Hunt the Toff

by John Creasey

  Copyright & Information

  Hunt the Toff

  First published in 1952

  © John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1952-2014

  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.

  EAN ISBN Edition

  0755130189 9780755130184 Print

  0755133870 9780755133871 Kindle

  0755134273 9780755134274 Epub

  0755145712 9780755145713 Epdf

  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

  About the Author

  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.

  I

  THE LADY BATHES

  Richard Rollison lazed on the smooth rock, with a rolled towel for a pillow, a cigarette dangling from his lips, a book unopened by his side. The sun was pleasantly warm. His long, lean body was tanned a rich brown, for during the past ten days the weather had been kind.

  A mile to the west was his hotel, the Country House by the Sea. To the west and the east were the rocky bays and sandy coves of Devon, washed now by gently rippling blue waves. Here was serenity, rest from wild and violent deeds. For the first week he had told himself that he was without a care in the world.

  The first thing to disturb his idleness had been the young woman who called herself Marion Lane. She had arrived, alone, on Friday; it was now Monday. The second disturbance had come with the meek little man who called himself Eddie Marvel, and who had arrived a few hours later. On the Friday evening Rollison had overheard a fragment of a conversation. The couple had not let it be known that they were acquainted yet the fragment had been a quarrel based on some mutual interest. Also, Eddie Marvel had called Marion, Liz, and Marion Lane had called Eddie, Harry.

  Since then, the couple had not met, as far as he knew. He had, however, observed one fact that might be of some significance. Wherever Marion (or Liz) Lane chose to go, Eddie-Harry followed – until that morning.

  Then Eddie-Harry had received a telephone call and gone off in his modest car, soon after breakfast. Marion-Liz had gone up to her room; she was now only a hundred yards away from Rollison. Presumably she did not know that he was there. She had selected the smallest of coves, surrounded by sea-washed rocks and carpeted with golden sand – and slipped out of a flowered dress and into a brevity called a swim-suit. Only a churl would have betrayed his presence.

  She stood on the edge of the sea; and she was beautiful. Not just easy on the eye, but superb. Perhaps that partly explained why Rollison had not yet noticed that something was missing – and not simply Eddie-Harry.

  Quite suddenly, she ran into the sea. She went like a silver-andcream flash until water splashed about her breast and face, and then plunged forward with the confidence of a good swimmer, and began to use the crawl in a way which would have shamed most men.

  Coming back, she would be bound to see Rollison – and there wasn’t another spot as warm and pleasant as this, where he could neither see nor be seen. All things considered, he thought it best to move. He stood up and collected his towel, multi-coloured Turkish towelling robe, his book, and cigarettes. The girl continued to swim strongly, going straight out to sea, but carried slightly towards him by the tide.

  He stiffened.

  He realised that the ‘something’ was missing.

  It was a little buoy, topped by a small red flag, beyond which it was unsafe for the strongest swimmer. There was a strong current beyond and a nasty undertow. Soon Marion-Liz would be at about the spot where it should be.

  He put his hands to his mouth to make a megaphone, and shouted ‘Oi!’

  She swam on.

  ‘Oi, there! Come back!’

  The warning cry echoed back to him from the rocks, but she swam fast and smoothly and unaware of danger. Rollison turned and ran along the rocks, which sloped upwards towards the cliffs above, touching a boulder here and there to steady himself. He reached a narrow fissure in the rocks, squeezed between them, climbed up several others, then hauled himself to a ledge from which the daring could dive. He shouted again.

  The girl took no notice.

  Rollison glanced right and left, hoping there would be a boat in sight; there was none. But he caught a glimpse of a man standing by the side of tall rocks which would have hidden him, had he not peered towards Rollison. The glimpse was sufficient to show Eddie-Harry, whose sandy-coloured hair glistened, then disappeared.

  Rollison poised on the ledge, bent his knees, and plunged into the sea. It had looked a vast distance away, and he was in the air for an interminable time; but he cleft the water smoothly. He’d judged the spot well, too, it was deep enough. He surfaced, brushed his dark hair out of his eyes, and began to swim.

  He could see her arms and the silver cap; she was going as strongly as ever and drawing nearer to the jutting cliffs which helped to make the danger. He had been sure that he knew exactly where the buoy should be, but in fact he couldn’t be sure whether she was within five or fifty yards of the spot. With luck, they’d meet before the current caught them.

  He trod water.

  She was only ten or fifteen yards away, still swimming strongly. It was easy to guess that she had told herself she would go to the other side of the jutting cliffs, to see the big bay beyond. Unless one was deliberately on the look-out, the chances of seeing anyone else in the water were slim. He felt the pull of the current.

  She drew nearer, and Rollison swam so that he could dive beneath her. She went over him, silvery and smooth as a fish. He surfaced a few yards away and he turned on his back. She was turning and looking at him with eyes which caught the blue of the sea.

 
; ‘Get back!’ He pointed to the shore. ‘Bad current!’

  She might not have heard the words, but took his meaning.

  She struck out vigorously, showing no sign of panic. He followed. The pull of the current soon disappeared, until they were swimming in safe water, side by side. Marion-Liz glanced at him – and smiled. Into the smile she put gratitude and admiration, and the two made radiance.

  They lay side by side on the golden sand, gasping at first, then gradually breathing more easily. The sun seemed hot. The faint haze of the morning had cleared, the sea was like burnished metal, and the sand was warm to the touch.

  The girl spoke first.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I enjoyed it.’

  ‘There ought to be a warning notice.’

  ‘Yes there most certainly ought.’

  They fell silent, and she sat up, with a swift, easy movement, and stared out to sea.

  ‘My clothes are over there.’

  She pointed.

  ‘Mine are there.’

  He pointed.

  ‘Whose do you think are nearest?’ she asked.

  ‘Supposing I go and get mine and come and join you,’ he suggested. ‘You can walk on the sand to yours, I’ve some climbing to do.’

  ‘It’s lucky you were there.’

  ‘We all have to have some luck,’ murmured Rollison.

  He stood up, and hurried towards natural steps in the rocks. He didn’t look round, although he knew that Marion-Liz was watching him.

  Well, he’d seen beauties before, and she was here under a false name, or so it seemed. And someone had taken away that buoy and tried to drown her.

  Or was he guessing wildly? The buoy might have slipped its anchor. Yet the sea had been calm over the week-end, and he knew that it had been there yesterday. She hadn’t been to bathe before, as far as he knew.

  He rubbed himself down briskly, lit a cigarette, and walked leisurely down to the spot where the girl was standing, wearing the flowered dress again, the swim-suit wrung out. The hat lay on the sand, by the side of the gaily coloured linen bag, which matched her dress – as did her sandals. He’d noticed before that she dressed simply and with, good taste – just as he’d noticed the tumbling, waving mass of her hair.

  ‘Hallo,’ she said, and smiled.

  ‘Had a nice dip?’

  ‘If you—’

  ‘Oh, please,’ said Rollison, ‘don’t let’s bring that up. It must be nearly lunch-time, if I can judge by the usual signs. Coming?’

  She didn’t answer at once, but looked about her as if she expected to see someone else; probably her shadow. No one was in sight. Rollison stood watching her, not trying to guess what was in her thoughts. He didn’t need to guess what was in her eyes – fear, belated but as naked as she had been less than an hour before.

  ‘Is—is there such a hurry?’

  ‘Of course not, my signs often get impatient.’

  She forced a laugh, but it wasn’t natural, and looked at him with compelling directness. She was going to talk. She was going to tell him about Eddie-Harry, and perhaps much more; she might even tell the truth.

  ‘Let’s sit over there,’ she said, and moved towards a secluded spot where a little sand covered some rocks and others stood about it, guarding them from sight of anyone except at sea; and there were no boats in sight. She led the way and sat down. Her dress spread out over her legs, all he could see were her sandals and the pink-painted toes.

  They lit cigarettes.

  ‘It’s lovely here,’ she said.

  ‘Just right. I mean, everything is.’

  He was looking at her profile, and her chief interest seemed to be the sea.

  ‘Everything isn’t,’ she said.

  ‘Oh.’

  She stretched out a hand and grasped his arm.

  ‘I feel … dreadful. Please don’t laugh, just listen. It’s easy to say “forget it”, but not so easy to forget that if it weren’t for you, I would probably have been drowned. Even then it wouldn’t be so bad, but for—’

  She broke off.

  He hardly knew whether to be sceptical or not, she seemed torn by emotions which compelled sincerity. She looked away from him, and again the blue of sky and sea seemed to pour into her eyes.

  She gripped his arm again, swinging round almost passionately.

  ‘I came here to rob you,’ she said.

  II

  LIZ

  Rollison pushed his scepticism far away, but not out of sight, watched her tense face, and smiled, as if she’d said that she had come here for a quiet holiday.

  ‘Didn’t you hear? I came here to rob you.’

  Rollison’s smile broadened.

  ‘Did you, Liz?’ he asked.

  She started, dropped his arm as if it had suddenly become red hot, and actually gaped.

  He chuckled.

  ‘Liz,’ she breathed. ‘You knew.’

  ‘It’s a day for shocks, isn’t it?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I heard you talking with Eddie-Harry.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, and coloured. ‘When?’

  ‘Friday night.’

  ‘So you heard us quarrelling.’

  ‘Just the tail-end.’

  ‘Did you know why we quarrelled?’

  ‘I was too late for that.’

  ‘You may as well know,’ she said. ‘Harry really began it. He’s always wanted to have a go at you. I think he thought that if he could rob the Toff, it would be the talk of London. But – I’m tired of Harry.’

  Rollison didn’t speak.

  She said, ‘I mean, I’m tired of working with him. We had a quarrel in London. I told him I was going to work on my own in future, and the partnership was finished. I had the shock of my life when he arrived a few hours after me.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ murmured Rollison.

  ‘I’d found out that you were here – all Harry knew was that you had left London. But he probably guessed what I was up to, followed me, and – well, that’s all there is to it.’

  ‘Except that there’s no partnership, and Harry’s an angry man. I don’t blame you so much, but Harry ought to have known better,’ said Rollison. ‘We’ve never actually met face to face, but he should have known that the moment I set eyes on Harry Keller I’d know that he was one of London’s most successful con-men. I wouldn’t have known you from Eve, so you would have got off to a better start. Ever thought of reforming?’

  She began to laugh, a little chuckle which grew into deep laughter. At last she groped for her cigarettes, then dabbed at her eyes. Throughout it all, Rollison had leaned against a rock and looked at her.

  ‘Better?’ he asked.

  ‘Much!’

  ‘That’s good. Hungry?’

  ‘Not yet. So you really knew Harry.’

  ‘The moment I set eyes on him, I knew I’d seen that freckly face and the round and innocent eyes before. When you called him Harry, I placed him. I was at Great Marlborough Street three years ago, when he was sent for trial for a very neat confidence trick indeed. He can’t have been out long.’

  ‘A year.’

  ‘They didn’t give him a long enough sentence.’

  She narrowed her eyes and looked at Rollison through a faint film of smoke. For a while she had been young and natural and, in spite of what they’d said, almost gay. She changed, and seemed to become older, more sophisticated. There was even a change in her voice.

  ‘You must be almost as good as they say you are.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Oh – everyone.’

  ‘We’ll pass that – but how good do they say I am?’

  She considered.

  ‘I’ve never believed them, and nor has Harry, we had that in common. I’ve refused to believe that any man could do the things you’re supposed to have done, and get away with it. You’ve a tremendous reputation in the East End, too.’

  ‘What’s my reputation about?’

 
‘As if you didn’t know! The Honourable Richard Rollison, otherwise known as the Toff, England’s one great amateur detective, even consulted by Scotland Yard. You’re almost a legend among—’

  Again she checked herself.

  ‘Everyone?’ he asked lazily.

  ‘All—my friends.’

  ‘Pity – nice people don’t know me.’

  ‘You’re not at all what I expected,’ said Marion-Liz. ‘You weren’t, even at the hotel. I expected you to be a modern Don Juan, and to throw your weight about everywhere, instead—’

  ‘Spare my blushes!’ begged Rollison.

  ‘You were just a good-looking, pleasant man.’ She hesitated; then: ‘Well – now you know, what are you going to do?’ Shadows touched her eyes again. ‘And please, don’t give me any of that stuff about reforming. I know exactly what I’m doing, and I shall go on doing it. I don’t need men like Harry Keller any longer. I’m—I’m going places alone.’

  Rollison’s eyes gleamed.

  ‘I know. The Country House by the Sea, for a good luncheon, and after that, if you’re not careful, Holloway, or one of the prisons which isn’t so nicely situated.’

  He jumped up and held out his hands; she took them and sprang to her feet with little help from him. He didn’t let go, but pulled; their lips met, lightly.

  ‘See how I live up to my reputation,’ said Rollison.

  She didn’t answer; she seemed puzzled, and kept looking at him, glancing away whenever he returned her gaze. They walked up a narrow, stony path to grass nibbled short and smooth by rabbits, then through a copse of beech. On the far side of the copse they turned into the well-kept grounds of the hotel.

  Marion-Liz went upstairs.

  Rollison made discreet enquiries about Eddie-Harry.

  Marion-Liz came down again, lightly but perfectly made-up, exactly the right vision to sit at the window-table which had been given to Rollison from the first, and which he hadn’t shared before. The other guests, most of them finishing the meal, for Rollison had been right about the time, glanced at them and at each other.