The Toff on Fire

The Toff On Fire

 

First published in 1957

© John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1957-2014

 

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

 

The right of John Creasey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

 

This edition published in 2014 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

 

Typeset by House of Stratus.

 

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

 

 

This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author's imagination.

Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

 

www.houseofstratus.com

 

 

 

John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as
Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron
.

Creasey wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the 'C' section in stores. They included:

 

Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.

 

Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the
One Party Alliance
which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.

He also founded the
British Crime Writers' Association
, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing.
The Mystery Writers of America
bestowed upon him the
Edgar Award
for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate
Grand Master Award
. John Creasey's stories are as compelling today as ever.

 

 

It was very dark.

The street lamps, high and distant, shed only a little light, and left most of the doorways of the tall, narrow houses in deep shadow. These were terraced houses in London's Mayfair, each as close to its neighbour as Siamese twins, each as remote from its neighbour as a man from his past. Not far off there were sounds of traffic, none loud, none which disturbed the quiet here. Occasionally a car or taxi, sidelights glowing, passed the end of the street, but no vehicle and no person had turned into the street for twenty minutes.

There were some lighted windows, fanlights which showed a black number in silhouette, and here and there amid the gloom a house was painted white or cream, looking as if it was giving off a faint, ectoplasmic glow.

A clock struck, nearby, a booming
one!
A listener might have waited with growing impatience and some tension for the stroke of two, but it did not come. It was one o'clock in a gloomy street on a dark, moonless night. A different sound drew near, sharper and closer, the unmistakable sound of a motor-cycle with a two-stroke engine. A pale, yellowish glow appeared at one end of the street – the one which led to Piccadilly some hundred yards away. It came on quickly, the beam lengthening as the motor-cycle roared. The driver's foot scraped along the road, and in his ears there was a sharp hissing sound. The woman riding behind him, astride the pillion of the machine, drew in her breath. The driver made no comment, but switched off the engine and coasted towards the kerb. Now the only sounds were those of the tyres on the smooth road, and the man's right foot scraping as he made sure that he did not fail.

He stopped, with one foot on the kerb to steady himself and the machine. He turned his head, but was not looking at the woman or the bundle she carried; he was staring towards the street from which he had just come. The woman, little more than a girl if the faint light from the nearest street lamp was a true indication, stared tensely at him. Her eyes and his were shiny and bright, as with fear.

The bundle lay unmoving in the woman's arms. She glanced down at the grey shawl which covered the infant, leaving just a gap at the face.

There were great tears in the woman's eyes.

Suddenly, the man said: “Okay, we've dodged 'em. You get off.”

“Are—are you sure?” She had a low-pitched, unsteady voice.

“If you hang around much longer they'll find us again,” the man said roughly, and he twisted round and put out a hand to steady her. She climbed off awkwardly, holding the child very tightly. As soon as she was standing on the pavement, the driver sprang off the machine and began to push it towards the middle of the houses on the right-hand side. The machine made little noise, nor did the man's footsteps, but the woman's heels tapped sharply, and the man kept glancing down at them. Suddenly, he rasped in a hoarse whisper:

“Why don't you walk on your toes?”

The woman caught her breath again, hissingly, but obeyed. Carrying the child while raised on her toes all the time, she looked as if she might pitch forward. She couldn't stay on tiptoe, but when down on her heels again she walked less heavily, and the man did not protest again.

He kept looking over his shoulder, but no one else turned into the street, and the noises were all from Piccadilly, or from further afield.

“How—how much further is it?” the woman dared to ask.

“Nearly there.”

“Dan, you're sure—”

“You wanted to bring him as much as me.” The man spoke impatiently and almost too loudly, and as soon as he stopped he peered over his shoulder again; this time he missed a step. He banged his shin against a pedal of the motor-cycle, swore, and stared fearfully towards the car which appeared at the end of the street.

It went past.

They came upon a lighted doorway, and the fanlight, in the shape of a large half-moon, bore the number 22, in jet black against frosted glass.

“Okay,” the man said.

He stood the motor-cycle up against the kerb, and then took the woman's arm. She was staring at the number on the fanlight, and stood quite still, even when he began to push her. He pushed harder, and she began to move, her gaze switching from the number to the baby. The light here was good enough to show its mouth, its nose, one of its closed eyes. She clutched it tightly as the man hustled her up to the doorway.

“Don't get too near me,” the man said. “I want room to move.”

He slid something from his pocket, then shone a light on to the lock; a Yale. The woman watched him as if the sight of his dexterity could make her forget her anguish and her fear. The man's long fingers moved with nimble speed, he pushed something into the lock, an instrument which looked as if it was going straight through to the other side. He made little sound, and did not look away from the lock.

Suddenly he grunted; then: “Okay,” he said, and there was a sharp click as the door opened a fraction. He pushed it wider. As he did so, and as the woman moved to go inside, a car engine sounded, the driver changing gear; the car was coming into the street. The man thrust the door wide, pushed the woman inside and jumped after her, closing the door behind him without a sound, then leaned against it, gasping for breath.

This car passed within two yards of the front door.

“Come on,” the man said, urgently. “We've got to hurry.”

Ahead of them was a wide passage, a closed doorway, and a flight of stairs – stone stairs covered with a haircord carpet of pale red. The stairs had a half landing, and had the woman glanced up she would have seen them spiralling round and round above their heads to the third and top floor. Instead, she stared down at the baby, and she didn't move.

“Get a move on!”
the man rasped.

She began to breathe very heavily and quickly, as if fighting for breath.

“Dan, I can't do it! I can't leave him, I tell you I can't leave him! I'll have to take a chance, I—”

Instead of pushing her towards the stairs, the man stood quite still. He was small and lean, with very bright, pale grey eyes and heavy, gingery tiny eyebrows. His face was lined and leathery, his eyes puckered with crowsfeet. He moved round so that he could look at her, and took her elbows, so that they stood close with the sleeping child between them.

“Listen, Evie,” he said, “he's my kid as well as yours, ain't he?” He paused, clenching his teeth. “If the Doc gets his hands on him, what do you think he'll do?
He
won't give him his ten o'clock feed and put him to bed. God knows what he'd do, but he'd find some way to make me talk. Why don't you realise that, Evie? We've got to get the kid somewhere safe until the heat's off, and the Doc—”

“You'll
never
be free from the Doc!” the woman cried.

She was a woman and this was her child; and she was a girl, certainly not yet twenty, with the lovely, pure skin of youth. She was no beauty, but very wholesome, with a good enough figure and bright, shining blue eyes.

“Everyone will be free from the Doc one of these days,” the man growled, “sooner than you expect, p'raps. If I sell to him, I won't get a tenth of what the stuff's worth. But we can't stand here arguing, we've to take the kid upstairs, and then—”

“Dan, I'm sorry, but I
can't
leave him. I can't just put him down outside a door and leave him. I tell you I can't!”

They stood glaring at each other.

In spite of their tension, they spoke in whispers, and their voices did not travel. There was no other sound and no other movement in the house. The closed door opposite the foot of the stairs carried the letter A, and a name on a tiny brass plate:
G. A. Roberts.

The man gripped the girl's elbows so tightly that it must have hurt.

“Listen, Evie, be yourself! Rollison will look after the kid, he won't let it come to any harm—”

“How do you
know?”
she cried. All the torment of her mind quivered in that question. “How can you possibly be sure, how do you know he won't report it to the police, or the newspapers, so that the Doc will know where—”

“Because he wouldn't be Rollison if he did,” the man said raspingly. “I know the Toff, don't I? If it was anyone else I wouldn't be so sure, but I know how his mind works, I
know
he won't blab to the rozzers or the ruddy news papers. He—”

“But—”

“I tell you I know,”
the man said fiercely. “If you won't do it then gimme the kid, and—”

Something in his expression broke the mother's resistance. She closed her eyes, momentarily, then freed herself and began to walk up the stairs. The man followed, and when they reached the first landing, he muttered: “Two more flights.”

The woman was walking on tiptoe now, but that was fairly easy while going upstairs, and she made little noise.

The man made none at all. At the next landing, he pushed past her and went ahead, no longer worried in case she changed her mind; and she followed, her speed slackening only because she was now beginning to breathe heavily.

The man reached the top flat first.

The doorway was painted black, the letter G was painted on it and, black on white at the side of the door, the name:
Richard Rollison.
There was a silver-plated knocker and a silver-plated bellpush and letter box. The man ignored all these, and studied the keyhole, going down on one knee to do so. By the time the mother reached the top of the stairs, the father was already working on this door as he had on the one downstairs; he did his work as easily and naturally as his wife would feed the child.

The door opened, silently, on to darkness.

“Dan, supposing—” she whispered.

“Shut up,” the man said. His hissing voice sounded very loud, and betrayed his quivering nerves. “Here, lemme put the kid—”

'Til do it!”

“For Pete's sake get a move on!”

The landing light shone into the hall, but showed little, except a wine-red carpet, a small picture, and a writing desk of beautifully figured walnut. Two doors stood open. The girl hurried into the hall, holding the child less tightly, and looked about. A large settee, standing slantwise across a corner of this entrance hall, was the obvious place for the child. She crossed to it, while the man went to the writing desk and took a piece of paper and a pencil out of his pocket.

The light here showed that his finger tips were covered with adhesive tape.

He wrote in block capitals, forming each letter clumsily but with great care, and when he finished he looked up with nervous impatience towards his wife.

“Why the hell aren't you ready?” he began.

But for the second time she silenced him without a word. She stood by the side of the couch, looking down upon her child, and on her face there was such despair, in her eyes such tragedy, that the man could neither speak nor move.

There was no sound at all.

Suddenly, the mother swung round on her heels and walked as if blindly towards the door. She did not look at the man. She did not look back at her child. She went out of the flat, across the landing, and started down the stairs, her heels going
tap-tap-tap-tap
as if she had forgotten all need for caution. The man moved after her, closed the door, heard it click, and then hurried so that he could catch up. He did, but she took no notice. Clumsily, he took her arm, but she did not appear to notice that, either. At the last flight he seemed to tire of holding her, and went ahead, opening the front door and peering into the dark street.

Nothing had changed.

He closed the door after the girl had stepped past him, and at last he spoke.

“The kid'll be okay; you don't have to worry. If you knew the Toff as well as I do—”

“Listen, Dan,” she said in a taut voice, “I don't want to talk about it. Let's get a move on.”

“I'm only telling you.”

She didn't speak, but straddled the pillion. The man took his seat, pushed the self-starter with his foot, heard the engine pick up and then fade, started it again and kept it roaring. He moved off, swaying across the road at first, then going steadily until they reached the corner. A car passed the end of the street and he had to wait, but only for a moment. He drove along the narrow streets towards Park Lane, and as he turned a corner saw a policeman standing and looking at him, as if wondering what a motor cyclist and a passenger were doing abroad as late as this.

The little engine went pop-pop-pop-pop, and then the sound faded and the motor-cycle disappeared round a wide corner, leaving the road empty.

Now, the girl sat closer to her man, and after a while she put her arms round his waist, so as to hold on more firmly. He was travelling very fast, as if still fearful of being followed.

He kept looking round, but saw nothing to add to his fears.