by John Creasey
“I - I don’t know who you mean!”
“You mean to say you shot a stranger?” exclaimed the Toff, horrified. “My Brian, why? That’s far worse; a little gun-play between friends may be forgiven, but a stranger - why, poor, poor Al.”
Conway didn’t even try to speak.
“I needn’t tell anyone in person,” said Rollison, earnestly. “I could just breathe a word to Dando of the Night Telegram, to look for your prints at Al’s place. He’d publish it with pleasure, and then where would you be?”
“Rollison, I - I thought he’d kill Val Hall; I swear I did. I knew he was as bad as they come, and - and I couldn’t risk it. I’d like to keep her safe; if I could get away from Dutch I would; why - why I named him. Didn’t I? I told Val and I told you he was behind it, didn’t I? I hoped you’d get Dutch.”
He broke off.
“I bet you hoped,” said Rollison, softly. “Why don’t you come across, and admit that you like working for Dutch Himmy? You were planted to travel with Valerie, and to take her straight to Al.”
“That wasn’t the way of it,” Conway muttered. “I had to get those jewels, that was my job, but she insisted on coming along. I”
He broke off.
Rollison glanced away from him, towards the door, and he felt something of Conway’s flare of alarm. There was a sharp tap; then another, before there was any chance to answer. Conway looked imploringly at Rollison.
“See who it is,” whispered Rollison, and crept into the bathroom.
Conway moved slowly towards the door, and braced himself. When he called out, his voice was commendably steady.
“Who wants me?”
“Is that Brian Conway?”
“I asked who wants me?”
“I want to talk to you.”
“Who are you?”
“Just open up,” the man said, “or I’ll break the door down and break you with it.”
It wasn’t a powerful voice, but high-pitched and intense. It was familiar, too, in the way that Dando’s had been. Conway gulped, and still looked at Rollison, who whispered:
“Handle it your way.”
Conway took a gun from his pocket. He was quick with a gun, and the fact that he had killed the night before hadn’t made him get rid of this one; Rollison wondered if it was the same automatic.
“Wait a minute,” Conway called to the man outside.
He stood to one side, unfastened the chain noisily, so that whoever was in the passage could hear it, and then let it fall. It rattled. Gun poised, he stood to one side. The door was thrust open, but no one came in at once, for there was a sharp call out there:
“Hold it!”
Only Halloran had a voice so much like a closing steel trap.
Rollison was just able to see into the passage. He ought to have recognised the first voice as readily as he had recognised the face before. The man who had come ready to break the door down was Van Russell. His head was still bandaged, and he had a patch over his closed eye. He stood looking round at Halloran, who had heard the shouting and had come to Conway’s rescue.
“You want to see Brian,” said Halloran; “so go on, see Brian.” He was out of sight; but his voice and manner suggested that he was carrying a gun.
Conway had the sense not to call out.
Russell came in, sideways. Halloran followed, and as he entered, Rollison dropped his hand to the other’s wrist, wrenched, and took the gun away. It was as quick and easy as that. Halloran gave a grinding croak of protest, that was all. Conway didn’t even try to put up a fight, just held his gun towards the floor, and waited until Rollison ordered:
“Mike, close the door.”
Halloran closed it, with his foot
Russell said: “What is this?”
“That’s what I’d like to know from you,” Rollison said, chidingly. “I’m quite sure your sister Julie doesn’t know you’re out. What brought you to Conway?”
Russell said, in a very hard voice:
“In one way, you did. You told me about him and Halloran. Then I discovered that a friend of mine had been murdered. A partner and a friend of mine. I’ll get this killer, if” He broke off, as if too keyed up to finish; there was a film of tears in his eye.
Rollison said mildly: “What made you think that Brian Conway might know anything about it?”
“I didn’t have any other contact with Dutch Himmy.”
“But I don’t know Dutch Himmy,” cried Conway. “Sure, I’ve done some jobs for him, but I don’t know him!”
“How about your friend?” Rollison asked, softly.
“Me?” clanked Halloran. “No, sir; I did a stretch once for Al Cadey, who was a leg-man of Dutch Himmy. Why did I do it? I spent five years inside for a job I didn’t do, Mr. Toff, because Dutch Himmy said he would put a finger on me if I didn’t. Don’t ask me anything about Dutch Himmy, I wouldn’t know a thing if I knew everything.”
Russell went slowly towards the bed, and dropped on to it. He looked all in. It was easy to imagine that his rage had given him a false strength, that the desire for revenge had brought him here, raging; but now that he realised he had wasted his time, it was too much for him.
“Now let’s find out if this is true,” Rollison said.
Half an hour later, he wasn’t absolutely sure that it was true. He was sure that he wouldn’t get any more out of Conway or Halloran.
Rollison gave Russell a helping hand into the lift; and a few seconds later, a hand out of it. Russell limped badly, but didn’t say why; there seemed to be something the matter with his waist. This was a quiet street. A few cars were parked with drivers in them; otherwise no one else was about. Sikoski sat in his inevitable way, poring over a comic strip book; or else he was dozing, Rollison couldn’t be sure which. He was fifty yards away, a good enough position - and obviously he wasn’t expecting trouble.
Rollison would have been, but for his preoccupation with Russell.
“If I take you home,” he said, “can I be sure you’ll stay there? Or would it be better if . . .“
“Just drive me back home,” Russell said, in a lifeless voice. “I’m all washed up, and I know it. Wilf Hall and Mark Quentin, the two of them.” There was something like a sob in his voice. “Just take me home, will you, and then”
That was the moment when Rollison first felt sharply suspicious; of Sikoski; or rather, of the man sitting where Sikoski should be. The head was still bowed. The skullcap was still tight. But there was no ring of dark curly hair beneath it. Sikoski wasn’t in the cab; someone else was.
It was the only cab in sight; a red-and-yellow one.
“Russell,” Rollison said, very softly, “I’m in a jam. I’m going to have to run for it. I’ll edge you towards a doorway, and you stay there; you’ll be out of the way if there’s any shooting.”
Russell straightened up. “What . . .“ he began.
That was all.
There was no time for Rollison to run. The driver who wasn’t Sikoski straightened up, three men stepped like marionettes from dark doorways, and he was covered by three guns. If they’d come to kill, this was it.
16
FLOOR 101
None of them fired.
Rollison sensed that they would if he ran; wasn’t sure that it would serve any purpose if he let them take him. He hadn’t much time to think. If they had set out to kill, would there be any point in taking him away first? They could shoot and leave him here.
Couldn’t they?
One man said: “Okay, Toff, get in.” He moved swiftly, gripped Russell’s arm, and sent him staggering away from the cab. “Just get in, with your pal,” the man ordered Rollison.
‘Pal’ meant Sikoski.
Another man opened the door.
There we
re people on the other side of the street, and there were the double-parked cars; none of the people in sight could have guessed what was happening. Rollison had lost any chance he ever had. He got in, and nearly stumbled over Sikoski’s body.
Body?
A man pushed him, and climbed in after him. He was thrust into a corner. The fake cabby took the wheel and they started off - with a private car in front, the taxi next, another private car behind; this explained the double parking. The lights of New York slid by them, but Rollison didn’t see many of them; he didn’t see the first movement either, but felt the smashing blow on the nape of his neck.
He went out.
When he came round, there were subdued lights. He was on his feet, and being dragged along; his legs were actually working a little, so the reflexes were in good order. One man was on one side of him, another on the other.
He was too dazed to think beyond what he just glimpsed; he did not even remember how this had happened. But as his head cleared and he began to think back, they reached the doors of an elevator.
One was open.
Rollison looked right and left. He saw empty passages on either side, and unlit glass windows. It was like a street within a building but without open sky above. As he was pushed into the elevator he realised what it was: the concourse of one of the skyscrapers of the city.
Which one?
Did it matter?
He leaned against the glossy wooden sides. The doors closed. The elevator gave a little whining sound, and they started to go up. Head still whirling, Rollison saw the indicator built in one side - the floor indicator.
10 - 20 - 30 - 40. . . .
There were 90. Ninety. The lights flashed as they passed each tenth floor. He knew enough of the tall buildings to realise that this was an express lift, missing all but every tenth floor.
They slid to a standstill, and the doors opened automatically. He was half pushed and half dragged out, but the journey wasn’t yet at an end; just along the passage was another elevator, and the sign sticking out from it said: Local. Floors 90 to 101.
They went in.
This elevator was much slower, and the journey seemed to take as long as the first. Rollison couldn’t be sure whether it did or not. His head was screaming, and when they pushed him out, he almost fell. They saved him. He was aware of lights in the distance, and darkness close by. Lights and darkness, shadowy figures, white stars above and a rainbow of stars below. He leaned against the wall and took in deep, shivering breaths, hoping that it would help to clear his head. It did. They left him alone, now. He straightened up, and saw that there were several figures, just the heads and shoulders of men against the strange distant light. Stars above and stars below. He moved slowly towards one of the shadowy figures, which moved to one side, to let him pass. He realised that he had come up against a wall of glass; it was glass from about the height of his waist upwards, anyhow. With his nose against the glass he looked out and saw the street lights below, something like the view from an aircraft. Red, blue, yellow and green, lights everywhere, pools of light, lanes of light, and great patches of darkness.
He looked up, and saw the same silent stars above him; either there was no roof just there, or it was of glass.
In a way, the worst of all this was the silence. No one spoke. There were the lights below, a hundred and one floors below, and the stars above. Rollison looked right and left. Two buildings, one with a red star and the other with a blue light, seemed about on a level with this one; others, with yellow lights still at their windows, were much lower than the spot where he stood. One hundred and one floors . . .
The Atyeo Building had exactly that number.
Rollison looked round again. The shadowy figures stood still and silent. Why didn’t they speak? They were trying to break his nerve, of course; but it would take a lot of this to succeed. If only he could sit down. If only there was some light. If only they would speak.
He couldn’t stand here any longer.
He began to move towards the right, and almost prayed that someone would call out, to stop him, but no one said a thing and no one moved. Outlined against the windows were the heads and shoulders, like dummies, standing there to watch him and to make sure that he knew that he wasn’t alone. The silence seemed to scream at him. There was no sound from the streets, from the countless moving lights - and none from the green and red lights of aircraft which moved across the sky.
Rollison saw a light over a doorway, which said: Elevator. He passed it. No one followed him; it was as if they knew that he couldn’t get away, and that there was nothing to worry about if he tried. He walked slowly. There was a waist-high wall, and windows above it, and he saw the whole of New York spread out beneath him. He came again, in the semi-darkness, to the sign marked Elevator, and knew that he had walked right round the top of the Atyeo Building. What did they call it? The Observation Tower - and only one in New York was higher.
He went to a window again and looked out, and still no one spoke.
Why didn’t they speak?
Were they men? Or dummies? Was this some hideous dream? He remembered being struck over the head, he could conceivably be having illusions.
He approached the nearest man, and opened his mouth - and then closed it again. Once he spoke, it would break the spell, and that was what they wanted; to unnerve him. Let them try! He put his hands to his pockets for a cigarette; his packet wasn’t where he usually kept it. He tried the next pocket; it wasn’t there, either. In something like a panic, he tried again and again, feeling in pockets where he never kept cigarettes; and there was none.
He had his lighter.
He let it drop back into the pocket, and started another walk, clenching his teeth this time but determined not to let them break his nerve. He drew level with one of the silhouettes, passed - and kicked against an outstretched leg. He went sprawling, and banged an elbow and his chin. He lay on the floor for a few seconds, glaring round in the darkness. Then, he picked himself up, savagely. His arms were rigid by his sides as he walked on, taking every step very carefully. He heard no sound - except one that was coming to his ears clearly now, the sound of men breathing. There was nothing really odd about it, and yet it had an eeriness which began to play on his nerves. It was as if they were all breathing in at the same time, and letting their breath out at the same time, too; softly and hissingly. He found himself thinking about that so much that he kicked against another outstretched leg, without remembering that one might be there.
This time, he banged his forehead painfully.
He took longer to get up, and when he did stand again, he peered about him. His own breathing was now so hard that it drowned the sound of the other; he couldn’t hear it at all. Yet he could see the heads and the shoulders and felt that he wanted to rush at one of them and strike the man, beat at his face, try to break his neck.
That was what they wanted.
He must keep his nerve.
He started off again, walking very slowly, and made two complete circuits of the observation tower; nothing happened. Then, he heard a different sound; a rustling. He sprang round towards it, and something struck his face, and burst. In that first moment, he was aware only of anger; and then something bit at his eyes and his lips and his nose, and the pain was so great that he wanted to scream; but he would not. He staggered back, and for a while they let him put his hands to his eyes, let him gasp and fight for breath, until at last he felt easier. The last of the stinging eased.
Clenching his teeth, he started off again.
This time, he hadn’t gone ten feet before they struck at him - and now they were in earnest. They used sticks, whips, fists, and feet. He whirled and struck out, but it was useless; he could not save himself. He covered his face with his hands and crouched, trying desperately to keep away from the worst of the blows. He remembered two men kic
king Van Russell. . . .
Here, there were no lights; no one to shout for the police; no help at all.
As suddenly as the assault began, it stopped.
A man said: “Rollison, I want you to answer a few questions.”
17
QUESTIONS
The Toff heard, but did not answer.
He was dazed and badly bruised, and there was a sharp pain in his left shoulder, but he heard the question, which came slowly into the quiet after the assault. Yet the blood pounded in his ears, and it was as if a great wind was blowing outside this mighty tower.
If they started again . . .
He wanted time; time, to recover; time, to stiffen his resolve; time, to think. If they started again, he would find it hard not to surrender completely, but . . . “Rollison,” the man said again, “I want to ask you a few questions.”
The Toff didn’t answer.
A minute would help; three or four minutes would be invaluable. He felt more on top of himself even now. This man wanted to ask questions, and that was like a shining light into the future - for he wouldn’t kill until he’d had his answers.
Would he?
The voice was hard, but not metallic like Halloran’s. It had the edge of cruelty, too. The Toff had an impression that it came from the corner of the man’s lips, that the speaker didn’t open his mouth properly; but that could be no more than an impression, for it was still dark.
“I can wake him up,” another man said.
The first speaker answered quickly.
“See if he’s okay.”
A light went on, and Rollison sensed it, although it could not fall on his eyes. He lay almost at full length, with one knee bent. They had turned him on his back, his face towards the ground, his body limp. Was it torchlight? It grew brighter, and he knew that it was a torch which might strike his eyes at any moment. Then, a man knelt down, took his right shoulder and pulled him round. The light stabbed into his closed eyes, but he had the second’s warning that he needed, and he kept his eyelids still.
