by John Creasey
Copyright & Information
Poison For The Toff
(The Toff On Ice)
First published in 1946
© John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1946-2012
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 2012 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.
ISBN EAN Edition
0755125649 9780755125647 Print
075513396X 9780755133963 Kindle
0755134362 9780755134366 Epub
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.
Chapter One
Mr Rollison Throws A Party
‘Must there be a crowd?’ asked Rollison, glumly.
‘On this occasion I think it would be wise, sir,’ said his man. ‘If you remember, there was a time when your birthday was always celebrated by a gathering of some distinction. During the war the custom was discontinued, but I think you would be ill-advised to invite only a few close friends. After all, it is an event.’
‘I seem to be the only one who doesn’t think so,’ said Rollison, leaning back in an armchair. He was dressed in flannels and a tweed jacket, and his cream, open-neck shirt made his tanned face look very brown. Looking up unexpectedly, he caught a glimpse of a smile on Jolly’s face. It faded immediately, but it brought a new note to Rollison’s voice. ‘Jolly,’ he said, sternly, ‘tell me the truth. Why are you trying to wish this on me?’
‘Indeed I am not, sir!’ Jolly protested.
‘Then who is?’ Rollison continued vigorously. ‘If it’s a relative, let him be the one to throw the party.’
Jolly shuffled his feet a little uncomfortably.
‘Well sir, I believe that Lady Gloria would gladly do so, but her house is being repainted and—’
‘Oh,’ said Rollison. ‘So Glory is up to her old tricks again. Well, let’s get this straight. Apart from the fact that I do not want to throw a party, there isn’t room in the flat.’
‘With the folding doors open, we have accommodated fifty,’ Jolly murmured.
‘Fifty? Nonsense! The authorities would be down on me in no time!’
‘They could hardly do that with Superintendent Grice among the guests,’ said Jolly, blandly.
‘So, you have even prepared the invitation list,’ said Rollison. He sat back and regarded his man in silence, then hoisted himself out of his chair. ‘I will go further into this,’ he said, darkly. ‘Do nothing until I come back.’
It was a warm spring day, and as Rollison reached the pavement the sunlight glistened on his dark hair and showed up the few streaks of grey at the temples. He looked tired, and a little aimless, as if he had lost his zest for adventure.
At the end of Gresham Terrace, he hailed a taxi. The driver pulled up. ‘The Marigold Club, Bedford Square,’ Rollison said, and sank back at ease, idly watching the first gay frocks of the season. He was mildly amused by most of what he saw, but not deeply interested; in fact he was not particularly interested in anything.
He was day-dreaming when the cab pulled up, a woman’s face in his mind’s eye.
‘This right, sir?’ asked the cabby.
‘Oh yes,’ said Rollison. ‘Thanks.’
He stood outside the grey stone house, looking at the fanlight, on which was painted in gold: The Marigold Club. By the large window, open a little at the top, three elderly women were watching him with close attention. When he went in, a middle-aged woman in a spotless but not very becoming uniform approached and asked in a hushed voice: ‘Have you an appointment, sir?’
‘No,’ said Rollison, ‘but I have an aunt.’
‘I’m afraid—’
‘Lady Gloria Hurst,’ said Rollison. ‘Take her my card, please.’
He handed his card to the woman, who looked doubtful, but obediently turned away. Rollison waited until she went upstairs. He heard whispering voices from the room which led off the hall, and had no doubt that the three elderly ladies had left the window and were now nearer the door.
He could not understand what had possessed Old Glory to come to live in such a place as this. A club for elderly widows and spinsters, it undoubtedly served an admirable purpose; but it seemed an odd environment for his Aunt Gloria.
Another maid appeared. Rollison looked at her with surprised attention, for she was the youngest creature he had ever seen within the precincts of the Marigold Club.
‘Are you Mr Rollison, sir?’
‘Yes,’ said Rollison.
‘Lady Gloria would like you to come to her room, please. Will you follow me?’
As he followed the girl, Rollison reflected that it was the first time he had been taken beyond the dining-room or the lounge. He was favourably impressed; there was nothing here of the dingy atmosphere of a man’s club, yet there was nothing ostentatiously modern and bright. Comfort and good taste were reflected in the passages and in the rooms which he could see through open doorways.
Aunt Glory, it appeared, lived on the first floor. She was sitting in the window at a beautiful Louis Quinze writing table. Rollison noticed with another flash of surprise that the large, airy room was exquisitely furnished. Duck egg blue walls and carpet, fragile period pieces, long curtains at the lofty windows, everything struck a pleasing note; even his Aunt Gloria.
‘Well, Rolly,’ she said, offering him her cheek.
Rollison did his duty.
‘Well, Glory,’ he answered
, and stood looking at her.
She was as tall as he, dressed in mannish tweeds, with her plentiful white hair piled up in Regency fashion. There was something attractive about her full lips, faintly outlined in pink; he thought, also, that rouge accounted for some of the colour in her cheeks.
‘Sit down, for heaven’s sake,’ said Aunt Gloria briskly. ‘I suppose it’s no use offering you coffee at twelve o’clock. There isn’t a very good cellar here, but I can run to a whisky-and- soda.’ She rang the bell.
‘This must be the only club in London which offers really good service,’ said Rollison, sitting down in an easy chair and drawing it closer to hers. She pushed a silver box towards him, and he selected a cigarette thoughtfully. ‘You have been exerting undue influence on Jolly,’ he declared at last, ‘and you’ve ordered him to tell me nothing about the conspiracy.’ He gave her a light. ‘Is it fair?’ he added, his voice rising to a note of grievance.
‘What makes you think that?’ demanded Lady Gloria.
‘I know you, and I know Jolly. What is all this about a birthday party at the flat? Why must I advertise my age? I’m too near forty to bruit it abroad.’
‘Good gracious,’ exclaimed Aunt Gloria, ‘and they call women vain!’
‘Evasion will serve no purpose,’ said Rollison. ‘I think—’ He broke off, for the door opened. The young maid brought in a tray, with whisky, a syphon and glasses, and put it on the writing table.
‘All right, Maud, thank you,’ said Aunt Gloria, and the girl went out quietly.
‘Did she guess what you wanted?’ demanded Rollison, in pleased surprise.
‘I told her what to bring if I rang,’ said Aunt Glory. ‘Help yourself, and I’ll have soda with a splash of whisky.’ She sipped thoughtfully. ‘What is remarkable about having a birthday party? Yours used to be one of the events of London.’
‘Aha! So you do admit that you put Jolly up to this?’
Aunt Gloria gave a small, dry smile.
‘We have talked about it, certainly.’
‘So you think that Jolly, alone, is insufficient to order my life,’ said Rollison, with a touch of acerbity.
Aunt Gloria snapped: ‘I think your life is run far too much by Jolly!’
‘Oh,’ said Rollison, startled. He knew from the tone of her voice that she meant what she said. He sipped again, and watched her eyes, which were stormy and almost angry.
‘I never expected to live to see you absolutely – spine less, Richard, and spineless is the only word to describe you since you left the Army.’
‘You’d better blame it on to Whitehall,’ said Rollison, defensively.
‘I shall do nothing of the kind,’ retorted Aunt Gloria. ‘I know why it is, and you know also. There was a time when you had fire in you, but there hasn’t been a flicker of flame for the last six months, to my certain knowledge. You’re—’
‘Spineless,’ murmured Rollison.
‘Soft! Flabby! Lifeless! I wonder that you dared to come here without an appointment, since you know the rules. I suppose I ought to take some encouragement from that,’ Aunt Gloria added, with a lift of her chin. ‘No, it is not reaction after the war. It is not because you have nothing to do – in the past you went out and found something. Have you been to the East End once in the last three months?’
His lips puckered into a smile.
‘Just once,’ he said. ‘Someone threw a birthday party. It was terrible.’
‘Have you seen anyone at Scotland Yard?’
‘Not lately,’ admitted Rollison.
‘There was a time when you haunted the place.’
‘And all my relatives, including you, most strongly disapproved of my interest in criminals and the law,’ murmured Rollison.
‘You know very well that I did not disapprove. I was glad to see one member of the family with some—’
‘Is “guts” the word?’ asked Rollison, tentatively. Aunt Gloria took a long drink, and then thrust her glass away from her with a gesture of annoyance.
‘I’m glad you haven’t lost your tongue, anyhow, there’s some small gleam of hope in that. Is it true that twice in the last few months you have refused to help Superintendent Grice?’
Rollison started. ‘Is Grice in this, too?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Aunt Gloria. ‘Jolly told me about it. For the first time in ten years you did not jump at the chance of helping in a case—’
‘Now, come!’ protested Rollison. ‘Spineless, flabby, soft and lifeless I may be, but I know when a case is worth time and trouble. Neither of those in which Grice tried to interest me were. He got his man within forty-eight hours, by normal routine work. I don’t have to waste my time.’
‘Can you account for a single day on which you haven’t wasted it in the last—’
‘Few months,’ Rollison completed for her, and added with dignity: ‘I have been resting.’
Aunt Gloria said robustly: ‘You mean you have been brooding. You, the liveliest man in London, a man consulted a hundred times by the police, a man who really did some good in his own way, who spent his money well, who showed every sign of having a conscience and not wanting to wallow in luxury provided by his forebears, a man whom every newspaper in the country regarded as first-class news, who—’
‘Steady!’ pleaded Rollison.
‘It’s all true,’ declared Aunt Gloria, vigorously. ‘There was real spirit in you – once. I’ve heard it said that you looked on life as a crusade—’
‘Oh no!’ gasped Rollison, with a horrified grimace.
‘But I have,’ said Aunt Gloria, firmly, ‘and it was true. You adopted the poor people of the East End and they loved you for it, you did more than any man to smooth out the difficulties between petty criminals and the police; you had more influence than any man in London in the East End, and—’ She paused, and looked at him as if she were daunted by the thought of what she was going to say.
He did not look away from her, but his eyes narrowed and his lips were pressed tightly together. She drew a deep breath, and went on: ‘Well, you have asked for it. You’re throwing away everything you’ve built up because you fell in love with a married woman.’
There was a long silence. A car drew up outside and a door slammed, but there was no other sound. The sunlight shining into the room was caught by the glasses and the decanter, and reflected yellow circles on to the far wall.
Abruptly, Aunt Gloria pushed her chair back.
‘I’m sorry, Rolly,’ she said briskly. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. You must forgive me.’
A faint smile touched Rollison’s lips.
‘You needn’t be sorry,’ he said. ‘You’re partly right, of course. It wasn’t because she was married, it was because she was madly in love with her husband.’ He laughed mirthlessly. ‘I didn’t realise that I’d made it as obvious as that. My turn to apologise.’
‘Six months is a long time to brood, my dear,’ said Gloria gently.
‘Oh, much too long,’ admitted Rollison. ‘But will a birthday party work a miracle of recovery?’ He laughed again, this time with a tinge of amusement. ‘All right, let’s have the party, let me rehabilitate myself, let me—’
‘Now you’re being childish!’ snapped Aunt Gloria.
‘Let me take up the crusader’s sword again,’ went on Rollison, with brittle gaiety. ‘Arrange for a murder to be committed while the revelry is at its height or else stage a burglary, do anything you like, but don’t—’ He stopped abruptly.
‘Don’t what?’ demanded Aunt Gloria.
After a pause, Rollison said: ‘You’re not thinking of trying to throw some lovely, luscious young creature at my head, are you? You wouldn’t go that far?’
‘I would not,’ said Gloria scathingly. ‘I have some regard for the hardness of your he
ad and that of the hypothetical young woman.’
‘Thank you very much.’ Rollison finished his drink. ‘Now I’d better go and put Jolly out of his misery, and leave you to the company of ghosts and creaking bones. Who on earth called this place the Marigold Club?’
‘I did,’ said Aunt Gloria. ‘It’s a colour I’ve always admired.’ She took his hand. ‘Interfering I may be, but it’s done me good to see you, Rolly.’
‘I’ll tell you whether you’ve done me good after the party,’ promised Rollison.
Chapter Two
The Party
There were thirty-eight guests, after all, and the flat was uncomfortably full, although no one seemed to notice it. With the folding doors back and the bedroom furniture stored somewhere by Jolly, the two biggest rooms had become one. The small hall was buffet and bar combined, and there was ice-cream served at a counter by a hilarious young woman who had displaced a maid sent from the caterers. She was gaily calling her wares.
Aunt Gloria sat in a corner, always surrounded by admirers; Superintendent Grice was there, a tall man with a bony face of some distinction. Two Inspectors and a Detective Sergeant from Scotland Yard were also present, a fact of which several of Rollison’s more correct relatives disapproved. The Press was well represented, and among the others were people whom Rollison only vaguely recognised. It dawned on him after a very little while that Jolly and Aunt Gloria, doubtless with some help from Grice, had invited the more likeable people whom he had helped at one time or another.
A red-haired girl with a vague manner was Sheila Gregory whom he had met in a mystery which had led him to a poultry farm. A hefty man who looked ill-at-ease in a dinner-jacket was a dock manager in the East End. Tall, fair-haired, contented Ronald Kemp and his wife were there. Kemp was a curate in an East End parish; he had once been in serious trouble, from which Rollison had helped him.