by John Creasey
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.
She stopped absolutely still, in shocked horror.
A man stood behind the bedroom door; and must have been there for a long time. It was Rollison, from next door. But he’d gone out and hadn’t come in. . . .
Valerie opened her mouth to speak, but words wouldn’t come.
“I thought I asked you not to go out,” Rollison said mildly, and he moved across and took the raincoat from her.
“B-b-b-but . . .“
“Didn’t you think I meant it?”
“B-b-b-but how did you get in?” Valerie gasped;
“I didn’t see you; I . . .“ She broke off, and looked at the wall between this room and the one next door. It was a blank wall; there was no possible way from one suite to the next; this was like looking at a ghost. “How - how did”
“I came in through the window,” Rollison told her calmly. “I had a feeling that it would be worth lending an ear to the chatter. Bright pair, aren’t they? Provided they haven’t hurt your brother, I could almost like them.”
Valerie said: “What?” in a squeaky voice.
&nbs
p; “I shouldn’t think they’ve really fooled you though,” said Rollison. “I know they think they’ve done a beautiful job, but Conway played a bit too much ham. Hal-loran’s almost too fantastic to be false; he’s really the better of the pair. But never mind that. The problem is to find out where they’ve hidden your brother, without letting them realise that you know that the man round the corner is a myth or an accomplice.”
Rollison paused, as if he meant to give Valerie a chance to get her breath back.
At least she wasn’t alone in what she thought, but - could this man be another of them, a third partner who was pretending to come to her rescue?
If only she could remember where she had seen him before.
“And you were really going out after them,” he marvelled. “How far do you think you’d have got?”
Valerie didn’t answer, but looked away from him, then stepped firmly past him to the window.
It was open a little.
She pulled it wider, looked out, and glanced along towards Suite 552. A window there was open, too, although no light shone out into the night.
She said in a small voice: “Did you really . . .“ and then broke off, looking dizzily downwards. There were thirty storeys between here and the pavement, to an awful, thudding death. Cars below looked like toys, people like pigmies.
“You couldn’t have,” she breathed, and turned to stare at him again. “But if you did, if I have to believe that, then I suppose I ought to believe that you can be trusted.”
He was smiling at her. There was a hint of mockery in his eyes; but a gentle mockery. Suddenly, he had become more than life-size; a kind of superman. He moved, slid his arm round her shoulders and hugged her, then spoke in the most nonchalant way in the world.
“You just need to believe that Brian and his Mike are deep in this game, and that I’m on your side,” he said. “It has all the hallmark of the classic confidence trick, and con-men don’t usually go in for violence, either side of the Atlantic. I should say that this pair have teamed up with someone else - it could even be this Dutch Himmy they talk about.” He chuckled. “Or German George or Russian Rudolph! Certainly they won’t kill the goose they hope lays golden eggs, as certainly we have to be very careful, because they have killed once, but . . .“
Valerie echoed sharply: “They have killed someone?”
“Oh, yes,” said Rollison, and the light faded from his eyes, which became very hard and grim. “The man next door is dead. Didn’t you guess?”
She hadn’t guessed.
Now, she realised that she should have; and suddenly her fears for her brother rose almost to screaming pitch.
5
BRIGHT LIGHTS
The Honourable Richard Rollison, known by many by the apt if absurd soubriquet of the Toff, studied Valerie Hall closely. He felt no surprise at her behaviour, but much admiration for her as a person. She was the stuff of which heroines were made, as he had been warned. She was small, she was slender, she looked fragile; rather like something which ought to be protected, as Dresden china; but in her way she was as tough as women came, and she had that reputation among her friends and relatives, too.
And in his way, the Toff was also tough. . . .
He watched the varying expressions on Valerie’s face. He made allowance for the shocks she had already had, for her fears for her brother and the fact that she now knew that murder had been done. In the thirty seconds which passed between the Toff’s ‘didn’t you guess?’ and her response, expressions chased one another across her face - shock, fear, dread, hopelessness, resolve, hope reborn, anger and, finally, determination.
It was quite a sight.
By the time the show was over, the Toff was smiling very broadly.
“What do you want me to do?” she asked, in a subdued voice. There was a pause; then she went on, more quickly: “I think you’d better tell me why I should trust you, and not the others. I don’t know you, either.”
Now he had proof that she could keep her head.
There was no desperate hurry to leave. Rollison was sure that the two men would not come back very quickly; they would allow some time to pass, so that when they returned, whatever message they gave Valerie would have the ring of truth; they would probably regale her with a story of how they had argued and pleaded with the man round the corner. So, Rollison took a letter from his pocket and handed it to the girl. She took it with her white, nicely-shaped hands. The envelope was addressed to the Honourable Richard Rollison, and after seeing that she glanced at him sharply, but didn’t speak.
She opened the letter and glanced at the signature, which was Wilfred K. Hall.
“It’s from Wilf!” she cried. “Do you know him? Do . . .“But she didn’t finish what she was saying, just read the letter swiftly. Like that, with her eyes very bright and her lips parted, she looked quite at her best.
The letter read:
“The job’s really very simple. I would like you to follow my sister, Valerie Hall, when she leaves London for New York, travelling on the same plane and staying at the Arden-Astoria to make sure that she’s all right. Of course, I may be crazy, there may not be any need for anxiety, but I have an uncomfortable feeling that either Valerie or I might run into trouble. I won’t go into details now. At best, it’ll be a flip across the big pond and a few days wallowing in luxury at the A-A. At worst, it will mean trouble, but I don’t need to tell the Toff anything about that!
“I’ll arrange everything else with your man Jolly, of course. Thanks for easing my mind.
Yours,”
Valerie looked up again, with a different expression in her eyes; confidence. She studied Rollison’s face very closely, then glanced at her watch, and said quietly:
“We’d better do something, hadn’t we? They’re bound to come back soon. I’m not sure you were right to stop me from going out; I was only going to follow them, and . . .“
“Not by yourself in New York,” Rollison protested; “too many wolves are interested. Conway and Halloran will be back soon, and they’ll say that this mystery man has agreed to the terms. They’ll want to take your diamonds and everything else of value to him - and if you let them, that could easily be the last you’d hear of them. Wilf might possibly be released, but it’s more likely that the gang will hold him and come back for more money when you’ve had time to lay your hands on some. If they’re going to play it that way, then Halloran and Conway will stay around - one will offer to sleep in the sitting-room, as your gallant protector! But we needn’t go into every detail, need we?”
“I want to know what to do” Valerie insisted.
Rollison grinned at her.
“One day some man’s going to be very glad he met you,” he said. “All right, woman of action. When they come back, you’ll refuse to let Conway and Halloran act as intermediaries. You’ll insist on going along and seeing this man they talk about yourself, and you’ll also insist on getting some guarantee that Wilf won’t be hurt.”
“Supposing they won’t give me one?”
“Let’s cross the streams when we get to them,” said Rollison, easily. “Your job’s to make them think that you still look on Brian and Mike as heaven-sent friends.”
Valerie grimaced.
“Just glance along the passage and make sure it’s empty, will you?” Rollison asked. “I’d rather go back to my suite without risking the long drop.”
“All right,” agreed Valerie, but instead of turning round at once, she contemplated him thoughtfully. Then: “What are you going to do?”
“I want ten minutes to get ready, and then I’ll follow you. You may not recognise me, but I promise that I won’t be far away.”
“I suppose you are the Toff,” said Valerie, with a dubious frown; and before he could make any reply, went on sharply: “Oh, of course you are! Mr. R
ollison, do you really think that Wilf’s in danger?”
That needed an honest answer, not just comfort for comfort’s sake.
“He could be,” Rollison said, “but I don’t think it’s likely. If we play our hand well . . .“
“I won’t let you down,” she broke in fiercely.
“Fine,” said Rollison. “Don’t leave until I telephone you. I’ll call, and then apologise for getting the wrong number. Any time after that you can leave.”
Valerie nodded, and Rollison watched as she went to the door, peered along the passage, and then beckoned. She gave him a smile that was nearly radiant as he went out; then she closed the door firmly.
Rollison was busy for ten furious minutes.
First, he went to a linen-closet he had already spotted, took out some sheets and blankets, and carried them to his own suite. There was the dead man, youthful and with a strangely pleasant face, on the bathroom floor. Rollison ran through his pockets, and discovered that his name was Mark Quentin, with an address on Long Island.
Rollison made a mental note of this, then spread sheets and blankets on the floor, and his plastic raincoat, the blood-stained side up, on top of these. He lifted the dead man, put him on the raincoat, and wrapped him up, all his movements swift and yet gentle. He fastened the bundle with pins, then carried it to the wardrobe, put it inside, locked the door and pocketed the key.
Swiftly he took off the Savile Row suit, and put on another which was laid out on the bed. This was a subdued royal blue in colour* and beside it was a sky-blue necktie, adorned with hand-paintings of high mountains and a sunset of rich, red gold. Next to this was a ten-gallon hat, the same colour as the sunset. He seemed to slide into his clothes, and into a pair of suede shoes which matched the hat. Then he glanced at himself in a tall mirror.
He grinned, the shadow of tragedy lifting.
“You’re quite something,” he said; “nothing more glorious ever came out of Las Vegas.” He took a cigar from a leather case and put it to the corner of his lips, and then saluted himself. “Hi, stranger,” he said, and turned away.
