The Toff and the Kidnapped Child

The Toff and The Kidnapped Child

 

First published in 1960

© John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1960-2012

 

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.

 

 

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

 

 

 

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.

 

 

Rollison was sitting in a deep armchair, reading Gustav Schenk's
Book of Poisons
with awed fascination, when the front door bell rang. It was late for an unexpected caller, nearly ten o'clock, and he lifted his eyes from the book and listened for any sound from Jolly, his man. Jolly seemed to have some kind of gastric flu, and had been advised to go to bed early; but a footstep came almost at once, which proved that he had ignored advice; that was usual, if to follow it meant causing Rollison inconvenience.

There was a passage leading from the domestic quarters to the lounge hall of his Mayfair flat; and a door, ajar, leading from the hall to the living-room. Rollison felt compulsively drawn towards a vivid description of the mushrooms which could make men drunk, less compulsively drawn to guess who had called. The front door opened. Rollison felt a momentary qualm, because unexpected callers had been known to come possessed with the thought of violence, his reputation being what it was.

Jolly's voice reassured him.

“Good evening, madam.” His voice and the ‘madam' made it clear that the caller was a stranger. Forgetting intoxicating mushrooms, Rollison leaned his head on the back of the chair, and listened intently for any vocal clue to the caller's identity.

“Good evening. Is Mr Rollison in?” It was a pleasant voice, that of a cultured woman, not put on.

“I will find out if you care to wait a moment,” Jolly said. “What name may I tell him, please?”

“I am Mrs Kane.”

“Thank you, madam.” Jolly's voice gave away more than the woman's; he liked the look of her. The front door closed, there was a rustle of the evening newspaper which Jolly always kept available for any caller whom Rollison might not want to see at once. Jolly walked audibly towards his own quarters and the kitchen, and a moment later came in at the other door of the large, well-proportioned room on the top floor of a graceful terrace house.

He kept his voice low. “A Mrs Kane has called, sir.”

“And you think I ought to see her,” Rollison hazarded.

“I think you would wish to, sir.”

“You shall be the judge,” said Rollison, resignedly. “How are your aches and pains?”

“A little easier, sir.”

“Good. Don't go too far away, in case you're wrong. It might be wise to have a witness to what our caller says,” observed Rollison, out of bitter experience.

“Very good, sir,” said Jolly.

He bowed slightly, turned, and went to the lounge-hall door. Rollison smiled at his back, as ever mildly amused because Jolly was so very much what he should be: the gentleman's gentleman of the past behaving as if there were no social differences between past and present. Rollison stood up, closed the
Book of Poisons
and left it on the arm of his chair, and went to his desk. This was a large pedestal one of figured walnut, inlaid with Spanish leather, and behind it was what had become known and almost legendary as his Trophy Wall. This was adorned with souvenirs of the many crimes he had investigated, and the adornments helped to explain his own momentary qualm. Not many months ago a man had called about this time on a blustery March evening, with the avowed intention of shooting Rollison; he had been the son of a man recently freed after spending nearly ten years in prison at Rollison's instigation. Apparently the father had told the son that only Rollison had been to blame for catching him out in violent crime.

The door opposite the desk opened, and Jolly murmured: “Mrs Kane, sir,” and stood aside.

One glance was sufficient to tell Rollison why Jolly had been so well disposed. It was not that the woman was beautiful, as beauty went; she was somehow exactly ‘right'. She was quite tall, slim without being thin, and on this warm July evening she wore a linen suit with dusty yellow flowers on a green background. She wore a yellow hat with a fairly large brim, which wasn't ridiculously like a halo. She had yellow gloves, too, all the yellows matching perfectly, and she carried a brown crocodile handbag and a small umbrella which dangled from her left arm. Suit, accessories and make-up were all the same: of quality. A little more dark hair showed on the right of her face than the left, because the hat was slightly tilted. She was grave. She had very fine, clear blue eyes, and in them there was curiosity and probably anxiety. She looked only at Rollison, and she did not appear to notice the remarkable wall as she gave a rather restrained smile.

“Good evening, Mrs Kane,” Rollison greeted formally.

“It is very good of you to see me as late as this,” said Mrs Kane.

“It's early for a summer night,” protested Rollison politely, and moved round to push a chair into position. Cigarettes in an Arab carved box were on the desk, with a lighter; he opened the box. “Will you smoke?”

“I don't, thank you.”

“Then can I get you a drink?”

She hesitated, and Rollison crossed to the cocktail cabinet which stood by the wall near his chair and the table with whisky, a syphon and a glass on it, and went on:

“I can offer almost anything.”

“Perhaps—gin and bitter lemon, if that's not too difficult.”

“The simplest thing in the world,” Rollison assured her, and poured the drink and mixed himself a modest whisky and soda. He did not appear to be watching his visitor closely, but he was. The hangman's rope had caught her eye; it was always the one to attract most attention, and now she was torn between studying him, as if wanting to find out what was in his mind, and in staring at the exhibits on the wall. That was not surprising; among them was practically every kind of weapon which one man could use lethally upon another. From two knives, a small glass case containing some phials of poisons, and a nylon stocking daubed with nail varnish, her gaze travelled to the rope again and then back at Rollison as he advanced with her drink.

“Thank you.''

“Cheers,” said Rollison, and glanced at the wall. “Terrifying, isn't it?”

“I can imagine that it could be,” said Mrs Kane. “I was reading about it this afternoon, in the
Tatler.”

“Oh,” said Rollison, and smiled more broadly. “Remember that only half of what you see is true, and practically nothing that you read in any kind of newspaper.”

“I didn't expect you to be cynical.”

“Not even about newspapers?”

She smiled more freely. “No.” She hesitated, and Rollison did not think that she would take long to broach the reason for her visit; she was the type who would go straight to the heart of a subject. Her gaze was very direct and her appraisal obviously thorough. It was impossible to judge whether she approved of tall men whom teenagers insisted on calling handsome and distinguished, or men with nearly black hair flecked slightly with grey, and curling a little, naturally. Rollison knew that in appearance he belonged to a kind of Hollywood world, just as his Trophy Wall belonged to the theatre of olden day melodrama that to some people seemed to make him larger than life, and so it prejudiced them.

He hoped that Mrs Kane would not be prejudiced against him.

He moved round and sat on a corner of his desk. The room was large enough for him to do this without getting too close, and so towering over her; yet it gave him the slight advantage he wanted over anyone who was sitting. He put his glass down, his drink scarcely touched. He was appraising her as openly now, as she was him; in a way, they were fencing.

And after all, he had to break the ice.

“How can I help you?” he asked quietly.

“I would like you to look for my husband,” she answered, as quietly.

He wondered what thoughts and fears her eyes were hiding; why she was grave rather than distressed. He wondered what her husband was like, and glanced at her hands and saw the beautiful eternity ring with countless tiny diamonds, evidence of money and surely evidence of love, or at least devotion. She had long, slender hands, slightly brown; her face was slightly tanned, too; she had probably been away during the early summer to some land where sun came less fitfully than to England.

“What makes you think that he is missing?” asked Rollison.

“He has been gone for a week,” she answered, “and I've had no message.”

“Have you any idea where he's gone?”

“None,” said Mrs Kane. “But some of my friends might think they do.”

Rollison wanted to ask ‘girl friend?' lightly, and so keep tension at bay. He was slightly disappointed, because it looked as if he would have to refuse to help her; looking for erring husbands was not exactly his
métier
.
He found himself saying rather stiltedly: “Another woman?”

“Yes,” she answered, without hesitation.

“I'm sorry.”

“Mr Rollison,” said Mrs Kane, quietly, “I am not convinced that my husband has gone away simply because of an attachment, with any girl or woman. He has too much to lose. Reputation, friends and, almost certainly, a considerable sum of money. You won't mind if I am embarrassingly frank?”

Rollison spoke as he stood up. “I ought to be embarrassingly frank first, Mrs Kane. I would much prefer it if you didn't go into distressing domestic details without feeling sure that I shall be able to help.” He was a little further away from her, smiling a polite smile, wishing that it was not necessary to talk like this. “Before I could possibly try, I should have to be sure that some crime had been committed, or might be committed, and that there were good reasons why the police couldn't handle the situation. I am” – he spread his hands a little – “what is politely called an amateur criminologist. The things which interest me and claim my time are the causes and the effects of crime. Has one been committed?”

She didn't answer; but her reaction was not quite what he had expected. She would not take ‘no' without a struggle, of course, but generally the determination to fight for his help showed in a glint in the eyes, in an expression, somehow even a bodily tension.

At last, she said: “I don't know.”

“Do you think—” Rollison began.

“Let me tell you briefly why I have come to you,” said Mrs Kane. She sat, relaxed, one hand resting on the desk, the other in her lap; the handbag and umbrella were on the desk. “My husband is a very attractive man, and he finds young women not only attracted to him, but, well—I think ‘fascinated' is the word. I have been aware of that for a long time. In marriage, one has to learn to live with the truth, and accept the fact that life is very seldom romantic.” The bitterness in the words could not be entirely hidden. “However, he has always kept up appearances. So have I. I cannot believe that he would go off with a girl without making some excuse, or giving some explanation. His business – he is an advertising consultant – often takes him abroad, and to different parts of this country; so there is no great problem of evasion. This time, he simply said that he would be in London for the weekend—last weekend. We live, you see, in Hampshire. He said that he expected to be home by Monday evening.” She shrugged, slightly. “I am sure that I ought to look for him.”

“Have you been to the police?”

“In these circumstances, would you go to them?” When Rollison didn't answer, Mrs Kane went on: “I understand that the police would only help if they had reason to believe that my husband was officially missing, and I've no more to tell them than I've told you.”

“Are you afraid that the police would lead to publicity?”

After a pause, she answered: “Yes.”

“Publicity could have a salutary effect on your husband,” Rollison said dryly.

“I don't think it would in this case, but I am not concerned for the effect that it would have on my husband,” Mrs Kane declared. “It would have a disturbing, perhaps a disrupting effect on my—on our daughter.” When Rollison didn't comment, she went on, and actually found it possible to smile. “I told you that my husband was attractive to young girls. My daughter idolises him.” When Rollison still did not answer, she went on without any hint of a smile, even with the first touch of tension: “I may be wrong, this may be an
affaire
which has become too strong for him. If it is only that, at least I want to know. I would take no action,” she added, as if she knew her own mind exactly. “I am not asking you to look for evidence for a divorce. I won't pretend that I can show any evidence that there is anything unusually wrong—or criminal; all I can say is that this is not normal. It's the middle of July now. My daughter will be home from school in ten days' time, and I need to have some kind of explanation for her. It may seem a very simple domestic problem to you, Mr Rollison, but I can only assure you that it is one of extreme importance to me and my child. I know of no one else who might help me. Will you, please?”

Perhaps her pride gave her restraint: perhaps she realised that only by that simple, almost dispassionate appeal, could she hope to influence him. There was in fact no reason why he should refuse – and none, except this woman's need, why he should agree. He must make the decision quickly: it would be cruel to keep her waiting.

“Yes,” he said.

For the first time, a glimmer of tears showed at her eyes, and it was some time before she said, huskily: “Thank you very much.” And then, to help her through that surge of emotion, Rollison asked if she had photographs of her husband and her daughter, and soon looked at a family group, while Mrs Kane said, still huskily: “That is Ralph – and there is Caroline.”

Ralph Kane was rather older than Rollison had expected; and Caroline, smiling from a colour tinted photograph with such carefree beauty, made him glad that he had said ‘yes'. The immediate problem was to decide how to begin.