The Toff In New York by John Creasey Page A

. . .“
    There was a pause, a sharp exclamation, and then she went on in a very different tone, echoing: “Mr. Richard Rollison?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThe Toff in person?”
    â€œAs soon as I have an hour free, you and I are going to get together,” said Rollison, earnestly, “luncheon or preferably dinner and a show and the rest of the evening exactly to your liking. You’re the first person out of New York’s teeming millions who even knows how to pronounce the name. Is Cyrus in?”
    â€œOh, sure,” she said, eagerly; “he’ll be in for you. Hold the line just a minute, please.”
    She went off, carrying her excitement with her. It was soothingly satisfying, and helped to place the affair of Dutch Himmy into a little better perspective; not all people were so utterly indifferent to the Toff. He did not have to hold on for long, just time enough to tell himself that if he didn’t eat soon there would be a hole right through him, when a man’s voice sounded in his ear. A fine, deep, American voice, which carried heartiness and warmth and obvious pleasure.
    â€œSay, Rolly, is that really you?”
    â€œCy, it’s I,” confirmed Rollison. “Hungry, unhappy, helpless, in need of a friend and a great big build-up. How are you fixed for time?”
    â€œFor you, I’ve all the time in the world,” said Cyrus Day; and that was generosity itself, for he was the executive head of the largest inquiry bureau in four continents. “What time is it now? - just after eleven o’clock. Say, will you have lunch with me?”
    â€œAlone?”
    â€œIf that’s the way you want it.”
    â€œPlease, Cy. Half-past twelve all right?”
    â€œFine. Would you like to come to the office, or shall I come to you?”
    â€œLet’s work out the best thing to do,” said Rollison, settling down in his chair and resigning himself to another hour and a half of sorrowful longing for food; but his spirits could hardly have been higher after such a reception. “Are you taking notes?”
    â€œMy secretary will, if you’ll hold on. Miriam!” Day called to someone in the office, “go to that extension and take some notes, will you?” He paused. “Okay, Rolly, go right ahead.”
    â€œThanks,” said Rollison, cheerfully. “First, there was a beating-up in 49th Street just off Broadway last night - young chap was kicked and badly knocked about, I think. Will you trace him for me?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œSecond. I’ve a young and pretty and rich young woman with a mind of her own, in trouble in New York, and I’d like to get her away from the Arden-Astoria to some place where she’ll be watched properly, and where we can make sure that she doesn’t do anything silly - like trying to come to terms with Dutch Himmy, for instance.”
    He paused.
    He heard two distinct sounds at the other end of the telephone; one from Cyrus Day, the other from Secretary Miriam. The pause which followed was long and unquestionably pregnant. Then the girl Miriam said in a whisper: - “Did I get that right? Dutch Himmy?”
    â€œRolly,” said Cyrus Day, “did you say Dutch Himmy?”
    â€œThat’s what I’m told.”
    â€œSo that’s what you’re told,” echoed Cyrus Day. “You just hold on a minute. Legs!” he roared, and nearly deafened the Toff. “Legs, come here, will you? . . . Legs, you know Mr. Rollison, don’t you?”
    â€œSure,” a man said, faintly in the background.
    â€œFine. Rolly, where are you staying - the Arden-Astoria?”
    â€œSuite 552.”
    â€œThanks. Legs, you take anyone we’ve got to spare with you, and go to the Arden-Astoria right away and keep an eye on Mr. Rollison. It appears that he’s mixing it with Dutch Himmy, and we don’t want Dutch to get hurt, do we? You keep tag on Mr.