The Toff In New York by John Creasey Read Free Book Online Page A

agreed to the terms. They’ll want to take your diamonds and everything else of value to him - and if you let them, that could easily be the last you’d hear of them. Wilf might possibly be released, but it’s more likely that the gang will hold him and come back for more money when you’ve had time to lay your hands on some. If they’re going to play it that way, then Halloran and Conway will stay around - one will offer to sleep in the sitting-room, as your gallant protector! But we needn’t go into every detail, need we?”
    â€œI want to know what to do” Valerie insisted.
    Rollison grinned at her.
    â€œOne day some man’s going to be very glad he met you,” he said. “All right, woman of action. When they come back, you’ll refuse to let Conway and Halloran act as intermediaries. You’ll insist on going along and seeing this man they talk about yourself, and you’ll also insist on getting some guarantee that Wilf won’t be hurt.”
    â€œSupposing they won’t give me one?”
    â€œLet’s cross the streams when we get to them,” said Rollison, easily. “Your job’s to make them think that you still look on Brian and Mike as heaven-sent friends.”
    Valerie grimaced.
    â€œJust glance along the passage and make sure it’s empty, will you?” Rollison asked. “I’d rather go back to my suite without risking the long drop.”
    â€œAll right,” agreed Valerie, but instead of turning round at once, she contemplated him thoughtfully. Then: “What are you going to do?”
    â€œI want ten minutes to get ready, and then I’ll follow you. You may not recognise me, but I promise that I won’t be far away.”
    â€œI suppose you are the Toff,” said Valerie, with a dubious frown; and before he could make any reply, went on sharply: “Oh, of course you are! Mr. Rollison, do you really think that Wilf’s in danger?”
    That needed an honest answer, not just comfort for comfort’s sake.
    â€œHe could be,” Rollison said, “but I don’t think it’s likely. If we play our hand well . . .“
    â€œI won’t let you down,” she broke in fiercely.
    â€œFine,” said Rollison. “Don’t leave until I telephone you. I’ll call, and then apologise for getting the wrong number. Any time after that you can leave.”
    Valerie nodded, and Rollison watched as she went to the door, peered along the passage, and then beckoned. She gave him a smile that was nearly radiant as he went out; then she closed the door firmly.
    Rollison was busy for ten furious minutes.
    First, he went to a linen-closet he had already spotted, took out some sheets and blankets, and carried them to his own suite. There was the dead man, youthful and with a strangely pleasant face, on the bathroom floor. Rollison ran through his pockets, and discovered that his name was Mark Quentin, with an address on Long Island.
    Rollison made a mental note of this, then spread sheets and blankets on the floor, and his plastic raincoat, the blood-stained side up, on top of these. He lifted the dead man, put him on the raincoat, and wrapped him up, all his movements swift and yet gentle. He fastened the bundle with pins, then carried it to the wardrobe, put it inside, locked the door and pocketed the key.
    Swiftly he took off the Savile Row suit, and put on another which was laid out on the bed. This was a subdued royal blue in colour* and beside it was a sky-blue necktie, adorned with hand-paintings of high mountains and a sunset of rich, red gold. Next to this was a ten-gallon hat, the same colour as the sunset. He seemed to slide into his clothes, and into a pair of suede shoes which matched the hat. Then he glanced at himself in a tall mirror.
    He grinned, the shadow of tragedy lifting.
    â€œYou’re quite something,” he said; “nothing more glorious ever came out of Las