by John Creasey
“Dutch a pal of yours?” asked Rollison, mildly.
Legs grinned.
“Cy Day’s got his spies, even in Dutch’s parlour. And Dutch made a point of passing word to Cy, so that Cy could tell you. Or” Legs stopped smiling just for a moment. “Or warn you. Dutch doesn’t care about Cadey, who was double-crossing him.”
“Legs,” interrupted Rollison, “how many of Cy’s agents were out looking for me?”
“Two at every tunnel and every bridge and every approach to them all,” Legs told him, flatly. “Cy just wants to save you from being hurt. He says that if you care to stay as his guest at the Belle Hotel, you’ll be all right. You’d better tell him where you took Valerie, because if she’s found by Dutch Himmy” Legs broke off.
“Legs,” Rollison said again more quietly, “tell Cy I’ll never be able to thank him enough, but I’m going to play this my way. I think he over-rates Dutch Himmy and at the same time he under-rates himself. We’ll see.”
Legs put his head on one side.
“Which do you prefer?” he asked. “Lilies or roses?”
“Please yourself,” said Rollison.
“Okay. While you’re getting ready to die,” Legs went on, “keep this in mind, will you? Cy would like to see you, to tell you who Mark Quentin is.”
Legs grinned, and turned away.
But it was a night, the Toff decided, when Cy Day would have to wait.
Now, it was as dark as mid-town New York ever allowed night to be. It was noisy, too. In his suite at the Arden-Astoria, Rollison looked out of the window and saw the traffic and, in the distance, saw the glow of light in the sky. It was then a little after eight o’clock.
There had been no messages.
There had been no trouble.
There had been waiting, watching men.
He went out, and when he reached Park Avenue, he saw the faithful Sikoski at the wheel of his cab, intent on the comic art. The cabby looked up with a start and repeated the performance of folding the book and sliding it into his pocket.
“Okay,” he said.
“If you were me,” said Rollison, “where would you eat?”
Sikoski grinned. “You mean eat? Or look?”
“Can you manage both?”
The cabby put his head back, and grinned happily.
“Colonel,” he said, “you and me will always get along. Sure, there’s a place down in the Village where you can eat good and see plenty.” He started off, and when they were a few blocks nearer Greenwich Village, he leaned back and asked nonchalantly: “You want to know something?”
“We’re being followed.”
“Colonel,” breathed Sikoski, “the more I see you the more I like you. Do you want trouble tonight, or do you want to dodge it? I can give it you both ways.”
“As it comes.”
“Fine,” said Sikoski. “Just fine. Don’t say I didn’t warn you to hold on.”
He drove like a firecracker out of control. He weaved, looped and sometimes seemed to fly through and over the traffic. He took corners on two wheels and he sent Rollison, breathless and even scared, heavily against one door or the other. In twenty minutes he beat a dozen lights; and in twenty minutes he was slowing down in a narrow street in the only New York section with narrow streets which criss-crossed one another without plan. He wiped his forehead as he did this, and said:
“You want to know something?”
“Bud,” said Rollison, “we’re being followed.”
“You never said a truer word, Colonel. You still want to eat?”
“Yes. And Bud . . .“
“Yeh?”
“If you telephone Cy Day, I won’t be all that grateful. There are some games that have to be played a different way.”
“Okay, Colonel,” Sikoski said. “I’m your man.”
Five minutes later, Rollison went into a night-club called Sapelli’s. From the outside, it was nothing but a doorway with a few photographs of a tease artist and a coloured singer. Down narrow stairs and along a narrow passage, was a small bar; beyond it, a circular-shaped room with tables round the sides, a space for dancing. Every table was placed so that every diner had a good view of the floor. No one was dancing, but a pianist, out of sight, was playing Viennese music. Two waiters took Rollison to his table, a blonde and a brunette at the bar looked his way but didn’t rush him.
A man followed, almost on his heels, and came towards him. He was small and dark and swarthy. He carried a newspaper under his arm, and it wouldn’t have surprised anyone if he carried a gun there, too. His eyes were narrowed; flinty. He walked very slowly and deliberately, and managed to make most of the diners and most of the people at the bar look edgy. One couple left the bar and went out.
The man paused in front of Rollison’s table. A waiter, approaching, turned tail and hurried through the service door. In flight?
Rollison looked up into the swarthy face.
“Good evening,” he said, amiably.
The man took the newspaper from under his arm and dropped it on to the Toff’s table. Then he turned and went to another table, opposite; from there he could watch everything Rollison did.
Rollison sensed the easing of tension and marvelled at the way it had come into the room. The pianist swung into lively, modern stuff. Two couples began to dance. Most of the diners glanced at Rollison, covertly; few took any notice of the swarthy man.
Rollison opened the newspaper. . . .
As the Toff, he had made the front page. So had two other stories - the death of Al Cadey and the finding of a body in a laundry basket which had been taken from the Arden-Astoria. There were photographs, of the basket and the body, and there was a description of the man and his name: Mark Quentin, partner in the accountancy company of Quentin, Tenby and Russell, Incorporated.
Van Russell’s partner had died in Valerie’s arms; and Cy Day had wanted Rollison to know.
Rollison looked up into the eyes of the swarthy man, who stared back without blinking. The waiter found his courage and brought half-a-dozen blue points with some brown bread and butter. Rollison ate, and then looked through the rest of the newspaper, from the sport to the society pages, and saw nothing else that really interested him. He folded it, when a grilled sole arrived. Delicious. He was through a steak so superbly cooked in a sauce which must have been conceived in Paris when the lights began to dim. He glanced across at the swarthy man, who had taken something from his pocket and laid it on the table, under a table napkin.
A gun.
Then, the girl came on.
At first glimpse, she was nice. Not very tall, but obviously with everything. Modest, though. She wore an ordinary three-quarter-length dress, black and silver; the silver part of it shimmered. She had long fair hair, brushed sleekly to her shoulders, nice arms and legs. The spotlight was on her. She began to dance, and as she danced there was a voluptuous rhythm in the music, and in her body; an unbelievable change. Her hands seemed everywhere; she was Eve, she was Adam and Eve, she was boy and girl, she was Sodom and Gomorrah. Her dress shimmered as she writhed, and she slid out of it gradually as a snake would slide out of its skin, and she went on and on stripping, in the light that was hardly light at all.
Throughout this, the swarthy man watched Rollison with the intentness of a snake.
The dancer drew nearer Rollison, writhing, the light just sufficient to glow on her fine, firm young body. She stroked the cheek of a man near Rollison, patted another’s head, kissed another lightly, and seemed to be inviting them to hurl themselves at her. She came towards Rollison, and her smile was the smile of Delilah; she leaned over him and put her hands on either side of his face, then slowly and deliberately kissed him - and as she withdrew her lips, she said:
“There’s a drunk at the bar; watch him, too. I’m w
ith Cy Day.”
She drew away.
She went to a man two tables removed, and the man began to sweat. Women sat, as if fascinated. Then, the lights flashed on and the dancer shrieked and ran, as if taken completely by surprise, while the swarthy man looked at Rollison with that snake-like intensity, and a big, powerful man at the bar began to talk too loudly, as if he was rolling drunk.
There was dancing.
Rollison called a waiter.
“The original blonde at the bar,” Rollison said, “would she care to dance?”
“I’ll ask her for you,” the waiter said.
The music was slow, sensuous, of the jungle; exactly the right music for the moment. The blonde and the brunette wouldn’t lack custom, now; and suddenly there were several more of them; replicas. The waiter approached the one whom Rollison had pointed out, and she looked across and smiled. Ten years ago, she would have been rather easy on the eye. She came across and sat down, and Rollison ordered champagne.
“I’m not sure I’m going to be safe with you,” the girl said, “and I don’t mean that the way my mother would. I’m Anita . . .“
“Thanks. I’m . . .“
“I can read the newspaper, too, Toff,” she said. “You want some advice from me?”
“Go back where I came from?”
She laughed. “All right, let’s dance,” she said; “nothing will happen here.”
Rollison stood up, and they danced. She was very light on her feet, and he knew that she was one of the women who liked dancing for its own sake, not for the cheek-to-cheek and the pinching and the squeezing; once, she had been a really nice girl. They finished the dance, sat one out, emptied the bottle and ordered another, and started to dance again. The drunk at the bar got drunker, and no one interfered; the snake at the table sat as still as a man could, while eating and drinking and smoking. Rollison took the blonde in his arms and began to hold her tight, and she thrust her head back and said:
“So they’re all alike.”
“Under the cloth on my table there’s a hundred-dollar bill,” Rollison whispered; “all for you.” He hugged her until she couldn’t be any closer, and he kissed her cheek and her ears - and when he was level with the swarthy man, he thrust her bodily into the table and the man. In the same movement, he grabbed a bottle and sprang across the dance-floor. He saw the drunk stop drooling, and saw his hand flash to his pocket, but it didn’t flash fast enough. Rollison flung the bottle and caught him on the cheek, and then turned for the door by the side of the bar, for the passage, the staircase and, he prayed, Sikoski.
15
COURTESY CALL
Sikoski was there.
It looked as if he had been waiting for trouble from the moment Rollison had disappeared, because the moment Rollison reached the car, the engine was turning. They were round the first corner before anyone else appeared from the club, and they were not followed. Sikoski took no chances this time, but hurtled towards the East River Parkway and then north, until even he must be sure that no danger threatened.
He turned off, at 72nd Street.
“New York exciting enough for you today?” he inquired, smugly.
“It’s doing fine, pardner, real fine,” boomed Rollison, and they grinned. “If there’s any life in this old dogie, take me to the Mil west Hotel, will you?”
“Sure, Colonel, sure.”
The” journey took twenty minutes. Traffic was not thick, but they had bad luck with lights. Rollison lit a cigarette, and smoothed down his hair, and pondered deeply. There were even more good reasons for thinking that Cy Day knew New York better than he did.
They were forced to stop by a news-stand, and he wound down his window.
“Night Telegram” he called; Dando’s tabloid was more likely to give him what he wanted to read about than one of the other papers. The exchange of thick newspaper and a quarter was swift and easy, and the cab moved off. Rollison looked through the headlines, finding the light quite bright enough. He found what he wanted on the back page, guessed that earlier stories had been pushed off, and that in the next editions it would have most of the front page.
MILLIONAIRE PLAYGIRL KIDNAPPED
VALERIE HALL, PART OWNER ATYEO BUILDING
Mystery of Black Cadillac
There wasn’t really much beyond the headlines. No one had connected the Toff with the kidnapping story, although he was on the same page. So was the death of Russell’s partner, and that sobered Rollison. He tore off the outer pages, and left the rest on the seat, and sat back for five minutes. Then, they slid to a standstill outside the Milwest Hotel, which was near Central Park, and Sikoski screwed his thick neck round and said with a rush:
“You-want-to-know-something-we-ain’t-bin-followed.”
“If you go on like this,” Rollison said, “you’ll soon be buying yourself a new cab. One that will go fast.” He got out, knowing that he didn’t need to tell Sikoski where to go; Sikoski would be at hand if there were another emergency. So far, no one had followed him. He didn’t ask at the desk for Brian Conway, for he had Conway’s room number. There was a sleepy coloured bell-cum-elevator boy who gave him a lazy, attractive smile and a husky: “You’re welcome.” At the seventh floor Rollison stepped into the passage. He didn’t go straight to Conway’s room, for it was possible that he had been followed from the hall; two men had been sitting there. He gave them five minutes, and when no one arrived, decided that they weren’t watching for him, or keeping a watch on Conway or Halloran. He went along to Conway’s room, but didn’t tap; he examined the lock, and realised that it wouldn’t be easy, like that at Cadey’s apartment; but it could be done.
It took him four minutes.
The lock clicked back, and it was possible that anyone inside the room had heard it. There was no sound. Rollison opened the door, on to darkness. He stepped inside swiftly, and flattened himself against the wall; if he had been heard, then Conway might be standing there, gun poised.
There was still no sound.
Rollison switched on a light.
This was a one-room apartment, reached through a little cubicle with three doors - one, behind him, one into a shower and toilet, one into the bedroom. He went in. There was a big bed, a chest and a wardrobe. Conway’s clothes were still here, nothing suggested that the man had gone. Rollison ran through all he could find, and discovered nothing of interest, not even telephone numbers. He went next door, and repeated the whole performance, taking less time with the lock.
Halloran was still in residence, too.
Rollison found nothing helpful in that room, and went back to Conway’s. He fixed the door, so that it did not show that it had been forced, and stretched out on the bed, smoking, looking at the ceiling, and waiting for the slightest sound. He told himself that it would be worth waiting for an hour, but in two minutes he was up again. Without closing the door properly, he went downstairs to a telephone call-box from which he could see the front door - and anyone who came in. He lifted the telephone, and called Tim Mellish.
The call came through with the familiar bewildering speed.
“Yes, Rolly, everything’s fine,” greeted Mary Mellish; “you don’t need to worry. I’ve been telling Tim that. And Valerie’s a very lovely girl; we’re getting along just like old friends. Right now, we’re playing canasta, but we’re going to watch television soon so don’t call up any more, will you?”
“No, ma’am,” said Rollison, humbly. “Good night.”
He went back to Conway’s room, which was still empty.
It was good to know that nothing had misfired with Valerie; he told himself that he could be quite sure that it wouldn’t, now, because he hadn’t been traced. But he was edgy. He called Cy Day’s home, but there was no answer. He called the Belle Hotel and asked for Legs, and Legs answered very soon.
“Legs, did your men send in any report to say where I’d been?” Rollison asked.
Legs said: “Nope.”
“None at all?”
“Nope.”
“Thanks.”
“Sweet-smelling flowers,” Legs said.
Rollison was smiling when he rang off. He lit a cigarette, and was glad to relax.
He could be sure that he had made Dutch Himmy very mad by now; and if Dando knew his stuff, then Dutch Himmy would already be suspecting that rival gang. It ought to be worth buying every newspaper in New York tomorrow.
Then, he heard footsteps in the passage.
He swung his legs off the bed, and moved swiftly towards the wall, alongside the bathroom. A key sounded in the lock, and immediately afterwards, Mike Halloran said in that unforgettable voice:
“Sure, get some sleep, Brian.”
Another door opened.
Brian Conway came in, closed the door, put the chain into position instead, and then came into the room. By that time, there was no sound of Halloran. Rollison saw Conway’s dejected shoulders, the droop of his mouth. Without glancing sideways, Conway went across to the bed, taking off his bow tie as he did so. Then, he turned round.
He nearly crumpled up when he saw Rollison, and might have fallen but for the bed. He grabbed it, to steady himself. His mouth dropped open and his eyes shimmered with fear. He tried to speak but made only a gibberish of sound.
“Hi, Brian,” said Rollison, pleasantly; “someone been giving you evil thoughts?”
“Wh - wh - what are you doing here?”
“I really wanted to inquire after your health,” said Rollison, sweetly, “and after your friends, of course. Especially Al Cadey.”
Brian Conway was at the old game; trembling violently.
