The Toff In New York by John Creasey

let’s get the diamonds and the money and then . . .“
    He broke off.
    Valerie stood up, slowly. The shock was fading. She began to look as if she could understand something of the forces which drove Brian Conway on; as if she could understand what made him mouse one moment, lion the next, and back to mouse in the twinkling of an eye.
    â€œAll right, Brian,” she said quietly; “but supposing someone comes to see what’s happened.”
    â€œThey - they won’t.” He wasn’t as sure as he tried to make out. “You - you don’t poke your nose into other people’s business when you live in this part of New York; you just lock your door and pretend you heard nothing. We - we’ve got time. I - I’ll get the jewels, and . . .“
    â€œYou could even make sure that he’s dead,” said Rollison, mildly.
    He moved forward.
    Conway spun round, mouth opened as if to give a scream which wouldn’t come. His right hand made a flapping move towards his pocket and the gun, but he didn’t actually touch it.
    Valerie cried: “You!” in a funny little voice, and tried to step over the man on the floor. She caught her heel in his coat, and stumbled; then suddenly she crumpled up, crouching on the couch with her face in her hands, while Rollison moved swiftly towards her, and Brian Conway looked on.
    Rollison went down on one knee, and felt for the shot man’s pulse.
    The man was dead.
    He had little in his pockets except the stolen jewels and money; his own wallet contained forty-seven dollars, and several letters addressed to Al Cadey, at 48 East 13th Street; this address - so this was Al Cadey. The bullet had gone through the heart. Blood was already spreading over his cream shirt and his pale brown linen jacket. In death, his mouth was slack and he looked very ugly.
    â€œWe - we’ve got to get out of here,” Brian Conway muttered. “I - I don’t mind, but if the police are called and they find Valerie here, they - they - they’ll” He couldn’t finish.
    Valerie was like a statue.
    â€œVal,” Rollison said, “shake out of it.” He wanted to search the apartment, but knew that Conway was right, the first job was to get the girl away; and he couldn’t trust Conway to take her. “Val, it’ll be all right; we’ll find Wilf.” His words had no effect on her, and he pushed the dead man aside and then bent down, took Valerie by the waist, and lifted her. He carried her to the door, and Conway followed hastily, switched out the light, and went ahead. He was breathing very heavily; fear was at his heels all the time.
    Rollison began to whistle softly.
    Half-way down, Valerie’s body went limp and she no longer held herself stiff. Rollison lowered her, gently. She didn’t speak, just looked at him, then walked ahead.
    In his pocket were her jewels, her money, the dead Al Cadey’s keys and wallet, and the letters to Cadey.
    They reached the street.
    The taxi was waiting a few doors along.
    The time might come when the taxi-driver would be a liability, not an asset, but it was impossible to brush him off now. Brian Conway muttered some kind of scare line, but Rollison called quietly to the cabby:
    â€œHotel Commodore, this time.”
    â€œCommodore?”
    â€œPlease.”
    â€œIf it’s okay with you, it’s okay with me,” said the cabby. He seemed impressed by Valerie, and he was smiling happily. “Girl friend with the wrong boy friend,” he said; “what do you think of that?” He was smoking, now, while they all sat in the back of the taxi, and he took them swiftly to the front entrance of the Commodore. “Say, bud,” he went on, “were you good for that bad boy friend or bad for the good girl friend?” The gust of laughter which followed nearly split him in two.
    â€œYou bet,” said Rollison, and grinned back. He produced another