by John Creasey
A hand groped and found his pulse.
“He’s alive,” said that man who had offered to wake him.
The voice seemed to get further away as the man stood up; the light was diffused. Rollison’s head still ached but he was less dizzy, and now he wouldn’t be such easy game. He let himself fall back limply, in spite of the pain at his shoulder. There were whispers, movements, metallic sounds, and he tried to guess what they were doing. The vital thing at the moment was that they wanted him alive because of those questions, but - what would they do to try to make him answer?
Footsteps.
There was a splashing sound, and then water struck him in the face, powerfully enough to hurt. He winced, and turned his head, and his eyes nickered. The water ran into his eyes, his nostrils and his mouth, soaking his shirt and collar. He didn’t ‘come round’ at once, but lay there as a man said:
“He’s awake.”
“Sit him up,” said the man with the hard voice.
Now, two of them took his shoulders, and the pain at the left shoulder was very bad; he grunted with it. They dragged him to his feet and then towards one side of the promenade, and dumped him into a chair. It was a relief to sit. His head was much clearer, but he let his chin fall to his chest, as if he was still semi-conscious; he must look like a drowned rat.
“Shall I give him some more?” the man asked.
“Yes.”
Well, cold water was refreshing, wasn’t it? Once the shock was over, Rollison told himself that he would feel better, and that he would have gained more time. If he had needed telling how badly this man wanted the answers to his questions, this was it. He braced himself. This time, the water was held above his head and poured out in a steady stream; he clenched his teeth against the first impact, and then tried to raise his head and flickered his eyes, as if he was really coming round.
Water dripped off him; everywhere.
He blinked about him, able to see much more than he pretended. There was a dim light, not good enough to show very much, but he could make out the figures of a group of men, one of them a little apart from the others. He wore a wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes, a raincoat which seemed out of place, for it was warm; and a mask. The mask didn’t pretend to be anything else; it was just a child’s plaything, shiny red and pink; there was even a painted moustache. It covered every part of the stranger’s face; and that might be to make sure that the men didn’t see him - not simply to make sure that the Toff had no chance to identify him.
“Rollison,” he said, “who brought you over here?”
That question Rollison could answer, but not yet. He could gain more time. He was feeling very much better, even felt that he had control of his arms and legs; the pain at his shoulder was slightly easier, too. He raised his head and peered at the man as if his eyes were hurting him, and he licked his wet lips.
“Wha - what?” he croaked.
“Who brought you over here?”
“You - you did,” said Rollison, as if foolishly. “Men attack - men attacked me.”
“And you know what it will be like if they attack you again,” the man said. His voice was still hard, slow and measured; an assumed voice, of course, he meant to make sure that no single feature was identifiable. “I don’t mean who brought you up to the top of the building, I mean who brought you to New York.”
Rollison gulped, and looked dull and stupid.
“Who brou’ - oh, now I un’erstand!” He paused, to breathe very heavily, as if it was an effort to talk. Time. He was even beginning to wonder what would happen if he made a dive for the elevator. He could see it, with the doors standing open; there was a pale white light inside. Closer to him, the light seemed dimmer, now, and was an unflattering greeny-blue. It was possible to see the stars and in the distance the lights of the environs of New York. “Wilf - Wilfred Hall,” he added.
The man said: “Okay, I know that’s true. Did Hall name anyone he was nervous about?”
So that was it; they wanted to know how much Rollison knew. He might have a chance to stall, to keep them in a state of uncertainty, but if they believed he could answer and name one of them, they would be merciless.
At first play foolish; dazed.
“It was Wilf Hall,” he muttered. “Sent me a cable, then - wrote to me.” He paused and gasped again. They stood round him, apparently unimpressed, all full of menace. “Asked me to look - to look after Valerie.” He opened his eyes wide and stared straight into the slits of the mask. “Wilf’s sister.”
“I know who Valerie is,” the man said. “Did he name anyone?”
“Eh?”
The man kept patient. “Let’s get it straight. When did Hall write to you?”
“ ‘Bout a week - ’bout a week ago,” Rollison answered, and his hand moved towards his pocket. “I’ve
He snatched his hand away.
Two of the shadowy figures, moved so swiftly that he flinched; one grabbed one arm, the other stood over him with an automatic.
Rollison flung his left arm up, trying to shake the man’s grip, and for the first time since he had come round his voice held a note of shrill defiance.
“What’s the matter with them? I’m only going to show you the letter!”
“Do you have it with you?” The man sounded eager.
“Should - should be in my pocket.”
“Okay,” the man said, “get it, but don’t try any tricks with palm guns or any of the little gadgets you’re fond of at home.”
Rollison found a slow grin; as if that pleased him.
He could show the letter, which named no one, and that couldn’t do anything but good.
“You been reading about me?” he asked, and slid his hands towards his pocket again. He sensed the tension of the other men, and heard one breathe:
“Dutch, you don’t want to take any chances.”
Dutch.
Rollison didn’t stop what he was doing, even at the sound of the name. He took out his wallet, and the thin airmail letter was folded inside. He started to unfold it, but Dutch Himmy stepped forward and snatched it away. Then he backed, as swiftly; and it was obvious that he had trained himself never to risk being attacked. He stood further back than he had, and read the letter under one of the dim lamps.
So, here was Dutch Himmy.
Here was the man whom New York knew as well as Chicago had once known Al Capone. Here was the man who could even confine the activities of Cy Day - and whose reputation could stretch out long arms and scare a little homesteader like Tim Mellish. There he was in person, his face behind the mask, head covered, hat brim pulled down, shapeless raincoat hiding his figure. He was no more than six feet away from the Toff.
A man stood at each side of the Toff, both armed, and there wasn’t much doubt about what would happen if he leapt; and yet - what kind of blessing would it be if he could kill Dutch Himmy?
He had never been a man with illusions.
He knew that there was a sound chance that they didn’t intend to let him get away alive; if they thought he had dangerous knowledge, they would kill him.
Forget it; wait; win more time. He had made a good start, hadn’t he? He had given a truthful answer, and it was demonstrably true.
Dutch Himmy lowered the letter.
“What did he say in the cable?” he asked, flatly.
“Just asked if I was free.”
“Did he name anyone?”
“No.”
“That true?”
“All he told me was in that letter,” Rollison said.
“Did he telephone you from New York?”
“No.”
“All right,” Dutch Himmy said, “and it had better be true.” He seemed to have relaxed, in those few seconds; as if he had been reassured by the
letter he’d read - and that meant that one of his great fears had been that Wilf Hall had named him. Therefore, Wilf Hall knew him. Easy. Kindergarten. Wilf Hall knew or suspected the identity of Dutch Himmy, and in one way that could be a help. Wilf Hall probably knew five hundred people reasonably well, and thousands by sight, but - it was a help. If the police could start working on that angle, they might get results which had been denied them before. How to let the police know was a matter to deal with later.
Dutch said, in his hard voice: “Did you shoot Al Cadey?”
“Who?”
“Cadey. In the apartment on 13th Street.”
Rollison said slowly, suspiciously: “No. But Cadey had it coming; he was trying to get too personal with Valerie Hall.”
“Who shot him?”
“That’s a question I don’t answer,” Rollison said, flatly.
The man who had named Dutch Himmy moved forward restlessly.
“Dutch, I . . .“
“When I want help I’ll tell you.” That was a reproof. “Rollison, you can start thinking again! I want answers. Where did you take Valerie Hall?”
That was a shot in the dark, of course; it couldn’t be anything else. But it made Rollison’s heart contract, and he hoped that his voice was steady when he answered:
“Where did I take her? You’re crazy. I thought you”
“You took her away from the Belle Hotel.”
“You’re dreaming,” Rollison said, and his voice grew loud. “You”. He broke off, and raised his hands, as if imploringly: “Didn’t you kidnap her?”
He sounded aghast; bewildered.
Dutch Himmy stood two yards in front of him, staring out of those empty eye-holes. There was a change in the mood; a change in all of them. This was the crisis point. Whatever else he had done wrong, he knew that he had been right in reasoning that above everything else, Dutch Himmy needed to find Valerie; that while she was missing, the man was stymied. That was half-way good.
If he felt sure that Rollison knew where to find her, that wasn’t good at all. That would mean they would stop at nothing at all to make him talk.
“Rollison,” Dutch Himmy said, “I know you took her away. Don’t keep me waiting. Where is she?”
18
LONG DROP
After Dutch Himmy’s last question, there was silence. In it, Rollison knew that he had gained little, except the time to think. They wouldn’t let him go. Dutch Himmy knew that he could tell him the one thing that he wanted to know. No one got a reputation like Dutch Himmy’s without good reason. A man could be a hero and still give way to the kind of questioning that would come now - if Rollison couldn’t prevent it from happening.
He must.
He could not answer this man, either for Valerie’s sake or for the Mellish family, but . . .
He just sat there, as if stubbornly.
He knew now exactly what he would have to do. He must put up a good show of defiance, no matter how much punishment he had to take, and then appear to give way. He would put Dutch Himmy on to a false trail, and before the truth was discovered he would have to make his chance to get away.
“Dutch . . .“ began the man who spoke most.
“If you don’t tell me, Toff,” Dutch Himmy said, “I’ll turn the men loose on you.”
“What do you think I am?” Rollison asked roughly. “I came here to look after the girl, not to hand her over to a brute like you.”
There was a moment of stillness, as of amazement; and then one man’s hand moved, to punch him in the ribs - and he leapt forward. He beat them by a fraction of a second. He struck Dutch Himmy on the side of the face and sent him sprawling. He felt the papier mache of the mask give way. A man hacked at his legs, and he dodged. Another came bodily at him, and he swerved to one side, handed the man off, and made for the elevator. The doors stood open so invitingly. He was only two yards away when two men barred his path, and another caught up with him from behind, hand at his injured shoulder. He turned and drove his right fist into a yielding face, and for a moment he was free again. But the way to the elevator was still barred. He hardly knew what he was doing when he ran towards the windows. Shadowy figures were coming in the other direction, to head him off, but for those seconds he was free.
He reached a window.
Back to it, he could fight . . .
He thrust a hand out, to save himself from stumbling into the window, and the window wasn’t there. The glass was only a few inches above the waist-high wall, for the window opened by winding, as the window of a car; and it was open now. His hand felt no resistance at all. He lurched forward. For a dreadful moment, all the lights of New York seemed to be coming up to meet him, it seemed as if he were going to plunge headlong past a hundred and one storeys to the deadly street below.
He didn’t.
He came up against the wall itself, at waist height. It jolted the breath out of him, and spelt the end of his sortie. He felt the man grab him, swing him round - and then the avalanche came. Through it all, he held on desperately to one cause for hope; they would not kill him until he told them where to find Valerie.
He covered up as best he could. It seemed as if they were driving him round the promenade of the tower, not once but a dozen times. Yet he was still conscious when they stopped and he was pushed into the chair again, gasping for breath, lips and nose bloody, body aching. They splashed water over him, and then one of them held his head back and gave him a drink of rye whisky from a flask. It stung the cut lips badly, and he writhed, but soon it began to help, and soon he could see again.
And he could hear.
The hard voice was as free from emotion as ever.
“Rollison,” Dutch Himmy said, “save yourself trouble and tell us where to find the girl.”
Rollison didn’t answer.
“Dutch . . .“ the agitator began,
“Hold it.”
There was a long pause. Dutch seemed to be staring at Rollison. His own breathing became steadier. The ring of men was close and more threatening, as if they meant to make quite sure that he didn’t try another leap for the elevator, and he could see the silhouettes of two men close to it.
He felt a breath of wind, now; from the window. Of course, the windows were open at one side because it was so hot - already it was too warm. Remember, there was an open window. Remember that he had to do one of two things: fool them about Valerie, or get away in time to save himself from further hurt.
“I’ll ask you just once more,” Dutch Himmy said, “and after that you’ll really know big trouble. Where is Valerie Hall?”
The agitator took his wrist and began to twist; and he knew that the man could break his arm. He knew what else they could do, too: break finger by finger. He began to struggle. The pressure grew tighter, the pain worse. He began to sweat and to writhe. Dutch Himmy stood there like a faceless man, and other shadowy figures watched, until suddenly Rollison screamed:
“Don’t do it, don’t do it, I’ll tell you!”
The man released him, slowly.
In that hard voice, Dutch Himmy said: “Okay, where is she? It had better be true.”
Rollison gasped: “It’s the truth! I - I took her to a friend on Long Island, place near Rockville Centre, she . . .“
Dutch Himmy said very thinly:
“I know you didn’t. You went through the Holland Tunnel and you came back across the George Washington Bridge. You didn’t have time to get to Long Island after that. You don’t seem to understand,” he went on; “I’m going to make you tell me where to find Valerie Hall. That’s the beginning and the end. Once you’ve told me, you’ll be through with the punishment. While you lie about it, you’ll get so much punishment you won’t know which part of you is bone and which part is muscle.” The man paused, and then went on in the same har
d voice: “Lew, you got that thumbscrew?”
“Sure.”
“Show him we mean business.”
“Sure” the man named Lew said, as if he had been waiting for this.
One of them gripped Rollison from behind, the other took his right arm and thrust it forward, holding it in such a way that he couldn’t turn his wrist. He felt metal. He knew that it wouldn’t be long before they showed what they could do. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to stand the pressure much longer without breaking down.
He gasped.
“Give me - give me some air!” He had to pretend he felt suffocated, that he could hardly breathe. “I’ll tell you, but give me some air.” He was gulping and gasping, and they slackened their hold, and looked at Dutch Himmy for orders. “It’s so hot in here; I’m choking.” Rollison gasped. “I’ll tell you, but give me some air!”
He could imagine Dutch Himmy asking himself: “Where’s the risk?” There were the open windows, a hundred and one floors above the street; there were two men guarding the elevators; there wasn’t anything that any man could do.
The screw was firm, not tight, on Rollison’s thumb.
He swayed, as if he was going to pass out, and that made the decision for them. At a word from the man in the mask, he was taken towards the window. Wind came off the rivers and off Long Island Sound, bathing Rollison’s face. They didn’t need to hold him, for there was just no way that he could escape; they made a semi-circle about him, waiting for him to recover.
If they broke him sufficiently, he would tell them where Valerie was.
Face it; there were limits to human endurance.
When he had told them, they would kill him.
There was no reason why they should let him live.
He leaned against the window, as if he was taking in great gulps of air, and he gripped the top of the wall tightly. He could feel the slot where the glass went, quite distinctly. He didn’t look down to the street level. He saw that from here there was a sloping wall, which went ten or twelve storeys down, to a ledge wide enough for a man to stand on; for a car to stand on! If he fell, the ledge might save him. If he didn’t . . .