Free The Toff In New York by John Creasey

adamant, as if he was frightened of the narrow-faced man. Perhaps he was.
    Valerie had told herself that she hadn’t a hope of gaining her point, that she might even be putting Wilf in great danger by holding out.
    Then, abruptly:
    â€œOkay, okay,” the narrow-faced man had said, “you can see him. Okay.”
    So, they’d left the restaurant.
    Valerie hadn’t seen Rollison anywhere near.
    Twenty minutes later, the narrow-faced man opened the door of a room in a dark, gloomy building a long way from Times Square. There was a smell of stale cooking, and a sickly smell of paint. The stairs creaked. There was dust on window-ledges and on the banisters. She was in front of both men, and they came up single file. She could easily have screamed. The sight of lights beneath some of the door didn’t reassure her. She was hopelessly confused; there was the hope of seeing Wilf as well as fear that she would not, fear that this was simply a trick.
    The narrow-faced man had opened a door with a key, and thrust it back.
    â€œListen, you’re on the level, aren’t you?” Conway asked, in a timid-sounding voice. If he knew the man, would he be so timid? Was there any chance that she and Rollison were wrong about him? Or was this just part of the act?
    The narrow-faced man gave a one-sided grin.
    â€œSure,” he said, “this is on the level. It’s on my level.” He slid his right hand to the inside of his coat, and before Valerie realised what he was doing, he produced a gun. He didn’t point it at her or at Conway, just held it casually. “Sure,” he repeated; “you don’t have to worry. Inside.”
    â€œListen, you said . . .“ Conway breathed. Was he genuinely frightened?
    â€œI don’t have to listen,” the narrow-faced man said. “Inside.”
    They went in.
    The only light was the one which the man had switched on. There was no sound. When the door closed it seemed to shut them off from the world. They were in a tiny lobby, with arched doorways without doors leading off it in two directions. The narrow-faced man manoeuvred so that both of them were in front of him, and then said:
    â€œPut on that light.”
    Conway obeyed.
    He was nervous - wasn’t he? It wasn’t just pretended.
    Valerie looked round a sitting-room, with some armchairs, a threadbare carpet, a table against the wall. The only hint of luxury was in the big television which filled a corner. Compared with the suite at the Arden-Astoria, this was a slum apartment. It was empty; of course it was; but Valerie couldn’t stop herself from saying:
    â€œWhere - where is he?”
    â€œYou want to see your brother?” sneered the narrow-faced man. “Okay, you can see him.” He went to a small bureau in another corner, and picked something up, brought it across and thrust it into Valerie’s face. “That him?”
    It was an enlargement from a coloured snap of Wilfred Hall, taken while he had been here in New York. It couldn’t have been a better likeness. Smiling, nice-looking, strong, healthy, and radiating a kind of confidence. He was their father all over again, the true son of the man who had built up the Hall millions half-way round the world.
    Valerie hadn’t seen him for three months.
    She looked up into the narrow face. Had Rollison seen her then, he would have recognised most of the emotions which chased one another.
    â€œI want to see him in the flesh,” she said, very firmly, “and until I do . . .“
    The narrow-faced man said smoothly, nastily: “Don’t get me wrong, sister. You’re not seeing your brother until we’re ready to show him, and that’s not now. Where’s the dough and where are the jewels?”
    â€œI’m not giving them to you until I’ve seen Wilf,” Valerie said. By some miracle, she managed to keep her voice steady, to sound determined. She stared at the man,