The Toff In New York

by John Creasey

“But you know me,” Day said. “I hope! Now, what else have we got? Report on Brian Conway - nothing known. He’s here on a British passport, if that’s useful to know. Michael or Micky Halloran - he’s a different proposition, now. He’s just out of the can; served five years of a seven-year sentence for fraud.”

  “Ah,” breathed Rollison. “No uranium.”

  “He’s been out nearly six months, and nothing’s known against him in that time,” said Day. “Dutch Himmy had only just started when Halloran went inside, but I don’t know that that tells us anything.” He scanned the papers in front of him again. “Ah, the guy who was beaten up. Well, it could have been a lot worse for him, I guess. He was taken to hospital, but they didn’t keep him in. Van Russell, 110 West 67th Street. That’s an apartment block. Middle-income group. He’s thirty-four, comes from Pennsylvania - farming country - an accountant, and he knows Wilf Hall because he’s an executive of the accountants who handle Hall’s account. Seems just a nice little guy. Another thing. He has a sister, name of Julie, who was going to marry Dando’s young brother. You won’t be surprised that Dando and Van Russell see a lot of each other.” He took a photograph from the folder, and pushed it across the desk. Rollison had to ease himself out of the encompassing arms of the chair to get it. “Recognise him?”

  Rollison studied the rather thin, pleasant face of Van Russell. It was a good picture of the ‘hipless’ man he had seen last night, and there was no possibility of a mistake. Russell looked as if he was going thin on top, and he hadn’t the biggest of chins. Some would say there was a lack of something; virility? He had a lazy look, but looks could be so deceptive.

  “Thanks, Cy,” Rollison said again. “I think I’ll have a word with Russell before I do anything else.” He gave his quick, attractive grin. “Think it’s safe?”

  “Nothing’s safe.”

  “Did he say why he’d been attacked?”

  “Didn’t open his mouth,” Day said. ‘Well, if you mean to go on, you’ve got all my good wishes, Rolly - and maybe you’ll get a lot of help from many unexpected places. No one has any love for Dutch Himmy.”

  “Thanks,” said Rollison.

  “And I’ve made a start on helping you,” Day told him. “I’ve hired you a regular cab. I’ve had the driver screened, and he’s okay, and he knows New York like no one else except other taxi-drivers. He’s outside waiting for you now and he’s yours for keeps.”

  “Cy,” said Rollison, “you make it too easy.”

  “Easy!” choked Day.

  Rollison grinned.

  “What’s in a word? Cy, there are some other jobs you can do a hundred times better than I.”

  “Name one, and I’ll prove you wrong.”

  “Don’t make my head swell,” chided Rollison. “First - trace Wilf Hall’s movements in the last few days, and especially after he left the Arden-Astoria for the airport.”

  “Will do.”

  “Find out if anyone would like to do him wrong.”

  “Everyone likes Wilf Hall,” Cy said. “But - well, okay.”

  “And see if you can find out anything about a man named Mark Quentin.” He described the man who had died at Valerie’s door, and went on: “Who he worked for, all that kind of thing.”

  “I’ll do all that,” said Cy. “That everything?”

  “For now, yes, thanks.”

  Cy Day pressed buttons and Miriam came to guide Rollison out, through the big room which looked sleek and shiny again, to the elevator, down to the street level, to the swing doors - and almost into the arms of Bud Sikoski.

  12

  VAN RUSSELL

  “Blow me down, pardner,” boomed Sikoski, “if it ain’t the Colonel from Texas. I’m sure glad to meet you, Colonel!” He extended a great hand. “Sitting in the taxi just now I was asking myself a question. Bud, I was asking myself, I wonder if you’ll ever see the Texas Colonel again. That,” explained Bud Sikoski, “was the question I was asking myself.”

  “And what did you answer?” inquired Rollison, politely.

  They had reached the yellow-and-red taxi. This was a street where no parking was permitted but ten minutes waiting was winked at by the cops.

  They got in.

  “To be honest with you,” said Sikoski, “the answer I gave myself was just like this, Colonel - I don’t know, Bud. Maybe I would, I said to myself, and maybe I wouldn’t. What do you know about that?”

  “I’m making up my mind,” Rollison told him. “West 67th, Bud, please.” They started off. “I hear that you had a better idea about the two hoodlums.”

  “Not better,” said Sikoski, earnestly. “Just as good, though, and quicker. You should have seen me unload them, yes sir! And they call jet aircraft fast! You having yourself a good time in New York, Colonel?”

  “It was all right last night,” said Rollison; “today’s been a bit slow.”

  “Well, what do you know about that!” breathed Sikoski. “New York slow. Colonel, I can’t allow that to happen, I really can’t.”

  He trod on the accelerator. . . .

  Faint and exhausted, Rollison looked up at the building marked 110-112 West 67th Street. Compared with buildings in most cities of the world, it was mammoth and tall; here, it was middling size. It looked fairly new. There were swing doors and several elevators, a gloomy hall. With Sikoski waiting outside, double-parked and promising to keep driving round the block if he was moved on by the police, Rollison went in. It was just a square hall, with four elevators, all automatic and without a lift-boy.

  Rollison went straight up to the seventh floor, then walked along a narrow passage to Apartment 79. Everything was clean and well-decorated; it had no luxury, but it was all right. After a pause, the door was opened by a small woman; little more than a girl. She had a nervous expression and her features were so like Russell’s that it was obvious that they were brother and sister.

  This must be his sister Julie.

  She greeted: “Good afternoon.”

  “Good afternoon,” said Rollison. “Is Mr. Russell in?”

  “He has someone with him right now.”

  “I won’t keep him long,” said Rollison. “I’m a friend of Wilfred Hall.”

  Julie Russell hesitated. She had pale blue eyes, and she still looked rather nervous; timid was perhaps the better word.

  “You’d better come in,” she said; “I’ll go and see if he’ll see you. What name, please?”

  “Rollison.”

  She seemed to repeat the name under her breath as she let him in, and then went off. A door opened, and Rollison heard voices; one of them seemed to be familiar, but he couldn’t place it. He looked about this room, with its good furniture and excellent taste. Two walls were dark red, one white, one a shaded white and pale blue. Did the timid little creature who had opened the door have such good taste as this?

  The man whose voice he recognised said: “What name did you say?”

  “Rollison,” answered Julie.

  “Is this guy English?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Well, what do you think about that?” said the man, and a chair scraped and footsteps sounded heavily. Next moment, Dando of the Night Telegram came from one of the other rooms, bending his head in order to miss the archway. He was grinning one-sidedly, but that didn’t make him any the less gaunt. “Now isn’t this a coincidence? You and me both here.”

  Rollison said mildly: “It must be an affinity.”

  “Or it might be a mutual interest in Dutch Himmy,” Dando said. “There’s a guy in here who hasn’t much love for Dutch Himmy right now. Come and shake him by the hand; it makes three of us.” He led the way, and Rollison went into a large, airy bedroom, past the timid girl, Julie, who slipped out without a word.

  “Van,” said Dando, “come an
d meet the second best private eye in the world - according to Cy Day.”

  Van Russell was sitting up in bed.

  Nothing Day had said had prepared Rollison for the bandaged head, the swollen and discoloured right eye, and the fact that his left arm was in a sling. His left eye was clear enough - velvety brown and appealing - and his right arm hadn’t been hurt; the hand on the white bedspread looked lean and sinewy. He was giving a one-sided grin.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi,” said Rollison.

  “Now that’s over,” Dando said, “let me tell you something, Mr. Rollison-Toff. Van is a friend of Wilf Hall. Wilf Hall’s gone away for a few days, his secretary won’t say where. His sister’s in New York, and you know something about that. Van was so worried about her he kept an eye open last night and he followed her from the Arden-Astoria. She was with a guy he doesn’t know, and they joined a guy he does. A gun-slinger for Dutch Himmy, named Cadey. Heard of Al Cadey?”

  “No,” said Rollison.

  “I wouldn’t like to earn my living guessing when you’re lying,” Dando said, “I’d be on the hunger line most of the time. These two hustled Valerie Hall off last night, but she’s back at the Arden-Astoria now. Know what happened in between?”

  Rollison didn’t answer.

  “Even you can’t answer ‘no’ to that one and expect to live,” Dando said. It wasn’t exactly a sneer, but it wasn’t far short. “Toff, let me tell you something. Van thinks that Wilf may have been kidnapped by Dutch Himmy, and that there’ll soon be pressure on his sister to pay a big ransom. Is that what you think, too?”

  Rollison said mildly: “If you weren’t a newspaperman, I might begin to talk.”

  Dando moved towards him, and stood very close. It was almost possible to feel the burning intensity of his eyes, to understand something of the torment which consumed him.

  “Listen,” he said; “I live for one thing - finding Dutch Himmy and breaking him into little pieces. That’s my beginning and my end. Any story I get that might help, I use. Any time it would help to keep quiet, I keep quiet. Even Van knows that.”

  Russell was leaning back on his pillows.

  He had a nice smile, even though a third of it was hidden by a bandage. He didn’t give the impression of timidity, as Rollison had half expected. He looked very small, lying in bed; boyish. It was almost a surprise to think that he was in the middle thirties. His one visible brown eye glowed. He had nothing of Dando’s intensity, but might possess a lot of Valerie’s stubbornness.

  “What do you know?” Rollison asked him.

  “Well, for one thing, that Wilf asked you to come over from England,” said Russell. He had a quiet voice. “He told me about it. He told me that he was worried about Valerie coming, but she insisted on it. He also told me that he was nervous about an attack on him or on Valerie, and although he didn’t say so, I guess he’d already had some trouble.”

  “With whom?” Rollison asked.

  “Could be with anyone, could be with Dutch Himmy,” said Russell. The voice was either tired or lazy; perhaps he had been a long time coming round from his beating-up; perhaps he wasn’t really himself again yet. “For one thing, he closed up his house in Westchester, he used to commute most days, and went to live at the Arden-Astoria. He didn’t say so, but I guess he felt safer there.” Russell paused, and then went on: “Mr. Rollison, I can’t tell you very much - but I think that Wilf found himself up against Dutch Himmy, and didn’t have time to do all he wanted to do about it. He knew he couldn’t stop his sister from coming to New York, so he hired you to watch her. He had to find someone who didn’t know the risks of tackling Dutch Himmy - no one on this side would have taken the job on and be absolutely trustworthy.”

  Russell stopped, and his eyelid drooped.

  Rollison said: “You don’t know it was Himmy; you’re just guessing.”

  “That’s right,” Russell said. “I’m just guessing. But I know there was trouble. I know that Wilf went to three of the big agencies in New York, including Day’s, and they wouldn’t take his commission. I can think only of one man who would stop them from taking Wilf Hall’s money - and that’s Dutch Himmy. I don’t know what the trouble was, but I know Wilf had to go it alone.”

  “Hmm,” said Rollison, and took cigarettes from his pocket. He shuffled them from the packet. “There’s one little thing I just didn’t realise.”

  “I don’t understand you,” Russell said.

  “I thought there were police in New York.” Rollison held out the cigarettes to Dando, who was smiling tight-lipped; he took a cigarette, but Russell waved the packet away.

  “Whatever the trouble was,” he said, “Wilf wouldn’t go to the police.”

  “Sure?”

  “He said as much in so many words.”

  “Need that stop us?” asked Rollison, and took a light which Dando offered. “From going to the police, I mean?”

  “It would stop me,” Russell said. “But then, I’m just a friend of Wilf Hall.”

  Rollison grinned.

  Dando looked less tense, now that he was smoking. The atmosphere in the room had eased considerably,too. Russell relaxed on his pillows, and looked thoroughly uncomfortable. His closed eye would look like a sunset over the Nile in a day or two; and Rollison found himself wondering how much damage had been done to his scalp.

  “Where do we go from here?” asked Dando, suddenly. “If Cy Day threw that party for you, Rollison, then he might be prepared to help against Dutch Himmy at last. I don’t say I blame him, I don’t blame any of them, because Himmy could ruin them, but - well, it’s bad when a man can make an agency like Cy Day’s lay off him. Cy a friend of yours?”

  “Business acquaintance,” Rollison said.

  “Some friend,” Dando said, and sat smoking in silence. Russell seemed mildly amused, but in fact might just be tired out. Both men were waiting for a move from Rollison.

  The presence of Dando complicated it for him; and he had already learned most of the things he had expected.

  Dando took the cigarette from his lips.

  “Here’s the guy with all the big ideas,” he jeered.

  “Unpopular ideas,” murmured Rollison.

  “What makes them that way?”

  Rollison said, dreamily: “It must be something in the English climate. Will one of you jump on me whenever I go wrong in my guesses?”

  “Jump is one word,” Dando said.

  “Land easy.” Rollison’s voice was still dreamy. “First, Valerie comes to New York at precisely the time that Wilf was kidnapped; so, the kidnappers probably knew she was on the way, and timed the snatch to coincide.”

  He paused, but neither of the others corrected him.

  “Second, Dutch Himmy wants ransom of a kind from Valerie, and at the moment he’s playing with small chips. Expressively called chicken-feed, I’ve been told. Wilf is worth the Atyeo Building, plus a lot more millions of dollars in New York. The Hall Trust and the Hall Corporation in Great Britain are worth a medium fair slice of London. We won’t test our arithmetic - we don’t have to, in order to know that the hundred thousand dollars which was first demanded was just the opening play.”

  He won his sensation. Dando jumped up from his chair, Russell raised his sound hand and moved his other involuntarily. They eyed Rollison as if he were crazy.

  “Are you sure of that hundred grand?” Dando demanded.

  “Yes. They used a man named Conway and another named Halloran to work as go-betweens. They did some talking, and Dutch Himmy is supposed to have settled for all the loose cash that Valerie had with her, plus a few oddments of jewellery. Say sixty to seventy thousand dollars’ worth at most.”

  “Not on your life!” Dando breathed.

  “Dutch Himmy wouldn’t think in peanuts,” Russell said, s
oftly. “This Conway - you heard of him?”

  “No,” said Dando; “but Halloran - Halloran was in the can for a job Al Cadey did.”

  “Cadey,” said Rollison, softly, “is the man supposed to have settled for the peanuts on Dutch’s behalf.”

  “Cadey,” breathed Dando. “It could be. Yes, sir, it could be that he was ready to settle - that he tried to double-cross Dutch Himmy. Cadey’s body was taken out of the East River, about an hour ago, and there was a bullet in his chest. I was told about that just before I came to see Van. If Cadey was trying to muscle in, Dutch would snuff him out - sure, that would explain a great deal. But it’s only the sparring, Toff; Dutch Himmy wouldn’t do all this for a hundred grand. He might”

  The newspaperman broke off.

  “Jeb,” said Russell, mildly, “we interrupted Mr. Rollison. He was going to suggest an unpopular idea, and I’m still interested.”

  Dando stubbed out his cigarette, and then lit another.

  “Aren’t we all?” he asked.

  Rollison said: “Well, you haven’t thrown me out yet. How is this for a play? Dutch Himmy knows that Valerie is here in New York. The timing is so perfect that we can be sure of two things: either he means to work on Wilf by threatening Valerie, or Valerie by threatening Wilf.

  Either way, we’re guessing. But Valerie must be vital to him, so if we were to kidnap Valerie and let the world know of the snatch” He broke off, with a self-deprecatory smile, and when the others just gaped, went on disparagingly: “After all, I was in London yesterday, and we’re retarded over there. I know it might mean bad trouble for Wilf, but wouldn’t it put Dutch Himmy’s plans out of joint?”

  13

  CAUSE FOR ALARM?

  Dando began to smile, and Russell began to grin. They stopped gaping at the Toff, and looked at each other. It was Dando who said, wonderingly:

  “I’m beginning to understand what Cy Day meant. Sure. Dutch Himmy’s snatched Wilf, and maybe he thinks that he can now make Valerie do what he wants, but he can’t if he’s lost track of Valerie. If she’s just hiding, that’s one thing; if she’s been kidnapped . . .“