The Toff In New York

The Toff in New York

 

First published in 1956

© John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1956-2014

 

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

 

The right of John Creasey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

 

This edition published in 2014 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

 

Typeset by House of Stratus.

 

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

 

 

This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author's imagination.

Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

 

www.houseofstratus.com

 

 

 

John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as
Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron
.

Creasey wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the 'C' section in stores. They included:

 

Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.

 

Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the
One Party Alliance
which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.

He also founded the
British Crime Writers' Association
, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing.
The Mystery Writers of America
bestowed upon him the
Edgar Award
for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate
Grand Master Award
. John Creasey's stories are as compelling today as ever.

 

 

The girl leaned close to the window of the stratocruiser, peering down on wonderland.

A few minutes ago, there had been the darkness of the Atlantic and, in the distance, single lights or tiny clusters. The fair-haired young man with the magnificent smile had told her that they were over Long Island. Now, although he sat beside her, he had the sense to keep quiet.

Everyone was quiet; even the hardened travellers, the old and young soaks, the flinty-hearted and the foolish, New York spread out beneath them, and from the air and after dark New York was the wonderland of the modern world.

The girl was seeing it for the first time.

She was round-eyed and marvelling, which was the proper reaction, and everyone approved. She seemed to hold her breath. Gradually, the lights drew nearer. White, yellow, red, green, blue - so many colours that it looked as if the rainbow had been broken into tiny pieces and scattered down there, catching radiance from the stars. There were long, straight lines of light, vanishing into the illimitable distance of darkness. There were short stretches of light. There were pools of it. There were clusters. There were fairy lights stretched across dark voids. From up here, all of these were unaccountable, part of a mystery that was almost a miracle.

The girl, round-eyed as if in dewy innocence and wonder, dropped back into her seat, and let out a long, long sigh. She closed her eyes for a moment, as if the picture of the scene below had somehow to be shut out, so that she could come back to the real world. Then, she opened her eyes and turned to look at her companion. He was not only fair-haired but handsome in a rugged way, a man whose blue eyes seemed to tell of the great open spaces, whose square, jutting chin suggested both character and stubbornness alike; a young maid's dream of a heroic young man.

“Like it?” he asked, and there was a proprietorial air about his manner, as if he had taken out an option on the view, and hoped to sell it to her.

“It's - quite wonderful,” she said.

“Yes, isn't it?” he agreed, with airy nonchalance.

He had an accent which wasn't quite English and wasn't quite American and yet certainly wasn't Canadian. His large, firm hand rested for a moment on the girl's arm.

“Like me to pick out a few places for you?” he suggested.

“Yes - yes, please.”

The girl leaned closer to the window, and the young man had to press against her, but that wasn't really embarrassing. He rested one hand on her left shoulder, and his cheek was very close to hers. His right hand pointed. The aircraft was circling and losing height, but it was obvious that the young man knew this view backwards and probably upside down.

“See that long stretch of lights, wanders off to the left a bit - that's Broadway. See that place where the lights seem twice as bright as anywhere else? That's Times Square. See that string of lights across the dark stretch - that's the George Washington Bridge, spanning the Hudson River.” He didn't sound the least bit excited, just went on and on. “Queensborough Bridge - Triborough Bridge - Bronx - Brooklyn - the Empire State Building, Woolworth's Building, Atyeo Building, Chrysler, Uno, Central Park, 5th Avenue” - it was a never-ending stream, and all the time the young man's hand was firm on the girl's shoulder and his cheek drew closer to hers; so close, that once or twice she felt the roughness of his fair stubble.

Then came the stewardess; no smoking, fasten belts, hustle and bustle, some slight tension on the part of many passengers, a woman who began to talk in a high-pitched voice and wouldn't stop, glucose and barley sugar, bump, bump, bump.

“Here we are,” said the fair-haired young man. “Idle-wild! By George, it's good to be back!” He was unfastening his belt, for the aircraft was taxing now. The only lights appeared to be at the airport control tower and along the edges of the landing-strips and, in the distance, the headlights of cars. “I suppose you're being met.”

“Oh, yes,” the girl told him; “my brother will be here.”

“That's fine,” said the fair-haired young man, “but if you should need anything, you'll let me know, won't you?”

“It's very kind of you, but I'm sure I won't.”

He smiled.

She smiled.

The door was opened, the line of passengers began the trek along the gangway towards the steps and the airfield. Most of them had a word of thanks for the stewardesses, some had handshakes. Voices seemed to float out of the aircraft into the cool night, and then to fade away. The girl had only a small bag and some magazines, and the young man, with a brief-case and oddments, made no attempt to help her. They walked together towards the airport building, customs, porters, the waiting, welcoming crowd. Most of the passengers seemed to have someone to meet them. A little group of men carrying cameras gathered at one spot. Suddenly the cameras clicked and the flashlights dazzled, as a little, insignificant man with a face rather like a monkey was greeted. He posed, impatiently. No one on board the aircraft had even suspected that he was distinguished. He was, in fact, a boxing promoter.

The young man elbowed the photographers aside, so as to clear a path for the girl.

“Thank you,” she said again.

Now, it was all over. The customs officers were waiting, for the luggage had been brought in very quickly. The girl looked round for her brother, but did not see him. Everyone else seemed to have someone to wave to, but not she or the young man. He was brisk and businesslike now, as if he had more to do than worry about a round-eyed sweetie in the early twenties, filled, it seemed, with the wonder of young innocence.

Her passport was studied and solemnly stamped.

Clearance labels were stuck on her cases.

She was accepted into this New World.

She went into the big hall, and kept looking round, anxiously. There seemed to be hundreds of people, obviously of many nationalities, most of them sitting quietly and patiently, a few noisy and one or two angry about no understandable thing. The only accent which did not sound high above the rest was American.

The girl left her luggage, and walked about. The building was much larger than she had expected, and now she realised that there were thousands of people here; but she did not see her brother. It was a little after ten o'clock, and the plane had arrived half an hour late, so it wasn't because she was early. She walked, solitary, gracefully, worriedly. She wore a small black-and-white check suit, beautifully simple, and a little black hat on shiny dark hair, white blouse, black shoes. Her figure would probably make a man dream as soon as he realised how cunningly it was adorned. She wasn't really a beauty, but undoubtedly she caught the eye. Her eyes were blue and her nose a little broad and tip-tilted and her mouth rather wide. Her profile was the nicest thing about her, and the way she walked was superb. A lot of people noticed that, and among these was a tall, dark man who had come off the aircraft - and who, in fact, had observed her closely most of the way across.

He wore one of those suits which had obviously come from Savile Row, he had an air with him, and was too handsome to be true. He did not follow the girl, but whenever she came back into the main hall, he watched her. The fair-haired young man was very busy about this and that and things, and no longer seemed to notice her. They were the only three stratocruiser passengers left in the hall when, half an hour after their luggage had been cleared, the young man walked smartly towards the door. Suddenly he stopped, as if startled at finding the girl still here.

He smiled, warmly.

“Hallo, are you still around?” He managed to make that silly remark sound intelligent.

“Yes,” she said; for what else could she? “My brother” she broke off. “I'm just going to telephone his hotel.”

“Great Scott! hasn't he come?”

“No,” she confessed, and for a moment sounded woebegone.

The tall, dark man was in earshot, and this gem of bright conversation appeared to afford him some amusement, although when he smiled he looked away from the couple. They stood together, the girl more than a little forlorn now, although there was a stubborn glint in her eyes; and the fair-haired young man giving an excellent impression of a gallant who did not want to force his attentions too far.

“Well,” he said, “let's go and call him, shall we? What hotel is he at?”

“The Arden-Astoria,” said the girl.

If this startled or impressed the young man, he concealed it well, and as they turned towards a row of telephone booths, he said:

“He couldn't have mixed up the times of the planes, I suppose?”

“I don't know.”

“What a shame it is,” said the fair-haired young man.

Now, the tall, dark man turned away sharply, as if anxious to make sure that they could not see how this exchange amused him. There was a certain awkwardness, almost a sense of constraint, between the younger couple.

They reached the telephones, and the young man put the call through for her. She asked for Mr. Wilfred Hall and, after a while, was told that he was out. Slowly, worried, she put back the receiver.

The ‘boy' gave a sudden, dashing smile, and burst out:

“Look here, can I see you to the hotel? My time's my own, and I'd be glad to.”

“You're very good . . .“

“Be no trouble at all,” he declared, and now that the ice was really broken, he gave a little laugh which made it obvious that being her escort would give him a lot of pleasure. “I've a car outside - a friend is waiting for me.”

“Well,” the girl said, “I ought to wait a bit longer for Wilf.”

“I'm not so sure,” said the young man, with great earnestness. “If he's as late as this - getting on for an hour - I doubt if he'll turn up. But I'll tell you what, let's give him another half-hour, and then drive into New York. Could have been delayed: traffic out to Idlewild gets terribly thick sometimes. What night is it?”

“Saturday.”

“Ah, yes, Saturday over the Queensborough Bridge can take an hour. Would you care for a cup of coffee?”

“No, thanks,” Wilfred Hall's sister said, “and I don't like the idea of keeping your friend waiting.”

“Oh, he won't mind. Let's go and have a word with him,” suggested the young man and then, for the first time since he had smiled so brightly, he appeared to hesitate. “I'd like to introduce you, but - well, I'm Brian Conway.”

So naive.

“I'm Valerie Hall.”

“Glad to know you, Miss Hall!” The young man sounded as if all was now wonderful in a perfect world. He took her elbow and they walked towards the exit and the great car-park. The tall, dark-haired man followed at a distance, which he reduced as they stepped into the open air. Out here there was little light, and he could see them both as silhouettes, and could hear their voices. “I ought to warn you,” Brian Conway went on to Valerie, “my friend is a bit of a rough diamond.”

“Is he?”

“Yes, but don't let it worry you,” said Conway, breezily “he has been living rough for a long time, prospecting up in Canada. Doesn't really like the highlights of civilisation - you can imagine what it's like when you've been living out in the sticks for years, can't you?”

“Er - yes,” said Valerie Hall, dubiously.

“He's a great chap though,” enthused Conway, “and do I owe him plenty!”

“Really?” Valerie showed a proper interest.

Conway laughed; a deep, satisfied, happy sound. He squeezed Valerie's arm, but did not attempt to explain this sudden change of mood. Instead, he looked round. He did not see the tall, dark-haired man, who had taken shelter behind two cars. The night was very dark, and they seemed to be walking among thousands of cars, all enormous.

“Between you and me,” Conway said at last, “I owe Mike Halloran the better part of a million pounds. How's that? Anyone else would have cut me out - or at most paid me back my original stake, but not Mike. Fifty-fifty we'd agreed, in a verbal agreement only, and his word proved to be as good as his bond. If you ever want proof of a thing like that, a million pounds is pretty good!”

“I should think it is,” agreed Valerie, solemnly.

They walked between two more rows of cars, and then Conway exclaimed: “There he is!” A light was on in one car where a man sat reading a newspaper. He looked up as they approached, and put his newspaper down. He didn't attempt to open the door; Conway did that. Then he introduced one Mike Halloran, and Valerie Hall found herself looking into the deep-set eyes of a man with a face so craggy that it might have been carved out of rock which had turned the edge of the sculptor's chisel. There was nothing even slightly smooth about it. If the weather of a thousand years had been let loose on that countenance and by a process of erosion made very few alterations on the original, no one would have been surprised. He did not so much need a shave as look as if there were parts of his chin and cheeks so deeply chiselled that no razor could get at the chasms. Yet ostensibly he was clean-shaven. His eyes were buried so deep that it was hard to be sure of their colour but easy to see that they were very bright.

“Why, ma'am,” said Mike Halloran, “I'm right glad to know you.”

He put out a hand.

Valerie entrusted hers. Halloran took it, and gripped - and when she was on the point of wincing he stopped, as if realising that in his grasp was some precious and perhaps even breakable thing. He let her fingers go.

“Real glad,” he said, in a granite-hard voice.

“Mike, I've promised to wait for half an hour to see if her brother arrives,” Conway said, “and if he doesn't, we'll run her to her hotel - are you staying at the Arden-Astoria hotel, Miss Hall?”

“Oh, yes,” Valerie said; “I don't know whether it's very central.”

She looked hopeful.

“Arden-Astoria,” said Halloran, after a long pause; “can't say I've ever heard tell of the place.”