The Toff In New York (4 page)

She stopped absolutely still, in shocked horror.

A man stood behind the bedroom door; and must have been there for a long time. It was Rollison, from next door. But he'd gone out and hadn't come in. . . .

Valerie opened her mouth to speak, but words wouldn't come.

“I thought I asked you not to go out,” Rollison said mildly, and he moved across and took the raincoat from her.

“B-b-b-but . . .“

“Didn't you think I meant it?”

“B-b-b-but how did you get in?” Valerie gasped;

“I didn't see you; I . . .“ She broke off, and looked at the wall between this room and the one next door. It was a blank wall; there was no possible way from one suite to the next; this was like looking at a ghost. “How - how did”

“I came in through the window,” Rollison told her calmly. “I had a feeling that it would be worth lending an ear to the chatter. Bright pair, aren't they? Provided they haven't hurt your brother, I could almost like them.”

Valerie said: “What?” in a squeaky voice.

“I shouldn't think they've really fooled you though,” said Rollison. “I know they think they've done a beautiful job, but Conway played a bit too much ham. Hal-loran's almost too fantastic to be false; he's really the better of the pair. But never mind that. The problem is to find out where they've hidden your brother, without letting them realise that you know that the man round the corner is a myth or an accomplice.”

Rollison paused, as if he meant to give Valerie a chance to get her breath back.

At least she wasn't alone in what she thought, but - could this man be another of them, a third partner who was pretending to come to her rescue?

If only she could remember where she had seen him before.

“And you were really going out after them,” he marvelled. “How far do you think you'd have got?”

Valerie didn't answer, but looked away from him, then stepped firmly past him to the window.

It was open a little.

She pulled it wider, looked out, and glanced along towards Suite 552. A window there was open, too, although no light shone out into the night.

She said in a small voice: “Did you really . . .“ and then broke off, looking dizzily downwards. There were thirty storeys between here and the pavement, to an awful, thudding death. Cars below looked like toys, people like pigmies.

“You couldn't have,” she breathed, and turned to stare at him again. “But if you did, if I have to believe that, then I suppose I ought to believe that you can be trusted.”

He was smiling at her. There was a hint of mockery in his eyes; but a gentle mockery. Suddenly, he had become more than life-size; a kind of superman. He moved, slid his arm round her shoulders and hugged her, then spoke in the most nonchalant way in the world.

“You just need to believe that Brian and his Mike are deep in this game, and that I'm on your side,” he said. “It has all the hallmark of the classic confidence trick, and con-men don't usually go in for violence, either side of the Atlantic. I should say that this pair have teamed up with someone else - it could even be this Dutch Himmy they talk about.” He chuckled. “Or German George or Russian Rudolph! Certainly they won't kill the goose they hope lays golden eggs, as certainly we have to be very careful, because they have killed once, but . . .“

Valerie echoed sharply: “They have killed someone?”

“Oh, yes,” said Rollison, and the light faded from his eyes, which became very hard and grim. “The man next door is dead. Didn't you guess?”

She hadn't guessed.

Now, she realised that she should have; and suddenly her fears for her brother rose almost to screaming pitch.

 

 

The Honourable Richard Rollison, known by many by the apt if absurd soubriquet of the Toff, studied Valerie Hall closely. He felt no surprise at her behaviour, but much admiration for her as a person. She was the stuff of which heroines were made, as he had been warned. She was small, she was slender, she looked fragile; rather like something which ought to be protected, as Dresden china; but in her way she was as tough as women came, and she had that reputation among her friends and relatives, too.

And in his way, the Toff was also tough. . . .

He watched the varying expressions on Valerie's face. He made allowance for the shocks she had already had, for her fears for her brother and the fact that she now knew that murder had been done. In the thirty seconds which passed between the Toff's ‘didn't you guess?' and her response, expressions chased one another across her face - shock, fear, dread, hopelessness, resolve, hope reborn, anger and, finally, determination.

It was quite a sight.

By the time the show was over, the Toff was smiling very broadly.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked, in a subdued voice. There was a pause; then she went on, more quickly: “I think you'd better tell me why I should trust you, and not the others. I don't know you, either.”

Now he had proof that she could keep her head.

There was no desperate hurry to leave. Rollison was sure that the two men would not come back very quickly; they would allow some time to pass, so that when they returned, whatever message they gave Valerie would have the ring of truth; they would probably regale her with a story of how they had argued and pleaded with the man round the corner. So, Rollison took a letter from his pocket and handed it to the girl. She took it with her white, nicely-shaped hands. The envelope was addressed to the Honourable Richard Rollison, and after seeing that she glanced at him sharply, but didn't speak.

She opened the letter and glanced at the signature, which was Wilfred K. Hall.

“It's from Wilf!” she cried. “Do you know him? Do . . .“But she didn't finish what she was saying, just read the letter swiftly. Like that, with her eyes very bright and her lips parted, she looked quite at her best.

The letter read:

“The job's really very simple. I would like you to follow my sister, Valerie Hall, when she leaves London for New York, travelling on the same plane and staying at the Arden-Astoria to make sure that she's all right. Of course, I may be crazy, there may not be any need for anxiety, but I have an uncomfortable feeling that either Valerie or I might run into trouble. I won't go into details now. At best, it'll be a flip across the big pond and a few days wallowing in luxury at the A-A. At worst, it will mean trouble, but I don't need to tell the Toff anything about that!

“I'll arrange everything else with your man Jolly, of course. Thanks for easing my mind.

Yours,”

Valerie looked up again, with a different expression in her eyes; confidence. She studied Rollison's face very closely, then glanced at her watch, and said quietly:

“We'd better do something, hadn't we? They're bound to come back soon. I'm not sure you were right to stop me from going out; I was only going to follow them, and . . .“

“Not by yourself in New York,” Rollison protested; “too many wolves are interested. Conway and Halloran will be back soon, and they'll say that this mystery man has agreed to the terms. They'll want to take your diamonds and everything else of value to him - and if you let them, that could easily be the last you'd hear of them. Wilf might possibly be released, but it's more likely that the gang will hold him and come back for more money when you've had time to lay your hands on some. If they're going to play it that way, then Halloran and Conway will stay around - one will offer to sleep in the sitting-room, as your gallant protector! But we needn't go into every detail, need we?”

“I want to know what to do” Valerie insisted.

Rollison grinned at her.

“One day some man's going to be very glad he met you,” he said. “All right, woman of action. When they come back, you'll refuse to let Conway and Halloran act as intermediaries. You'll insist on going along and seeing this man they talk about yourself, and you'll also insist on getting some guarantee that Wilf won't be hurt.”

“Supposing they won't give me one?”

“Let's cross the streams when we get to them,” said Rollison, easily. “Your job's to make them think that you still look on Brian and Mike as heaven-sent friends.”

Valerie grimaced.

“Just glance along the passage and make sure it's empty, will you?” Rollison asked. “I'd rather go back to my suite without risking the long drop.”

“All right,” agreed Valerie, but instead of turning round at once, she contemplated him thoughtfully. Then: “What are you going to do?”

“I want ten minutes to get ready, and then I'll follow you. You may not recognise me, but I promise that I won't be far away.”

“I suppose you are the Toff,” said Valerie, with a dubious frown; and before he could make any reply, went on sharply: “Oh, of course you are! Mr. Rollison, do you really think that Wilf's in danger?”

That needed an honest answer, not just comfort for comfort's sake.

“He could be,” Rollison said, “but I don't think it's likely. If we play our hand well . . .“

“I won't let you down,” she broke in fiercely.

“Fine,” said Rollison. “Don't leave until I telephone you. I'll call, and then apologise for getting the wrong number. Any time after that you can leave.”

Valerie nodded, and Rollison watched as she went to the door, peered along the passage, and then beckoned. She gave him a smile that was nearly radiant as he went out; then she closed the door firmly.

Rollison was busy for ten furious minutes.

First, he went to a linen-closet he had already spotted, took out some sheets and blankets, and carried them to his own suite. There was the dead man, youthful and with a strangely pleasant face, on the bathroom floor. Rollison ran through his pockets, and discovered that his name was Mark Quentin, with an address on Long Island.

Rollison made a mental note of this, then spread sheets and blankets on the floor, and his plastic raincoat, the blood-stained side up, on top of these. He lifted the dead man, put him on the raincoat, and wrapped him up, all his movements swift and yet gentle. He fastened the bundle with pins, then carried it to the wardrobe, put it inside, locked the door and pocketed the key.

Swiftly he took off the Savile Row suit, and put on another which was laid out on the bed. This was a subdued royal blue in colour* and beside it was a sky-blue necktie, adorned with hand-paintings of high mountains and a sunset of rich, red gold. Next to this was a ten-gallon hat, the same colour as the sunset. He seemed to slide into his clothes, and into a pair of suede shoes which matched the hat. Then he glanced at himself in a tall mirror.

He grinned, the shadow of tragedy lifting.

“You're quite something,” he said; “nothing more glorious ever came out of Las Vegas.” He took a cigar from a leather case and put it to the corner of his lips, and then saluted himself. “Hi, stranger,” he said, and turned away.

He went out.

A coloured girl in a blue smock was pushing a big linen-basket towards double doors marked ‘staircase'; these were just beyond the linen-closet. He looked at the big basket thoughtfully; it was large enough to take Mark Quentin's body.

But not now.

As he turned the corner, Rollison saw Brian Conway and Mike Halloran stepping out of the elevator. He wasn't surprised that they were too preoccupied to do more than glance at him; he doubted if they even noticed that he was there. The Floor Clerk did, and looked at him with an admiration not far removed from veneration.

“Hi, ma'am,” he drawled, and no one from Texas could have sounded at once more unreal and yet more natural; “just been along to see my old pal.”

“Is that so?” asked the Floor Clerk, faintly.

“Sure is, ma'am, sure is.” Rollison pressed a Down button, and an elevator car slid to a stop, light showing through the little window. “Now I'm going out to have myself quite a time, quite a time, ma'am.” He winked. “You bet.” He winked again, and then the elevator gates opened and he doffed his great hat as he stepped in. Inside were a man and a woman; neither of them could help staring at him, and he beamed back with great good will. At ground-floor level he stood aside for them to leave, and then strolled into the lobby, goggled at by everyone in sight. He was quite sure that none of them recognised him.

He looked a different man. The cut of the clothes changed his whole figure, and the hat was at just the right angle, with curled brims on either side. He was already tanned a dark brown, and mascara cautiously used gave greater brightness to his grey eyes. He strolled towards Park Avenue and stepped outside. Not far along were several waiting taxis. He went up to the third, and the cabby actually leaned out, to open the door.

“Thank you, sir,” said Rollison, with great gusto; “you're mighty kind.”

The cabby's expression suggested that he could not really believe that such good fortune could come his way.

He was a round and ruddy-faced man with a skull-tight cap, the big peak of which was pushed over his right ear. Black hair curled from beneath the edges of the cap in a dark halo. Here was a picture by Michelangelo in the driver's seat of a New York cab, and it didn't look out of place.

Rollison got in, at leisure, and the cabby glanced round:

“Where to?”

Almost under his nose was a fifty-dollar bill. He had to move his head back, to squint at it. He shook his head, and the curls quivered.

“You pay me after the ride, bud,” he said.

“I'm not sure that I want a ride, pardner,” Rollison told him in a subdued roar. “I may decide to walk. Take this as a retainer, suh, a handsome retainer. If I decide to walk, then you follow me and see if you can contrive to keep me in sight. Because I may want to follow another taxi or a car in a hurry, and if I'm in a hurry there won't be any time to waste in arguing. If I don't need you between now and one o'clock, you can go home to your bed. Okay, suh?”

The cabby was already folding the bill.

“Have it your own way,” he conceded. “Any way you like.”

 

Rollison sat back, smoking a cigarette and not a cigar. Nothing of consequence happened in the next ten minutes. During them, he pondered certain facts. Wilf Hall, whom he knew reasonably well, had sent a cable before he had sent that letter; the cable had been to find out whether Rollison was free to help him. It was characteristic of Wilf Hall to talk and write vaguely; it might mean that he had nothing specific to talk about, but was just as likely to mean that he preferred not to talk about it. His great anxiety had been for Valerie, who had been determined to visit him in America; and Wilf had meant to make sure she didn't come unprotected.

Unless, of course, Rollison failed her.

That possibility did not greatly worry Rollison.

He had not been to New York for a long time, but on his previous visits he had come to know Manhattan well. He had friends, too. He believed that he could judge exactly the moment to stop trying to handle the situation himself, and call on those friends for help. Had it not been for the man who had died in Valerie's arms he would have believed that it was just a simple confidence trick, but - con-men didn't kill; not that way, anyhow.

Why had the caller been killed?

Apparently, because he had come to give Valerie a message; but he hadn't uttered a word that mattered.

Now, finding Wilf Hall was as important as taking care of Valerie. The Halls were worth a dozen fortunes, and it -was well worth risking the loss of Valerie's jewels and money to get a line on Wilf; but it would be good to avoid even that loss.

Rollison finished the cigarette and tossed the end out of the taxi window - and as he did so, Brian Conway and Valerie appeared. They were close together, in a kind of huddle, and looked towards the taxis. Rollison said: “Move off slowly, pardner,” and watched the couple. Conway shook his head, and instead of coming forward, led the way to the corner and the traffic lights. “Can you do a U turn here?” asked Rollison.

“For you, I'll turn a somersault,” the driver declared. “Hold tight, bud.” He shot the car forward and then swung round, and when he drew up on the other side of the road opposite the Arden-Astoria, Valerie and Conway, still in a huddle, were halfway across the avenue. Conway was holding the girl's arm, and talking.

“This is where I leave you,” Rollison said, and opened the door. “Keep your eyes open and try to catch up with me, pardner, if these one-way streets allow you.”

“How could I miss you?” asked the cabby, and his grin split his round face. “So long, bud!”

Rollison was chuckling.

At a corner of the next street, Conway and Valerie turned round. Rollison caught up with them, as they headed towards Madison Avenue, walking quickly. There were a lot of bright lights, and it was easy to look at Valerie and to realise that she was perfection in pocket-size. Her legs. . . .

Madison - Fifth - Broadway.

Two things happened as they reached Broadway.

First, the light became so bright that it hardly seemed true. Night had become a garish day. The pavements were thronged, and no one seemed to be in a hurry. Restaurants were nearly full, a few shops were open; in one, where a thousand hats seemed to perch on stands in the window, there were eight or nine customers. All was noisy with a thousand cars. In the direction of Times Square, it looked as if every light in New York had been massed at this one spot, and that one had to walk through and on lights of a hundred colours.

The Toff was staggered, in spite of his previous visits; but not so badly that he missed the second thing.