by John Creasey
He swung himself out of the window, before they could stop him.
The ledge saved him.
As he found his feet, he went sideways, crabwise, until a buttress hid him from the men at the windows. He had taken them so completely by surprise that they had let him get out of range.
He was out here, a hundred and one storeys up; alone.
The corner of the top of the Atyeo Building was only twenty feet away from Rollison, and he edged towards it. He had his back to the wall below the windows of the Observation Tower, and his arms spread wide, for balance. Those blessed buttresses saved him. If he toppled forward, there wouldn’t be a chance, but at least he needn’t fear Dutch Himmy’s men - yet.
He couldn’t climb down, but could he climb up?
He didn’t think of Valerie, or of the reasons for what he had done. His head was swimmy, but not with fear. He felt a kind of exultation; ecstasy. He was here alone, at the top of the world, at the top of wonderland. He was edging towards the corner and to a spot even further away from the men at the tower windows. He didn’t give them much thought, either. Time passed slowly; or at least, it seemed to.
If anything was certain, it was that no one would follow him with any eagerness; they might revolt even against Dutch Himmy if he ordered them to risk falling a thousand feet or more.
Some windows were in sight, and suddenly a head appeared.
An arm appeared, next.
The starlight showed Rollison close to the wall, and fell upon the man’s gun. Well, that was reasonable; they wouldn’t want him to live; if they fired at him they could make sure that he went down there, to crash to his death. Just a little wound would be enough; even if he flinched, he would slip.
There was a word; it sounded like: “Don’t.” Don’t what? The head and the arm and the gun disappeared. Rollison was very close to the corner now, out of sight of all the windows. The sense of exultation had never been greater. He was on top of the world, lord of all he surveyed, and they had not shot at him. Reprieve, again.
Somewhere, deep in his consciousness, he knew that he was drunk with a kind of fatalism.
He was close to the corner.
A man leaned out again, and his head and arm moved - and he was throwing something. Throwing. Whatever it was missed Rollison by inches, and struck the wall. He pressed close to the wall, cowering now, his mood changed for a split second; and then it changed back, and he could have laughed aloud. They’d missed. They’d thrown . . .
Something struck him on the shoulder.
It didn’t hurt, but it made him flinch, and his right foot slipped.
His right leg went down.
He cried out in awful dread, and tried to clutch the wall, but couldn’t. He felt as if the rainbow land below was pulling him, making sure that he went down.
But he clutched the ledge with both hands and then fought to get his foot back on it. He was so close to the corner that he could surely edge his way round. They couldn’t get at him there without climbing out, and he felt quite sure that they would never do that.
He felt a blow at his shoulder. This time, he didn’t flinch. The ‘thing’ they’d thrown went clattering down, until it faded into silence.
Now, he was at the corner - there were no windows above him, and he was protected by the buttresses from anything the men threw at him. Safe.
He stood there, almost silly with relief. The wind was stronger here, and he was too cold; shivering. He couldn’t control his shivers. He leaned back, with his eyes closed, hot and cold in turn and shivering violently, wondering what would happen if an extra vicious spasm shook him. Not wondering, knowing. That ledge, that sea of light.
He stopped shivering.
He opened his eyes, and realised that it was lighter here than he had expected; there was a kind of flood-lighting - of course, flood-lighting. Then, he rounded the corner in the other direction, and a great light shone upon him, so fierce that it seemed to pin him to the wall.
Here, the ledge was wider.
And behind him was a door.
19
THE DOOR
At first, Rollison was shocked into paralysed stillness. Then, he turned to look more closely at the door. It was in the stone wall. There were no windows, just the door itself. He could tell that it had been put there so that workmen could attend to the flood-lighting at this corner. The flood-lights were at each of the four corners; he remembered: seeing that from below. There would be a flight of stairs leading from this platform, and Dutch Himmy’s men would know about it; if they didn’t, they would soon find out.
He had a little room to move, now, and stood back very cautiously. There was a metal handle to the door, and a large keyhole. This would be a favourite place for suicides, wouldn’t it? No one would want to leave that key in the lock; whoever was in charge would make sure that it could only be obtained by authorised people. Obviously. So, the door would be locked. He had a little time. He had just as much time as it would take Dutch Himmy’s men to find the staircase and to pick the lock. It wasn’t likely to be very complicated, but he kicked against something.
He stood suddenly still, fearful of overbalancing; but he was quite safe. He looked down at his feet. There was a small coil of electric cable, here to feed the flood-lights - a spare piece which must have been left behind by work men. Rubber-covered cable, just a yard or so of it. What use. . . .
He heard a sound, from the door.
He couldn’t be absolutely sure, but believed that it was being pushed; or pulled. Men would push and pull if they were trying to open it, wouldn’t they? So he hadn’t long now - he could take it for granted that there would be at least one expert cracksman in the crowd with Dutch Himmy.
How . . .
He bent down suddenly, grabbed the wire, uncoiled it, and went towards the door. There was a narrow gap at the top and bottom and at the sides. He bent down and pushed the two ends of the wire between the bottom of the door and the floor; that would jam the door, would gain him more precious minutes, but - it wouldn’t keep them in.
Down below, a hopeless distance below, were people, cars, taxis, policemen, laughter, security. A hundred and one floors, nearly twelve hundred feet. And almost directly opposite him was another tall building, with an observation tower and a blue light above it; blue floodlighting, against the white which was here.
Could he be seen?
If anyone was in that other tower, would they see him?
He must make them see him.
Rollison did not really think; most of the things he did were born of desperation. There was really no hope, so he made hope. He had the Night Telegram in his pocket; a few pages. He had his lighter. He took sheets of the Night Telegram and his heart was cheered, because there were a lot of sheets; twenty or thirty of them. The wind blew, steadily. He screwed up two sheets and put them close to the wall, as far away from the flood-light as he could. The light itself was shining on the top of the tower, not straight at him. He bent down, hid the lighter in his hands, and flicked it. He put the quivering flame to the newspaper, and it caught at once.
It went out.
He licked his lips.
He could hear the distant throbbing sounds of the streets, now; and he could also hear the nearer, thudding noise as they worked at the door. Once they got to him out here, he would not even have the beginning of a chance. He nicked again, and held the lighter under the newspaper for a longer period, and it flared up.
He backed away from the tongue of flame.
The wind got beneath the paper and lifted it, and the blazing paper floated, like a burning crown, slowly and gracefully above Rollison’s head. Then, still burning, it floated towards the other tall building, brilliant in the darkness.
“They’ll see it,” Rollison said in a strangled voice; “they’re bound to se
e it!”
He lit another piece, and held it as it flamed and then tossed it high; another and another. At one time, three burning crowns were floating through the air. The smell of smoke wafted back to him, strong and astringent; somehow like heady wine. After each piece floated away, he stared at the door; and he could see it shivering, knew that Dutch Himmy’s men were putting all their weight into the effort. Only the cable kept it closed, now - the door itself was open half an inch.
He lit the last piece of newspaper. It floated away, into silence, and the flames seemed to go towards the stars. He looked down at the distant city. There was a turmoil of movement down there as cars went along the ribbon-like streets and ants crawled along the pavements; it was like a giant in slow motion.
No one looked up.
That was, he didn’t see anyone look up; he couldn’t be sure. But he told himself grimly that, had they noticed him, there would have been a crowd gaping and craning their necks, evidence he could not have failed to see.
They were so distant; aloof; in a different world. His world was the loneliness of the sky and the gentle wind and the thudding sound of the banging against the door. The last spark of the last blaze died away. He saw a few small pieces of black ash floating near him, that was all; the charred wreckage of his hopes.
He looked at the door.
He knew what was inevitable, now, and seemed to realise that the ecstasy had been a fantasy. There had never been a chance.
He tried to make up his mind what to do next.
Then, into the quiet, there came a sharp ringing sound; an alarming termagant of a noise. He couldn’t understand; it was as if a fire-engine had climbed a hundred storeys and was ringing just below him. But there were no bells in New York, were there? Didn’t they have sirens? He listened again, and the sound was still there, a harsh brr-brr-brr-brr.
The thudding had stopped.
The ringing stopped, and into the hush a man said: “This is Lew.”
There was another pause.
Rollison knew what it was now; a telephone bell, and Lew was answering the call. Lew the agitator. Lew had been one of those pushing. Rollison went closer to the door, and he heard Lew say in a harsh voice:
“We’ve got visitors.”
Dutch Himmy said roughly: “Let’s have it.”
“The cops.”
“What?”
“The cops,” Lew said, in a stony voice. “That’s Midge talking. Rollison attracted attention somehow. We’ve got to scram.”
A man echoed: “We’ve got to scram?”
“We’ve time to push Rollison over the edge,” Lew said, and there was another lull - and then a scuffle of feet, as if men were moving hurriedly, and finally the tugging at the door again. Rollison saw it quivering. He saw that the piece of cable was moving. He made an involuntary move towards the door, but before he reached it his knee gave way underneath him. He stumbled. Light came on and shone out towards him, and behind the light there was a shadow.
Lew.
Here was Lew, with an automatic in his hand, sidling through the doorway, cautious although he knew that Rollison had no gun. His hand, arm and one foot appeared. Retreat was useless. Rollison, upright and close to the wall, sidled towards Lew. If he could snatch at the gun before Lew saw him -
Lew said: “Give yourself up, Toff.”
Rollison didn’t answer.
“Give yourself up, Toff,” Lew said again. “Come down with us; that’s the one chance you have of living. Come and tell us where to find the girl, and you’ll be okay.”
Rollison kept silent, still edging towards the door. He was sweating now, and could feel the sweat running down his forehead and into his eyes.
“It’s your one chance,” Lew said.
Rollison was close enough to snatch at the gun. He struck out, and knocked it out of Lew’s grasp - but he had made one miscalculation, hadn’t given the ruse a thought. As the gun fell, Lew thrust himself into sight, big and powerful and with another gun in his left hand.
He jerked it up.
“Okay, Toff!” he cried.
He fired.
Rollison went for the man’s knees.
The bullet went over his head, and the flash was swallowed up by the flood-lights. Rollison felt his hands touch Lew’s legs, and he pulled savagely. Pain screeched through his shoulder, but he brought Lew down. He knew that the other man was fresh and unhurt, that even if everything was equal he would have no more than a fifty-fifty chance. Now, if he counted the odds, he had no chance at all, for Lew’s hands were already at his neck.
They were close to the edge.
Rollison got a hold on Lew’s arm, made the supreme effort, and pulled.
Lew flew over him; fell on the ledge and then, after a split second of awful silence, went over, screaming.
Rollison lay still.
There were the footsteps of several men; voices; questions. Then, men came through the open doorway and saw him. He knew they were there. He saw that they were policemen. He had no strength to speak to them, just lay still. The scream was still echoing in his ears.
He came round, without knowing whether he’d lost consciousness, or been asleep, or been doped. He was lying still. He felt more ache than pain in one knee, in his left shoulder, and beneath his jaw. He knew that he did not want to move; that he was snug and warm, and that there was no danger. He might have been floating somewhere between earth and heaven.
He dozed off again.
Next time he came round, he knew that he was comfortable, he could smell antiseptics, he was prepared to open his eyes and see a nurse. In fact, the ward was empty. There were flowers, which surprised him. There were pictures on the walls, and yet he was sure that it wasn’t a room in an ordinary house. By his side were the usual things: thermometer, temperature chart - everything to suggest that he had been seriously ill.
Nonsense?
He felt as if he had been.
He felt warm and snug and content to lie there, and knew that was enough to prove that he wasn’t normal. He had no desire to move. He was only mildly curious about what had happened, and where he was, but gradually memory came back. Dutch and the other man, Lew, and . . . Dutch Himmy.
A scream, cops, men smashing at him with fists and feet, burning crowns, charred paper, a scream, threats, questions and cops and - Valerie.
Was Valerie all right? The question was like a sword-thrust.
He opened his eyes wider, and saw the bell-push by the side of the bed. He had hardly pressed it when the door opened and a man came in, a man who seemed to have dogged him since he had first telephoned Cy Day. It was Legs Leggatt. Legs wore a pale blue suit and his dark hair was shiny with pomade, his thin face was set in a grin which was undoubtedly meant to be amiable.
“Hi,” he greeted.
“Hi,” returned Rollison, and left it at that.
Legs said: “Anything you want?”
“Just information.”
“About who?”
“Valerie Hall.”
“Wherever you hid her, you hid her,” said Legs; “no one has seen or heard of her since you went mountaineering. How does it feel to die?”
“Better ask those who know,” Rollison said. “Is that true about Valerie?”
“On the level.”
“Thanks,” said Rollison. “Thanks, Legs.”
“You feeling up to visitors?” asked Legs, “because the Boss said that when you were able to talk, he would come right over. He fixed to have you brought here so that he could keep an eye on you, and the police and Cy are like that, so it was okay. Ready to talk?”
“Yes,” Rollison said without enthusiasm. “I suppose so.”
“Fine,” said Legs. “I’ll send for Cy.” He moved towards the door. “Sure the
re’s nothing you want to drink?”
“Later, thanks,” said Rollison. “There are people I’d like to hear about. My taxi-driver . . .“
“He’s on his feet again,” said Legs; “they nearly split his skull, but he had it steel-lined.”
Rollison felt relief coursing through him.
“Fine. And Russell?”
“He’s okay,” Legs said. “Just mad. So mad he’s almost crazy; if he ever finds Dutch Himmy” Legs broke off. “Forget it.”
“Thanks,” Rollison said.
“Okay.” Legs went out, and the door closed quietly.
So he was at the Belle Hotel, where Valerie had been, Rollison reasoned. It was as good a place as any. Probably Cy Day and the police had agreed that he was better here than anywhere else; he could at least be watched. He sat up. For the first time, he saw the newspapers in an open cupboard by the side of the bed, and he took them. He didn’t open them at first, but pushed back the bedclothes, and started to get out of bed. He staggered and nearly fell. He got back and leaned against the pillows, breathing hard. It was fully five minutes before he felt normal again; and even then he wasn’t really normal, for his knee and his shoulder had started to throb.
He didn’t try to get out again.
A nurse came in, angular, with a sharp face and a twinkle in green eyes, and she straightened the pillow, took his temperature, did all the things which should have been infuriating, but weren’t. Then she fetched him a glass of warm milk, and he was surprised that he not only enjoyed it, he wanted it. Then she propped him up.
“Now you look well enough to meet the Boss,” she said, and stared at him from the foot of the bed.
“I wondered what the fuss was about,” said Rollison dryly. “Tell me something.”
“I haven’t any spare dates.”
“You’ve a lot of self-confidence,” Rollison said, and gave a faint grin. “Who sent the flowers?”
The nurse laughed.
