The Toff In New York (3 page)

 

In those few seconds after she had screamed, and before she saw more than the man's hand, Valerie Hall was less terrified. She was badly scared, but much more herself. The seconds passed very quickly; just a flash of time. Then, still supporting the door, she edged to one side so that she could see the man more clearly. He was leaning heavily against it. His head was lowered, and she saw dark, curly hair. He wore a light grey suit. His left arm was stretched out, and he clutched the edge of the door. As she stared, she saw his fingers gradually relax, until he lost his grip and slumped down further.

She said in a low-pitched voice: “Oh.”

She knew now that the man was hurt, for he had collapsed completely. She heard his heavy breathing - laboured and tense. If she let the door go, he would fall and the door would bang back against the wall.

She needed help.

She could hardly think, beyond that.

This might be the man who had telephoned her - who else was it likely to be?

She edged towards him, gradually, wondering how she could save him from falling and then bring him in. She did not hear the faint sounds of someone approaching. Odd thoughts flashed through her mind; that this man had been taken ill, had rung for help, had tried desperately to make her open the door before collapsing.

If she pushed the door back, now, he would fall against her and she could hold him up, drag him into the room and then telephone for. . . .

She fought back a scream.

There was blood on the man's back - blood at his neck, collar, coat - red, spreading blood.

He fell heavily against her, and the shock of what she had seen robbed her of strength. She staggered back beneath his weight. Somehow, she managed to save them both from falling, but it was only by thrusting her arms round him; and her hands met at the back of his waist and there was the warmth of blood on her fingers.

This time, she didn't scream.

Then, the dark-haired Englishman appeared again.

He came in and closed the door before she could speak, and then without showing the slightest surprise or alarm, he put his hand beneath the wounded man's arms, and eased him back from her, while keeping him at arm's length. As he did so, there was a sound in the throat of the wounded man, a kind of rattle. Valerie had never heard anything like it before, and had not the slightest idea what it was. She felt a great surge of relief; for here was help, the wounded man was no longer in her arms, the tall Englishman still held him up. She saw that he was wearing a plastic raincoat, but didn't give that a thought then; a moment later she was shaken out of herself, for he lifted the big, heavy stranger right off the ground; then he said quietly:

“Get my key out of my right jacket pocket, will you? It's Suite 552, next door. Go along and open the door, leave it ajar, and go and wash your hands in my bathroom.”

Valerie stared blankly.

“But- . . .“

“If you don't do it quickly,” the man said, “you'll spend your first few days in New York in and out of police stations. I should hurry if I were you.”

He smiled.

As Valerie moved, slipped her hand into the Englishman's pocket for his key, and then hurried out of the room, she kept seeing that smile. It hadn't been simply one of amusement, and it hadn't seemed out of place. Instead, it had given her a reassurance, taking away some of the bewilderment and the fear. It wasn't until she was handling the key and opening the door of Suite 552 that she remembered that her hands were bloody; and sticky. She shivered. The door opened, and she went inside, careful not to touch anything with those sticky hands. She had never realised how bright was human blood. She began to shiver again as she walked across the first room towards the bathroom, and stepped inside. She ran water into the hand-basin - and as she dipped her hands in, it became crimson. She emptied it; the next lot of water was only pink, but that didn't reassure her. She couldn't stop trembling; even when she had dried her hands, she was quivering from head to foot.

She heard sounds.

She went out of the bathroom, and saw a startling thing: the tall Englishman, just inside the room, with the heavy man leaning against the door, much as he had against hers, but inside this room, not outside. The Englishman moved swiftly and then lifted the unconscious man again.

He drew him to the bathroom, and stretched him out on the tiled floor.

Something in the limpness of the unknown's body, the way his hands and arms flopped, warned Valerie of the truth, but it didn't sink in. She was obsessed by her own fears and, now, by greater fears for her brother. Yet when she tried to speak she couldn't form words, she was trembling so much with nervous reaction. She was angry with herself, because she didn't usually give way like this, but she couldn't help herself.

The tall man smiled again.

That calmed her a little.

Then he spoke very quietly.

“If you'll do exactly what I tell you, we'll see this through. Go back to your own apartment and take that suit off - there may be spots of blood on it. Just hang it in th+e wardrobe, making sure it doesn't touch any other clothes. Put on another suit that looks like it, if you can - if not, change completely. If there's any blood on the inside of the room door, wipe it off - and if there's any on the carpet, telephone me at once. Just tell me that something's spilled; don't talk of blood. Suite 552, remember. And incidentally” - he smiled again, and actually reassured her - ”my name is Rollison.”

His instructions were clear enough; and something in his manner warned Valerie that she must obey.

What else could she do?

“All - all right,” she said, and went out.

She wondered what he would do with the man; whether he would send for a doctor, how badly the man was hurt, and - who had attacked him. Who, and how? She had heard nothing but the ringing - three short, sharp rings - and had lost her nerve.

Never mind that.

Had it been the wounded man who had telephoned to tell her that Wilf was in such trouble?

She pushed the door of her own suite open, and didn't see any red spots on the cream-coloured paint. She went inside, closed the door, and saw several small spots on the carpet; they were more brown than red, and she didn't think anyone was likely to notice them, but she had to telephone the man - what was his name?

Rollison, that was it; Rollison.

She had so much to do. Too much.

Being suddenly busy made it easier not to lose her self-control. She had to keep calm. That's what Wilf would say, that was what her father would have said before he died. In a crisis keep calm. More people lost their heads through losing their self-control in a crisis. Keep calm. The precise instructions of the man named Rollison made that easier to achieve, too. She went into the bedroom, and looked at herself in the mirror of the huge dressing-table. There were spots of blood on the small black-and-white check, as well as several on her blouse; and, like those on the carpet, they had lost their brightness and were more brown than red. She hurried to the wardrobe, and exclaimed with annoyance because she found it empty; of course she hadn't unpacked. What was happening to her? Keep calm.

She took off her jacket, skirt and blouse. Her white silk slip clung to her figure, but she didn't give her reflection a glance. She had no other two-piece like the one she had taken off, but there was a dress of the same material, and she put that on. Then she hung up the suit, with the blouse beneath it. When that was done, she went to the telephone, and asked for Suite 552.

Rollison answered almost at once.

“This - this is Valerie Hall,” she said. “I thought - I thought I ought to tell you, a little dropped.”

“Only a little?” he asked.

“Yes, you'd hardly notice it.”

“Then leave it,” the man Rollison said. His voice, quiet and pleasant, was almost as reassuring as her smile. “How long will your new friends be, do you know?”

“Brian Conway?” She hesitated. “No, I don't. He-he was going to try to find out where my brother was, but . . .“

“Hold it a moment,” Rollison interrupted, and she found herself obeying, automatically. “I haven't time to wait now; just tell me how near I am to it. Your brother wasn't at the airport to meet you, and Conway's gone to look for him. You had a telephone message from a stranger saying that your brother was in trouble, and would you see the stranger right away? You said yes, and when he came he was leaning against the door.” Rollison paused, and then asked quietly: “Is that right?”

She exclaimed: “It - it's uncanny!”

There was a hint of laughter in Rollison's voice.

“Some people would find another word for it,” he said. “Now, be patient a little longer. When Conway and his friend come back, don't tell them what's happened. Appear as worried as you like about your brother, but say nothing about the visitor. If they ask you if anyone called, say no. And if they want you to leave the apartment, don't. Offer any excuse you like, but don't leave the apartment with them or with anyone else until I've told you that it's all right to go.”

Valerie cried: “But why?”

“Your brother seems to be lost, and we don't want to lose you too,” Rollison said dryly. “Don't worry too much, don't talk too much - I'll see you before very long.”

She couldn't let it go at that.

“But who are you, why are you doing this, how did
you know”

“If I were you,” Rollison interrupted, in that quiet and confident voice, “I should take things very easily - and have a drink to calm your nerves. I know it's difficult, but if you want to help Wilf, do just as I say.”

“But . . .“ Valerie began again, gaspingly.

He rang off.

She put the receiver down slowly, but didn't get up from the side of the bed. The room seemed so very quiet, now. She looked through the open door towards the passage door, and could not see the spots on the carpet. She looked down at her hands; they seemed quite clear of blood. So did her stockings. She didn't ring for service, but went to her travelling case, took a small gold flask and unscrewed the cap and sipped a little brandy. After a few minutes, she sipped a little more. As she put the flask away, she realised how badly frightened she was, and as she stood up from an easy-chair, she understood how much worse she would have felt if she had been on her own; if it had not been for the man next door. But who was he? Confidence tricksters sometimes worked in groups.

She remembered his name: Rollison.

She thought that she had heard the name before, and now she began to tell herself that his face was familiar. It wasn't only that she had seen him at London airport; her recollection was of a meeting a long time before that. Or had she seen his photograph? She couldn't think beyond that point, but made herself think of Wilf, and what might have happened to him, and she shivered again.

What about Conway?

Should she do what Rollison said, and not tell Conway
of the visit, the wounded man, the blood . . .

She felt rather better, now; the brandy was helping. She moved to the open suitcase on the luggage-stand, and began to unpack, doing everything very slowly and with great precision. She was glad that Wilf hadn't arranged for her to have a maid here; a maid would have complicated the situation hopelessly, and it was bad enough now. Whenever she stopped working, it was as if a wave of terror began to sweep over her; only by keeping busy could she hold it at bay.

Could she hide the truth from Conway?

Perhaps when he came back he would say that he had news of Wilf. If he had, then Rollison could talk as much as he liked, she would do whatever Conway wanted. There was no way of being sure that he was a rogue.

Valerie heard a sound at the door.

The wave of fear threatened again, and she spun round, with her hands raised. The sound might have been a footfall; she just wasn't sure. She felt rigid, and yet began to tremble. The sound wasn't repeated and an age seemed to pass before she began to relax; as soon as she did, the bell rang.

She gasped: “No!”

Her nerves had never been so bad; perhaps because she was tired - she'd hardly slept the previous night. Whatever the cause, she was in a hopeless mood.

She closed her eyes, and swayed; and then gradually fought to regain control of herself. It was the sound of the ringing bell and the memory of what it had heralded before that had affected her, but - keep calm. Her father had made his millions by following that axiom among many others.

She drew herself up, felt better, and went quickly to
the door. As she went, she hoped that the caller would not ring again; yet the interval seemed unending, she couldn't get to the door quickly enough. If it rang.

It rang.

She jumped; and then clenched her teeth. For a moment she hesitated - and then she heard Brian Conway's voice.

“Valerie, are you there? Valerie?”

He rang again, but her fears were gone; she need not dread opening the door to find a man leaning against it, with blood on his neck and his back. At last, she opened the door and Conway stood looking at her; Halloran was just behind, his craggy, ill-shaven face looking like the valley of a thousand hills.

Everything was all right.

Well, Brian Conway was all right. . . .

His expression had changed. He wasn't really the same; not hurt, not scared, not dishevelled but - grimmer; much more grim. As if he brought bad news. With that thought, all the dread Valerie had felt returned, with all her fears for Wilf. She drew back into the room, hands clenched, almost at screaming point as Conway followed her and Halloran came behind.

Halloran closed the door; it was as if he shut out hope.

 

 

Valerie said: “What's the matter?” in a whisper which she could hardly hear herself. When Conway drew closer to her, with that set, grim face, she made herself cry: “What's happened? What's the matter?”

“Now take it easy,” Brian Conway ordered. He took her hands and held them tightly; almost possessively. “It isn't as bad as all that, Val; just take it easy.”

“What has happened to Wilf?”

“Now listen, ma'am,” said Halloran in that rock-hard voice; “nothing's happened to your brother, and if you're careful I guess nothing will. So, ma'am, don't take on so.”

He closed his mouth; it was like closing a trap.

Conway slid an arm round Valerie's shoulders.

“Take it easy, Val,” he said, “and everything will be all right. You needn't worry; Mike and I will see to that.”

Make gave a portentous nod; had Valerie been less terrified and blind with fears, she would have seen how ridiculous Halloran was; like a small-part player stealing a Hollywood quickie. As it was, her common sense told her that these men were in some plot to cheat both her and Wilf.

Wilf!

“Wilf's fine, just fine,” Conway told her, and gulped.

That, and the grimness of his expression, told Valerie that it wasn't true; whether he was responsible or not, he was bringing her bad news. She wrenched herself free, and cried:

“Will you tell me what's happened to Wilf?”

“Sure, Brian, tell her,” Halloran said.

Conway moistened his lips.

“Now take it easy,” he repeated, as if he was afraid that Valerie would throw herself at him, or fly into hysterics. “He's been - kidnapped, that's all.”

“Sure,” nodded Halloran. “Snatched.”

For a few seconds, the word was just a word: snatched. Valerie had feared nearly every catastrophe: a road accident, murder, illness; and yet she hadn't even thought of Wilf being kidnapped. It was a word which had no personal meaning, an archaic kind of word, conjuring up visions of the Caribbean Sea, pirates and buccaneers; or, in these modern days, sensational stories in gaudy newspapers. It had never had any flesh-and-blood significance, no part of daily life. Yet, as she stared rather stupidly at Conway, she began to realise how it fitted in with her suspicions of him. And she should have suspected it - kidnapping, ransom - oh, it all fitted in. But all she could say, very weakly, was:

“What?”

“Snatched,” repeated Halloran.

“You mean - kidnapped?” Now that it was beginning to make sense, it brought worse fear. She didn't know how to react; all she could think of was Wilf, in danger. If it meant paying out a fortune, she had to get him back.

“You mean Wilf's been kidnapped? Who . . .“ She choked, hating herself for the folly of the words.”Why . . .“

“They want a hundred thousand dollars,” Conway blurted out.

“And boy,” said Halloran, “is that big money?”

Valerie backed to a chair, and sat down. Conway was too late to help her. She leaned back and closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them again both men were staring at her, as if anxiously. How well they acted, now! Halloran put his right arm behind him, and produced it again, carrying a leather-covered flask.

“It's rye,” he said. “What do you think, Brian?”

“Val, would you like a spot of whisky?”

“No,” Valerie said. “No, thank you.” She felt swimmy, but two words were rising out of the mists in her mind, like bubbles rising to the surface of a whirlpool. Keep calm. “No, I'll be all right,” she said; “just leave me alone for a while.”

“Brave little woman,” Halloran opined, while he kept a completely straight face.

Valerie heard him, but didn't think about what he said. She was trying to get the simple facts clear in her mind, and the only one which really mattered was this news about Wilf. The incident of the telephone call and the injured man falling into her arms might never have happened.

Conway lit a cigarette.

Valerie spoke in a much steadier voice. “I suppose you two do know what you're saying. Wilf has been kidnapped?”

Oh, yes,” said Conway.

“Sure,” asserted Halloran.

“It was like this,” said Conway, beginning to pace the room; now he looked much more harassed and worried than Valerie, and was rather over-playing his part again.

“When we got downstairs we asked the desk clerk to put us in touch with the nearest hospital, and then the hospitals on the way to Idlewild. Before he could do that a man came and told me he had a message from your brother. He”

“How did he know you?” asked Valerie.

“This is just the way it happened,” Conway explained earnestly. “We were followed from the airport, and the kidnappers saw you with us. And they had another man, waiting right here, to see what we would do. He was the man downstairs, who spoke to me. Mike and I went outside with him; we didn't dream what kind of message it was. I mean, would you have guessed?”

Valerie shook her head.

“He simply told us that your brother had been kidnapped, and that he'd be released in return for a hundred thousand dollars,” Conway continued. “And” He broke off, and gulped.

“Please go on,” Valerie made herself say.

“He said that they hadn't much time,” Conway went on; “they want to get out of New York tonight, and if you don't pay up quickly, then”

He stopped, as if he simply couldn't bring himself to finish.

“Murdering lot of hoodlums,” Halloran said.

“Murdering.” Valerie gasped.

“Now take it easy,” Conway rebuked.

“But I haven't got a hundred thousand dollars! It would take me days to get it,” Valerie cried. “I've only a credit for twenty thousand. They can't do it, they can't . . .;'

“Now listen to me, ma'am,” said Halloran. He put his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket, and when he drew it out he held a wallet which looked as thick and solid as the whisky-flask. “We can rustle up some dollars to help, I guess. I've close on five thousand right here, and Brian - how many you got, Brian?”

“Three thousand,” Brian answered, as if miserably.

“That makes eight,” declared Halloran, after a long and pregnant pause. He paused again. “Sure, that's right. That makes eight. Eight from one hundred is how many? Eight-two.” He paused again. “Sure, that's eight, eighty - no, ninety-two. Wait a minute.” He screwed up one eye and began to count on his fingers.

“Mr. Conway,” Valerie said, and caught her breath. “What - what are we going to do? They can't - they can't mean” She broke off again. She felt so sure that these two men were involved in the plot, and Halloran looked as if he could kill without compunction.

“If you ask me,” said Brian Conway solemnly, “they mean just what they said. There's no way of being sure; you could take a chance that they'll just beat your brother up, but - well, why should they let him go? This man told me that he knows how rich you are - you and Wilf. He knows that you've inherited the Hall millions on this side, and you are very rich in England, anyway. He said that you ought to think yourself lucky that he's only asking for a hundred thousand.”

Conway stopped being the perfect mouthpiece.

“If it was tomorrow,” Halloran said, “we could get the money, except for one thing. Tomorrow's Sunday.”

“It's hell,” breathed Brian. Valerie put her hands to her ears. The diamond stud earrings were worth a little more than a thousand pounds; nearly three thousand dollars. Her rings twice as much. The other jewellery in her travelling-case, much more. She looked from Conway to Halloran, doing mental arithmetic with feverish intentness. Then suddenly she said:

“They can have my jewels.” She had nearly said: “You can.” “I've fifty thousand dollars' worth with me. And if you'll lend me what you have, that will make sixty thousand altogether.” She had to keep up the pretence of trusting them. “They must accept sixty thousand.”

She caught her breath.

Conway said dubiously: “Perhaps they will.”

“Could be,” chimed in Halloran. “Sixty thousand ain't a hundred thousand, it's quite a pile less. Lemme see.” He closed one eye again. “Sixty and ten thousand makes . . .”

“But I must be sure they'll release Wilf,” Valerie said. She jumped up suddenly, and Conway was so close that he backed hastily away. “How can I make sure? Where is this man? What did he ask you to do next?”

“He said we're to check the money in a locker at Grand Central Station,” Conway told her.”Then we're to go away, and hand the key to a man who'll be in the concourse. He'll go and open the locker, and if the money's there”

Valerie broke in: “What on earth are you talking about? Locker, concourse, check - what is all this?” Her eyes were glittering, and she walked to and fro in feverish haste which wasn't pretended. “And who on earth thinks I'm going to be such a fool as to hand over a hundred thousand.”

“Sixty,” interpolated Halloran.

“A hundred, two hundred, sixty, seventy, what difference does it make?” cried Valerie. “Who on earth thinks I'm going to be fool enough to hand over any money or my jewels or anything at all unless I'm sure they'll release Wilf? What's to stop them from taking the money and then asking for more tomorrow or next week? I'm not that simple!”

But, if the worst came to the worst, she would be; for Wilf.

Conway looked more dejected even than before.

“I've only told you what he said,” he claimed.

“Where is this man?” demanded Valerie.

“He's outside, at the corner of Park and Fiftieth, and he said he'd wait there an hour.”

“An hour?”

“Yes.”

“Listen,” said Valerie, moving towards Conway quickly and taking his arm. “Why shouldn't we call the police? They could follow this man, and”

“No, ma'am,” broke in Halloran, in fierce alarm, “don't you go telling the police! No, ma'am. Do you know what he threatened to do if you was to tell the police? Why, he threatened to kill your brother, and find a way to kill you. Yes, ma'am. And the way that guy talked, he meant just what he said. You keep yourself right away from the police.”

“If he thinks I'm afraid - -”

“Listen, Val,” Conway interrupted, in a persuasive way; “we've got to look facts in the face. A lot of these New York crooks are desperate men. You don't need telling that. And” He broke off for a moment, gave the gulp that seemed so natural, and went on: “He said that one of the men behind the snatch - er - the kidnapping, was Dutch Himmy. You've never heard of Dutch Himmy, but he's one of the most brutal guys over here. If he says he'll kill, you can take it from me he'll kill.”

“How many's he killed?” Halloran asked, ferociously. “Six?”

“Four or five,” said Conway, flatly. “Val, it's a dreadful situation, but you've got to face up to it. These men mean business. Either you do what they say or you risk your brother's life. If you go to the police - well, I just won't let you,” he declared bluntly; “it would be suicide.” He took her arm.

“Curtains,” chimed in Halloran.

Valerie freed herself, and hesitated.

Any lingering doubt had gone; these two men were in the plot, were out to squeeze every penny they could from her, and to frighten her into submission. And - she had to save Wilf.

When she spoke again it was more quietly. Her eyes no longer glittered, all sign of hysteria had gone, and she had a quiet vehemence which told how stubborn she could be. She felt better, too; much more herself.

“I don't know what you two think,” she said, “but think that if these men have kidnapped Wilf so as to get a hundred thousand dollars, they want the money badly. They'll be quite as frightened of the police as we are. If they see even half a chance of getting part of the money, I think they'll jump at it. And only fools would expect anyone to hand over money like that without some kind of guarantee. I don't care who they are, Dutch Himmy or-German George or Russian Rudolph, they won't just go away and kill Wilf and throw away any chance they ever had of getting the money.” She raised and shook a clenched fist. “I'll go and talk to this man! Where”

“Val, listen!” Conway cried. “They might do any thing; they might kill you. You've got to leave us to do the talking. If”

“Brian,” said Halloran, deeply, “you want to know something? I think the little lady's right. Yes, sir; she's got more sense in that pretty little finger of hers than we have in our two heads. Yes, sir. I think that you and me both must go and talk to this guy, and make some arrangement with him. Yes, sir-ree. We'll tell him that Miss Hall will find sixty thousand bucks, or the equivalent of it, but in return she wants some guarantee that her brother will be released. Fair enough, ma'am?”

“I doubt if he'll agree,” Conway muttered.

“Then the little lady says that if he doesn't agree, he doesn't get the money. Is that so, ma'am?”

Valerie said: “Yes,” dubiously. It was difficult to keep up the pretence, hard not to tell them she knew what part they were playing. Then her voice strengthened and she squared her shoulders. “Yes!” she cried. “Go and tell him that, and please, hurry!”

Conway turned round, brow deeply lined and mouth drooping. Halloran walked firmly across to the door, opened it, and then turned round and raised a hand.

“Don't you worry, ma'am; we'll fix it for you,” he said. “Come on, Brian.” He beckoned, and Brian Conway went out slowly, as if he was a long way from confident.

The door closed.

Valerie turned round and flew towards the bedroom, went rushing across to the wardrobe, opened it, pulled out a raincoat, and turned on her heel as if she hadn't a moment to spare. She was going after them; she couldn't stay here, she . . . But she didn't go.