by John Creasey
Then, Conway cried:
“Stay where you are. Don’t move!”
The man with the narrow face stopped, as if a current had been switched off. He looked round, at the mouse turned lion - and Conway had a gun in his hand, and was covering him. Conway’s face was working, but his hand kept steady.
The man with the narrow face spun round.
“Keep back!” cried Conway, and there was sweat on his forehead and a wild look in his eyes. “Keep back, or . . .“
The other made as if to jump at him; and Conway fired.
And on that instant, the door opened.
Rollison had the door open, making hardly a sound, when he heard the shot from Conway’s gun. Until then he had heard two or three shouts, and sensed the frightening tension; so the shot didn’t really surprise him. As he went in, as if lightning carried him, he felt a sharp and agonising fear: that Valerie Hall had been hurt. Then, he saw her.
She was on a couch, rearing away from the narrow-faced man who was staggering with his hands held chest high, and an awful expression on his face. It wasn’t just pain; it wasn’t just rage. It was the look of a man who was passing out of this life into another; and the next world seemed so full of horror that he could not bear to go.
He clawed at his chest.
He crumpled up.
Brian Conway stood staring at him, the smoking gun still in his hand. He didn’t speak. He licked his lips, and the sweat was like beads on his forehead and on his upper lip.
Valerie stared down at the narrow-faced man.
“You killed him,” she said chokily, “you’ve killed him.”
There was a short, sickening pause; and then Conway gasped: “If I hadn’t he would have killed you. I had to do it, I had to!” He took a step towards Valerie, hands stretched out pleadingly. “Val, you know that, he would have killed you; look at the rest of the things he did. He would have killed you; I tell you, I had to kill him. Val! Don’t look at me like that; I was only trying to protect you.”
Valerie didn’t speak.
Rollison watched all this from the arched doorway; nothing that either of the others did or said suggested that he had been noticed.
“Val,” Conway said, moistening his lips again, “we’ve got to get away from here. Don’t just sit there; we must move. No one need know we’ve been here, if we hurry. Let - let’s get the diamonds and the money and then . . .“
He broke off.
Valerie stood up, slowly. The shock was fading. She began to look as if she could understand something of the forces which drove Brian Conway on; as if she could understand what made him mouse one moment, lion the next, and back to mouse in the twinkling of an eye.
“All right, Brian,” she said quietly; “but supposing someone comes to see what’s happened.”
“They - they won’t.” He wasn’t as sure as he tried to make out. “You - you don’t poke your nose into other people’s business when you live in this part of New York; you just lock your door and pretend you heard nothing. We - we’ve got time. I - I’ll get the jewels, and . . .“
“You could even make sure that he’s dead,” said Rollison, mildly.
He moved forward.
Conway spun round, mouth opened as if to give a scream which wouldn’t come. His right hand made a flapping move towards his pocket and the gun, but he didn’t actually touch it.
Valerie cried: “You!” in a funny little voice, and tried to step over the man on the floor. She caught her heel in his coat, and stumbled; then suddenly she crumpled up, crouching on the couch with her face in her hands, while Rollison moved swiftly towards her, and Brian Conway looked on.
Rollison went down on one knee, and felt for the shot man’s pulse.
The man was dead.
He had little in his pockets except the stolen jewels and money; his own wallet contained forty-seven dollars, and several letters addressed to Al Cadey, at 48 East 13th Street; this address - so this was Al Cadey. The bullet had gone through the heart. Blood was already spreading over his cream shirt and his pale brown linen jacket. In death, his mouth was slack and he looked very ugly.
“We - we’ve got to get out of here,” Brian Conway muttered. “I - I don’t mind, but if the police are called and they find Valerie here, they - they - they’ll” He couldn’t finish.
Valerie was like a statue.
“Val,” Rollison said, “shake out of it.” He wanted to search the apartment, but knew that Conway was right, the first job was to get the girl away; and he couldn’t trust Conway to take her. “Val, it’ll be all right; we’ll find Wilf.” His words had no effect on her, and he pushed the dead man aside and then bent down, took Valerie by the waist, and lifted her. He carried her to the door, and Conway followed hastily, switched out the light, and went ahead. He was breathing very heavily; fear was at his heels all the time.
Rollison began to whistle softly.
Half-way down, Valerie’s body went limp and she no longer held herself stiff. Rollison lowered her, gently. She didn’t speak, just looked at him, then walked ahead.
In his pocket were her jewels, her money, the dead Al Cadey’s keys and wallet, and the letters to Cadey.
They reached the street.
The taxi was waiting a few doors along.
The time might come when the taxi-driver would be a liability, not an asset, but it was impossible to brush him off now. Brian Conway muttered some kind of scare line, but Rollison called quietly to the cabby:
“Hotel Commodore, this time.”
“Commodore?”
“Please.”
“If it’s okay with you, it’s okay with me,” said the cabby. He seemed impressed by Valerie, and he was smiling happily. “Girl friend with the wrong boy friend,” he said; “what do you think of that?” He was smoking, now, while they all sat in the back of the taxi, and he took them swiftly to the front entrance of the Commodore. “Say, bud,” he went on, “were you good for that bad boy friend or bad for the good girl friend?” The gust of laughter which followed nearly split him in two.
“You bet,” said Rollison, and grinned back. He produced another twenty-dollar bill. “When I want you, where can I find you?” he asked.
The cabby whisked a card into his patron’s fingers.
“Ring this number and just ask for Sikoski,” he said. “You got the name? Sikoski. Don’t worry, it’s written down. You don’t have to worry about those two knockouts,” he added. “I fixed them good. You sure you don’t want me any more tonight?”
“No, thanks.”
“If it’s okay, it’s okay. Be good to the bad girl!” He burst out with fresh laughter as he drove off, while Rollison watched him, smiling faintly, then turned towards Conway and the girl. They hadn’t moved. Rollison took Valerie’s arm, and they walked towards Madison Avenue. At the first chance when out of sight of the Commodore, he called another taxi, and within five minutes they were back at the Arden-Astoria.
The night had not changed.
It was a little cooler, that was all.
As they went in, it was nearly three o’clock. The same staff was on duty. An elevator car stood empty. Rollison jauntily, as befitted his appearance, Conway briskly, Valerie smoothly, they crossed the lobby and then went up to their floor. The same Floor Clerk wished them good night, and gaped after Rollison, as if she noticed that his ten-gallon hat had been trodden in the dust.
At Valerie’s door, Brian Conway said miserably:
“Val, I can’t tell you how sorry I am about the way I let that guy push you around, but - okay, okay, I was scared. I knew he was a killer; you can always tell a killer. If you’d let Mike and me handle it, it would have been okay.”
“Would it?” asked Valerie. There was no spirit in her voice, now; just a flat weariness. “Would you have foun
d Wilf? Wilf,” she repeated as they went in, and Rollison closed the door. “Oh, Wilf.”
“I’ll find him if it’s the last thing I ever do!” Conway burst out.
Rollison didn’t interrupt; not then, and not when Mike Halloran came hurrying from the bathroom. At sight of Rollison, he backed away, and stood gaping.
“It’s been a hell of a night,” Conway told him; “every thing’s gone wrong, and I - I killed a man. It was self-defence. I don’t know what he would have done to Valerie if I hadn’t, but she seems to think . . .“
Valerie said: “I just want to find Wilf, that’s all.” There were tears in her eyes. “Mr. Conway, I - I’m grateful, really, I - I know you did it for me.”
“Val!”
She turned away and went into the bedroom, without closing the door behind her. They heard her moving slowly towards the window.
Halloran said: “Brian, obviously this ain’t no place for us.” He didn’t even ask who Rollison was, but took Conway’s arm and started to lead him towards the passage door. Conway’s expression suggested that he did not think Rollison would let him go, but Rollison didn’t say a word; and didn’t break his silence until both men were outside.
Then, he moved.
He reached the telephone, and as the operator came on, said: “Bell Captain, fast,” and held on for a split second. A man answered briskly. “Bell Captain. . . . Two men are coming down now; they came in with me and Miss Hall ten minutes ago. I want you to detain them until I call again or come down, please.” He didn’t wait for a response, just rang off, took a card from his pocket, and lifted the receiver again. He could see Valerie in the doorway, watching him as if bewildered while he studied the card - which had some pencilled notes. The operator answered. “Can you get me the Milwest Hotel, please?” Rollison said. “Sure, I’ll wait.”
He waited.
Valerie came in, much more briskly than she had gone out; tears gone and hope coming back.
“What are you doing now?”
“Checking,” he said. “If Conway gave a phoney address, I’ll follow him.” He stretched out a hand and Valerie came towards him, without saying a word. He slid his arm round her waist in a friendly, comforting way. “I don’t know why Conway shot Cadey, unless he believed Cadey was going to kill you, and wouldn’t stand for it. We’ll find out.” He heard the operator of the Milwest Hotel, and spoke more briskly. “Do you have a Mr. Brian Conway staying there, please? . . . Oh, fine, thank you. . . . Room 87, that’s fine. . . . And Mr. Michael Halloran. . . . The next room. Thank you very much.” He rang off, and looked down at Valerie; then suddenly moved his arms and lifted her effortlessly, with both arms. “You know,” he said gently, “you’re very sweet.” His kiss was a brother’s kiss. “Now get some sleep. Wilf will be all right. While they’ve Wilf, remember, they have a chance of getting more of your millions, and they’ll hold on to both Wilf and the chance like leeches.” He wasn’t sure, of course - he couldn’t be sure, for the victim of kidnappers was often a liability while alive; and it was easy to pretend that one who was dead was alive. “Don’t worry about it, Val, and in the morning we’ll make the next move. For tonight I’m going to sleep in a chair outside your door, and I’m not taking no for an answer.”
She didn’t say no.
“I’ll put your jewels in a safe deposit box downstairs,” Rollison went on, and gave her back the money which he’d taken from Cadey’s pocket.
Half an hour later, he went into her suite again, and saw her lying in bed, small and pale and heavy-eyed, as if the shocks and excitements and the fears that lingered had drawn the spirit out of her.
He closed the door, and settled down for the night, quite sure that if anyone tried to get in, he would be alert on the instant.
He had three questions on his mind.
First - where was Val’s brother?
Second - could he and Valerie be traced to 48 East 13th Street?
Third - what should he do with the body in his own suite?
He thought of a fourth, too: of the hipless young man who had been so savagely beaten up. He pondered a lot about that, before he dozed off.
When he woke, it was to the urgent ringing of a bell; he didn’t know where and he didn’t know what bell. It was dark and shadowy, and until he saw the single light burning in the bathroom and sending some light in here, he forgot where he was. As soon as he remembered, he stood up. His mouth was sticky and his eyes heavy; it might be four o’clock or ten. The ringing of the bell seemed to become more and more urgent as it went on. Bells often did. The bedroom door was closed, but if this rang much more Valerie was bound to be disturbed. Rollison stood up, and yawned; but his head was clear, and that told him that the morning was well on.
Brr-brr-brr.
“Stop that damned row,” he said, irritably, and strode to the door. He didn’t open it at first. There was no way of being sure that the caller was a friend. There were many awkward possibilities, too: that the body next door had been found, that he and Valerie had been seen in 13th Street and that the dead man had been discovered there. Or . . .
Standing to one side, and thus out of the range of anyone with hostile ideas and a gun, he opened the door.
With a finger poised to ring again, Brian Conway stood outside. Unshaven, unwashed, clothes rumpled, eyes scared.
“Let me in,” he breathed, “let me in!” and he glanced over his shoulder as if frightened out of his wits.
9
TALK OF DUTCH HIMMY
No one was behind Conway.
Rollison stood aside to let him in, and saw no one in the passage; more, he heard no one. Yet Conway was in a state of jitters which set his teeth a-chatter. Rollison closed the door and turned to look at him long and intently, while Conway fought for self-control, and finally managed to say:
“I - I’m being followed everywhere.”
“Don’t you like your friends?”
“Friends?” ejaculated Conway. “They’re no friends of mine! I - I wish to heaven I’d never offered to help Val. I’d be a happy man if I’d never heard of her!”
“So you would,” murmured Rollison.
“Look where it’s got me,” muttered Conway. “I don’t have a minute’s peace. Nor does Mike Halloran. He - he takes it better than I do, but I can’t help it if I get scared. I tell you I can’t help it if I get scared!”
“That’s right,” said Rollison. “Who was blaming you?”
“You were! I could see it in the way you looked at me, as if I was a worm. And the way she looked, last night, after I’d shot that man. Anyone would think I was a pariah - but if it hadn’t been for her I wouldn’t have taken the chance. Sup - sup - supposing I’d missed. What do you think he would have done to me?”
“Let’s not even guess,” said Rollison, mercifully.
He glanced towards the bedroom door, and saw that it was opening; but it didn’t open wide. It meant that Valerie was not only awake, but interested enough to listen without revealing the fact that she was there. He didn’t let her down, but said to Conway:
“Now take it easy. And how about some coffee?”
“Sure, I - I haven’t had any breakfast.”
“Then how about some?”
“Oh, I couldn’t eat,” said Conway, in a tone of revulsion. He gulped as he dropped into an easy-chair, and took out cigarettes. He lit one without offering to Rollison. “How - how - how’s Valerie?”
“Sleeping it off, I hope.”
“I’ve done more for that girl than I’ve ever done for anyone in my life,” Conway muttered. “Why, I might even die for her.”
“They won’t kill you for that job,” Rollison assured him, “even I could help to prove that it was self-defence. Unless we all get hooked on a complicity charge,” he added thoughtfully. “Then we’d all die. I .
. .“
Conway shuddered.
There might be a lot of things that Rollison did not know about him or about anyone else, but one thing seemed certain: Conway was in an acute state of funk. If this was just to fool Rollison, it was his best acting yet. The way he kept glancing at the door, the way he started when there were sharp noises from the street or along the passage, was ample proof of that. He watched as Rollison went to the telephone and ordered breakfast for two and coffee for three, and then said:
“If Valerie wakes up, she’ll be ready for some coffee. Now, what’s been worrying you? Who’s been following you?”
“D-D-D-Dutch Himmy,” Conway blurted.
He brought the name out as if he was saying ‘the Devil himself. He was still very pale, and his voice wasn’t steady; the cigarette quivered whether it was in his mouth or in his fingers. “You - you wouldn’t know about Dutch Himmy, but he - he’s terrorised parts of New York. They don’t come any worse. He’s the man who kidnapped Val’s brother, and - and the man I shot was one of his gunmen. He rang me up this morning, and he said - he said I wouldn’t live to see the day out.”
“He couldn’t have been trying to frighten you, could he?”
“He means it, he always . . .“ Conway broke off.
“How do you know so much about the gentleman?” asked Rollison, mildly. “Aren’t you and Mike Halloran such law-abiding types?” Nothing in his manner or his tone suggested that he suspected Conway of complicity in the kidnapping and the ransom.
“I - I get around,” Conway muttered; “and anyway, you’ve only got to read the papers. They all talk about Dutch Himmy; he - he’s a man the cops want but can’t trace; they don’t even know who he is. He’s got them on the run, and - and when he puts his finger on a man, that’s the end.”
“It might be the wrong end for Dutch Himmy one day,” said Rollison, brightly. He took out a whisky flask and, without a word, handed it to Conway. Conway grabbed; the whisky gurgled. He gasped as he handed the flask back.