John Creasey - Send Superintendent West

Pullinger kept up a running commentary.

“The one with the red vertical line at the top is the Empire State Building, that top part’s used for television transmitting. There’s the Chrysler Building.” They were jewelled swords, blades pointing skywards; thousands of windows and thousands of bright lights. “It’s some city,” Pullinger said. “It’s the finest city in the world.” He glanced sideways, expecting a challenge.

“I’ll argue when I get to know it better,” said Roger. “Just now, I’m trying to remember everything.”

He found himself thinking of the reason for Marino sitting in the same place and seldom moving his body. Nothing else about the man had suggested he had been so crippled.

“Fifty-seventh Street,” said Pullinger. “One for shops.” He named the avenues they passed. The lights seemed brighter than in Queens, traffic was thick, huge yellow, red and blue taxis crowded the streets. “Broadway,” said Pullinger. “I’ll drive you to Times Square, and then you can go and recover at your hotel You don’t have to work tonight.” He turned left, there was no change in the street scene until they turned a bend in the road, and ahead of them light seemed to blaze from the ground and from the sky. “More lights in that square mile than any other place in the world,” said Pullinger.

“It looks it,” Roger said faintly. He laughed. “And it’s real.”

“You’ll learn how real. The Milton’s on 44th Street, only a step from Times Square, Tony said to put you in the heart of things. Say, Mr West, would you like to have dinner with me? The hotel food is pretty good, I guess, but if you’re not too tired, we could go down to the Village, or any place you like.

The Village sounds fine! I’ll wash and freshen up.”

“I’ll see you to your room and then leave you for an hour,” said Pullinger. “Give you time to get an appetite. You’ll need one.” He had all the brightness and frankness of Herb, Dr Fischer, and the others at the Embassy. “It’s not a big hotel, but it’s good.”

The Milton Hotel had an unexpectedly old-fashioned look, and the foyer was half empty. Roger signed a slip of paper, not a book; a bell-hop, looking too small for the two big suitcases, took them up to the ninth floor; Room 901. Pullinger ordered drinks, right away. The room was on a corner, with windows in two walls. Lights flashed on and off from nearby signs; a police siren shrilled out down below, a car blared and went on blaring.

“Don’t let me forget that letter,” Pullinger said, and took out a billfold not unlike Ed Scammel’s but made of alligator skin. He handed Roger a letter. It was on the Embassy note-paper, signed by Marino, and ran:

“Dear Roger,

Ed Pullinger, the bearer of this letter, will do right by you.

Tell me if he doesn’t. Don’t exhaust yourself looking at Gissing, there will be plenty to see.”

The drinks arrived, Roger’s a straight whisky and soda, Pullinger’s a small glass of Bourbon and a tall glass with three ice cubes in it. He poured the Bourbon, and Roger watched it cascade down the ice cubes.

“How much do you know about the Shawns?” Roger asked.

Pullinger shrugged.

“I’m David’s cloak and dagger when he’s on this side. I was around when he was shot at in his Connecticut house. If you believe him, I pushed him away from an auto that was going to run him down. You might say that Shawn built up my reputation for me!” Pullinger offered cigarettes from a golden coloured packet.

“Thanks.” Roger took one.

Pullinger went to the door. “I’ll call you when I’m back, but it won’t be for an hour. See you.”

He went out, and Roger drew on the cigarette and then went to the window and looked down on to the sea of dancing light, heard the din of traffic, even the footsteps of the crowds on the pavement He laughed at himself, opened one case, took out a clean shirt, his shaving-gear, everything he would need. When he was in the middle of shaving in a bathroom which had everything, including a tap marked “Iced Water” — and it was ice cold — he yawned.

He hadn’t slept much on the journey or the night before. He might have been wiser to have a walk round the streets by himself and come back to his room early. He couldn’t disappoint Pullinger now — “Ed’ wanted to show off a New York he obviously loved. And why not? Roger yawned again. He finished shaving. He had half an hour to spare, and ten minutes in a comfortable-looking armchair wouldn’t do any harm. It would be pleasant to close his eyes.

He went to sleep.

He was still asleep, nearly an hour later, when the door opened and two men came in. One was stocky, with broad shoulders and a swinging walk. He had a wide-brimmed hat, and was smoking a cigar. He didn’t smile. The other did smile; stepping across to Roger, he looked down, and said lightly:

“He’ll have a shock when he comes round.”

“Who said he was coming round?”

“I did. We have to get him away, we don’t have to leave a body. You’re going to help me dress him. Then we’ll take him down between us. Just another drunk. Gene will have the car outside, all ready for him.”

“Where are you going to take him?”

“Someone forgot to tell you not to ask questions.”

“Who is the guy?” the stocky man said, but didn’t expect an answer. He looked at a BOAC label on a suitcase. “British, eh? You can tell he’s a foreigner.” He went round to the back of Roger’s chair, and Roger didn’t stir. “Jesse! Take a look at the back of his head.”

“I heard about that,” said the other. “Take a look at his coat and get him into it.”

That didn’t take long.

They poured whisky into a glass, splashed a little into Roger’s face, over his coat and shirt, then rumpled his hair, pulled his tie to one side, unfastened his collar. Then the man with the big shoulders pulled Roger to his feet, put one of Roger’s arms round his neck, and dragged him towards the door. They got him to the elevator, his feet scuffing the carpet. The elevator man didn’t blink an eye.

No one in the hall took much notice. A woman stared disgustedly, and turned her back. A car drew up at the kerb as they appeared outside the hotel, which was poorly lit compared with most of the shops and buildings. It was a big Dodge, black, several years old. They bundled Roger into it. His head lolled back, he sat slumped into the corner, with one man by his side. The broad-shouldered man didn’t get in. The driver, who didn’t speak, slid into the stream of traffic. They turned right and right again, then drove straight out to the Hudson River Parkway, got on to the parkway at 57th Street, then drove fast towards the toll stations and on towards the Merritt Parkway and Connecticut.

Roger still slept.

The lights of New York lit up the sky behind him.

15

LIGHT

ROGER had a sense of having slept for several hours; a sense of vanished time; a void he couldn’t fill but which he knew had been peopled with men and swift movement. It was dark, but this time he had no pain, only a numbness in his head and limbs and heaviness at the back of his eyes. He felt no sense of alarm, and he was quite comfortable. He began to try to remember, and at first it seemed that there was something in the past which was all-important, but he couldn’t recall what it was. Then pictures flashed on to the retina of his mind — Marino and all that had followed, a thin-faced child, Lissa, the airport, Janet, the boys, the flight, New York and a smiling, loose-limbed youngster who seemed to be one of a pattern stamped out and freely used at Grosvenor Square. With all this, a feeling persisted that some vital factor had been presented to him, but he couldn’t place it.