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    Feathers for the Toff
    Feathers for the Toff
    Feathers for the Toff
    Ebook223 pages3 hours

    Feathers for the Toff

    By John Creasey

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    About this ebook

    Sheila has an exaggerated view of the Richard Rollison’s (aka ‘The Toff’) influence with Scotland Yard. Her friend Danny Bond had been arrested for the ‘Chelsea Robbery’, but she proclaims his innocence. When Rollison meets Danny he is both hostile and states he doesn’t want anything to do with Sheila. Thus begins a mystery which inevitable sees Rollison drawn in and put in danger – but this time from a very unusual source.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHouse of Stratus
    Release dateMay 1, 2015
    ISBN9780755137299
    Feathers for the Toff
    Author

    John Creasey

    Master crime fiction writer John Creasey's near 600 titles have sold more than 80 million copies in over 25 languages under both his own name and ten other pseudonyms. His style varied with each identity and led to him being regarded as a literary phenomena. Amongst the many series written were 'Gideon of Scotland Yard', 'The Toff', 'The Baron', 'Dr. Palfrey' and 'Inspector West', as JJ Marric, Michael Halliday, Patrick Dawlish and others. During his lifetime Creasey enjoyed an ever increasing reputation both in the UK and overseas, especially the USA. This was further enhanced by constant revision of his works in order to assure the best possible be presented to his readers and also by many awards, not least of which was being honoured twice by the Mystery Writers of America, latterly as Grand Master. He also found time to found the Crime Writers Association and become heavily involved in British politics - standing for Parliament and founding a movement based on finding the best professionals in each sphere to run things. 'He leads a field in which Agatha Christie is also a runner.' - Sunday Times.

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      Book preview

      Feathers for the Toff - John Creasey

      Chapter Two

      The Bald-Headed Man

      It was half-past three, in the small hours, and there was nothing surprising in the silence; the reasonable explanation was that Whittering had fallen into a drunken stupor. Yet Rollison was uneasy; everything Henderson had told him made it seem more likely that Sheila had good reason for her anxiety.

      He smiled faintly as he took out a large pen-knife. Attached to one end was a slender skeleton key, in the manipulation of which he was no tyro. He shone the torch on the key-hole, inserted the key, and switched off the torch. He worked quickly, but the lock was troublesome and it was five minutes before he heard the click as it went back. He pushed the door open gently, and stepped inside.

      There was a tiny square which served as a hall. Three doors led from it, one on either side and one immediately in front of him. From that on the left came a streak of light; the door fitted badly at the foot. Now that he was inside, he behaved with even greater caution, closing the front door behind him before he stepped softly to that from which the light was coming. He tried the handle; the door was unlocked, and as it opened a brighter light flooded the tiny hall.

      There was no sound.

      He pushed the door open wider and put his head inside the room. It was a bedroom, and on the bed – not in it – lay a bald-headed man in evening-dress. Cracked patent leather shoes rested on the pillow and the maroon-coloured bedspread, one limp arm hung over the side, thin fingers touched the floor. The bald head rested on the foot-panel, and the wood bit deeply into the thin neck; it must have been extremely uncomfortable.

      Rollison stepped slowly forward until he could look down at the bald-headed man’s face. It was bent forward, and his chin touched his starch shirt-front. The face was pale, the lips closed and pursed, the eyes beneath a wrinkled forehead were closed. There was nothing at all to suggest that the man was anything more than in a drunken stupor, except the fact that if he were breathing at all, it was very softly. Rollison bent down, raised the limp arm, and felt the pulse. After a few seconds, he folded the man’s arms across his chest, as if the dead could feel discomfort, and looked about the room for a telephone. He saw a glass, on which were fingerprints, and which smelt of whisky, but he did not touch it.

      Detective Sergeant Hill of New Scotland Yard was an eager, efficient and somewhat self-opinionated officer, tall and lean and cleanshaven. He had a fair complexion and looked as if he scrubbed himself at every opportunity and shaved three times a day, to make his skin so shiny. With him was a plainclothes detective officer and a uniformed man, and Det. Sergeant Hill delivered himself of his opinions in a way which he hoped impressed the others. The plainclothes man was not so successful as the sergeant, and was ten years older.

      What I say, said Hill, is that no man, whether he’s a Right Honourable or whatever he is, and even if he does call himself the Toff, should break into a flat the way Rollison obviously broke into this one. He didn’t know that someone had been poisoned. It’s burglary, and that’s the only word for it.

      The uniformed constable nodded, ponderously.

      It isn’t ‘Right Honourable’, said the plainclothes man, it’s ‘the Honourable Richard Rollison’. And he doesn’t call himself the Toff, other people call him that.

      You seem to know all about him, Webber, said Hill, tartly.

      I’ve worked with him and against him, said Webber.

      Was it or was it not burglary? demanded Hill.

      Did he or did he not report the murder at least twelve hours before we would have heard in the normal course of events, and perhaps several days before?

      All right. We won’t argue. Have you looked through his clothes again?

      Yes.

      I’ll bet Rollison went through them before he telephoned us, growled Hill, glancing at the pile of clothes on the bed where Whittering’s body had been found. "If I was the Superintendent I’d have a few questions to ask Rollison."

      While these exchanges were taking place, Rollison was sitting in the office of Superintendent Grice, of New Scotland Yard. It was a small office, with a large flat-topped desk in the middle and against one wall a roll-topped desk where Grice’s duty sergeant worked on reports and records, and effaced himself. Grice was a tall, spareboned man with a curiously fine complexion and skin which seemed to be stretched too tightly across his face and made the bridge of his nose show in two little parallel ridges. His large brown eyes and brown hair were liberally speckled with grey.

      He sat upright in a swivel chair and tried to look accusing. Rollison lolled back in an easy chair which was upholstered in green whipcord, with his legs crossed and smoke curling up from a cigarette.

      Grice was saying: You know very well that you should have sent for us if you thought there was anything wrong. Why will you take things into your own hands?

      I will wear sackcloth and ashes if it will make you any happier, old chap, Rollison said. The truth is, I thought that Whittering might have made trouble for himself when he told Sheila O’Rourke that he had seen her Danny on the night of the Chelsea murder. Sheila isn’t one to keep her feelings under control, and most of the people at the clubs she’s visited know what she is after. Immediately she got a hint from Whittering she tore off to see me—at half-past one in the morning—did she come here, by the way?

      Yes. The man on duty put her off until daylight.

      I made the same mistake, said Rollison. Where was I? Oh, yes, Whittering whispered, the girl Babette Smith immediately came to him and created a flaming row with him. It seems possible that Babette and her friends had good reasons for not wanting to provide an alibi for Danny Bond.

      Now you’re going too far, protested Grice.

      Can’t I even guess? asked Rollison, sadly. I’ll admit that I thought Whittering might be told to keep quiet. I certainly didn’t anticipate murder. You know, Bill, Danny Bond is probably innocent, and one man who could have proved it is dead. Not good for Danny, is it?

      I still think you’re going too far.

      You’ll admit that it’s a peculiar development?

      Yes, and we won’t lose any time in looking for Whittering’s murderer, promised Grice.

      Do you know what poison was used?

      No, the post mortem isn’t until this afternoon, said Grice. Have you any ideas?

      One of the barbiturates, I’d say, said Rollison. How was it administered?

      There was a whisky glass by his bed, as you know. What did you find in his pockets? Grice put the question without a change of tone. His only reward was Rollison’s gentle smile.

      How unworthy, William! I didn’t look through his pockets.

      How uncharacteristic! said Grice, sceptically. Unofficially, did you find anything of interest?

      Unofficially, I didn’t look, said Rollison. As soon as I telephoned your people I hurried to Sheila’s house, because I had an uncomfortable feeling that whoever had murdered Whittering might also murder her. You’d be surprised how cold it was in the open last night, he added. I was waiting in Grey Street for half an hour before she arrived!

      What time was that?

      Something around four o’clock.

      What was she doing between half-past one, when she called on you, and three o’clock, when she came here?

      That is a question which is giving me a lot to ponder over, said Rollison. Jolly lost her before she reached the Yard. As soon as she got home he materialised out of the shadows—he’d been waiting for her too. I’ve known more profitable nights. He stifled a yawn.

      Well, what are you going to do? Grice inquired.

      Sit back and wait for Sheila, said Rollison. I doubt whether she’s any fonder of me than she was last night, but she’ll probably regard me, once she reads about Whittering’s murder, as a lesser evil than the police. She will be quite certain that the murder proves Danny’s innocence.

      Rolly, what do you really think of Bond? demanded Grice.

      He’s a curious mixture, admitted Rollison, stubbing out his cigarette. "According to Henderson, of the Kim-Kam, he’s gone to pieces in the last few weeks—or months, there’s no deadline for the opening stages. He used to be a good-natured playboy. Then suddenly—"

      He came to the end of his money, Grice interpolated. You put his change of mood down to that, do you?

      Can you think of anything more likely?

      Not at the moment, admitted Rollison, getting up lazily. Did he tell you why he chose to go to Winchester?

      He says he wanted a holiday.

      He’s certainly making things difficult for himself, said Rollison, but be kind to him, Bill. I think perhaps we’ve misjudged him.

      You don’t fit into the character of a benevolent uncle, said Grice, and stared, aghast at Rollison’s expression. "Now what have I said?"

      You’ve echoed Henderson, said Rollison, aghast. "I’m getting worried, Bill. I didn’t know that anno domini was showing his withering hand so clearly. Have you a mirror?"

      There’s one in the cloak-room. Why?

      I want to count my grey hairs, said Rollison, and went on more briskly: Well, I won’t keep you any longer. Put in a word for me when you report my felonious entry to the A.C., won’t you?

      I wish you wouldn’t be so flippant, said Grice, earnestly. The Assistant Commissioner doesn’t know you as well as I do, and he might be awkward.

      That comes of changes at Scotland Yard, deplored Rollison. Shall I send a written apology for calling the police so early?

      Don’t be an ass! Grice went to the door and strolled along the stone corridor with him. What are you going to do?

      I don’t know.

      I shouldn’t haunt the night-club districts, said Grice. Our chaps will make a pretty thorough job of them, and there are some raids in the offing. We’ve got a man at Babette Smith’s flat already, and—

      You’ve persuaded me, Bill. I don’t particularly want to spend my few free evenings studying vacuous faces listening to third-rate orchestras and drinking fourth-rate spirits. As a matter of fact, he added, I shall try to make up with Sheila, and I think that’ll take me all my time.

      Are you still on the sick list?

      Rollison laughed. So they say!

      In fact, he had been injured in an affair which had started almost as innocently as this one.

      When Sheila had first called on him he had been out of hospital for three weeks. To his friends, he claimed that he felt none the worse for his misadventures; to himself he admitted that he would not feel really right for months.

      He was walking across Piccadilly Circus when a girl with bright red hair reminded him of Sheila. He quickened his pace. Grey Street, where Sheila lived, was a narrow turning between Piccadilly and Gresham Terrace, and a whim made him go round that way, although it added a hundred yards to the journey. The house, one of a terrace of tall, grey buildings denuded of their protective iron railings and badly in need of decoration, looked exactly like the others. Sheila lived there with her

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