The Toff In New York (16 page)

Morris had joined them; and was watching intently.

“Whatever you're driving at,” Day said, “I don't get it.”

“Common denominator for death - knowing the real identity of Dutch Himmy,” said Rollison. “Julie Russell - Mark Quentin - Wilf Hall - who did they know in common? Come on, tell me. Who?”

Cy Day said in a strangled voice: “No. No, I don't believe”

“Van Russell,” Morris said, in a steely voice. “Van's a Dutch form, too. Van Russell. Would he kill his own sister”

“If he thought she knew him and feared she was coming to tell me,” Rollison said; “wouldn't Dutch Himmy kill anyone?”

Day breathed: “Morris, let's get there as fast as . . .“

“Hold it,” Rollison said, very quietly. And they waited. “Have a cordon thrown round the apartment house, but don't let Russell know we're on the way. Valerie might be alive still. First, find out whether a girl answering her description has gone to the apartment. Then let me go alone. That won't surprise Russell, won't start the shooting - but a police raid will. I might be able to fool them and get the job finished without more killing.”

Morris gave his slow smile. “That could be the job for you, Mr. Rollison. I agree - Russell won't expect a visit from me or any policeman or Cy here. He won't be surprised at a visit from you. We could be wrong about Russell - and right or wrong we could use a chance to see this through without more killing. Sure you'll play it that way?”

“It's the only play possible,” Rollison said.

Half an hour later, he knew for certain that a girl answering Valerie Hall's description had gone into the building with Van Russell.

The police were within call, but not too close by when a subdued Sikoski drove Rollison into the street, and stopped outside Russell's building.

“Colonel,” Sikoski said, “take care of yourself.”

Rollison said: “Okay, Bud.”

He went forward, knowing that if he wasn't out in twenty minutes, the police would raid the building.

 

 

The Toff stepped into the hall, which looked no more impressive than before. No one was in sight. The four elevators stood at the ground floor, the doors closed. He pressed the nearer, and the doors slid open. He stepped inside. He was not watched; and it seemed unlikely that the approach to Dutch Himmy's apartment could be so easy.

First floor; second; third . . . seventh.

The lift stopped and the doors slid open. Rollison stepped out. A man was doing some work on the electric lights near the lift; and it might be work which wasn't really necessary. He looked curiously at Rollison, and said:

“Hi.”

“Hi,” said Rollison.

He pressed the bell of Van Russell's apartment, and the clock seemed to be turned back. The first time he had done this, the door had been opened by the timid little girl, whom he hadn't known existed. She had seemed rather scared, as if overshadowed by her successful brother.

Dando had been here.

Dando.

There was no immediate answer to the ring. Rollison rang again. Then, the door opened - and Dando stood there.

Dando had always looked a fanatic, with that lean and hungry air and the glittering eyes and the hatred and the bitterness in his voice. Now, he looked wild and savage, and the moment he saw Rollison he cried:

“Get away from here, Russell is Dutch . . .“

There was a sharp report; hardly loud enough for a bullet-shot. But it was one. Dando staggered. He backed away, coughing. His eyes flickered. Rollison swung round - but he didn't go far, for the electrician was just behind him, and he had a gun in his hand.

“Just go inside,” he said; “you'll be welcome.”

Rollison didn't speak.

“Very welcome, Van Russell said.

There was a gun behind and a gun in front of him; so Rollison had no choice. He went into the apartment. Dando was still coughing, and now he was leaning against a table. Russell held a gun limp by his side. He closed the door. He seemed to be alone, but wasn't, for as the door closed another man came forward, and said:

“Just raise your hands, Toff.”

Rollison raised them, and felt the man slap his sides to make sure that he hadn't a gun. He lowered his arms, and Russell said with a one-sided smile:

“Well, it had to end one day.”

“That's right,” said Rollison. He went forward under the pressure of a gun, into the sitting-room where he had seen Dando and Russell that morning. Dando's coughing, coming from behind him, was hard and almost frightening.

It stopped.

Dando came staggering in. Rollison knew that he had a wound in his back, where Russell had shot him. He was in agony and was dying on his feet; yet Van Russell could look at him with that one-sided smile, as if he was enjoying the sight.

“Dando,” he said, “why don't you take a walk?”

Dando stood by a chair. He had to hold on to it with one hand, or he would have fallen. He swayed, helplessly. Rollison moved towards him, but before he reached him, the other man said:

“Just keep still.”

“The man's hurt . . .“

“Listen,” Russell said; “we aren't interested in your humanitarianism here, Toff. He was told what he'd get if he tried to warn you, but he had to be a hero. So he's hurt. That's how he's going to stay. You're going to be hurt, too, and this time I won't make it easy; you're going to talk fast”

Rollison didn't speak.

“To - Toff,” croaked Dando. “Don't - don't tell him a thing. Don't”

“Shut up,” Russell said roughly.

“Val - Val's here,” Dando tried to shout. “She's here! She”

Rollison cried: “What's that?” He spun round on Russell as if he was astounded, and he saw the glint of satisfaction in Russell's eyes; this was just what Russell wanted, to find out whether he had expected to find Valerie here.

The man behind Rollison said: “Take it easy.”

Rollison rasped savagely: “Is that right? Is Valerie”

“That's right, and it won't make any difference to you,” Russell sneered.

“Come - come see - see Russell, saw Val - saw Val come in,” Dando articulated, very slowly and very care fully. “Tried - tried go for police, but”

“We can do without the life-story,” Russell said. “Okay, take him away.” He nodded to the man behind Rollison, who stepped to Dando's side.

Dando shouted:

“Always swore I'd kill you!” and he leapt at Russell, finding a strength which no one had thought was left in him. He actually reached Russell, his hands fastened round Russell's neck. The other man shouted: “Get away from him!” and fired into the back of Dando's head.

Dando hadn't a chance.

Rollison had.

He had a chance and he took it. He had to stall, until the police arrived - and anything that used up time was vital. Russell believed that he could talk, so he wouldn't kill - yet.

He would only wound.

How many others were there? Where was Val? Was Wilf Hall alive? How could he best win them all a chance, as well as one for himself?

The questions flooded his mind as he leapt for the gunman, who saw him coming, swivelled round, and fired.

The bullet grazed Rollison's arm, but didn't stop him. The strength in his blow on the gunman's chin floored the man, and sent the pictures on the walls quivering.

For the first time, Rollison saw a chance of winning on his own, even before the police arrived.

Russell had Dando's dead body leaning against him.

Rollison dived forward again and grabbed the gun from the gunman's limp hand, then backed swiftly towards the door.

As he did so, another man appeared from the bedroom.

Rollison saw this man's startled expression grow into one of stupefaction, then into bewilderment as a bullet struck him in the chest, close to the heart.

He groaned as he fell.

Russell pushed Dando aside.

Rollison fired at Russell, and the bullet caught the man's gun hand. Rollison meant to kill; it was bad shooting, he simply hadn't made allowances for the fact that he was gasping for breath, and couldn't keep steady.

But Russell's gun dropped.

Rollison said thinly: “Keep away from it.”

He pressed tightly against the wall. The man he had shot in the chest had fallen out of sight. Russell stood over Dando's body, breathing very hard, looking at Rollison from beneath his eyebrows. He might carry another gun, and if he did he would soon go for it.

There were sounds, as of other men in the next room.

Russell said huskily: “Don't waste your time, Rollison; there are four men in there. And they can bring more if they need them.”

Rollison didn't answer.

“And don't build your hopes,” Russell went on. He spoke as if with an effort; as if he was fighting against something he couldn't understand. “No one will come to help you. I've got the apartment next door both ways and the apartment underneath and on top. All the apartments in this part of the building belong to my men. And after you came up, I fixed all the lifts, and I've barricaded the only stairs. That's how thorough I am.”

Rollison didn't speak.

“Lost your tongue?” Russell demanded harshly. He breathed very heavily, and kept glancing towards the door. No one could get at Rollison from the door - they might from the window, but that wouldn't be easy for any of them. He tried to imagine how they would try to get in, what Russell was waiting for.

Russell said: “Rollison, you haven't a chance.”

Rollison said: “That's right,” and waited. He didn't like the silence. He didn't like the way Russell stared at the door, as if he knew that help of a kind was coming for him. What would they do? And where was Valerie?

Valerie - and brother Wilf.

Russell said: “I'll say this for you, you tried to do a job, and you did it better than most would have done. You like to know something? If you'd had a little more luck you could have got away with it. You like to know something else?”

He was calmer, now.

He glanced towards the door, and grinned.

Rollison said: “All I know is that whatever happens to me or Valerie or Wilf, I'm taking you out of this world. I wouldn't let you live if it was the only chance of living myself. Don't make any mistake.”

“I won't make any mistake,” Russell said. “I can even believe you. I”

He broke off, grinning; as if he had seen something which really delighted him; and the way he looked put dread into Rollison's mind. He stared towards the door, not knowing what to expect, covering Russell and determined to shoot him rather than let him go.

A man staggered into the room.

It was Wilf Hall.

 

 

There was no doubt; it was Wilf Hall.

He limped, badly. His right arm hung by his side, and there were dirty bandages at the elbow. There were bruises at his face, too. He hadn't shaved for days; he probably hadn't shaved since that evening when he had left the Arden-Astoria for Idlewild. His eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, from want of sleep and from pain. His fair curly hair looked matted and filthy. His mouth hung open, and he kept licking his lips.

Russell sneered: “There's your pal, Toff. Proud of him?”

Rollison didn't speak; in fact, he couldn't.

Wilf Hall looked towards him, but didn't seem to recognise him. He staggered a little further forward. For the first time, Rollison saw that there was a rope tied to his right ankle, hobbling him; and the length of rope stretched out of sight.

“There's your pal,” sneered Russell, and added viciously: “Rollison, drop your gun and keep where you are, or we'll kill your pal's sister. We'll kill sweet little Valerie. You there, Valerie?”

There were other sounds of movement.

Russell shouted: “Make her talk!”

There was a pause; a gasp; a muted scream. Rollison had no doubt at all that it was Valerie, but she didn't call out.

“Make her talk!” Russell shouted wildly. It wouldn't take much to make him lose all his self-control. “Hurry!”

Rollison called, quietly, “Valerie, don't make it worse. Are you in there?”

“Yes,” she said, and her voice was pitched so low that he could only just hear it. “Yes, I'm here.”

“All right?”

“They haven't - they haven't hurt me - ” She paused, and then flung a word out as if defiantly: “Much!”

“We'll hurt her if you don't drop your gun, Rollison,” Russell said. “You haven't a chance and nor has she. And you know what they'll do to her if you shoot me?” He leered into Rollison's face. He had looked so diffident, so pleasant, so kindly - and now he leered. “You don't know? I'll tell you. Midge!” he called.

A man said: “Take it easy, boss.”

“You know what happened to the Willis girl?”

“Sure!”

“It can happen again.”

“Sure, boss.”

“Rollison,” Russell said, “did you ever see a photograph of what happened to the Willis girl? It looked as if she'd climbed into the lion's cage at the zoo.”

Here it was; the absolute climax. There wasn't a thing Rollison could do. The girl was out of sight, and all he would know about anything they did to her would be the screaming. He was sweating, and his mouth was very dry.

“Rolly,” Valerie Hall called, “never mind what they say, kill Russell.”

There was a sharp, slapping sound; then silence.

“Midge . . .“ Russell began.

“Russell,” Rollison said in an even voice, “Valerie made a lot of sense to me. If she screams again, I'll shoot you. Don't make any mistake. One more scream, and I'll shoot you first and the rest of them afterwards.”

Silence.

Valerie said: “Rolly, whatever you do, don't let him escape alive. Look what he's done to Wilf. He had him tied to a bed, he tortured him, he”

She broke off.

“Just imagine what I can do to you,” Russell said viciously.

Valerie gave a little gasping sound; it wasn't a scream. Rollison didn't know for certain but he guessed that Midge had a hand over her mouth. Next moment there was a rough exclamation in a man's voice; the kind of gasp a man might make if he'd been bitten.

“He killed Mark Quentin because he could name him as Dutch Himmy,” Valerie called, “and - and he thought Julie could, too. He killed Julie just in case she guessed, because she came to see you. He tried to make you talk, he told me all about that - he threatened to shoot you, and if you'd given just a hint that you thought you knew Dutch Himmy, he would have killed you and Dando.” Valerie could be calm and dispassionate in spite of what was happening. “Don't let him escape, Rolly, whatever you do.”

“He won't escape,” said Rollison.

Wilf Hall was standing where he had been put, looking about him as if he didn't really understand what all this was about. It didn't seem possible that a man could change so much in a few days. He shuffled forward an inch or two, and then stood still again. He kept trying to turn his head to look at Valerie, but his neck was stiff; and he seemed not to have the sense to turn round.

“He's been defrauding Wilf for years,” Valerie went on, “and did it under cover of other men. But Wilf began to suspect, and accused him, and Russell knew it was all over unless he stopped Wilf talking. So he kidnapped Wilf.”

She stopped for breath; but only for a moment. Russell stared at the Toff and that gun, as Valerie went on gaspingly:

“He's been telling me everything; he's been boasting how clever he was. But Wilf began to suspect, and then Mark Quentin guessed, too. Russell told Mark if he went to the police, Wilf would be killed, so . . .

“Rolly, kill him!” Valerie cried.

It was easy to say.

It was easy for Valerie, with that unbending courage, to stand there and tell him what to do, for she didn't fear death for herself. But it wasn't so easy to obey. It wasn't easy to throw away his own life, on hers, or Wilfs. Rollison simply kept Russell covered. He knew that it wouldn't be long before the men in the other rooms found a way of getting in - they might come through the floor or ceiling, they might . . .

Never mind how; they'd find a way.

“Rolly, they're coming,” Valerie called out, “they've got tear-gas, kill him now!”

If there was a chance to kill Russell, it was here. The tear-gas would put an end to all hope, once it was released. Kill Russell now, or throw away any chance that any of them had ever had.

“Rolly!” screamed Valerie.

He knew what he had to do.

He shot Russell in the right leg and the left arm, and dived forward towards the door. He saw Valerie, with hands tied behind her and a man at her side; he saw two others, with pistols which didn't look like ordinary automatics. He shot at them as the tear-gas billowed out. He felt it sting his nostrils. He turned and ran towards the window, shooting as he went, breaking the glass, so that anyone outside would know there was trouble here. He heard confused sounds behind him, and then something hit him at the back of his head and he just fell out of consciousness, as if death had swallowed him up.

What he didn't know was that Morris had men in the rooms across the street and that they were looking in through glasses, and getting ready to start a shooting war. He didn't know that the police were past the staircase barricade and that by the time the shooting started, Cy Day and Morris, between them, crossed the barricade and reached the landing outside the apartment as Rollison was struck a glancing blow on the head by a bullet which should have killed him.

He didn't know that they forced their way in.

In fact it was a long time before he realised that he was still alive. When he did, it was hazily; he was in a much worse state than he had been at the Belle Hotel. And he was kept in bed much longer.

Gradually, he began to get better.

He didn't know it at the time, but he first recognised people five weeks afterwards; then he recognised Cy Day and Legs Leggatt, but only vaguely. He grinned before he lapsed back into a kind of coma.

Valerie Hall was with him next time.

Then, Mary Mellish.

Soon he began to feel much better. He was able to talk. He could tell which nurses he liked and which ones he wished would stay out of the ward. He began to want to know what had happened and to ask questions. It was all rather at half pressure, he wasn't deeply interested for a long, long time.

Now, he was in a different room, pleasant and bright, overlooking the George Washington Bridge and the East River, New Jersey and, in the north, New York. It was five months after the battle in the apartment, and he knew most of what had happened now, but not everything. He knew that Russell had stood his trial as Dutch Himmy, and had been executed; that eight others had been also, and more jailed for life. He knew that Dutch Himmy had realised that there was no future in a racketeer's life, and he had planned one final kill: a big slice of the Hall fortune.

As Hall's accountant he had started well. He had planned to bring Hall stocks to a record low level, buy heavily through nominees, and take over, as an equal partner with Wilf Hall.

Wilf had discovered what he was plotting - but not until Valerie was on the way to New York.

Wilf was quickly taken prisoner. There had to be a good explanation to satisfy Valerie, and the ransom idea had been a part answer. Get Valerie worried, keep her worried, threaten to kill Wilf if she went to the police.

Cadey's double-cross had got in the way, and Conway and Halloran had fallen down on their part of the job by not spotting Rollison soon enough. What Russell hadn't realised was that Conway and Halloran wanted to get clear of Dutch Himmy, and had been waiting for a chance to fix him. Conway had known the Toff was watching, but hadn't reported soon enough.

Then, Dutch Himmy, through his man Midge, had told Conway that he suspected a double-cross; if Conway or Halloran fell down again, they would be killed. It wasn't surprising that Conway had been so jittery.

Russell was having the Milwest telephone calls reported by the operator. When Valerie had called from the village near the farm, she'd offered Conway a hundred thousand dollars if he would tell her where to find Wilf. Conway had told her that he believed he knew, had arranged to meet her - but had been killed, with Halloran, before he could leave the hotel.

Russell had met Valerie, in Conway's place.

From the beginning, his one fear had been that he had been named, as a suspect, and that the police would catch up with him. With Wilf Hall a prisoner, he had known that he would have to cash in soon; he couldn't let Wilf live. But he needed a few days to finish his frauds on the Hall Corporation - from the moment of Valerie's arrival he had been playing for time.

Nothing had gone as he planned.

First Cadey; then Conway and Halloran had made difficulties.

Then, the Toff . . .

From the first anxiety that Wilf or Mark Quentin had named him, he had had only one concern, which became an obsession. To find out if he had been named, and who he could trust. And he wanted to establish himself with Valerie as a loyal and trusted friend of Wilf. That was why he had tried to contact her in New York - and when his own men had proved his undoing.

He hadn't trusted Cadey, had wanted to get Valerie away from him; but Cadey had laid on the two hoodlums, whom Rollison had encountered later.

With Valerie at liberty and convinced of his, Russell's, goodwill, Russell believed he could gain the time he needed. With the Toff to reckon with, he had posed as Wilf Hall's trusted friend; but all the time he had doubted his own men, had gone as Russell to check on Conway and Halloran. The capture of the Toff and the interrogation on top of the Atyeo Building had been to try to make sure Wilf hadn't named him, and to find out exactly how much the Toff had discovered.

Wilf Hall could have saved himself the ordeal had he told the police of his suspicions of Russell. But he'd been loath to do that without proof, and his discovery that Russell was Dutch Himmy had come too late. He had tried to warn Valerie by sending a message to Mark Quentin, but Russell's man, Midge, had caught up with Quentin first.

Wilf was now in California, convalescing. The doctors said that it would be a year before he was really on his feet, but he'd been normal enough to sign a power of attorney, and Valerie was handling the affairs of the Atyeo Building and the Hall Trusts with guidance of others who were loyal to Hall.

That was all.

Rollison sat at the window of the pent-house, on a lounge chair, smoking, mildly intrigued by the mass of traffic going over the Bridge; at rush hours, it looked as if the Bridge had become alive with slugs of every imaginable size and colour, all wriggling at the same time. The evening sun glistened on the roofs and the windows, making a kaleidoscope of colour.

His cases were packed, and this was to be his last night in New York. It had cost him a lot and gained him a lot; for the Hall Trust had named his fee for him, and the figure had been almost astronomical.

It was very quiet.

He remembered that it had been quiet when he had been at the top of the Atyeo Building.

A bell rang.

A coloured valet, who had served him since he had arrived here, walked to the front door and, a moment later, came and said: “It's Miss Val, sah.”

“Oh, fine,” Rollison said, and got up. He didn't think of the weeks and the months when he had been able to get up only with an effort. He felt fit and fresh, and his eyes lit up when he saw Valerie.

She looked at her glowing best.

She wore a dark blue dress of some shimmery material, and a small white hat; blue shoes trimmed with white; white gloves; as if she had just come from the best salon in New York.

Probably she had.

“Hallo, Val,” he said; “you look wonderful.”

“I don't feel wonderful,” Valerie said; “I don't think I ever shall again when I look at you.”

“Now, come . . .“

“Rolly,” Valerie said firmly, “I've been thinking this for months, and I've decided that I shall have to say it or burst. As you're sailing for home tomorrow, it has to be now.”

Rollison reached her, and put his hands on her shoulders.

“Don't burst,” he pleaded. “You're much too precious.”

“Fool.”

“Yes, ma'am, but . . .“

“I insist that you keep quiet for a few minutes,” ordered Valerie; and her eyes flashed, as he remembered, and she strained away from him.

“All right,” he said. “Your turn.”