The Toff In New York by John Creasey Page A

twenty-dollar bill. “When I want you, where can I find you?” he asked.
    The cabby whisked a card into his patron’s fingers.
    â€œRing this number and just ask for Sikoski,” he said. “You got the name? Sikoski. Don’t worry, it’s written down. You don’t have to worry about those two knockouts,” he added. “I fixed them good. You sure you don’t want me any more tonight?”
    â€œNo, thanks.”
    â€œIf it’s okay, it’s okay. Be good to the bad girl!” He burst out with fresh laughter as he drove off, while Rollison watched him, smiling faintly, then turned towards Conway and the girl. They hadn’t moved. Rollison took Valerie’s arm, and they walked towards Madison Avenue. At the first chance when out of sight of the Commodore, he called another taxi, and within five minutes they were back at the Arden-Astoria.
    The night had not changed.
    It was a little cooler, that was all.
    As they went in, it was nearly three o’clock. The same staff was on duty. An elevator car stood empty. Rollison jauntily, as befitted his appearance, Conway briskly, Valerie smoothly, they crossed the lobby and then went up to their floor. The same Floor Clerk wished them good night, and gaped after Rollison, as if she noticed that his ten-gallon hat had been trodden in the dust.
    At Valerie’s door, Brian Conway said miserably:
    â€œVal, I can’t tell you how sorry I am about the way I let that guy push you around, but - okay, okay, I was scared. I knew he was a killer; you can always tell a killer. If you’d let Mike and me handle it, it would have been okay.”
    â€œWould it?” asked Valerie. There was no spirit in her voice, now; just a flat weariness. “Would you have found Wilf? Wilf,” she repeated as they went in, and Rollison closed the door. “Oh, Wilf.”
    â€œI’ll find him if it’s the last thing I ever do!” Conway burst out.
    Rollison didn’t interrupt; not then, and not when Mike Halloran came hurrying from the bathroom. At sight of Rollison, he backed away, and stood gaping.
    â€œIt’s been a hell of a night,” Conway told him; “every thing’s gone wrong, and I - I killed a man. It was self-defence. I don’t know what he would have done to Valerie if I hadn’t, but she seems to think . . .“
    Valerie said: “I just want to find Wilf, that’s all.” There were tears in her eyes. “Mr. Conway, I - I’m grateful, really, I - I know you did it for me.”
    â€œVal!”
    She turned away and went into the bedroom, without closing the door behind her. They heard her moving slowly towards the window.
    Halloran said: “Brian, obviously this ain’t no place for us.” He didn’t even ask who Rollison was, but took Conway’s arm and started to lead him towards the passage door. Conway’s expression suggested that he did not think Rollison would let him go, but Rollison didn’t say a word; and didn’t break his silence until both men were outside.
    Then, he moved.
    He reached the telephone, and as the operator came on, said: “Bell Captain, fast,” and held on for a split second. A man answered briskly. “Bell Captain. . . . Two men are coming down now; they came in with me and Miss Hall ten minutes ago. I want you to detain them until I call again or come down, please.” He didn’t wait for a response, just rang off, took a card from his pocket, and lifted the receiver again. He could see Valerie in the doorway, watching him as if bewildered while he studied the card - which had some pencilled notes. The operator answered. “Can you get me the Milwest Hotel, please?” Rollison said. “Sure, I’ll wait.”
    He waited.
    Valerie came in, much more briskly than she had gone out; tears gone and hope coming back.
    â€œWhat are you doing now?”
    â€œChecking,” he said.