by John Creasey
“Fine. Charge all expenses to . . .“
“Oh, forget it. I owe you at least a hundred thousand dollars for the way you helped me in London, and . . .“
“To Wilfred and Valerie Hall,” finished Rollison.
“Hall,” echoed Cy Day. “You got that, Miriam? Wilfred and Valerie - hey! Rolly! Do you know what you’re saying? Wilfred Hall? Why, he’s just bought the Atyeo Building, right here. The third highest in New York. He”
“He’s just got himself kidnapped by Dutch Himmy,” said the Toff.
This time the pause was a long one; and this time, when Day broke it, it was in a gruff and worried voice; there was no more nonsense, nothing else that was even slightly flippant. That more than anything else told Rollison how highly Dutch Himmy was rated as a bad man.
When Rollison finished his talk it was twenty minutes past eleven.
He telephoned Room Service for a sandwich and some coffee, then looked in on Valerie. She was still in her dressing-gown, her face was rosy, her hair a wispy dream, the bathroom door was open and the mirror dulled with steam. So she hadn’t planned a sudden sortie on her own.
“Val,” Rollison said, “I’m going to have lunch with the best private inquiry agent in New York. He’s on our side. He wants you to leave very soon, and go to a smaller hotel where his operators can keep an eye on you all the time.”
She looked at him owlishly, and considered.
“Very well,” she said; “but I don’t want there to be any mistake, Mr. Rollison. I’m not going to let anything stop me from helping Wilf.”
“It’s the only job that matters, and one way is to make sure you don’t run into trouble,” Rollison told her. “As for helping Wilf - if we have to come to terms with Dutch Himmy, my friend is the best go-between. He can find out exactly what the kidnapper wants, and he can make everything else easy. Well, easier.”
Valerie, looking as kissable as a debutante, nodded as with great wisdom.
“Very well,” she conceded again. “So long as we understand each other. Do you say this private inquiry agent thinks he can look after me - I mean, save me from being hurt or kidnapped? I suppose it is possible that they might try to kidnap me.”
“Possible, yes,” Rollison said. “They’re more likely to frighten you, hoping you’ll do what they want, which is probably get a lot of money. If they’d wanted to kidnap you, they’d probably have tried before. It looks as if they think they’ve the better chance with Wilf a captive and you a free agent. If anyone in New York can protect you from any rough stuff, this agent’s men can.”
“Oh, good,” said Valerie, and added naively: “If he can protect me he can protect Brian Conway, can’t he?”
“What?” exclaimed Rollison, and for once was bereft of words.
“Oh, I’m quite serious,” said Valerie, calmly. “I don’t like to think that Brian is so frightened because of me. You may be right, I suppose, and he may be in the scheme, but I’m not positive. And whether he is or not, he’s scared stiff, and it’s my fault. After all, he did kill that man for me, didn’t he?”
“That’s how it looked,” agreed Rollison, faintly.
“Then I owe him something in return,” insisted Valerie. “I know you would have saved me from anything more unpleasant, but at the time of the shooting, Brian Conway didn’t know that, did he?”
“Er - no. But, Val . . .“
“I don’t want to appear stubborn,” went on Valerie, in her steeliest, sweetest voice, “but I really do mean this, and I don’t mind what it costs. It isn’t only out of a sense of fair play, either. I rather like Brian Conway.”
There was a touch of defiance in her manner when she said that; enough to show that she meant exactly what she said. And just now, Rollison decided, it was wise to humour her.
He left her to get dressed.
His greatest anxiety was to get her safely to the hotel which Day had recommended. He realised that he was suffering from a mild attack of delayed shock, not due to what had happened, but to the obvious seriousness with which Day took Dutch Himmy. Only a man with a really black reputation could have made the inquiry agent take such swift and decisive steps.
Well, Cy was a friend in time of need. . . .
Soon, Rollison let Valerie leave, with ‘Legs’ - who proved his identity beyond any doubt.
An hour afterwards, Rollison stepped out of a taxi and into Keane’s Chop House. He knew it, of old. He did not expect to be recognised by the manager, and welcomed, but he was. He glowed. Cy Day was waiting for him in a corner, with a Tom Collins in his hand. Day was a big, pale-faced man, well-dressed, looking more like a financial tycoon than the world’s top private eye. He was putting on weight, and when he shook hands, showed that he wasn’t losing his grip.
“It’s okay,” he said. “I’ve just had a message from Legs; she’s safely at the Belle Hotel. She’ll be all right. That is, she’ll be as nearly all right as anyone can when they’ve crossed swords with Dutch Himmy. Let me tell you about him.”
“First, let me eat,” pleaded Rollison, and he had his way.
11
THE VICTIM
The Toff had eaten.
He felt as if he now needed a long sleep, but knew that there was no likelihood that he would get one. He had only to dwell on the things which Cy Day had told him about Dutch Himmy to wake up. These things had the quality of nightmares. It was the kind of situation which had happened before and would happen again, but this was different in a number of ways. In the past, the identity of the criminal had been known; only proof against him was needed. This time, ‘Dutch Himmy’ was simply a name. There were even people who believed that he was no more than a name, just a huge hoax invented to fool the police and to make far lesser men tremble.
No one could be sure.
Many of the crimes of New York were laid at the door of Dutch Himmy; including murder. It was not good even to listen to some of the things that had been done in his name. The girls maltreated and the children corroded with drugs, the men beaten up until they were good for nothing but a mental hospital or a home for cripples.
Many who were said to have worked for Dutch Himmy had been caught, some executed, others sent down for long terms of imprisonment, but none had given a clue to the identity of Dutch Himmy himself. The police had come to believe that the reason was simple: they didn’t know.
But more and more people knew of the man and were frightened of him.
“Nothing at all surprising about the way this man Conway is behaving,” Day said, in that deep, attractive voice. He had clear brown eyes and the smile of a preacher. “Himmy’s turned plenty of brave men into cowards - and sometimes it’s the only sensible thing to be. If Conway’s on his pay-roll and fell down on the job - by letting you get around, or killing Cadey - then Dutch Himmy would frighten the wits out of him, and he’d be desperate to make the next job go right. I don’t handle any case which I know leads back to Himmy if I can avoid it, Rolly, and when I do it’s only to protect a client. I never go after Dutch.”
Rollison, drawing at a cigarette, slowly screwed up his eyes and said:
“Oh. Thanks.”
“I hope you won’t force this too far,” Cy Day said, cajolingly. “I’ll come as far as I can with you, but it’s really a police job, and that’s the truth of it.”
“Think the police will find Wilf Hall?”
Cy Day said very slowly and very quietly: “No. I don’t think anyone will find Wilf Hall until Dutch Himmy wants him found. Whether he’ll be found alive or dead is another matter.”
Rollison didn’t speak.
Day found a kind of grin.
“All right, all right,” he said; “you sit there and laugh at me; but, take it from me, you’re the fool. Dutch is everything I’ve told you. If you act on my advice, you’ll just try to
come to terms as soon as you can.”
“Hum,” said the Toff.
“From what I can gather, Wilf Hall’s sister has come to that conclusion already,” went on Day.
“Yes, she has,” agreed the Toff. He stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. He wasn’t exactly smiling, although his eyes held a glint that might have been of amusement, and his lips were slightly curved. “You could be absolutely right, Cy.”
Day gave a deep chuckle.
“If that isn’t just like you! You listen to a considered opinion from the one man in New York who knows all the angles, and you concede he might be right. Well, I suppose I ought to be grateful for that.” He was still sardonically amused. “And I don’t forget that against all the advice of the experts in London, you did the Kingham job your way, and it came off. So I’m prepared to listen to reasoned argument.”
“Not argument,” said the Toff. “Neither logic nor reason, not even a hunch. Now that really is something to be grateful about! Just a - er - feeling?”
Slowly, admiringly, Cy Day shook his head, and ash fell off his long cigar on to his pale grey suit.
“That you could be taking Dutch Himmy a little too seriously,” murmured the Toff. “One can get into a frame of mind, my Cy. Himmy’s here and Himmy’s there, Himmy’s victorious everywhere, and he gets home before the chase has started. Not even a clue as to his identity?”
Firmly, Day said: “No.”
Softly, the Toff said: “Liar.”
Day chuckled again, and took his cigar from his lips, but didn’t look away.
“If I knew, I would tell you. But you’re holding a press conference at my office in half an hour, and you might pick up a name or two from the newspapermen. They make a guess a day as to Dutch Himmy’s identity. If you really want to stick your neck out, ask the Night Telegram man. Named Dando. He’s the one who hates Dutch Himmy most, because his own brother got too close - and died. But if I wanted to see Wilf Hall again, I’d wait for further word from this man Conway, and then do whatever Himmy says.”
Rollison didn’t speak.
“I’ll do everything I can to protect you and the girl, but I can’t guarantee a thing,” went on Day, earnestly. “That’s the way it is, Rolly.” He put the cigar back to his mouth, and continued almost wonderingly: “I wonder if this is the way Dutch Himmy will fold up. You’ve just one advantage that we haven’t got over here.”
“Thanks. Tell me.”
“He won’t have the faintest idea what to expect next,” said Day, wonderingly. He snapped his fingers for the bill. “We’ll have to be on our way; it wouldn’t do to keep those newspapermen waiting, would it?”
They got up.
In the taxi going to Day’s offices, in the fabulous Atyeo Building, Day said mildly:
“Dutch Himmy’s said to have eyes and ears everywhere, so I don’t trust a soul. But right here, where we can’t be overheard, I’ll tell you one thing: I’ll give you all the help you need, unofficially. I’ll tell you where to go for help, and I’ll pull all strings I can. But the Cyrus J. Day agency can’t come in as itself.”
“Understood,” said Rollison, gratefully. “Thanks, Cy. Any news of that young chap who was beaten up? Or Cadey?”
“Might be, when we get to the office,” said Day.
Soon, they drew up outside the Atyeo Building. It was between Fifth and Madison Avenues, and deceptive. At first sight the block seemed like any other in the heart of New York; high, of course, but that was all. Then, one started to look towards the top, and it began to be truly fabulous. Vast stretches of stone and glass rose skywards, until one got a crick in the neck. In fact, it was impossible to see the top from this side of the road, or even from the other side, unless one was some distance off; it vanished into the sky.
Rollison saw it from a distance, and gaped as they drew nearer.
“And Wilf Hall bought this?”
“His American company did,” Day said. “And what a place! It rates third to Rockefeller Centre and the Empire State Building. Ten thousand people work in it; you can buy anything you want in the shops in the underground concourse; you can be born and cremated, you can do a clip-joint, a high-class night-club or go to church. It’s a village within a village and town within a town. I wouldn’t like to tell you how many million dollars it’s worth.”
“I wouldn’t mind a few shares in Wilf’s American company,” said Rollison, as if in tones of envy. “Or meeting a few of his fellow directors. Could you fix it?”
“The one thing you want to do is keep away from them,” Day told him, “and don’t breathe a word to anyone about the kidnapping. If it gets out, it could do a hell of a lot of damage to the Hall shares - and that could cost some people all the money they’ve got. It would cost all the shareholders a pile, too. Don’t say a word, just keep it right under your hat.” “Yes, sir,” Rollison said.
Cy Day had been taken seriously. There were fifteen reporters and five photographers waiting in the outer offices of the agency’s sumptuous apartments. They had all been given hand-outs and photographs of the Toff’s trophy wall, in London; the wall on which he hung the souvenirs of those cases which had ended with him alive. He described several. The one they liked most was the story of the top hat with a bullet hole in it; next, the cuckoo clock which cucked a bullet large enough to kill. They were fascinated by his tale of a hangman’s rope, on show at his Mayfair flat simply to impress all callers; and they loved all they heard of his man, one Jolly.
They wanted to know what had brought him here, and if he expected to add any trophies.
“Good Lord, no,” said Rollison, as if horrified. “Not the idea at all. I’m here just to say hallo to a few friends, and look at New York again. Love the place.”
They were satisfied.
Except for a tall, lean, hungry-looking man, who stayed behind when the rest had gone. He was Dando of the Night Telegram.
“Mr. Rollison,” he said, “there’s one question I’d like to ask you without the others present. Will you object?”
“Glad to try to answer,” said Rollison, pleasantly.
Dando didn’t go on at once, and Rollison studied him closely. His eyes were a curious light grey. When he had seen him for the first time, Rollison had judged him as a man with a chip on his shoulder; but it was more than that. It was grief for a dead brother and the desire for vengeance; and it was easy to believe that these things had become an obsession in this man. His jaw was bony, his cheeks sunk in, the pale grey eyes had a hard glitter.
“Have you come to find Dutch Himmy?” he asked, abruptly.
Rollison said politely: “I beg your pardon?”
Dando didn’t repeat the question, but just looked Rollison up and down, and turned away. He spoke over his shoulder, almost as an afterthought.
“If that’s who you’re after, come and see me,” he invited. “Any time.”
The spacious outer offices of the agency were empty except for the debris. Miriam, a pretty and nicely matured brunette, was collecting the ash-trays, most of which were filled with ash and cigarette ends, and two blondes and a young man with red hair were collecting glasses and putting bottles away. Cy Day took Rollison into an inner sanctum, which had all the sumptuousness of a Hollywood director’s or a Wall Street miracle man’s. Seeing the way Rollison glanced round, Day said:
“We have to have something to impress the clients.”
“If they’re all as impressed as I, you must have a lot of clients,” said Rollison, with feeling. He stood in front of an easy-chair. “What does one do in a thing like this? Sit, fall or lie down?”
“Suit yourself - I always recline.” Day moved to a padded chair behind a mammoth desk, on which were a variety of telephones, a terrifying looking box-like instrument, as well as some simple things like pins, pens and paper. “Well,
you went over big.”
“You put me over. Thanks.”
“I’ve had a press conference that lasted half the time yours did, in spite of the best liquor in town,” Day assured him. “You made your mark, Rolly. What did Dando have to ask?”
Rollison told him.
“Hmm,” said Day, thoughtfully. “Well, I always believed that if anyone gets Dutch Himmy, it will be Dando - and if Dando really wants help, he couldn’t have it better than from you. All the same, I wish Wilf Hall had called on some other private eye; I prefer to keep you in one piece.” Day opened a folder on his desk. “Now, let’s see.” He chuckled. “That taxi-driver of yours, Sikoski, is quite a character. He didn’t take those two hoodlums to hospital, he dropped them down-town, in the Bowery. The police found them, and took them over. One had a broken arm, the other a sprained ankle, and neither will be much good for some time.”
“Would they serve Dutch Himmy?” inquired Rollison, hopefully.
“No one’s said that they do, and they haven’t opened their mouths,” Day told him. “There’s no report of a body being found anywhere in New York last night - if that’s what you meant by talking about this thing called Cadey.”
“Chap might just have been knocked cold,” murmured Rollison, apologetically. “Pity; he wasn’t at all nice. Name of Al.”
Day sat still behind the opulent desk.
“Al Cadey,” he echoed, and his tone and expression changed. “I was waiting for you to say it was Al. That’s it, Rolly, you’re really fighting Dutch; there’s no more doubt about it. Cadey’s just out after serving three years for a Dutch Himmy job,” Day drummed the desk with his fingers unhappily; “and if Cadey’s gunning for you, you’d better have eyes back of your head as well as the front, and some just above the ears.” Suddenly, he grinned. “Anyone would think that I was trying to frighten you, wouldn’t they?”
“Yes, wouldn’t they?”
