A Mask for the Toff

by John Creasey

  Copyright & Information

  A Mask for The Toff

  First published in 1951

  © John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1951-2014

  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.

  ISBN EAN Edition

  0755135997 9780755135998 Print

  075513933X 9780755139330 Kindle

  0755137663 9780755137664 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

  The Fleeing Woman

  A door opened, bright light shone into the dark street, and a woman appeared. Her shadow, sharp and clear, was thrown across the narrow road. She wore a light-coloured dress with short sleeves; and it was bitterly cold. She turned and ran, not looking where she was going, her high-heeled shoes rapping sharply on the pavement. Once she stumbled, steadied herself, clutched at her flowing dress and ran on.

  Her mouth was open and her teeth parted.

  At the first corner she turned left. As she did so, two men appeared at the open doorway, one roughly dressed, the other in a dark suit. The roughly dressed man came out first, and caught a glimpse of the woman.

  “There she is!” He raced after her, and the man in the dark suit followed, but gradually dropped behind. Pounding footsteps now sounded above the clack-clack-clack of the woman’s heels.

  As the woman ran, blindly, fear-stricken, a door opened in the next narrow street, and a dim yellow light shone out. A small man stepped from the house, heard the woman running, and stood and stared. She was only ten yards away from him. He heard the men approaching, but could not see them.

  “Wot’s up?” he demanded.

  The woman missed a step, and looked towards him. The light from his door was sufficient to show the terror in her eyes. Fast as thought, he said: “In ’ere, quick!”

  He put out a hand to guide her. She turned to look over her shoulder, but neither of the men in pursuit had rounded the corner yet. She turned into the doorway, and the man who had spoken slammed and locked the door. He stood outside, she was in, when the roughly dressed man turned the corner and came pelting along. His companion reached the corner soon afterwards, but was already slowing down.

  The little man stopped and put a cigarette to his lips as the runner drew up. “Seen anyone?”

  “Who, me?”

  “You heard. Seen anyone?”

  “Police arter you?” asked the little man, as he flicked a match away.

  “Did you see a woman come past here?”

  “A woman,” echoed the little man, and the second runner laboured up, gasping for breath, although the dim light from a distant street lamp suggested that he was young. “Come ter think, I did. Passed me like a streak o’ light, she did.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “Forgot me fags and ’ad to go back,” said the little man promptly. “Only took me a tick, but she wasn’t in the street when I come aht again.”

  “Think she went into one of the houses?” The roughly dressed man, who had a harsh voice, was thick-waisted and barrel-chested, looked doubtingly into the other’s eyes. The second runner, breathing more evenly now but making plenty of noise, snapped his fingers as if with impatience.

  “Well, I couldn’t say, I’m sure,” the little man said.

  His questioner muttered: “She couldn’t have gone far,” and moved on. The man in the dark suit followed, without a word, and the little man turned in the other direction and walked briskly away. He didn’t go far, but waited at the corner from which the woman had run, and peered along the street. He saw the other two reach the next corner, and hesitate. Then they drew close together, and appeared to confer. One went straight on, the other turned right. The light was too dim for the little man to see more.

  He turned up the collar of his overcoat, to hide a white muffler, and walked back. He kept close to the walls of the houses, and made no sound. When he reached his own house, he bent down and opened the letter-box; no light shone through. He opened the door with his key, and stepped swiftly inside. By the time the door was closed and re-locked, his own breath was coming quickly.

  There was silence in the little house.

  He called: “It’s okay, it’s only me.”

  No one responded.

  “It’s okay,” he insisted. “I’ll look after yer. You can switch the light on again.”

  There was still no response.

  He frowned in the darkness, took out his matches, but didn’t strike one. He stood peering along the narrow passage. There was a smell of cabbage and fried onions and of an antiseptic. Somewhere, a tap dripped steadily. His breathing quietened, and deliberately he held his breath. He heard no other noise, and walked slowly forward, putting out a hand to save himself from banging into door or wall. The door at the end of the passage was opposite the front door, and was closed; there was no light beneath it. He turned the handle and pushed the door gently, then stood quite still.

  He heard a sound of breathing.

  “You needn’t worry,” he whispered. “They don’t know you’re ’ere. I’ll look after you.”

  No one else had been in the house when he had left it, so it was certainly the fugitive in this tiny kitchen; but she gave no answer.

  He pushed the door back quietly, stepped through, and groped for the light-switch. The sound of breathing beca
me more pronounced, and was behind him. He pressed the switch down, and heard a gasp.

  Terrified eyes, brown and velvety, stared at him from the corner. The girl’s glossy hair was beautiful but untidy; she was well made-up and she was lovely. She had a good figure which her dress emphasised, she would have looked at home in any society. There was a single string of pearls round her neck, and in her right hand she clenched the handle of a saucepan, which was raised like a hammer.

  The little man’s gape turned slowly into a grin. He was ugly, and the front of his head was completely bald; sleek black hair, carefully brushed, lay flat over the back. His face was small and round, he had a snub nose and no chin to speak of; that little was lost in the white muffler. In spite of his ugliness there was friendliness in his smile, and the girl lowered the saucepan slowly.

  “Cor lumme,” said the little man, “Bert Noddy won’t hurt yer. That’s me—Bert Noddy. You don’t ’ave to worry any more, lidy. Anyfink Downing wants I don’t want ’im to ’ave. Get me? I know Sam Downing, and I don’t know anyfink good abaht him. Take it easy. ’Ave a fag.”

  He held out a plastic cigarette-case. Her only movement was to lower the saucepan still farther, and it clanged against the green-painted wall behind her. She looked as incongruous in this tiny kitchen as a lily growing out of a clump of dandelions. There was a dresser with a flat top, on which were other saucepans; on the shelves were cups, saucers and plates. On the other side of the room was a gas-stove and a sink, with a small draining board. The smell of cooking was stronger in here, and the tap was dripping into the sink.

  “Look,” said Noddy earnestly, “I won’t ’urt yer.”

  Her fear still robbed her of the freshness of her beauty. It showed in her eyes, in the tension at her lips and the rigidity of her body. She kept a hold on the saucepan, and Noddy sensed that she would raise it again if he drew nearer.

  “Look,” he said again, “you ’aven’t lost your tongue, ’aveyer?”

  She didn’t speak.

  “Strike me,” muttered Noddy, “you give me the creeps. Listen. I know Sam Downing, that was the feller who run arter you, and I don’t like ’im. He’s up to no good. ’E never did no good, and ain’t likely to start now. You running away from ’im was plenty to make me want to lend a ’and, see? I couldn’t say anyfink plainer than that, could I?”

  She swayed, making the saucepan clang against the wall again. Noddy moved in a flash, snatched the saucepan away before she could straighten up, then drew back. He put the saucepan on the gas stove.

  “Can’t you understand plain English?” he demanded.

  He looked less self-assured than when he had first come in, and scratched his nose. The cigarette drooped from the corner of his lips, the paper scorched almost down to the end. He rolled it with his tongue from one side to the other, and frowned.

  Then her lips moved. She said: “No speak Engleesh.”

  “Well,” breathed Noddy. “Strike a light!”

  But he looked relieved.

  “I know a language you will speak,” he said. “Half a tick.” He disappeared, went into the small front room and took a bottle of whisky and a glass out of the flimsy sideboard. Back in the kitchen, he held them up in front of the girl who didn’t speak English. “’Ave a drink.”

  She didn’t answer, but he poured her out a nip, added a little water from the tap, and held the glass towards her. She took it and drank half at one gulp, then breathed hard and leaned against the wall, more relaxed.

  Noddy made a thumbs-up sign.

  “You’re okay,” he assured her. “Now don’t worry, I’m goin’ ter call me missus.”

  He went out of the room again, and knocked sharply on the wall opposite the stairs. After a pause, a responding tapping came from the house next door. He didn’t switch on the light, but waited until he heard footsteps in the street, then opened the door. A faint glow from the kitchen shone upon a woman so large that she almost filled the doorway.

  “Now wot’s the matter?” she demanded impatiently. “Can’t go aht for ten minutes wiv-vaht—”

  “Can it,” said Noddy. “We’ve got a visitor.”

  “Wot, at this time o’ night?” The woman came in and closed the door. She had three chins, plentiful dark and greasy hair and an enormous bosom, and was dressed in a black silk blouse and a light grey skirt. “Your old man? If—”’

  “One o’ these days you’ll use your tongue so much it’ll come orf,” growled Noddy. “Listen, Rosie.” He held her arm tightly. “I was just goin’ aht when I see Sam Downing, chasing a woman. Young woman, she was, frightened aht of ’er wits. So I brought ’er in. Sam didn’t know where she went; ’e’s searchin’ for ’er. She’s in the kitchin. She don’t speak English, and I’d better see what I can do. Sam Downing’s no good to ’er, and she’s so scared she jumps if you speak. Now, understand?”

  Rosie’s eyes, rounding with astonishment at first, soon settled to normal.

  “Don’t you get into no trouble with a man like Downing,” she said.

  “If that ain’t like a woman,” Bert growled. “I’m going to see Bill Ebbutt. You just keep an eye on the girl. If anyone comes, Downing or a cove wiv a dark suit an’ a bow tie, you ’aven’t seen anyone. Don’t forget.”

  He opened the front door again and slipped out, giving his wife no time to speak.

  Chapter Two

  S.O.S.

  The Honourable Richard Rollison was amusing himself.

  He sat in a large easy-chair, with a brandy glass cupped in his hand, and surveyed a remarkable wall in front of him. If one could forget the three other deep-cream walls each with two landscapes in oils hanging on them, the excellent if orthodox furnishing of a room which was half drawing-room, half study, and forget also the normality of Rollison’s reposeful figure, it was possible to imagine that this was part of a museum. In fact, the only known counterpart was not much more than a mile away from this Mayfair flat: the Black Museum at Scotland Yard.

  Rollison was recalling the histories of some of the exhibits.

  There were the bloodstained chicken feathers, which reminded him of a chicken farm and murder; a top hat with a hole in the crown, worn when he had been within an inch of a bullet in the head; there were guns, knives, glass phials containing innocent looking but deadly powders; and there was also a hangman’s rope, which had once been placed round the neck of a man who now knew all the secrets of the next life.

  Rollison occasionally gave a gentle, reminiscent smile, which suggested that in spite of the recollections of violence, he was in peaceful mood. A door opened, and his man came in.

  “Hallo, Jolly. Bedtime?”

  “Unless there is anything else you require, sir?”

  “Nothing,” said Rollison. “I’m a little sad, Jolly. Thinking of all the things I used to do, and how reformed I am. No, I am not hankering after excitements, just mildly regretting that they weren’t spread out more evenly.”

  “They seem to have been consistent, sir,” said Jolly, and smiled faintly. Until that moment he had looked a doleful man, with a lined face and a myriad crows feet at his eyes, a rather scraggy jowl and a thin neck, which looked thinner on account of a wide collar at least two sizes too large. He had thin grey hair and brown eyes which were mournful in spite of the smile; they were also deceptive.

  “Consistent?” mused Rollison. “I doubt it. But we had infinite variety. I wonder what really started me chasing after bad men, Jolly. Have you ever plumbed the depths of your philosophy to form an opinion?”

  “I have not, sir,” said Jolly; “I don’t need to.”

  “You know me as well as all that? Come and sit down, help yourself to a drink and tell me all about myself.”

  “Thank you, sir, but I have just had my nightcap,” said Jolly. Nevertheless, he pulled up another arm-chair and s
at down, fully at ease; which he knew Rollison would expect. “It doesn’t often happen that a man is born with quite the same simplicity.”

  “Simplicity?” Rollison looked startled.

  “Simplicity,” insisted Jolly. There was a hint of a twinkle in his eyes, suggesting that he was enjoying this. “It is simplicity in this way, sir—you have a clear conception of the line between right and wrong. You are sentimental, which makes you take up lost causes with alacrity, and when you find a thing that is bad, you believe that it should be cut out, as a piece of wasp-bitten apple.”

  “Oh,” said Rollison. “That’s all?”

  “That is what has made you the most respected, and I use the word advisedly, amateur detective of your generation,” said Jolly, mildly. “Of course there are other attributes—”

  The telephone bell rang.

  “Timely,” said Rollison, who now looked crestfallen. “I couldn’t bear any more tonight. Tell whoever it is that I’m not at home, and then go to bed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jolly got out of his chair quickly, and with an ease worthy of a much younger man, lifted the telephone receiver from the instrument, which was on a table just out of Rollison’s reach. He listened; and he frowned.

  “I am sorry, but Mr. Rollison isn’t in, he—”

  He stopped, obviously because the caller didn’t believe him. His frown deepened, as he said: “One moment, please; I think I hear him coming in now.”

  He covered the mouthpiece with his hand, and added in a low-pitched voice: “I don’t think you’ll want to speak to him tonight, sir. It’s—ah—Mr. Ebbutt.”

  “And why shouldn’t I want to speak to Bill?”

  “He doubtless wishes to urge you to change your mind about that prize-giving at his boxing-school,” Jolly said unhappily, “and you have so many engagements that—”