by John Creasey
He went out.
A coloured girl in a blue smock was pushing a big linen-basket towards double doors marked ‘staircase’; these were just beyond the linen-closet. He looked at the big basket thoughtfully; it was large enough to take Mark Quentin’s body.
But not now.
As he turned the corner, Rollison saw Brian Conway and Mike Halloran stepping out of the elevator. He wasn’t surprised that they were too preoccupied to do more than glance at him; he doubted if they even noticed that he was there. The Floor Clerk did, and looked at him with an admiration not far removed from veneration.
“Hi, ma’am,” he drawled, and no one from Texas could have sounded at once more unreal and yet more natural; “just been along to see my old pal.”
“Is that so?” asked the Floor Clerk, faintly.
“Sure is, ma’am, sure is.” Rollison pressed a Down button, and an elevator car slid to a stop, light showing through the little window. “Now I’m going out to have myself quite a time, quite a time, ma’am.” He winked. “You bet.” He winked again, and then the elevator gates opened and he doffed his great hat as he stepped in. Inside were a man and a woman; neither of them could help staring at him, and he beamed back with great good will. At ground-floor level he stood aside for them to leave, and then strolled into the lobby, goggled at by everyone in sight. He was quite sure that none of them recognised him.
He looked a different man. The cut of the clothes changed his whole figure, and the hat was at just the right angle, with curled brims on either side. He was already tanned a dark brown, and mascara cautiously used gave greater brightness to his grey eyes. He strolled towards Park Avenue and stepped outside. Not far along were several waiting taxis. He went up to the third, and the cabby actually leaned out, to open the door.
“Thank you, sir,” said Rollison, with great gusto; “you’re mighty kind.”
The cabby’s expression suggested that he could not really believe that such good fortune could come his way.
He was a round and ruddy-faced man with a skull-tight cap, the big peak of which was pushed over his right ear. Black hair curled from beneath the edges of the cap in a dark halo. Here was a picture by Michelangelo in the driver’s seat of a New York cab, and it didn’t look out of place.
Rollison got in, at leisure, and the cabby glanced round:
“Where to?”
Almost under his nose was a fifty-dollar bill. He had to move his head back, to squint at it. He shook his head, and the curls quivered.
“You pay me after the ride, bud,” he said.
“I’m not sure that I want a ride, pardner,” Rollison told him in a subdued roar. “I may decide to walk. Take this as a retainer, suh, a handsome retainer. If I decide to walk, then you follow me and see if you can contrive to keep me in sight. Because I may want to follow another taxi or a car in a hurry, and if I’m in a hurry there won’t be any time to waste in arguing. If I don’t need you between now and one o’clock, you can go home to your bed. Okay, suh?”
The cabby was already folding the bill.
“Have it your own way,” he conceded. “Any way you like.”
Rollison sat back, smoking a cigarette and not a cigar. Nothing of consequence happened in the next ten minutes. During them, he pondered certain facts. Wilf Hall, whom he knew reasonably well, had sent a cable before he had sent that letter; the cable had been to find out whether Rollison was free to help him. It was characteristic of Wilf Hall to talk and write vaguely; it might mean that he had nothing specific to talk about, but was just as likely to mean that he preferred not to talk about it. His great anxiety had been for Valerie, who had been determined to visit him in America; and Wilf had meant to make sure she didn’t come unprotected.
Unless, of course, Rollison failed her.
That possibility did not greatly worry Rollison.
He had not been to New York for a long time, but on his previous visits he had come to know Manhattan well. He had friends, too. He believed that he could judge exactly the moment to stop trying to handle the situation himself, and call on those friends for help. Had it not been for the man who had died in Valerie’s arms he would have believed that it was just a simple confidence trick, but - con-men didn’t kill; not that way, anyhow.
Why had the caller been killed?
Apparently, because he had come to give Valerie a message; but he hadn’t uttered a word that mattered.
Now, finding Wilf Hall was as important as taking care of Valerie. The Halls were worth a dozen fortunes, and it -was well worth risking the loss of Valerie’s jewels and money to get a line on Wilf; but it would be good to avoid even that loss.
Rollison finished the cigarette and tossed the end out of the taxi window - and as he did so, Brian Conway and Valerie appeared. They were close together, in a kind of huddle, and looked towards the taxis. Rollison said: “Move off slowly, pardner,” and watched the couple. Conway shook his head, and instead of coming forward, led the way to the corner and the traffic lights. “Can you do a U turn here?” asked Rollison.
“For you, I’ll turn a somersault,” the driver declared. “Hold tight, bud.” He shot the car forward and then swung round, and when he drew up on the other side of the road opposite the Arden-Astoria, Valerie and Conway, still in a huddle, were halfway across the avenue. Conway was holding the girl’s arm, and talking.
“This is where I leave you,” Rollison said, and opened the door. “Keep your eyes open and try to catch up with me, pardner, if these one-way streets allow you.”
“How could I miss you?” asked the cabby, and his grin split his round face. “So long, bud!”
Rollison was chuckling.
At a corner of the next street, Conway and Valerie turned round. Rollison caught up with them, as they headed towards Madison Avenue, walking quickly. There were a lot of bright lights, and it was easy to look at Valerie and to realise that she was perfection in pocket-size. Her legs. . . .
Madison - Fifth - Broadway.
Two things happened as they reached Broadway.
First, the light became so bright that it hardly seemed true. Night had become a garish day. The pavements were thronged, and no one seemed to be in a hurry. Restaurants were nearly full, a few shops were open; in one, where a thousand hats seemed to perch on stands in the window, there were eight or nine customers. All was noisy with a thousand cars. In the direction of Times Square, it looked as if every light in New York had been massed at this one spot, and that one had to walk through and on lights of a hundred colours.
The Toff was staggered, in spite of his previous visits; but not so badly that he missed the second thing.
A young man whom he had not seen before was now following Valerie and the earnest Conway. This young man had been waiting opposite the hotel. Rollison had not yet seen his face, but had a good view of the curly, reddish hair, the slender shoulders, the almost hipless body. The young man’s movements were cat-like, possessing a kind of natural stealth.
At Broadway, the couple turned towards Times Square, and the hipless young man followed them.
As Rollison followed in turn, a great garish yellow-and-red taxi slowed down alongside him, and the cabby gave him an enormous wink and a gargantuan whisper:
“You okay, bud?”
Rollison gave him the thumbs up sign, and walked on. Three times, when the others were held up at traffic lights, he turned to look behind him, but he saw no sign of Mike Halloran and nothing to suggest that he was being followed.
At 45th Street, Conway and Valerie turned into a restaurant across the front of which was written in naming red: HAM ‘N EGGS. The hipless young man was then ten yards behind them; he didn’t go in, but turned and went down the next street, where the restaurant boasted another window and a sign in flaming yellow.
Rollison reached the doorway.
> Inside were bright lights, a spotless bar, red-topped stools, and tables for four, with high-backed seats. Cooks in starched white and waitresses in pale blue had eager, hopeful looks.
Conway had taken Valerie to one of the tables, and they were sitting down. A man was already there; Rollison could just see the top of his head.
So there was a third man.
Rollison went in and took a seat at a corner of the counter, so that he was sideways on to the trio, and very close by.
6
START OF A JOURNEY
From his point of vantage, Rollison could see the man whom Valerie had gone to see; he could also see the top of Brian Conway’s head, and the tip of Valerie’s little white hat. When he glanced at the window, he had a view of the hipless young man, who was just outside.
His chief interest was in the man who had been waiting in the restaurant for Conway and Valerie. He liked nothing about the face and the sharp, bright eyes.
Everything else seemed so cosy.
Hunger teased Rollison as a young man wearing a spotless white smock and a white chef’s hat came up and asked: “What’s yours?”
“Ham and eggs,” said Rollison in the Colonel’s voice.
“Eyes open or closed?”
Rollison clutched at memory, while the young cook regarded him without impatience or affection. Memory came to the rescue.
“Closed,” Rollison said, firmly.
“Want coffee?”
“You bet.”
The cook turned his back, and cracked eggs into a basin, slapped them into a small steel frying-pan, added bacon, and then started a great sizzling. A girl had ordered coffee and cheesecake for the trio in the stall. Whatever they said was very low-pitched, and Rollison heard nothing except whispers. He wished he could see Valerie’s face, but he had to judge the show she was putting up from the face of the man opposite her. It was interesting, after all. Small, pale, rather narrow, with close-set bright eyes, a small, pointed nose.
He did not have the look of a big shot.
He kept looking about him, at the door, and at the hipless man, but he did not pay any attention to Rollison.
His biscuit-coloured jacket had wide shoulders; there was probably plenty of room for a gun in a shoulder-holster.
Every now and again he said: “Yeh,” and sometimes he said “Naw.” Occasionally, Valerie’s voice sounded, almost angrily; anyone within range would know that they were quarrelling, but was given no inkling about the cause of the trouble.
Brian Conway contributed nothing at all to the conversation; he stayed dumb and looked miserable.
There was a sudden, triumphant sizzling sound in front of Rollison. Then the shimmering steel frying-pan, containing two eggs and some streaky bacon fried in the whites, was slapped in front of him. This appeared as if by magic. The eyes of the eggs were covered, blessedly, with a pale film of white. A crusty roll and a dab of butter were placed by this, and a huge cup of coffee. Rollison had not realised quite how hungry he was.
He did realise that it was now nearly half-past twelve, and unless things moved quickly he would not be able to use the taxi again.
He finished eating, and was about to order more coffee when Conway stood up, and all the trio made a move. The man with the close-set eyes wasn’t as tall as Conway, and he proved to be painfully thin. He led the way, and Valerie, tight-lipped and obviously angry, came next. Conway looked ill-at-ease as he brought up the rear. They all went out into Broadway.
Rollison slipped a dollar-fifty on to the counter, stood up and went into the side street.
The hipless man was also on the move again.
Rollison now knew that this man had a pleasant face, if not particularly handsome or even full of character. He quickened his pace to intercept the others, and Rollison thought that he was going to call to Valerie.
He did, in a clear voice:
“Miss Hall, can you spare me a minute?”
He was only a few yards away from the trio, and there was no doubt that Valerie and the others heard him. Valerie actually looked round. The thin-faced man gripped her arm tightly, and Conway stood between her and the hipless wonder, who called again:
“Miss Hall, can you- . . .“
Then, in front of Rollison’s eyes, the fantastic happened. Swiftly, ruthlessly, brutally. Two men appeared, one from behind the hipless wonder, one from the other side of the road. Rollison was only three yards away, but powerless to do anything about it until the attack was well under way. The hipless man’s call was cut short, and a fist smashed into his mouth. His legs were hooked from under him, and he fell heavily. A toe-cap cracked at the side of his head, another into his ribs. His body seemed to shake. Two couples, coming out of HAM ‘N EGGS, drew back hastily, and one of the men said sharply: “None of our business!” Another man, on the far side of the road, shouted: “What’s going on?” and started across, but several cars came along and the lights were green; he had to wait. Rollison could see Valerie and the other two at the corner; they hadn’t been able to cross, and he had to get close to them.
If he drew too much attention to himself by attacking the two thugs. . . .
He didn’t need to.
With a final kick, which shifted the hapless hipless man along the ground, the pair turned and moved swiftly towards Broadway and the mass of people there. By then someone was shouting: “Police!” and police whistles were shrilling. Two cops, with guns in their hands, appeared on the opposite corner as the lights changed. They came rushing across. Valerie and her companions passed them going in the other direction, and Rollison put as much space as he could between him and the youth who had been beaten-up. His height enabled him to see over most of the heads, and he saw a taxi draw up, at Conway’s raised hand. They bundled the girl into it.
“Bud!” Rollison groaned.
A taxi slid alongside him.
“In a hurry?” asked his cabby, with huge delight.
Rollison tumbled in. The door slammed, and the cab moved off quite as swiftly as the one in front.
“Follow that red cab,” Rollison said breathlessly.
“Okay. I got sense. I do all right?”
“You’re not a man, you’re a miracle.”
The cabby’s grin was so delighted that it almost split the broad face in two.
“I’m not a miracle, I’m just a goddam Yank,” he said, and laughed with delight. “You want to know something? Okay, I’ll tell you. I saw you go into that joint and I kept driving round the block; it was easy. You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You see the way they beat up that guy?”
“I saw it.” Rollison was lighting another cigarette.
“It sure is bad,” said the cabby, no longer even slightly flippant, “the things these guys will do. In broad daylight, too.” He meant that; and it was almost daylight here, anyone could be forgiven for assuming that this was a city which knew no night. “Some of these guys, they want frying. But the cops was quick. You see that? The cops was quick.”
“They really put a move on,” agreed Rollison.
“That’s right,” said the driver. “They was putting a move on quick.”
He fell silent. That was not because of any great difficulty, at this stage, in keeping the red taxi in sight. They had moved two blocks and were waiting at traffic lights. A minute later, they turned into 42nd Street, and headed towards the East River. In minutes, they were out of the brightly lit section. Many shop windows were in darkness. High buildings stretched up, some of them almost out of sight. They passed the corner entrance to the Grand Central Station, and then the Commodore Hotel. There, to Rollison’s relief, they turned up Lexington Avenue; had they gone straight on it would have been difficult for the cabby to follow without the men in the cab in front knowing.
On Lexington, the traffic lights were with them, they had a long, sweeping drive without having to stop, and were in the middle of a group of some thirty or forty cars; there was no danger here. The red cab kept to the middle of the road at first, but gradually it pulled over towards the right, as if it were going to turn.
Rollison’s driver pulled over, too.
The red cab swung right into one of the streets. Instead of following, the driver of Rollison’s cab put his foot down, and the taxi seemed to leap forward. In that wild moment, Rollison wondered if he had been fooled, if his taxi-driver worked for Conway and Halloran, and had waited until now to show it.
“You’ve lost . . .“ he shouted desperately.
“Sit right back!” the cabby roared. He reached the next turning, which would carry one-way traffic to the left, instead of to the right, and swung into it the wrong way. A stationary car, waiting at the traffic lights, was so close that Rollison thought they were bound to crash. They missed by a fraction. No other cars were coming, and the cabby reached the next avenue, swung into it, cut across the path of two yellow cabs and forced them over, then swung into the next turning - the street into which Valerie’s cab had been taken.
Tyres squealed.
The cabby slowed down.
“Okay?” he squeaked.
Red lights at the next intersection were holding up a solitary vehicle. As they drew nearer, it proved to be a red taxi; the red taxi.
“Okay,” Rollison breathed.
The lights changed, and the two cars started off almost simultaneously. Rollison’s cabby got his nose in front and kept that way for the next block, then allowed the other cab to overtake him. Had he been driving himself, Rollison would not have done this half as well. When the red cab slowed down again, outside a house in a street which led from Second Avenue to the East River, the three people in it could hardly suspect that the cab behind had followed.
As Rollison passed, he saw Valerie being helped out, and Conway already on the pavement, the other man crouching in the cab. None of them looked at him. He saw a number over the front door of the tall, narrow house: 48. He let his driver take him round the corner, and as they stopped he had another twenty-dollar bill in his hand.
