Hammer the Toff

  Copyright & Information

  Hammer the Toff

  First published in 1950

  © John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1950-2014

  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 2015 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

  0755135687 9780755135684 Print

  075513902X 9780755139026 Kindle

  0755137361 9780755137367 Epub

  0755145666 9780755145669 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.

  Chapter One

  Out of the Night

  The train was rocking along at a tremendous pace. Too fast for the girl sitting opposite to Rollison.

  ‘We’ll be on time for once,’ said her husband contentedly. He was a young, cheerful-looking Artillery officer.

  ‘It’s a good train,’ said a man in the corner next to Rollison, ‘and seldom more than ten minutes late.’

  ‘Where are we?’ asked the girl.

  ‘Near Winchester,’ said the man in the corner.

  ‘We are slowing down, I think,’ said the Artillery officer. He began to talk about the leave he was about to enjoy, but Rollison answered absently. He was thinking of Susan Lancaster, whom he knew was on the train; and of two Scotland Yard officers who were in a compartment a short way from his. Susan and the Scotland Yard men were seeking the same thing: a man who had disappeared.

  A steward came along the corridor.

  ‘Take your seats for the last dinner, please. Take your seats for—’

  A sharp sound of breaking glass interrupted him. A hole appeared in the window, and glass flew in all directions.

  Something hit the outside door with a sharp, staccato ping.

  The train picked up speed while the passengers stared in stupefaction at the broken window. Inside the carriage there was no sound.

  ‘W-what was it?’ gasped the girl.

  ‘Some fool throwing stones,’ suggested the man in the corner, without much confidence.

  ‘It sounded like a bullet to me,’ said the girl’s husband, grimly. He opened the window and leaned out as the lights of Winchester station flashed by.

  Rollison joined him.

  There was a groove in the wooden frame, and something was buried there: a small bullet. The swaying of the train prevented him from making more than a brief inspection, and he straightened up. The guard came in, treading on glass which littered the floor.

  ‘What has been happening here?’ he demanded.

  ‘He can tell you,’ said Rollison, with a wave of his hand towards the Artillery officer. ‘I’ll be back.’

  He hurried along the corridor. In the third compartment he recognised Det. Sergeant Barrow of New Scotland Yard and a detective officer recently from the police college.

  There was no love lost between Sergeant Barrow and Richard Rollison, but now Barrow looked up with an air of puzzled relief.

  ‘Did you hear those bumps?’

  ‘Yes, and I’ve seen one of the bullets that caused them,’ said Rollison. ‘Which carriage is Miss Lancaster in?’

  ‘She’s gone along to the diner.’

  Rollison left the sergeant feeling more than a little angry. True, the detective had no instructions to watch Susan; on the other hand Barrow knew that it was possible that she was indirectly involved in a mystery which had attracted the attention of the police for some weeks past: the disappearance of Bruce Drayton.

  It seemed to Rollison that there was a possibility, if a slim one, that the shots had either been fired at the Yard men, or at Susan. It was even possible that they had been fired at himself, though he did not think anyone knew, as yet, that he was interested in Susan Lancaster’s affairs. That was Susan’s fault; she had deliberately cold-shouldered him for some time. Only Rollison’s concern for her, allied to a natural curiosity, had sustained his interest.

  The dining-car was nearly empty. Susan sat with her back to him, looking into a tiny mirror. She was so absorbed in her inspection – and, indeed, it was a charming sight – that she did not look up when he took the seat opposite her.

  ‘Very nice indeed,’ murmured Rollison.

  She flushed, thrust her mirror into her handbag, and made to get up. But the train rocked, and she was forced to sit down again.

  ‘There you are, you see, fate’s against you,’ said Rollison. ‘Spare me five minutes, even if—’

  ‘I’ve told you before that I have no desire at all to see you,’ said Susan, furiously. ‘Don’t you think I’m old enough to look after myself?’

  ‘Old enough, yes. Experienced enough, no.’

  ‘You’re insufferable!’

  ‘Not so very long ago …’ murmured Rollison.

  ‘I didn’t really know you then,’ she said quickly. I didn’t realise you were the most conceited, objectionable, thick-skinned and—and—’ she paused, drawing a deep breath.

  ‘Insufferable creature in the world,’ Rollison suggested.

  ‘Yes, you are!’

  ‘I wish I knew what was upsetting you,’ said Rollison. ‘You’re not yourself, Susan.’

  ‘I’m not myself! You—you think you’re so clever, you think you know better than the police, just because you’ve been lucky once or twice in detecting things, and made something of a reputation, and been taken up by one or two of the more sensational newspapers. Well, I don’t. I—’

  Rollison said: ‘Are you going to see Bruce?’

  His words made her break off again. She averted her gaze, and flushed deeply. This t
ime she succeeded in getting out of her seat, and walked away from him, her head high in the air.

  Curious glances were sent towards Rollison, and a middle-aged man grinned at him sympathetically. Rollison smiled back, but made no further attempt to force his attentions on Susan. She probably did not know that Yard men were on the train. And she had told him, by her attitude, that she expected – or hoped – to see Bruce.

  Rollison sat thinking …

  A few months earlier he had seen Susan at a party with Bruce Drayton, a scientist and an intellectual, who ought never to have come out of the back room. For half an hour Rollison had watched Drayton, noting the occasional curve of his lips, the sudden gleam of humour, judging there to be more in him than was commonly supposed.

  After that, he had met them several times and formed a great liking for the man. What he was working on, no one seemed to know, until one day Rollison met them together in a small restaurant, and Susan had rushed over to his table.

  ‘Rolly, you’d never believe it!’

  ‘Wouldn’t I?’ asked Rollison.

  ‘Never! Look!’ She thrust out a shapely, silk-clad leg for his inspection. Bruce walked over, deprecatingly.

  ‘Not quite so loud,’ he protested.

  Rollison had waved a hand and a waiter brought chairs.

  ‘Aren’t they marvellous?’ demanded Susan; her eyes glowing, ‘and they’re not silk or nylon, they’re Silva-Sheen. Bruce has just told me – he invented it!’

  ‘Did he, by George!’ exclaimed Rollison. ‘Congratulations, Bruce.’

  ‘Just stumbled on it,’ Bruce had murmured.

  That was characteristic of Bruce Drayton; he had ‘just stumbled on’ an invention which rivalled nylon. He had developed it in a Government laboratory, and the story had been released only that day. Most of the papers had made much of it, but the most significant item had been a small paragraph mentioning the huge orders already executed for the export trade.

  Then across the Atlantic had come a rumour: Silva-Sheen was already being made in America. Bruce had been greatly concerned. For three days Silva-Sheen had again hit the headlines, while the police were employed to trace the leakage.

  The whole affair might have faded out of the news, but for the fact that Bruce disappeared.

  He had walked out of his flat one morning to go to the office, and had not been seen again. Rollison had gone to see Superintendent Grice of Scotland Yard, whom he knew well. Grice had told him that there was still no reason at all to suspect that Drayton knew anything about the leakage of Silva-Sheen, but naturally the police wanted to find out where and why he had gone.

  When Rollison had returned to his Gresham Terrace flat, Susan had been waiting for him, a despairing, desperate creature. She was sure Bruce was dead, she was terrified, she couldn’t live without him, Rollison must find him; and that and much more which, when sorted out, Rollison had thought proved nothing more than shock and alarm. For several days she had called on him and telephoned him every hour or so.

  As abruptly as her visits begun, they ceased.

  Rollison had been glad of a rest, for he had much to do. The police assured him that they were continuing their inquiries, and he was more or less content to let the matter rest there.

  As the train sped on, Rollison recalled all that, and also the shock he had received one evening when he had taken a country cousin to a London night club. There he had seen Susan, apparently having the time of her life, in the company of a handsome, distinguished-looking man. In view of her frantic concern over the disappearance of Bruce Drayton it hardly made sense.

  Rollison went over to speak to her, but she received him coldly. Her escort, it appeared, was a Colonel Horniman. A closer view showed him to be not quite so handsome as Rollison had thought. Nevertheless, Susan was clearly impressed.

  From then on she had been inaccessible to Rollison. Try as he might, he could not find out how she had met Horniman, but it became increasingly evident that the gallant Colonel exerted considerable influence over her.

  Rollison had made inquiries about the man, and even exchanged notes with Grice. The Colonel’s reputation was, as Grice put it, ‘fairly good’. He was interested in textiles; he was a director of one of the companies which held a manufacturing licence for Silva-Sheen, and he had many business associates abroad. Yet there were rumours about Horniman’s business methods which certainly did not redound to his credit, and Susan, Rollison considered, was doing herself no good by associating so freely with him.

  Horniman was now believed to be in Bournemouth.

  Susan had left her flat late that afternoon and Rollison, now interested almost against his will, had followed her, heard her book for Bournemouth, and telephoned his man to send some clothes down on the next train. He had not been surprised to see the two Yard men on the platform. They might be going to see Horniman, or they might just have followed Susan, believing her to be going to see Bruce Drayton. It was a situation full of possibilities and one Rollison would have enjoyed but for Susan …

  The dining-car door opened, and Barrow appeared. He was a tall, fair-haired man, not bad looking. In Rollison’s opinion he thought too much of himself and he lacked the spark of humour which could have been a touchstone between two men. Now he advanced purposefully along the car, and dropped into the seat Susan had just left.

  ‘How are the inquiries going?’ asked Rollison, lightly.

  ‘You knew it was a bullet, didn’t you?’ demanded Barrow.

  ‘And I told you about it,’ said Rollison.

  ‘Why did you rush away?’

  ‘To make sure that Susan Lancaster was not hurt,’ said Rollison. ‘You might have taken the same precaution yourself.’

  Barrow flushed. ‘I know my business,’ he said.

  ‘Then leave me mine,’ murmured Rollison. He judged from Barrow’s manner that a storm was blowing up, and decided on propitiation. ‘What do you make of it?’

  ‘Those shots were fired at the train.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Rollison, gravely.

  ‘And probably at our particular compartments,’ said Barrow. ‘We’ll be at Southampton soon, and I’m going to have a look at the other compartments. There were several bangs, weren’t there?’

  ‘I heard half a dozen,’ Rollison told him.

  ‘And the train had slowed down at a point where it always does these days,’ said Barrow. ‘It’s just beneath a road bridge. If anyone knew which compartments certain people were sitting in, they could have aimed at them.’

  ‘Yes. But the question is, why should they?’ asked Rollison.

  ‘I don’t know, yet,’ said Barrow, as if that were a trivial problem which would soon be solved. ‘I do know that if someone from London telephoned someone at Winchester and told them what compartment we were in, it could easily have been arranged. And from the bridge it’s possible to look into the train and recognise the passengers. It wouldn’t surprise me,’ Barrow added sententiously, ‘if someone wanted to prevent me from getting to Bournemouth.’

  ‘Possibly,’ murmured Rollison.

  ‘Don’t you agree?’ demanded Barrow, bridling.

  ‘It could be,’ said Rollison, ‘but when you look at it dispassionately, it would have to have been some pretty fancy shooting, because the train was moving, after all.’

  ‘Only at about five miles an hour,’ said Barrow, obstinately. ‘It could have been fixed, all right.’

  Rollison nodded, not wanting to argue; and he was glad when the train began to slow down. ‘Southampton!’ exclaimed Barrow, and hurried out.

  Rollison alighted when the train stopped, and went up to examine the outside of the coaches. An excited group of people from his own and adjacent compartments crowded the platform.

  It appeared to Rollison that at least half a dozen shots had been fired. Most of them had buried themselves in the coachwork.

  ‘It is a fortunate thing that no one was hurt,’ said one of the passengers. ‘Young hooligans, I sho
uld say, playing games.’

  ‘Rather older hooligans, I should say, and not playing games,’ said the Artillery officer crisply. ‘It looks as if someone meant business, don’t you think so?’ He appealed to Rollison.

  ‘It takes some understanding,’ answered Rollison, non-commitally. ‘I—’

  He stopped abruptly.

  He had not gone along the corridor in the other direction, and did not know who was in the compartment next to his. Now he caught a glimpse of a handsome man with a thin, trap-like mouth: none other than Colonel Horniman. A small man, almost hunchbacked, was leaning inside the Colonel’s compartment, and Rollison caught the words: ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘Don’t be a fool,’ growled Horniman.

  ‘They scared me,’ said the little man. ‘I thought—’

  Horniman snapped: ‘Shut up!’

  As he spoke, the guard’s whistle blew and the station-master broke up the little crowd. The man who had been talking to Horniman turned and hurried along the platform. Rollison thought he boarded the train, but could not be sure. He did feel sure that it was Horniman who had been shot at.

  Chapter Two

  The Cottage

  Rollison bade his travelling companions a cheerful goodbye as he watched Susan, the Yard men and Horniman. It seemed to him that Horniman did not want Susan to know that he was there; or he might, thought Rollison, have been anxious to avoid the police. Susan took a taxi to the Lorne Hall Hotel, the detective officer followed her and Barrow went off in a taxi by himself. Rollison heard him say: ‘Police Station, Madeira Road,’ as he got into the cab.

  So Barrow was going to enlist the help of the local police, which suggested that he had high hopes of results.

  Rollison waited in the shadows of the station, and at last Horniman came out. There was no taxi left, and Horniman asked a porter if it was far to the Lorne Hall Hotel,

  Rollison decided that it was wiser that the man should not feel that he was being followed at every step, and waited until a taxi arrived, before he himself set out for Lorne Hall Hotel.