The Toff In New York

by John Creasey

  “Now, what else did he say?” asked Rollison, still mildly.

  “He - he asked me if I knew who you were,” said Conway, and there was a kind of defiance in his manner; almost a kind of courage. “When I said no, he told me. You should have heard him! He said he wasn’t going to stand any argument from a goddam limey; he didn’t care if you were the finest private eye in the world, he - he’d cut you into pieces and send you back home by parcel post. That’s what he said” cried Conway. “I’m only telling you.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “I said - I said you were good!”

  “Hmm,” said Rollison, sadly; “it would have been much better if you’d persuaded him I was a decadent piece of the English aristocracy and not worth two cents, but never mind.” He couldn’t understand Conway, unless the man was genuinely frightened. If this was just a tale to fool him, the Toff, why talk of Dutch Himmy and go into detail? Rollison surveyed Conway long and thoughtfully, as if he was trying to find out what made him tick. Then, abruptly: “What else did Dutch Himmy say?”

  Conway gulped.

  “It can’t be any worse,” said Rollison.

  Conway shot an agonised glance towards the door.

  “He - he - he said that if he didn’t get all those jewels and the money Val had by tonight, he - he’d - he’d cut off Wilf Hall’s right hand.”

  There it was; the threat with all its starkness, all its brutality; the thing which was in keeping with what had happened, with murder and savagery and ruthlessness. It was threat enough to make Rollison stand very still and quiet; and obviously it had terrified Conway, who looked towards the door again, as if hoping desperately that Val hadn’t heard.

  The door opened, and Valerie came in.

  She was flushed, and her eyes were bright; too bright. She wore a dressing-gown of royal blue, which set off the beauty of her hair and her eyes. She was holding the gown together at the breast, and at the neck. She came in quite slowly and deliberately, and looked from Conway to the Toff and back. At last, she said:

  “If it’s like that, then I’ll have to hand over everything. Everything. Go back and tell this Dutch man, please. Tell him I’ll give him what he wants, provided he doesn’t hurt Wilf.”

  Conway began to get up.

  Rollison watched everything about them both with keen interest, weighing one thing against another. The contrast between the unshaven Conway, with his bleary eyes and quivering lips, was startling against Valerie’s morning loveliness. She was as calm as he was agitated, and gave the impression that nothing would make her change her mind.

  “I don’t know where he is; he said he’d telephone me again this afternoon,” Conway said. “I had to leave Mike at the hotel, in case Dutch Himmy wants to give a message before then. Are you - are you serious? You will hand the jewels over?”

  “Of course.”

  “Even if he doesn’t release Wilf first?”

  Valerie glanced at Rollison, as if she expected a protest from him; but he kept his peace.

  “Yes,” she said; “I don’t see how I can help myself. I can’t take any risk that Wilf will be mutilated. After all, the diamonds aren’t all that valuable.” Then suddenly she clicked her tongue, showing real emotion for the first time. “Oh, what a beastly thing to say! If it meant every penny I’d got, I’d pay it for Wilf’s safety.”

  “But don’t tell Dutch Himmy that,” put in Rollison, as if urgently. “It might give him ideas. Is that everything, Conway?”

  “Isn’t it enough?” Conway almost shouted.

  “One’s always looking out for the last straw,” murmured Rollison. “I”

  There was a tap at the door.

  Rollison went to open it, with just as much caution as he had before, but this time he needed even less, for it was a white-jacketed waiter with a heavily laden trolley. He wheeled it in.

  Rollison went to the corner of the passage, and made sure that no one was watching. The daytime Floor Clerk sat near the elevators, and everything was quite normal. Rollison went in the other direction. Near his room there was a narrow service staircase, and a service elevator alongside it. He went back to Valerie’s room, where the waiter was setting out the breakfast, and said:

  “I’ll be back in five minutes.”

  He went out again, hurried for one of two big laundry baskets on the landing, and pushed it into his own suite - his first visit since he’d left here looking like a Texas colonel. The body of the man who had died in Valerie’s arms was still in the wardrobe where he had put it; wrapped in the plastic water-and-blood-proof coat, sheets and blankets. A little blood had come through. He put on his gloves, lifted the heavy body into the big laundry basket, covered it with dirty linen, and then wheeled it back into the passage. The waiter was at the door of Valerie’s room; Rollison left the basket where it was, and slipped back out of sight. The waiter came past with his trolley, but seemed to think nothing of the laundry basket as he went into the service elevator. After he’d gone down, Rollison pushed the basket to the elevator, waited until a lighted sign said: Ground Floor, and pressed; the elevator came up at once. There was ample room for the basket. Rollison pushed it in, and closed the door. He’d hardly moved away before the basket rose slowly out of sight with its grisly burden, summoned by some hapless member of the

  staff. If the body were found quickly . . .

  It might not be.

  Rollison went back, took off his gloves, washed his hands, and made sure that there were no obvious signs of blood anywhere; the room wouldn’t stand up to a “thorough police search, but there was no reason why the search should start on this floor.

  He went back to the next room.

  Valerie and Conway sat at a square table, eating. It was immediately apparent that they were at the stage of repletion. One piece of toast was left. The two bacon-and-egg plates were so clean that they might have been wiped round with a piece of toast. The conserve dish was empty. Rollison observed all this, and then very slowly shook his head.

  “I’m glad no one’s been put off food,” he said, earnestly; “it shows a reasonable state of health. Couldn’t spare a cup of coffee, could you?”

  “Oh, what pigs we are!” exclaimed Valerie. “We just ate without thinking. After all, I didn’t have a bite to eat last night.” That was by way of explanation, not excuse. “We can soon send for more, and . . .“

  “I’ll go down to the coffee-shop for some,” said Rollison, “after Conway’s gone. You lock your door, Val; and don’t let anyone in except me or the police.”

  Conway jumped, spilling his coffee.

  “Police?”

  “Well, they might find us,” observed Rollison, reasonably. “You can’t go spilling blood and bodies all over New York without some kind of a protest. Finished eating?” He stood over Conway until he finished his coffee, and then escorted him to the door. Whether Conway was bluffing or not, he was jittery; was perhaps in danger from this Dutch Himmy for falling down on his job.

  “Will - will you stay here?” he asked, at the door.

  “Tell your pal Dutch that I’ll be here, there and everywhere,” said the Toff, brightly; “he may not have known much of me before, but that’s no reason why he should stay in that state of blissful ignorance. After all, he started it.” He paused, and as Conway moved away, went on very softly: “And tell him not to hurt Wilf Hall. Tell him that if Wilf is hurt, I will personally break his, Himmy’s, neck. Make sure he knows I mean it.”

  He went in, and closed the door.

  He turned, to see an unexpected picture. Valerie, standing by the table, was in that moment positively dewy-eyed. Rollison had seen the look in the eyes of many young and impressionable damsels, and it never failed to give him pleasure; in these later days it seldom failed to surprise him, either. Here was a girl looking at him in a way
which mingled adoration with admiration; and Valerie Hall knew exactly how to mingle them both. She was a natural.

  “It’s time you got dressed,” Rollison said, firmly.

  “Yes, I will,” said Valerie, but didn’t move. “You really meant that, didn’t you?”

  “What?”

  “If this man Himmy hurts Wilf, you’ll break his neck.”

  “I’ll have a damned good try.”

  “In spite of his reputation, and using gunmen, and - things like that.”

  “You can be so careful that every time you go downstairs you count the steps,” said Rollison, “and break your neck when looking out of a window. Don’t get ideas, Val. Get dressed, and be ready to do anything I ask - quickly. If we have to stall with those diamonds, we have to stall, but we needn’t ask for trouble, and you’re leaving the Arden-Astoria for somewhere Dutch Himmy doesn’t know about. Lock yourself in until I come back, won’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Valerie, and added with a stubborn note that he couldn’t fail to hear: “But nothing is going to stop me from trying to buy Wilf’s safety. I know all the arguments, that the more you pay the more the kidnappers ask, but I can’t help it. If you go to the police, or if you do anything that makes Dutch Himmy hurt Wilf, I’ll never forgive you.”

  “You know,” observed the Toff, sadly, “you ought to have been born a boy.”

  10

  FRIEND IN NEED

  Rollison went back to his own suite, and for the first time since he had stepped into the Arden-Astoria, felt that he had time to breathe. He did not make the mistake of thinking that this happy state of affairs would last for long. Facts were facts. Dutch Himmy might be a degree worse than Legs Diamond or Al Capone. Certainly he knew what he was about. Brian Conway might or might not like working for him. That didn’t alter a situation which was likely to get rapidly worse.

  It was no longer possible to handle the case alone.

  Among the most disturbing possibilities was that Valerie Hall might decide that she was more capable of handling the situation than anyone else. If she once got the bit between her teeth, she would set a hard pace. She had now come to the conclusion that only by paying Dutch Himmy could she help her brother, and Rollison shrugged the thought off.

  He went to the telephone in his sitting-room, sat down at ease in an armchair and, after some study of the dialling system and exchange numbers, dialled a number and was answered with bewildering promptitude by a bright young woman who said:

  “Day’s Personal Investigation Bureau, can I help you?”

  “Bless you,” said Rollison, warmly.

  “What did you say?”

  “I asked to speak to Mr. Day.”

  “You did not,” said the girl, the last word rising several notes and ending in a hint of laughter. “Who is calling, please?”

  “Richard Rollison, from London.”

  “Oh, sure, I could tell you were English; but . . .“

  There was a pause, a sharp exclamation, and then she went on in a very different tone, echoing: “Mr. Richard Rollison?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Toff in person?”

  “As soon as I have an hour free, you and I are going to get together,” said Rollison, earnestly, “luncheon or preferably dinner and a show and the rest of the evening exactly to your liking. You’re the first person out of New York’s teeming millions who even knows how to pronounce the name. Is Cyrus in?”

  “Oh, sure,” she said, eagerly; “he’ll be in for you. Hold the line just a minute, please.”

  She went off, carrying her excitement with her. It was soothingly satisfying, and helped to place the affair of Dutch Himmy into a little better perspective; not all people were so utterly indifferent to the Toff. He did not have to hold on for long, just time enough to tell himself that if he didn’t eat soon there would be a hole right through him, when a man’s voice sounded in his ear. A fine, deep, American voice, which carried heartiness and warmth and obvious pleasure.

  “Say, Rolly, is that really you?”

  “Cy, it’s I,” confirmed Rollison. “Hungry, unhappy, helpless, in need of a friend and a great big build-up. How are you fixed for time?”

  “For you, I’ve all the time in the world,” said Cyrus Day; and that was generosity itself, for he was the executive head of the largest inquiry bureau in four continents. “What time is it now? - just after eleven o’clock. Say, will you have lunch with me?”

  “Alone?”

  “If that’s the way you want it.”

  “Please, Cy. Half-past twelve all right?”

  “Fine. Would you like to come to the office, or shall I come to you?”

  “Let’s work out the best thing to do,” said Rollison, settling down in his chair and resigning himself to another hour and a half of sorrowful longing for food; but his spirits could hardly have been higher after such a reception. “Are you taking notes?”

  “My secretary will, if you’ll hold on. Miriam!” Day called to someone in the office, “go to that extension and take some notes, will you?” He paused. “Okay, Rolly, go right ahead.”

  “Thanks,” said Rollison, cheerfully. “First, there was a beating-up in 49th Street just off Broadway last night - young chap was kicked and badly knocked about, I think. Will you trace him for me?”

  “Sure.”

  “Second. I’ve a young and pretty and rich young woman with a mind of her own, in trouble in New York, and I’d like to get her away from the Arden-Astoria to some place where she’ll be watched properly, and where we can make sure that she doesn’t do anything silly - like trying to come to terms with Dutch Himmy, for instance.”

  He paused.

  He heard two distinct sounds at the other end of the telephone; one from Cyrus Day, the other from Secretary Miriam. The pause which followed was long and unquestionably pregnant. Then the girl Miriam said in a whisper: - “Did I get that right? Dutch Himmy?”

  “Rolly,” said Cyrus Day, “did you say Dutch Himmy?”

  “That’s what I’m told.”

  “So that’s what you’re told,” echoed Cyrus Day. “You just hold on a minute. Legs!” he roared, and nearly deafened the Toff. “Legs, come here, will you? . . . Legs, you know Mr. Rollison, don’t you?”

  “Sure,” a man said, faintly in the background.

  “Fine. Rolly, where are you staying - the Arden-Astoria?”

  “Suite 552.”

  “Thanks. Legs, you take anyone we’ve got to spare with you, and go to the Arden-Astoria right away and keep an eye on Mr. Rollison. It appears that he’s mixing it with Dutch Himmy, and we don’t want Dutch to get hurt, do we? You keep tag on Mr. Rollison, and have the other operator check everywhere in the hotel, to see if there’s any legman of Dutch’s about. If there is, tell me who it is and how many - tell me everything, and don’t lose any time about it. You heard me?”

  Faintly, there came the response.

  “I’m on my way.”

  “Hallo Rolly,” Cyrus Day said, back into the telephone. “Be sensible for once and give Legs time to get there so that you’re covered all the way. You’ll need to be. You can do two things, right now. Order your funeral service or go back to London.” There was still a chuckle in his voice. “Or you could if you were any other man! Now, what’s this about a girl you want to hide?”

  “I just want her somewhere safe.”

  “You have a word with Legs, as soon as he arrives,” said Day. “Have him take the girl to the Belle Hotel, out on Riverside Drive. That’s where most of our operatives live if they’re not married, and she’ll be as safe there as she will anywhere in New York. She’ll get good service, too; it’s small, but we look after our clients. Leave all decisions to Legs. If he says you shouldn’t go with her, don’t go with her. Understand that?”r />
  “Perfectly,” the Toff said humbly. “I’m sorry that I brought dynamite with me.”

  “You didn’t bring dynamite, you brought the hydrogen-bomb plant,” Cyrus declared. “What other little things would you like me to do for you?”

  Rollison chuckled.

  “Something misfired in East 13th Street, out near the East River Parkway - I don’t know whether a thing called Cadey - Al Cadey - has been found yet. And two men should have been taken to hospital by a cabby named Sikoski.”

  “Two hospitalised - not Dutch Himmy’s men?” That possibility seemed too much even for Cyrus Day; he almost screeched.

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Rollison solemnly.

  Day said: “Okay, I’ll see what I can do; but I don’t know that I’ll have all the information you want by the time we meet for lunch. Don’t come here; I’ll meet you at Keane’s.”

  “Chop house?”

  “Sure.”

  “That sounds like real food, and I’ve never been so near malnutrition,” declared Rollison. “Cy, there’s just one other little thing you might start for me.”

  “Little?” echoed Day, suspiciously.

  “Oh, I don’t think it’s very much. Give me a build-up. Can you? Tell the news-hounds I’m here, give them some of the balderdash about being Britain’s Ace private eye, East Enders in terror - you could even tell them about my trophy wall. Didn’t you have some pictures when you were in London? That’ll fetch ‘em, if anything will. And a picture of Jolly, the last of the gentlemen’s gentlemen - he sends his good wishes, by the way.”

  “Good wishes is exactly what I need,” Day said, feelingly. “I think I understand. You’d like Dutch Himmy to get the build-up?”

  “Would it do any harm?”

  “No,” said Day, slowly. “No, I guess not. Especially if I say that you always work in the closest co-operation with the police.” There was another pause. “Sure, I’ll fix it, Rolly; maybe it will be a good idea.”