his face.

Russell moved a step towards the Toff.

“If I thought you knew,” he said, and almost choked. “Of course you know. Dando's right; you can put a finger on Dutch Himmy. Come on, name him. Name him! Name the man who's killed my best friend, my sister, who . . .”

He sounded as if he might burst out screaming.

Rollison said: “Get a hold on yourself; you won't help anyone this way. If I knew Dutch Himmy . . .“

“But you must know him, you've talked to him,” rasped Russell. “And I'm going to make you talk!” He swung round from Rollison, dived towards a small writing-desk and, before Rollison could reach him, snatched out an automatic and covered him. “If you don't name Dutch Himmy I'll shoot you,” he threatened savagely. “Who is he?”