The Toff at Camp Read online

  Copyright & Information

  The Toff at Camp

  First published in 1954

  © John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1954-2014

  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

  0755136586 9780755136582 Print

  0755139917 9780755139910 Kindle

  0755138260 9780755138265 Epub

  0755146298 9780755146291 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

  A Letter For Rollison

  ‘Isn’t she lovely?’ marvelled Richard Rollison, holding the pamphlet at arm’s length. ‘Such poise. Such colouring. Such beauty. Look at those eyes. If I thought there were half a chance of finding a girl like it at Billy Butlin’s, I’d spend a holiday there myself.’

  His man, Jolly, shuddered. It was a delicate, one might almost say a refined, shudder. It was accompanied by an expression not so much of horror as of hurt, and mingled with it was a little incredulity and a tincture of dismay.

  Jolly had exactly the right kind of face with which to register such emotions. It was pale, lined, sad; in repose, his brown eyes had the intent look of a dog’s who did not know what ridiculous impulse would take his master next. Beneath his chin, Jolly’s skin was baggy; at his eyes there were dark shadows. He dressed in a black coat and striped grey trousers, and wore a winged collar and a funereal cravat. He was very much the gentleman’s gentleman; and in solemn moments Rollison, the Honourable Richard Rollison, would be almost lachrymose about this, for it was so evident that gentlemen’s gentlemen were a dying race.

  ‘Gorgeous,’ Rollison added, not at all tearful on that warm afternoon in July.

  The weather made the grey roofs and grey walls of the house opposite look almost beautiful; the patch of blue sky, visible if one craned one’s neck, suggested that this might not be London, England, but some heavenly spot on the Mediterranean or the Pacific, where travel agents said the sky was always blue and the sun always shone and there was no such thing as rain except during the night.

  ‘Isn’t she?’ added Rollison earnestly, and glanced up from the pink-faced, golden-limbed damsel in an abbreviated swim-suit who ornamented the front of the pamphlet. He became reproachful. ‘Jolly, I don’t think you are even looking at her.’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Jolly. ‘I—’

  ‘Don’t tell me that you disapprove, I couldn’t stand it. You’re too old to reform your ways. Slim and beautiful girls have always fascinated you.’

  ‘Is there anything of importance in the post, sir?’ asked Jolly, positively on the point of exasperation.

  Rollison, sitting at his large desk, with his back to a wall which looked as if it belonged to a theatrical costumier’s shop, because of the variety of objects hanging on or sticking to it, shook his head.

  Those who did not know him were always quick to admit that he was a remarkably handsome man. True, there were some who said that he was not so young as he had been, and it is true that anno domini had laid a courteous hand upon him. Here and there in his dark, wavy hair there was a tell-tale thread of grey. At the corners of his eyes and the corners of his lips were tiny lines, which grew deeper and sharper whenever he smiled. But these things were simply the evidence of maturity, mellowing him graciously. Those who knew him well at this time agreed that he was in his prime, and that he looked not a day older than he had ten years before.

  Despite the tiny crows’-feet, his grey eyes often held the familiar and famous steely glint, yet could glow with laughter or burn as with fire, could stab with hostility or smile with friendliness. They were remarkable eyes, which had frightened the life out of some and the wits out of many, yet encouraged others – men without hope – to recover faith in human nature.

  His mouth remained a mobile thing, capable of suggesting the whole gamut of emotions. Emotional people, teenage girls especially, had been known to hold their breath in the hope that he would smile. He had a following worthy of a film star, which was not his fault and actively distressed him.

  His lean body had no superfluous flesh; all his seventy-three inches, his breadth of shoulder, his long legs, and long, muscular arms, were made for ease of movement. He was a graceful, handsome, mellow, and remarkable man of varied and astonishing gifts.

  The world knew him as the Toff.

  The Toff, of course, had won his spurs over the years as an Enemy of Crime. He had been called many and wondrous things, only a few of which can be repeated here, and of these the least extravagant are the Modern Robin Hood, the Gay Adventurer, and – used with much justification – the Scarlet Pimpernel of the Atomic Age.

  An American once summed it up succinctly.

  ‘Sure, I understand,’ he said. ‘The guy’s a private eye.’

  Once upon a time, then being wealthy, Rollison had been able to investigate crime for the sake of it, not needing to earn more money. Times had changed. Poverty had threatened him, and now he used his many talents so as to earn his living. He had found this difficult, at first, and might never have managed it but for Jolly. Jolly was the Toff ’s valet, Man Friday, butler, secretary, amanuensis, confidant, and legman - and also his Business Manager.

  Naturally, Jolly was anxious to turn Rollison’s wayward eye from contemplation of a beauteous damsel depicted upon an advertisement for Butlin’s Holiday Camps to letters of importance. Jolly was always looking for business.

  Rollison spent thirty seconds sifting through lette
rs.

  ‘Nothing from millionaires wanting our services,’ he said. ‘We’ve seven bills, that means it’s early in the month, doesn’t it?’

  ‘The fourth of July, sir.’

  ‘I shall mourn America, you attend to the bills,’ said Rollison sadly, and collected these and handed them to Jolly with a flourish. ‘We also have four appeals for help for some deserving causes, perhaps a couple of guineas each?’ That was almost pleading.

  Jolly took these letters of appeal firmly.

  ‘We have not the funds with which to contribute to new charities, sir, your present list is already far too long.’

  ‘Pity,’ sighed Rollison. ‘Oh, well. Lord and Lady Mollivery will be calling tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘There’s a letter from the Ansons, in Cape Town,’ Rollison went on. ‘They lost their dog and wonder if we’d care to go and look for it. A joke. And that’s the lot.’

  Jolly leaned forward, to make sure.

  On the desk were other pamphlets which had been included in the large envelope from Butlin’s Holiday Camps. Strangely enough, each appeared to have a picture of a beautiful girl on it; sometimes with young men, sometimes with children, and sometimes with mountains in the background. In all there were seven pieces of gaily coloured literature. Beneath one lurked the corner of an envelope.

  ‘Have you read this, sir?’

  Jolly touched the envelope cautiously, almost disdainfully, as if it might soil his fingers; but he touched it. It was sealed, and addressed by typewriter to:

  The Hon. Richard Rollison, C.B.E., M.C., F.C.,

  B.E.M., Croix de Guerre,

  22g, Gresham Terrace,

  London,

  W.I.

  Jolly’s expression relaxed.

  ‘What’s softening you?’ asked Rollison, and took the envelope. He grinned at the string of letters. ‘I wonder where they raked it all up?’ He picked up a paper-knife (which had once been plunged into the heart of an unpleasant character by an even more unpleasant character whom Rollison had helped on his journey to the gallows) and slit the envelope.

  He drew out a letter.

  Across the top, waves of grey were superimposed upon white paper. In the centre of this was the one word, in red script: Butlin’s. Beneath this was a tiny ‘Ltd’. The address, centred beneath the name in black, was Oxford Street, London, W.I – hardly a stone’s throw from Gresham Terrace.

  The letter was brief:

  Dear Mr. Rollison,

  The undersigned would be grateful if you could call to see him in the course of the next day or two. It would be an advantage if you could telephone when you are coming, but the undersigned will see you at any convenient time to your good self.

  Yours very truly,

  Wickford White

  Silently, Rollison handed this to Jolly.

  Jolly read.

  ‘I am told,’ said Rollison, in an envious voice, ‘that this organization is large, powerful, and wealthy. In view of the state of our bank balance, I think we shall have to overcome your reluctance and your disapproval and see Mr. Undersigned, don’t you?’

  ‘Mr. White, sir.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘No doubt it would be wise to find out what he desires to discuss with you,’ conceded Jolly, choosing his words with finicky precision, ‘but I think I may say that our bank balance is not yet in such a parlous position that you need to accept any suggestion which might be made.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘I am told that this—ah—organization has a remarkable flair for publicity,’ said Jolly sententiously, ‘and I should hesitate very much before allowing our name to be used in such a connection. I would employ the utmost caution, sir—in fact, if I were to telephone Mr. White—’

  ‘No,’ interpolated Rollison. ‘I wouldn’t trust you to, Jolly. You’d probably make him feel as if he were a nasty smell. Open your eyes, man. There could be a fortune in this.’

  ‘I very much doubt it, sir.’

  ‘But then, we don’t really need a fortune, do we?’ asked Rollison brightly. ‘Our bank balance isn’t in such a mess after all. Give me those charity appeals.’

  ‘But, sir—’ Jolly drew back, startled.

  ‘I shall send two guineas to each,’ declared Rollison, ‘first because I’d like to, second so as to teach you not to mislead me on matters of High Finance.’ He grabbed the appeals. ‘Now get me the great Undersigned.’

  He began to write cheques while Jolly, as near glowering as Jolly could, and with an air of such long suffering, that had Rollison noticed he must surely have relented, lifted the telephone.

  It took several minutes to be connected with Mr. Wickford White. Jolly leaned from one side to the other, breathing deeply; he even began to mouth words. Rollison signed the fourth cheque, lit a cigarette, and studied the letter.

  A small chiming clock on the desk struck eleven. It was a remarkable little clock, of hand-beaten silver, and there was none other like it in the world. Worked on the cuckoo-clock principle, a tiny opening appeared in the bottom of it when the mechanism was set; but instead of a cuckoo, a tiny pistol and a lethal bullet appeared. A Frenchman who had since lost his head on the guillotine had presented it to Rollison – forgetting, for some mysterious reason, to explain the mechanism. A scar remained on Rollison’s shoulder.

  Rollison leaned back in his comfortable swivel chair, and smiled at Jolly, who stared at the opposite wall rather like a soldier on parade.

  At last: ‘Is that Mr. Wickford White—’

  ‘Colonel Wickford White,’ breathed Rollison, and tapped a corner of the letter-heading, whereon was a list of directors.

  ‘Mr. Richard Rollison would like a word with you,’ Jolly said, in a voice which must have sounded as if it had been acquired in the Arctic wastes. ‘One moment, please.’

  He handed Rollison the telephone.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Rollison, and made himself sound amiable. ‘Colonel White?’

  ‘Very good of you to call me,’ said the Colonel, with great warmth. ‘I do appreciate it, very much indeed. I hope you can spare me half an hour some time today, or better still’ — he spoke as if he were suddenly inspired — ‘have lunch with me. Can you?’

  ‘Nice of you,’ murmured Rollison. ‘If you could give me some idea of what it’s about—’

  ‘Much rather see you,’ boomed the Colonel. ‘Talk it over much better that way. I assure you I won’t waste your time, and you’re just the right man for the job. It’s Mr. Butlin’s own idea, and I couldn’t agree with him more. Do have lunch with me. At the Gondoliers, in Nickle Street—but perhaps I could pick you up somewhere.’

  In that moment Rollison decided. It was partly because the breezy, bounding voice of Colonel Wickford White intrigued him; the voice which seemed to tell of a most refreshing vitality. It was partly because he had heard much, in a casual way, about the fabulous Holiday Camp organization, and that also intrigued him. It was partly because his Business Manager had trained him to be ready to seize any opportunity to earn a large fee; or any kind of fee.

  ‘Nice of you,’ he repeated, ‘I will. You couldn’t bring the girl along with you, could you?’

  Jolly raised his hands, horrified.

  The Colonel sounded boisterously startled.

  ‘Eh? What’s that? Who?’

  ‘The Cover Girl. You must know. The luscious bit on the cover of the pamphlet, whom you forgot to put on the letter-heading. Don’t say she isn’t real?’

  Before he had finished, White was chuckling; which suggested that he had a quick mind and a reasonable sense of humour.

  ‘Oh, she’s real all right,’ he said. ‘If we get along as well as I hope we shall, I’ll soon introduce her to you.’ He chuckled again, uproariously. ‘Shall we say one o’clock, at the Gondoliers?’

  Chapter Two

  The Colonel’s Problem

  The Gondoliers was comparatively new and extremely popular among those who ap
preciated perfect Italian cooking, which meant exquisite food, the best wine that the valleys of Italy and of France could produce, service second to none, and comfort and a sense of being truly welcome. Rollison knew it well. He was known by the head waiter, the wine waiter, the doorman, the lesser waiters, and – even more noteworthy – he was known by Signor Giuliani, who owned the restaurant.

  Nickle Street was narrow; it was almost inaccessible. Touring Americans likened the district to Greenwich Village on a postage stamp, but it was not quite so small as that. The approaching streets were narrow, but a car could move along them – although at some spots it was necessary for two wheels to mount the shallow pavement. Nowhere could cars pass one another.

  Rollison, who had walked, turned into Nickle Street at five minutes to one. It would have been hard to find a more drab prospect. Here were little houses, some turned into shops, practically all in need of a coat of paint; most, in fact, needed two or three coats. Yet there was a something which the rest of London could not boast, unless one regarded Soho as being in London. Soho was on a much larger scale than this, however. But a grocer’s shop stood at the corner, boasting on its fascia board the name of Pirandello, and displaying in its window all the strange jars and wicker baskets and tins with exotic labels which one might find in Milan or Genoa or Rome. Hanging in the window were bottles (probably empty) of Chianti in their raffia holders. In odd corners were mysterious-looking cheeses, strange beans and berries in little bottles, salami, and, of course, spaghetti and ravioli ready for cooking.

  It was called by some by a romantic name: Little Italy.

  A large London policeman filled the pavement which led towards the Gondoliers. He saw Rollison, and frowned, as if in an effort of memory. As they drew level, he beamed and said triumphantly: ‘Good morning, Mr. Rollison!’

  ‘Hallo, Hubb,’ said Rollison brightly, ‘keeping all right?’

  They stopped, and P.C. Hubb – his name was Hubb – looked at Rollison as an incredulous explorer of the oceans might look when coming face to face with a coelacanth or any other fishy form of missing link.