Introducing The Toff Read online

  Copyright & Information

  Introducing the Toff

  (It’s the Toff!)

  First published in 1938

  Copyright: John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1938-2010

  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 2010 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

  0755117719 9780755117710 Print

  0755118685 9780755118687 Pdf

  0755125517 9780755125517 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.

  Creasy 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.

  Dedication

  To

  L. E. PRATT,

  who first put the Toff into print

  1: THE TOFF IS CURIOUS

  In the murky saloon bars of the East End of London, and the countless grimy doss-houses in the side streets and alleys branching from the Thames, where the scum of the earth got drunk and the chief topic of conversation was crime, they called the Hon, Richard Rollison the Toff. Wherein lay many stories.

  At the time of the story with which we are immediately concerned, the occupants of those squalid quarters dare not speak the Toff’s name without looking furtively over their shoulders, suspicious of any unfamiliar face, fearful that he was among them. He appeared in the most unexpected places, and at the most inconvenient times, with a twisted grin at the corners of his mouth and his grey eyes glinting as though he had just communed with the Devil himself, and had the Devil’s own knowledge of the particular piece of villainy under discussion.

  From Lopez the Killer, whose thin-bladed knife had been the foulest weapon in London until the Toff got him, to the lowest-browed pickpocket, they were afraid of the Toff. If he singled out any one of them for his attentions, the victim felt a clammy sensation about his neck, saw a pair of flinty grey eyes wherever he went, and was in a state of perpetual ferment, afraid that the Toff was waiting for him at the next corner, yet not sure that his lean, powerful figure wasn’t behind him, waiting for just the right moment to do his stuff.

  Nine times out of ten it was easy meat when the Toff did strike. He called it psychological terrorism, and said unblushingly that he had brought the science to the positive peak of perfection.

  Only a very few among that section of the community conveniently labelled the Underworld, denied it. Things came to such a pitch that when the Toff was in the offing it was difficult to hire a cosher – the lowest form of labour in Limehouse and Shadwell – and next-door to impossible to find a man prepared to handle dope or take up a safe drop for blackmail.

  The police could be coped with; the ordinary private investigator was a thing of scorn; but the Toff was a thing apart. Sometimes he worked on his own, and sometimes he worked hand-in-glove with the police. Not that he had any great love for the police as such, but having one great point in common with them – being the suppression of crime, particularly crime with violence, or drug trafficking, or blackmail, and that vilest trade of all, white slavery – co-operation was sometimes necessary.

  Cracksmen and worse hated it most when the Toff worked on his own. On those occasions he adopted measures to attain his ends which would certainly have not been approved by the majesty of the law, but they were undoubtedly effective. The origin of the Toff’s campaign against crime was the subject of many wild rumours, but in point of fact it was simple. He came down from Cambridge worth half a million of money and with a hatred of dullness. To escape it he travelled the world’s farthest corners; and from the dope dens of Shanghai, the dives of San Francisco, and the cesspools of Marseilles, trickled fantastic stories of his speed on the draw, his uncanny accuracy with a knife, the punch like the kick of a mule, which he carried in both hands. And always they were concentrated in the one subject – the suppression of crime.

  Achmed Dragoli first heard of the Toff from Harry the Pug, a retired prize-fighter. Harry’s face was completely flattened, and his latter years had been spent in the profitable business of pub-keeping and, occasionally, the bumping off of unwanted folk.

  The police rarely found the body when Harry the Pug did a job, which accounted for Harry’s prosperity and the comparative safety of his Shadwell pub, the ‘Red Lion.’ It said much for the Pug’s cunning that so far the Toff had not paid his respects to his particular den.

  The two men were sitting in Harry’s private parlour, above the saloon bar. Achmed Dragoli, who had been introduced to the Pug by another gentleman in the trade, made a promising proposition, but Harry turned it down flat.

  ‘Not a hope,’ he said finally. ‘I wouldn’t touch it for ten thousand thick ‘uns. Before we got going we’d have the Toff on the job – and I ain’t ready for the rope yet, mister.’

  ‘Mister’ was Harry’s regular form of address.

  Dragoli evinced no signs of disappointment. He was a big man, with a curious flowing grace of the East, but his deep-set black eyes, with their yellowish whites, full lips partly hidden by a silky brown beard, bore silent testimony to that worst of all rogues: the Eastern degenerate.

  He spoke good English, with a slow, careful enunciation.

  ‘You are frightened of this – Toff?’

  Harry the Pug had a thick skin.

  ‘I’ll say I am,’ he admitted candidly, ‘and there ain’t a bloke what’s come up against him once who wouldn’t live through a n’earthquake rather than run into ‘im again. I seen the Toff pick up a bigger man than you and pitch ‘im over a twelve-foot wall – and I ‘adn’t been drinkin’. And I ain’t doing no killing this time, Mr. Dragoli. That’s final, see?’


  ‘I was told,’ said Dragoli cunningly, ‘that you had a reputation for doing this work safely.’

  Harry patted his large stomach.

  ‘Sure,’ he said complacently, ‘that’s right. Show me the man yer want to git rid of, and I’ll do it slicker’n any man in town – if it’s straightforward. But there’s too many loose ends, mister, and’ – the Pug’s little eyes glinted –’I ‘appen to know the Toff’s in town. That’s enough for me. He’d be on our tails in ‘arf a shake, and there wouldn’t be a sparrer’s chance of gittin’ ‘im off it.’ Harry paused, and poked his thumbs through the armholes of his gaudy waistcoat. ‘Sorry, mister. I know yer money’s good. You wouldn’t come from where you do if it wasn’t. But I ain’t takin’ no chances with a killin’ job when the Toff’s around.’

  Dragoli stood up, shrugging his shoulders. Harry watched him half-way to the door before he spoke again.

  ‘But I don’t mind doin’ yer a good turn, mister. There’s a guy what might take yer, pokin’ round town – a Yank. I reckon he ain’t met the Toff yet. His name’s Garrotty and you’ll find him at Blind Sletter’s place – the “Steam Packet”, Lambeth. You know the “Steam Packet”, don’t you?’

  Dragoli nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ he said in a curiously chanting voice, ‘and I’ve heard of Garrotty. Perhaps it would be as well to give this job to him.’

  ‘He won’t turn it down,’ said Harry the Pug with assurance. ‘He’s gittin’ tired of doing nothing. Good night, mister.’

  As with many of the Toff’s adventures, fate had told him nothing of Achmed Dragoli before the affair near the London-Chelmsford road. But it is fairly safe to assume that he knew nothing beyond the fact that Garrotty, the latest Chicago Big Shot, had slipped past the police and was somewhere in England. The connection between Dragoli and Garrotty was as yet unknown, and the sinister influence of the Black Circle was barely suspected. Otherwise the Toff would not have been caught napping; that never happened when he was out on ‘business’.

  Yet even after the first brush he felt in his bones that the murder on the Chelmsford road went deeper even than it appeared, which was deep enough. And, as often happened, he was right.

  The Toff was driving across the low-lying Essex countryside, beneath a harvest moon shimmering silver from blue-grey heavens, dimmed now and again by little white puffs of cloud. There was an exhilarating nip in the air, and his body was pleasantly relaxed after a day’s country-house cricket – his favourite game – at his father’s Norfolk home. Only a little affair at the Old Bailey next morning, when he was due to give testimony anent the murderous activities of Lopez the Killer, would have made him do the journey that night instead of waiting till the following day; from such small beginnings sprang many of the Toff’s adventures.

  He was three miles out of Chelmsford when he first saw the big car; and he thanked the fates for the light of the moon, which showed him the flying black shape at the top of a rise nearly a mile away. It carried no headlights, which at such a speed was a crime in itself.

  ‘It looks,’ murmured the Toff gently, ‘like a thoroughgoing road-hog. The fool must be travelling at seventy. It’s a night for optimism, but if we’re not darned careful there’ll be a smash with a capital ‘S’, and me in the middle of it.’

  The Toff eased down the engine of his Frazer-Nash sports car, pushed his finger on the button of the electric horn, and kept it there. It blared out a long, continuous warning, urgent and imperative, through the quiet of the night.

  ‘That ought to steady him,’ thought the Toff.

  But he prepared for the worst, braking to a standstill, levering his lean body from his seat and sizing up the chances of a leap out if the onrushing car didn’t slow down. Some men might have got out first and thought about it afterwards. Not so the Toff, who would stick it to the last minute. At a pinch he could jump clear of the bracken edge alongside the road; better a few scratches than a broken head.

  In spite of the screeching of the Toff’s horn, the car still came on; and, as it came nearer, its ferocious speed grew more and more apparent. The little yellow orbs of its wing lamps were visible now, twisting and turning with the narrow road. Gradually the hum of its engine impinged itself on the Toff’s ears.

  ‘Not so good,’ he murmured, and sent out a series of long blasts on the electric horn. Would the fool of a driver pull up in time to prevent a smash?

  Touch and go, anyhow.

  The car – a Daimler he saw now – swung into the Toff’s straight stretch; only a hundred yards separated the two machines. Those little yellow orbs glowed weirdly in the pale light; the Daimler looked unreal, a ghostly monster of speed, ninety yards away – eighty – seventy.

  ‘The perishing fool must be blind or deaf,’ growled the Toff. ‘And I’d like to know why he’s cutting that speed. Something sharp must be biting him.’

  But the time for speculation had gone; it was a matter of seconds now. The Toff pressed his horn again hurriedly and flexed the muscles of his calves. He saw the big car looming towards him, heard the great engine roaring, droning, saw the little yellow orbs rushing at his eyes.

  Then suddenly he relaxed and slid back in his seat, the corners of his mouth turning down.

  The driver of the Daimler – a vague silhouette of head and shoulders to the Toff – leaned forward and clutched at his brake. The night air howled with the screech as the big car stopped in its rush, leaped inches in the air, came down and slithered to a quivering standstill.

  ‘An end to that spot of bother,’ thought the Toff.

  But for once in his life he was taken in, simply because he was not expecting trouble. As he groped for his clutch, intending to ease forward a yard or two and get within complaining distance of the driver, he was plunged suddenly into a blinding sea of light. Without a second’s warning the Daimler’s headlights were switched full on.

  The Toff cursed, and darted his hands towards his eyes. It was the last thing he had expected, and the surprise, if it was intended for such, was completely successful. Momentarily the Toff forgot himself and he said things across the dazzle to the driver of the Daimler that would have made a Bowery tough turn pink.

  But as quickly as it flared his anger evaporated; and as he cooled down he heard the soft purr of the Daimler’s engine. The big car was being eased forward through that ocean of blinding light.

  For some reason the Toff felt strangely still. He sat motionless for a second, but for the widening of his eyes as the headlights dimmed, and then went out.

  The moon prevented pitch darkness from coming, and the Toff looked about him very thoughtfully. It was a queer business, and queer things were the Toff’s stock-in-trade.

  The radiator of the Daimler, steaming with the heat of the engine, was only a yard away. The driver was leaning out of the window, and the first impression that the Toff had of him was of yellowish eyes glowing balefully in the moonlight. Then the Toff saw the smooth dark beard, the rounded, regular features; and he knew that he was looking at a gentleman from the East.

  But at that moment the Toff was more concerned with the man’s road-hogging than his appearance, yet for the Toff his protest was strangely mild.

  ‘You weren’t asking for trouble, were you? What would have happened if I hadn’t been looking?’

  But his sarcasm was lost on the foreigner. The man’s head came forward; on closer inspection the Toff saw the crow’s-feet gathered in the corners of his queer eyes, and the furrows across his brow beneath the black Homburg hat, thrust too far back on his head.

  ‘I must ask you to excuse me, sir.’ The voice was smooth, uncannily suggesting the swaying incantation of the East, though the English was word perfect. ‘I am in a very great hurry. Perhaps you will be good enough to reverse to a wider stretch of road?’

  ‘He doesn’t lack nerve,’ thought the Toff, and he was conscious of a sudden unreasoning antagonism. On top of the shilly-shallying with the headlights, the man’s manner caught him on
the raw. He could have forgiven the haste but not the attitude and the negligible sincerity of the apology.

  Perhaps because of that sudden feeling of hostility his voice was unusually mild.

  ‘I’m in a hurry too,’ he drawled. ‘You do the honours,’ and he smiled provokingly.

  The baleful eyes narrowed. The Toff almost felt the other’s effort to restrain a rant of abuse, but he admitted that it was kept well in check.

  ‘I hope you will not insist, sir,’ said the driver. ‘Perhaps if I explain that I am a doctor you will better understand my fast driving. This is my third important case tonight. And it is extremely urgent.’

  ‘Is it?’ wondered the Toff.

  The tired eyes, and the look of near-exhaustion, bore ample testimony to the man’s words. It was a reasonable explanation, but it didn’t ring true, perhaps because it was slick and plausible. It made the Toff very thoughtful and very polite, for to him there was something furtive and suspicious about that nearly catastrophic meeting.

  But on the face of it there was only one thing to do. The Toff hated the thought of denying aid to the weak and ailing, and he said as much as he slipped the sports car into reverse. There was a wider patch of road a hundred yards or so back.

  The little car slid backwards. The doctor let in his clutch, and the Daimler crawled forward, still no more than two yards away from the smaller car’s radiator. Whatever else, the man was certainly in a hurry – and thought the Toff, something was playing old Harry with his nerves. The twitching eyes and nostrils told of a state of high tension. And it occurred to the Toff that anyone who was doctored by him at the moment would have been in Queer Street.

  But there were other things occupying the Toff’s wayward attention. As he moved backwards, without hurrying himself, he seemed to be staring hard into his driving mirror. Suspicion was taking a more definite shape in his mind, though it was vague enough. A little imp of doubt inside him grew restive; and one problem loomed larger than the rest.